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About The Maupin times. (Maupin, Or.) 1914-1930 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 8, 1921)
'it ! The Voice of the Pack By EDISON MARSHALL 4!t niinwMmmtnnwnwH nimwMtm CHAPTER IV Continued. 14 He called once to Lennox, snatched the shotgun that still stood where he had placed It la the corner of the room, and hastened to the corral. The mare whickered plaintively when he took her from her food. When Snowbird first heard the step In the thickets beside her, she hailed braveiy and held her lantern high. She understood at last. The very extremity of the beams found a reflection In two very curious circles of greenish fire: a fire that was old upon the world be fore man ever rubbed two sticks to gether to strike a flame. Of course the Aim rays had simply been reflect ed on the eyes of some great beast of prey. She Identified It at once. Only the eyes of the felines, with vertical pu pils, have this Identical greenish glare. The eyes of the wolves glow In the darkness, but the circles are usually bright points, Of course It was a cou gar. She didn't cry out again. Realizing nt last the reality of her peril, her long training In the mountains came to her aid. That did not mean she was not truly and terribly afraid. The beast was hunting her. She couldn't doubt this fact. Curiosity might make a lion follow her, but It would never beget such a wild light of madness In his eyes as this she had Just seen. She simply clamped down all her moral strength on her rising hysteria and looked her situation in the face. Her hand flew Instinctively to her side, and the pistol leaped In the lantern light. But the eyes had already blinked out before she could raise the weapon. She shot twice. The echoes roared back, unbelievably loud In the silence, and then abruptly died ; and the only sound was a rustling of leaves as the cougar crouched. She sobbed once, then hurried on. She was afraid to listen at first. She wanted to believe that her pistol fire would frighten the animal from her trail. She knew, under ordinary con ditions, that It would. If he still fol lowed, It could menn but one thing that some unheard-of Incident hud oc curred to destroy his fear of men. It would mean that he had knowingly set upon her trail and was hunting her with all the age-old remorselessness thnt Is the code of the mountains. For a little while all was silence. Then out of the hush the thickets sud denly crashed and shook on the oppo site side of the trail. She fired blind ly Into the thicket. Then she caught herself with a sob. But two shells remained In her pistol, and they must be saved for the tost. Whlsperfoot the cougar, remember ing the lessons of his youth, turned from the trail when he had first heard Snowbird's step. He had crouched and let her pnss. She was walking Into the wind j and as she was at the closest point a message had blown buck to him. The hair went straight on his shoul ders and along his spine. Ills blood, running cold an Instant before from fear, mado a great leap In his veins. A picture came In his dark mind: the chase for a deer when the moon had sot, the stir of a living thing that broke twigs In the thickets, and the leap he had made. There had been blood, that night the wlldness and the mndness and the exultation of the kill. Of course there had been terror first, but the terror had soon departed and left something lying warm and still In the thickets. It was the same game thnt wnlked his trail In front game that died easily and yet. In a vague way he did not understand, the noblest game of all. It was living flesh, to tear with talon and fang. All his training, all the Instincts Im bued In him by a thousand generations of cougars who knew this greatest fenr, were simply obliterated by the sudden violence of his hunting-madness. He had tasted this blood once, nnd It could never be forgotten. The flume leaped In his eyes. And theu he begnn the stulk. A cougar? trying to creep silently on Its game, does not move quickly. It simply steals, as a serpent steals through the grass. Whlsperfoot stalked for a period of five minutes, to learn thnt the prey was farther away from him at every step. He trotted forward until he came close, and again he stalked. Again he found, after a few minutes of silent creeping through the thickets, that he had lost distance. Evidently this game did not feed slowly, like the deer. It was to be a' chase, then. Again he trotted within one hundred foot of the girl. Three times more he tried to stalk before he finally gave It up altogether. This game was like the porcupine simply to be chased down and taken. And In the case of all animals thnt hunt their game by overtaking It, there was no longer any occasion for going silently. The thing to do was to come close and spring from the trail behind. Though the fear was mostly gone, the cougar rctalnid enough of that caution that mrwt wild animals ex wi hibit when hunting a new game so that he didn't attempt to strike Snow bird down at once. But as the chase went on, his passion grew upon him. Ever he crept nearer. And at lust he sprang full Into the thickets beside her. At thnt Instant she had shot for the first time. Because the light had left his eyes before she could find aim, both shots had been clean misses. And terrible as the reports were, he was too engrossed In the chase to be frightened away by mere sound. This was the cry the mun-pack always made these sudden, startling sounds In the silence. But he felt no pain. He crouched a moment, shivering. Then he bounded on again. The third shot was a miss too: