An Eye for an Eye

AN EYE FOR AN EYE By Ivy W. Stone It was Christmas Eve, but Eric Larson had lost all count of holidays. All day long he had faced drifting sleet, as the storm raced over the barren flats of Bone Dry Valley. All day long he had strained his eyes to follow the shifting trail. All day long the capricious flakes had crept down the collar of his sheepskin coat — had blinded his horse. And now, as the early twilight caught him on the last lap of his journey, Eric Larson had no thought of festivity. The lonely farm cabins which he passed brought no visicn or bulg: ^g stockings. None of the weighted cedars suggested ??per children, for Eric was bent on a mission of hate. As he urged his pony toward the faint light which marked the upper end of the valley, the enormity of his grievance increased. A stranger had "jumped" his homestead, and hate of that individual had cankered his soul during four watchful years. "Come on, Pershing, old boy," Eric coaxed his horse in a wheedling voice, as though urging a weary companion. He had given him freer reign, the road having disappeared in the shifting snowdrifts. "Ve bane dere soon. Dat von, lone light ve see is dat postoffice an' store." Patiently, stoically, as if his intense hate were animate, Eric guided his horse across the desolate valley. He looked with indifference at the dark farm houses, almost obliterated in the snow mist. He did not even glance at the stark windmills, which loomed like sentinels over the log huts. With a precision that showed knowledge of his surroundings, he kept parallel to the section fences, fantastic with drifted thistles and snowcaps. "You bane von gu' pony, Pershing," Eric patted his horse's' neck affectionately. "You bane my gu' friend. I gif you oats at dat store ; I gif you oats to eet, vhile I buy someding deeferent for dat man Adams dat steal my farm. Ven I vas a leetle shaffer an' vent to church," he urged the horse up the little knoll to the brightly lighted store, "ven I vas leetle, dat Bible say someting 'bout eyes fur eyes, an' teet fur teet. I try dat on dese man Adams ter night, eh, Pershing?" He laughed mockingly, swung his huge frame from the heaving horse, and strode into the low, log building. A bell on the door announced his entrance and a little, corpulent man, with round, bulging eyes and glistening head, turned reluctantly from an inner doorway. "Howdy, stranger, howdy," he greeted genially, his gaze sweep- ing Eric's great bulk with admiration. "Nasty night fur travelin'."

AN EYE FOR AN EYE 115 He rubbed his hands briskly together, as Eric removed his coat and shook its snowy trimmings over the sputtering stove. "Real Christmas weather, eh, stranger?" Eric's beetled brows drew together, and he looked suspiciously about the store. "I bane no stranger to dese parts," he answered, "yust bane takin' leetle wacation. Vhere's Meester Sims, vhat owns dese store?" The little man laughed joyously and rubbed his palms again. "That proves you are a stranger," he answered. "Mr Sims moved away two years ago. Rheumatics got the best of him. I bought him out — everything he had, store, dryfarm and all. My name's Wilson — Amos Wilson, from over Blue Ridge way. Now then, what'll it be Mr. ?" "Meester Stranger's gu' 'nough," Eric was sullen from sudden suspicion of this garrulous person. "All right, sir, anything to suit. What'll it be? Of course, I know beforehand the first thing on your list: Peanuts and candy!" He waved a scoop toward a huge sack, whose limp folds testified to many sales. "Funny, what folks do to make Christmas for their kids. Been comin' in here all day. There's a feller provin' up over on Rocky Flat, if you're familiar with these parts, you know how far that is, a good seven miles — " "Nigher eight dan seven." Eric's correction was only tinged with sociability. "Well, I never like to oversay things." The bald head glistened as he moved briskly about. "He drove clear over here in a lumber wagon today to get Christmas fixin's. And he went without his tobacco to buy a churn for his wife. How many pounds of peanuts did you say?" "I don't vant no peanuts." Eric's blue-black eyes glistened with slumbering anger. "I vant oats fur my pony. You gif him nose bag to eet vit, den I buy." While Mr. Wilson attended to Pershing, Eric took cognizance of his surroundings. The store and its stock seemed unchanged. Wash tubs rubbed noses with gasoline lamps; overalls and jumpers shared the solitary showcase with ribbons and handkerchiefs. Lanterns and laprobes, whips and boots hung from the ceiling. Save for one large doll, whose waxen smile reminded Eric of his almost forgotten youth, the whole stock represented the necessary, rugged equipment of pio- neering life. But woven in and out among the heterogeneous array were Christmas garlands, bright red festoons, lending an air of festivity to the jumbled, over-crowded store. From the adjoining room came the tinkle of a harsh piano — children's voices, shrill and uncertain singing: "Jesus once was a little child, A leet — le child like me — ee."

