POOR JERRY LANE:THE LOST TRAPPER OF WYOMING[This is the story of a young frontiersman, whom I knew, myself]·········JACKSON’S HOLE, Wyoming, was named after one Jackson, a pioneer, explorer, ranchman, and horseman. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of horse thieves who, gathering up their captured steeds, would run them into this peaceful valley to feed them on the rich, natural hay until they could be driven out at a different angle and sold to some one who knew nothing of their former ownership. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of desperadoes who had fled from justice. Jackson’s Hole was the place that I was going to in the summer of 1899.“Goin’ to Jackson’s Hole, be yer?” said a fellow in a big sombrero, on the train to Idaho Falls. “Young man, you’ll never get out alive. Young man, it’s a desperate place.”He winked at me, shook his finger in my face, and dropped back into the seat from which he had arisen. “Young man,” he continued, “the Injuns will get you, sure. Young man, look out!”I confess that I felt somewhat disconcerted.“I’ll take care of my scalp,” said I.Here the companion of my friend in the sombrero spoke. This one had a red handkerchief knotted about his tawny neck, and wore a corduroy waistcoat.“Yes, son,” said he, “haven’t you heard about the Injuns in Jackson’s Hole two years ago? They stampeded th’ settlers, ran off a lot of stock, murdered an’ burned, until rounded up by the U. S. Cavalry. Reckon there be some more loose in thar now. An’ panthers! Why, boy, they’re as thick as peas in a pod. An’ dangerous, too, by gravy!”The first speaker guffawed.“’Tain’t nawthin’ to th’ grizzlies,” said he. “They be monstrous pestiferous. Why, they pull you from your horse they be so unafraid of men.”I squirmed uneasily in my seat, for I saw that they knew me to be a tenderfoot.“Boy, you’ll be eaten alive an’ scalped to boot,” continued the fellow in the sombrero. “The good Lord have mercy on your soul.”“Amen!” echoed his companion.And I wriggled again, for I saw that they knew me to be an Easterner, and were having fun in their own way.At any rate, I was bound for Jackson’s Hole and would get there somehow or other in spite of horse thieves, “Injuns” and grizzly bears.We met at Idaho Falls. When I say we, I mean our party, for we were surveyors, bent upon exploration of Uncle Sam’s possessions, and upon makingan accurate map of the somewhat unknown country near Jackson’s Hole. We knew that it was a great land for game and fish and that it was the home of monster bands of elk, but we also knew that it had an unsavory reputation as the haunt for “bad” men of the hills. As I had come up on the train, certain placards in the stations showed that these same “bad” men were still around and had been operating at the expense of the Express Companies.The placards read:“$40,000 REWARDFor the Capture, Dead or Alive, of the Men who robbed the Union Pacific Express near Rawlins, Wyoming, on the Evening of June 4th.”Then followed an inaccurate description of those who had been seen to enter the mail car, seize the box containing valuable mail and expressage, and decamp across the prairie with their plunder on their ponies’ backs.At Pocatello, Idaho, I looked from the window and saw beneath me a light-haired, blue-eyed Swede. He was standing there nonchalantly, dressed in a corduroy suit, blue handkerchief knotted about his neck, and wide sombrero.“That’s the sheriff,” said a man at my elbow.“Where’s he bound?” I asked.“Into the hills after the train robbers,” he answered. “He has aposséwith him and they oughtto be able to capture a few of the bandits who held up the Union Pacific Express.”The train rolled on, but I always remembered that sturdy little figure, standing carelessly on the platform, in corduroys. In a week he had been ambushed, with his entirepossé, and two had escaped out of the eleven. The little sheriff was buried in the hills.To get into Jackson’s Hole was then a rather difficult affair, for it meant a long journey by pack-train from either Market Lake or Idaho Falls. But the surveyor and the sons of the pioneer, whom he engaged to pilot him, were not adverse to pushing into a wild country. It took a week to outfit the party, secure the necessary horses, engage the men, and whip the fractious range-animals into some kind of submission for carrying saddles, pack equipment, and heavy bags of food and tenting. Then, in a cloud of alkali dust, and with a crowd of Blackfeet children gazing open-mouthed at the curious caravan, we were off for the blue hills which lay to the northeast.The plains of Idaho are not only arid and parched, but they are covered with sage-brush, which emits a strong, pungent odor that is delicious. The alkali dust arises in clouds, and chokes one, as one proceeds, but that is not the only difficulty, for—strange as it may seem—the mosquito breeds by the millions in the irrigating ditches, and had it not been for the thick gauntlet gloves and netting attached to our sombreros, we would have been fairly eaten alive by the black swarms which followed us in clouds.Every now and again—afar off on the prairie—wewould see a whirling cloud of moving alkali dust.“Wild horses running to water,” said one of the cowboys. “That’s the way they always go, on the dead gallop.”Occasionally we came near enough to see some of them and they were lean, gaunt and rangy creatures, which had escaped from the ranches, had run off to the prairie and had found pleasure in the free and untrammelled life of the plains. They would snort, as we approached, throw their heads high in the air, and then—turning around—would be off like the wind.As we rode along, hot, dusty, and thirsty, I heard about Jerry Lane.“This here Lane,” said Jack (a lean, little cowboy) “is a Noo Yorker. He came out here three years ago, sayin’ that life was too tame for him back East, an’ he wanted to be right in the Rocky Mountains, where the wolves, bears, and antelope could be seen, just th’ same as in th’ time of Kit Carson an’ Bill Bent. Some says that he’s a millionaire. Some says that he isn’t. Leastways he has about all th’ money one needs in this here country, an’ they tell me his cabin in th’ Rockies is full of th’ best kind of rifles, of steel traps, books, an’ all that’s nice.”“He found life too tame for him back East.”This sentence stuck in my mind and I knew—in a moment—what kind of a youth was Jerry Lane. He had the same spirit as the old explorers. He possessed the imagination of a Lewis or a Clarke; aChamplain, or a La Salle. To him the spirit of the wilderness was all absorbing, and, shaking off the trammels of civilization, he loved to live out his days amidst the towering mountains, which, even then, stretched before us, jutting high from the sage-brush plateau. I immediately felt a sympathetic interest for Jerry Lane.To cross into the valley of Jackson’s Hole requires one’s utmost exertions, for one must climb up the Teton Pass in order to get over the mountains which surround this paradise of fish and game. For a man and a horse to pass up and across is easy work, but we were unfortunate enough to have a wagon with us. As we neared the bottom of the trail, which led almost perpendicularly up in the air, we saw a broken vehicle of a pioneer.“The Top of Teton Pass, or Bust,” some one had written on a board and placed upon the battered spokes.It had “Busted.”Now climbing, pushing, blowing, we yoked four horses to our wagon and gradually worked it to the summit of the Pass. It was July, but snow was on the ridges, and the air was like Labrador as it swept across the hemlock-covered mountains. When once on top of the Pass, what a view! We gazed down into a peaceful little vale with log houses and thatched roofs, fields of green grass with stacks of yellow hay, and bluish gray rivers curving gracefully across the plain. Hereford cattle, with their brown bodies and white faces, grazed contentedly upon the wide sweepof natural grass, and the barking of dogs sounded indistinctly from the barnyard of a new-made home.Down we pushed into the valley, then onward, across the Snake River at Moeners’ Ferry, and then to the Buffalo Fork of the Grosventre. Antelope began to appear upon the plain and danced about us like yellow and white rubber balls. Two of the cowboys dismounted and fired at them, resting their rifles upon their knees. They could not duplicate the marksmanship of Kit Carson or Buffalo Bill. Not an antelope was even wounded.We camped in a beautiful spot near the Grosventre River, and, just as we were lighting the fire for supper, a cry went up from some one:“Elk! Elk!”I was busy pouring some coffee, and, looking up, saw a cowboy pointing to a high bank opposite our camp. Sure enough, there stood a noble bull elk, his spreading antlers standing out on either side, giving him a calm and majestic appearance. He was gazing curiously at the animated scene below.Why is it that the average man’s first instinct when he sees a wild animal is to kill it? I was satisfied with watching this magnificent child of the forest, but not so with the rest of the party. Three of them ran immediately to get their rifles and a fusillade of bullets soon whistled in the direction of the big elk. He turned, galloped off into the timber, and left the cowboys to bemoan their lack of ability with the shooting-iron.“By gracious,” said one, “I can’t hit a barn door at fifty yards!”The elk was but one of the many which ranged the Jackson Hole country and whose deep trails could be seen on every hand. Their bleaching antlers, which they had shed, were also upon many a hill, and frequently we would pass a rancher’s cabin, where a fence would have been constructed of the white twisted horns of the old bulls. I knew that we would soon see a quantity of elk, and we did.Not many evenings later, as we were again boiling our coffee for dinner, the most unearthly scream that I have ever heard echoed from the canyon just to our right. It was answered by another, and—if I can make you believe it—the sound was as if a woman were being strangled.“Mountain lion screeching,” said Jack, with a grim smile. “Awful noise, ain’t it?”I confessed that it was.“Makes me always feel skeery. Kind uv makes th’ gooseflesh creep up my back. Heard ’em a thousand times but always frightens me.”The cowboy drew closer to the fire and I noticed that he was shivering.The mountain lion is a great coward and is afraid to attack a human being. Unless cornered and extremely hungry, he will not fight. He has—in spite of this—the most unearthly scream, which would make one believe that he was one of the fiercest and most bloodthirsty of beasts. Welling up upon the clear night air—in the very heart of the wilderness—itis enough to freeze one’s blood to hear their wailings. It takes strong nerves to listen to their gruesome noise without shaking.I heard the lions again about a week later, when I and a cowboy called Jim, were making our way up the side of a beautiful little tributary to the Grosventre. We were following a deep-rutted elk trail which led up the edge of a mountain to and from their summer feeding grounds, upon one of the higher plateaus. There was a log cabin nestling at the foot of the opposite hill—used by one of the game wardens—and, in the rear of this, a deep bank of hemlocks clothed the side of the cliff. Here the lions were concealed, and, seeing us riding in the open, shrieked out their defiance at the trespassers upon their demesne.Although a startling and nerve-racking sound, we kept upon our way, and I confess that I looked to the shells in my rifle—fearing that one of the screechers might consider us excellent bait for their dinner. Soon we had advanced far up the canyon and then the lions ceased their caterwauling.We were now in the heart of gameland. The tracks of bear were extraordinarily thick, and every now and again we would come to fresh sign, not an hour old. Once I reached a stream through which a big grizzly must have just passed, for the water was still muddy, and the print of his feet could easily be seen in the soft bank. In spite of their apparent numbers we could not even catch a glimpse of one of them, and, although I was constantly hoping to meet witha specimen of these monsters of the glen, I was never to catch even a fleeting glimpse of one.Not so with the rest of the party. Not a week later one of the cowboys rode into camp with a wild yelping, and there—behind him—were two of his companions, lugging in the body of a brown bear. He was a little fellow and his fur was all rubbed away in places, where he had scratched himself against the rocks. In spite of this he was good eating and his haunches were enjoyed by most of the party. Personally, I did not care for the meat and preferred canned tongue.The elk trails were most abundant, and I knew that we would soon see these brown deer, for we gradually moved up to the summit of the Rockies, where were vast plateaus covered with millions of beautiful flowers. These the noble animals lived upon in summer and slept among them too, for I would often find round holes in the grass, where some of them had bedded down a short time before. One evening two of the horse-wranglers returned to camp with the haunch of a cow elk, and stated—with much glee—that they had run upon a band of six, coming through some fallen timber. Two had fallen before their rifles, and, after cutting off enough for the use of our camp, they had placed the bodies in a position that could be easily approached, at a later date, when bear would undoubtedly be feeding upon the venison.A week later we had a glorious view of a large herd of elk.While traversing a high belt of timber my companion—asurveyor—called out to me to hurry over and see something on the other extremity of the ridge, upon which he had just taken his position. When I reached his side I saw that he was looking in the direction of a high plateau, upon which fully a thousand elk were feeding. No bulls seemed to be there—they were all cows and calves—and were grazing like a herd of cattle. The little calves were butting at each other and frisking about in great glee, while their fond mammas watched them with loving and tender glances of affection. It was a beautiful and moving vista.My companion had a field-glass, and we stood watching the changing mass of elk for at least an hour. They apparently had no knowledge of our presence, for the wind was blowing from them to us, so that no strange “scent of the trespassing man” came to their keen nostrils. There—in that beautiful mountain pasture—the baby elk were growing to maturity,—while far below in the valley the settlers were gathering the natural hay which usually fed them, for the use of their own cattle during the long and cruel winter. There would be much suffering and distress among the band, when they had left these mountain meadows for the valley.A week later we met the trapper and plainsman: Jerry Lane. I had already come upon his cabin and had stopped there for luncheon, leaving a neat piece of paper on the door to the effect that,—“Pardner, we used your tin plates, spoons, knives, and one can of potted tongue.”High up in the hills the little log hut was situated near a stream of icy water. It was about sixteen by twenty feet, the floor covered with bear and wolf skins, and four rifles in the rack. Great steel traps hung upon the walls outside, and antelope hides were tacked against it. There were good books within: stories of hunting and adventure,—and upon the floor—were numerous copies of the SundayNew York Journal. Jerry Lane had lived well upon the summit of the Rockies.I will never forget the view of the young trapper which came to me that morning. All around were the towering Rockies: an occasional fleck of snow upon the brown surface of the high cliffs; a gushing stream over on the right; the sage-brush plateau stretched away on every side, brown, bare, parched. A puff of dust first appeared in the far distance, then two figures rode up on horseback. They drew nearer and nearer. In front was the youthful personification of Buffalo Bill. It was Jerry Lane.He was riding a magnificent half-bred animal—a roan. His bridle and saddle, as I remember—were silver mounted. A big pair of Mexican spurs were on his heels. With a close-fitting suit of tawny buckskin, a wide sombrero, cartridge-belt around the waist, and a long rifle hung neatly under the left leg he was a perfect picture of a plainsman,—such a picture as one sees in dime novels.Behind him was an evil-looking customer, dressed in a slovenly manner, and scowling beneath a rather battered-in slouch hat. His horse, too, had nowherenear the breeding of the other. He frowned as he approached: the other smiled.