THE CITY CAT.

OUR YOUNG FOLKS

He is gaunt and thin, with a ragged coat,A scraggy tail, and a hunted look;No songs of melody burst from his throatAs he seeks repose in some quiet nook—A safe retreat from this world of sin,And all of its boots and stones and that—For the life of a cat is a life of din,If he is a city cat.He is grumpy and stumpy, and old and gray,With a sleepy look in his lonely eye,(The other he lost at a matinee—Knocked out by a boot from a window high.)Wherever he goes, he never knows—Quarter or pause in the midnight spree,For the life of a cat is a life of blows,If he is a city cat.He is pelted by boys if he stirs abroad,He is chased by dogs if he dares to roam.His grizzled bosom has never thawed'Neath the kindly blare of the light of home.His life's a perpetual warfare wagedOn balcony, back yard fence, and flat;For the life of a cat is a life outraged,If he is a city cat.The country cat is a different beast.Petted, well-housed, demure, and sleek;Three times a day he is called to feast,And why should he not be quiet and meek?No dreams of urchins, tin cans, and war,Disturb his sensuous sleep on the mat;Ah! cat life is a thing worth living for,If he isn't a city cat.And even when dead, the catWith strident members uneasy liesIn some alley-way, and seems staring atA coming foe with his wild wide eye,Nobody owns him and nobody cares—Another dead "Tom," and who mourns for that,If he's only a city cat.—Providence Press.

He is grumpy and stumpy, and old and gray,With a sleepy look in his lonely eye,(The other he lost at a matinee—Knocked out by a boot from a window high.)Wherever he goes, he never knows—Quarter or pause in the midnight spree,For the life of a cat is a life of blows,If he is a city cat.

He is pelted by boys if he stirs abroad,He is chased by dogs if he dares to roam.His grizzled bosom has never thawed'Neath the kindly blare of the light of home.His life's a perpetual warfare wagedOn balcony, back yard fence, and flat;For the life of a cat is a life outraged,If he is a city cat.

The country cat is a different beast.Petted, well-housed, demure, and sleek;Three times a day he is called to feast,And why should he not be quiet and meek?No dreams of urchins, tin cans, and war,Disturb his sensuous sleep on the mat;Ah! cat life is a thing worth living for,If he isn't a city cat.

And even when dead, the catWith strident members uneasy liesIn some alley-way, and seems staring atA coming foe with his wild wide eye,Nobody owns him and nobody cares—Another dead "Tom," and who mourns for that,If he's only a city cat.

—Providence Press.

Procure a good, large apple or turnip, and cut from it a piece of the shape to resemble the butt-end of a tallow candle; then from a nut of some kind—an almond is the best—whittle out a small peg of about the size and shape of a wick end. Stick the peg in the apple and you have a very fair representation of a candle. The wick you can light, and it will burn for at least a minute. In performing you should have your candle in a clean candlestick, show it plainly to the audience, and then put it into your mouth, taking care to blow it out, and munch it up. If you think best, you can blow the candle out and allow the wick to cool, and it will look, with its burned wick, so natural that even the sharpest eyes can not distinguish it from the genuine article.

Once, at a summer resort in Massachusetts, I made use of this candle with considerable effect. While performing a few parlor tricks to amuse some friends, I pretended to need a light. A confederate left the room, and soon returned with a lantern containing one of these apple counterfeits.

"Do you call that a candle?" I said.

"Certainly," he replied.

"Why, there is scarcely a mouthful."

"A mouthful? Rather a disagreeable mouthful, I guess."

"You have never been in Russia, I presume."

"Never."

"Then you don't know what is good."

"Good?"

"Yes, good. Why, candle ends, with the wick a little burned to give them a flavor, are delicious. They always serve them up before dinner in Russia as a kind of relish. It is considered bad taste in good society there to ask a friend to sit down to dinner without offering him this appetizer."

"The bad taste would be in the relish, I think."

"Not at all. Try a bit."

I took the candle out of the lantern, and extended it toward my confederate, who shrank back with disgust.

"Well," I said, "if you won't have it, I'll eat it myself." And so saying, I put it into my mouth and munched it up, amid the cries of surprise and horror of the assembled party. Two old maids insisted on looking into my mouth to see whether it was not concealed there.

Having soaked a piece of thread in common salt water, tie it to a small finger-ring. When you apply the flame of a candle to the thread it will burn to ashes and yet sustain the ring.

Take a piece of chalk, and ask, if you make a circle, whether any boy standing in it thinks he can jump out of it. As soon as one proposes to do so, bring him into the center of the room, draw a circle with the chalk around his jacket, and say, "Now jump out of it!"

Ask one young lady in the company whether she thinks, if she clasped her hands, she could walk out of the room. On her saying she could, request her to pass her arm round the leg of the table or piano, join her hands, and walk away.