116 IMPROVEMENT ERA Silence. Vociferous applause. As Eric listened the hard lines of his face unconsciously relaxed. He remembered having heard other children, in a different tongue, sing a similar song — in the almost forgotten past. There had been a little sister who warbled songs of the Christ child. Eric blinked; rubbed his gnarled hand over his dripping, unkempt beard, and faced the storekeeper with a half smile. " 'Listin' in' I see," the little man was talking garrulously before the door was fairly closed. "That's the rage these days. Our school teacher's got a radio, and he hopes to pick up somethin' tonight if it ever quits snowin.' Good thing, too. Makes folks one big family, like. We're havin' a school program and Christmas tree in there. We cleared out our front room, 'cause the school house ain't central no longer. Step in and set a while, Mister, and hear the rest of 'em speak. My boy's got a piece — " Instantly Eric's face hardened. "I haf no time to set," he made answer with dark emphasis. He felt a sudden need to get away from the voice of singing children ere his purpose weakened. He had not known it was Christmas Eve. Ever since he had read the notice of final title being given to the man who had jumped his claim, he had traveled almost without rest to wreak his vengeance. "Just as you say," the little man had an annoying habit of repetition. He picked up the scoop again and asked genially, "Now then, how much candy, seein' you don't want peanuts. I ain't got much left in the way of presents," he rambled on, without waiting for Eric's reply. "Did have some little dolls and trains, but the only thing left is this big doll. I offered it at cost, but the folks out here ain't got much cash for trimmings." "Dey bane lucky to have cash fur flour," Eric chopped his words in hard, rasping tones. "Dere is only von gu' ranch in thees valley." "Right you are, sir," the storekeeper picked up his narrative and rambled on. "There were lots wanted that doll, but none could buy. If it ain't sold when the program's out, I'm ronna raffle it off. Ten cents a chance. Wanta buy it, Mister Stranger? Have you got a little girl with arms hungry for such a beauty?" He smoothed the golden curls and turned the waxen smile toward Eric. Eric turned his grey flanneled back upon the toy for which wistful eyes had hungered. The blue eyes were hauntingly like those of the little sister who had warbled Christmas carols. "I bane no Santa Claus," he said in gruff tones. "Put evay dat peanut measure an' gif me matchees, sex boxes. Fex 'em gu', so dey don't git vet. Fill dese canteen wit gasoleen, an' dese oder von vit coaloil. An' move your laigs — not dat mouf." His attitude more than his words seemed ominous. He glared defiantly over the counter until the little storekeeper backed away from the threatening face.

AN EYE FOR AN EYE 117 "Certainly, certainly," he hastened to make conversation. "Ne- cessity before luxury, always. Every family in the whole valley is in there exceptin' Tom Adams from Cedar Hill. He owns that one good ranch you spoke 'bout." "He tink he own dat farm?" Eric's voice was charged with de- rision. "You tink he's dig dat well? You tink he's beeld dat house?" "I'm worried 'bout him — been poorly fur quite a spell." The storekeeper was rubbing his hands again. "Any chance of your goin' past Adams' house? I oughter send him some things, if your horse ain't too loaded. There ain't been no folks goin' his way for eight or nine days now. Roads mighty bad fur traveling. He's got a kid, too — " Eric leaned far over the counter. The deep set eyes glared with the first taste of revenge. "I bane goin' to dat house vhere Adams live," his voice was pregnant with hidden intent. "I take him Chreest- mus present. Fine present fur man like him. Haf of it's in dem canteens; oder haf's dynamite. Six nice, long steeks, vit fuse an' caps, fur hes shimney stockin'. You go git dat dynamite — quick." The round eyes of the diminutive man grew rounder. He scanned Eric's huge frame searchingly. "How — you — joke," he stammered. "Adams needs medicine. It came in the mail today. I don't carry dynamite," he backed toward the communicating door, which had been softly closed. Eric extended a detaining hand, grinning diabolically, as he watched the fear in his captive's eyes. "Not dat door, partner," his tones were banal. "Dat dynamite, you keep him outside. Ven you buy dese store from ole man Sims, you git dynamite too. He keep it plenty, to blast dat cedar tree. Dat leetle house, back of dese store. Leaf the kids singin' an' you come vit me." He forcibly guided the rotund storekeeper outside, round the store to the miniature arsenal. "I fix him gu' — six steeks make von big blowup," Eric did not loosen his grip upon the storekeeper's shoulder. "I dig dat veil — / clear dat farm — / beeld dat house!" "You, Eric Larson?" The words were a combination of fear and admiration. Eric grunted affirmatively, hurrying their gait. "I beeld dat house, I blow 'em up!" "Man alive, you wouldn't do that?" The storekeeper attempted persuasion as he fumbled with the lock. "It's his anyway. You was gone too long, and he got final paper 'bout two weeks ago." "I vait four year fur him git dem papers," Eric's eyes glistened with fervid hate. "Now he vill understand vhat it mean to lose his home. He love it too. Same I love it, vhen I make it." "He's sick abed," the final plea for leniency came as the door swung inward on creaking hinges.

