grown distinctly unpopular. As for property rights, except in calves and horses, they were always safe; even to-day most of the region leaves its doors fearlessly unlocked. I was forcibly impressed with the passing of the old free West by the sight of a bad man named Red Jake, who was undergoing punishment in a little far-mountain mining town. He had indulged in the old-fashioned sport of shooting up a saloon, a pastime once highly honored. He had been promptly overpowered and dragged-dragged, mind you -before a little inoffensive justice of the peace of German descent, barber as well as udge. This eminently matter-of-fact and der-loving official dealt in no heroics, e no show of six-shooters. He set Red e to digging a tough mesquit stump from the street in front of the official barber-shop, and he kept him at it there in public view until the work was finished. It was really embarrassing to the expectant Easterner to find this old hero and friend of the wild-Western story in such sorry disgrace-and that with the evident approval of the entire community.

Another point of sensitiveness is the Inlian. The Southwesterner wants it thorughly understood that there is absolutely o danger of any more Indian outbreaks, espite the fears of the visitor who has not prgotten Geronimo and Apache Kid. There re Indians in plenty everywhere, but most f them are of the blanket tribes-Naajo, Moki, Pima, Papago, and similar Inians. The really wild tribes, especially the paches, have been hopelessly overawed, not much by soldiers as by railroads, teleraphs, telephones, stage-routes, and the crowding settlers. An Indian cannot make stir toward hostility without alarming the hole white country, and an Indian who annot use the ways of stealth is a helpless ndian. No, the day of the red danger is

last.

The Southwesterner is already developing distinct personal appearance, which in ourse of years will be as inimitable as that f the Yankee, the Tennessee mountaineer, the Pike County man. He wears, most mpressively, a distinctly out-of-door look, a omplexion born of good outdoor wind and unshine-not the sallow hue of the humid outh, for the wind here is ash-dry and the unshine is hot, producing a peculiar rich, ealthy bronze to be seen nowhere else in he country. A white-skinned American, ith this tint of brown overlaying his face nd reaching into the very roots of his hair,

VOL. LXIV.-2.

has a most inviting appearance of health. The bright, long-continuing sunshine, the glaring desert, and the absence of green vegetation, except in the irrigated fields, have produced another effect peculiar to the Southwest: they have creased the outer corners of the Southwesterner's eyes with great numbers of fine wrinkles-good-nature wrinkles they are, too. Every rancher has this. Southwestern squint, as well as most of the city-dwellers, unless they live exclusively indoors. As a result of this wrinkling, the average man appears to look out at you with level eyes, a striking directness of gaze, which more than one observer has noted as a peculiarity of the cow-boy. It gives a pleasing impression of frankness and straightforwardness.

The Southwesterner promises to be lean and tall: that is the tendency shown by the cow-boy. In dress he is at present distinctly careless. A silk hat and kid gloves are worn in the Southwest at the peril of the owner's reputation. A black derby is almost as bad. The prevailing hat is soft, of the sombrero order; not many straw hats are worn, except by the Mexicans, whose gorgeous head-gear is a source of continual amusement to strangers. The clothing, naturally, tends to the lighter, cooler colors, and there is a predominance of the flowing tie. By such signs as these one who knows the Southwest could usually lay finger on the Southwesterner in the crowds in Broadway, even to the extent of marching up to him and saying, "Well, how are things down in Texas?"

The Southwesterner almost lives out of

doors. His climate makes it pleasant, often necessary, to do so. His house is frequently only the core of a huge piazza or the shell of a patio, into which the family overflows, eating, sleeping, reading, gossiping. Parts of this piazza, or patio, are often completely surrounded by fly-netting, for of all the discom

forts of the Southwest, the house-flies are

perhaps the worst. The housewife has a constant and desperate struggle with them the year around. There are no mosquitos, except in a few localities where the irrigator leaves stagnant pools of water; the tarantula and the scorpion are much dreaded, but are almost never seen. Fleas are plentiful; in parts of Texas it is a common saying that if one takes up a handful of sand half of it will jump away. Next to the house-fly the greatest discomfort is the dust and the duststorm. The dry desert is never far away from the settlement, and the wind sometimes blows the dust through every crack and cranny of

the house. It is not uncommon to find a whisk-broom hanging at the front door of the house, so that the visitor may brush himself off before entering. Nearly every street or roadway in the irrigated country, unless regularly sprinkled or macadamized, and sprinkling in a rainless country is an expensive process, becomes ankle-deep, at times, with soft puddly dust, from which there is no escape. However, fine, hard roads are now being constructed in much of the irrigated country. The hot weather in the Southwest, bad as it sometimes is, is by no means as uncomfortable as might be imagined. In summer the mercury certainly registers a high degree of heat, a maximum of 100° to 118° in the shade, but the air is so dry that one is less sensible to the heat than he would be to a much lower temperature in a humid climate. Sunstroke never occurs; indeed, one is rarely damp with perspiration, for the dry air absorbs the moisture as rapidly as it is thrown off from the body, thereby eliminating one of the great discomforts of hot weather. That the evaporation, however, goes on constantly and rapidly is plainly manifested in the amount of water which every one drinks. However hot the days, the nights, unlike those of the humid regions, are usually cool and comfortable. The winter climate is nearly perfect.