Fill a small glass with water, cover it with a hat, and profess your readiness to drink it without touching the hat. Put your head under the table, make a noise, as if drinking, rise, and wipe your lips. The company, thinking you have drunk the water, one of them will certainly take up the hat to see. As soon as the hat is removed, take up the glass and drink its contents. "There!" say you, "you see I have not touched the hat."

Wind some linen thread tightly round a smooth pebble, and secure the end; then, if you expose it to the flame of a lamp or candle, the thread will not burn; for the caloric (or heat) traverses the thread, without remaining in it, and attacks the stone. The same sort of trick may be performed with a poker, round which is evenly pasted a sheet of paper. You can poke the fire with it without burning the paper.

Take a ruler, or any other piece of wood, and ask whether, if you laid it down on the ground, any of the company could jump over it. Of course one or two will express their readiness to jump over so small an obstruction. Then lay the ruler on the ground, close against the wall, and tell them to try.

Take a piece of wood, such as a lucifer match, and say to one of the company, "How long do you think it would take you to carry this piece of wood into the next room?" "Half a minute." perhaps one will reply. "Well, try, then," say you; "carry it." You then cut off little pieces, and give them to him one by one. He will soon be tired of the experiment.

Fill a glass carefully, place a piece of paper on the top, place your hand on the paper, and tilt the glass round sharply, when it will be found that the pressure of the air upward on the paper will retain the water. The glass may then be held by the bottom.

Health and Home says: I want to tell you of something very funny to do, if you have a little brother or sister who does not mind dressing up and standing still for a few moments. My aunt showed me how to do it the other day, when sister Nelly had a birthday party. We took little brother Tommy out into the library and stood him upon a high wooden stool, and dressed him up very finely in mamma's clothes. The stool made him so full that the dress was of just the right length. Then Uncle Ned, telling him to stand straight and firm, carried him, stool and all, into the parlor. I wish you could have heard the girls and boys laugh! He had such a comical look—with his tall body and little round face—just like some of those French Parian figures. One little girl handed him a fan, and then it was too funny to see the tall lady fan herself affectedly with her very small, dimpled hands. All the boys and girls just shouted.—Young People.

A writer in the School-Boy Magazine has gathered together the following dictionary words as defined by certain small people:

Bed time—Shut-eye time.

Dust—Mud with the juice squeezed out.

Fan—A thing to brush warm off with.

Fins—A fish's wings.

Ice—Water that staid out in the cold and went to sleep.

Nest-Egg—The egg that the old hen measures to make new ones.

Pig—A hog's little boy.

Salt—What makes your potato taste bad when you don't put any on.

Snoring—Letting off sleep.

Stars—The moon's eggs.

Wakefulness—Eyes all the time coming unbuttoned.

Ifyou would have good health, go out in the sunshine. Sickness is worse than freckles.

HYPOCHONDRIA.

The Mysterious Element in the Mind that Arouses Vague Apprehensions—What Actually Causes It.

The narrative below, by a prominent scientist, touches a subject of universal importance. Few people are free from the distressing evils which hypochondria brings. They come at all times and are fed by the very flame which they themselves start. They are a dread of coming derangement caused by present disorder and bring about more suicides than any other one thing. Their first approach should be carefully guarded.

Editors Herald:

