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the prison officials, so the story runs, de- Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems. By liberately prepared a more expeditous way Marion Forster Gilmore. Jno. P. of closing the career of their prisoners, Morton & Co., Louisville, Ky., PubIt was somewhat more merciful than

lishers. starvation, because it substituted instant

The comparatively small tragedies are death for endless agony."

often more lastingly interesting than the It will not surprise the reader to hear

great ones. Nobody cares much now of the small mortality of the Southern about the battle of Actium, but most of prisoners.”

us are eager to read anything new about "Washington a great soldier, though he Antony and Cleopatra. Few of us could could scarcely be called a great any of the medieval captains and ad

“The starvation of thousands at An- mirals of Italy; but none of us are ignordersonville and Salisbury at this hour, ant of Beatrice Cenci. In like manner, we tactily justified by the government, at the might nod over the story of Hannibal's fahands of whose agents they were mous victory at Cannse; but we always wrought.'

read, with deepest commiseration, of the This History of the United States by beautiful Roman girl who was lusted after Goldwin Smith, written about 1904 is a by the powerful Appius, and whose father mass of lies that any school-boy should killed her, because there was no other way know are not true. He says that Jeffer- to save her. son Davis was captured rather forcibly, Often as this episode in Roman history dressed in women's clothes. That For- has been written of, Miss Gilmore's contrirest nailed negro soldiers to logs and bution to its literature is most welcome. burned them alive and white men cap- The tragedy is finely conceived, and it is tured with them shared the same fate, worked out with artistic perfection and then says the evidence for this seems "Scene III-In a Garden of Roses,” is a conclusive. Why should we reject it? perfect love-tryst. It is the night before

"And the Southern prisoners were well the tyrant is to seize his prey; and the treated. On Thanksgiving Day the table betrothed lovers, Virginia and Icilious are was spread with the good things of the together, alone. season." He means turkey, I suppose. "Act III, Scene I.-A cloudy morning in

I have never seen the following state- the Forum," is also a great piece of work. ment before. If it is true the Southern So also, is the closing scenes. soldiers' reputation for valor is lost: “The Among the fugitive poems which follow South had the advantage of the defensive, the Tragedy, I select the following: which in battle, is rockoned at five to

The Sea Gull. two."


Strong-winged soul of the lifting sea, Alabama.

Bird of the gale,

Launch thyself from the crags, and fly "THE HORROBOOS." Morrison I. Swift.

Over the crested waves, nor sigh The Liberty Press, Boston. Price,

For the sheltered home, but gladly $1.00.

hail The name of the author of "The Horro- The sea and the open sky! boos" is not known to us, though the claim of authorship is made by him to

High, low, high, low, “Marriage and Race Death,” “The Monarch Over the foam, Billionaire,” “Imperialism and Liberty," Gliding level with the mast, and several other works.

Darting close above the vast If the name is not a non de plume, Roll of billows-then come home, then the lineal descendant of Dean Swift And hide thee from the blast. is with us and has found a publisher. The Horroboos" is a tale

tale, Once again, thy pinions free which in turn is made to be the appendix Spread to the speaking breeze! of still another tale, which turns out to Forward, like a mermaid light, be a crime.

Onward, like to a soul as white "Colonel Fessendon Brady" is the

As the curling foam of the singing character about whom the story of one

seas, Greyson is woven, and it need only be said Nor shrink from the coming night. that the book will not be suitable for Sunday school libraries.

Rolling fog and fading light, An evident effort is made to show the Spread and sail! political and financial trend of our own Fold thy pinions, breast the deep, times, as Swift did in his “Gulliver's In the darkness, Spirit, sleep, Travels.” The story is well told, and for

Soul of the gale!

T. E. W. those who may read between the lines there will be found a stinging arraign- Whar the Hand of God is Seen By Capt. ment on our times and customs.

Jack Crawford. New York Lyceum The denounment is rather startling.

Publishing Co., Publishers. Price, A. L. L.


of a

E'en the birds are all imported from away

acrost the seaFaces meet me all distorted with the hand

of misery.

Like it? No. I love to wander

'Mid the vales an' mountains green, In the border land out yonder,

Whar' the hand of God is seen.

