The Spirit of Song

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Fall and winter, wandering through the waste places of the desert, which he knew almost as well as a sage hen does her nest, always seeking his bonanza. "Twenty-five years; yes, it is a long time," mused the man stretched by the fire. "But we're bound to find it, sure, sure, either here or on the desert, and when we do, Babe, it'll be in one great pocket, I feel it in my bones; I'll be blowed if I don't." The world, to him, was just as full of golden promise as it had been twenty-five years before; in fact, more so; for at that time he had been forced to drink from the cup of dis- appointment and drink deeply. He found solace in Nature and gradually forgot that there had been a dull drab spot in his life. — — Tomorrow next week by the time snow flew, he would — "strike it" would find his El Dorado. Babe browsed near; the fire shot up in one thin little flame before settling into a cuddling bed of coals. "Time to turn in, Babe." He spread his blankets, heavy and warm, slid down between them and slept. Long before morning touched the mountain tops with her wand of gold and rose, the aroma of breakfast was perfuming the air. His hunger satisfied, the packs diamond-hitched again, and with the sweet briar pipe whistling gleefully, they set out to follow the newly cut trail. "Go 'long, Babe. Seems strange to see signs of life here. If I remember, there is a rocky shelf a bit higher and a little mesa with a spring and a dab of good soil. S'pose some lunger has come up here in hopes of cheating Death." Plodding along slowly, they rounded a rocky promontory, and there, perched on the ledge, just as the old man had guessed, stood a doll-sized cabin. It was built of shakes and a few sapling logs. At one end rose a mud chinked chimney of rocks. A small garden was showing its fresh greenery in the "dab of good soil," below the spring. As he was debating whether to advance or retreat, the door opened and, like a picture in a frame, stood the figure of a woman. Was it surprise or annoyance on her face? The man at his distance could not determine. The tension of the situation was broken by the appear- ance of a boy child. "That's him, mother. I told you I saw him last night." The shrill treble of the little voice carried the words distinctly.

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Taking the old flapping hat from his head, the man walked nearer. "Not meaning any intrusion, Lady. Babe and Bet and Barney and me have been going along the trail yonder, pretty regular for quite some years. Never run across any tracks but our own. When we stumbled on the new one last night, we just camped by the creek and took to it this morning, naturally wanting to see where it led. "I'm only a prospector on my way to a shack I built last season before I went to the desert. We'll be neighbors this summer if you will accept us. I'll not be more than half a mile from here." A shadow drifted across her brow. For an instant she hesi- tated as she gave him a long, searching glance. "I'm glad to see you," she spoke with quiet dignity and in soft accents. It made him think of summer winds at play among the whispering pines. "Our friends are few; only Mother Nature and the little people of the hills," she added. He turned to the child: "What's your name, little chap?" "Mother calls me Judie." "I'm coming back to see you when I get settled in my sum- mer camp, maybe you and I can be partners. I'm sure that I'll need a man about your size. My face may look old, but in here, Judie," and he touched his heart, "I'll always be a boy, and I thank God for it." A smile touched the corners of the woman's lips as she looked at her son. "Judie has known very few people in his five years. Since he was a tiny baby we have lived alone." Something like a sixth sense was working on this occa- sion, and it telegraphed to his consciousness that she was dis- trustful of him, so it was with a feeling of relief that he heard her say: "We will be glad to see you whenever you feel like coming our way Mr. , Mr. ?" "Call me Rat. That's the name that tumbled on to me nearly twenty years ago. It's so long since I've heard my own. I think that it would scare me. I'm known from the far end of the desert to Lily Peak as the Rat. Up here I'm the wood Rat, down there the desert Rat. Let me be just Rat to you and Judie." She extended her hand "Then to you we will be Judie and :

Judith of the Sierras." If the Rat had wanted any knowledge of her past, he was doomed to want in vain, for in the romantic west, a human's affairs are personal property. Long after the man and his three shaggv burros had turned

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to follow their own old trail, the woman and child sat on the rude steps and talked earnestly of the future; they were com- rades in every sense of the word.

