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man's copy, having in the final folios no hints save a few hieroglyphs. When he was very bad indeed he used to drop into Welsh, which for all practical purposes was quite as useful to me as the English which marked the advancing stages of the dinner. He had, I learned, been many years on the paper, and he was there when I left it. Another person who much impressed me in this my earliest acquaintance with the Press was the overseer of the printing office. His name, when he first came to the office, was Smith. After a while he took to spelling it Smyth, and when I arrived he had come to be addressed as Mr. Smythe. In personal appearance he was singularly like an elderly Dick Swiveller. The paper coming out on Friday morning, on Saturday he made holiday. He always made a point of swaggering up and down High Street on fine Saturday afternoons, ogling the shop-girls and maid-servants. He wore a frock-coat tightly drawn in at the waist. I believe on Saturdays he secreted stays. His hands were covered with dirty gloves, often yellow, sometimes lavender, in hue. He had a glistening pin fastening a many-coloured scarf, displayed under a dirty linen collar. The crowning grace of his figure was a white hat with a deep black band. With this set rakishly over his right ear, and a tasselled cane swinging negligently in his gloved hand, Smythe was a credit to the paper. He was a cheery gentleman, with a loud somewhat stagey laugh, accompanied by well-considered flourishes of his right arm and easy bending of his knees. A remarkable character whose individuality remains vividly stamped on my memory. My first work on the “Chronicle' was a rather serious undertaking. There was an annual review of the Yeomanry, or Militia, at which all the county gathered. Except for the account of a meeting in Liverpool written at Mr. Russell's suggestion, I had never before attempted reporter's work. I got through somehow, as I did with whatever else fell to my share in the miscellaneous work of the office. There was a Tuesday paper, an offshoot of the “Chronicle.’ It had a single leading article, which Mr. Watton generally wrote himself. After I had been on the staff four or five weeks I wrote one, furtively dropped it in the letter-box, and was greatly elated at finding it in the next issue of the paper. Mr. Watton dissembled his joy, making no reference to the little incident, though he must have recognised the handwriting. There was at this time in Shrewsbury a miserable little weekly sheet called ‘The Observer,’ published on Saturdays, at the price of a penny. It had no leading article, and its local news was ‘conveyed from the pages of its more prosperous neighbours. The proprietor was a stationer in High Street, of whose full style, boldly displayed over the window, it will be sufficient to mention the surname, which was Peter. I wrote a column of notes on news, sent it to Peter, and proposed to furnish a similar contribution weekly for a payment of ten shillings. Anxious to meet any particular views he might entertain, I offered to make the contribution either a leader, a column of notes, or a London letter, written, of course, from Shrewsbury. My communication was anonymous, and I asked Peter, if he thought anything of the project, to address me under certain initials in the correspondence column of his paper. I opened the ‘Observer’ on the following Saturday, and there were my notes on news in the dignity of leader type, and a couple of lines asking ‘L. H.’ to call and see the proprietor. The result of this communication was that I became a regular contributor to the editorial columns of the ‘Observer” at a salary of ten shillings a week. There was nothing particular in the writing except that it dealt with local subjects in a fashion untrammelled by the personal considerations that weigh with the editors and proprietors of newspapers in small country towns. A new system of sewage was at the time greatly agitating the mind of the ratepayers. Simultaneously the Northern and Southern States of America were at each other's throats across the Atlantic. The secret designs of Napoleon III. were not above suspicion. The “Chronicle, having its principal leading article sent down by luggage train from London, was pointed and graphic in its commentary on the latest battle between the Federals and Confederates, and was deep in the mysteries of the mind of Napoleon III. But the people of Shrewsbury primarily wanted to know all about the new sewage system and the proposed Market Hall, and when they found these matters discussed in the columns of the ‘Observer,’ with occasional hard raps distributed among disputants on the Town Council, they rushed to buy the paper. Its sale went up in inspiriting fashion, and I had the satisfaction of hearing many ask who was the new writer ? Peter kept the secret, and so did I. Finally gossip was divided between two well-known local personages, one a stockbroker with a literary turn, the other a militant Nonconformist minister. Encouraged by this success, I opened in the same way colnmunications with the proprietor of a paper at Wellington, called the ‘Shropshire News.” After some correspondence, I arranged with him to write a weekly article at the rate of 10s. 6d. a week. Peter, growing rash with the bounding prosperity of the ‘Observer,’ proposed that I should write two articles a week, throwing them in for 15s. The ‘Shropshire News’ was published on Thursday, the “Chronicle’ on Friday, the ‘Observer’ on Saturday. Thus by working hard—and I liked the work—I managed to keep things going. In addition I was the local correspondent of the principal daily papers in London, Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Sheffield, and Leeds. At the end of 1864 I find in the shorthand diary I then kept a triumphant note showing that I had more than doubled my income, my modest 30s. a week from the “Chronicle? being supplemented by a larger sum made after I had done my office work. The articles in the ‘Shropshire News’ did not attract so much attention as those in the ‘Observer, but the proprietor, a sterling, honest man, was satisfied. He, of course, did not know I was the ‘Observer's ' scribe, and once wrote me a kindly note to say that for his part he thought the leaders in the ‘News’ were as good as the ‘Observer's,” indeed he liked them better. “They are more solid,” he dubiously said.

