get down an' jine our little party, it'll stretch yer legs, an' mebbe ye need stretchin' all over.'

"He got a little white under the gills, but slid down without a word. We followed suit, and Agnew threw over his head a noose, an' passin' the other end over a limb of that lone old tree, nodded that things war ready.

"That young fellow was game ter the last. Never moved a muscle. Seemed kinder like a shame. McConnell went

up to him and said:

666

'Now, pard, is everything all right? Does it fit your neck accordin' to Hoyle?'

"Have you anything to say why this 'ere little picnic shouldn't proceed?'

"Have ye got any word ter leave to yer friends? If ye have, make it short, fur we're goin' to break camp inside er ten minutes.'

"That young feller took his eyes off a bit of sage brush fur the first time and looked us straight in the eyes. His eyes war blue. I took notice of that, an' his face was clean and kind of pure-lookin'. He didn't seem to be takin' much interest in what war goin' on 'round him. Kinder had a far-away, talkin'-ter-the-angels look. Made me feel as tho I didn't count nohow. Kept thinkin' of something I learnt in Sunday-school in Missouri when I warn't

bigger nor that basket o' papers. Then he came to, an'

drawin' a crumpled letter from his pocket, spoke with a kinder tremble in his voice:

666

'Perhaps you are a better scholar nor I be. If you'll jest read that an' be kind enuf to answer it, I'll tell yer what ter say.'

"McConnell had already passed the coil of rope to Jim Agnew and he had drawn it taut. He took the letter, an', as we hung around kinder curious like, he opened it an' read out loud:

"ETOWAH, GA., January 18, 1874. "MY DEAR SON JAMES:-For long weary months I have waited for news from you, since your last dear letter to your old mother. God bless you, James, and answer my prayers that this letter may reach you, thanking you for your ever-thoughtful care for me in my old age. But once more to look in your dear face and feel that my baby boy was near me, would cheer my old heart more than to possess all the gold in Idaho. When are you coming home? You promised me that in the spring you would come back to me. May the good God watch over and prosper you, and return my dear boy to my old arms before I die. loving

From your MOTHER.'

"McConnell had had a good eddication back in Michigan, and he commenced in a strong, clear voice, but afore the closing words war out, it war all we could do ter hear his voice. Yes, sir, an' my eyes got weaker nor a sick heifer's. Fact! The rope slackened until it fell from the hands of Jim Agnew, and as the breath of the mornin' came a-rushin' through the leaves of that old tree, and long shafts o' sunlight kinder prospected down through the opening boughs, someway, my old throat caved in like an' I went ter thinkin' o' long, sunny days on the banks of the Missouri, of my old dorg, an' uv a little sister with eyes jest like this feller's, an' of my old mammy, an' how she taught me to pray. Couldn't help it, but borrowin' a hoss an' robbin' a stage didn't seem a big enough thing to string that boy up fur, an' break his old mother's heart. Guess McConnell war thinkin' o' the same way, fur he kind of reverently like

folded up that soiled bit o' paper and handed it to its owner, an' without a word slipped the noose from his neck, an' then in tones as gentle as a mother's asked:

""War ye goin' home, stranger?'

"'Yes!'

666 'Good-by!'

"The boy didn't dare to trust his voice in thanks. I knew how he felt, but he drew from his belt a small bag o' twenties an' offered it to Mac.

"He mounted the mare, while we sot an' watched him out o' sight, an' then like a pack o' starved coyotes, turned and silently sneaked fur Boise.

"Court war adjourned, verdic' set aside."

THE YACHT CLUB SPEECH

Mr. Chairman-a-a-a-Mr. Commodore-beg pardonI assure you that until this moment I had not the remotest expectation that I should be called upon to reply to this toast. [Pause, turns round, pulls MS. out of pocket and looks at it.] Therefore I must beg of you, Mr. Captain-a -a-Mr. Commatain-a-a-Mr.-Mr. Cappadore-that you will pardon the confused nature of these remarks, being as they must necessarily be altogether impromptu and extempore. [Pause, turns round and looks at MS.] But Mr. Bos'an-a-a--Mr. Bosadore-I feel-I feel even in these few confused expromptu and intempore-intomptu and exprempore extemptu and imprempore exprompore remarks I feel that I can say in the words of the poet, words

of the poet-poet-I feel that I can say in the words of the poet-of the poet-poet, and in these few confused remarks -in the words of the poet-[turns round, looks at MS.]— I feel that I can say in the words of the poet that I feel my heart swell within me. Now Mr. Capasun, Mr. Commasun, why does my heart swell within me-in the few confusedwhy does my heart swell within me-swell within me-swell within me what makes my heart swell within me-why does it swell-swell within me? [Turns round and looks at MS.] Why Mr. Cappadore-look at George Washington -what did he do?-in the few confused-[Strikes dramatic attitude with swelled chest and outstretched arm, preparing for burst of eloquence which will not come.] He -huh-he-huh-he-huh-[turns round and looks at MS.] he took his stand upon the ship of state-he stood upon the main top gallant jiboomsail and reefed the quivering sail-and when the storms were waging rildly round to wreck his fragile bark, through all the howling tempest he guided her in safety into the harbor of perdition-a-a-a -into the haven of safety. And what did he do then? What he do then? What he do then? He-he-he-[looks at MS.]-there he stood. And then his grateful countrymen gathered round him-they gathered round George Washington-they placed him on the summit of the cipadel -their capadol-they held him up before the eyes of the assembled world-around his brow they placed a neverdying wreath-and then in thunder tones which all the world might hear -[Flourishes MS. before his face, notices it and sits down in great confusion.]

THE TWO PICTURES

It was a bright and lovely summer's morn,
Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet,
The air was redolent with perfumed balm,
While nature scattered, with unsparing hand,
Her loveliest graces over hill and dale.
An artist, weary of his narrow room
Within the city's pent and heated walls,
Had wandered long amid the ripening fields,
Until, remembering his neglected themes,

He thought to turn his truant steps toward home.
These led him through a rustic, winding lane,

Lined with green hedge-rows, spangled close with flowers,
And overarched by trees of noblest growth.
But when at last he reached the farther end
Of this sweet labyrinth, he there beheld.
A vision of such pure, pathetic grace,
That weariness and haste were both obscured.
It was a child-a young and lovely child
With eyes of heavenly hue, bright golden hair,
And dimpled hand clasped in a morning prayer,
Kneeling beside its youthful mother's knee.
Upon that baby brow of spotless snow,
No single trace of guilt, or pain, or woe,
No line of bitter grief or dark despair,

Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care,

Had ever yet been written. With bated breath,
And hand uplifted as in warning, swift,

The artist seized his pencil, and there traced
In soft and tender lines that image fair:

PROPERTY OF

DEPARTMENT OF DRAMATIC ART