"The Story of a cañon,"

Chapter 1

On a rocky plateau, a little back from the mountain road, climbing through one of the most picturesque canons of Colorado, stands an old-fashioned two-story brick house. The white gables and red walls, outlined with the distinctness of a statue against the gray rocks, stand out clear-cut and conspicuous in their rocky niche.

In the immediate background terraced mountains tower in rugged grandeur three thousand feet ; in the canon below nestles the red-roofed village of Hopetown, while around in changeless majesty and silence sweep the eternal hills. Not of mediaeval ages do these battlemented fastnesses, with their defaced, shattered walls, strangely rounded projections and castle-looking ruins, speak, but of primeval times. Cup-like hollows, flower-filled, brighten the sombre grandeur to-day,

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wild rifted sides and yawning chasms, but signs of long-ago convulsions, and Titanic force in tortured writhing, everywhere oppress with speechless wonder and awe.

A rugged setting for human homes, yet homes are there, and gentle hearts nestle in this mountain eyry. Love and happiness, like wild flowers, bloom on the scantiest of soils, making glad the waste places of earth, while overhead in perpetual benediction smile the blue skies and sunshine of Colorado.

Many years before the tide of western emigration had set in. Brave hearts, tired of the constant struggle to make homes in the far East and achieve independence, had gone out from the old narrow life of the poor to seek a wider one beyond the. horizon. Indian-like, the proud poor man seemingly must ever travel westward before the march of civilization. Filled with hope and courage, like the Pilgrims of Plymouth, these early path-finders went forward into the wilderness, not knowing what would befall them there.

Who has not read of the dauntless pioneers of the early sixties, of their hardships and perils as they crossed what was then the Great American Desert in their canvas-covered wagons } Behind lay their house of bondage, the Egypt from which they had fled ; before stretched Canaan, their land of promise.

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The noble declaration that “ life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” was the inalienable right of every human being, was fast becoming a dead letter for the poor man in the East ; and these brave pioneers of early days once more sought to re-incarnate the immortal truth. And they did. No freer, more independent, happier race than the miners of Colorado have ever lived. They had not only the right to liberty and happiness, as all men have, but they had also the power, the opportunity to possess their divine birthright.

Nature’s treasure-houses, filled by the great Father for His children long ages before, stood all around, waiting for the keys that would unlock their vaults. In the hands of these restless, ambitious wanderers were the missing keys. Pick-axe and shovel, hammer and drill, untiring industry, patient perseverance, self-sacrifice, fitted well those ancient locks, and at their repeated touch the granite doors gave way.

Wealth, freedom from care, broader, fuller life, were within possible reach of the poorest.

Who could wonder at the fascination of this new industry ? The same heart beats under broadcloth or corduroy; the same motive powers control humanity the world over; the same desires possess miner and millionaire alike. A Rothschild and an unknown prospector on a mountain side differ in degree only, not at all in kind.

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Steadily flowed the tide of emigration westward. Wave after wave swept up the wild, lonely canons, carrying on their bosoms their human freight. On the crest of one of these a few enterprising men were carried into the heart of the hills, and stranded in the land-locked basin where Hopetown now stands. Here the valley widens and a town is a possibility, but only to men of iron will and dauntless courage, up-borne by the hope of better days.

The mighty hills rose up like huge ramparts, walling them in, seeming to shut out all civilization, the comforts that were almost necessities, and even communication with loved ones far away.

Years passed on ; these human moles burrowed in their dark holes on the mountain side, with an industry no beaver ever surpassed. Many a brave heart grew weary in the long fight against heavy odds, and passed over the range ere his hopes were realized ; but still the work went on. Little by little the prospect holes became mines. Outside capital flowed in, inside silver flowed out, and with gladness and faith the foundations of Hopetown were laid.

