Voice of the Intangible VIII

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Chapter VIII —Peavine Since the first camp at Peavine, when Ben played with the Soorowits children, Fred Rojer spent from one to three weeks in that grove every summer, and every summer he brought the boy along as an indispensable part of the outfit. After the ten days with Montana, at Rincone, a brief week passed in town before father and son made camp at Peavine again. And again the world wagged easy, and all nature moved to its own tune, with the ease and unconcern of the butterfly's flitting over the stretches of grass and flowers. Ben had no Stripes on which to lavish the caresses of his cayuse-loving, dog-devoted nature, for Flossy's insolent treatment of Bowse, had made a slight breach of friendship between herself and the brown-eyed boy. But Fred Rojer gave his son a three-year-old colt, and the only real work the two did in a week, was to accustom Ben and the colt to each other's ways, so that one dared to ride and the other dared to allow it. They made this a quiet, pleasant task for two hours every morning and evening, devoting the rest of the day to books and dialogue, lounging under the trees, hunting grouse, or gum, or squirrels, as the inclination of one or the other happened to indicate. Together they found the nests of birds, and watched the chipmunk frisk on the limb they saw the timid deer browse the oak leaves in the early ;

morning, and watched the sun sink into the red deserts to the west. Young Rojer could not understand it, though he enjoyed it immensely. Why they should lose so much time in this place every summer, became more of a problem all the time. One evening when they had rambled about a good deal, and accomplished little so far as Ben could see, he came out with a direct question

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"How is Pa, that we camp here so much and do so little while it,

we are here ? If it were Jud, he'd spend about a day rounding up these horses, and two days breaking 'em, and then he'd be ready for something else." "Yes, I suppose he would, son; but you're not Jud, neither am I." In the pause which followed, young Rojer began to fear he had given offense "I didn't mean to be rude," he explained. ;

"I'm not angry," assured his father, ''I was just wondering — whether you're ready to hear something something I've been intending for a long time to tell you." "What is it?" asked the boy eagerly. "Did you ever read, 'Having eyes, they see not, and ears, hear " not?' — "Oh, yes, I've read it, why? am I an awfully dull boy?" "Not that, but there are things which men could see if they would, yet very few care enough to make the effort. Most men have trained their attention and set their hearts so continuously upon the sources from which there might come a dollar, that they have become deaf and blind and stupid, to the very best things of earth. Yet there are men who might see, even here — "A spirit?" "No, I wasn't going to say that, but they would see and hear things in this grove, about which, we have never talked. Since you were a little babe, I have hoped you would have eyes and ears for something nobler than a dollar, and I have brought you here, and watched to see if you noticed the thing which first attracted me to this grove." "What is it, Pa?" asked young Rojer, poking the smouldering fire, and trying to recollect everything in the peaceful woodland around them, "I know every tree and bird's nest in this grove. Is it the wind? Is there something in these trees which I can't see?" "It may be in the wind, or the rain, or the clouds, but they are not it, for it can be seen and heard when they are still. If I should string all the a-b-c's out in their order before you, they wouldn't spell anything, would they?" "No, sir." "And yet you know the name of each letter, and you know they can be arranged to spell any word and form any sentence." "I know that about the letters, but I thought you were going to tell me about the thing hiding among these quakingasps." "Do you remember how printed pages looked to you before you could read?" "Oh, yes, they looked about like a Mexican newspaper looks now." — "That's it the things hiding in these trees are something like the thoughts hiding in the Mexican newspaper. The words

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arc in sight on the paper, but to you they have no meaning. Now in this grove you see the green leaves, and the nests and the squirrels you see the clear water boil out of the hill-side, and ;

hear it ripple away down the canyon you hear the birds singing ;

and the wind blowing you hear the rain and the mild rustle of the — ;

leaves, but each one of these is only a letter in Nature's great alphabet. Nature arranges these letters in groups, and if we know them, we may read whole sentences and chapters. Do you see what I mean?" "Well, partly — wouldn't know how I to begin with such letters." "See what this spells The rotten log is gray and brown :

the — chipmunk lives in the log the chipmunk is gray and brown, so that he can hardly be seen when he sits still on the log." "Oh, I couldn't guess that." "See my pocket-knife, it has sharp blades, but they close down and don't cut my pocket. Now how did there happen to be a knife of that kind?" "Men made it just, to carry in the pocket." "Then the men who made it,knew about pockets and what they need. Now who colored the chipmunk's coat and why?' "Oh, I see, the Lord suited the chipmunk to the log or — the log to the chipmunk." "Or both ? And what must have prompted Him to do so much for such a little crea- ture?" "It must have been love." "That's it, — 'All around and all above bear this record God is love.' The chipmunk and the log may seem to you a little matter, but from these small beginnings, men have learned to hold communion with nature, and to understand "The wind blowing through these big her various language. For pines means much to me." them 'she has a voice of glad- ness and a smile, and she expresses a healing sympathy' for all their heart-aches and sorrows. I camp here to look and listen. The rich tint of these wild-