118 IMPROVEMENT ERA "I make him seeker. Dat dynamite is in a tin box, tird shelf, close to dat vail. Dat cap is in a leedle box oder side." Eric ex- tended an impatient hand for his precarious merchandise, but the storekeeper demurred. "Come back to the store," he suggested. "No use arguing with set men like you. Have to let 'em have their own way. But I'll wrap the sticks up for you, like I did the matches." Eric looming above him like a huge mastiff, peered into his eyes in the semi-darkness. "No peenut stuff? Nur song-singin'?" he questioned threat- eningly. "Eric Larson take no foolin;" he added by way of addi- tional persuasion. "On the square," the storekeeper had a new firmness in his voice. "I've heard tell of you. Folks around here never get tired of tellin' how you worked on your farm. Too bad you got tired and quit provin' up," he finished, as they entered the store. "I no git tired," 'Eric's sudden answer flamed self-defense. "I yust stay leetle too long trappin'." "Too bad, too bad, but Adams is there now." He pulled long strips of paper from the roller, and added, "law is law, these days." "Law bane law, an' teet bane teet, an' eyes bane eyes," Eric watched the little man as he made a great ado about wrapping the sticks and caps. He moved his hands in and out of voluminous folds of paper until Eric became impatient. "Dat paper is 'nough," he ordered. And, with a significant motion toward his right-hand pocket, he added, "Von't be healthy fur you to send any of dem song-singin' kids up dat vay ter night." He paid liberally for his purchases and stalked into the night. As he crossed the remainder of the valley, whose upper end was crowned by Cedar Hill, Eric carefully noted the old familiar landmarks. The storm had abated and the moon struggled for ascendency over lingering clouds. A pale light hung over the silent valley, beautifying otherwise unlovely objects. Two pitifully small haystacks hove in sight, setting under a broken windmill. "Dat Tim Barlow kud come to my Chreestmas fire an' git plenty to make dat gu" muttered Eric, laughing at his own wit. "You keep dat pace, Pershing, ve bane most dere. I tink you have plenty time to git your vind, 'fore ve leave dese valley tru dat pass." Having reached the summit of the hill, he stopped his horse and slowly surveyed his former homestead. Even in its winter covering the little spot reflected the care and toil which he had lavished upon it. He gazed at the orchard, black and fantastic in the penetrating silence. He had wrapped each sapling with straw and burlap — had enclosed the whole with rabbit proof fence. His eyes traveled on to the pump house and windmill. Well he remembered the weeks he had dug in the open hole, the thrill he felt

AN EYE FOR AN EYE 119 when he "struck" wet gravel. He looked at the wide, even stretch of open fields. His hands tightened on the pommel of his saddle, as if he were again tugging at the stubborn sage as he cleared the virgin soil. Then his gaze moved on to the substantial log house. He had hewn every one of its logs in the black mountains which bound the valley. He had snaked the logs, alone, save for the aid of Pershing. A lone light gleamed from a window. As he sensed its message of occupation by another, Eric's face contracted with conflicting emo- tions. Love for the old home, freshly awakened, hate for the usurper, struggled for supremacy. He rose in the stirrups, waving a long arm over the landscape, as if in benediction. "Mine!" he muttered chokingly. "Ef dat Adams tink he have my house I show him. Pershing, ve blow him up." He hitched the horse in a safe place and, carrying his missives of destruction carefully under one arm, stepped through the unbroken snow. He stopped to stroke a cow that mooed plaintively from the open shed. With keen eyes he noted there was no hay in the manger, no stack in the yard. But he unfalteringly directed his steps toward the one lighted window of the house. With unflinching purpose he rapped loudly upon the door with his foot, his free hand being "handy" to his hip pocket. The door opened so suddenly that Eric lost his hold upon his pocket Colt. No claim-jumping sneak stood before him. A little girl, eager eyed, flaxen haired, smilingly expectant, motioned him to enter. "Come in, Santa Claus;" his welcome was evident. "I thought you'd be late. Come on in," she urged, as Eric stood motionless. "You have to use the door," she explained patiently, "the chimney's too small. You have to hurry, 'cause the wood is all gone, and the house will get cold." She took Eric by the free hand and led him in. "Mama said you wouldn't come this year, but / knew! Please Santa, let me open that one bundle, I know you have others in your sleigh." She reached eagerly for the package which Eric held firmly from her grasp. "Vhere's your pa?" he demanded, pushing her roughly aside. In answer, an inner door opened and a woman, young in figure, but with the age of lost hope upon her features, faced him inquiringly. Eric refused to see the look of hope which sprang into her eyes as she saw his package. He refused to feel the child tugging at his arm; refused to heed her prattle. "Oh," cried the woman, impulsively clasping her hands over her breast, "Oh, you are Heaven sent. Have you brought medicine and food?" "I vant to see dat man vat live in dese house," Eric thundered, feeling his purpose weaken in this welcoming atmosphere.

