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leave the impress of his bill on the old man's trousers. He is a fighting bird, this "Hoodlum," and wages a merry contest with his master, in the thick of which the marauding jays swoop down, blue and impudent, and carry away more than their share of the meat. Jack Junior's short-lived trouble is forgotten. He dances ecstatically about on the track, and the world of loggerdom looks on and laughs.

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This exciting review is hardly over when a shrill whistle is heard. We are to leave "Camp 4" on the yarding-engine, "Skookum," bound for "Camp 5." So we go down to the platform in front of the cook-house, and from there, when the engine has switched in the "empties" and empties" and coupled on to the loaded cars, we get aboard and are soon out of sight of hospitable "Camp 4" and the friends we have made there.

A telephone message has been sent to the foreman of "Camp 5," and he is awaiting us on the landing. This foreman is young, smiling, and pleasant-faced, with a Canadian flavor to his words which a half-dozen years in the West have failed to eradicate. We walk across the landing, and examine the "Tollie," a locomotive used for hauling logs from the donkey to the landing. Being built especially for logging-camp use, it has various adaptations that give it rather an odd appearance. The boiler extends through the cab, the engineer's seat being on one side the barrier, and the fireman's on the other. It is a most unsociable arrangement, which I test when the men have resumed work by a brief occupancy of the fireman's seat. The ride out to the donkey is anything but a smooth one, the track making no more pretensions to excellence than does that of the "Walking Dudley." But it is only on the return trip that I realize its possibilities in the way of jolts.

My friend, attended by a surveyor and cruiser of the logging company, has gone to inspect a much-lauded bunch of timber. The foreman goes back to the camp with me. He, from his position beyond the tender, is as invisible to me as is the engineer on the other side of the dividing boiler. Hence, it is with a feeling of dis

tinct isolation that I begin a very exciting ride.

In coming out to the "works" I have leaned from the cab-window, and admired many a separate effect of forest scenery-the green festoons of moss, droopingbranched cedars, upright old firs, the lure of green growing from the black roots of an overthrown giant, wonderfully shallow roots stretching a far circumference; this, and much more have I seen. But now all is changed. The pace rushes the trees along the roadside into one swift, passing whole. I see nothing, feel nothing, but myself in the grip of a monster, all uncontrolled, the engineer may be overboard, for all I know,-ahead of us the dizzy pitch of the downward grade, behind us the logs transformed into huge battering-rams, hurtling along in vindictive pursuit of the power that has torn them from their strongholds. A race it is, however, that ends in a very few minutes. We do not bound off into the woods in a somersault of steam, nor do the logs overtake and crush us into infinitesimal bits. Instead, we draw decorously up on the landing, and when the young foreman assists me to alight I see the fat, squat engineer whom I have pictured going over-board far up the road, calmly oiling a piece of machinery and placidly puffing away at a pipe he lighted before the trip began.

For my own part, I am inclined to feel that I have come bravely through a trying ordeal, and I wait for words of commendation. Alas for vanity! The ride, after all, is but an every-day affair with these. loggers and their femininity. "A brisk little run!" volunteers the foreman in the most ordinary of tones, thereby removing the first prop from my edifice of self-gratulation, and the whole structure topples to ruins as he unconsciously continues, But you should have ridden on the cowcatcher or tender to get the full sweep of it. My cousins nearly always take the outside any place that offers a foothold." His cousins, those ubiquitous bloomer girls again, lithe of form, and iron-nerved. Where, I wonder, if they had played cicerone, would I be now?

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Do they ride much?" I query, with a backward glance at the grade up which the engine is again toiling.

"Well, they are only out here during their vacations, but they are around a good deal then. They know quite a little about an engine. Anyway, they can make one whiz," smiling a little over some past escapade. And I resign myself to consider my ride the matter-of-course affair it so clearly is in my companion's eyes, and skillfully conceal a shudder as we pass on our way close to those logs in whose grim inertness lurks such an awful power.

A few hundred feet to the right of the landing lies" Camp 5." It is built on low land, and there being few houses outside of the necessary camp buildings the village-like effect of "Camp 4" is lacking. A trestle commands the entrance. Loitering across this into the precincts of the camp, we are joined ere long by two Sisters of Mercy, dressed alike in trailing black robes, with spotless white bands about the face and a gleam as white at their wrists. They are from Olympia, where a branch of the order is established. Twice a year two of the resident Sisters come out to the camps to canvass their hospital tickets. The two who have joined us but now have been in the camps several days, coming this afternoon from the grading camp above "Camp 5." We have an interesting hour together, full of their experiences with the loggers, and our quartet is still in session when my friend returns from his timber inspection. We had intended going back to "Headquarters" on the last trip of the "Skookum," but our young host urges us to remain and have supper with him, after which he promises to take us down to the office on a handcar.