Roarin' railroad trains above you, streets

by workmen all defaced, Everybody tryin' to shove you in the gut

ter in their haste. Cars an' carts an' wagons rumblin' through

the streets with deafen'n' roar, Drivers yellin’, swearin', grumblin', jes'

like imps from Sheol's shore; Factories jinin' in the chorus, helpin' 'long

the din to swell; Auctioneers in tones sonorous, lying 'bout

the goods they sell.

Like it? No. I love to wander

'Mid the vales an' mountains green, In the border land out yonder,

Whar the hand o' God is seen.

Yes, I love the Western border; pine trees

wavin' in the air, Rocks piled up in rough disorder, birds

a-singin' everywhere; Deer a playin' in their gladness, elks a

feedin' in the glen; Not a trace o' pain or sadness campin' on

the trail o' men. Brooks o' crystal clearness flowin' o'er the

rocks, an' lovely flowers In their tinted beauty growin' in the moun

tain dells an' bowers.

Fairer picture the Creator

Never threw on earthly screen, an this lovely home o' Natur' Whar the hand o' God is seen.

Another gem from this treasury is—

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. (Written while alone in the San Mateo Mountains, New Mexico, and while Chief of Scouts under General Edward Hatch, on the trail of Victorio, the Apache chief, ind his murderous band.) Near the camp-fire's flickering light

In my blanket bed I lie,
Gazing through the shades of night

At the twinkling stars on high;
O’er me spirits in the air

Silent vigils seem to keep
As I breathe my childhood's prayer,

Now I lay me down to sleep."

Now and then we meet a man who carries us back to Nature, and as we listen to him talk, gesticulate and laugh, we think of the primitive, the innocent, the unconventional, the unsubduable. Such a man could not do a mean thing, a cruel thing or a thing that is cowardly. He may be chock full of egotism, but he is free from conceit. He may deceive you; but not until he has deceived himself.

He may not know the value of a dollar; but he treasures the gold of good will toward men, and he is happy in making others so.

Such a man venerates the grandeurs and beauties of the world in which be lives; honors God in his heart; yearns io lead men upward along the higher paths; is overflowing with sympathy for the sorrowful; and would rather be duped and robbed a thousand times than to lose faith in humanity. That's "Captain Jack, the Poet-Scout."

There isn't a man in America who has more ideas in his head, a readier tongue, a warmer heart, or a braver spirit.

And he's a poet, too, in the same sense that Robert Burns was one. His appeal is not so much to the mind, as were those of Shelley, Keats and Poe; his song makes for the feelings as do those of Will Carleton.

The cloth-bourd volume which lies on my table throbs with life and emotion.

It richly merits a place along-side the poems of Bret Harte and Joaquin Miller.

“Whar the Hand o God is Seen” is the typical selection that I shall make from my friend's book; but some other day he must tell us in noble numbers how llie hand of God is seen in men and women.

Wbar the Hand o' God is Seen. Do I like the city, stranger? "Tisn't likely

that I would; 'Tisn't likely that a ranger from the bor

der ever could Git accustomed to the flurry an' the loud

unea rthly noiseEverybody in a hurry, men an' wimmin,

gals an' boys, All a rushin' like the nation 'mid the rum

ble an' the jar, Jes' as if their souls' salvation hung upon

their gittin' thar.

Like it? No. I love to wander

'Mid the vales an' mountains green, In the border land out yonder,

Whar' the hand of God is seen.

Nothin' here but bricks au' mortar, tower

in' overhead so high That you never see a quarter o' the over

hangin' sky, Not a tree or grassy medder, not a run

ning' brook in sight, Nothin' but the buildins' shadder makin'

gloom of Heaven's light.

Sadly sings the whippoorwill

In the boughs of yonder tree; Laughingly the dancing rill

Swells the midnight melody. Foemen may be lurking near

In the valley dark and deep;

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Both Need Team Work, Modern Tools
and an Ever Ready Plant, Everywhere

Twenty men with twenty buckets can put out a small fire if each man works by himself. If twenty men form a line and pass the buckets from hand to hand, they can put out a larger fire. But the same twenty men on the brakes of a "hand tub” can force a continuous stream of water through a pipe so fast that the bucket brigade seems futile by comparison. The modern firefighter has gone away beyond the "hand tub.” Mechanics build a steam fire engine, miners dig coal to feed it, workme: build reservoirs and lay pipes so that cach nozzleman and engineer is worth a score of the oldfashioned firefighters.