It is seldom I appear in print and I should not do so now did I not believe myself in possession of truths, the revelation of which will prove of inestimable value to many who may see these lines. Mine has been a trying experience. For many years I was conscious of a want of nerve tone. My mind seemed sluggish and I felt a certain falling off in my natural condition of intellectual acuteness, activity, and vigor. I presume this is the same way in which an innumerable number of other people feel, who, like myself, are physically below par, but like thousands of others I paid no attention to these annoying troubles, attributing them to overwork, and resorting to a glass of beer or a milk punch, which would for the time invigorate and relieve my weariness.After awhile the stimulants commenced to disagree with my stomach, my weariness increased, and I was compelled to resort to other means to find relief. If a physician is suffering he invariably calls another physician to prescribe for him, as he cannot see himself as he sees others; so I called a physician, and he advised me to try a little chemical food, or a bottle of hypophosphates. I took two or three bottles of the chemical food with no apparent benefit. My lassitude and indisposition seemed to increase, my food distressed me. I suffered from neuralgic pains in different parts of my body, my muscles became sore, my bowels were constipated, and my prospects for recovery were not very flattering. I stated my case to another physician, and he advised me to take five to ten drops of Magende's solution of morphine, two or three times a day, for the weakness and distress in my stomach, and a blue pill every other night to relieve the constipation. The morphine produced such a deathly nausea that I could not take it, and the blue pill failed to relieve my constipation.In this condition I passed nearly a year, wholly unfit for business, while the effort to think was irksome and painful. My blood became impoverished, and I suffered from incapacity with an appalling sense of misery and general apprehension of coming evil. I passed sleepless nights and was troubled with irregular action of the heart, a constantly feverish condition, and the most excruciating tortures in my stomach, living for days on rice water and gruel, and, indeed, the digestive functions seemed to be entirely destroyed.It was natural that while in this condition I should become hypochondrical, and fearful suggestions of self-destruction occasionally presented themselves. I experienced an insatiable desire for sleep, but on retiring would lie awake for a long time, tormented with troubled reflections, and when at last I did fall into an uneasy slumber of short duration, it was disturbed by horrid dreams. In this condition I determined to take a trip to Europe, but in spite of all the attentions of physicians and change of scene and climate, I did not improve, and so returned home with no earthly hope of ever again being able to leave the house.Among the numerous friends that called on me was one who had been afflicted somewhat similarly to myself, but who had been restored to perfect health. Upon his earned recommendation I began the same treatment he had employed but with little hope of being benefited. At first, I experienced little, if any, relief, except that it did not distress my stomach as other remedies or even food had done. I continued its use, however, and after the third bottle could see a marked change for the better, and now after the fifteenth bottle I am happy to state that I am again able to attend to my professional duties. I sleep well, nothing distresses me that I eat, I go from day to day without a feeling of weariness or pain, indeed I am a well man, and wholly through the influence of H.H. Warner & Co's Tippecanoe. I consider this remedy as taking the highest possible rank in the treatment of all diseases marked by debility, loss of appetite, and all other symptoms of stomach and digestive disorders. It is overwhelmingly superior to the tonics, bitters, and dyspepsia cures of the day, and is certain to be so acknowledged by the public universally. Thousands of people to-day are going to premature graves with these serious diseases, that I have above described, and to all such I would say: "Do not let your good judgment be governed by your prejudices, but give the above named remedy a fair and patient trial, and I believe you will not only be rewarded by a perfect restoration to health, but you will also be convinced that the medical profession does not possess all the knowledge there is embraced in medical science."

After awhile the stimulants commenced to disagree with my stomach, my weariness increased, and I was compelled to resort to other means to find relief. If a physician is suffering he invariably calls another physician to prescribe for him, as he cannot see himself as he sees others; so I called a physician, and he advised me to try a little chemical food, or a bottle of hypophosphates. I took two or three bottles of the chemical food with no apparent benefit. My lassitude and indisposition seemed to increase, my food distressed me. I suffered from neuralgic pains in different parts of my body, my muscles became sore, my bowels were constipated, and my prospects for recovery were not very flattering. I stated my case to another physician, and he advised me to take five to ten drops of Magende's solution of morphine, two or three times a day, for the weakness and distress in my stomach, and a blue pill every other night to relieve the constipation. The morphine produced such a deathly nausea that I could not take it, and the blue pill failed to relieve my constipation.

In this condition I passed nearly a year, wholly unfit for business, while the effort to think was irksome and painful. My blood became impoverished, and I suffered from incapacity with an appalling sense of misery and general apprehension of coming evil. I passed sleepless nights and was troubled with irregular action of the heart, a constantly feverish condition, and the most excruciating tortures in my stomach, living for days on rice water and gruel, and, indeed, the digestive functions seemed to be entirely destroyed.

It was natural that while in this condition I should become hypochondrical, and fearful suggestions of self-destruction occasionally presented themselves. I experienced an insatiable desire for sleep, but on retiring would lie awake for a long time, tormented with troubled reflections, and when at last I did fall into an uneasy slumber of short duration, it was disturbed by horrid dreams. In this condition I determined to take a trip to Europe, but in spite of all the attentions of physicians and change of scene and climate, I did not improve, and so returned home with no earthly hope of ever again being able to leave the house.

Among the numerous friends that called on me was one who had been afflicted somewhat similarly to myself, but who had been restored to perfect health. Upon his earned recommendation I began the same treatment he had employed but with little hope of being benefited. At first, I experienced little, if any, relief, except that it did not distress my stomach as other remedies or even food had done. I continued its use, however, and after the third bottle could see a marked change for the better, and now after the fifteenth bottle I am happy to state that I am again able to attend to my professional duties. I sleep well, nothing distresses me that I eat, I go from day to day without a feeling of weariness or pain, indeed I am a well man, and wholly through the influence of H.H. Warner & Co's Tippecanoe. I consider this remedy as taking the highest possible rank in the treatment of all diseases marked by debility, loss of appetite, and all other symptoms of stomach and digestive disorders. It is overwhelmingly superior to the tonics, bitters, and dyspepsia cures of the day, and is certain to be so acknowledged by the public universally. Thousands of people to-day are going to premature graves with these serious diseases, that I have above described, and to all such I would say: "Do not let your good judgment be governed by your prejudices, but give the above named remedy a fair and patient trial, and I believe you will not only be rewarded by a perfect restoration to health, but you will also be convinced that the medical profession does not possess all the knowledge there is embraced in medical science."