Through the spring and summer, the Rat labored early and late, often finding traces of color, but no more. Up at day dawn, digging under a hot sun, uncovering virgin rock, he mused and planned, confiding to his favorite what he would do when his dreams came true. And almost every star-lit evening found him at their cabin. To them he spoke freely of the bonanza that might be uncov- ered the next day. "It's hidden somewhere, Judie; our golden secret, your's and mine," the old man would say. "Just think of the time when we strike it, little partner, and we sure will, I'll be blowed if we won't." "A secret is when something wonderful comes? Isn't it, Rat? That's what mother says it is." "Yes, Judie, to me a secret is some very good thing; it is a happy surprise sometimes." "Mother, will you ever have a happy surprise?" asked the boy. "I thought so once, Judie, but now I've about given up hope," and over his face fell a shadow of pain. Purpling tints were settling over the canyon, the tallest peaks were aflame with the benediction of the setting sun as the Rat gave one last strike with a hammer against a drill in the shaft of his prospect hole. He had found a trace of the most promising color. He felt a nervousness quite out of keeping with his usually calm, phil- osophical self. "Hate to quit," he muttered. "Seems as if I hear voices whispering and calling. I know it must be here, I'll be blowed if I don't. A few whacks with the pick in the morning and the tale will be told." He ate his frugal meal with unusual relish; his thoughts all centered upon the day to come; he put his arm around Babe's neck and softly spoke: "Tomorrow's going to be our big day, Babe. I feel it clear through into my innermost sonl, I'll be blowed if I don't." He slept, dreaming of the wondrous secret that he felt was near at hand. He ate a hasty breakfast, anticipation and expectation in every movement. For once he neglected to wash his pots and pans. He hurried down to the shaft and eagerly began his work. After the first half dozen strokes with his pick, he stopped to

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fire his pipe remarking: "It's here, sure. Now a good hard clip for the final blow." He raised the tool and with the strength of a Samson drove it home. As he wrenched it out, there fell at his feet, shining particles of gold. — A wilderness came into his eyes a whiteness shone through — the tan a trembling of his legs knocked his knees together. — — For a full minute he stood speechless quivering then a moan akin to pain floated out on the piney air. Reverently he uncovered his head. As he lifted his face heavenward, he said: "Twenty-five years, Lord, but I never once, not for an hour, lost faith in you, nor the mountains, nor the desert. It has been a long job, Lord, and I know that you've been with me on it all these summers and winters. I want to thank you for it. I thank you for myself and for my little part- ner, Judie." — With frenzied energy he rained blow after blow dislodg- — — ing breaking and crumbling the wall every instant his suc- cess became more apparent. His thoughts raced to his "child partner" and the mother. All summer they had shared his golden dreams. "It's here in gobs and chunks," he said aloud. "My beau- tiful golden secret, Judie's secret— the big pocket I've told him I was sure I'd find. Why did Fate squeeze the Joy out of m> life and deny me a son of my own?" He leaned his pick against the bank, filled his pocket with evidences of his find and started for the cabin on the ledge. He was swinging along with giant-like strides, trying to keep pace with his thoughts when he met Judie. "I was coming to find you, Rat," began the child. Mother wants you to come and see her secret." "Her secret, Judie?" The boy nodded, "But I must not tell," he said, as his slim little hand found a place in the work-hardened one. "And I was coming to tell you that I've found our golden secret, Judie. We are rich, little partner. It's to be fifty-fifty between us. You'll have gold to throw at the birds, Judie. I'll be blowed if you won't." Together they hurried on in silence, each filled with his own happiness. When they reached the point that commanded a view of the tiny dwelling, the Rat stopped abruptly, for he saw a tall man in a soldier's uniform standing on the steps with his arms around Judith. "That's mother's secret and my daddy," declared the boy. "Well, I'll be blowed," exclaimed the Rat.

