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University of California Berkeley



Overland

Monthly



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JULY I9OI



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ESTABLISHED 1868.



Overland Monthly



AN ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF THE WEST.



Vol. XXXVIII. Second Series.



JULY DECEMBER



1900.




FREDERICK MARRIOTT, Publisher, 5J Kearny Street, S. F.



INDEX.



About Santa Barbara County Illustrated. By C. M. Gidney 157

Alkalai Plains Poem. By Amy Dudley 312

American View of the Strike, An A Protest. By Henry E. Highton . . . . 346

And Yet Poem. By Juliette Estelle Mathis..364

As a Little Child Story. By Helen E. Richardson. .. .26?

At Home in the High Sierras 111. By H. Rushton Fairclough 433

Banyan Tree at Avalon, The Poem. By Benjamin F. Field 305

Beno Slim Story. By George D. Abbott 306

Biologist's Quest, The Story. By John M. Oskison 52

Broken Strings Poem. By E. R. Wynne 57

Building of Ships at the Navy Yard Illustrated. By Geo. C. Campbell, Jr. 465

Canadian Boatman, The Pearllita C. Stadelmen 114

Chinese Question, The Illustrated. By Ho Yow 249

Christmas Roses Illustrated. By Martin Curtis 411

Colonial Experiment, A Illustrated. By J. F. Rose-Soley. . . . 173

Constitution and the Territories, The. . . .By N. P. Chipman 289

Corn People, The Illustrated. By Cromwell Galpin. . . .218

Cupid's Diary Poem. By E. Scott O'Connor 194

Current Books Grace Luce Irwin. .62-105-233-314-371-405

Dave's Letter Story. By Charles Udell 207

Days of Gold, The Story. By Jessie T. Aitken 285

Double Stroke, A Story. By Wilmetta Curtis 332

Dreamer's Lay, A Poem. By Chester Firkins 432

El Dia de Todos Santos Illustrated. By L. M. Terry 199

En Rapport Poem. By Margaret Schenk 44

Final Tribute, The 111. By James F. J. Archibald 365

Finders Keepers Story. By Robert B. Grant 430

Florence Roberts as Nell Gwynne , Frontispiece

For Gold Poem. Illustrated. By Walter Shea. 112

Free Trader, The Illustrated. Story. By A. J. Brown . . 182

From San Francisco to Monterey Illustrated 173

Greenhorn's Luck, A Story. By Alice J. Stephens 215

Gulf Between Poem. By W. W. Battles -..417

"Heathen" 111. Story. Agnes Louise Provost. ... 32

Hidden Chord, The Story. By Cecil Marrack .457

Hike, The Poem. By Robert V. Carr 148

Ho Yow Frontispiece

In the Days of the Padres 111. Story. By Harry R. P. Forbes. . 58

Incapable, The Poem. Elwyn Hoffman 331

In Fog Time Poem. By Eloise Davis 444

N



Index.