120 IMPROVEMENT ERA The woman, chilled by his attitude, stepped aside and motioned him toward the darkened room. But the child jumped forward, her- alding his entrance. "Daddy, he's come!" Her voice, shrill with excitement, broke the ominous silence. "I'm glad I hung the stockings in here. He's got a bundle — it's big. I hope he brought candy — " with sudden mem- ory her voice altered. "I hope its medicine and things to make you well. Tell him, Daddy, that Mama swept the snow off to get chips to keep you warm." Breathless she paused, her expectant eyes glued on the stoical face of the dark-visaged man who loomed behind her. "Sir, if you have brought relief, I beg you to hurry. There is no time to lose." Mrs. Adams, eloquent in her pleading, cast an apprehensive glance at the bed. "How tall you are, Santa." Again the child tugged at the bundle which Eric closely guarded. "Let me feel if it's raisins or nuts." Eric yearned to gag the chattering child. He wished the woman would take her beseeching eyes from his face. Then at the child's urging, the man in the bed turned listlessly toward his visitor. "You are welcome, sir," he began. "We can offer you lodging, but no food. The child is over eager." As his eyes traveled up the enormous frame of his visitor and rested upon Eric's face, the voice failed. He had seen Eric Larson once. Four years before he had been pointed out to him as a man who never forgets. "Well, Mister Santa," the invalid continued in an altered tone and with a forced smile, "you have — returned — at last. We hoped you would come." "Daddy," the child tugged at her father's arm, "tell him I prayed he would come." "We have lived upon milk four days, and there is no more hay." Mrs. Adams' even tones struck into the heart of the vengeful Eric. With an effort, Tom Adams raised himself upon an elbow. "Show us your bundle, Santa, we will exchange — gifts. Louise, get the deed — " He started to cough. The woman darted forward, supporting him until the paroxysm passed. Instinctively she reached to the little table, where empty vials seemed to mock her. Then she produced a legal envelope from a trunk and silently handed it to Eric. "The last chicken is gone," wailed the child disconsolately. "I want candy and nuts and raisins and wood." How the child prattled! She babbled more than the storekeeper. She had learned her part well. And the searching eyes of the mother — the sick man who made no defence — no excuse — Eric pulled himself together. He would not relent. Tom Adams had earned punishment. He had made no inquiry if Eric were sick when he took advantage of his absence. It was not to be foiled at the crucial moment that Eric had nursed hate throughout four years; had

AN EYE FOR AN EYE 121 traveled through storm and sleet. He would have his revenge, sweeter than he had dreamed. To leave his victim helpless, as well as home- less! In the long ago, back in the homeland by the sea, Eric's blue- eyed sister had prayed to the Christ child for Christmas gifts. How this child prattled and tugged at his arm! "I have come," in slow, metallic tones he delivered his message, "'to git eye fur eye." "Mama," impatiently the child tugged at her mother's dress, "what a queer Santa, he won't talk to me! Tell him we need — oh, Daddy, Santa, what is in that bundle?" "I don't blame you one bit," in faultless but halting speech Tom Adams made answer to Eric's ultimatum. "I didn't know then — what — what — a home meant. Had always rented. You loved this place — built the house — " "It take von year to make dese house gu'.and warm," the voice was still unrelenting. "Well," the sick man reached for the envelope and drew out a folded document, "it will be yours again. I won't need it — much longer. We made a deed to you — if I live to reach a notary, its yours. But there is no medicine, and I — can't hang on much — longer." He thrust the paper into Eric's free hand and sank ex- hausted upon the pillows. Something in the soul of Eric Larson, trapper, hunter, farmer, seemed to bend, weaken, snap. His little sister used to tug at his hand in that same manner, in the long ago. Here, where he had been prepared for resistance, the quiet resignation of ownership un- nerved him. He could blow up the windmill. He would dynamite the house — he could the child, she was talking again! "Santa," the plea came with the assurance of the child who has never known disillusion, "please only a handful of nuts." She tug- ged persistently at the bundle. Eric's eyes blurred. The room swam before his befogged vision. In fancy he saw the arms of the windmill loaded with waxen dolls. His better self struggled for ascendency against the coddled hate of four years. The little sister used to put her wooden shoes by the door on Christmas Eve. She had never known disappointment. She had always believed. There had always been stacks of firewood in those old days. This woman had gathered chips — only milk for four days — the little storekeeper with his peanuts — the singing chil- dren— the voluntary deed — all combined to defeat his purpose. He felt dizzy. He must be sick. The paper, with its message of destruction, rustled in his trem- bling hand. The labored breathing of the sick man seemed like the humming of distant wings. His arm relaxed its tense hold upon his bundle while Eric, bewildered, stared at the man who had voluntarily sought to return the usurped farm.