(To be continued.)

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‘Hai-yai, so bright a day, so clear !” said Mitiahwe as she entered the big lodge and laid herself upon a wide, low couch, covered with soft skins, the fur of a grizzly which had fallen to her man's rifle. ‘Hai-yai, I wish it would last for ever—so sweet !” she added, smoothing the fur lingeringly, and showing her teeth in a smile. ‘There will come a great storm, Mitiahwe. See, the birds go south so soon,’ responded a deep voice from a corner by the doorway. The young Indian wife turned quickly, and, in a defiant fantastic mood—or was it the inward cry against an impending fate, the tragic future of those who will not see, because to see is to suffer ?—she made some quaint, odd motions of the body which belonged to a mysterious dance of her tribe, and, with flashing eyes, challenged the comely old woman seated on a pile of deerskins. ‘It is morning, and the day will last for ever, she said, nonchalantly, but her eyes suddenly took on a far-away look, half apprehensive, half wondering. The birds were indeed going south very soon, yet had there ever been so exquisite an autumn as this, had her man ever had so wonderful a trade, her man with the brown hair, blue eyes, and fair strong face “The birds go south, but the hunters and buffalo still go north,’ Mitiahwe urged searchingly, looking hard at her mother—Oanita, the Swift Wing. ‘My dream said that the winter will be dark and lonely, that the ice will be thick, the snow deep, and that many hearts will be sick because of the dark days, and the hunger that sickens the heart,” answered Swift Wing. Mitiahwe looked into Swift Wing's dark eyes, and an anger came upon her. ‘The hearts of cowards will freeze,” she rejoined, “and to those that will not see the Sun the world will be dark,” she added. Then, suddenly, she remembered to whom she was speaking, and a flood of feeling ran through her; for Swift Wing had i Copyright, 1908, in the United States of America.

cherished her like a fledgling in the nest till her young white man came from ‘down East.” Her heart had leapt up at sight of him, and she had turned to him from all the young men of her tribe, waiting in a kind of mist till he, at last, had spoken to her mother, and then one evening, her shawl over her head, she had come alone to his lodge. A thousand times as the four years passed by she had thought how good it was that she had become his wife— the young white man's wife, rather than the wife of Breaking Rock, son of White Buffalo, the Chief, who had four hundred horses, and a face that would have made winter and dark days for her. Now and then Breaking Rock came and stood before the lodge, a distance off, and stayed there hour after hour, and once or twice he came when her man was with her; but nothing could be done, for earth and air and space was common to them all, and there was no offence in Breaking Rock gazing at the lodge where Mitiahwe lived. Yet it seemed as though Breaking Rock was waiting—waiting, and hoping. That was the impression made upon all who saw him, and even old White Buffalo, the Chief, shook his head gloomily, when he saw Breaking Rock, his son, staring at the big lodge which was so full of happiness, and of many luxuries never before seen at a trading post on the Koni River. The father of Mitiahwe had been Chief, but because his three sons had been killed in battle, the chieftainship had come to White Buffalo, who was of the same blood and family. There were those who said that Mitiahwe should have been chieftainess, but neither she nor her mother would ever listen to this, and so White Buffalo and the tribe loved Mitiahwe because of her modesty and goodness. She was even more to White Buffalo than Breaking Rock, and he had been glad that Dingan the white man—Long Hand, he was called—had taken Mitiahwe for his woman. Yet behind this gladness of White Buffalo and that of Swift Wing, and behind the silent watchfulness of Breaking Rock, there was a thought which must ever come when a white man mates with an Indian maid without priest or preacher, or writing, or book, or bond. Yet four years had gone, and all the tribe, and all who came and went, half-breeds, traders, other tribes, remarked how happy was the white man with his Indian wife. They never saw anything but light in the eyes of Mitiahwe, nor did the old women of the tribe who scanned her face as she came and went, and watched and waited too for what never came—not even after four years. Mitiahwe had been so happy that she had not really missed what

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