“Hello!” said Jerry Lane. “Dusty, isn’t it?”“You bet,” said I. “Where you bound?”“Montana.”“Hunting?”“No, just taking life easy.”That was all the conversation that we had. He waved his hat to me, touched the spurs to his horse’s flanks, and was soon off down the divide. For a long time I stood and gazed after the lithe figure: young, beautiful, brimming over with health and exuberance,—the man who had found New York too tame for his hot blood. Could you blame him?Three days later a cow-puncher rode into our camp, threw his saddle on the ground, hobbled his pony, and drew near the mess table.“Too bad about Jerry, warn’t it?” said he, as he seated himself.“Why, what’s the matter with him?” I asked.“Shot.”“W-h-a-a-t!”“Yes, got into a row over the Montana line. They say it was accidental. Some one dropped his six-shooter on the floor. It exploded. No more Jerry Lane.”·········That night I walked out to a lonely rock and gazed at the brilliant stars. It was the true West, after all, the West that I had always read about but had never seen until now. I thought of the sandy-haired, blue-eyedsheriff who had gone to the Great Beyond. I thought of poor Jerry Lane: that lithe, active figure in buckskins; that devil-may-care manner; that fresh, pink-cheeked face. Yes, the West still held her tragedies, and the low wail of a coyote far off on the plain sounded ominously dreary, while the hand of death lay over the great wild wastes of the rolling, sagebrush-covered prairie.THE SONG OF THE MOOSEThis the song which the trapper heard,Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,Heard while the embers snapped and snarled,To the growl and glare of the glimmering spark.Heard while the lucivee cried from the pines,And the ribboned splash of a startled loon,Crystalled the rim of the lake, as it laySoft in the gleam of the hunter’s moon.This is the song of the moose.Near the amber drip of the torrent’s rip,Where the lean wolf howls at the blinding spray,Where the sleeted pine is riven and rent,By stress and strain of the mist-bank gray;We struggled and fed through the reedling’s bed,Where the sheldrake croons to her fledglings brown,And the otter mewed to its hungry brood,As the osprey peered from the hemlock’s crown.Our moosling day was a rapturous play,We browsed where the partridge drummed a song,Where the brown bear hid in the tamarack,Where the days were short and the nights were long.We roamed ’neath the arch of the drowsy larch,Where the beaver bred in the inky pool,We splashed in the foam of the cataract,In the frothing spume and the ripples cool.We hid ’neath the pine of the Serpentine,As the red fox barked to his sleek-fed mate;We ate of the birch of the Restigouche,Where the goldfinch whisper and undulate.Oh, bright were the days, with surcease of care,As we fed and grew from our clumsy birth;While the woods were green with a shimmering sheen,And the sun shone hot on the moss-grown earth.Then came the prod from the fleet-flying squad,As the gray goose sped to the Chesapeake;The leaves grew sere at the slow, dying year,And the salmon raced from their spawning creek.Our mothers fled from our marsh-sunken bed,We browsed no more on the soft lilies’ pad;From the distant blue came the caribou,Rank upon rank—and their temper was bad.Their eyes were bad, as they fought for our feed,When the air grew chill in the Northern blast,And the white flakes fell from the sodden sky,On the sleeted lakes, soon frozen hard fast.Pure white was the cowl of the arctic owl,And soft was his voice from the cedar deep;As we ploughed our yard ’neath the mountain’s guard,And marked our birch for the long winter’s keep.Now, sharp came the clang, as the wood-axe rang,“’Tis man,” said our kin, “you must wander afarFrom the sound of his voice and reach of his arm,For his song is death and his hand is war.”The blue wisps curled from the lone logger’s hut,Far down in the depths of the silent wood;And shouts came loud from the boisterous crowd,As they sapped the strength of the forest’s blood.We were taught to fend, with a lunge and bend,The spring of the lynx, with his snarling yelp;We were shown to ride, with a single stride,The charge of the wolf and his whining whelp.We saw how to strip the birch with our lip,And to trample the shoots with our fore-leg weight;We learned how to tell a foe by the smell,That law in the wood was the law of hate.Another year, and the wide ridge was clear,As the snow grew less, and the day grew long;With a start of the sap we swung from our trap,While the chickadee whispered his mating song;And the robin came, with feathers of flame,To carol a psalm from the budding spray,While the chewink’s flute, like a minstrel’s lute,Trilled clear in the balm of the softening day.Oh, that life was good in the opening wood,As our brothers’ horns turned velvet to bone,We wandered at will over hummock and hill,’Till we found out—alas—we were never alone.Man found us there, in our deep, forest lair,And plunge as we would in the thicket’s gloom,We ran on his track and the sign of his pack,As he close hunted us down to our doom.There, oft in the dark, we trembled to harkTo his muffled call, by bank of the pond,And to those who lacked in spirit of fear,It was death to inquire, and death to respond.Oft have we trod on the ranks of the slain,As prostrate they lay near some crystal streamLured to their end by the low, soothing cry,Mocking the mate of a love-longing dream.To the whispering rest of the trackless West,We travel to live where the range-land is clear,Where wolf and bear keep their sheltering lair,Where silence is deep and man is not near.Few—few are there left from merciless war,Waged on our ranks, now broken and gone,Yet, struggle we must ’gainst slaughtering lust,Our end is in view—race-driven, forlorn.This is the song which the trapper heard,Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,Heard of an ancient and vanishing race,By the growl and glare of the glimmering spark.Heard of the mannish blood-lust and greed,Of the withering waste in the rifle’s path,Song of the steel-clad bullet’s speed,This is the song of the moose.i399“LURED TO THEIR END BY THE LOW, SOOTHING CRY.”RETROSPECTNO longer moves the wagon train through clouds of rolling dust,No longer speaks the musket, foul caked with yellow rust,Wild days have passed; the yelping brave has vanished in the mists of time,Wild fights are o’er, the valiant scout has ceased to cheer the firing line.The brutish bison herds are gone—the lean coyote sneaks here and there,Where once the pronghorn fed in peace, and shyly roamed the grizzly bear.The elk are dead—the puma, too, no longer shrieks his wailing cry,Where trapper’s fires are blazing clear, and sharply light the dark’ning sky.From out the past, pale forms arise, the shapes of those who fought and bledOn treeless plains of alkali, and bravely found a gory bed.The ghostly shapes go riding past; scout, voyageur, and priest,Chief, warrior, and squaw, who gathered at the trader’s feast.No more their laughter echoes loud, no more their voices rise and fall,By bed of stream, ’neath aspen’s bough, where clumsy Indian children sprawl.The chatter of the dance is hushed; the yells of warrior bands are gone,As—gathering for the dance of death—they held high revelry ’till dawn.We gaze upon the written page, we marvel that such tales are truth,Of fighting fierce, of wrangling rude, of scalp-dance and the cries of youth.Then thankfully we tread the paths, which voyageur and trapper boldWere wont to tread in olden times, when passions fierce were uncontrolled.Yes—blood was shed—yes—men were brave, who conquered and who won the West,Now there is love where once was strife—the scouts have reached their Heavenly rest.THE END.BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLETHE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS(Trade Mark)By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTONEach 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated, per vol.. $1.50THE LITTLE COLONEL STORIES(Trade Mark)Being three “Little Colonel” stories in the Cosy Corner Series, “The Little Colonel,” “Two Little Knights of Kentucky,” and “The Giant Scissors,” in a single volume.THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOUSE PARTY(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOLIDAYS(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HERO(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL AT BOARDING-SCHOOL(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL IN 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ByHarriet Lummis Smith.Square 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50This is a book that will gladden the hearts of many girl readers because of its charming air of comradeship and reality. It is a very interesting group of girls who live on Friendly Terrace and their good times and other times are graphically related by the author, who shows a sympathetic knowledge of girl character.PEGGY RAYMOND’S VACATION;Or, Friendly Terrace Transplanted.A Sequel to “The Girls of Friendly Terrace.” ByHarriet Lummis Smith.Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Readers who made the acquaintance of Peggy Raymond and her bevy of girl chums in “The Girls of Friendly Terrace” will be glad to continue the acquaintance of these attractive young folks.Several new characters are introduced, and one at least will prove a not unworthy rival of the favorites among the Terrace girls.THE HADLEY HALL SERIESBy LOUISE M. BREITENBACHEach, library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50ALMA AT HADLEY HALL“Miss Breitenbach is to be congratulated on having written such an appealing book for girls, and the girls are to be congratulated on having the privilege of reading it.”—The Detroit Free Press.ALMA’S SOPHOMORE YEAR“The characters are strongly drawn with a life-like realism, the incidents are well and progressively sequenced, and the action is so well timed that the interest never slackens.”—Boston Ideas.————THE SUNBRIDGE GIRLS AT SIX STAR RANCH.ByEleanor Stuart.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Any girl of any age who is fond of outdoor life will appreciate this fascinating tale of Genevieve Hartley’s summer vacation house-party on a Texas ranch. Genevieve and her friends are real girls, the kind that one would like to have in one’s own home, and there are a couple of manly boys introduced.BEAUTIFUL JOE’S PARADISE;Or, The Island of Brotherly Love. A Sequel to “Beautiful Joe.”ByMarshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful Joe.”One vol., library 12mo, cloth illustrated——————$1.50“This book revives the spirit of ‘Beautiful Joe’ capitally. It is fairly riotous with fun, and is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light.”—Philadelphia Item.’TILDA JANE.ByMarshall Saunders.One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative——————$1.50“It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished it—honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif.“I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly.”—Cyrus T. Brady.’TILDA JANE’S ORPHANS.A Sequel to “‘Tilda Jane.” ByMarshall Saunders.One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative——————$1.50’Tilda Jane is the same original, delightful girl, and as fond of her animal pets as ever.“There is so much to this story that it is almost a novel—in fact it is better than many novels, although written for only young people. Compared with much of to-day’s juveniles it is quite a superior book.”—Chicago Tribune.THE STORY OF THE GRAVELYS.ByMarshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful Joe’s Paradise,” “’Tilda Jane,” etc.Library 12mo, cloth decorative. Illustrated by E. B. Barry——————$1.50Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family.PUSSY BLACK-FACE.ByMarshall Saunders, author of “’Tilda Jane,” “’Tilda Jane’s Orphans,” etc.Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50This is a delightful little story of animal life, written in this author’s best vein, dealing especially with Pussy Black-Face, a little Beacon Street (Boston) kitten, who is the narrator.FAMOUS LEADERS SERIESBy CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTONEach, large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated. $1.50FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERSBiographical sketches, with anecdotes and reminiscenses, of the heroes of history who were leaders of cavalry.“More of such books should be written, books that acquaint young readers with historical personages in a pleasant informal way.”—N. Y. Sun.FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFSIn this book Mr. Johnston gives interesting sketches of the Indian braves who have figured with prominence in the history of our own land.FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN AND ADVENTURERS OF THE SEAIn this volume Mr. Johnston tells interesting stories about the famous sailors of fortune.FAMOUS SCOUTS“It is the kind of a book that will have a great fascination for boys and young men and while it entertains them it will also present valuable information in regard to those who have left their impress upon the history of the country.—The New London Day.FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN AND HEROES OF THE BORDERThis book is devoted to a description of the adventurous lives and stirring experiences of many pioneer heroes who were prominently identified with the opening of the great west.————RALPH SOMERBY AT PANAMAByFrancis Raleigh.Large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Real buccaneers who overran the Spanish main, and adventurers who figured prominently in the sack of Panama, all enter into the life of Ralph Somerby, a young English lad, on his way to the colony in Jamaica. After a year of wandering and adventure he covers the route of the present Panama Canal.THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE GIRLByMarion Ames Taggart.One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50A thoroughly enjoyable tale of a little girl and her comrade father, written in a delightful vein of sympathetic comprehension of the child’s point of view.“The characters are strongly drawn with a life-like realism, the incidents are well and progressively sequenced, and the action is so well timed that the interest never slackens.”—Boston Ideas.SWEET NANCYThe Further Adventures of the Doctor’s Little Girl.ByMarion Ames Taggart.One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50In the new book, the author tells how Nancy becomes in fact “the doctor’s assistant,” and continues to shed happiness around her.NANCY, THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE PARTNERByMarion Ames Taggart.One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50In Nancy Porter, Miss Taggart has created one of the most lovable child characters in recent years. In the new story she is the same bright and cheerful little maid.NANCY PORTER’S OPPORTUNITYByMarion Ames Taggart.One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50Already as the “doctor’s partner” Nancy Porter has won the affection of her readers, and in the same lovable manner she continues in the new book to press the keynotes of optimism and good-will.BORN TO THE BLUEByFlorence Kimball Russel.12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.25The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation.IN WEST POINT GRAYByFlorence Kimball Russel.12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“Singularly enough one of the best books of the year for boys is written by a woman and deals with life at West Point. The presentment of life in the famous military academy whence so many heroes have graduated is realistic and enjoyable.”—New York Sun.THE SANDMAN: HIS FARM STORIESByWilliam J. Hopkins. With fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson.Large 12mo, decorative cover——————$1.50“An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. It should be one of the most popular of the year’s books for reading to small children.”—Buffalo Express.THE SANDMAN: MORE FARM STORIESByWilliam J. Hopkins.Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50Mr. Hopkins’s first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of “Sandman” tales was issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner.THE SANDMAN: HIS SHIP STORIESByWilliam J. Hopkins, author of “The Sandman: His Farm Stories,” etc.Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50“Children call for these stories over and over again.”—Chicago Evening Post.THE SANDMAN: HIS SEA STORIESByWilliam J. Hopkins.Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50Each year adds to the popularity of this unique series of stories to be read to the little ones at bed time and at other times.THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIESBy HARRISON ADAMSEach, 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated$1.25THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO;Or, Clearing the Wilderness.Boys will follow with ever increasing interest the fortunes of Bob and Sandy Armstrong in their hunting and trapping expeditions, and in their adventures with the Indians.THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES;Or, On the Trail of the Iroquois.In this story are introduced all of the principal characters of the first volume, and Bob and Sandy learn much of life in the open from the French trappers and coureurs du bois.THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI;Or, The Homestead in the Wilderness.Telling of how the Armstrong family decides to move farther west after an awful flood on the Ohio, and how they travelled to the great “Father of Waters” and settled on its banks, and of how the pioneer boys had many adventures both with wild animals and with the crafty Indians.————HAWK: THE YOUNG OSAGEByC. H. Robinson.One vol., cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50A fine story of North American Indians. The story begins when Hawk is a papoose and follows him until he is finally made chief of his tribe.THE YOUNG APPRENTICE;Or, Allan West’s Chum.ByBurton E. Stevenson.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50In this book Mr. Stevenson takes up a new branch of railroading, namely, the work of the “Shops.”THE YOUNG SECTION-HAND;Or, The Adventures of Allan West. By Burton E. Stevenson.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Mr. Stevenson’s hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling.THE YOUNG TRAIN DISPATCHER.ByBurton E. Stevenson.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“A better book for boys has never left an American press.”—Springfield Union.THE YOUNG TRAIN MASTER.ByBurton E. Stevenson.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“Nothing better in the way of a book of adventure for boys.”—Boston Herald.CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Jack is a fine example of the American high-school boy.JACK LORIMER’S CHAMPIONS;Or, Sports on Land and Lake. ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“It is exactly the sort of book to give a boy interested in athletics.”—Chicago Tribune.JACK LORIMER’S HOLIDAYS;Or, Millvale High in Camp. ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Full of just the kind of fun, sports and adventure to excite the healthy minded youngster to emulation.JACK LORIMER’S SUBSTITUTE:Or, The Acting Captain of the Team. ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50On the sporting side, this book takes up football, wrestling, and tobogganing.JACK LORIMER, FRESHMAN. ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50This book is typical of the American college boys’ life and is a lively story.GABRIEL AND THE HOUR BOOKByEvaleen Stein.Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart—$1.00Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries.“No works in juvenile fiction contain so many of the elements that stir the hearts of children and grown-ups as well as do the stories so admirably told by this author.”—Louisville Daily Courier.A LITTLE SHEPHERD OF PROVENCEByEvaleen Stein.Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by Diantha H. Marlowe——————$1.25“The story should be one of the influences in the life of every child to whom good stories can be made to appeal.”—Public Ledger.THE LITTLE COUNT OF NORMANDYByEvaleen Stein.Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by John Goss——————$1.25“This touching and pleasing story is told with a wealth of interest coupled with enlivening descriptions of the country where its scenes are laid and of the people thereof.”—Wilmington Every Evening.ALYS-ALL-ALONEByUna Macdonald.Cloth, 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50“This is a most delightful, well-written, heart-stirring, happy ending story, which will gladden the heart of many a reader.”—Scranton Times.ALYS IN HAPPYLAND.A Sequel to “Alys-All Alone.” ByUna Macdonald.Cloth, 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50“The book is written with that taste and charm that prepare younger readers for the appreciation of good literature when they are older.”—Chicago Tribune.THELittle Cousin Series(trade mark)Each volume illustrated with six or more full page plates intint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover,per volume, 60 centsLIST OF TITLESBy Mary Hazelton Wade, Mary F.Nixon-Roulet, Blanche McManus,Clara V. Winlow, Florence E.Mendel and OthersOur Little African CousinOur Little Alaskan CousinOur Little Arabian CousinOur Little Argentine CousinOur Little Armenian CousinOur Little Australian CousinOur Little Austrian CousinOur Little Belgian CousinOur Little Bohemian CousinOur Little Brazilian CousinOur Little Bulgarian CousinOur Little Canadian CousinOur Little Chinese CousinOur Little Cuban CousinOur Little Danish CousinOur Little Dutch CousinOur Little Egyptian CousinOur Little English CousinOur Little Eskimo CousinOur Little French CousinOur Little German CousinOur Little Grecian CousinOur Little Hawaiian CousinOur Little Hindu CousinOur Little Hungarian CousinOur Little Indian CousinOur Little Irish CousinOur Little Italian CousinOur Little Japanese CousinOur Little Jewish CousinOur Little Korean CousinOur Little Malayan (Brown) CousinOur Little Mexican CousinOur Little Norwegian CousinOur Little Panama CousinOur Little Persian CousinOur Little Philippine CousinOur Little Polish CousinOur Little Porto Rican CousinOur Little Portuguese CousinOur Little Russian CousinOur Little Scotch CousinOur Little Servian CousinOur Little Siamese CousinOur Little Spanish CousinOur Little Swedish CousinOur Little Swiss CousinOur Little Turkish CousinTHE LITTLE COUSINS OF LONG AGO SERIESThe publishers have concluded that a companion series to “The Little Cousin Series,” giving the every-day child life ofancient timeswill meet with approval, and like the other series will be welcomed by the children as well as by their elders. The volumes of this new series are accurate both historically and in the description of every-day life of the time, as well as interesting to the child.Small 12mo, cloth, illustrated——————60cOUR LITTLE ROMAN COUSIN OF LONG AGOByJulia Darrow Cowles.OUR LITTLE ATHENIAN COUSIN OF LONG AGOByJulia Darrow Cowles.THE PHYLLIS SERIESBy LENORE E. MULETSEach, one volume, cloth decorated, illustrated.——————$1.25PHYLLIS’ INSECT STORIESPHYLLIS’ FLOWER STORIESPHYLLIS’ BIRD STORIESPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF LITTLE ANIMALSPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF BIG ANIMALSPHYLLIS’ TREE STORIESPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF LITTLE FISHES“An original idea cleverly carried out. The volumes afford the best kind of entertainment; and the little girl heroine of them all will find friends in the girls of every part of the country. No juveniles can be commended more heartily.”—St. Louis Globe-Democrat.
POOR JERRY LANE:THE LOST TRAPPER OF WYOMING[This is the story of a young frontiersman, whom I knew, myself]·········JACKSON’S HOLE, Wyoming, was named after one Jackson, a pioneer, explorer, ranchman, and horseman. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of horse thieves who, gathering up their captured steeds, would run them into this peaceful valley to feed them on the rich, natural hay until they could be driven out at a different angle and sold to some one who knew nothing of their former ownership. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of desperadoes who had fled from justice. Jackson’s Hole was the place that I was going to in the summer of 1899.“Goin’ to Jackson’s Hole, be yer?” said a fellow in a big sombrero, on the train to Idaho Falls. “Young man, you’ll never get out alive. Young man, it’s a desperate place.”He winked at me, shook his finger in my face, and dropped back into the seat from which he had arisen. “Young man,” he continued, “the Injuns will get you, sure. Young man, look out!”I confess that I felt somewhat disconcerted.“I’ll take care of my scalp,” said I.Here the companion of my friend in the sombrero spoke. This one had a red handkerchief knotted about his tawny neck, and wore a corduroy waistcoat.“Yes, son,” said he, “haven’t you heard about the Injuns in Jackson’s Hole two years ago? They stampeded th’ settlers, ran off a lot of stock, murdered an’ burned, until rounded up by the U. S. Cavalry. Reckon there be some more loose in thar now. An’ panthers! Why, boy, they’re as thick as peas in a pod. An’ dangerous, too, by gravy!”The first speaker guffawed.“’Tain’t nawthin’ to th’ grizzlies,” said he. “They be monstrous pestiferous. Why, they pull you from your horse they be so unafraid of men.”I squirmed uneasily in my seat, for I saw that they knew me to be a tenderfoot.“Boy, you’ll be eaten alive an’ scalped to boot,” continued the fellow in the sombrero. “The good Lord have mercy on your soul.”“Amen!” echoed his companion.And I wriggled again, for I saw that they knew me to be an Easterner, and were having fun in their own way.At any rate, I was bound for Jackson’s Hole and would get there somehow or other in spite of horse thieves, “Injuns” and grizzly bears.We met at Idaho Falls. When I say we, I mean our party, for we were surveyors, bent upon exploration of Uncle Sam’s possessions, and upon makingan accurate map of the somewhat unknown country near Jackson’s Hole. We knew that it was a great land for game and fish and that it was the home of monster bands of elk, but we also knew that it had an unsavory reputation as the haunt for “bad” men of the hills. As I had come up on the train, certain placards in the stations showed that these same “bad” men were still around and had been operating at the expense of the Express Companies.The placards read:“$40,000 REWARDFor the Capture, Dead or Alive, of the Men who robbed the Union Pacific Express near Rawlins, Wyoming, on the Evening of June 4th.”Then followed an inaccurate description of those who had been seen to enter the mail car, seize the box containing valuable mail and expressage, and decamp across the prairie with their plunder on their ponies’ backs.At Pocatello, Idaho, I looked from the window and saw beneath me a light-haired, blue-eyed Swede. He was standing there nonchalantly, dressed in a corduroy suit, blue handkerchief knotted about his neck, and wide sombrero.“That’s the sheriff,” said a man at my elbow.“Where’s he bound?” I asked.“Into the hills after the train robbers,” he answered. “He has aposséwith him and they oughtto be able to capture a few of the bandits who held up the Union Pacific Express.”The train rolled on, but I always remembered that sturdy little figure, standing carelessly on the platform, in corduroys. In a week he had been ambushed, with his entirepossé, and two had escaped out of the eleven. The little sheriff was buried in the hills.To get into Jackson’s Hole was then a rather difficult affair, for it meant a long journey by pack-train from either Market Lake or Idaho Falls. But the surveyor and the sons of the pioneer, whom he engaged to pilot him, were not adverse to pushing into a wild country. It took a week to outfit the party, secure the necessary horses, engage the men, and whip the fractious range-animals into some kind of submission for carrying saddles, pack equipment, and heavy bags of food and tenting. Then, in a cloud of alkali dust, and with a crowd of Blackfeet children gazing open-mouthed at the curious caravan, we were off for the blue hills which lay to the northeast.The plains of Idaho are not only arid and parched, but they are covered with sage-brush, which emits a strong, pungent odor that is delicious. The alkali dust arises in clouds, and chokes one, as one proceeds, but that is not the only difficulty, for—strange as it may seem—the mosquito breeds by the millions in the irrigating ditches, and had it not been for the thick gauntlet gloves and netting attached to our sombreros, we would have been fairly eaten alive by the black swarms which followed us in clouds.Every now and again—afar off on the prairie—wewould see a whirling cloud of moving alkali dust.“Wild horses running to water,” said one of the cowboys. “That’s the way they always go, on the dead gallop.”Occasionally we came near enough to see some of them and they were lean, gaunt and rangy creatures, which had escaped from the ranches, had run off to the prairie and had found pleasure in the free and untrammelled life of the plains. They would snort, as we approached, throw their heads high in the air, and then—turning around—would be off like the wind.As we rode along, hot, dusty, and thirsty, I heard about Jerry Lane.“This here Lane,” said Jack (a lean, little cowboy) “is a Noo Yorker. He came out here three years ago, sayin’ that life was too tame for him back East, an’ he wanted to be right in the Rocky Mountains, where the wolves, bears, and antelope could be seen, just th’ same as in th’ time of Kit Carson an’ Bill Bent. Some says that he’s a millionaire. Some says that he isn’t. Leastways he has about all th’ money one needs in this here country, an’ they tell me his cabin in th’ Rockies is full of th’ best kind of rifles, of steel traps, books, an’ all that’s nice.”“He found life too tame for him back East.”This sentence stuck in my mind and I knew—in a moment—what kind of a youth was Jerry Lane. He had the same spirit as the old explorers. He possessed the imagination of a Lewis or a Clarke; aChamplain, or a La Salle. To him the spirit of the wilderness was all absorbing, and, shaking off the trammels of civilization, he loved to live out his days amidst the towering mountains, which, even then, stretched before us, jutting high from the sage-brush plateau. I immediately felt a sympathetic interest for Jerry Lane.To cross into the valley of Jackson’s Hole requires one’s utmost exertions, for one must climb up the Teton Pass in order to get over the mountains which surround this paradise of fish and game. For a man and a horse to pass up and across is easy work, but we were unfortunate enough to have a wagon with us. As we neared the bottom of the trail, which led almost perpendicularly up in the air, we saw a broken vehicle of a pioneer.“The Top of Teton Pass, or Bust,” some one had written on a board and placed upon the battered spokes.It had “Busted.”Now climbing, pushing, blowing, we yoked four horses to our wagon and gradually worked it to the summit of the Pass. It was July, but snow was on the ridges, and the air was like Labrador as it swept across the hemlock-covered mountains. When once on top of the Pass, what a view! We gazed down into a peaceful little vale with log houses and thatched roofs, fields of green grass with stacks of yellow hay, and bluish gray rivers curving gracefully across the plain. Hereford cattle, with their brown bodies and white faces, grazed contentedly upon the wide sweepof natural grass, and the barking of dogs sounded indistinctly from the barnyard of a new-made home.Down we pushed into the valley, then onward, across the Snake River at Moeners’ Ferry, and then to the Buffalo Fork of the Grosventre. Antelope began to appear upon the plain and danced about us like yellow and white rubber balls. Two of the cowboys dismounted and fired at them, resting their rifles upon their knees. They could not duplicate the marksmanship of Kit Carson or Buffalo Bill. Not an antelope was even wounded.We camped in a beautiful spot near the Grosventre River, and, just as we were lighting the fire for supper, a cry went up from some one:“Elk! Elk!”I was busy pouring some coffee, and, looking up, saw a cowboy pointing to a high bank opposite our camp. Sure enough, there stood a noble bull elk, his spreading antlers standing out on either side, giving him a calm and majestic appearance. He was gazing curiously at the animated scene below.Why is it that the average man’s first instinct when he sees a wild animal is to kill it? I was satisfied with watching this magnificent child of the forest, but not so with the rest of the party. Three of them ran immediately to get their rifles and a fusillade of bullets soon whistled in the direction of the big elk. He turned, galloped off into the timber, and left the cowboys to bemoan their lack of ability with the shooting-iron.