122 IMPROVEMENT ERA The child twisted the bundle from his grasp — still he paid no heed. The noise of the rustling paper roused him to action. The voice of the child sounded far off — from the old homeland by the sea. "There's so much paper Mama," she complained. "But there's something inside, too. A bottle, two bottles, they click — " With a little cry the woman rushed to the child's side. "The medicine!" she cried, and the look of hope returned to her face, bring- ing with it youth and courage. "Medicine, Tom!" she echoed, hold- ing the bottles before the flickering light for reassurance. "There's something else, too," continued the child. "It don't feel like raisins or nuts — it's hard." The light flickered and sput- ered, and Eric saw that the coal oil was exhausted. He leaned over and re-rolled the inner bundle in its great mass of paper. Then almost reverently, he laid the deed beside the new medicine bottles. "Dat's all, dese time, leetle Hulda," he muttered huskily. The little sister had been named Hulda. "Ve git more 'bout midnight. Come out to dat pony," he ordered, glad of the chance for action, "an' git dat coal oil fur your Ma to feed dat lamp. Den you set it in dat vindow, so Santa Claus see vat he do vhen he come back." The moon had conquered all lingering clouds, and a clear, white beauty wrapped the earth in silence. The figure of a child, bending to the weight of a heavy canteen, trudged toward the dark house. A tall, huge man turned his horse's head towards the valley and the store. "Ours!" he muttered, waving a long arm over the farm, as if in benediction. "Smart leetle storekeeper. He tink he bane smart, Pershing, meexin' dem bottles vit dat dynamite. Ve let him go fur dat, but ef he have sold dat doll 'fore ve git dere, he find out what eyes fur eyes manes to von big Eric!" Ogden, Utah. Thoughts "Practical religion makes one's self, one's better self." "The world treats you just as you treat it; try to treat it right." "We make our own heaven, it consists in our perspective of life." "He who lives an upright life, simply because he is commanded to, and not because of the joy there is in it, does not live, he merely puts on a sham." "God, besides being our spiritual Father, acts as a Father to lead us to the higher and better things of life. Because of his experiences he has found what type of life will give the greatest amount of lasting joy. His plan for getting the most of joy out of life is given to us in the gospel of Jesus Christ." — Webster Tucker

All Hail the Christmas Tide All hail, the blessed Christmas tide, The best of all the year, The time when every heart is touched With love for those most dear; The time when envy, care and strife Are laid away to rest, While stories of the Christ child's life Are those we love the best. For lo, the sky with brightness shone, And shepherds from afar Heard angel voices sweet and clear And saw that brilliant star Throughout that midnight stillness then, They heard this sweet refrain: "All glory be to God on high, And peace, good will to men." The shepherds left their flocks that night To seek the Christ, divine. The wise men, too, made haste to come From distant land and clime. They followed far that wondrous star, Until they found the place, And lo, instead of kingly courts 'Twas but a baby's face There in a manger sweet and clean The little Christ child lay, While round his baby head there gleamed A bright and heavenly ray. They knelt beside the manger there, And praised their God above. And gifts that they had brought afar They gave to show their love. These worthy men knelt silently And worshiped Christ their King, For to their noble, trusting hearts True comfort did he bring. Just so, we all give thanks to God For that first Christmas day, And for the little Christ-child gift Who in a manger lay.

