By C. W. Pefley. Listen to my tale, O nations; To the story of I-dah-ho, The Mountain of the Sun-rise. Long ago in forgotten ages, Wandering tribes, by foes pursued, Crossed the ice-locked sea of Behring Into Alaska's solitude. Naught but ice and snow they found there, So they southward pushed their way; On their left the mountains frowned; Stood their monarch, sunset crowned. 'Round his stately head were sailing Clouds of white and clouds of gray; On his dark breast died away. That they passed his domain o'er, Where only love had dwelt before. On his chosen children, few; With the voice of waters, said: Why should ye your brother slay? Night shall swallow up the Day. And the world with darkness fill." Wailing for the dying light, On the dark King's crown of white. Fell from sight into the darkness, By his gaunt and clammy hand. From the Snow Star turned his face; O'er high mountains, through deep rivers, 'Till, at last, half starved and heart sick, Through forests deep, they struggle on And on the highest peak they stand; Homes they built of skins and wood; Where the Sunrise Mountain stood. Of the Sunrise Mountain, hoar: Gone their power and their pride. O'er the city fair below. But only to the Land of Sunlight The Ribbon of the Iron Cross. Ø By Rudolf Albrecht. A BOVE the can- lights of Asto- ria across the water to the ships that swung up-stream on the incoming tide. Now and then a big fishboat with a shadowy standing figure pushing forward on his heavy oars, came round the bend of the wharves, sliding like a black insect across the dancing light trails in the swirling water, and dived under the piling to a landingstair. It was about 9 o'clock. The Finnish population and the sailors with shore leave were just beginning to crowd the dives of the water front and to collect in parties of four or five which went singing and swearing from saloon to saloon. A storm-scarred vessel at anchor nearly opposite the middle of the straggling town was fitfully lighted up by the glitter of an arc lamp on the riversteamer dock. The dapper clerk for the night boat peered out from his little cabin on the wharf and remarked to his friend, the drummer, who was waiting for the Portland steamer to come in from Flavel: "Well, the old tub out there needs paint." noise except the wash of the water along The broad, flickering shadow of the He did not know where to go. Nevertheless, he struck off down a dark little railed shelf along the back of some buildings-what would have been an alley, if it had not been for the black water incessantly lapping along the piles below. Then he stopped in fear at the sound of voices in one of the low buildings by which he had just passed, and hid behind a pile of empty kegs that almost blocked the passage. He listened intently. Some harsh masculine. voice, softened by the sentiment, perhaps, was singing a little Swabian folksong. He recognized the words; it was German of his own dialect-the tongue of his home-land. He bowed his head upon his swollen hands in utter weariness and loneliness. Only that fragment of a little song-and then the thump of heavy steins-ah! it was so cold-so lonely-in a strange land "Yes, I am a sailor "Oh!" interrupted Schwab. "Had a pretty hard time?" Ludwig Schwab, the owner and bartender of the Wacht am Rhein saloon, was not very busy that night. His customers were for the most part Germans; in fact, the little colony of them at Astoria made the Wacht am Rhein its headquarters before the railroad came -a sort of evening club, where one might meet one's friends and talk of fish or trade or shipping. But by midnight the last of them was gone, and Schwab took off his stained apron, that had once been white, and went out through the small back rooms, reeking with strong tobacco and flat beer, to get a breath of air in the little passage between streets, where his kegs were piled. Something heavy and soft seemed to hold the door tight closed; but he forced it far enough to see the face of an old man, pale and grizzled and weatherworn, looking up at him with frightened, pleading eyes. "Hey!" said Schwab, roughly. "Vat you vant here? Get up!" "Yes-yes!" The blood from his torn. breast had stained the sailor's rough shirt and his hands, and he trembled with cold. "Come," said Schwab, not unkindly. The old man rose slowly and crept painfully in at the door. Schwab poured out some brandy, thinking as he did so: "Sailors are scarce, and I can make big money by selling him to the next captain who is short of men." He seated him by the stove, and found a rough coat and a pair of boots somewhere. Then he went about putting out lamps and locking doors and windows. The man did not seem to comprehend, but raised one numbed and calloused hand as if to ward off an expected blow. Schwab gave a comprehensive grunt -he knew now what manner of man this was. So he spoke in English first, but again received no answer, and then in German: "Sailor off the last ship-aren't you? What are you hanging around here for?" The other began to explain, rubbing his numb joints as he tried to rise. The sailor followed his benefactor with dazed eyes. The warmth certainly was good, but he had lost much blood. He could scarcely understand all this kindness. Months of brutal treatment make a man distrustful. He half started from his bench. Schwab saw and understood the movement, and said, reassuringly: "No; I will not give you up. Come-sleep here." He led the sailor into a back room, gave him a couple of old blankets-and prudently locked the door on him. Early next morning the German ship Adelheid went up the river in tow. Schwab noticed her departure with satisfaction. However, as the days passed he grew less and less fond of the idea of trying to sell the old man, who called himself Karl Ritter, for an able sea man. "What captain would take him? He is getting weaker instead of stronger. I am certainly a fool!" he sputtered to himself. Yet he was becoming interested in the queer old derelict, and he began to cast about for a place to put him. Now, it would not do to let him come out publicly about Astoria until the Adelheid was on the Pacific again. At any rate, he was too strange an old fellow-too low-too silent, too self-contained. Schwab's wife came downstairs one day, saying: "What kind of a man is this old fellow, anyway? He's no sailor!", "No-he isn't much of a sailor." Ludwig feared his wife, and kept her commandments. "Well, he's a queer one! He won't talk except to the little one-talks to her all the time, though-the finest stories! Just as if he were the fairy prince and our Gretchen the Little Red-Cap." The good woman tapped her forehead with a fat red finger. Not long afterward Schwab made his decision. Some time before he had announced his intention of taking up a certain timber claim among the valuable spruces of Tillamook head, twenty-five miles down the coast from Astoria. That was the thing! He procured the final papers. Then the two went down learned to look for the hermit of the head. He would come down from the mountain usually twice a week, wearing a suit of coarse white stuff, to sell the storekeeper big buckets of red huckieberries gathered along the trail. If he ever met a little girl with yellow hair down on the beach or by the queer old hotels, he would stop and watch her, his lips moving piteously. He was truly a very gentle old man; but his kindliness was masked by his foreign speech, since few at the little seashore village knew along the beach on the rusty old railroad and over the old path to the most beautiful headland of the whole rugged cape. Together they built a cabin and cleared out the rank growth from the long-unused Indian trail, and carried in supplies and a few German books. At last the saloonkeeper went back to the Wacht am Rhein, and the old man stayed alone on the timber claim to hold it for his protector. After a time the arriving families at the summer resorts along the beaches any German. Although he was always those who understood. But up at the little cabin on the lonely cliff, far away from men, the strange old man was always busily talking to himself. He built a bench on the edge of the cliff, where he used to sit and babble for hours, gazing at the changing sea and the lighthouse on the rock in front. Sometimes he procured writing materials at the little store, and then for a week he would not come down. Page |