In fact, there had been no chance for a hit. A sound In the darkness is as unreliable a target as can possibly be Imagined. And It didn't frighten him as much as the others. He waited, crouching, nnd the girl started on. She was making other sounds now queer, whimpering sounds not greatly different from the bleat that the fawn utters when It dies. It was a fear sound, and If there Is one emotion with which the wild beasts are ac quainted, In all Its phases, It Is fear. She was afraid of him, then, and that meant he need no longer be In the least afraid of her. Ills skin began to twitch all over with that terrible mad ness and passion of the flesh-hunters. This game was like the deer, and the thing to do was lie In wait. There was only one trail. He wasn't afraid of losing her In the darkness. She was neither fleet like the deer nor courageous like Woof the bear. He had only to wuit and leap from the darkness when she passed. . When Dan Failing, riding like mad over the mountuln trail, heard the third shot from Snowbird's pistol, he felt that one of the debts he owed had come due at last. He seemed to know, She Shot Twice. as the darkness pressed around him, that he was to be tried In the flrevAnd the horse staggered beneath him as he tried to hasten. He showed no mercy to his mount. Horse flesh Isn't made for carrying a heavy man over such a trail as this, nnd she was red-nostrlled and lath ered before half a mile had been cov ered, lie made her leap up the rocks, nnd on fairly level stretches he loosed the reins and lashed her Into a gallop. Only a mountain horse could have stood thnt tost. He gave no thought to his own safety. Ills courage was at the test, and no risk of his own life must Interfere with his nttempt to save Snowbird from the danger that threatened her. He didn't know when the horse would fall with hlra aud precipitate him down a precipice, and he was perfectly aware that to crush Into n low-hanging limb of one of the great trees beside the trail would probably crush his skull. Hut he took the chance. And before the ride was done he found himself plead ing with the horse, even as he lashed her sides with his whip. The lesser forest creatures sprang from his trail ; nnd once the mare leaped high to miss a dark shadow that crossed In front. As she caught her stride, Pan heard a squeal and a rattle of quills that Identified the crea ture as a porcupine. By now he had passed the first of the worst grades, coining out upon a long, easy slope of open forest. Again he urged his horse, leaving to her keen senses alone the choslng of the path between the great tree trunks. Then he heard Snowbird fire for the fourth time ; and he knew thnt he had almost overtaken her. The report seemed to smash the air. And he lashed his horse Into the fastest run Copyright, 1920, by Little, Brown & Co. she knew a wild, sobbing figure ttl the darkness. "She's only got one shot more," he said. He knew how many bullets her pistol carried; and the danger what ever it was must be Just at hand; Un derbrush cracked beneath him. And then the horse drew up with a Jerk that almost hurled him from the sad dle. He lashed at her In vain. She was not afraid In the darkness and the rocks of the trail, but some Terror In the woods In front had In an Instant broken his control over her. She reared, snorting; then danced In an Impotent circle. Meanwhile, precious seconds were fleeing. He understood now. The horse stood still, shivering beneath him, but would not advance a step. The silence deepened. Somewhere in the dark ness before him a great cougar was waiting by the trail, and Snowbird, hoping for the moment that It had given up the chase, was hastening through the shadows squarely into Its ambush. Whlsperfoot crouched lower; and again his long serpent of a tall begnn the little vertical motion that always precedes his leap. He had not forgot ten the wild rapture of that moment he had Inadvertently sprung on Lnndy Hlldreth or how, after his terror had died, he had come creeping back. He hunted his own way, waiting on the trail; and his madness was at Its height. He was not Just Whlsperfoot the coward, that runs at the shadow of a tall form In the thickets. The consummation was complete, and that single experience of a month before had made of him a hunter of men. His muscles set for the leap. So Intent was he that his keen senses didn't detect the fact that there was a curious echo to the girl's footsteps. Dan Falling had slipped down from his terrified horse and was running up the trail behind her, pray ing that he could be In time. Snowbird heard the pat, pat of his feet ; but at first she did not dare to hope that aid had come to her. She had thought of Dan as on the far away marshes; and her father, the only other living occupant of this part of the Divide, might even now be ly ing dead In his house. In her terror, she had lost all power of Interpreta tion of events. The sound might be the cougar's mate, or even the wolf pack, Jealous of his game. Sobbing, she hurried on Into Whlsperfoot's am-' bush. Then she heard a voice, and It seem ed to be calling to her. "Snowbird I'm coming, Snowbird," a man's strong voice was shouting. She whirled with a Bob of thankfulness. At that Instant the cougar sprang. Terrified though she was, Snow bird's reflexes had kept sure and true. Even as the great cat leaped, a long, lithe shadow out of the shadow, her finger pressed back against the trigger of her pistol. She had been carry ing her gun In front of her, and she fired It, this last time, with no con scious effort. It wns Just a last In stinctive effort to defend