A.G. Richards, M.D.,468 Tremont street, Boston, Mass.

E.B.F., Scotia, Neb., writes: The weather, so far this winter, has been extremely warm. No snow to exceed one inch since October. Cattle and hogs doing finely. Corn planted early is a good crop both as to quality and quantity, but late planted is soft. Wheat and oats were an extra good crop, wheat yielding from 25 to 35 bushels per acre, and oats from 50 to 75 bushels.

E.B.F.

Cobden, Ill., Jan. 6.—We have been through the coldest weather ever experienced here since weather records have been kept, which is twenty-five years or more. Yesterday morning the mercury reached 24 degrees below at my house, which is 200 feet higher than the village. Reports from lower situations run down to 26, 28, with one of 30. This is six degrees lower than the lowest record ever made here, which was twenty years ago, when on the 1st of January it marked 18 below at my house, with some other records two or three degrees lower. At that time peach orchards were badly killed. There can be no doubt that such is the case now. And if it has been proportionately cold north, I fear that the injury to all kinds of fruit trees must have been very serious.

Parrer Earle.

Kane Co., Jan 7.—The weather has been intensely cold here since the 3d instant. The thermometer has been from 4 to 28 degs. below zero at 7 a.m., and from 2 to 16 degs. below at 2 p.m. The 5th was the coldest. The mercury dropped to 28 degs. below at sunrise; in some places 32 degs. below. On the 6th, 22 degs. below at 7 a.m.; at 12 m. 4 degs. below; at 5 p.m. 10 degs. below. Domestic animals were kept closely housed, except while being watered. Where they were exposed to the weather, they froze. We have not had such continued cold weather since January 1864, when for ten successive days it was intensely cold. Some farmers are short of coarse feed, and are shipping bran and middlings from Minneapolis, and corn from Kansas and Nebraska. Many farmers who were shipping milk to Chicago, are now taking it to the cheese factories. There has been an over supply of milk in the city. The dividends for October were from $1.16 to $1.25 per cwt.

J.P.B.

The Prairie FarmerANDYouth's CompanionOne Year, $3 for the two.

It is not required that both papers be sent to one address, nor to the same post-office.

AddressPrairie Farmer Pub. Co.,150 Monroe Street, Chicago.

The following list embraces the names of responsible and reliable Breeders in their line, and parties wishing to purchase or obtain information can feel assured that they will be honorably dealt with:

CATTLE.Jersey.Mills, Charles F.Springfield, IllinoisHORSES.Clydesdales.Mills, Charles F.Springfield, IllinoisSWINE.Berkshire.Mills, Charles F.Springfield, IllinoisChester Whites.W.A. GilbertWauwatosa Wis.SHEEP.Cotswold.Mills, Charles F.Springfield, Illinois

LIVE STOCK, Etc.

Jerseys for Sale.

One heifer, 2 years old in May, due to calve in April. Heifer, 2 years in June, and due to calve in April. Cow, 4 years old, due to calve in May. Bull calf 5 months old, and one good yearling bull. Address

L.P. WHEELER. Quincy, Ill.

SCOTCH COLLIE

SHEPHERD PUPS,

—FROM—

IMPORTED AND TRAINED STOCK

—ALSO—

Newfoundland Pups and Rat Terrier Pups.

Concise and practical printed instruction in Training young Shepherd Dogs, is given to buyers of Shepherd Puppies; or will be sent on receipt of 25 cents in postage stamps.

For Printed Circular, giving full particulars about Shepherd Dogs, enclose a 3-cent stamp, and address

N.H. PAAREN,

P.O. Box 326, CHICAGO. ILL

HOUSE PLANS FOR EVERYBODY.

By S.B. REED, Architect.

One of the most popular Architectural books ever issued, giving a wide range of design from a dwelling costing $250 up to $8,000, and adapted to farm, village, and town residences. It gives an

Estimate of the Quantity of Every Article Used

In the construction, and probable cost of constructing any one of the buildings presented. Profusely illustrated. Price, postpaid, $1.50. Address

PRAIRIE FARMER PUBLISHING CO., Chicago

MAP

Of the United States and Canada, Printed in Colors, size 4×2½ feet, also a copy of THE PRAIRIE FARMER for one year. Sent to any address for $2.00.

AGENTSWANTED EVERYWHERE to solicit subscriptions for this paper. WritePrairie Farmer Publishing Co., Chicago, for particulars.