Iron-Shod Woman, The 111. Story. By Mrs. L. M. Terry 107

Johnson's Regeneration A Soldier Sketch. Robert V. Carr.,147

Joseph Le Conte Sonnet. By Wallace Irwin 149

Kern City and the Kern River Oil District 65

Labor Organizations .By Charles A. Murdock 119

La Fiesta Dance 111. Poem. By J. Torrey Connor.. 50

Lanty Foster's Mistake 111. Story. By Bret Harte 399

Late Dusk in the Golden Gate Poem. By Theodore Gontz 18

Laugh of Fate, The 111. Story. By Leavenworth McNab.445

Law of the Medes and Persians, The.. Story. By C. Bryan Taylor 45

Liolah Story. By Clyde Scott Chase 138

Little Wolf Story.- By John G. Neihardt 461

Man From St. Just, The Story. By Ernest Atkins 195

Manila's Day of Civil Government 111. By Oliver Leslie Lawrence. .. .426

Man with the Cap, The 111. Story. By Sol. N. Sheridan 278

Meadow Lark, The Poem. By Ernest McGaffey 209

Matter of Opinion, A 231-313-403

Maneuvres of the California Guard 111. By James F. *J. Archibald 125

National Guard and Its Value 111. Col. Thomas Wilhelm, U. S. A... 496

Natives of Alaska, The .111. By Jane Woodworth Bruner. . . .338

Nell Gwynne 111. By Clara Bewick Colby 321

No Man's Ranch 111. By William McLeod Raine 210

Nostalgia Poem. By Robert V. Carr 410

On the Firing Line Story. By George S. Evans 309

Our Legion of Honor 111. By James F. J. Archibald 19

' Pablo Gutierrez and the "Americanos". . 111. Story. By Mary Harding 259

Pago-Pago Harbor Frontispiece

Piedmont Springs 111. By Carlotta L. Sessions

Portrait of Bret Harte Frontispiece

Portrait of Miss P Frontispiece

Rebellion in Photography 111. By Dr. Arnold Genthe 93

Recollections of Lincoln and Seward. . . .James Matlack Scovel 265

Recompense Poem. By T. R. E. Mclnnes 357

Rooms to Let 111. Story. By Mary C. Ringwalt. . . 143

_San Antonio, Texas, City of Parks 111. By Vintoa S. James 239

San Francisco Diplomatic Corps II. By W. J. Weymouth 272

San Rafael and San Anselmo 111. By Carlotta Reynal 373

Shoalhaven River Tragedy, The 111. Story. By Carlotta Reynal 449

Side-Lights on Lincoln James Matlack Scovel 204

Singing of the Frogs, The Story. By John G. Neihardt 226

Social Life at Mare Island 111. By Ella M. Hammond 483

Some Famous Jewish Women By Rev. A. Kingsley-Glover 25

Sonnet, A By Louis W. Bennett . 337

Spirit of Crow Butte, The Story. By John G. Neihardt 355

Teine Story. By J. F. Rose-Soley 358

Telephonic Error, A 111. Story. By Winifred Webb 418

To My Violin Poem. By Eloise Davis 230

Transit of Bohemia, The 111. Story. By Ednah Robinson.... 3

Triumph of Seha, The Story. By John G. Neihardt 282

Two Privates and a Corporal Story. By Cecil M. Marrack 310

Unknown, The Poem. By Herman Scheffauer 448

When the Overland Comes In 111. Story. By Roger J. Sterrett.... 27

When the Snows Drift Story. By John G. Neihardt 103

Zuleta, The Story. By C. B. Acheson 41

99589



Vol. XXXVIII. No. J.

tM?4Mfc4^i*^4^i^^



Established 1868



*




5|/2 Kearny Street, San Francisco.




JULY, J90J.



CONTENTS



*
*

*

<*>
*
*
*



*



The Transit of Bohemia Story By Ednah Robinson. Illustrated 3

Late Dusk in the Golden Gate Poem. . . .By Theodore Gontz 18

Our Legion of Honor By James F. J. Archibald. Illustrated. 19

Some Famous Jewish Women By Rev. A. Kingsley-Glover 25

When the Overland Comes In Story.... By Roger J. Sterrett. Illustrated .... 27

"Heathen" Story By Agnes Louise Provost. Illustrated. 32

The Zuleta Story By C. B. Acheson 41

En Rapport Poem By Margaret Schenk 44

The Law of the Medes and Persians Story. .By C. Bryan Taylor 45

La Fiesta Dance Poem By J. Torrey Connor. Illustrated 50

The Biologist's Quest Story By John M. Oskison 52

Broken Stri ngs Poem By E. R. Wynne 57

In the days of the Padres Story By Harry R. P. Forbes. Illustrated. . . .58

Books: To Read or Not to Read 62

Kern City and the Kern River Oil District 65



*

*

*



*



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HOME OFFICE: 222 Sansome St., San Francisco, Cal.
Wm. Corbin, Secretary and General Manager.




Frank Kilgore.



Drawn by Max Newberry.



OvS




Monthly



VOL. XXXVIII



July, 1901



No. i



THE TRANSIT OF BOHEMIA



BY EDNAH ROBINSON.



GIRL emerged from the crowd on
Market street one afternoon in late
December, and stepped briskly into



fi

an unfrequented thoroughfare. Her
eyes scanned the tall, dark buildings on
either side, but not finding what she
searched for her pace slackened, and she
walked slowly up the block, her glance
alert for the huge sign announcing the
offices of the San Francisco Daily Cour-
ier. At the corner she paused and looked
back, the raw wind whipping color into
her cheeks and playing strange antics
with her hat. A quick thought drove her
hand into her pocket. The note book
confirmed her; this was the square, and
she re-crossed to the odd side of the
street, retracing her steps till she paused
before a grim-looking front, with 5-3-1
unobtrusively painted in over a high,
<lark door, behind which gloomy stairs
mounted into uncertain shadows.