“By gracious,” said one, “I can’t hit a barn door at fifty yards!”The elk was but one of the many which ranged the Jackson Hole country and whose deep trails could be seen on every hand. Their bleaching antlers, which they had shed, were also upon many a hill, and frequently we would pass a rancher’s cabin, where a fence would have been constructed of the white twisted horns of the old bulls. I knew that we would soon see a quantity of elk, and we did.Not many evenings later, as we were again boiling our coffee for dinner, the most unearthly scream that I have ever heard echoed from the canyon just to our right. It was answered by another, and—if I can make you believe it—the sound was as if a woman were being strangled.“Mountain lion screeching,” said Jack, with a grim smile. “Awful noise, ain’t it?”I confessed that it was.“Makes me always feel skeery. Kind uv makes th’ gooseflesh creep up my back. Heard ’em a thousand times but always frightens me.”The cowboy drew closer to the fire and I noticed that he was shivering.The mountain lion is a great coward and is afraid to attack a human being. Unless cornered and extremely hungry, he will not fight. He has—in spite of this—the most unearthly scream, which would make one believe that he was one of the fiercest and most bloodthirsty of beasts. Welling up upon the clear night air—in the very heart of the wilderness—itis enough to freeze one’s blood to hear their wailings. It takes strong nerves to listen to their gruesome noise without shaking.I heard the lions again about a week later, when I and a cowboy called Jim, were making our way up the side of a beautiful little tributary to the Grosventre. We were following a deep-rutted elk trail which led up the edge of a mountain to and from their summer feeding grounds, upon one of the higher plateaus. There was a log cabin nestling at the foot of the opposite hill—used by one of the game wardens—and, in the rear of this, a deep bank of hemlocks clothed the side of the cliff. Here the lions were concealed, and, seeing us riding in the open, shrieked out their defiance at the trespassers upon their demesne.Although a startling and nerve-racking sound, we kept upon our way, and I confess that I looked to the shells in my rifle—fearing that one of the screechers might consider us excellent bait for their dinner. Soon we had advanced far up the canyon and then the lions ceased their caterwauling.We were now in the heart of gameland. The tracks of bear were extraordinarily thick, and every now and again we would come to fresh sign, not an hour old. Once I reached a stream through which a big grizzly must have just passed, for the water was still muddy, and the print of his feet could easily be seen in the soft bank. In spite of their apparent numbers we could not even catch a glimpse of one of them, and, although I was constantly hoping to meet witha specimen of these monsters of the glen, I was never to catch even a fleeting glimpse of one.Not so with the rest of the party. Not a week later one of the cowboys rode into camp with a wild yelping, and there—behind him—were two of his companions, lugging in the body of a brown bear. He was a little fellow and his fur was all rubbed away in places, where he had scratched himself against the rocks. In spite of this he was good eating and his haunches were enjoyed by most of the party. Personally, I did not care for the meat and preferred canned tongue.The elk trails were most abundant, and I knew that we would soon see these brown deer, for we gradually moved up to the summit of the Rockies, where were vast plateaus covered with millions of beautiful flowers. These the noble animals lived upon in summer and slept among them too, for I would often find round holes in the grass, where some of them had bedded down a short time before. One evening two of the horse-wranglers returned to camp with the haunch of a cow elk, and stated—with much glee—that they had run upon a band of six, coming through some fallen timber. Two had fallen before their rifles, and, after cutting off enough for the use of our camp, they had placed the bodies in a position that could be easily approached, at a later date, when bear would undoubtedly be feeding upon the venison.A week later we had a glorious view of a large herd of elk.While traversing a high belt of timber my companion—asurveyor—called out to me to hurry over and see something on the other extremity of the ridge, upon which he had just taken his position. When I reached his side I saw that he was looking in the direction of a high plateau, upon which fully a thousand elk were feeding. No bulls seemed to be there—they were all cows and calves—and were grazing like a herd of cattle. The little calves were butting at each other and frisking about in great glee, while their fond mammas watched them with loving and tender glances of affection. It was a beautiful and moving vista.My companion had a field-glass, and we stood watching the changing mass of elk for at least an hour. They apparently had no knowledge of our presence, for the wind was blowing from them to us, so that no strange “scent of the trespassing man” came to their keen nostrils. There—in that beautiful mountain pasture—the baby elk were growing to maturity,—while far below in the valley the settlers were gathering the natural hay which usually fed them, for the use of their own cattle during the long and cruel winter. There would be much suffering and distress among the band, when they had left these mountain meadows for the valley.A week later we met the trapper and plainsman: Jerry Lane. I had already come upon his cabin and had stopped there for luncheon, leaving a neat piece of paper on the door to the effect that,—“Pardner, we used your tin plates, spoons, knives, and one can of potted tongue.”High up in the hills the little log hut was situated near a stream of icy water. It was about sixteen by twenty feet, the floor covered with bear and wolf skins, and four rifles in the rack. Great steel traps hung upon the walls outside, and antelope hides were tacked against it. There were good books within: stories of hunting and adventure,—and upon the floor—were numerous copies of the SundayNew York Journal. Jerry Lane had lived well upon the summit of the Rockies.I will never forget the view of the young trapper which came to me that morning. All around were the towering Rockies: an occasional fleck of snow upon the brown surface of the high cliffs; a gushing stream over on the right; the sage-brush plateau stretched away on every side, brown, bare, parched. A puff of dust first appeared in the far distance, then two figures rode up on horseback. They drew nearer and nearer. In front was the youthful personification of Buffalo Bill. It was Jerry Lane.He was riding a magnificent half-bred animal—a roan. His bridle and saddle, as I remember—were silver mounted. A big pair of Mexican spurs were on his heels. With a close-fitting suit of tawny buckskin, a wide sombrero, cartridge-belt around the waist, and a long rifle hung neatly under the left leg he was a perfect picture of a plainsman,—such a picture as one sees in dime novels.Behind him was an evil-looking customer, dressed in a slovenly manner, and scowling beneath a rather battered-in slouch hat. His horse, too, had nowherenear the breeding of the other. He frowned as he approached: the other smiled.“Hello!” said Jerry Lane. “Dusty, isn’t it?”“You bet,” said I. “Where you bound?”“Montana.”“Hunting?”“No, just taking life easy.”That was all the conversation that we had. He waved his hat to me, touched the spurs to his horse’s flanks, and was soon off down the divide. For a long time I stood and gazed after the lithe figure: young, beautiful, brimming over with health and exuberance,—the man who had found New York too tame for his hot blood. Could you blame him?Three days later a cow-puncher rode into our camp, threw his saddle on the ground, hobbled his pony, and drew near the mess table.“Too bad about Jerry, warn’t it?” said he, as he seated himself.“Why, what’s the matter with him?” I asked.“Shot.”“W-h-a-a-t!”“Yes, got into a row over the Montana line. They say it was accidental. Some one dropped his six-shooter on the floor. It exploded. No more Jerry Lane.”·········That night I walked out to a lonely rock and gazed at the brilliant stars. It was the true West, after all, the West that I had always read about but had never seen until now. I thought of the sandy-haired, blue-eyedsheriff who had gone to the Great Beyond. I thought of poor Jerry Lane: that lithe, active figure in buckskins; that devil-may-care manner; that fresh, pink-cheeked face. Yes, the West still held her tragedies, and the low wail of a coyote far off on the plain sounded ominously dreary, while the hand of death lay over the great wild wastes of the rolling, sagebrush-covered prairie.
THE LOST TRAPPER OF WYOMING
[This is the story of a young frontiersman, whom I knew, myself]
·········
JACKSON’S HOLE, Wyoming, was named after one Jackson, a pioneer, explorer, ranchman, and horseman. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of horse thieves who, gathering up their captured steeds, would run them into this peaceful valley to feed them on the rich, natural hay until they could be driven out at a different angle and sold to some one who knew nothing of their former ownership. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of desperadoes who had fled from justice. Jackson’s Hole was the place that I was going to in the summer of 1899.
“Goin’ to Jackson’s Hole, be yer?” said a fellow in a big sombrero, on the train to Idaho Falls. “Young man, you’ll never get out alive. Young man, it’s a desperate place.”
He winked at me, shook his finger in my face, and dropped back into the seat from which he had arisen. “Young man,” he continued, “the Injuns will get you, sure. Young man, look out!”
I confess that I felt somewhat disconcerted.
“I’ll take care of my scalp,” said I.
Here the companion of my friend in the sombrero spoke. This one had a red handkerchief knotted about his tawny neck, and wore a corduroy waistcoat.
“Yes, son,” said he, “haven’t you heard about the Injuns in Jackson’s Hole two years ago? They stampeded th’ settlers, ran off a lot of stock, murdered an’ burned, until rounded up by the U. S. Cavalry. Reckon there be some more loose in thar now. An’ panthers! Why, boy, they’re as thick as peas in a pod. An’ dangerous, too, by gravy!”
The first speaker guffawed.
“’Tain’t nawthin’ to th’ grizzlies,” said he. “They be monstrous pestiferous. Why, they pull you from your horse they be so unafraid of men.”
I squirmed uneasily in my seat, for I saw that they knew me to be a tenderfoot.
“Boy, you’ll be eaten alive an’ scalped to boot,” continued the fellow in the sombrero. “The good Lord have mercy on your soul.”
“Amen!” echoed his companion.
And I wriggled again, for I saw that they knew me to be an Easterner, and were having fun in their own way.
At any rate, I was bound for Jackson’s Hole and would get there somehow or other in spite of horse thieves, “Injuns” and grizzly bears.
We met at Idaho Falls. When I say we, I mean our party, for we were surveyors, bent upon exploration of Uncle Sam’s possessions, and upon makingan accurate map of the somewhat unknown country near Jackson’s Hole. We knew that it was a great land for game and fish and that it was the home of monster bands of elk, but we also knew that it had an unsavory reputation as the haunt for “bad” men of the hills. As I had come up on the train, certain placards in the stations showed that these same “bad” men were still around and had been operating at the expense of the Express Companies.
The placards read:
“$40,000 REWARD
For the Capture, Dead or Alive, of the Men who robbed the Union Pacific Express near Rawlins, Wyoming, on the Evening of June 4th.”
Then followed an inaccurate description of those who had been seen to enter the mail car, seize the box containing valuable mail and expressage, and decamp across the prairie with their plunder on their ponies’ backs.
At Pocatello, Idaho, I looked from the window and saw beneath me a light-haired, blue-eyed Swede. He was standing there nonchalantly, dressed in a corduroy suit, blue handkerchief knotted about his neck, and wide sombrero.
“That’s the sheriff,” said a man at my elbow.
“Where’s he bound?” I asked.
“Into the hills after the train robbers,” he answered. “He has aposséwith him and they oughtto be able to capture a few of the bandits who held up the Union Pacific Express.”
The train rolled on, but I always remembered that sturdy little figure, standing carelessly on the platform, in corduroys. In a week he had been ambushed, with his entirepossé, and two had escaped out of the eleven. The little sheriff was buried in the hills.
To get into Jackson’s Hole was then a rather difficult affair, for it meant a long journey by pack-train from either Market Lake or Idaho Falls. But the surveyor and the sons of the pioneer, whom he engaged to pilot him, were not adverse to pushing into a wild country. It took a week to outfit the party, secure the necessary horses, engage the men, and whip the fractious range-animals into some kind of submission for carrying saddles, pack equipment, and heavy bags of food and tenting. Then, in a cloud of alkali dust, and with a crowd of Blackfeet children gazing open-mouthed at the curious caravan, we were off for the blue hills which lay to the northeast.
The plains of Idaho are not only arid and parched, but they are covered with sage-brush, which emits a strong, pungent odor that is delicious. The alkali dust arises in clouds, and chokes one, as one proceeds, but that is not the only difficulty, for—strange as it may seem—the mosquito breeds by the millions in the irrigating ditches, and had it not been for the thick gauntlet gloves and netting attached to our sombreros, we would have been fairly eaten alive by the black swarms which followed us in clouds.
Every now and again—afar off on the prairie—wewould see a whirling cloud of moving alkali dust.
“Wild horses running to water,” said one of the cowboys. “That’s the way they always go, on the dead gallop.”
Occasionally we came near enough to see some of them and they were lean, gaunt and rangy creatures, which had escaped from the ranches, had run off to the prairie and had found pleasure in the free and untrammelled life of the plains. They would snort, as we approached, throw their heads high in the air, and then—turning around—would be off like the wind.
As we rode along, hot, dusty, and thirsty, I heard about Jerry Lane.
“This here Lane,” said Jack (a lean, little cowboy) “is a Noo Yorker. He came out here three years ago, sayin’ that life was too tame for him back East, an’ he wanted to be right in the Rocky Mountains, where the wolves, bears, and antelope could be seen, just th’ same as in th’ time of Kit Carson an’ Bill Bent. Some says that he’s a millionaire. Some says that he isn’t. Leastways he has about all th’ money one needs in this here country, an’ they tell me his cabin in th’ Rockies is full of th’ best kind of rifles, of steel traps, books, an’ all that’s nice.”
“He found life too tame for him back East.”
This sentence stuck in my mind and I knew—in a moment—what kind of a youth was Jerry Lane. He had the same spirit as the old explorers. He possessed the imagination of a Lewis or a Clarke; aChamplain, or a La Salle. To him the spirit of the wilderness was all absorbing, and, shaking off the trammels of civilization, he loved to live out his days amidst the towering mountains, which, even then, stretched before us, jutting high from the sage-brush plateau. I immediately felt a sympathetic interest for Jerry Lane.