As we sit by the eastern window of the old brick house to-day, we can see the little town, crowding, nestling, straggling in its narrow limits, at our feet. Civilization and comparative prosperity have come at last. A railroad winds its serpentine

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path up the valley ; churches and school-houses keep the beacon lights of religion and knowledge ever burning ; homes grow beautiful and intelligent under their illumination. Streets lined with trees, green lawns round pleasant houses, carefully tended beds of flowers, — even a park, gleaming emerald-like among the brown rocks, show the love of refinement and beauty in this mining camp.

Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. It is also the price of many other things ; and surely the people of Hopetown have paid it, to make and keep this oasis in the heart of the dry desert of a Rocky Mountain canon.

Its windows blinking in the sun, the old house on its rocky ledge seems to watch the clustered houses below with almost human interest. Has the little town not grown to its present stunted proportions under the ceaseless supervision of those glassy eyes }

Years before a lucky miner had built this home-like watch-tower, hauling brick across the plains by ox-teams to do so. Ever since it has stood, a familiar landmark, covered as thickly with byegone associations as an old ruin with ivy. Its life spans not twenty-five years only, but in western experience bridges from one epoch to another. At one end are pioneers, prairie-schooners, Indians, bowie-knives, semi-civilization ; at the

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Other railways, electric lights, nineteenth century school-houses, Chautauqua circles. Between rolls a century of change and thought.

Picturesque in situation as some Swiss chalet in the far-famed Alps, is this pioneer house of the Rockies. Before entering shall we glance at its . surroundings ? Many a millionaire has paid a king’s ransom for a pictured scene less fair. A background of gray, weather-stained rocks, with winding terraced walks cut in the face of the cliffs, and a water-fall in the distance, leaping like some spirit of light from ledge to ledge. To the right a Jet d' eati flashing in the sunlight, a belt of trees, a level grass-plot with bald spots here and there, and a low, old-fashioned fence showing signs of wear and tear, surrounding it all.

In front the dusty highway, leading to many mines and to Silver Ridge, another mining camp. Across the road a grove of firs, beyond the noisy creek, and then again the calm majestic mountains.

Houses, like people, sometimes possess character, and this house has its own marked individuality. Instinctively strangers in passing pause to take a second look, and to ask questions. Although fast lapsing into ruin, a certain air of distinction lingers round the old facade and grounds, awakening curiosity and interest.

In this mountain home live the Howards, and here for years have my Sabbaths been spent.

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Through the week, like many other men in mining camps, the only home known has been a cabin on a bleak hillside ; but Saturday evenings, at least, the privilege of family life has been mine.

What a privilege this is, what a break in the week’s exile, only bachelors, rooming six days out of seven in the fifth story of a Rocky Mountain canon, will realize.

Thousands of poor fellows have no such luck. Toiling all week in dark tunnels, danger and death keeping step with every movement, they hunt for the precious metal that for them means comfort, happiness, life. Saturday night they quit early, “ fix up ” as best they can, go down to the nearest town to get their mail, hear the news, and lay in a fresh store of provisions and ammunition for the coming week. This done, like unanchored men the world over, miners are peculiarly at the mercy of circumstances and their own inclinations. There is no place to go ; the steeet or the saloon are the only resorts.

Need it cause wonder if these bachelor hermits of the Rocky Mountains ofttimes drift further and further away from home influences, religion, and all the progressive civilizing amenities of the nineteenth century They are a social race, — these silver miners, and must needs have companionship. The week, or two weeks’ enforced isolation in some distant cabin perhaps makes

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this more of a necessity, and the mannish pleasures of the mountain towns more attractive. In their colorless lives they crave society and excitement as men crave food ; if in their hunger, during their brief visits to the world of sunshine, they accept society as they find it, as it comes to them, who among us can blame them ? Which of us does more ?

Of course success, ^‘striking it,” in many instances would change all this. The bachelor need be one no longer, but could make a home and live as God meant all men should live, with some sweet, pure woman for a companion, and have a fireside made bright with the ruddy faces of children. It is not good for man to be alone.” This is as true for the miner of Colorado to-day, perhaps truer, than for Adam in the Garden of Eden. Lounging on street corners, treating in saloons, rattling dice and other kindred amusements, lose their fascination, as a rule, when a man knows that somewhere eager ears are listening for his coming footsteps, and a loving welcome awaits him.