She drew a perplexed breath, then
plunged into the gloom, and began feeling
her way up the steep stairway. At the
first landing she peered around through
the darkness for a door or informing
sign, but bare walls greeted her. The
strange quiet was beginning to assail
her with her first feeling of fear, when
a hurried step above reassured her. She
waited to question the comer, but before
she could speed a detaining word the
man had rushed past without seeing her;
so she went on climbing, up and up, over
dingy steps and dark, uncertain landings,
until brought to an abrupt pause before
a green baize door. It swung open for
a boy's quick exit, and she found herself
inside a little square, outlined by four
such doors, and guarded by a youth who
eyed her suspiciously. The sudden flare



of gas-jets dilated her eyes, and gave a
frightened look to her face.

"What d'ye want?" asked the boy.

"The editor," she answered.

He grinned. "Which one? There's the
business manager, and the city editor,
and the sporting editor, society editor,
weekly editor, Sunday editor, night edi-
tor." He was running on indefinitely.
Not Cerberus as sentry of the shades held
a more complacent position.

"I am sure I don't know which one he
is," she said, reflectively, but the boy mis-
took her hesitation. Just then an elec-
tric bell tingled, and he vanished. She
leaned against a long deal table, watch-
ing with interest the people who passed
her so incuriously. Men with absorbed
faces pushed through one of the myster-
ious doors, and out through another. The
air seemed to teem with energy. The
boy soon returned.

"You still here?"

"Did you see him?"

"Did you think I went for that? I had
to answer a call. Which am I?" his
chest inflated. "I'm the call-boy. Did
you think I was an editor?" He shoved
her through a door, and pointed to a
small room at the end of the corridor.
"They're all busy. You'd better wait."
His patronage was heavy.

There was one before her waiting, a
woman who looked fagged and weary.
The girl's interest was caught by the
pictures which covered the walls, original
drawings, cartoons, and caricatures. She
drew a breath of delight. She was get-
ting a peep into that coveted place back
of the footlights, where the Names were
to be met! That cartoon she remem-
bered having seen in the Courier years



Overland Monthly.



ago, and this one, how good! Presently
she exhausted them all, and looked
around for a paper to read; but there was
none, and she had to resign herself to a
study of her companion. Every time a
step sounded in the hall she would start
eagerly, until she discovered that the
other woman was smiling. She felt
called upon to explain that she was wait-
ing for one of the editors, who was busy.
The other woman smiled wearily. "So
am I, going on two hours. They're always
busy. If you know no one, you've a
pretty poor show."

The girl's head lifted with conscious
importance. "I do know him, that is,
one of them." The thought of the call-
boy made her falter. "But I don't know
which he is Mr. Thorne."

"He's the city editor; you're in luck,"
said the other generously, and relapsed
into silence.

Five more minutes passed, and the
woman's curiosity broke through her
reverie. "You sent in your name?"

The girl's face brightened. "I forgot.
I intended to, but that boy hurried me off.
He confused me, I guess." She gave
an easy, rippling laugh, and drew from
her pocket the card engraved for that es-
pecial purpose. The blaze of light once
again disconcerted her, but she handed
the slip of pasteboard to the boy with re-
turning assurance. "Take that to Mr.
Thorne," she said, imperiously. "He will
remember me."

"Why didn't you say that before?" and
the baize door swallowed him again. The
girl returned to her post. It was a long
time before an answer came. A heavy
tread paused at the door, and she turned
swiftly. "Mr. Thorne? O, I beg your
pardon."

"It is all the same. I represent Mr.
Thorne." He observed her closely. "He
is too busy to see everyone who asks for
him. Can I know your errand?"

She shook her head. Her business was
with Mr. Thorne. "I said that I represent
him," the man answered patiently. "I
can do just as much for you if you will
tell me your errand." His courtesy was
disconcerting, for it made her insistence
seem rude, but she clung stubbornly to
her demand for the city editor. "Does he



know I am here?"

The man was puzzled. "He told me to
attend to you."

"Perhaps he does not know who Miss
Hawley is? Tell him it's Mamie Hawley>
and he will understand. He knows my
father, knows us all. He stopped with us
once in Santa Rosa, years ago" her
voice trailed off.

