Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 31, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 February 1918 — Page 2

To the Man on Trail

The Christmas Bumper Was Drunk to His Safe Get Awau

Dump it in.” “But, I say, Kid, isn’t that going to be a little too strong? Whisky and alcohol’s bad enough, but when it comes to brandy and pepper sauce and—” “Dump it in. Who’s making this punch, anyway?” And Malemute Kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. “By the time you’ve been in this country as long as I have, my son, and lived on rabbit tracks and salmon belly you’ll learn that Christmas comes only once per annum. And a Christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a pay streak.” “Stack up on that fer a high cyard,” approved Big Jim Belden, who had come down from his claim on Mazy May to spend Christmas and who, as every one knew, had been living the two months past on straight moose meat. . “Hain’t fergot the hooch we uns made on the Tanana, hev yeh?” ‘‘Well, I guess yes! Boys, it would have done your hearts good to see that whole tribe fighting drunk, and all because of a glorious ferment of sugar and sour dough. That was before your time,” Malemute Kid said as he turned to Stanley Prince, a young mining expert who bad been in two years. “No white women in the country then, and Mason wanted to get married. Ruth’s father was chief of the Tananas and objected, like the rest of the tribe. Stiff?’ Why, I used my last pound of sugar. Finest work in that line I ever did in my life. You should have seen the chase down the river and across the portage.” “But the squaw?” asked Louis Savoy, the tall French Canadian, becoming interested. Then Malemute Kid, who was a born raconteur, told the unvarnished tale of the northland Lochinvar. More than one rough adventurer of the north felt his heartstrings draw closer and experienced vague yearnings for the sunnier pastures of the southland, where life promised something more than a barren struggle with cold and death. “We struck the Yukon just behind the first ice run,” he concluded, “and the tribe only a quarter of tfn hour behind. But that saved us, for the second run broke the jam above and shut them out. W’hen they finally got into Nuklukyeto the whole post was ready for them. And as to the foregathering ask Father Roubeau here. He performed the ceremony." The Jesuit took the pipe from his lips, but could only express his gratification with patriarchal smiles, while, Protestant and Catholic vigorously applauded. “By gar!” ejaculated Louis Savoy, who seemed overcome by, the romance of it “La petite squaw; mon Mason brav. By gar!” > Then, as the-first tin cups of punch

Malamute Kid's Frightful Concoction Did Its Work.

By JACK LONDON

went round, Bettles the Unquenchable sprang to his feet and struck up his favorite drinking song—- “ There’s Henry Ward Beecher And Sunday school teachers, All drink of the sassafras root; But you bet all the same, If it had its right name. It’s the juice of the forbidden fruit.” “Oh the juice of the forbidden fruit.” roared out the Bacchanalian chorus—“Oh the juice of the forbidden fruit; But you bet all the same, If it had its right name, It’s the juice'of the forbidden fruit.” Malemute Kid’s frightful concoction did its work. The men of the camps and trails unbent in its -genial glow, and jest and song and tales of past adventure went round the board. Aliens from a dozen lands, they toasted each other and alt It was the Englishman, Prince, who pledged “Uncle Sam, the precocious infant of the new world;” the Yankee, Bettles, who drank to “The Queen, God bless her!” and together Savoy and Meyers, the German trader, clanged their cups to Alsace and Lorraine. Then Mal«nute Kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greased paper window, where the frost stood full three inches thick —“A health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire.” Crack! Crack! They heard the familiar music of'the dog whip, the whining howl of the Malemutes and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin. Conversation languished while they waited the issue. “An old timer—cares for his dogs and then himself,” whispered Malemute Kid to Prince as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own. Then came tne expected knock, sharp and confident, and, the stranger entered. Dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all a chance for scrutiny. He was a striking personage and a most picturesque one in his arctic dress of wool and fur. Standing six foot two or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, his smooth shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the frost king, just stepped in out of the night. Clasped outside his mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large Colt’s revolvers and a hunting knife, while he carried, in addition to the inevitable dog whip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern. As he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him. An awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty “What cheer, my lads?” put them quickly at ease, and the next in-