Literature

There's one who wrote in years gone by in clear and ringing rhyme—A poet of an elder day and of a distant clime—Who sang of mortal misery, of sufferers long and lorn,"Man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn!"The hand that held that golden pen—that golden tongue—is dust;A dust that's dear to hearts that hold his homely truths in trust;And you who read this simple tale of wrath, and ruth, and wrong,May hear the echo of the sob that breaks upon my song!I sat upon the Sabbath-day within the sacred fane,The sunlight through the windows poured like rainbow-tinted rain;While maids and matrons passing fair, and men of high degree,All fashion's proudest votaries, knelt low on bended knee.And there was one of stature tall, whose robe of silken sheenDraped quiet grace and courtesy that might have shamed a queen,Save only that her pallid face, and drooping, tear-dimmed eyes,Looked like the Peri's, waiting by the gates of Paradise.What is it moves that jeweled throng of dainty worshippers?Their hearts have probed the cruel wrong that rankles sore in hers;For she who sat beside her there—ah, heart of hardest stone!Swept forth with stern and haughty stare, and left her there alone.Then one, God bless her woman's heart! the loveliest woman there,Stepped down the aisle with stately tread, and calm and steadfast air;With gentle voice, and tender eyes distilling heaven's own dew,She whispered to the shrinking girl, "I've room, my friend, for you."I think earth's sorest sinners need a judge less stern than theyWho wear their ermine clasped across a breast of common clay!I think heaven's loveliest angels come among us circling down,To bear the cruel earthly cross, and then regain the crown.Alas! alas! for paltry pride arrayed in rich attire,And woe is me for priestly praise which is our heart's desire!Would we could seek, like pilgrims gray, beside that sunlit sea,The simple faith that lit the shores of sacred Galilee!Sometimes it seems that ages past our souls have sojourned here;But God's great angel guards the gate and stands beside the bier;For when some mystic touch awakes the chords of memory,His awful hand holds down the note, and clasps the quivering key.Bend low, bend low the lofty brow and bring the sack-cloth gown;Throw dust and ashes on our heads, and through the sinful town;I think the green earth grows more gray, beneath its golden sun,Because the good God sits in heaven, and sees such evil done.—Edward Renaud.

The hand that held that golden pen—that golden tongue—is dust;A dust that's dear to hearts that hold his homely truths in trust;And you who read this simple tale of wrath, and ruth, and wrong,May hear the echo of the sob that breaks upon my song!

I sat upon the Sabbath-day within the sacred fane,The sunlight through the windows poured like rainbow-tinted rain;While maids and matrons passing fair, and men of high degree,All fashion's proudest votaries, knelt low on bended knee.

And there was one of stature tall, whose robe of silken sheenDraped quiet grace and courtesy that might have shamed a queen,Save only that her pallid face, and drooping, tear-dimmed eyes,Looked like the Peri's, waiting by the gates of Paradise.

What is it moves that jeweled throng of dainty worshippers?Their hearts have probed the cruel wrong that rankles sore in hers;For she who sat beside her there—ah, heart of hardest stone!Swept forth with stern and haughty stare, and left her there alone.

Then one, God bless her woman's heart! the loveliest woman there,Stepped down the aisle with stately tread, and calm and steadfast air;With gentle voice, and tender eyes distilling heaven's own dew,She whispered to the shrinking girl, "I've room, my friend, for you."

I think earth's sorest sinners need a judge less stern than theyWho wear their ermine clasped across a breast of common clay!I think heaven's loveliest angels come among us circling down,To bear the cruel earthly cross, and then regain the crown.

Alas! alas! for paltry pride arrayed in rich attire,And woe is me for priestly praise which is our heart's desire!Would we could seek, like pilgrims gray, beside that sunlit sea,The simple faith that lit the shores of sacred Galilee!

Sometimes it seems that ages past our souls have sojourned here;But God's great angel guards the gate and stands beside the bier;For when some mystic touch awakes the chords of memory,His awful hand holds down the note, and clasps the quivering key.

Bend low, bend low the lofty brow and bring the sack-cloth gown;Throw dust and ashes on our heads, and through the sinful town;I think the green earth grows more gray, beneath its golden sun,Because the good God sits in heaven, and sees such evil done.

—Edward Renaud.

After father died some ten years ago, I found, that for three years we had been living on credit. I was eighteen, strong and well, but did not know how to work. In the little back room of the New York tenement house (by the way, the landlady seized my clothes for our rent) I considered my future. I had inherited a great faith in relatives, from my father, so I wrote to seven. I received six polite notes, telling me to go to work, and the following letter:

Jonesboro, Colorado—Jackson's Ranch.Dear Nell.—I'm your cousin Jack. Your father once give me money to come out West. I've took up land, got a comfortable home, no style or frills, but good folks to live with and healthy grub. I've got the best wife you ever see and seven fine youngsters. The city ain't no place for a friendless girl. Wife wants you to come. She'll be a mother to you. Come right off. I'll meet you at Denver.Jack.

Jonesboro, Colorado—Jackson's Ranch.