To cross into the valley of Jackson’s Hole requires one’s utmost exertions, for one must climb up the Teton Pass in order to get over the mountains which surround this paradise of fish and game. For a man and a horse to pass up and across is easy work, but we were unfortunate enough to have a wagon with us. As we neared the bottom of the trail, which led almost perpendicularly up in the air, we saw a broken vehicle of a pioneer.
“The Top of Teton Pass, or Bust,” some one had written on a board and placed upon the battered spokes.
It had “Busted.”
Now climbing, pushing, blowing, we yoked four horses to our wagon and gradually worked it to the summit of the Pass. It was July, but snow was on the ridges, and the air was like Labrador as it swept across the hemlock-covered mountains. When once on top of the Pass, what a view! We gazed down into a peaceful little vale with log houses and thatched roofs, fields of green grass with stacks of yellow hay, and bluish gray rivers curving gracefully across the plain. Hereford cattle, with their brown bodies and white faces, grazed contentedly upon the wide sweepof natural grass, and the barking of dogs sounded indistinctly from the barnyard of a new-made home.
Down we pushed into the valley, then onward, across the Snake River at Moeners’ Ferry, and then to the Buffalo Fork of the Grosventre. Antelope began to appear upon the plain and danced about us like yellow and white rubber balls. Two of the cowboys dismounted and fired at them, resting their rifles upon their knees. They could not duplicate the marksmanship of Kit Carson or Buffalo Bill. Not an antelope was even wounded.
We camped in a beautiful spot near the Grosventre River, and, just as we were lighting the fire for supper, a cry went up from some one:
“Elk! Elk!”
I was busy pouring some coffee, and, looking up, saw a cowboy pointing to a high bank opposite our camp. Sure enough, there stood a noble bull elk, his spreading antlers standing out on either side, giving him a calm and majestic appearance. He was gazing curiously at the animated scene below.
Why is it that the average man’s first instinct when he sees a wild animal is to kill it? I was satisfied with watching this magnificent child of the forest, but not so with the rest of the party. Three of them ran immediately to get their rifles and a fusillade of bullets soon whistled in the direction of the big elk. He turned, galloped off into the timber, and left the cowboys to bemoan their lack of ability with the shooting-iron.
“By gracious,” said one, “I can’t hit a barn door at fifty yards!”
The elk was but one of the many which ranged the Jackson Hole country and whose deep trails could be seen on every hand. Their bleaching antlers, which they had shed, were also upon many a hill, and frequently we would pass a rancher’s cabin, where a fence would have been constructed of the white twisted horns of the old bulls. I knew that we would soon see a quantity of elk, and we did.
Not many evenings later, as we were again boiling our coffee for dinner, the most unearthly scream that I have ever heard echoed from the canyon just to our right. It was answered by another, and—if I can make you believe it—the sound was as if a woman were being strangled.
“Mountain lion screeching,” said Jack, with a grim smile. “Awful noise, ain’t it?”
I confessed that it was.
“Makes me always feel skeery. Kind uv makes th’ gooseflesh creep up my back. Heard ’em a thousand times but always frightens me.”
The cowboy drew closer to the fire and I noticed that he was shivering.
The mountain lion is a great coward and is afraid to attack a human being. Unless cornered and extremely hungry, he will not fight. He has—in spite of this—the most unearthly scream, which would make one believe that he was one of the fiercest and most bloodthirsty of beasts. Welling up upon the clear night air—in the very heart of the wilderness—itis enough to freeze one’s blood to hear their wailings. It takes strong nerves to listen to their gruesome noise without shaking.
I heard the lions again about a week later, when I and a cowboy called Jim, were making our way up the side of a beautiful little tributary to the Grosventre. We were following a deep-rutted elk trail which led up the edge of a mountain to and from their summer feeding grounds, upon one of the higher plateaus. There was a log cabin nestling at the foot of the opposite hill—used by one of the game wardens—and, in the rear of this, a deep bank of hemlocks clothed the side of the cliff. Here the lions were concealed, and, seeing us riding in the open, shrieked out their defiance at the trespassers upon their demesne.
Although a startling and nerve-racking sound, we kept upon our way, and I confess that I looked to the shells in my rifle—fearing that one of the screechers might consider us excellent bait for their dinner. Soon we had advanced far up the canyon and then the lions ceased their caterwauling.
We were now in the heart of gameland. The tracks of bear were extraordinarily thick, and every now and again we would come to fresh sign, not an hour old. Once I reached a stream through which a big grizzly must have just passed, for the water was still muddy, and the print of his feet could easily be seen in the soft bank. In spite of their apparent numbers we could not even catch a glimpse of one of them, and, although I was constantly hoping to meet witha specimen of these monsters of the glen, I was never to catch even a fleeting glimpse of one.
Not so with the rest of the party. Not a week later one of the cowboys rode into camp with a wild yelping, and there—behind him—were two of his companions, lugging in the body of a brown bear. He was a little fellow and his fur was all rubbed away in places, where he had scratched himself against the rocks. In spite of this he was good eating and his haunches were enjoyed by most of the party. Personally, I did not care for the meat and preferred canned tongue.
The elk trails were most abundant, and I knew that we would soon see these brown deer, for we gradually moved up to the summit of the Rockies, where were vast plateaus covered with millions of beautiful flowers. These the noble animals lived upon in summer and slept among them too, for I would often find round holes in the grass, where some of them had bedded down a short time before. One evening two of the horse-wranglers returned to camp with the haunch of a cow elk, and stated—with much glee—that they had run upon a band of six, coming through some fallen timber. Two had fallen before their rifles, and, after cutting off enough for the use of our camp, they had placed the bodies in a position that could be easily approached, at a later date, when bear would undoubtedly be feeding upon the venison.
A week later we had a glorious view of a large herd of elk.
While traversing a high belt of timber my companion—asurveyor—called out to me to hurry over and see something on the other extremity of the ridge, upon which he had just taken his position. When I reached his side I saw that he was looking in the direction of a high plateau, upon which fully a thousand elk were feeding. No bulls seemed to be there—they were all cows and calves—and were grazing like a herd of cattle. The little calves were butting at each other and frisking about in great glee, while their fond mammas watched them with loving and tender glances of affection. It was a beautiful and moving vista.
My companion had a field-glass, and we stood watching the changing mass of elk for at least an hour. They apparently had no knowledge of our presence, for the wind was blowing from them to us, so that no strange “scent of the trespassing man” came to their keen nostrils. There—in that beautiful mountain pasture—the baby elk were growing to maturity,—while far below in the valley the settlers were gathering the natural hay which usually fed them, for the use of their own cattle during the long and cruel winter. There would be much suffering and distress among the band, when they had left these mountain meadows for the valley.
A week later we met the trapper and plainsman: Jerry Lane. I had already come upon his cabin and had stopped there for luncheon, leaving a neat piece of paper on the door to the effect that,—
“Pardner, we used your tin plates, spoons, knives, and one can of potted tongue.”
High up in the hills the little log hut was situated near a stream of icy water. It was about sixteen by twenty feet, the floor covered with bear and wolf skins, and four rifles in the rack. Great steel traps hung upon the walls outside, and antelope hides were tacked against it. There were good books within: stories of hunting and adventure,—and upon the floor—were numerous copies of the SundayNew York Journal. Jerry Lane had lived well upon the summit of the Rockies.
I will never forget the view of the young trapper which came to me that morning. All around were the towering Rockies: an occasional fleck of snow upon the brown surface of the high cliffs; a gushing stream over on the right; the sage-brush plateau stretched away on every side, brown, bare, parched. A puff of dust first appeared in the far distance, then two figures rode up on horseback. They drew nearer and nearer. In front was the youthful personification of Buffalo Bill. It was Jerry Lane.
He was riding a magnificent half-bred animal—a roan. His bridle and saddle, as I remember—were silver mounted. A big pair of Mexican spurs were on his heels. With a close-fitting suit of tawny buckskin, a wide sombrero, cartridge-belt around the waist, and a long rifle hung neatly under the left leg he was a perfect picture of a plainsman,—such a picture as one sees in dime novels.
Behind him was an evil-looking customer, dressed in a slovenly manner, and scowling beneath a rather battered-in slouch hat. His horse, too, had nowherenear the breeding of the other. He frowned as he approached: the other smiled.
“Hello!” said Jerry Lane. “Dusty, isn’t it?”
“You bet,” said I. “Where you bound?”
“Montana.”
“Hunting?”
“No, just taking life easy.”
That was all the conversation that we had. He waved his hat to me, touched the spurs to his horse’s flanks, and was soon off down the divide. For a long time I stood and gazed after the lithe figure: young, beautiful, brimming over with health and exuberance,—the man who had found New York too tame for his hot blood. Could you blame him?
Three days later a cow-puncher rode into our camp, threw his saddle on the ground, hobbled his pony, and drew near the mess table.
“Too bad about Jerry, warn’t it?” said he, as he seated himself.
“Why, what’s the matter with him?” I asked.
“Shot.”
“W-h-a-a-t!”
“Yes, got into a row over the Montana line. They say it was accidental. Some one dropped his six-shooter on the floor. It exploded. No more Jerry Lane.”
·········
That night I walked out to a lonely rock and gazed at the brilliant stars. It was the true West, after all, the West that I had always read about but had never seen until now. I thought of the sandy-haired, blue-eyedsheriff who had gone to the Great Beyond. I thought of poor Jerry Lane: that lithe, active figure in buckskins; that devil-may-care manner; that fresh, pink-cheeked face. Yes, the West still held her tragedies, and the low wail of a coyote far off on the plain sounded ominously dreary, while the hand of death lay over the great wild wastes of the rolling, sagebrush-covered prairie.
THE SONG OF THE MOOSEThis the song which the trapper heard,Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,Heard while the embers snapped and snarled,To the growl and glare of the glimmering spark.Heard while the lucivee cried from the pines,And the ribboned splash of a startled loon,Crystalled the rim of the lake, as it laySoft in the gleam of the hunter’s moon.This is the song of the moose.Near the amber drip of the torrent’s rip,Where the lean wolf howls at the blinding spray,Where the sleeted pine is riven and rent,By stress and strain of the mist-bank gray;We struggled and fed through the reedling’s bed,Where the sheldrake croons to her fledglings brown,And the otter mewed to its hungry brood,As the osprey peered from the hemlock’s crown.Our moosling day was a rapturous play,We browsed where the partridge drummed a song,Where the brown bear hid in the tamarack,Where the days were short and the nights were long.We roamed ’neath the arch of the drowsy larch,Where the beaver bred in the inky pool,We splashed in the foam of the cataract,In the frothing spume and the ripples cool.We hid ’neath the pine of the Serpentine,As the red fox barked to his sleek-fed mate;We ate of the birch of the Restigouche,Where the goldfinch whisper and undulate.Oh, bright were the days, with surcease of care,As we fed and grew from our clumsy birth;While the woods were green with a shimmering sheen,And the sun shone hot on the moss-grown earth.Then came the prod from the fleet-flying squad,As the gray goose sped to the Chesapeake;The leaves grew sere at the slow, dying year,And the salmon raced from their spawning creek.Our mothers fled from our marsh-sunken bed,We browsed no more on the soft lilies’ pad;From the distant blue came the caribou,Rank upon rank—and their temper was bad.Their eyes were bad, as they fought for our feed,When the air grew chill in the Northern blast,And the white flakes fell from the sodden sky,On the sleeted lakes, soon frozen hard fast.Pure white was the cowl of the arctic owl,And soft was his voice from the cedar deep;As we ploughed our yard ’neath the mountain’s guard,And marked our birch for the long winter’s keep.Now, sharp came the clang, as the wood-axe rang,“’Tis man,” said our kin, “you must wander afarFrom the sound of his voice and reach of his arm,For his song is death and his hand is war.”The blue wisps curled from the lone logger’s hut,Far down in the depths of the silent wood;And shouts came loud from the boisterous crowd,As they sapped the strength of the forest’s blood.We were taught to fend, with a lunge and bend,The spring of the lynx, with his snarling yelp;We were shown to ride, with a single stride,The charge of the wolf and his whining whelp.We saw how to strip the birch with our lip,And to trample the shoots with our fore-leg weight;We learned how to tell a foe by the smell,That law in the wood was the law of hate.Another year, and the wide ridge was clear,As the snow grew less, and the day grew long;With a start of the sap we swung from our trap,While the chickadee whispered his mating song;And the robin came, with feathers of flame,To carol a psalm from the budding spray,While the chewink’s flute, like a minstrel’s lute,Trilled clear in the balm of the softening day.Oh, that life was good in the opening wood,As our brothers’ horns turned velvet to bone,We wandered at will over hummock and hill,’Till we found out—alas—we were never alone.Man found us there, in our deep, forest lair,And plunge as we would in the thicket’s gloom,We ran on his track and the sign of his pack,As he close hunted us down to our doom.There, oft in the dark, we trembled to harkTo his muffled call, by bank of the pond,And to those who lacked in spirit of fear,It was death to inquire, and death to respond.Oft have we trod on the ranks of the slain,As prostrate they lay near some crystal streamLured to their end by the low, soothing cry,Mocking the mate of a love-longing dream.To the whispering rest of the trackless West,We travel to live where the range-land is clear,Where wolf and bear keep their sheltering lair,Where silence is deep and man is not near.Few—few are there left from merciless war,Waged on our ranks, now broken and gone,Yet, struggle we must ’gainst slaughtering lust,Our end is in view—race-driven, forlorn.This is the song which the trapper heard,Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,Heard of an ancient and vanishing race,By the growl and glare of the glimmering spark.Heard of the mannish blood-lust and greed,Of the withering waste in the rifle’s path,Song of the steel-clad bullet’s speed,This is the song of the moose.i399“LURED TO THEIR END BY THE LOW, SOOTHING CRY.”
