Through the courtesy of Otley S. Stapley, with Superintendent M. A. Stewart, F. T. Pomeroy, J. W. Lesueur, and James Miller, Jr., the writer was given the auto ride of his life up Salt river to this dam. On the road, Aztec ruins, mere piles of earth, some of greater prominence than others, are a common cause of curiosity. The sohuaro, and other species of cactus, here flourish to perfection, some of the first named reaching fifty feet in height having branches from ten to fifteen feet.

The diversion dam was completed last June at a cost to the

government of half a million dollars. It is one thousand feet in length, about fifteen feet in height above the bottom of the river, and five to seven feet in width on the top. A large canal on each side of the river, one for the Phoenix side and one for the Mesa side, has its intake by this dam which is built on a granite reef, and will forever settle the trouble heretofore experienced by the settlers in getting water from the river, which so discouraged

them in their efforts to settle the country. In connection with the storage of water at Roosevelt, it will develop 200,000 acres of desert land contiguous to Phoenix, Mesa, and surrounding settlements, into fruitful fields of semi-tropical vegetation. Much of this desert, if not all, is already claimed, and land is selling as high as $75 and $100 per acre-land too, absolutely worthless before the dam was built and the reservoir designed.

Any kind of fruit will thrive in the Valley which has an elevation of from 1,000 to 1,300 feet, and in ten years the whole vast desert under the canal will be transformed into a semi-tropical paradise. This is the home of alfalfa, and five and six cuttings,

yielding one and one half to two tons to the acre each cutting, are frequently taken from the same piece of land in a year. Grain, cantaloupes, beets, oranges, grapes, peaches, strawberries, watermelons, dates, almonds, and olives, grow in abundance. It is also a good live stock country, so the settlers say; and the Salt River

valley contains three-fourths of all the domesticated ostriches in the United States.

Above the Diversion Dam, Salt River, Arizona. Returning to Mesa, we passed the Papago Indian village; but the story of the Indians is a book in itself.

SELF-CONTROL.*

BY WILLIAM GEORGE JORDAN.

VIII. SYNDICATING OUR SORROWS.

All our

We

The most selfish man in the world is the one who is most unselfish, with his sorrows. He does not leave a single misery of his untold to you, or unsuffered by you,-he gives you all of them. The world becomes to him a syndicate formed to take stock in his private cares, worries and trials. His mistake is in forming a syndicate; he should organize a trust and control it all himself, then he could keep every one from getting any of his misery. Life is a great, serious problem for the individual. greatest joys and our deepest sorrows come to us,-alone. must go into our Gethsemane,--alone. We must battle against the mighty weakness within us,-alone. We must live our own life,-alone. We must die,-alone. We must accept the full resposibility of our life,-alone. If each one of us has this mighty problem of life to solve for himself, if each of us has his own. cares, responsibilities, failures, doubts, fears, bereavements, we surely are playing a coward's part when we syndicate our sorrows to others.

We should seek to make life brighter for others; we should seek to hearten them in their trials by the example of our courage in bearing our sorrows. We should seek to forget our failures, and remember only the new wisdom they gave us; we should live down our griefs by counting the joys and privileges still left to us;

* From Self-Control; its Kingship and Majesty. Copyright 1889 and 1905 by Fleming H. Revell Company.

put behind us our worries and regrets, and face each new day of life as bravely as we can. But we have no right to retail our sorrow and unhappiness through the community.

Autobiography constitutes a large part of the conversation of some people. It is not really conversation,-it is an uninterrupted monologue. These people study their individual lives with a microscope, and then they throw an enlarged view of their miseries on a screen and lecture on them, as a stereopticon man discourses on the microbes in a drop of water. They tell you that "they did not sleep a wink all night; they heard the clock strike every quarter of an hour." Now, there is no real cause for thus boasting of insomnia. It requires no peculiar talent, even though it does come only to wide-awake people.

If you ask such a man how he is feeling, he will trace the whole genealogy of his present condition down from the time he had the grippe four years ago. You hoped for a word; he gives

you a treatise. You asked for a sentence; he delivers an encyclopedia. His motto is: "Every man his own Boswell."

dicating his sorrows.

He is syn

The woman who makes her trials with her children, her troubles with her servants, her difficulties with her family, the subjects of conversation with her callers, is syndicating her sorrows. If she has a dear little innocent child who recites "Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night," is it not wiser for the mother to bear it calmly and discreetly and in silence, than to syndicate this sorrow?

The business man who lets his dyspepsia get into his disposition, and who makes every one round him suffer because he himself ill, is syndicating ill-health. We have no right to make others the victims of our moods. If illness makes us cross and irritable, makes us unjust to faithful workers who cannot protest, let us quarantine ourselves so that we do not spread the contagion. Let us force ourselves to speak slowly, to keep anger away from the eyes, to prevent temper showing in the voice. If we feel that we must have dyspepsia, let us keep it out of our head, let us keep it from getting north of the neck.

Most people sympathize too much with themselves. They take themselves as a single sentence isolated from the great text of life. They study themselves too much as separated from the rest