124 IMPROVEMENT ERA His life was one of sacrifice, And one of noble use; He suffered long upon the cross, The bands of death to loose; He taught the need of love and peace That all men might be free; He suffered grief and pain for us, He died on Calvary. And so, each season we should keep That Christmas spirit bright, And think of that first Christmas day And that first Christmas night. And naught but love should fill our hearts, All earthly strife should cease, And with the world and with our God, Our hearts should be at peace. The nations, which for ages past Have fought for selfish gain, If they would follow Christ their King Must stay such death and pain. The noise of mighty guns must cease, The sword be used no more, The battleships on every sea Would ne'er be needed more, The mighty minds who, in the past, Have learned the arts of war Would turn their efforts then for good And peace forever more. And then, in every heart would swell That sweet refrain of love And peace, good will to all the world, And praise to God above; And then each heart would understand What that first Christmas meant, And why the Father, through his love His Son to earth he sent. The Christmas spirit then would fill Each loving heart so true, And usher in that glorious day When Christ will reign anew. Mesa, Arizona. IDA R. ALLDREDGE.

WHICH SHALL IT BE? By Agnes Just Reid Molly Kent slipped off her kitchen apron and hung it method- ically on the nail, as she had done for more than twenty years, at that hour of the evening, then she went to her son's room to pay him the usual visit before she went to bed. Rollo was reading, but put his book aside as he heard her step. "Well, what are you reading tonight, my boy?" she inquired as she seated herself rather wearily on the side of his bed. "Emerson. I found an old set of his essays up in the attic and I'm beginning to catch the drift of the old boy. They tried to shove him down my throat the second year at High, but I thought he was all high brow, then, now he seems like quite a decent chap. And, by the way, Mother, I see by the date that you were so thoughtful to put in all of your books, that you acquired this set when you were only about fifteen; you must have been a lot smarter than your illustrious son, for he finds Emerson pretty hard at twenty." Molly looked down at her work-scarred hands a moment before she answered: "Yes, I was considered smart, everyone said that I would attain great heights, but I gave it up to become the wife of a farmer, and that brings me to what I wanted to say tonight: Promise me, Rollo, that you will yield to my wishes and go to college this fall." The boy's lips tightened, but he looked into his mother's face with the candor that had been his from babyhood and said kindly: "No, Mother, I am not going to college. I've thought about it a lot, and I'd like to do the thing that would please you most, but I cannot. I've decided that if anybody goes to college from this house, it will be you." "Me? Why my chances of college were over twenty years ago; that is the reason I am so eager to pass on to you what was denied me. That is the way of life; it is such a short span that our children, and sometimes our grandchildren, have to finish the tasks that we began." "But, Mother, I've heard you say many times that you were going back some day to finish the work you gave up to marry Dad. Of course, I think the day you married him was the luckiest day in your life and mine, too, but I want to reward you by giving back to you the gift you sacrificed. Why should I take college when I do not want it and you go on longing and grieving because you never had it?" "But, sonny boy, your life is before you. I am facing the sunset." "Yes, that is just it, dear heart, you are facing the sunset. You're not as able to carry your load as you were ten years back, neither's

126 IMPROVEMENT ERA Dad. Don't you see the gray coming around his ears? Look at the Peterson family. All of them away at school and old father Peterson getting more stooped and discouraged every minute. Do you think I want to came home from college with a degree and find my father looking like that? Why just the other day he told me I was getting to handle horses as well as he does himself. I've been trying to do that for about fifteen years, and if I can do it, it is a, sign I am some help to him and I'm going to stay." The tears were raining quietly into Molly Kent's lap. She was proud of the boy's spirit, but she was not convinced. "You are a good horseman, Rollo, I don't believe even the horses can tell you and Daddy apart, but we are passing out of the age of horses, you must know about engines. You'll possibly have a flying machine for your very own and you must find out about those things in school." "Mother, I'll find out about those things from father, too, if you'll just let me stay around close to him. Do you know that last winter the extension division of our state university was putting on a show at Kane City; he and I dropped in one afternoon and found in attendance all of the mechanics and garage men for miles around. The man from the U was expounding loudly on the ills of gas en- gines, and telling how to cure them, and Daddy knew everything he told us and could have answered every question he asked except the chemical term for water. He had not been to college, so he had always called water, just water, instead of H-O." "Oh, Rollo, I just cannot let you give it up. Your arguments are good, but all of the worthwhile things are being done by college men. You are such a perfect physical specimen, I want to see your brain match your body. Please think of it a while and try and reconsider." "Oh, my Mollie Mother, how I'd like to please you always, but look around you and see if you'd like me to be like the other college boys of our acquaintance. Harry and Pete Saxon were fine fellows two years ago, now they do nothing but run the family car around, smoke cigarettes and look for a place where 'moon' is sold. I don't say that college did it, but that is all they have to show for two years of life and a pile of money." "But you would not do those things, even if you did go to college, son of mine." "I am not so sure of it. Tie all of this energy of mine up for nine whole months and I might do anything. You know the Indians used to go on the war path when they were confined too closely. I feel as if I'd be about ready to rob a bank, if I had to be shut up that long." "That is just why they have college athletics, to take care of that surplus energy. You'd be a wonderful football player."