This the song which the trapper heard,
Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,
Heard while the embers snapped and snarled,
To the growl and glare of the glimmering spark.
Heard while the lucivee cried from the pines,
And the ribboned splash of a startled loon,
Crystalled the rim of the lake, as it lay
Soft in the gleam of the hunter’s moon.
This is the song of the moose.
Near the amber drip of the torrent’s rip,
Where the lean wolf howls at the blinding spray,
Where the sleeted pine is riven and rent,
By stress and strain of the mist-bank gray;
We struggled and fed through the reedling’s bed,
Where the sheldrake croons to her fledglings brown,
And the otter mewed to its hungry brood,
As the osprey peered from the hemlock’s crown.
Our moosling day was a rapturous play,
We browsed where the partridge drummed a song,
Where the brown bear hid in the tamarack,
Where the days were short and the nights were long.
We roamed ’neath the arch of the drowsy larch,
Where the beaver bred in the inky pool,
We splashed in the foam of the cataract,
In the frothing spume and the ripples cool.
We hid ’neath the pine of the Serpentine,
As the red fox barked to his sleek-fed mate;
We ate of the birch of the Restigouche,
Where the goldfinch whisper and undulate.
Oh, bright were the days, with surcease of care,
As we fed and grew from our clumsy birth;
While the woods were green with a shimmering sheen,
And the sun shone hot on the moss-grown earth.
Then came the prod from the fleet-flying squad,
As the gray goose sped to the Chesapeake;
The leaves grew sere at the slow, dying year,
And the salmon raced from their spawning creek.
Our mothers fled from our marsh-sunken bed,
We browsed no more on the soft lilies’ pad;
From the distant blue came the caribou,
Rank upon rank—and their temper was bad.
Their eyes were bad, as they fought for our feed,
When the air grew chill in the Northern blast,
And the white flakes fell from the sodden sky,
On the sleeted lakes, soon frozen hard fast.
Pure white was the cowl of the arctic owl,
And soft was his voice from the cedar deep;
As we ploughed our yard ’neath the mountain’s guard,
And marked our birch for the long winter’s keep.
Now, sharp came the clang, as the wood-axe rang,
“’Tis man,” said our kin, “you must wander afar
From the sound of his voice and reach of his arm,
For his song is death and his hand is war.”
The blue wisps curled from the lone logger’s hut,
Far down in the depths of the silent wood;
And shouts came loud from the boisterous crowd,
As they sapped the strength of the forest’s blood.
We were taught to fend, with a lunge and bend,
The spring of the lynx, with his snarling yelp;
We were shown to ride, with a single stride,
The charge of the wolf and his whining whelp.
We saw how to strip the birch with our lip,
And to trample the shoots with our fore-leg weight;
We learned how to tell a foe by the smell,
That law in the wood was the law of hate.
Another year, and the wide ridge was clear,
As the snow grew less, and the day grew long;
With a start of the sap we swung from our trap,
While the chickadee whispered his mating song;
And the robin came, with feathers of flame,
To carol a psalm from the budding spray,
While the chewink’s flute, like a minstrel’s lute,
Trilled clear in the balm of the softening day.
Oh, that life was good in the opening wood,
As our brothers’ horns turned velvet to bone,
We wandered at will over hummock and hill,
’Till we found out—alas—we were never alone.
Man found us there, in our deep, forest lair,
And plunge as we would in the thicket’s gloom,
We ran on his track and the sign of his pack,
As he close hunted us down to our doom.
There, oft in the dark, we trembled to hark
To his muffled call, by bank of the pond,
And to those who lacked in spirit of fear,
It was death to inquire, and death to respond.
Oft have we trod on the ranks of the slain,
As prostrate they lay near some crystal stream
Lured to their end by the low, soothing cry,
Mocking the mate of a love-longing dream.
To the whispering rest of the trackless West,
We travel to live where the range-land is clear,
Where wolf and bear keep their sheltering lair,
Where silence is deep and man is not near.
Few—few are there left from merciless war,
Waged on our ranks, now broken and gone,
Yet, struggle we must ’gainst slaughtering lust,
Our end is in view—race-driven, forlorn.
This is the song which the trapper heard,
Heard in the gloom of the forest dark,
Heard of an ancient and vanishing race,
By the growl and glare of the glimmering spark.
Heard of the mannish blood-lust and greed,
Of the withering waste in the rifle’s path,
Song of the steel-clad bullet’s speed,
This is the song of the moose.
i399
“LURED TO THEIR END BY THE LOW, SOOTHING CRY.”
“LURED TO THEIR END BY THE LOW, SOOTHING CRY.”
“LURED TO THEIR END BY THE LOW, SOOTHING CRY.”
RETROSPECTNO longer moves the wagon train through clouds of rolling dust,No longer speaks the musket, foul caked with yellow rust,Wild days have passed; the yelping brave has vanished in the mists of time,Wild fights are o’er, the valiant scout has ceased to cheer the firing line.The brutish bison herds are gone—the lean coyote sneaks here and there,Where once the pronghorn fed in peace, and shyly roamed the grizzly bear.The elk are dead—the puma, too, no longer shrieks his wailing cry,Where trapper’s fires are blazing clear, and sharply light the dark’ning sky.From out the past, pale forms arise, the shapes of those who fought and bledOn treeless plains of alkali, and bravely found a gory bed.The ghostly shapes go riding past; scout, voyageur, and priest,Chief, warrior, and squaw, who gathered at the trader’s feast.No more their laughter echoes loud, no more their voices rise and fall,By bed of stream, ’neath aspen’s bough, where clumsy Indian children sprawl.The chatter of the dance is hushed; the yells of warrior bands are gone,As—gathering for the dance of death—they held high revelry ’till dawn.We gaze upon the written page, we marvel that such tales are truth,Of fighting fierce, of wrangling rude, of scalp-dance and the cries of youth.Then thankfully we tread the paths, which voyageur and trapper boldWere wont to tread in olden times, when passions fierce were uncontrolled.Yes—blood was shed—yes—men were brave, who conquered and who won the West,Now there is love where once was strife—the scouts have reached their Heavenly rest.THE END.BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLETHE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS(Trade Mark)By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTONEach 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated, per vol.. $1.50THE LITTLE COLONEL STORIES(Trade Mark)Being three “Little Colonel” stories in the Cosy Corner Series, “The Little Colonel,” “Two Little Knights of Kentucky,” and “The Giant Scissors,” in a single volume.THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOUSE PARTY(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOLIDAYS(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HERO(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL AT BOARDING-SCHOOL(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL IN ARIZONA(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL’S CHRISTMAS VACATION(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL, MAID OF HONOR(Trade Mark)THE LITTLE COLONEL’S KNIGHT COMES RIDING(Trade Mark)MARY WARE: THE LITTLE COLONEL’S CHUM(Trade Mark)MARY WARE IN TEXASMARY WARE’S PROMISED LANDThese 12 volumes, boxed as a set, $18.00.THE LITTLE COLONEL(Trade Mark)TWO LITTLE KNIGHTS OF KENTUCKYTHE GIANT SCISSORSBIG BROTHERSpecial Holiday EditionsEach one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto,–———$1.25New plates, handsomely illustrated with eight full-page drawings in color, and many marginal sketches.IN THE DESERT OF WAITING:The Legend of Camelback Mountain.THE THREE WEAVERS:A Fairy Tale for Fathers and Mothers as Well as for Their Daughters.KEEPING TRYSTTHE LEGEND OF THE BLEEDING HEARTTHE RESCUE OF PRINCESS WINSOME:A Fairy Play for Old and Young.THE JESTER’S SWORDEach one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative–———$0.50Paper boards––————— ——————————.35There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these six stories which were originally included in six of the “Little Colonel” books.JOEL: A BOY OF GALILEE:By Annie Fellows Johnston.Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman.New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books, 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative–———$1.50A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author’s best-known books.THE LITTLE COLONEL GOOD TIMES BOOKUniform in size with the Little Colonel Series––———$1.50Bound in white kid (morocco) and gold——————3.00Cover design and decorations by Peter Verberg.Published in response to many inquiries from readers of the Little Colonel books as to where they could obtain a “Good Times Book” such as Betty kept.THE LITTLE COLONEL DOLL BOOKLarge quarto, boards——————$1.50A series of “Little Colonel” dolls. There are many of them and each has several changes of costume, so that the happy group can be appropriately clad for the rehearsal of any scene or incident in the series.ASA HOLMES;Or, At the Cross-Road. ByAnnie Fellows Johnston.With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery.Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top——————$1.00“‘Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads’ is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while.”—Boston Times.TRAVELERS FIVE: ALONG LIFE’S HIGHWAY.ByAnnie Fellows Johnston.With an introduction by Bliss Carman, and a frontispiece by E. H. Garrett.Cloth decorative——————$1.25“Mrs. Johnston’s ... are of the character that cause the mind to grow gravely meditative, the eyes to shine with tender mist, and the heart strings to stir to strange, sweet music of human sympathy.”—Los Angeles Graphic.THE RIVAL CAMPERS;Or, The Adventures of Henry Burns. ByRuel Perley Smith.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50A story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast.THE RIVAL CAMPERS AFLOAT;Or, The Prize Yacht Viking. ByRuel Perley Smith.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50This book is a continuation of the adventures of “The Rival Campers” on their prize yachtViking.THE RIVAL CAMPERS ASHOREByRuel Perley Smith.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“As interesting ashore as when afloat.”—The Interior.THE RIVAL CAMPERS AMONG THE OYSTER PIRATES;Or, Jack Harvey’s Adventures. ByRuel Perley Smith.Illustrated.——————$1.50“Just the type of book which is most popular with lads who are in their early teens.”—The Philadelphia Item.A TEXAS BLUE BONNETByCaroline Emilia Jacobs (Emilia Elliott).12mo, illustrated——————$1.50“The book’s heroine Blue Bonnet has the very finest kind of wholesome, honest lively girlishness and cannot but make friends with every one who meets her through the book as medium.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.BLUE BONNET’S RANCH PARTYA Sequel to “A Texas Blue Bonnet.” ByCaroline Elliott JacobsandEdyth Ellerbeck Read.Square 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50The new story begins where the first volume leaves off and takes Blue Bonnet and the “We Are Seven Club” to the ranch in Texas. The tables are completely turned: Blue Bonnet is here in her natural element, while her friends from Woodford have to learn the customs and traditions of another world.THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACEOr, Peggy Raymond’s Success. ByHarriet Lummis Smith.Square 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50This is a book that will gladden the hearts of many girl readers because of its charming air of comradeship and reality. It is a very interesting group of girls who live on Friendly Terrace and their good times and other times are graphically related by the author, who shows a sympathetic knowledge of girl character.PEGGY RAYMOND’S VACATION;Or, Friendly Terrace Transplanted.A Sequel to “The Girls of Friendly Terrace.” ByHarriet Lummis Smith.Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Readers who made the acquaintance of Peggy Raymond and her bevy of girl chums in “The Girls of Friendly Terrace” will be glad to continue the acquaintance of these attractive young folks.Several new characters are introduced, and one at least will prove a not unworthy rival of the favorites among the Terrace girls.THE HADLEY HALL SERIESBy LOUISE M. BREITENBACHEach, library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50ALMA AT HADLEY HALL“Miss Breitenbach is to be congratulated on having written such an appealing book for girls, and the girls are to be congratulated on having the privilege of reading it.”—The Detroit Free Press.ALMA’S SOPHOMORE YEAR“The characters are strongly drawn with a life-like realism, the incidents are well and progressively sequenced, and the action is so well timed that the interest never slackens.”—Boston Ideas.————THE SUNBRIDGE GIRLS AT SIX STAR RANCH.ByEleanor Stuart.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Any girl of any age who is fond of outdoor life will appreciate this fascinating tale of Genevieve Hartley’s summer vacation house-party on a Texas ranch. Genevieve and her friends are real girls, the kind that one would like to have in one’s own home, and there are a couple of manly boys introduced.BEAUTIFUL JOE’S PARADISE;Or, The Island of Brotherly Love. A Sequel to “Beautiful Joe.”ByMarshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful Joe.”One vol., library 12mo, cloth illustrated——————$1.50“This book revives the spirit of ‘Beautiful Joe’ capitally. It is fairly riotous with fun, and is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light.”—Philadelphia Item.’TILDA JANE.ByMarshall Saunders.One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative——————$1.50“It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished it—honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif.“I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly.”—Cyrus T. Brady.’TILDA JANE’S ORPHANS.A Sequel to “‘Tilda Jane.” ByMarshall Saunders.One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative——————$1.50’Tilda Jane is the same original, delightful girl, and as fond of her animal pets as ever.“There is so much to this story that it is almost a novel—in fact it is better than many novels, although written for only young people. Compared with much of to-day’s juveniles it is quite a superior book.”—Chicago Tribune.THE STORY OF THE GRAVELYS.ByMarshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful Joe’s Paradise,” “’Tilda Jane,” etc.Library 12mo, cloth decorative. Illustrated by E. B. Barry——————$1.50Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family.PUSSY BLACK-FACE.ByMarshall Saunders, author of “’Tilda Jane,” “’Tilda Jane’s Orphans,” etc.Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50This is a delightful little story of animal life, written in this author’s best vein, dealing especially with Pussy Black-Face, a little Beacon Street (Boston) kitten, who is the narrator.FAMOUS LEADERS SERIESBy CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTONEach, large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated. $1.50FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERSBiographical sketches, with anecdotes and reminiscenses, of the heroes of history who were leaders of cavalry.“More of such books should be written, books that acquaint young readers with historical personages in a pleasant informal way.”—N. Y. Sun.FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFSIn this book Mr. Johnston gives interesting sketches of the Indian braves who have figured with prominence in the history of our own land.FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN AND ADVENTURERS OF THE SEAIn this volume Mr. Johnston tells interesting stories about the famous sailors of fortune.FAMOUS SCOUTS“It is the kind of a book that will have a great fascination for boys and young men and while it entertains them it will also present valuable information in regard to those who have left their impress upon the history of the country.