herself. One other element affected the Is sue. She had whirled to answer Dan's cry Just as the cougar left the ground. But she had still been in range. The only effect was to lessen, In some de gree, the accuracy of the spring. The bullet caught the beast in mid-air; but even if It had reached Its heart, the momentum of the attack was too great to be completely overcome. Snowbird only knew that some vast, resistless power had struck her, and that the darkness seemed to roar and explode about her. Hurled to her face In the trail, she did not see the cougar sprawl on the earth beside her. The flame In the lantern almost flicked out as It fell from her hand, then flashed up nnd down, from the deepest gloom to a vivid glare with something of the ef fect of lightning flickering In the sky. Nor did she hear the first frenzied thrashing of the wounded animal. Kindly unconsciousness had fallen, ob scuring this and also the sight of the great cat, in the agony of Its wound, creeping with broken shoulder and bared claws across the pine needles toward her defenseless body. (TO BE CONTINUED.) ' Correct Way to Receive Burglar. The old plan of offering a burglar I cigarette and asking him to take chair while you telephone to the po lice Is not now so successful as In the past. The best' plan Is to tackle the fellow right away. For this purpose you should step behind him, take hold of his coat and force It over his face. Then tie his left arm to his right leg across the back. Properly carried out, this method rarely falls. London Punch. The Astrologer In China. From the earliest times astrology has been one of the arts surrounded by mystery. But In China It Is a very perilous profession. When a so called prophet predicts an event which does not occur, he loses his head. Many a man has risked acquiring wife la order to acquire a sister. Y 'Preparing Thanksgiving Feasl f 'tSOw lA The kitchen has an incense sweet, J i 1 1 s r ' -'"Ar4 f And pies bedeck the window seat. fP n1' VTv ' i '"'' 10 rr4 The good things cooking seem to whet If. j I' , ,Jl!Y ' . 'u tw' (A The awful appetite we get. I JefJJr I ' f4 tS lit : Jl Of - VjV -4W The poets of the present and of the past have embodied their gratitude for the blessings of the year In verse. At times the burden of their song has Incorporated the time-honored custom by which one day of the year Is set apart for the giving of thanks. Perhaps Thanksgiving recalls to them mother's Ingenuity and skill In making pumpkin pies, and so in a quaintly humorous way the poet pays j tribute to the pumpkin and the prod i uct thereof. Again the spirit of these November 'poems embodies a Thanksgiving Joy and freedom from sorrow ; for health i and happiness ; for things spiritual and physical. j At any rate, ever since Thanksgiv ing has been proclaimed a national holiday the poet has found Inspiration ! for his art and by means of his verses has awakened a sympathetic chord In ( the breasts of many men and women. I Although nearly ail of the poems of ' James Whltcomb Riley contain an es I sence of this spirit of gratitude with j the existing order of things, some of ; these are specifically devoted to the ; day Itself. Among these the poem ! entitled "Thanksgiving" Is one of the best. 1 Let us be thankfuj not only because ; Since last our universal thanks were I told ! We have grown greater In the world's i applause, I And fortune's newer smiles surpass the j old- i But thankful for all things that come as alms ! From out the open hand of Providence, j The winter clouds and storms the sum I mer calms : The Bleepless dread the drowse of In- dolence. Let us be thankful thankful for the prayers Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, That they might fall upon us unawares, And bless us, as in greater need we prayed. Let us be thankful for the loyal hand That love held out In welcome to our own. When love, and only love, could under stand The need of touches we had never known. Let us be thankful for the longing eyes That gave their secret to us as they wept, Yet In return found, with a sweet sur prise, Love's touch upon their lids, and, smil ing, slept. And let us, too, be thankful that the tears Of sorrow have not all been drained away, That through them still, tor all the com ing years, We may look on the dead face of today, Will Carleton, the New England poet, strikes the universal note of thanks In his hymn, part of which follows : We thank Thee, Father, for all that Is brlght- The gleam of the day and the stars of the night; The flowers of our youth and the fruits of our prime, And the blessings that march down the pathways ot time. We thank Thee, O Father, for all that Is drear The sob of the tempest, the flow of the tear; For never In blindness and never In vain Thy mercy permitted a sorrow or pain. The spirit of unemblttered resigna tion at approaching death Is ex pressed In a poem by Edith II. Thomas on "A Last Thanksgiving." When it Is time for me to go Time ot the rose or falling snow Or when new winds wake vernal strife, This to the world I've cherished so "I have been thankful for my life." ' When night and shade together flow. When dawns some scene I not yet know, Let me draw back one fluttering breath, Te say, to all I've loved below, "I have been thankful In my death!" "How John Quit the Farm" Is a narrative poem by the Hoosier poet, and combines pathos as well as quaint III pcs humor. The son John hus gone to the city to get an education nnd for the time being he Is .