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"I found him, mother," called the child. Judith came to meet them. "Rat," she said, "I want you to know Judie's father; we were separated by his wealthy par- ents a short time after our marriage. They threatened to dis- inherit him unless I gave up all claim to the name. I buried myself in the solitudes, my baby was born in the mountains. The war came, my husband enlisted, believing that I was dead. After his discharge, through the only friend with whom I kept in touch, he learned the truth. For more than five years I've been Judith of the Sierras, now I'm going back into the world wearing my own name, Alice Van Horn." "Van Horn?" gasped the old man. "Yes, my husband is Arthur Van Horn, of San Francisco." The Rat brushed his hand across his eyes. Turning to the tall soldier, he eagerly asked: "Was your mother Stella Gard- iner?" "Yes." Drawing himself up to his full height while his muscles straightened out like whipcords and the memory of a proud, fickle face floated across his mind's eye, he said: "Young fellow, more than twenty-five years ago, your mother jilted me for my older brother. I vowed then that I'd get even with them and now's my chance. Has she forgiven Judith?" "No, but that makes not the slightest difference to me; nothing can separate me from my wife and child." "Good." The Rat laid his hand affectionately on the young man's shoulder. "We'll snap our fingers in Stella Van Horn's face. I'll be blowed if we won't. Last night I struck an immense ledge of pure gold, one of Dame Fortune's choicest hiding places. I was on my way to tell my little partner here, of our wonderful golden secret, when he met me." Taking the child in his arms and lifting him until their eyes were on the same level, the Rat continued "The best thing :

for us, Judie, is to take your daddy in on this partnership deal; don't you think so?" The boy looked from one to the other, then solemnly ans- wered: "Yes, I'll be blowed if I don't." San Diego, Cala.

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Boy in the Picture of the Sacred Grove By George Ed. Anderson

[The Author, whose illustration of the Sacred Grove and ether pictures of scenes in the early history of the Latter-day Saints, are well-known and undoubtedly the most beautiful on the market, has sent the Era a com- munication relative to an incident which occurred while he was taking a photograph of the Sacred Grove, some years ago. He was at Palmyra, New York, making preparation to take some of the pictures and particularly the one of the Sacred Grove shown herewith, when a little boy, about 12 years of age had the conversation with him here recorded. The Sacred Grove has been the property of the Church for some years. How it came to be preserved is also set forth in a dialogue between Mr. Chapman; the care- taker, and Mr. Anderson, in this correspondence Editors.]

The little boy seen in the picture said: "Mr. Anderson, are you going down in the grove to take pictures?" I answered, "Yes." The boy asked, "Please, may I go with you?" The general recmest was answered by, "Yes; come along." As we walked down the lane together toward the grove, I said, "Why did you want to go with me?" "I wanted to show you the tree where they said Joseph Smith prayed. I thought you would like to make a picture of it!" "I certainly should; do you know where the tree is?" "Yes; I have it marked; I can take you right to it." We two entered the grove near the south-east corner, and the boy led the way a little to the north of the center of the grove, which, I should judge, contains about three acres, with the great- est length from north to south. Arriving in the grove a short distance, the boy said: "This is the tree." I walked around the tree and looked at it carefully. "You said you had marked the tree. How did you mark it? Did you cut your name in it? I can see no mark on the tree." "Here, I put this in place." It was the top of an old four-hole stove that he had placed at the base of the tree. "How did you come to mark it that way?" I asked. The boy answered: "You know when that company, the Utah company, who attended the dedication of the Joseph Smith Memorial in Vermont, December, 1905, on the one-hundredth an- niversary of the birth of the prophet went to Vermont and put