1 THE EVENING REPUBLICAN,

stant Malemute Kid and he had gripped hands. Though they had never met, each had heard of the other, and the recognition was mutual. A sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand. ' “How long since that basket sled with three men and eight dogs passed?” he asked. “An even two days ahead. Are you after them?" “Yes; my team. Run them off under my very nose, the cusses. I’ve gained two days on them already—pick them up on the next run.” “Reckon they’ll show spunk?” asked Belden in. order to keep up the conversation, for Malemute Kid, already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying bacon and moose meat. The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers. “When’d yeh leave Dawson?” “Twelve o’clock.” “Last night?” as a matter of course. “Today.” A murmur of surprise passed round the circle. . And well it might, for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours’ run. The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of childhood. As the young stranger ate of the rude fare Malemute Kid attO| tively studied his face. Nor long in deciding that it was fair, honest and open and that he liked it. Still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship. Though genial in conversation and mild when at rest, the blue eyes gave promise of the hard steel glitte* which comes when called into action, especially against odds. The heavy jaw and square cut chin demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. Nor, though the attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain softness, the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature. “So thet’s how me an’ the ol’ woman got spliced,” said Belden, concluding the exciting tale of his courtship. “ ‘Here we be, dad,’ sez she. ‘An’ may yeh be d ,’ sez he to her, an’ then to me: ‘Jim, yeh—yeh git outen them good duds o’ yourn. I wapt a right peart slice o’ thet forty acre plowed ’fore dinner.’ An’ then he turns on her an’ sez, ‘An’ yeh, Sal—yeh sail inter them dishes.’ An’ then he sort o’ sniflled an’ kissed her. An’ I was thet happy—but he seen me an’ roars out, ‘Yeh, Jim!’ An’ yeh bet I dusted fer the barn.”

“Any kids waiting for you back in the States?” asked the stranger. “Nope. Sal died ’fore any come. Thet’s why I’m here.” . Belden abstractedly began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and then brightened up with, “How ’bout yerself, stranger—married man?” For reply he opened his watch, slipped it from the thong which served for a chain and passed it over. Belden pricked up the slush lamp, surveyed the Inside of the case critically and. swearing admiringly to himself, handed it over to Louis Savoy. With numerous “By gars!” he finally surrendered it to Prince, and they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness. And so it passed from horny hand to horny hand—the pasted photograph of a woman, the clinging kind that such men fancy, with a babe at the breast. Those who had not yet seen the wonder were keen with curiosity; those who had became silent and retrospective. They could face the pinch of famine, the grip of scurvy or the quick death by field or flood, /but the pictured semblance of a stranger woman and child made women and children of them all. “Never have seen the youngster yet. He’s a boy, she says, and two years old,” said the stranger as he received the treasure back. A lingering moment lie gazed upon it, then snapped the case and turned away, but not quick enough to hide the restrained rush of tears. Kid led him to a bunk and bade him turn in. “Call me at 4, sharp. Don’t fail me,” were his last words, and a moment later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted t leep. ■“By Jove, he’s a plucky chap!” commented Prince. “Three hours’ sleep after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again! Who is he, Kid?”

“Jack Westondale. Been in going on three years, with nothing but the name of working like a horse, and any amount of bad luck to his credit. I never knew him, but Sitka Charley told me about him.” “It seems hard that a man with a sweet young wife like his should be putting in his years in this God forsaken hole, where every year counts (wo on the outside.’’ “The trouble with him is clean grit and stubbornness. He’s cleaned up twice with a stake, but lost it both times.” Here the conversation was broken off by an uproar from Bettles, for the effect had begun to wear away. And soon the bleak years of monotonous grub and deadening toil were being forgotten in rough merriment. Malemute Kid alone seemed unable to lose himself and cast many an anxious look at his watch. Once he put on his mittens and beaver skin cap and, leaving the cabin, fell to rummaging about in the cache. Nor could he wait the hour designated, for he was fifteen minutes ahead of time in j-ousing his guest. The young giant had stiffened badly, and brisk .rubbing was necessary to bring him to his feet. He tottered painfully out of the cabin, to find his dogs harnessed and everything ready for thestart. The company wished him good luck and a short chase, while Father Roubeau, hurriedly blessing him, led the stampede for the cabin, and small wonder* for it is not good to face 74