Dear Nell.—I'm your cousin Jack. Your father once give me money to come out West. I've took up land, got a comfortable home, no style or frills, but good folks to live with and healthy grub. I've got the best wife you ever see and seven fine youngsters. The city ain't no place for a friendless girl. Wife wants you to come. She'll be a mother to you. Come right off. I'll meet you at Denver.

Jack.

Inclosed was a check sufficient to defray expenses; so I started. Denver was then only a large town and the depot a barn-like structure. I got out of the cars and stood bewildered among all the emigrants and their bundles. Some one touched me on the shoulder—a roughly-dressed, broad-shouldered man with long, blonde beard and big blue eyes.

"Are you Nell?" he said.

"Yes; and you're Cousin Jack."

"I knew you," he said, as he led the way, "by your black clothes an' sorrerful look, an' them big blue eyes, like yer father's as two peas. We'll git the shader outer 'em when we get home. Yer father was a mighty good man. Bless yer dear heart, don't let them tears come. This 'ere's a dry country, we don't waste no water."

Comforting me in his kind, rough way, he reached his team, a big green wagon, drawn by two wild-looking steeds which I afterward knew to be bronchos. A fat, blonde boy, about twelve, held the reins.

"That's Ted," said Cousin Jack. "Ted, this is Miss Nell, yer cousin; give her a hug." The fat boy solemnly obeyed.

After this he seemed to have a special claim on my affections because he met me first. Jack's wife was a jolly, plump woman, with brown eyes and curly hair. She always had a baby in her arms and another at her heels. She adored Jack. I never knew them to have a quarrel. I soon grew to love the life at the ranch. I liked the big, half-finished house, its untidyness and comfort—its pleasant, healthy atmosphere. I loved the children, the household pets—Shep, the sagacious dog; Thad, the clever cat; the hens and sheep; the horses Dolly, Dot, and Daisy, that did the plowing, and the marketing at Denver, twelve miles away, and were so gentle and kind we used to ride them without saddle or bridle. I learned that cattle grew fat on the dry-looking grass and gave the best of milk. I learned to love the broad plains and the glorious sunsets, and to watch the distant bands of Indians with half fear, half interest. I helped Cousin Mary, sewed and cooked, kept the house and children neat, and lifted many burdens from her weary shoulders. We were so happy. The children and I took long walks over the plains, and Ted and I took many rides on Dolly and Dot, and in the long winter evenings I told the children stories. Occasionally Harry White came over to visit us from his ranch five miles away. He lived with his old mother; he and Jack were dear friends. Harry needed a wife, Jack used to say, winking at me.

One day Jack went to Denver for supplies. He went alone, and coming home later than usual, Ted and I and baby Mame went out to meet him. Jack looked sober and guilty, and seemed ill at ease. If he ever drank, I should have thought him intoxicated. In the wagon was a queer-shaped heap under a horse-blanket. I was sure it moved. When we got behind the barn Jack said, sheepishly, avoiding my eye.

"Well, Ted, I calkerlate I've got su'thing in that there waggin that 'ul astonish yer marm."

Little Mame pulled the blanket off the heap; she had been peeping under it all the while she was in the back of the wagon. There lay a human being. Such an object; short and squat, dressed in a queer blue blouse with flowing sleeves, wide trousers and queer wooden shoes. He had small, black eyes, a shaven poll, from which depended a long thin queue. His countenance was battered and bruised, his clothes torn and bloody.

"There was a row down to Denver," said Jack; "the Christian folks stove in these 'ere heathen's winders, tore their houses down, an' killed half on 'em. I cleared out soon as I could. When I got half way home I heard a noise back o' me, and out crawled this thing. I was so dumfounded I couldn't speak. He thought I was going ter send him back, an' he fell ter cryin' an' jabberin' in that yap of his, an' clingin' onter my han' an' kissin' of it. It sorter turned my stomach. I told him ter set down, give him some crackers ter eat, covered him up an' told him he could live with me. What do you s'pose marm'll say?"

"Oh! Cousin Jack," I said, "of course, she will not care. Your home is a refuge for all the wretched and unfortunate."

"Now don't, Nell," he said, turning as red as a rose, and busying himself about the harness. The Celestial looked at us solemnly: Mame toddled up to him. He looked at her curiously, but did not move.

"Get out, John," said Jack, "you needn't be scared no more; we're to home."

He got out stiffly, and, to my surprise, turned and lifted the baby down. She caught his pig-tail, and pulled it in wild delight. He seemed grieved when I took her away. When Jack told Mary, the good soul found a thousand reasons why he should stay, and hurried to make him a bed in the attic. The Celestial did not say much, but when Jack called him "John," he smiled a sad smile.

"Melican man callee John. Hump. Yik Kee."

So with due consideration for his feelings we addressed him as Yik Kee. He was of great use. He helped take care of the children, did the washing (Mary did not fancy his method of sprinkling clothes) and helped Jack on the farm. We made him one of the family. He was always pleasant and smiling, but was a man of few words.