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up a monument where Joseph Smith was born? Well, on their way back to Utah they stopped here and came out into the grove. There was a large crowd of them. I followed them and they gathered around this tree. I stood right over there and watched. They sang a song about Joseph Smith's first prayer; something about him seeing the heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Then a man with a long beard prayed; and when they went away, I laid this stove-top here, so that I would know where the tree was." "I am glad you brought me here. The man you heard pray that day was President Joseph F. Smith. His father and Joseph, the prophet, were brothers, and were both martyred on the same day, [June 27, 1844] a long time ago. You told me you were 12 years old?" "Yes," answered the boy. "Well, when Joseph Smith, the prophet, knelt and prayed, and had that wonderful vision, he was 14 years old. Now I am going to make a picture of the grove, looking toward the house, and I would like to have you in the picture. So go out that way and I will tell you when to stop. That will remind us that Jo- seph Smith was a boy a little older than you, and a little larger." The figure of the boy is seen between the trees in my pic- ture. The following is a dialogue between myself and Mr. Avery T. Chapman, the caretaker of the grove, which took place at the time, in Palmyra "Mr. Chapman, I would like to speak with you about this farm. I do not understand how that grove has remained stand- ing all these years. You must have about 200 acres of land, all under cultivation except where the grove is located." Mr. C. "I can explain that. Years ago my father sent for :

me and wished me to come at once. I found father very sick. He said, 'I want to speak to you about the farm. I do not think I will live long, and the farm will go to you. I want you to take good care of the grove. I have never used an ax in the grove, except to remove dead timber. I think it should be preserved, for that is where Joseph Smith, the 'Mormon' prophet, had his first vision." Father died soon after this conversation, and I have done as he wished. I have never used an ax in the grove except to remove dead timber. I have now sold it to the Smith family of Utah, and they have employed me as caretaker. Their first instructions to me were to take good care of the grove, to keep it cleared of under-brush, so that it would not be destroyed by fire."

Wapiti Wrestles with the Weather By J. Cecil Alter, Meteorologist, United States W'eather Bureau

The elk herds of the Yellowstone region have been almost overwhelmed by another severe winter which began exception- ally early last October with unusually heavy snow and low tem- perature. Following a dry summer, in which little forage grew on Wapiti's winter ranges, and little fat grew on her own ribs, the starving cows have sunk down in the snow by scores, to rise only as the hide hunter strips them of their tawny robes. The United States Biological Survey, Forest Service, and Bureau of National Parks, and the state of Wyoming, have hurried hay to every herd within reach, and many ranchmen in the Gallatin, Yellowstone, Shoshone, Wind River, Green, Snake and other valleys which form a large share of the elk's winter grazing lands, have shared their hay that the proud but pathetic elk might live. But it was not enough for all the elk when they needed it most; it never is enough in a hard winter, and some animals, mostly the mothers of the herds-to-be, isolated from this feed- ing by human hands, fail in their fight with the weather. Nor is this all; the forthcoming thousands of calves that rise up from the brushy slopes in April, May and June to tug at the emaciated mothers for a share of life, according to the un- varying record of past severe winters, perish a little later from hunger as their need outgrows the convalescence of the mother. Thus the cry of the suffering elk has again penetrated to the ears of every true sportsman and every lover of the prim- itive things of the West, as it does in increasing seriousness with the coming of every rough winter. And thus the heart of the Nation, unwilling that the mountains shall be devastated of their wild life, as were the plains of their buffalo, by the ad- vancing frontier, has reached out again, with increasing seri- ousness, to save for posterity, these remnants of a vanishing host. About forty thousand elk add to the interest of the Yel- lowstone country, perhaps nineteen thousands migrating an- nually from the more northerly section of the Park over into the Gallatin and upper Yellowstone valleys from summer to winter; three thousand using the eastern edge of the Park and the Shoshone bottoms from summer to winter, and eighteen thou- sand ranging unmolested over the southern edge of the Park and chiefly through the National Forests of the Rocky Moun-