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flowers, and the sparkle of the spring, and the happiness of the birds in the trees, does me more good than you can imagine. The wind blowing through these big pines means much to me, and as you grow older you'll hear it say wonderful things it will talk of God ;

and plead the cause of men. I couldn't have borne with Josh so long but for the words of this grove, and I want you to hear them, because you'll meet many men like Josh." "What good things can this grove say about him?" "It says the Lord lets us live on earth to prove the kind of stuff there is in us, and He brings Josh and me together that I might have more chance to do good, and show my courage to be fair while Josh is always so unfair. You are young, your blood is hot, you like revenge for every injury. This voice will tame you down like a colt is tamed, and you will see that as God is love for man, so man ought to be love for God's children. This voice says that as we pity the blind when they fall into the pit, so we ought to pity the man so stupid and ignorant as to do the evil things which fill his life with misery." "Have you heard voices in these trees since we came here first?" "Yes, long before that, and not only here but in many places. I have listened to it ever since I was a boy like you. I hope I'm never too old to ride a horse, and hunt the good things of such places as this." Long after they had gone to bed, Ben lay quietly looking up through the quakingasp limbs to the stars above, and listening to the mild summer breeze that made the leaves to tremble. He heard the whip-poor-will call from some indefinite place he heard ;

the howl of the coyote from the canyons below, and wished he might read at once the mysterious meaning of it all. In it was the voice of the Intangible, the words he could seldom understand ; but behold they could be understood, for his father with the eyes and ears of a man could understand them. Oh the eyes and ears of a man! they must be similar to the eves and ears of God! Next morning as they pulled on their boots, "I've heard that voice you talked about last night," young Rojer asserted, "I've heard it a long time, but I can't tell much of what it says." "I sure you had, or I wouldn't have said so much," an- felt swered his father. "It's a great thing to hear it, and a greater thing still to comprehend it." Ben named the bay colt Alec, and took great pride in this, his first bronco. Alec had a white hind-foot, a snip of white on the nose, black mane and tail, graceful carriage and good action. Before the camp left Peavine, a bridle displaced the rope hackamore, the saddle went on and off with less difficulty, and the colt half agreed to the strange requirements of his young master. Of

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course, he couldn't always refrain from bucking, — those cinches were such ticklish thing's, and the rattle and squeak of the saddle so different to the sounds he had heard. Yet he meant well, young Rojer looked into his big, frank, coltish eyes, and forgave all his mischievous pranks, just as one big-hearted school-boy forgives another. "He don't want to be mean," Ben would say; "he's just naturally good." Alec was no dullard he soon learned that the brown-haired ;

boy was a good fellow to meet, and he arched his neck with real pride when he carried young Rojer on his back. The Stripeslove, which had languished for years, and grown particularly heavy when the outfit passed Green-water, now rose up in a fresh, new form, and lavished itself on the bay colt. He was taught to whirl, to start on the keen jump, to stop short off, or go straight ahead in good order while his master reached to the ground for a dragging rope. He must learn to eat oats, wear hobbles, and behave skilfully on the saddle-end of a lariat, for young Rojer was becoming an adept with the lasso. While Ben and Alec were becoming acquainted, the shaggy old wag-tail contrived to make himself an essential element of that acquaintance. Being always at young Rojer's heels, the old dog, by some strange dog-instinct, discovered around the bay colt an atmosphere of toleration, and upon it he promptly proceeded to build a friendship which could have been no more complete, even if Stripes had suddenly been resurrected from the bleaching bones at Green-water. Alec was adopting new ways and associates, and Bowse threw himself in at just the right time, and w ith such per- r

sistency of dog-devotion, that the colt accepted him as a necessary part of the new performance, and a dog-horse love clinched itself on both sides, before the horse discovered the dog to be his fellowservant. Six weeks after the camp was moved from Peavine to town, plenty of men looked at the bay colt and jingled their silver at the boy and his father, but the father said, "He belongs to the boy," and the boy said, "No, sir-ee, I won't sell 'im." (to be continued)

An Appropriate Text It was the custom in a minister's family to have each member repeat a verse from the Bible at the beginning of every meal. One day the five-year-old son had been naughty, and was put at a little table by himself by way of punishment. V/hen it came time for his verse he said very solemnly, "Thou hast prepared a table before me in the presence of mine enemies."

Tribute to Orson P. Arnold BY GEORGE C. LAMBERT

In the death of Orson P. Arnold, I am deprived of the association of a friend whose companionship I dearly prized. I have reason, too, for the belief that the friendship and love I entertained for him were fully reciprocated. He was my David, and I his Jonathan. I was reconciled to his death by the extended illness that he endured, and I am now consoled by the hope that our association will be renewed in a future existence, when he will be freed from the bodily ailments from which he suffered in mortality. In him was personified my ideal of many manly virtues. A truer or more loyal friend probably never lived. He was neither demonstrative nor effusive. He gushed not in verbal expressions of friendship, but expressed himself in acts, rather than words, none the less effectively. One could not mistake his friendship, or loyalty, for flattery or sycophancy. He was generous, sympathetic, considerate, and ready to serve his living friends and to defend their memories when dead. 0RS0N p Arnold -

His honesty was of that sterling kind that knew no compromise. He despised trickery, pretense, and shams of every kind, and never would profit by the ignorance of a person with whom he had dealings. He was a truthful man. Some good men have the habit of enlarging (perhaps unconsciously) upon things they relate from memory, especially when they repeat the narrative many times, and more especially when the narrative relates to their own exploits,and is favorable to them. Not so with Orson P. Arnold. — Whatever he said could be relied upon as unalloyed truth though possibly not the whole truth when it favorably related to himself.