of foreigners which is the result, simply and solely, of native superiority, either in energy or industry or inventiveness or in natural advantages. John Antrobus. BORN in Walsall, Warwickshire, England, 1831. Came to America, 1849. THE COWBOY. [Composed while at work upon his Painting, HAT care I, what cares he, "WHAT "The Cowboy." 1886.] What cares the world of the life we know? Little they reck of the shadowless plains, The shelterless mesa, the sun and the rains, The wild, free life, as the winds that blow." His worn chapparejos, And clinking spurs, Like a Centaur he speeds, Where the wild bull feeds; And he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares, who cares! Ruddy and brown-careless and free A king in the saddle-he rides at will His torn chapparejos, And clinking spurs, Like a Centaur he speeds Where the wild bull feeds; And he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares, who cares! He of the towns, he of the East, Has only a vague, dull thought of him; In his far-off dreams the cowboy seems A mythical thing, a thing he deems A Hun or a Goth as swart and grim! His rough chapparejos, And clinking spurs, Like a Centaur he speeds, Where the wild bull feeds; And he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares, who cares! Often alone, his saddle a throne, He scans like a sheik the numberless herd; In the hot white glare of a cloudless sky, With his gay sombrero, Where the wild bull feeds; And he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares, who cares! Swift and strong, and ever alert, Yet sometimes he rests on the dreary vast; And his thoughts, like the thoughts of other men, Go back to his childhood days again, And to many a loved one in the past. With his gay sombrero, His rude chapparejos, And clinking spurs, He rests awhile, With a tear and a smile, Halt in a quarrel o'er night begun, With a ready blow and a random gun There's a dead, dead comrade! nothing more. His dark chapparejos, And clinking spurs, He dashes past, With face o'ercast, And growls in his throat-who cares, who cares! Away on the range there is little change; His stained chapparejos, His clinking spurs, He sidles down Where the grasses brown May hide his face, while he sobs-who cares! But what care I, and what cares he This is the strain, common at least; He is free and vain of his bridle-rein, Of his spurs, of his gun, of the dull, gray plain; With his gray sombrero, His brown chapparejos, And clinking spurs, Where the wild bull feeds; And he laughs, ha, ha!-who cares, who cares! Amelia Edith Barr. BORN in Ulverton, Lancashire, England, 1831. ON A CLIFF BY NIGHT. [Jan Vedder's Wife. 1885.] NE night, after another useless effort to see his wife, Jan went to Torr's, and found Hol Skager there. Jan was in a reckless mood, and the thought of a quarrel was pleasant to him. Skager was inclined to humor him. They had many old grievances to go over, and neither of them picked their words. At length Jan struck Skager across the mouth, and Skager instantly drew his knife. In a moment Torr and others had separated the men. Skager was persuaded to leave the house, and Jan, partly by force and partly by entreaty, detained. Skager was to sail at midnight, and Torr was determined that Jan should not leave the house until that hour was passed. Long before it, he appeared to have forgotten the quarrel, to be indeed too intoxicated to remember anything. Torr was satisfied, but his daughter Suneva was not. About ten o'clock, Snorro, sitting in the back door of the store, saw Suneva coming swiftly towards him. Ere he could speak she said: "Skager and Jan have quarrelled and knives have been drawn. If thou knowest where Skager is at anchor, run there, for I tell thee there was more of murder than liquor in Jan's eyes this night. My father thought to detain him, but he hath slipped away, and thou may be sure he has gone to find Skager." Snorro only said: "Thou art a good woman, Suneva." He thought he knew Skager's harbor; but when he got there, neither boat nor man was to be seen. Skager's other ground was two miles in an opposite direction under the Troll Rock, and not far from Peter Fae's house. Snorro hastened there at his utmost speed. He was in time to see Skager's boat, half a mile out at sea, sailing southward. Snorro's mental processes were slow. He stood still to consider, and as he mused, the solemn stillness of the lonely place was broken by a low cry of pain. It was Jan's voice. Among a thousand voices Snorro would have known it. In a few moments he had found Jan, prone upon the cliff edge, bleeding from a wound in his side. He was still sensible, and he smiled at Snorro, saying slowly: "Thou must not be sorry. It is best so." Most fishermen know something of the treatment of a knife-wound; Snorro staunched the blood-flow, as well as he was able, and then with gigantic strides went to Peter Fae's. Margaret sat spinning beside her baby's cradle, Peter had gone to bed, Thora dozed at the fireside. The impatience of his knock and voice alarmed the women, but when Margaret heard it was Snorro's voice, she quickly unfastened the door. "Is the store burning?" she asked angrily, "that thou comest in such hot haste?" "Thy husband has been murdered. Take thou water and brandy, and go as quick as thou canst run to the Troll's Rock. He lies there. I am going for the doctor." แ 'Why did thou come here, Michael Snorro? Ever art thou a messenger of ill. I will not go." "Go thou at once, or I will give thee a name thou wilt shudder to hear. I will give it to thee at kirk, or market, or wherever I meet thee." Snorro fled to the town, almost in uttering the words, and Thora, who had at once risen to get the water and the brandy, put them into her daughter's hands. "There is no time now for talking. I will tell thy father and send him after thee. Shall we have blood on our souls? All of us?" 'Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Art thou a woman? I tell thee, haste." "I dare not--oh, my child! I will wake father." "I command thee to go-this moment." Then, almost in a passion, Margaret went. The office of mercy had been forced upon her. She had not been permitted to consider her own or her child's interest. No one had thought of her feelings in the matter. When she reached Jan's side she was still indignant at the peremptory way in which she had been treated. He felt her there, rather than saw her. "Margaret! At last!" 66 Margaret!" he said feebly, "Yes," she answered in bitter anger, at last. Hast thou called me to see thy shameful end? A name full of disgrace thou leaves to me and to thy son." "I will not forgive thee. No woman injured as I have been can forgive." His helplessness did not touch her. Her own wrongs and the wrongs of her child filled her heart. She was determined that at this hour he should at least understand their full enormity, and she spoke with all the rapid bitterness of a slow, cold nature, wrought up to an unnatural passion. In justifying herself she forgot quite that she had been sent to succor him until help arrived. She was turning away when Jan, in a voice full of misery, uttered one word: "Water!" Something womanly in her responded to the pitiful, helpless cry. She went back, and kneeling by his side, put the bottle to his mouth. The touch of his head upon her arm stirred her strangely; ere she let it slip from her hold, he had fainted. "Oh Jan! Jan! Jan! My husband! My husband! Oh Jan, dear, forgive me! Jan, I am here! It is thy Margaret! I still love thee! Yes, indeed, I love thee!” But it was too late. There was no response. She looked in horror and terror at the white face at her feet. Then she fled back to the house for help. Whether her father liked it or not, Jan must now be |