When we first enter “ Rest-A-While,” the quaintly characteristic name of John Howard’s home, it is the close of a lovely afternoon in June. All day the air had been warm, oppressively so for the mountains, but now a breeze laden with coolness from the snowy range beyond comes floating down the canon, life and freshness falling from the slow-moving wings.

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In the hall, sheltering from the flies and heat, lies Roland, the tawny guardian of the place ; and as we pause a moment in the shadow of the greenpainted walls to caress the noble head, an unseen speaker calls in a sweet cheery voice, “Come now, children, let’s go and meet papa.” A door opens and the speaker steps into view. It is Mrs. Howard. As her husband once said of her, “A little brown thrush of a woman, whose songs are always sweetest and strongest when the shadows fall.” The face is singularly gentle, yet strong, frank and open, with lines of fine reserve tempering its open frankness, and with a gladness shining out of the inner depths like the gladness of a mountain columbine.

“Why, Philip, when did you come down ? Glad to see you,” is the kindly greeting as we meet, and the outstretched hand and cordial clasp give fresh meaning to the simple words.

“We are just going to meet John. Will you go with us, or are you too tired ? ”

“Oh, no. Not too tired for that,” I answer. “ It is a lovely afternoon for a walk, but where are the children ^ Ah, there they come,” and with a glad cry little Marjorie’s arms are round my neck, her rosy mouth pressing my brown cheek with kisses. Marian, too, in a shyer fashion comes forward with a kindly welcome. She is another Mary Howard, only taller and fairer, with a flush in the

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rounded cheek like a wild rose, and the gladness of perfect health in every motion. The large, lustrous eye has the same honest, straightforward look as her mother’s, and out of its clear depths shines a soul as true and loyal. Seventeen summers have passed over her head, but the grace of a simple, natural childhood has not yet departed ; its ways and feelings linger with her still.

Very carefully has this mountain maid been reared and sheltered. The mountains, the flowers, the clouds cradled round some far off peak, the processional seasons in their varied glory have all lain as an open book before her reverent eyes from childhood. A student of nature and of books, with open eye and receptive mind, guided by older wisdom she has listened to their teachings, and the reward crowns the fair young face as with an aureole. The birds, the mountain streams, the winds have whispered their secrets, and ‘‘ beauty born of murmuring sound ” hath passed into her face.

CHAPTER 11.

With a short bark, indicative of his perfect satisfaction with the arrangement, Roland bounds into the road as we start, raising a cloud of dust with his boisterous gambols. He is a cross between the St. Bernard and Cuban blood-hound, and is equally remarkable for size, intelligence and loyalty. No picture of the Howard family would be complete without him, for he is the friend of every member in it.

Holding Marjorie’s hand in mine, the dear little lassie of five years, we begin our walk up the dusty canon, between hedges of quaking asp ” as it is familiarly called, from the peculiar fluttering motion of the leaves. The tropical rays of a Colorado summer sun, pouring from a cloudless sky, fill our eyes with a fierce glare ; but the cool breeze tempers the heat.

To the left of the road the mountain torrent, swollen by melting snows, rushes wildly on its seaward way, churning its waters into foam as it hurries on, and leaving in its wake a gleaming path of whiteness like snowy carded wool, far up the 11

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canon. The scent of wild roses is in the air, and the clear song of the robin floats cheerily out from the rocks and thickets as we travel upward.

Listen, Uncle Phil,” says Marjorie, stopping with upraised finger, ‘‘do you know what that bird says ? ”

“ No, sweetheart, what does it say ? ”

“ ‘ Love God, trust God, praise God.’ We sing a hymn at Sunday-school, and those are the words the little bird says in that hymn.”