WHICH SHALL IT BE? 127 "College athletics, yes! Not for your little son. It has always been a puzzle to me why so much youthful energy and sometimes youthful lives have to be sacrificed to sport, while my dad's back is breaking shoveling ditches to run water in, so that we can raise wheat and spuds to feed the hungry; and Uncle John, over there in Wyo- ming, heaves coal out of a dark hole to keep us warm. No, Mother, no college athletics for your little Rollo." "But don't you remember you used to say that you would some- day go to the legislature or even to Congress and help to make better laws than we have now. The best education you can get will be none too good for that. Oh, don't let your ambitions die!" "Never you worry, Mother, my ambitions are not going to die. I am going to the legislature some of these days, and I don't want any college diploma hanging to me when I go. I am going as a friend of my father and other boys' fathers who are going to their graves because of the terrible burden of this educational system. I read the other day that 75 per cent of our taxes go to our schools. The taxes that are putting the gray into daddy's hair before it is due, go to support the institutions where they play football, and smoke cigarettes. You go to college, like a good girl, Mother. You are old enough to get all the good and none of the bad, but as for me, I'll stay on the farm and raise food for the hungry, and fight out this inequality of the tax burden." Mollie looked at his glowing face and wondered if, after all, he was not right. Could college give him anything better than he already had, and might it possibly be that it would take some of it away? She kissed him good night, defeated but not unhappy, because her baby had become a man, a man that she was likely to be proud of someday. Shelley, Idaho. God's Garden There's a bit of God's own garden, Out among the Western hills; When echoes ring the ledges fling Their dying notes o'er rocks and rills. Pine trees stand serene and grand — A harp of softly-chorded strings; Where Nature plays entrancing lays, Like sound of far-flown silver wings. There's the spell of God's own breathing Felt amid the forest's shade; His soul instils exalting thrills, And lies in every sylvan glade. Nature charms, with gentle arms Entwined with light and fond caresses; And on the breeze waft melodies, Like fainly luring wind-blown tresses. Huntington, Utah. LAMONT JOHNSON.

"WE ARE SEVEN" [At the request of the editors of the Era, we have received from Elder Junius F. Wells, this semi-humorous sketch given at the annual celebration or family reunion, of the Wells Family, in honor of the 110th aniversary of the staunch Churchman, Daniel H. Wells, whose splendid service for the Church, in Pioneer days in Utah and in early days in Nauvoo, are well known to the Latter-day Saints. Rulon S. Wells, a son of Daniel H. Wells, is eminent in Church service, having labored faithfully many years a member of the First Council of Seventy. He has visited many times every division of the Church from Mexico to Canada, and from California to the East and filled missions at home and abroad. Our people will be interested in his sketch, "We Are Seven." — EDITORS.] At your request and with the consent of my brother Rulon, I am pleased to supply a copy for publication of his number on the program of exercises rendered at the Wells Family reunion, October 27, 1924, in honor of the 1 1 0th anniversary of the birth of Daniel H. Wells, founder of the family. The chairman of the celebration stated, "The next number on the program is 'We Are Seven,' by Rulon S. Wells," who responded as follows: I don't know exactly just what I am to do in regard to this number on the program but I presume I shall be expected to recite the beautiful little poem beginning: "There was a little cottage girl, She was eight years old she said." But that is all I can remember of it. However, I learned, when I began the study of the German language, that this poem had been taken from the German, and was written by Frederick Von Schiller. I remember his poem better, because I had to work harder to learn it, so I will recite it: "Es sass bei bunten Blumen auf einem Grab ein Kind, In seinen Locken spielte der frische Morgenwind. Ihm gluhten frisch die Wangen, wie Kirschen in dem Mai Und seine Augen strahlten wie Sterne klar und frei. "Nicht blickt der Fink so helle der in den Zweigen singt So frohlich die Gazelle die auf dem Walde springt 'Ei sag! Wie viel Geschwister, seid ihr mein liebes Kind' Das Kind sprach freundlich: 'Sieben in Allem unser sind'." Perhaps this was not what was anticipated when I was put on the program for "We Are Seven," but there is a mystery about the number seven. I read in the scriptures of the 7 days of creation; of the hosts of Joshua marching 7 times around the walls of Jericho