—The New London Day.FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN AND HEROES OF THE BORDERThis book is devoted to a description of the adventurous lives and stirring experiences of many pioneer heroes who were prominently identified with the opening of the great west.————RALPH SOMERBY AT PANAMAByFrancis Raleigh.Large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Real buccaneers who overran the Spanish main, and adventurers who figured prominently in the sack of Panama, all enter into the life of Ralph Somerby, a young English lad, on his way to the colony in Jamaica. After a year of wandering and adventure he covers the route of the present Panama Canal.THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE GIRLByMarion Ames Taggart.One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50A thoroughly enjoyable tale of a little girl and her comrade father, written in a delightful vein of sympathetic comprehension of the child’s point of view.“The characters are strongly drawn with a life-like realism, the incidents are well and progressively sequenced, and the action is so well timed that the interest never slackens.”—Boston Ideas.SWEET NANCYThe Further Adventures of the Doctor’s Little Girl.ByMarion Ames Taggart.One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50In the new book, the author tells how Nancy becomes in fact “the doctor’s assistant,” and continues to shed happiness around her.NANCY, THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE PARTNERByMarion Ames Taggart.One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50In Nancy Porter, Miss Taggart has created one of the most lovable child characters in recent years. In the new story she is the same bright and cheerful little maid.NANCY PORTER’S OPPORTUNITYByMarion Ames Taggart.One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50Already as the “doctor’s partner” Nancy Porter has won the affection of her readers, and in the same lovable manner she continues in the new book to press the keynotes of optimism and good-will.BORN TO THE BLUEByFlorence Kimball Russel.12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.25The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation.IN WEST POINT GRAYByFlorence Kimball Russel.12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“Singularly enough one of the best books of the year for boys is written by a woman and deals with life at West Point. The presentment of life in the famous military academy whence so many heroes have graduated is realistic and enjoyable.”—New York Sun.THE SANDMAN: HIS FARM STORIESByWilliam J. Hopkins. With fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson.Large 12mo, decorative cover——————$1.50“An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. It should be one of the most popular of the year’s books for reading to small children.”—Buffalo Express.THE SANDMAN: MORE FARM STORIESByWilliam J. Hopkins.Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50Mr. Hopkins’s first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of “Sandman” tales was issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner.THE SANDMAN: HIS SHIP STORIESByWilliam J. Hopkins, author of “The Sandman: His Farm Stories,” etc.Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50“Children call for these stories over and over again.”—Chicago Evening Post.THE SANDMAN: HIS SEA STORIESByWilliam J. Hopkins.Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50Each year adds to the popularity of this unique series of stories to be read to the little ones at bed time and at other times.THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIESBy HARRISON ADAMSEach, 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated$1.25THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO;Or, Clearing the Wilderness.Boys will follow with ever increasing interest the fortunes of Bob and Sandy Armstrong in their hunting and trapping expeditions, and in their adventures with the Indians.THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES;Or, On the Trail of the Iroquois.In this story are introduced all of the principal characters of the first volume, and Bob and Sandy learn much of life in the open from the French trappers and coureurs du bois.THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI;Or, The Homestead in the Wilderness.Telling of how the Armstrong family decides to move farther west after an awful flood on the Ohio, and how they travelled to the great “Father of Waters” and settled on its banks, and of how the pioneer boys had many adventures both with wild animals and with the crafty Indians.————HAWK: THE YOUNG OSAGEByC. H. Robinson.One vol., cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50A fine story of North American Indians. The story begins when Hawk is a papoose and follows him until he is finally made chief of his tribe.THE YOUNG APPRENTICE;Or, Allan West’s Chum.ByBurton E. Stevenson.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50In this book Mr. Stevenson takes up a new branch of railroading, namely, the work of the “Shops.”THE YOUNG SECTION-HAND;Or, The Adventures of Allan West. By Burton E. Stevenson.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Mr. Stevenson’s hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling.THE YOUNG TRAIN DISPATCHER.ByBurton E. Stevenson.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“A better book for boys has never left an American press.”—Springfield Union.THE YOUNG TRAIN MASTER.ByBurton E. Stevenson.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“Nothing better in the way of a book of adventure for boys.”—Boston Herald.CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Jack is a fine example of the American high-school boy.JACK LORIMER’S CHAMPIONS;Or, Sports on Land and Lake. ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50“It is exactly the sort of book to give a boy interested in athletics.”—Chicago Tribune.JACK LORIMER’S HOLIDAYS;Or, Millvale High in Camp. ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50Full of just the kind of fun, sports and adventure to excite the healthy minded youngster to emulation.JACK LORIMER’S SUBSTITUTE:Or, The Acting Captain of the Team. ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50On the sporting side, this book takes up football, wrestling, and tobogganing.JACK LORIMER, FRESHMAN. ByWinn Standish.Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50This book is typical of the American college boys’ life and is a lively story.GABRIEL AND THE HOUR BOOKByEvaleen Stein.Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart—$1.00Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries.“No works in juvenile fiction contain so many of the elements that stir the hearts of children and grown-ups as well as do the stories so admirably told by this author.”—Louisville Daily Courier.A LITTLE SHEPHERD OF PROVENCEByEvaleen Stein.Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by Diantha H. Marlowe——————$1.25“The story should be one of the influences in the life of every child to whom good stories can be made to appeal.”—Public Ledger.THE LITTLE COUNT OF NORMANDYByEvaleen Stein.Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by John Goss——————$1.25“This touching and pleasing story is told with a wealth of interest coupled with enlivening descriptions of the country where its scenes are laid and of the people thereof.”—Wilmington Every Evening.ALYS-ALL-ALONEByUna Macdonald.Cloth, 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50“This is a most delightful, well-written, heart-stirring, happy ending story, which will gladden the heart of many a reader.”—Scranton Times.ALYS IN HAPPYLAND.A Sequel to “Alys-All Alone.” ByUna Macdonald.Cloth, 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50“The book is written with that taste and charm that prepare younger readers for the appreciation of good literature when they are older.”—Chicago Tribune.THELittle Cousin Series(trade mark)Each volume illustrated with six or more full page plates intint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover,per volume, 60 centsLIST OF TITLESBy Mary Hazelton Wade, Mary F.Nixon-Roulet, Blanche McManus,Clara V. Winlow, Florence E.Mendel and OthersOur Little African CousinOur Little Alaskan CousinOur Little Arabian CousinOur Little Argentine CousinOur Little Armenian CousinOur Little Australian CousinOur Little Austrian CousinOur Little Belgian CousinOur Little Bohemian CousinOur Little Brazilian CousinOur Little Bulgarian CousinOur Little Canadian CousinOur Little Chinese CousinOur Little Cuban CousinOur Little Danish CousinOur Little Dutch CousinOur Little Egyptian CousinOur Little English CousinOur Little Eskimo CousinOur Little French CousinOur Little German CousinOur Little Grecian CousinOur Little Hawaiian CousinOur Little Hindu CousinOur Little Hungarian CousinOur Little Indian CousinOur Little Irish CousinOur Little Italian CousinOur Little Japanese CousinOur Little Jewish CousinOur Little Korean CousinOur Little Malayan (Brown) CousinOur Little Mexican CousinOur Little Norwegian CousinOur Little Panama CousinOur Little Persian CousinOur Little Philippine CousinOur Little Polish CousinOur Little Porto Rican CousinOur Little Portuguese CousinOur Little Russian CousinOur Little Scotch CousinOur Little Servian CousinOur Little Siamese CousinOur Little Spanish CousinOur Little Swedish CousinOur Little Swiss CousinOur Little Turkish CousinTHE LITTLE COUSINS OF LONG AGO SERIESThe publishers have concluded that a companion series to “The Little Cousin Series,” giving the every-day child life ofancient timeswill meet with approval, and like the other series will be welcomed by the children as well as by their elders. The volumes of this new series are accurate both historically and in the description of every-day life of the time, as well as interesting to the child.Small 12mo, cloth, illustrated——————60cOUR LITTLE ROMAN COUSIN OF LONG AGOByJulia Darrow Cowles.OUR LITTLE ATHENIAN COUSIN OF LONG AGOByJulia Darrow Cowles.THE PHYLLIS SERIESBy LENORE E. MULETSEach, one volume, cloth decorated, illustrated.——————$1.25PHYLLIS’ INSECT STORIESPHYLLIS’ FLOWER STORIESPHYLLIS’ BIRD STORIESPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF LITTLE ANIMALSPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF BIG ANIMALSPHYLLIS’ TREE STORIESPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF LITTLE FISHES“An original idea cleverly carried out. The volumes afford the best kind of entertainment; and the little girl heroine of them all will find friends in the girls of every part of the country. No juveniles can be commended more heartily.”—St. Louis Globe-Democrat.
NO longer moves the wagon train through clouds of rolling dust,
No longer speaks the musket, foul caked with yellow rust,
Wild days have passed; the yelping brave has vanished in the mists of time,
Wild fights are o’er, the valiant scout has ceased to cheer the firing line.
The brutish bison herds are gone—the lean coyote sneaks here and there,
Where once the pronghorn fed in peace, and shyly roamed the grizzly bear.
The elk are dead—the puma, too, no longer shrieks his wailing cry,
Where trapper’s fires are blazing clear, and sharply light the dark’ning sky.
From out the past, pale forms arise, the shapes of those who fought and bled
On treeless plains of alkali, and bravely found a gory bed.
The ghostly shapes go riding past; scout, voyageur, and priest,
Chief, warrior, and squaw, who gathered at the trader’s feast.
No more their laughter echoes loud, no more their voices rise and fall,
By bed of stream, ’neath aspen’s bough, where clumsy Indian children sprawl.
The chatter of the dance is hushed; the yells of warrior bands are gone,
As—gathering for the dance of death—they held high revelry ’till dawn.
We gaze upon the written page, we marvel that such tales are truth,
Of fighting fierce, of wrangling rude, of scalp-dance and the cries of youth.
Then thankfully we tread the paths, which voyageur and trapper bold
Were wont to tread in olden times, when passions fierce were uncontrolled.
Yes—blood was shed—yes—men were brave, who conquered and who won the West,
Now there is love where once was strife—the scouts have reached their Heavenly rest.
THE END.
BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS
(Trade Mark)
By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON
Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated, per vol.. $1.50
THE LITTLE COLONEL STORIES
(Trade Mark)
Being three “Little Colonel” stories in the Cosy Corner Series, “The Little Colonel,” “Two Little Knights of Kentucky,” and “The Giant Scissors,” in a single volume.
THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOUSE PARTY
(Trade Mark)
THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HOLIDAYS
(Trade Mark)
THE LITTLE COLONEL’S HERO
(Trade Mark)
THE LITTLE COLONEL AT BOARDING-SCHOOL
(Trade Mark)
THE LITTLE COLONEL IN ARIZONA
(Trade Mark)
THE LITTLE COLONEL’S CHRISTMAS VACATION
(Trade Mark)
THE LITTLE COLONEL, MAID OF HONOR
(Trade Mark)
THE LITTLE COLONEL’S KNIGHT COMES RIDING
(Trade Mark)
MARY WARE: THE LITTLE COLONEL’S CHUM
(Trade Mark)
MARY WARE IN TEXAS
MARY WARE’S PROMISED LAND
These 12 volumes, boxed as a set, $18.00.
THE LITTLE COLONEL
(Trade Mark)
TWO LITTLE KNIGHTS OF KENTUCKY
THE GIANT SCISSORS
BIG BROTHER
Special Holiday Editions
Each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto,–———$1.25
New plates, handsomely illustrated with eight full-page drawings in color, and many marginal sketches.
IN THE DESERT OF WAITING:The Legend of Camelback Mountain.
THE THREE WEAVERS:A Fairy Tale for Fathers and Mothers as Well as for Their Daughters.
KEEPING TRYST
THE LEGEND OF THE BLEEDING HEART
THE RESCUE OF PRINCESS WINSOME:A Fairy Play for Old and Young.
THE JESTER’S SWORD
Each one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative–———$0.50
Paper boards––————— ——————————.35
There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these six stories which were originally included in six of the “Little Colonel” books.
JOEL: A BOY OF GALILEE:By Annie Fellows Johnston.Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman.
New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books, 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative–———$1.50
A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author’s best-known books.
THE LITTLE COLONEL GOOD TIMES BOOK
Uniform in size with the Little Colonel Series––———$1.50
Bound in white kid (morocco) and gold——————3.00
Cover design and decorations by Peter Verberg.
Published in response to many inquiries from readers of the Little Colonel books as to where they could obtain a “Good Times Book” such as Betty kept.
THE LITTLE COLONEL DOLL BOOK
Large quarto, boards——————$1.50
A series of “Little Colonel” dolls. There are many of them and each has several changes of costume, so that the happy group can be appropriately clad for the rehearsal of any scene or incident in the series.
ASA HOLMES;Or, At the Cross-Road. ByAnnie Fellows Johnston.
With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery.
Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top——————$1.00
“‘Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads’ is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while.”—Boston Times.
TRAVELERS FIVE: ALONG LIFE’S HIGHWAY.ByAnnie Fellows Johnston.
With an introduction by Bliss Carman, and a frontispiece by E. H. Garrett.
Cloth decorative——————$1.25
“Mrs. Johnston’s ... are of the character that cause the mind to grow gravely meditative, the eyes to shine with tender mist, and the heart strings to stir to strange, sweet music of human sympathy.”—Los Angeles Graphic.
THE RIVAL CAMPERS;Or, The Adventures of Henry Burns. ByRuel Perley Smith.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
A story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast.
THE RIVAL CAMPERS AFLOAT;Or, The Prize Yacht Viking. ByRuel Perley Smith.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
This book is a continuation of the adventures of “The Rival Campers” on their prize yachtViking.
THE RIVAL CAMPERS ASHOREByRuel Perley Smith.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
“As interesting ashore as when afloat.”—The Interior.