“Well, Marjorie,’^ I answer, “that’s a nice thought, and if our hearts were only tuned aright, maybe we would hear a voice everywhere praising God and telling us to trust Him.”

“See here,” said Mrs. Howard, just then, pointing to a cluster of mountain lilies, “ what a beautiful patch of lilies, growing and thriving on the very edge of the dusty wheel track, almost under the horses’ feet. How stainless and joyful they look. Do they not carry a message, too, to every passer-by ? Trust God, and do not let the dust of every-day worries choke out the beauty and fragrance of your life.”

At that moment three or four horsemen with orebespattered clothes and mining canteens strapped on their backs, hurried past. The afternoon tide of returning humanity had set in homeward. Following in rapid succession came groups of miners on foot, in carts, or on burros. Where

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mines lie beyond timber line, or up precipitous steeps, these sure-footed climbers will carry their riders without fatigue and in safety. The all but inaccessible trail becomes a beaten highway to their clinging feet.

Dozens of familiar faces and forms pass, swinging home with that long, easy stride that all mountaineers have, and at last, round a sudden bend in the road, we catch sight of a form more familiar still. Both hands raised, grasping the lapels of his coat, his head bent forward as if in deep thought, leisurely striding along comes John Howard. The level rays of the setting sun light up his massive figure, as he slowly approaches down the avenue of dazzling glory, and we can scarcely see him for the radiance which fills our eyes and “almost blinds them with excess of light.”

From the beaming look of happiness on the faces of Mrs. Howard and Marian, the glad onward rush of Marjorie ahead, the frantic leaps of Roland on his master, it is not hard to guess at the nature of this man, — to see he is no irritable fault-finder. In truth John is a good fellow, respected and beloved by all coming within reach of his personality. To know him is to love him, and added knowledge is but to deepen the affection. Loyal to his friends and convictions, true in every fibre of his honest, loving heart to his

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wife and children, no nobler, manlier nature walks these canons.

Rooted, grounded in Scotland, grafted when still young on the great American stock, drawing nourishment alike from the conservative Scottish past and the progressive American present, he is no unworthy specimen of this double-natured, Janus-headed class to which America owes so much.

When I first met John Howard he was a young man, I a boy. From the first my heart went out to him, and as, long ago, the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, so was mine to his. The difference in our age was never felt by me, and if it was by him the generous nature was too considerate to reveal it. He was my ideal, and more than any one else the shaping influence of my life. We used to sit for hours on the “braes” by the sounding seashores of Scotland, among the buttercups and gowans, “ the wee, modest, crimson tipped flower,” that Burns sings about, watching the ships riding at anchor or becalmed on a summer sea, “ idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”

Many a time did I watch the honest, child-like soul shining out of the transparent, beautiful eyes, and think that perhaps if the Saviour had met him He would have said, as He did of another youth, “ Behold an Israelite in whom there is no

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guile.” Graver and sadder, with a tired, care-worn expression round the kindly mouth and eyes, much of the fun and boyish light-heartedness for which he was always famous crushed out of him, he is still the same lovable John. For twenty odd years has he wrestled hard with fortune, till the breaking of many a day over the hill-tops of life, but the angel of success has not blessed him. Week after week, month after month, all these long years, has he tramped through summer’s sun and winter’s storms, now to this mine now to that in quest of better luck. All day long in the dark caverns of earth has he toiled, amid the poisonous smoke and air of the deadly giant powder, to bring comfort and happiness to his loved ones. So far it has been a hard struggle to make both ends meet, to clothe and educate his children, and care for the brave but delicate little woman enshrined in the inmost recesses of his great loyal heart.

In the simplicity, even bareness of their family life, I sometimes thought the Howard home harmonized well with the bareness of the bleak canon, — the same dignity and grandeur of outline characterized both. Love, contentment, patience, carefully cultivated by father and mother, softened the sharp edges of privation and brightened the long stretches of negative, colorless existence. Simple joys seemed to take

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root and flourish in crevices, and on soil invisible to superficial eyes.