Cousin Jack added much to his income by trading in hides. Ranchmen living at a distance sold their hides to him and Jack sold them to traders who came around at certain times in the year. Harry White was a partner in the business. He used to go on a sort of round-up and visit the ranches all over the country. The cattle of the ranchmen roamed in vast herds over the plains, protected only by the brand of the owner. Cattle stealing was frequently practiced. Offenders in this respect were shown no mercy. They were convicted, tried, and executed only in the court of Judge Lynch. I never blamed the ranchmen for this; it was impossible to guard the herds in the vast area over which they traversed, and the cattle must be protected in some way. Gil Mead was a wealthy ranchman, who lived about ten miles from us. He owned the largest herd of cattle on the plains. They were branded with the vowels of his name. E.A., which could be recognized anywhere. He always shipped his cattle East to his brother in Chicago. I feared the man. He was tall and gaunt, with deep-set black eyes and low forehead. His home was unhappy; his wife cross and ugly, and his children wild and unruly. This made him more than commonly disagreeable.

I think it was in the fall of '74 that Harry White brought the big load of hides to Jack. Both were much pleased at the bargain they made. Harry gave glowing accounts of a new customer—a ranchman from Chicago, who had taken up an abandoned homestead. He had purchased many cattle from his cousin, Gil Mead, and hoped to rival him in the number and quality of his herd. Jack packed the hides away to keep till December, when we expected the dealer.

One afternoon, not long after this, Gil Mead rode up to the house, looking very agreeable and pleasant. A couple of strangers, also ranchmen, were with him. They wanted to look at the hides, one of the men being a trader, Gil said. Jack was in Denver, so Yik Kee and I went to the barn with them. They looked the hides over carefully, and conversed in low tones, Gil with a suppressed oath. Finally they thanked us courteously and took their leave.

"Hump; no goodee," said Yik Kee, but he wouldn't say any more.

At five that evening, when we were at supper, a crowd of twenty-five or thirty men rode up on horseback. Jack came out and met them, inviting them in to take supper, in his generous, hospitable way. They wanted him to go to Denver with them, there was to be a meeting there of importance to ranchmen. The meeting would be at eight. They had brought with them an extra horse for Jack. Mary looked around for Yik Kee to help her, but he had mysteriously disappeared.

I faintly remembered seeing his white, horrified face peering around the barn at the horses. I noted the visitors ate little—the food seemed to choke them. Some of them watched Mary and the baby in a queer sort of way. When Jack, as was his custom, kissed his wife and babies good-by, one of the visitors, an oldish man, coughed huskily, and said: "Blest if I kin stan' this." They all rode off, Jack the merriest of all, waving his hat till he was out of sight.

When we were clearing up the unusual quantity of dishes, Yik Kee appeared at the end window and beckoned me. I followed him out. Ted was with him. Behind the barn were the three horses saddled. Shep was with them, released from confinement, where he had been secured from following his master.

"Foller 'em," said Ted in an excited whisper. "Yik's afraid they're up to something."

"What is it, Yik?" I said, sternly. "No fooling now."

For answer he twisted his long pig-tail around his neck, tying it under his left ear in a significant manner.

"Hump, he hangee; stealee cow."

"Oh, Mary," I sobbed, remembering Gil Mead's visit, and his strange actions, and dimly seeing what Yik Kee meant, "I must tell Mary," I said, wildly.

"Hump, no," said Yik Kee. "Yellee sick," and he closed his eyes in a die-away sort of manner. "Go now—too latee."

We mounted.

"Mother'll think we're gone to ride," said Ted, as we galloped over the plains. He was deathly pale, poor little fellow, but he sat erect and firm. I saw his father's big Colt's revolver sticking out of his pocket. He was a determined boy. Even in my despair, in my wild hope that I could save Jack by begging on my knees, that I could cling to him, that they would have to kill me first, I could not help a smile at the comical figure Yik Kee presented on horseback. His loose garments flapped in the wind, his long pig-tail flew out behind, and he bobbed up and down like a kernel of corn in a corn-hopper.

It was a soft, warm night, lighted only by the pale young moon and the twinkling stars. We rode as fast as our horses could gallop. Shep was close at our heels. Way ahead, when we reached the top of a little hill, we saw the crowd of horsemen. They were riding toward Denver. We galloped on with renewed zeal. They turned into a cross road leading to Mead's ranch. On this road was a bridge over Dry Gulch, which was in the spring a roaring torrent. Beyond the bridge, across the fields, was the hay-stack of Mead, where was stored sufficient to feed his domestic cattle through the winter. We at last reached the turn in the road. They were three miles in advance, riding rapidly. Yik Kee stopped at the turn. "Hump! Can't catchee. Hangee at bridge. You goee!" He turned his horse and sped across the field, deserting us basely.