Sister

This plan being adopted, the "Skookum" runs in and out again, while we, all unmindful of its coming and going, are in the cook-house. Supper, ostensibly an early one, prolongs itself unduly. Sister Benedict's deep contralto finally warns us of the lapse of time. Benedict is nothing if not business-like, and stepping from the cook-house we find that her reminder has come none too soon. The day is closing in fast, and shadows lie thick in the gloom of the woods. Without more delay the men get the handcar on the track, we place ourselves on it, and the ride begins. Slowly we move at first, meeting the loggers on this side of the

landing, grouped and single, coming in from work. Then, fairly by the switches, with the camp sinking out of sight, willing arms materially increase our speed. The air rushes by our ears with a breezy coolness, and extra wraps are comforts no longer despised. This touch of cold is not the only change sunset has wrought. The encircling wood grows wilder. Lonely and vast it lies about us in depths of lurking darkness. From somewhere at our right, answered from the left, sounds the weird hoot of the night-owl, "To-wh-o? Towh-o-o? To-wh-o-o-o-?" And if extra wraps are comforts, thrice comforting is the noisy clank of the handcar and the close proximity of the packed humanity on its narrow platform.

I shout something like this thought to the foreman, and immediately, with his voice rising with the handle-bar, dropping again with its fall, he relates a story of a cougar that has been seen about these woods of late. I have had my credulity tested too often during the day to believe his fearsome details in their entirety, and Sister Benedict evidently believes not at all, for she raps out decisively, "Ah, these loggers! They will have their joke." Whereupon ensues a derisive laugh, and the foreman, dropping the handle-bar which has punctuated all his utterances, falls to mopping his heated face.

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Headquarters" glows cheerily as we approach it from the twilight, and the glaring-eyed, nine-foot" cougar having failed to make away with any of our party of seven, we still are seven when we draw up in front of the office.

In accordance with instructions telephoned from " Camp 5," our team stands ready for us. Urged on by thoughts of the lengthy drive yet before us, we betake ourselves directly to it, while the Sisters go towards the dwelling-house.

As we drive away into the shadows, I hear a girl's clear voice calling, "Over here, George!" and, looking back, my last view of "Headquarters" sees it snug and cheerful, with the moon's new crescent tilted above the dusk of the tree-tops, and our young foreman crossing the dismantled tennis-court on his way to those all-round athletes-his cousins, the bloomer girls.

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I

NATIVE SONS AND DAUGHTERS AND THE

SEMI-CENTENNIAL

By E. D. WARD

IN THE Order known as THE NATIVE SONS OF THE GOLDEN WEST, California has a very notable organization, characterized by young blood, state pride, boundless enthusiasm, and a vigor of thought and purpose which both illustrates the energetic spirit and serves the honor of the lusty young commonwealth that fronts the Sunset Sea.

It was as early as 1869 that General Winn, who was Grand Marshal of the Fourth of July parade in San Francisco that year, conceived the idea that the native lads should participate in the demonstrations of that occasion, and that they should at once effect some form of permanent organization. But California had then enjoyed only nineteen years of statehood, and the native sons of a suitable age were only a handful, and the project was dropped. Even in 1875 the Great Register of San Francisco showed the enrollment of only 295 persons of native birth; and in that year, in connection again with prepa

The City Hall Dome Was Brilliant

rations for the Fourth of July celebration, a call was issued to the native sons of the city to assemble for the purpose of organization. They participated in the parade which celebrated the birth of the Republic, their procession being headed by an old stuffed bear decked in the national colors -the red, white, and blue. A few days later, July 11, 1875, constitution and bylaws were adopted and officers elected for the permanent organization.

The young society adopted an annual programme of parades for Washington's Birthday, the Fourth of July, and Admission Day, and forthwith appeared as an organization in the streets of the city on September 9th of that same year-since which time they have not failed to participate in the parades of that anniversary.

The success of this original society soon stirred up the enthusiasm of young Californians elsewhere, and branch parlors were formed, Oakland taking the lead, in December, 1877, followed by Sacramento, in March, 1878. In September of the latter year the Grand Parlor was instituted, and since that date the order has grown rapidly, issuing 208 charters, and having now a membership of 15,000. The passing of time has brought it about that the children of those who founded the order, and grandchildren of the Pioneers, are being received into membership and appear even in its roll of officers.

It was in connection with the parade of September 9, 1875, mentioned above, that the Native Daughters were first heard from in the presentation of a flag for the Sons to salute, and thenceforth carry as the expression of their spirit. But it was not until September 11, 1886, that the young women of California birth, and residing at Jackson, Amador County, organized themselves into Ursula Parlor, No. 1. Native Daughters of the Golden West. This order has also grown rapidly, numbering at present nearly 4,000 members. Their Grand President, Mrs. Emma Gett, states the object of the order to be "the

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