They gather round him with eager words and caresses this afternoon, I, a little apart watching the family reunion, the least shade of loneliness stealing over my bachelor soul. Only for a moment, however, does it flit like the shadow on the mountain’s breast across me. The cordial clasp of John’s hand, the hearty greeting bring back the sunshine, and I am no longer an outsider. A happy, reunited family we turn our faces homeward, Roland chasing chipmunks real or imaginary in every thicket, Marjorie dancing like a frolicsome kitten at her father’s side.

As we topped the hill overlooking Hopetown and “ Rest-A-While,” John paused a moment and looked down on the home, nestling in the green, rock-encircled hollow below.

“ I never realized the appropriateness of your name, Mary,” he said, turning to his wife, “ as much as I do to-night. The long, dusty walk down the canon this afternoon, makes a fellow appreciate such an invitation.”

“ How did you come to give it such a queer name I asked.

When we first went to live there,” John answered, laughing, “ Mary was continually having compassion on wearied looking passers-by, and inviting them to come in and ‘rest a while.’ It

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was summer and she was outdoors a good deal, and saw them. They would often stop and ask for a drink of water, tell her how steep the hills seemed and how tired they were. Short-breathed tourists unaccustomed to climbing were her especial care. She was always inviting them in, using that phrase invariably, so one day I suggested she put her hospitable instincts on record, and call the place ‘ Rest- A- While.’ That’s the history of its name.”

Chapter III

Saturday afternoons, as a rule, are the brightest times of all the week in a mining camp. From distant gulches and bleak hill-sides, from logcabins beyond timber line, the miners troop down after their week’s exile to the peopled valleys. Missing links are once more added to many a family circle.

In John Howard’s home, that evening, jubilee reigned, and every heart beat with a gladder pulsation.

The supper-table, though simple in its appointments, looked cosy and home-like as we gathered round it, and a happier group would have been hard to find. In the centre of the snowy, if somewhat coarse table-cloth, stood a large yellow milk bowl, filled and arranged by Marian’s artistic fingers with wild pink roses, bluebells and ferns. At one end of the table a majolica dish heaped high with fresh red berries from some lowland ranch, appealed pleasantly to more than one sense ; at the other the delicate green leaves of the curled lettuce, just plucked from 19

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the garden, made another bright spot of color. Everywhere a subtle atmosphere of refinement, delicate and vague as the fragrance of the flowers, yet as consciously perceptible, surrounded one.

Behind the simple tea-service of white china sat Mary Howard, her gentle face fairly shining with its light of inner happiness. Next her came Harry, mother’s little man, a bright-eyed, wide-awake youngster of twelve. Opposite was John, and by his side, closer perhaps than was altogether comfortable, nestled golden-haired, browneyed Marjorie, her face a strange likeness of his in miniature. At the sides of the table were Marian and myself, and in one corner of the room fast asleep lay Roland, in his dreams, even, hunting chipmunks and fighting battles over again, occasionally wakened by his own bark, looking up with an ** ashamed apologetic” air, greatly to the children’s amusement.

“Well, John, how is the mine looking.?” I ask, that being the question par excellence of this region.

“ It looks well, Phil, first-rate ; better than it has ever done I believe. The last shot in the drift opened up a foot of mineral. If that streak stays with us we’re all right. Shouldn’t wonder, mother,” he added, turning to his wife, “ if we’d get to the World’s Fair after all.” A happier, brighter look than had rested there for many

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a day lighted up his care-worn face as he spoke.

The news was so unexpected that for a moment there was silence, then a perfect outburst of joyous exclamations and questions, Harry capping the climax by jumping upon a chair and crowing like a rooster in his excitement.

John looked annoyed. ‘‘ I shall be sorry I told you anything, if you allow yourselves to get so excited,” he said gravely. “There’s nothing certain yet. Something may happen, streak play out or silver go down, and then all this feeling will make the disappointment harder to bear. Don’t build your castles too fast, and don’t say anything to people outside.” His nature was reticent, ever averse to making his private experiences and affairs public.