-aught by the glamour of city life. But the concluding stanza in which he tells of his return on Thanksgiving day shows that the lus ter of the city offered hiin but a fleet ing inducement. And so the summer faded out, and the autumn wore away, And a keener winter never fetched around Thanksgivln' day I And as I turned and looked around, some one rlz up and bent And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed In low content. "It's me," he says "your fool boy John come back to shake your hand; Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand How dearer ylt than all the world Is this old home that we Will spend Thanksgivln' in fer life Jest Mother, you and me!" John Greenleaf Whlttler wrote of the pumpkin, and In the poem of that title he says, In part: Ah, on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored; When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron Bmlles where the girl smiled before; What moistens the lips and what bright ens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie? f i M The object of Thanksgiving Jjj day Is to take us back of the js ,jj goods of life to the supreme j )) good. The tendency Is to get 'ij SJ absorbed In things and forget a A their spiritual value. Thanks- giving day reminds us of splr- lj! itual values. Then thanks for the present, none sweeter nor better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter. Fairer hands never wrought at pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o'er Its bak ing than thine; And the prayer which my mouth Is too full to express Swells my heart that thy shadow may never grow leas; That the days of thy lot may be strength ened below, And the tame of thy worth, like the pumpkin vine, grow And thy life be as sweet and its last sun set sky Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pump kin pie. The poem, "For an Autumn Festi val," by the same author, is of a more serious and devout nature, as several of the stanzas will testify. Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems of gold; Once more with harvest song and shout Is Nature's bloodless triumph told. Who murmurs at his lot today? Who scorns his native fruit and bloom? Or sighs for dainties far away, Beside the bounteous board of home? And let these altars, wreathed with flowers And piled with fruits awake again Thanksgiving for the golden hours. The early and the latter rainl One of the simplest and most beau La neemovs much, . umwmL - tiful of Thanksgiving poems is "We Thank Thee," by Emerson, It runs: For flowers that bloom about our feet; For tender grass, so fresh, so sweet; For song of birds and hum of bee; For all things fair we hear or see, Father In heaven, we thank Thee. For blue' of stream and blue of sky; For pleasant shade of branches high; For fragrant air and cooling breeze; For beauty of the blooming trees, Father In heaven, we thank Thee. As In most of her poems, a devout religious spirit pervades Phoebe Cary's poem on Thanksgiving. It Is an ap peal to the grown-ups on this day to make a trip back to' their childhood, and Is marked by the felicitous sim plicity of the writer: 0 men, grown sick with toll and care, Leave for a while the crowded mart 0 women, sinking with despair, Weary of limb and faint of heart, Forget your years today and come As children back to childhood's home. Following again the winding rills. Go to the places where you went When, climbing up the summer hills. In their green laps you sat content And softly leaned your head to rest On Nature's calm and peaceful breast Then the old lady of the poem goes on to tell that she has Just come from Sarah's, who lives In a sort of a pa lace In the city, and has creams and salads, made by a French cook, that "cost a. fortune." However, things didn't quite suit her at her niece's, and an Invitation to an old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner suits her well. How I run on. Well, thank you, neigh bor; I see you want to go. I'm comin' to Thanksgivln'; your good old ways I know; An' my mouth waters; dear old friend, there's tears In these dim eyes, For I shall taste the flavor of mother's pumpkin pies. Another poetess, Mrs. Margaret Sangster, wrote this verse on the "Thanksgivln' Pumpkin Pies": So you bid me to Thanksgivln'. Thank you, neighbor; it is kind To keep a plain old body like myself so much in mind. Here I've been slttln' all alone, and a mist before my eyes, A-thlnkin', like a simpleton, on mother's pumpkin pies. A toast by Ida E. S. Noyes Is very appropriate, since It has Thanksgiving for a subject. For every day of life we're living, Thanksgiving! For friends assembled 'round the board, Thanks we're giving. For every blessing, great and small. Thanks give we all! While it was not written especially In reference to our national feast of Thanksgiving, Keats' "Ode to Autumn" Is generally considered a poem of the season. The first stanza runs: Season of mists and yellow frultfulness! Close bosom friend of Uie maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run. To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the haze! shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the beeB, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'erbrlmmed their . clammy cells. These Go Well With the Turkey. To caramelize sweet potaoes after they have been parboiled, slice, dip in sirup or sprinkle with sugar and brown In the oven. Or small sections may be dipped In caramel sirup pre pared as for caramel custard by browning the sugar and adding enough water to make a thick sirup. Another way is to bake the sweet potatoes, mash, season with butter and pack in their half skins. Then pour a tea spoonful of caramel sirup over each and put In the oven to reheat . ..rafts grateful mine) is MKp