"Suppose you write that on your card,"
he suggested kindly. "Mention Santa
Rosa. There are so many demands on
Thome's time, and you see, Hawley's not
an uncommon name."

She drew another card from her purse,
and wrote a few stiff, glove-fingered
words. He went off with it, and was
back almost immediately. Mr. Thorne
would see her, and she followed her guide
eagerly, forgetting to nod a good-bye to
her companion in waiting. The baize
doors were thrown open for her, and she
was ushered through long corridors and
winding passages into a large room,
where several men sat at work. "There's
Thorne." Mamie followed a sweep of the
hand to a desk at one corner of the room.
"Must I see him before all these peo-
ple?"

The man laughed. "They're all too
busy to listen!" He humorously eyed
the big bundle under her arm, and went
off whistling.

Mamie Hawley approached the desk,
stretching out a cordial hand.
"Mr. Thorne!"

The city editor responded with the ex-
pected cordiality, but his memory was
playing him a trick. He angled for a
clue.

"So this is little Mamie Hawley grown
up. Let's see. How long is it since I
saw you?"

"Seven years ago," Mamie answered,
promptly. "You came to Santa Rosa to
report the Doane murder case, and that
was in '83. It was the year of the Metho
dist Convention in Denver, and papa met
you on the train from San Francisco,
and brought you home with him."

"Of course, I remember. And how
is Dr. Hawley? I often think of those
pleasant evening we had when we played
what was it we played? Chess? Yes,
of course. And Mrs. Hawley? And the



The Transit of Bohemi




boys?" Thorne was on flrm ground af
last. "Give my regards to them all.
If ever I go to Santa Rosa again, I will
surely look you all up."

Mamie suddenly saw a vision of green
baize doors. Her cheeks, already flushed
from the bite of the sharp wind, flamed
hotter. "It was not that I came here tr
say." She paused, then rushed ahead.
"I thought maybe you could would help
me. I I write. And I want to work
for some paper. If you have room on the
Courier "

"Have you ever published anything?"
Thorne put on his editorial manner imme-
diately. "What work have you done?"

"I have never had anything rejected
yet, and quite a lot has been published,"
Mamie answered proudly. She opened
her bundle wku quick fingers, and thrust
towards him a scrap book filled with
cuttings from the Santa Rosa Mercury
and the Sonoma Press. Thorne controll-
ed his lip admirably, and turned a seri-
ous face to her a minute later.

"My dear little girl, don't you think
it would be better to keep on writing
for these? You have no idea of the dif-
ferent requirements. Stay at home, and
write signed articles for the Mercury, in-
stead of battling alone in the big city
with years of unsigned labor before you.
There, that's my honest advice, and I am
old enough to be your father, my dear. '

But Mamie was not daunted. It was the
Courier she wanted, nothing less. In her
eagerness she did not notice that she was
keeping back other claimants for
Thome's attention, or that she was being
closely observed. Thorne turned over the
pages of her scrap-book. "Were you paid
for these?" he asked. Mamie flushed
again, and hesitated uncomfortably.
"Mostly in subscriptions," she said, feel-
ing rather silly, and for the first time
noticed her observers. One man sat
by the desk, his dark eyes lazily taking
in the girl's embarassment. Mamie
flashed back a hostile stare, and her chin
rose higher.

"That's the reason I decided to come
down to San Francisco. There's no open-
ing in Santa Rosa."

"Believe me, there's no opening in San
Francisco for this." Thome's emphasis



was brutally obvious, and Mamie haught-
ily interrupted him. " I am sorry to have
encroached so much on your time. I will
take these." She was sweeping them
up, outraged pride in her gesture, when
Thorne put out a detaining hand. "Leave
them here," he began lamely, "and you
might come back in a week."