THE RIVAL CAMPERS AMONG THE OYSTER PIRATES;Or, Jack Harvey’s Adventures. ByRuel Perley Smith.Illustrated.——————$1.50
“Just the type of book which is most popular with lads who are in their early teens.”—The Philadelphia Item.
A TEXAS BLUE BONNETByCaroline Emilia Jacobs (Emilia Elliott).
12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
“The book’s heroine Blue Bonnet has the very finest kind of wholesome, honest lively girlishness and cannot but make friends with every one who meets her through the book as medium.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
BLUE BONNET’S RANCH PARTYA Sequel to “A Texas Blue Bonnet.” ByCaroline Elliott JacobsandEdyth Ellerbeck Read.
Square 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
The new story begins where the first volume leaves off and takes Blue Bonnet and the “We Are Seven Club” to the ranch in Texas. The tables are completely turned: Blue Bonnet is here in her natural element, while her friends from Woodford have to learn the customs and traditions of another world.
THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACEOr, Peggy Raymond’s Success. ByHarriet Lummis Smith.
Square 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
This is a book that will gladden the hearts of many girl readers because of its charming air of comradeship and reality. It is a very interesting group of girls who live on Friendly Terrace and their good times and other times are graphically related by the author, who shows a sympathetic knowledge of girl character.
PEGGY RAYMOND’S VACATION;Or, Friendly Terrace Transplanted.
A Sequel to “The Girls of Friendly Terrace.” ByHarriet Lummis Smith.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
Readers who made the acquaintance of Peggy Raymond and her bevy of girl chums in “The Girls of Friendly Terrace” will be glad to continue the acquaintance of these attractive young folks.
Several new characters are introduced, and one at least will prove a not unworthy rival of the favorites among the Terrace girls.
THE HADLEY HALL SERIES
By LOUISE M. BREITENBACH
Each, library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
ALMA AT HADLEY HALL
“Miss Breitenbach is to be congratulated on having written such an appealing book for girls, and the girls are to be congratulated on having the privilege of reading it.”—The Detroit Free Press.
ALMA’S SOPHOMORE YEAR
“The characters are strongly drawn with a life-like realism, the incidents are well and progressively sequenced, and the action is so well timed that the interest never slackens.”—Boston Ideas.
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THE SUNBRIDGE GIRLS AT SIX STAR RANCH.ByEleanor Stuart.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
Any girl of any age who is fond of outdoor life will appreciate this fascinating tale of Genevieve Hartley’s summer vacation house-party on a Texas ranch. Genevieve and her friends are real girls, the kind that one would like to have in one’s own home, and there are a couple of manly boys introduced.
BEAUTIFUL JOE’S PARADISE;Or, The Island of Brotherly Love. A Sequel to “Beautiful Joe.”
ByMarshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful Joe.”
One vol., library 12mo, cloth illustrated——————$1.50
“This book revives the spirit of ‘Beautiful Joe’ capitally. It is fairly riotous with fun, and is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light.”—Philadelphia Item.
’TILDA JANE.ByMarshall Saunders.
One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative——————$1.50
“It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished it—honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif.
“I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly.”—Cyrus T. Brady.
’TILDA JANE’S ORPHANS.A Sequel to “‘Tilda Jane.” ByMarshall Saunders.
One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative——————$1.50
’Tilda Jane is the same original, delightful girl, and as fond of her animal pets as ever.
“There is so much to this story that it is almost a novel—in fact it is better than many novels, although written for only young people. Compared with much of to-day’s juveniles it is quite a superior book.”—Chicago Tribune.
THE STORY OF THE GRAVELYS.ByMarshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful Joe’s Paradise,” “’Tilda Jane,” etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative. Illustrated by E. B. Barry——————$1.50
Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family.
PUSSY BLACK-FACE.ByMarshall Saunders, author of “’Tilda Jane,” “’Tilda Jane’s Orphans,” etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
This is a delightful little story of animal life, written in this author’s best vein, dealing especially with Pussy Black-Face, a little Beacon Street (Boston) kitten, who is the narrator.
FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES
By CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON
Each, large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated. $1.50
FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS
Biographical sketches, with anecdotes and reminiscenses, of the heroes of history who were leaders of cavalry.
“More of such books should be written, books that acquaint young readers with historical personages in a pleasant informal way.”—N. Y. Sun.
FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS
In this book Mr. Johnston gives interesting sketches of the Indian braves who have figured with prominence in the history of our own land.
FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN AND ADVENTURERS OF THE SEA
In this volume Mr. Johnston tells interesting stories about the famous sailors of fortune.
FAMOUS SCOUTS
“It is the kind of a book that will have a great fascination for boys and young men and while it entertains them it will also present valuable information in regard to those who have left their impress upon the history of the country.—The New London Day.
FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN AND HEROES OF THE BORDER
This book is devoted to a description of the adventurous lives and stirring experiences of many pioneer heroes who were prominently identified with the opening of the great west.
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RALPH SOMERBY AT PANAMA
ByFrancis Raleigh.
Large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
Real buccaneers who overran the Spanish main, and adventurers who figured prominently in the sack of Panama, all enter into the life of Ralph Somerby, a young English lad, on his way to the colony in Jamaica. After a year of wandering and adventure he covers the route of the present Panama Canal.
THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE GIRL
ByMarion Ames Taggart.
One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
A thoroughly enjoyable tale of a little girl and her comrade father, written in a delightful vein of sympathetic comprehension of the child’s point of view.
“The characters are strongly drawn with a life-like realism, the incidents are well and progressively sequenced, and the action is so well timed that the interest never slackens.”—Boston Ideas.
SWEET NANCY
The Further Adventures of the Doctor’s Little Girl.ByMarion Ames Taggart.
One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
In the new book, the author tells how Nancy becomes in fact “the doctor’s assistant,” and continues to shed happiness around her.
NANCY, THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE PARTNER
ByMarion Ames Taggart.
One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
In Nancy Porter, Miss Taggart has created one of the most lovable child characters in recent years. In the new story she is the same bright and cheerful little maid.
NANCY PORTER’S OPPORTUNITY
ByMarion Ames Taggart.
One vol., library 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
Already as the “doctor’s partner” Nancy Porter has won the affection of her readers, and in the same lovable manner she continues in the new book to press the keynotes of optimism and good-will.
BORN TO THE BLUE
ByFlorence Kimball Russel.
12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.25
The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation.
IN WEST POINT GRAY
ByFlorence Kimball Russel.
12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
“Singularly enough one of the best books of the year for boys is written by a woman and deals with life at West Point. The presentment of life in the famous military academy whence so many heroes have graduated is realistic and enjoyable.”—New York Sun.
THE SANDMAN: HIS FARM STORIES
ByWilliam J. Hopkins. With fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson.
Large 12mo, decorative cover——————$1.50
“An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. It should be one of the most popular of the year’s books for reading to small children.”—Buffalo Express.
THE SANDMAN: MORE FARM STORIES
ByWilliam J. Hopkins.
Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50
Mr. Hopkins’s first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of “Sandman” tales was issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner.
THE SANDMAN: HIS SHIP STORIES
ByWilliam J. Hopkins, author of “The Sandman: His Farm Stories,” etc.
Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50
“Children call for these stories over and over again.”—Chicago Evening Post.
THE SANDMAN: HIS SEA STORIES
ByWilliam J. Hopkins.
Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated——————$1.50
Each year adds to the popularity of this unique series of stories to be read to the little ones at bed time and at other times.
THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIES
By HARRISON ADAMS
Each, 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated$1.25
THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO;Or, Clearing the Wilderness.
Boys will follow with ever increasing interest the fortunes of Bob and Sandy Armstrong in their hunting and trapping expeditions, and in their adventures with the Indians.
THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES;Or, On the Trail of the Iroquois.
In this story are introduced all of the principal characters of the first volume, and Bob and Sandy learn much of life in the open from the French trappers and coureurs du bois.
THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI;Or, The Homestead in the Wilderness.
Telling of how the Armstrong family decides to move farther west after an awful flood on the Ohio, and how they travelled to the great “Father of Waters” and settled on its banks, and of how the pioneer boys had many adventures both with wild animals and with the crafty Indians.
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HAWK: THE YOUNG OSAGE
ByC. H. Robinson.
One vol., cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
A fine story of North American Indians. The story begins when Hawk is a papoose and follows him until he is finally made chief of his tribe.
THE YOUNG APPRENTICE;Or, Allan West’s Chum.
ByBurton E. Stevenson.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
In this book Mr. Stevenson takes up a new branch of railroading, namely, the work of the “Shops.”
THE YOUNG SECTION-HAND;Or, The Adventures of Allan West. By Burton E. Stevenson.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
Mr. Stevenson’s hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling.
THE YOUNG TRAIN DISPATCHER.ByBurton E. Stevenson.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
“A better book for boys has never left an American press.”—Springfield Union.
THE YOUNG TRAIN MASTER.ByBurton E. Stevenson.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
“Nothing better in the way of a book of adventure for boys.”—Boston Herald.
CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; ByWinn Standish.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
Jack is a fine example of the American high-school boy.
JACK LORIMER’S CHAMPIONS;Or, Sports on Land and Lake. ByWinn Standish.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
“It is exactly the sort of book to give a boy interested in athletics.”—Chicago Tribune.
JACK LORIMER’S HOLIDAYS;Or, Millvale High in Camp. ByWinn Standish.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
Full of just the kind of fun, sports and adventure to excite the healthy minded youngster to emulation.
JACK LORIMER’S SUBSTITUTE:Or, The Acting Captain of the Team. ByWinn Standish.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
On the sporting side, this book takes up football, wrestling, and tobogganing.
JACK LORIMER, FRESHMAN. ByWinn Standish.
Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated——————$1.50
This book is typical of the American college boys’ life and is a lively story.
GABRIEL AND THE HOUR BOOK
ByEvaleen Stein.
Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart—$1.00
Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries.
“No works in juvenile fiction contain so many of the elements that stir the hearts of children and grown-ups as well as do the stories so admirably told by this author.”—Louisville Daily Courier.
A LITTLE SHEPHERD OF PROVENCE
ByEvaleen Stein.
Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by Diantha H. Marlowe——————$1.25
“The story should be one of the influences in the life of every child to whom good stories can be made to appeal.”—Public Ledger.
THE LITTLE COUNT OF NORMANDY
ByEvaleen Stein.
Cloth, 12mo, illustrated by John Goss——————$1.25
“This touching and pleasing story is told with a wealth of interest coupled with enlivening descriptions of the country where its scenes are laid and of the people thereof.”—Wilmington Every Evening.
ALYS-ALL-ALONE
ByUna Macdonald.
Cloth, 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
“This is a most delightful, well-written, heart-stirring, happy ending story, which will gladden the heart of many a reader.”—Scranton Times.
ALYS IN HAPPYLAND.A Sequel to “Alys-All Alone.” ByUna Macdonald.
Cloth, 12mo, illustrated——————$1.50
“The book is written with that taste and charm that prepare younger readers for the appreciation of good literature when they are older.”—Chicago Tribune.
THE
Little Cousin Series
(trade mark)
Each volume illustrated with six or more full page plates intint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover,per volume, 60 cents
LIST OF TITLES
By Mary Hazelton Wade, Mary F.Nixon-Roulet, Blanche McManus,Clara V. Winlow, Florence E.Mendel and Others
Our Little African CousinOur Little Alaskan CousinOur Little Arabian CousinOur Little Argentine CousinOur Little Armenian CousinOur Little Australian CousinOur Little Austrian CousinOur Little Belgian CousinOur Little Bohemian CousinOur Little Brazilian CousinOur Little Bulgarian CousinOur Little Canadian CousinOur Little Chinese CousinOur Little Cuban CousinOur Little Danish CousinOur Little Dutch CousinOur Little Egyptian CousinOur Little English CousinOur Little Eskimo CousinOur Little French CousinOur Little German CousinOur Little Grecian CousinOur Little Hawaiian CousinOur Little Hindu CousinOur Little Hungarian CousinOur Little Indian CousinOur Little Irish CousinOur Little Italian CousinOur Little Japanese CousinOur Little Jewish CousinOur Little Korean CousinOur Little Malayan (Brown) CousinOur Little Mexican CousinOur Little Norwegian CousinOur Little Panama CousinOur Little Persian CousinOur Little Philippine CousinOur Little Polish CousinOur Little Porto Rican CousinOur Little Portuguese CousinOur Little Russian CousinOur Little Scotch CousinOur Little Servian CousinOur Little Siamese CousinOur Little Spanish CousinOur Little Swedish CousinOur Little Swiss CousinOur Little Turkish Cousin
THE LITTLE COUSINS OF LONG AGO SERIES
The publishers have concluded that a companion series to “The Little Cousin Series,” giving the every-day child life ofancient timeswill meet with approval, and like the other series will be welcomed by the children as well as by their elders. The volumes of this new series are accurate both historically and in the description of every-day life of the time, as well as interesting to the child.
Small 12mo, cloth, illustrated——————60c
OUR LITTLE ROMAN COUSIN OF LONG AGO
ByJulia Darrow Cowles.
OUR LITTLE ATHENIAN COUSIN OF LONG AGO
ByJulia Darrow Cowles.
THE PHYLLIS SERIES
By LENORE E. MULETS
Each, one volume, cloth decorated, illustrated.——————$1.25
PHYLLIS’ INSECT STORIESPHYLLIS’ FLOWER STORIESPHYLLIS’ BIRD STORIESPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF LITTLE ANIMALSPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF BIG ANIMALSPHYLLIS’ TREE STORIESPHYLLIS’ STORIES OF LITTLE FISHES
“An original idea cleverly carried out. The volumes afford the best kind of entertainment; and the little girl heroine of them all will find friends in the girls of every part of the country. No juveniles can be commended more heartily.”—St. Louis Globe-Democrat.