“This time I hope you won’t be disappointed,” I said. “ You’ve earned a holiday, John, and need one if a man ever did. Hope you’ll get it.”

“Yes,” was the quiet reply, “I should like to get out of harness for awhile.”

“ How long is it since you had a holiday of more than a day or two ? ” I asked.

“Twenty years,” he answered. “A long time in a man’s life, but in these mountains that experience is but too common. If a prospecting miner is not lucky enough to ‘ strike it,’ holidays are impossible luxuries. Now,” he added cheerily,

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‘‘if success comes our way we’ll make the most of it. We’ll have a genuine honey-moon, Mary, and the children thrown into the bargain.”

Mary’s heart was in her eyes and tears of joy rolled silently down the thin cheek, but she said nothing. The thought of possible happiness, and such happiness coming to her dear ones, of the uplifting of heavy life-burdens from overweighted bodies and souls, unnerved her. The heart was too full for utterance. “ I don’t believe,” John went on, “ I ever wanted to go to any place as much as I have wanted to go to the World’s Exposition. It will be the chance of a life-time to supplement a deficient education, and make up for the wasted years spent in mechanical toil.”

This was much for him to say, and we all knew how deep the heart-hunger must have been for him to express it, as he never complained, and rarely spoke of his own desires. His nature was too unselfish for that.

“ There’s one comfort,” added his wife, “ if we do go to Chicago you’ll have not only the object lessons there, but time and opportunity to study them. You won’t be so tired you can’t think.”

“That will be a comfort,” said John smiling. “ I won’t be all body then. Many a time I’ve sat down after a day’s work, determined to study, and positively have been so sleepy and tired there wasn’t any mind left to study with. That has

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been the nightly experience for years. At such times I’ve crawled into bed, feeling I was nothing but a big hulk of an animal, and that death was the end of it all.”

When do you suppose you can go if things turn out all right .? ” I asked.

“Not before the middle of September,” was the answer, “but don’t let’s build castles till we’re more sure of foundations. If they shouldn’t materialize, the disappointment might be more than some of us could bear. I believe I am sick of the mountains ; feel like some shipwrecked sailor on a desert island, watching the horizon for a friendly sail to take him off.”

“Why, John,” exclaimed his wife, “I didn’t know you felt like that.”

A curious smile lit up his face for a moment, almost like a thin mask it seemed, seeking to veil some hidden feeling even from the watchful eyes of love. “Until the way out opened up,” he said evasively, “ I have never allowed myself to think much about it ; and I rather think it will be wisest for all of us to do the same thing. Don’t ever allow yourself to want anything very much, to count on anything, until you see your way clear to getting it. Marian can go anyway,” he added, “and be eyes and ears for the rest of us if we have to stay home.”

She had been invited to visit friends at Chicago,

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and her whole girlish nature was alive with eager anticipations. It would be her first flight from the home nest into the world, and the dreamy, poetic maiden looked forward with a joy that was almost rapture, to the prospect. Already her imagination revelled in the unknown wonders and beauties to be revealed. For two or three weeks the dear little mother had been thinking and planning, as only such mothers can and do, how to make one dollar do the work of two. Early and late in the short intervals between household duties, you could hear the ceaseless whirr of the sewing machine, or see the needle between her tireless fingers flashing now through this material, now through that.

With all her simplicity and unworldliness, Mrs. Howard was a proud woman, and her girl must look as well as others in the gay parterres of blooming maidens in the White City. The friends must feel satisfied with her appearance, and she must feel satisfied with herself. We had all gladly gone under tribute, and given up some anticipated pleasure so that Marian’s “ outing ” might be perfect. Samples of inexpensive material had been sent for, and fabrics and hues as varied and almost as artistic as butterflies’ wings had come into our quiet, sober household. We had all studied and given our opinions, wise and otherwise, on the all important dress question.