We rode on, Ted and I. He was pale and still; my cheeks were burning. We neared the bridge. The high mound of earth before us hid us from sight. We stopped our horses and listened. The men had lighted torches, some were preparing a rough gallows under the bridge; two were uncoiling rope; some held the horses of the others beyond the bridge. The men were masked now, and I could see by the lighted torches that this number was increased. Jack was very white and sad, but he showed no fear.

"I am innocent, gentlemen," he said, slowly, "but I refuse to tell you of whom I bought the hides."

I understood him. Could Harry White be a cattle thief? I felt as if I were going mad.

"What shall we do?" whispered Ted, cocking his revolver?

Suddenly a bright red light illuminated the heavens, followed by clouds of black smoke and a queer crackling noise. A yell from the men—Gil Mead's voice above the rest. The hay-stack was on fire. It seemed to me in the gale around it that I could see a foreign-looking human vanishing across the plain.

The men mounted their horses, Gil Mead at the head, and set off across the fields at a mad gallop. They must save the stack. They left Jack, bound hand and foot, and guarded by one man.

Shep, the wonderful dog, had kept by us until now, slinking in the dark shadows. Now, gliding sidewise and still, he reached the man on guard whose back was to us, and with no warning growl caught him by the throat with strong white teeth that could choak a coyote in a second. The man, who was in a sitting posture, fell back with a groan. Ted struck him over the head with the butt of the revolver, and pulled off the dog. I cut Jack's bonds with a knife. He looked at us wonderingly and staggered to his feet.

"Never mind how we came, Jack," I said; "quick, mount the horse beyond the bridge, and ride to Denver for your life. They will not harm a woman and child."

"Harry White," he muttered, the loyal soul that even now could think of another's danger.

"I will tell him."

"No, no; not of this—only say, if he stole the cattle, to fly the country. They will find out, sooner or later."

He galloped down the road. Ted and I mounted, calling off Shep, who sat on his haunches watching the unconscious man, and then we, too, sped down the road. The hay-stack was giving out great columns of black smoke, but the fire was dead.

Ahead of us was a riderless horse, Dolly, who greeted her master with a joyful whinny. Where was Yik Kee? Then Dot, my horse, shied from the road at a recumbent black figure. It was the indomitable Yik Kee, who had crawled all the way from the stack on his stomach, so that he could not be seen, after lying in the ditch till the blaze had faded out. "Hump! no catchee Chinee; heap sore," he said, laconically rubbing his stomach.

He mounted Dolly, and we rode on to White's ranch. Harry rushed out at the sound of horses' feet, at midnight. There, under the twinkling stars I looked into his eyes, and I told him the whole story. He showed no guilt, but only said we must stay the night at his ranch, for the men would come back to Jack's for him, and then mounting his fleet colt rode off down the road. I comforted his mother as best I could. At day-break we rode home.

Mary was in a wild state of alarm. Where had we been? Where was Jack? and how cruel we were to leave her alone. She said that at one o'clock three masked men had come to the house and searched it and thepremises, and had not molested her or the children, only asking where Jack was, very sternly and sharply.

At noon Jack, Harry, the sheriff, and a party of armed men from Denver rode up, stopping only a moment to tell me they would be back at night. I dared not tell Mary, and she worried all the afternoon at their strange conduct. At night Jack and Harry came home, looking tired but happy. Then Jack told Mary, and she clung to him as though she could never let him go.

It seemed the pleasing ranchman from Chicago was one of a band of cattle thieves. He sold the hides to Harry, who, honest and open himself, was slow to suspect wrong dealings in others. The sheriff had caught the men skinning a cow that belonged to Mead, and had captured the gang and taken them to Denver.

The men concerned in the attempt to lynch Jack were sincerely sorry. Their regrets would not have availed much, however, if they had succeeded in their purpose. They gave each of the children ten acres of land; they gave Ted sixty-five, and me, whom they pleased to consider very plucky, one hundred and fifty acres. I felt rich enough, and time has made it very valuable land. The man on guard was our warmest admirer. He thought Ted, Shep, and I wonders of courage. He said when I came down on the bridge with the open knife, he thought his last hour had come.

Gil Mead committed suicide not long after this. He was always queer. No one ever knew that Yik Kee set the stack afire. I tell you Jack rewarded the faithful fellow—gave him a good farm, taught him to work it, and built him a house. The funniest thing was Yik Kee had a wife and three queer little children back in China, and Jack sent for them, and Yik Kee and his family are as happy as they can be. The children play with Jack's (he has twelve now) and get along finely together.

In '75 I married Harry White, which, I suppose, was foreseen from the beginning—at least, Jack says anybody could have seen it. The most serene and satisfied face at the wedding was that of the Celestial. In my inner consciousness, notwithstanding he is a "heathen Chinee," I have the conviction that as great a hero as is seen in modern times is the man of few words, Yik Kee.—The Continent.

Back to Index Next