degrees below zero with naked ears and hands. Malemute Kid saw him to the main trail and there, gripping his hand heartily, gave him advice. “You’ll find a hundred pounds of salmon eggs on the sled,” he said. “The dogs will go as far on that as with one hundred and fifty of fish, and you can’t get dog food at Pelly, as you probably expected.” The stranger started, and his eyes flashed, but he did not interrupt. “You can’t get an ounce of food for dog or man till you reach Five Fingers, and that’s a stiff 200 miles. Watch out for open water on the Thirty Mile river, and be sure you take the big cut-off above Le Barge.” “How did you know it? Surely the news can’t be ahead of me already.” “I don’t know it, and, what’s more, I don’t want to know it. But you never owned that team you’re chasing. Sitka ’ Charley sold it to them last spring. But he sized you up to me as square once, and I believe him. I’ve seen your face. I like it. And I’ve seen—why, d you, hit the high places for salt water and that wife of yours, and” — Here the Kid unmittened and jerked out his sack. “No; I don’t need it.” And the tears froze on his cheeks as he convulsively gripped Malemute Kid’s hand. “Then don’t spare the dogs. Cut them out of the traces as fast as they' drop. Buy them and think they’re cheap at $lO a pound. You can get them at Five Fingers, Little Salmon and the Hootalinqua. And watch out for wet feet,” was his parting advice. “Keep a-traveling up to 25. blit if it gets below that, build a fire and change your socks.” Fifteen minutes had barely elapsed when the jingle of bells announced new arrivals. The door opened, and a mounted policeman of the Northwest Territory entered, followed by two half breed dog drivers. Like Westondale, they were heavily armed and showed signs of fatigue. The half breeds had been born to the trail and bore it easily, but she young policeman was badly exhausted. Still, the dogg-d obstinacy of his race held him to the pace he had set and would hold him till he dropped in his tracks. “When did Westondale pull out?” he asked. “He stopped here, didn’t he?”

“No; I Don't Need It."

This was supererogatory, for the tracks told their own tale too well. Malemiite Kid had caught Belden’s eye, and he, scenting the wind, replied evasively, “A right peart while back.” “Come, my man; speak up,” the policeman admonished. “Yeh seem to want him right smart. Hez he bln gitttn’ cantankerous down Dawson way?” “Held up Harry McFarland’s for forty thousand. Exchanged it at the P. C. store for a check on Seattle. And who’s to stop the cashing of it if we don’t overtake him? When did he pull out?” Every eye suppressed its excitement, for Malemute Kid had given the cue, and the young officer encountered wooden faces on every hand. Striding over to Prince, he put the question to him. Though it hurt him, gazing into the frank, earnest face of his fellow countryman, he replied inconsequentially on the state of the trail. , Then the officer espied Father Roubeau, who could not lie. “A quarter of an hour ago,” the priest answered, “but he had four hours’ rest for himself .and dogs.” “Fifteen minutes’ start, and he’s fresh! My God!” The poor fellow staggered back, half fainting from exhaustion and disappointment, murmuring something about the run from Dawson in ten hours and the dogs being played out. Malemute Kid forced a mug of punch upon him; then he turned for the door, ordering the dog drivers to follow. But the warmth and promise of rest were too tempting, and they objected strenuously. The Kid was conversant with their French patois and followed it anxiously. They swore that the dogs were gone up; that Siwash and Babette would have to be shot before the first mile was covered; that the rest were almost as bad, and that it would be better for all hands to rest up. “Lend me five dogs?” the officer asked, turning to Malemute Kid. But the Kid shook his head.

“I’ll sign a check on Captain Constantine for five thousand. Here’s my papers. I’m authorized to draw at my own discretion.” Again the silent refusal. "Then I’ll requisition them in the name of the queen.” , Smiling increduously, the Kid glanced at his well stocked arsenal, and the Englishman, realizing his impotency, turned for the door. But, the dog drivers still objecting, he whirled upon them fiercely, calling them women and curs. The swart face of the older halfbreed flushed angrily as he drew himself up and promised in good, round terms that he would travel his leader off bls legs and would then be delighted to plant him in the snow. The young officer—and it required his whole will—walked steadily to the door, exhibiting a freshness he did not possess. But they all knew and appreciated his proud effort. Nor could he veil the twinges of agony that shot across his face. Covered with frost, the dogs were curled up in the snow, and it was almost Impossible to get them to their feet. The poor brutes whined under the stinging lash, for the dog drivers were angry and cruel. Nor till Babette, the leader, was cut from the traces could they break out the sled and get under way. “A dirty scoundrel and a liar!” “By gar, him no good!” “A thief!” “Worse than an Indian!” It was evident that they were angry, first at the way they had been deceived, and, second, at the outraged ethics of the northland, where honesty, above all, was man’s prime Jewel. “An’ we gave the cuss a hand