She swept out with a curt nod, her eyes
bright, her ears tingling, past the pert
call boy, through the baize doors, and
down the steep steps into the street. She
was humiliated and angry. To be spoken
to like a child, an inexperienced hand,
an amateur, and before all those men,
too! How they doubtless enjoyed it!
And that was gratitude ! They had show-
ered immeasurable hospitality on
Thorne, had introduced him to Santa
Rosa's best families, had given a picnic
for his benefit, and invited him to lecture
from her father's pulpit their crowning
honor to bestow. And this was the way
he returned it. The possibility that
Thorne had been more gracious than
grateful was beyond her imagination.
She entered the little boarding house
she had discovered in a quiet street
with the resolve firmly made: she would
not go back. Thorne could keep her
scrap-book. Perhaps it might sting his
ingratitude. How angry she was! For
the next twenty-four hours her pride
upheld her resolution, but the following
day she weakened. To lose her certain
triumph because of a girlish pride?
Thorne could not but discover the merit
in her articles. There was that particu-
lar essay on "The Salvation Army Bon-
net," which every one had praised. She
had read the Courier steadily and could
not honestly admit to a style therein as
finished, as classic as hers. To forego
the triumphant home-coming she had
planned? For no one was to dream of
her real hope or labor until the goal
was reached, and she could proudly point
to won laurels. Pride is soon melted in
the crucible of ambition, and the next
Saturday found her again climbing the
dark stairs to the green baize doors. This
time she faced the call-boy with confi-
dence. "For Mr. Thorne. By appoint-
ment!"

It was just as sue had expected. "We



Overland Monthly.





Ascot.



Drawn by Max Newberry.



have decided,''
Thorne said official-
ly, "to take you on
trial for a few weeks.
Of course at first the
remunera tion is
small, but the doors
to big salaries and
advancement stand
always open to abil-
ity. You will have
to keep your eyes
open, and your ears,
too. And, let me say
it without offending
you, my dear, that
your style is, well, a
bit stilted. Read the
Courier well and dis-
cover what we want.
There model your
style on that." He
pushed a paper to-
wards her, pointing
to a full-page article
profusely illustrated,
and signed "Frank
Kilgore." Mamie had
already read it, and
she smiled with su-
periority.

"I have read a lot
of his articles, but
it's cheap prose," she
objected. "It's flor-
id, and not a good
style."

Thorne looked at
her in an amaze-
ment which the
girl's vanity inter-
preted differently.
Then his laughter
broke.

"My dear, that's a
really good newspap-
er style, and just
what we want. If
we could only get a
few more such, the
Courier would be in
luck. That is she."
Mamie glanced has-
tily at a well-groom-
ed, alert woman ap-
proaching. "Frank



The Transit of Bohemia.



Kilgore," Thorne explained. "You
thought she was a man? Mrs. Kilgore,
Miss Hawley. Miss Hawley's a new
hand, Mrs. Kilgore. I wish you would
show her the ropes a little, just at
first. Thanks. Is this your article on
the fight? Good-morning, Miss Hawley.
Sorry, but someone's mislaid your scrap-
book. A word, Mrs. Kilgore. We've
got to try her. I'd like her to get on, if
it's possible. Help her a bit. I'll esteem
it a favor. Thanks, good-day."

Mamie followed her new guide, curious-
ly observing her trig, neat form, tightly
tailored in black cloth, relieved only by
white collar and cravat, and two white
rosettes set in the jaunty, black hat.
It was a hostile stare she threw at her
companion's back, for she resented the
position awarded tne woman, as gained
by such flimsy prose. Out in the street,
Mrs. Kilgore faced her. "Heavens, girl,
what eyes you have." She stared broad-
ly.

The angry blood surged to the girl's
brow. Her eyes had been ridiculed since
babyhood and were her greatest sorrow.
Cat's eyes, green eyes, they had been in-
discriminately labeled, preventing any
possible girlish vanity, and almost smoth-
ering, eventually, the ardent desire for
good looks; but any allusion to her afflic-
tion goaded her to wrath.

"I know they are horrid, but I don't
recognize your right to tell me so." Her
eyes gleamed green fire.

"Magnificent! Who says they're hor-
rid? You are a queen. I never saw such
eyes. I see now why Thorne took you.
He couldn't help himself. You'll do. You
needn't labor like me, or the others. You
can write just as poorly as you probably
do. And when they start to turn your
wjrk down, just turn your green incan-
descents as you did on me, and they'll
cringe. How the boys will rave? Ever
heard of Billy Compton? Gracious, where
have you been living? Special writer
for the Courier. He had a sonnet once in
the "Yellow Book," beginning, 'Eyes of
emerald and hair of brcnze.' He will
adore you. You must come up to dinner
with me to-night. Of course, informal,
for it's Bohemia, you know. Russian
Hill, house number two. There are only
two, mine and the other, and the other's



bachelor quarters, artists mostly. Billy
Compton hangs out there. Do you know,
I think I can educate you. There, don't
waste ammunition. Save that illumina-
tion for the men to-night. But you need
culture, sadly. Who said you could wear



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