The big tasks of today require not only team work but also modern tools and a vast system of supply and distribution. The Bell telephone system is an example of co-operation between 75,000 stockholders, 120,000 employees and six million subscribers. But to team work is added an up-to-date plant. Years of time and hundreds of millions of money have been put into the tools of the trade; into the building of a nation-wide network of lines; into the training of men and the working out of methods. The result is the Bell system of today—a union of men, money and machinery, to provide universal telephone service for ninety million people.



One Policy

One System

Universal Service

In writing to advertisers please mention Watson's.

Low I breathe in Jesus' ear:

"I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep."

'Mid those stars one face I see

One the Savior called awayMother, who in infancy

Taught my baby lips to pray; Her sweet spirit hovers near

In this lonely mountain brake. "Take me to her, Savior dear,

If I should die before I wake."

Fainter grows the flickering light

As each ember slowly dies; Plaintively the birds of night

Fill the air with saddening cries; Over me they seem to cry:

You may never more awake." Low I lisp: "If I should die,

I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take.”

Now I lay me down to sleep;

I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take.

T. E. W.


“WATERLOO." Hon. T. E. Watson, Thomson, Ga.

Dear Sir: I have just finished your book, "Waterloo,” and am so much pleased with it that I wish to introduce myself, as I think we have a similarity of taste, as to literature. I was born and bred near Nashville, Tenn., in the old slavery days, 1842. My father, Dr. J. H. Peyton, was twice elected to Congress (House), and died while a member from Tennessee. His brother (older), Balie Peyton, was also member of House, from Tennessee, and a famous orator in his day. He and old Governor Henry A. Wise, of Virginia, were members of the House together and great friends. They always pulled together politically and were much alike personally. My uncle, Gen. Robt. Hatton, my mother's brother, was member of the House when the war broke out in 1861, and was the leader of the little "Opposition Party" in 1861, in congress, fighting desperately both the "Fire-eaters” and the "Abolitionists." In May, 1861, I went with him in his regiment, Seventh Tennessee, to Vir

ginia, getting there just after the first battle of Mannassas. Before the first year was out, the war department at Richmond made my uncle, Gen. Hatton, brigadier of the three only Tennessee regiments in that army.

He was instantly killed at "Seven Pines" (Fair Oaks), leading his brigade against the Federal batteries. I graduated at the old "Jefferson Medical College,” Philadelphia, after the war closed, 1866, and a mstill pegging away at the practice as a country doctor, in my 70th year, but I don't feel that old. My only recreation is reading history and biography, as a change from medical literature. Winter before last I read Sloan's "History of Napoleon," four large volumes. Sloan is an able man, but he put entirely too much in his history, in the way of philosophical essays, which are certainly tedious. He will go thus for a whole page or two, and then slur over an important battle in a paragraph, like Marengo. I am now reading with great relish and pleasure, Parkman's History of the French power in America, 13 volumes. Reading now "Frontenac." I think he is the ablest and best historian America has ever produced. His style is certainly fascinating and picturesque. Parkman had a perfect genius for gathering his material for history from the most difficult and unexpected places, and an equal genius for sifting it all, and getting at the facts and exact truth. If it was possible to get a manuscript, he'd get it, sure or a copy of it. I am now reading your “Story of the South and West” and like it very much. Your "Columbus" is an entirely new man to me. All the histories I've read made him out an abused and neglected man. No doubt you are right. Most historians are mere compilers of former writers. I want a good, fair, honest history of our late civil war, and I hope you will write one. What we want is a history with the politics left out-a narrative of military events from beginning to end; with fair estimates of the military leaders on both sides. A good, fair, truthful history is yet to be written, I want to read more of your books.

Very truly yours,

JOHN C. PEYTON. Winter Garden, Orange County, Fla.

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8837-A STYLISH BUT SIMPLE DESIGN. Ladies' One-piece Waist (Closed at the

Shoulder) with Tucker. This model may be made to close at the center, back, or at the shoulders. The body and sleeve portions are cut in one, with underarm and shouider seams and the waist may be worn over a guimpe or tucker of contrasting material. The design is unique in its elegant simplicity. The





broad tucks lending fullness and width over the shoulder, and the flat, round collar makes a pretty neck finish. The pattern is cut in six cizes: 32, 34, 36, 38, 40 and 42 inches, bust measure. It requires 1 5-8 yards for the tucker and 194 yards for the waist of 44-inch material for the 36-inch size.

A pattern of this illustration mailed to any address on receipt of 10 cents, in silver or stamps.

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