"WE ARE SEVEN" 129 before they fell; of the man who was healed of his malady by being baptized 7 times in the River Jordan; of the 7 years of plenty, and the 7 years of famine; the 7 devils that were cast out of Mary Mag- dalene; the 7 churches of Asia to whom was addressed the Apocalypse, and so on. I do not think that this is what you want me to talk about, but inasmuch as my brother Junius -and I have recently arrived at our three score years and ten, the allotted age of man, and inasmuch as my older brother (and he is older than I, he looks it) has finally succeeded in having our anniversaries celebrated, even though we did have to encroach upon father's birthday, I am thinking that perhaps it is intended I should tell you something of my personal history and therefore I take the liberty of submitting to you the following bio- graphical sketch: I was born on the 7th day of the 7th month, 7 years after the arrival of the pioneers in Salt Lake Valley. I am my father's seventh child. My mother had 7 children. I have had 7 children. At 1x7 I moved from my birthplace to the home on Main street. At 2x7 I was ordained an elder and received my endowments. At 3x7 I was ordained a seventy and sent to the Swiss and German mission. At 4x7 I married a girl from the 7th ward, after working like Jacob for his Rachel another 7 years before getting her. At 6x7 I went on my second mission to Europe, presiding over the European mission which includes 7 missions: British, Scandinavian, Swedish, Swiss, German, Netherlands, Turkish. Returning home from my first mission I landed in New York on the 7th day of the 7th month, 1877, being the second time I landed in America on July 7. Then I served 7 years on a home mission. Then I served 7 years in Sunday school. I was then chosen as one of the First 7 Presidents of 70. I am now 10x7 or 70 years young. I supposed, in the above, that Rulon had exhausted seven and its multiples as applied to himself until I reviewed, the family genealogical record when I discovered that in the direct lineage from Governor Thomas Wells, the first American progenitor (1636-1660), Rulon is number 49 — seven times seven. — Junius F. Wells. Welles — Wells. The origin of the De Welles of Lincolnshire, England, barons by summons to Parliament, was of the house of Vaux, of the ancient Province of Neustria, France, one of the most illusarious families known to history. The derivation is traced A. D. 794, from which time they held a position of the highest rank and were allied by marriage with most of the sovereign families of Europe. Jocelyn Welles was a close friend and companion, as well as kin to William the Conqueror with whom he came to England, and took part in the Battle of Hastings. From him was descended Hugo de Welles b. 1181, Bishop of Lincoln and Lord Chancellor of England. He was a chief of the barons and was instrumental in ob

130 IMPROVEMENT ERA taining from King John at Runnymeade, 1215, the "Magna Charta," the bulwark of English liberty, the famous document having been written in his own hand. His name and that of his brother Jocelyn de Welles, Bishop of Bath, are mentioned in the Charter and their seals appear on it. Harold de Vaux, Lord of Vaux in Normandy, having conferred his seigonry upon the Abbey of the Holy Trinity founded at Caen by Matilda, the wife of William the Conqueror, came into England and settled in Cumberland County about the year 1120. Robert de Vallibus, a lineal descendant of Hubert de Vallibus. the eldest son of Harold de Vallibus. is des- ignated in English records, Robert de Welles. His descendants afterwards appear as Lords de Welles of Reyne Hall. Essex. One of these. Lord John Welles, married 1487 Cecelia Plantagenet, daughter of Edward IV., of England. The American family descends through Robert, whose grandson William had four sons, Robert de Dalston, baron; Adam and William de Welles of Lincolnshire, 1194; and Oliver de Vallibus, Prior of Pentney Abbey. William Welles thus became the founder of that long line of noblemen of Lincolnshire whose history is given in full by Dugdale in his standard work on "Baronage in England." Bisbop Hugo de Welles, advanced to the See of Lincoln as Arch-Deacon and Lord Chancellor of the Realm, became one of the most influential and powerful men of his rime in England. Governor Thomas Welles, or Wells, an immigrant ancestor and the first American progenitor of this numerous family, was born in Essex, England, and came to New England 163 6. Strength of Desire If I could paint the glory of the sunset With its flaming, scarlet banners and its gold; If I could paint the splendor of the purple, And the grey and mauve and violet, fold on fold; If I could shade the canvas blue and silver, Blend jades and amber where there once was murk, And help one soul to revel in its beauty — The world would be the richer for my work. I fain would fill the air with joyous music. But I have not the gift to sing sweet songs; If I could write the books or preach the sermons That would rectify mistakes and right the wrongs; If I could give the cheer, the hope, the comfort, To heart discouraged with the weight of strife. And help someone to realize God's goodness — The world would be the fuller for my life. If I can just appreciate the friendship Of those whose lot is cast with mine on earth; And strive to render willing, helpful service To those whose love I cherish for their worth ; If I can give sincerest adoration To God who reigns in holiness above, Show gratitude to Him who gives the glory The world wil be the better for my love. Magrath, Alta, Canada. MAUDE B. RASMUSSEN.