The Southwesterner gets his living from tin cans. There surely never was such a region for canned vegetables, canned meat, canned fruit, canned soup, canned milk, canned cheese. Empty tin cans form a charmed circle about every Southwestern town and camp. Even where he can profitably and easily produce his own food, the Southwesterner seems to prefer to raise some exclusive crop, sell his product, and buy canned goods. It is amusing enough to discover that the cattle-rancher, though a thousand cows come up to water at his tanks every day or two, will yet serve condensed milk from cans that come from New Jersey, that his beef bears the mark of Kansas City, that even his poultry and eggs are imported at enormous prices from Kansas. His butter also comes canned. If it were not for the patient Chinese gardener, even the best-irrigated valleys would be without fresh vegetables. But if the Southwesterner fails in garden-making, he does delight in flowers, vines, and shade-trees. They relieve the monotony of the gray desert, and link him with his old green home in the East. He will let his fields go thirsty in time of drought before he will allow the rose-bushes and the

pepper-trees in his front yard to suffer. Indeed, so industrious has he been in surrounding himself with shade and verdure that he is open to criticism for overdoing the matter, overcrowding his small grounds. An irrigated valley town in blossom is a marvel long to be remembered.

An interesting feature of the country is its splendid and significant names. If all knowledge of the Southwest, together with its history, were obliterated, leaving only a map with the names upon it, a student could paint a pretty clear picture of the physical conditions of the country and could outline its history with a fair degree of accuracy.

Dotted everywhere upon the dry desert and on the plains are such expressive and, to the desert-traveler, such attractive names as Flowing Well, Indian Tank, Desert Spring, Steam-pump, and any number of Brown's Wells and Smith's Pumps and Black's Springs. I shall not forget the picture formed in the mind's eye of one Dripping Spring toward which we had traveled across the parched, waterless, dusty desert through the length of a day of interminable sunshine and heat, with the water in the canteen low and fairly hot. Dripping Spring became, in fancy, a cool mountain nook, with green trees round about, soft wet sand to wade in or wallow in, clear cold water bub bling out of the rocks-a perfect picture o: f paradise as it seems on the desert. Well at last we saw Dripping Spring. The owne: well knew the psychology of the desert-trav eler when he gave his place that heavenly name. A red iron tank, hoisted on poles, blistering with heat, a creaking windmill, a squat and dilapidated house in the midst o the desert, without a visible sign of wate anywhere-nor, indeed, any sign of life-that was Dripping Spring. But the water dig drip-from the rusty nose of an iron pip when the cock was turned; and it was a delicious, if not as cool, as that which cam from fancy's mountain nook. A whole volum might be written on these names, and I hav barely scratched the subject.

The new words that have enriched the Southwesterner's speech also make a fasci nating study. There are as many of them, and they are as characteristic and distinctive, as those of any other part of the country. Many of these words have come in by way of the Mexican border, and every one is fragrant with meaning and significant of the soil. Then there are a score of crisp, direct, busy English words used in a sense a little at variance from the ordinary, or lifted bodily from

slang, and telling more to the syllable than they do anywhere else.

So the Southwest is becoming a distinct entity and the Southwesterner a personage. Character is here building, with the promise of virgin power and new ideas in statecraft, in economics, in agriculture. Men are laying deep and strong the foundations for an immense future population, and preparing for

the responsibilities which that population will entail. The region is weak yet, and seemingly far off, rude, unformed, but its weakness is of the sort that cannot awaken scorn; it is that of a healthy, hopeful, ambitious boy who will stir the world when he reaches his majority. That is the Southwest. May her accomplishments equal her promise.

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tier," published in 1894, says:

66

It has often been a matter of speculation whether passages in "The Last Eve of Summer," "A Sea Dream," "Memories," and other poems, were not the expression of a tender emotion which had been sacrificed to adverse circumstances. If there were ever any doubt that the sweet and tender poem "Memories" was inspired by a romance of the poet's youth, that doubt was dispelled by the position Whittier has given these charming verses in his collected works. It was not without thought and deliberation that in 1888 he directed this poem should be placed at the head of his "Subjective and Reminiscent" poems. He had never before publicly acknowledged how much of his heart was wrapped up in this delightful play of poetic fancy. The poem was written in 1841, and although the romance it embalms lies far back of this date, possibly there is a heart still beating which fully understands its meaning. The biographer can do no more than make this suggestion, which has the sanction of the poet's explicit word. To a friend who told him that ay "Memories" was her favorite poem, he said: "I e love it, too; but I hardly knew whether to publish nt it, it was so personal- and near my heart.""

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As this poem is really the sole expression ce of Whittier's early love, it may be well to m repeat a few stanzas:

A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl,

With step as light as summer air,
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl,
Shadowed by many a careless curl

Of unconfined and flowing hair;
A seeming child in everything,

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, As Nature wears the smile of Spring When sinking into Summer's arms.

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled

My picture of thy youth to see, When, half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled,

And folly's self seemed wise in thee; I too can smile, when o'er that hour

The lights of memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream.

There are several interesting points to be noted in this love-letter: Whittier did not use the Quaker pronouns, his almost universal custom, thinking, perhaps, the plural Although a declarawas more respectful. tion of undying love, it is curious that the letter is almost all about himself, and scarcely at all about the person to whom it was written. It affords another instance of the old proverb that "faint heart never won fair lady," for the note of despair is even more evident than the pitch of passion. Its cold reserve, however, but ill conceals the overwhelming love in the man's heart, the constancy of which sixty years of solitary life were abundantly to prove.

Whittier's contemplated travels in the "Far West" were not to be. Ill health broke off his purpose, and all but a very few years of his life were spent in his "own New England."