MOODS OF NEGRO FOLK-SONGS

Gayest to Most Profoundly Tragic Disposition Is to Be Found Under the Religious Veil. The negro sought a channel for artistic solace, into which he could throw the symbolism of his racial longing. He found it, notes a writer in , the New Republic, in the religion brought to him by Protestant missionaries or tatight him by his masters. Here he was free to dream his dreams and create his visions of future happiness, for no master could punish him for praising God. Thus he “found religion,” and in religion he found no mood of his simple soul unnourished. It is, then, not so hard to understand why the negro’s, folk-song is. In its superficial form, so predominantly religious. The “spirituals” of the camp meeting show a quite une<?clesiastical variety of style and mood, a variety, in fact, coextensive with the emotional range of simple peasant life, 'these Include lively dances, bitter laments, paerfns of joy and majestic organlike anthems. In the Bible stories which are retold id ballad form In some of the spirituals the negro found expression for his buoyant, genial humor. Nearly ail the familiar moods of folk-song, from the gayest to the most profoundly tragic are to be found under the religious veil which permitted the slave to live his own varied emotional life without interference from his master.

Missing.

“Ma,” roared Mr. Jagsby, “where in the demnition bow-wows is my hat? It’s a shame the way things disappear without any apparent • reason. I would just like to know'where that hat IS?” ' > - “So would I,” replied Mrs. Jagsby, coldly. “You didn’t have it on when you came home last pight.” —Birmingham Age-Herald.

Again the Silent Refusal.

after knowin’ what he’d did.” All eyes were turned accusingly upon Malemute Kid, who rose from the corner where he had been making Babette comfortable and silently emptied the bowl for a final round of punch. “It’s a cold night, boys—a bitter cold night,” was the Irrelevant commencement of his defense. “You’ve all traveled trail and know what thht stands for. Don’t Jump a dog when he’s down. You’ve only heard one side. A whiter man than Jack Westondale never ate from the same pot nor stretched blanket with you or me. Last fall he gave his whole clean-up, forty thousand, to Joe Castrell to buy in on Dominion. Today he’d be a millionaire. But while he stayed behind at Circle City, taking care of his partner with the scurvy, what does Castrell do? Goes into McFarland’s, jumps the limit and drops the whole sack. Found him dead in the snow the next day. And poor Jack laying his plans to go dtit this winter to his wife and the boy he’s never seen. You’ll notice he took exactly what his partner lostforty thousand. Well, he’s gone out. And what are you going to do about it?” The Kid glanced round the circle of his judges, noted the softening of their faces, then raised his mug aloft. “So a health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire. God prosper him; good luck go with him, and”— "Confusion to the mounted police!” cried Bettles to the crash of the empty cups.

OUT SLUMMING WITH DICKENS

American Guests Shown About Darkest London by Noted Writer Who Was Well Posted. "Doctor Howe and his bride went to Europe on their wedding trip on the same ‘Steamer with Horace Mann and his newly made wife, JMary Peabody, the sister of Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne. The teacher of Laura Bridgman was well known in England through Dickens’ ‘American Notes’ and people were anxious to de him honor. ■ <. ■ “Dickens not only invited the interesting Americans to dinner but he offered to pilot Doctor Howe and his brother reformer, Horace Mann, about darkest London,” writes Mary E. Perman in St. Nicholas, “and show them the haunts of misery and crime which no, one knew better than the author of ‘Oliver Twist,’ ‘Little' Dorrlt’ and ‘Bleak House.’ The following note written in Dickens* characteristic hand shows the zest with which the great novelist undertook these expeditions and his boyish love of fun: “ ‘Ninth June, 1843. “ ‘My dear Howe —Drive tonight to St. Giles’ church. Be there at half past eleven —and wait. Somebody will put his head into the coach after a Venetian and mysterious fashion and breathe your name. Follow that man. Trust him to the death. “ ‘So no more at present from “‘THE MASK.”’

“Among the Victorian literary men,” says a writer in the Manchester (England) Guardian, “the best talker, by common consent, was Browning. All the chroniclers agree that among Victorian notables there was no more vigorous and inexhaustible gossip than Browning. Together with James Russell Lowell, the talker par excellence among Americans resident In England, he seemed determined to prove how thoroughgoing a maiT of the world it was possible for a poet to be.”

Browning Best Talker.