Lord, no! cannon balls couldn't make me! What! leave you alone with Yaller Jack? Not if I knows it. I'll be your nurse, please God! You's use to me; I's use to you; so we won't say no mo' about it I stay!"

Tears come into his eyes, 'n' at dat moment, ef he'd been my own father which I

By 'n' by I was called to copy a few bits o' paper. I don't know what I wrote. I tried to understand, but my brain seemed burnin', 'n' after a while I found myself outside de house, 'n' in de carriage, side o' my my master.

"It's a curious case, a most curious, complicated case!" muttered my master, 'n' den he made me tell him all I knowed 'bout June, 'n' den he fell in a brown study which he kep' up all de way home.

But I'd found where she lived! dat wor enough. I could see her, sometimes, 'n' I did. I saw her at de winder, in her splendid trappin's, 'n' at de church door, 'n' she saw me. I'd found her! dat was enough fer her 'n' fer me! Sometimes I'd git a little note, a sweet little note; dey tole me she wasn't changed a bit; 'n' sometimes my master would give me papers to copy, 'n' once he said:

"I'll tell you all about it, some day, but if she's white, you'll have to leave her or leave the place. No use to fool about it it's death here, 'n' I don't want none o' that sort o' trouble. When I get through the papers, you shall know all about it."

'Twasn't a week after, Yaller Jack broke out, 'n' in less than three weeks dar wa'nt no

stoppin' its ravages. Master was took bad at de end of de month. He knew it, 'n' called me in.

"Dan," he says, "I've got the fever, 'n' at my age it'll go hard with me. Har's a hundred dollars; you've been a good servant 'n' a good boy. All I ask of you is to get me a competent nurse. I don't like strangers, but I've got no kith 'n' kin. You are free to go."

I stood squar' 'n' looked at him.

"You're on your back," says I, "'n' you

it.

ter.

Well, dat wor a bitter time dat came afNever wor de plague more terrible. It was like livin' in a church yard, nothin' but tollin' of bells, funerals, black crape, 'n' desolation. When I went out to de house whar I'd seen June, it was all shut up, 'n' lookin' like a tomb. Dey had taken her awayoutside de city, furder, I couldn't find out where.

My master had it de worst way. Dey give him up twice, but I work over him de way I'd seen in de hospital, till, thanks to de blessed Lord, de fever turned 'n' he wor out of danger.

"All owin' to you, my dear boy," he would say, 'n' lay 'n' look at me with de tars in his eyes. Den he make me tell him whar I'd been, 'n' he'd look thoughtful 'n' mutter “'t were very strange."

By 'n' by he got to set up, 'n' de fever, af. ter killin' its thousands, grew less 'n' less, till de city 'gin to dress up again, 'n' go on with its pleasures, 'n' business, 'n' fun, jest as if Yaller Jack 'd never called to spread ruin 'n' desolation on every side.

Well, I looked for my little one to come back, but not the way she did. One day my master beckons me outen de room.

"Ther's a young lady called to see you," he said, 'n' I almost knew who it wor, 'n' presently there wor June hangin' on my neck, laughin' 'n' cryin' together, her glory-curls laying all over my black coat in the old fashion.

Well, I wor laughin' 'n' cryin' too. "Is it you, darlin'? Can it be you?" I'd say, 'n' then hold her off, to be sure. She hadn't any of her splendid clothes on, but wor dressed in deep mournin'.

"And where are your folks, darlin'?” I asked, after I'd come to my senses a little. "All dead, Dan-all dead 'n' gone. I'm

all alone in the world now; I haven't got anybody but you," she half sobbed.

"Praise de Lord!" I shouted.

"O, no; don't say that exactly," she say, smilin' through her tears. "They wor very good to me, though I couldn't feel near to them. They seemed to love me, and be proud of me, 'n' they went out of the city, because they were afraid I should take the fever. I didn't, but they did, poor dears! They carried it with them, 'n' both died. They didn't know me, though I was there all the time, 'n' they had good nursing, too. They were always talking about me to the last. They were my relations, of course, and wanted to do right by me, but why did they leave me so long alone in the world? And now, I've come to be taken care of." Bless her sweet soul 'n' body!-as if I hadn't thought of dat! I went straight to my employer, as he had told me to call him, about it. He looked grave.

"It wasn't fully decided," he muttered, 'n' den he said, cautious like, "I don't see any objections. Your'e a good lad," he went on; "she's an orphan of color!"-he laid emphasis on dat word, color. "Will she have any objections, do you think, to be called an orphan of color? They're gone that would have objected."

"I'll ask her," I said. "No, call her in."

She came, 'n' never wor mortal man more proud dan I of dat vision so beautiful. He seemed sort o' struck, 'n' surprised, too, but pleased. Den he asked her de question, plump.

"Objection! No! If it's the truth, I'm proud of it, since my good, faithful Dan is the same," she said, bless her! "Why, what do I care, so he loves me and I love him?”

Den de man turn away, 'n' I could see big tears in his eyes.

"You're not orphans, either of you," he says, after a minute, 'n' his voice was broken like. "This boy Dan has been like a son to me. He saved my life, and deserves my gratitude. You shall be like my daughter. You are not left penniless by several thousands, 'n' I'll look out for Dan." This he said to her.

Dat day week we were married.

And he, God bless him, he did all he promised, and more. He got me in a good business, gave us a house nicely furnished, makin' conditions dat he should have a room dere, 'n' take his Sunday dinners with us as long as he lived.

We didn't forgit Hanner, either. She gladly come on to live with us, 'n' made us one of de best of servants.

Again, I say, when I think how all our troubles are over, God bless him! Mary A. Dennison.

Charles Edwin Markham.

OCCUPYING the southeastern angle of California is a vast expanse of dry and sterile country, the northern portion of which is known as the Mohave Desert, and the southern as the Colorado Desert. In the absence of natural landmarks, the dividing line between the two is a little indefinite. They are, however, about equal in extent, and cover altogether some 30,000 square miles; their exterior boundaries, except on the east, where they border on the Colorado River, being not very sharply defined.

The summer heat on this California Sahara is more than tropical. The thermometer during the day marks from one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and thirty degrees in the shade. Topographically, this region may be described as a low-lying plain, the greater part of it being elevated but little above sea-level, while some portions are depressed below that level. Scattered over this plain are clusters of basaltic mountains, dark and scraggy; isolated buttes, low, irregular hills, and ever shifting ridges of sand. The plain itself is of sedimentary or marine origin; the more elevated lands have resulted from igneous agencies. These buttes are, in fact, nothing but the cones of dead volcanoes, and the depressed surfaces simply the beds of dried-up seas.

There are two of these low-lying basins within the limits of this southeastern wilder

ness.

One, the site of the salses, or mud volcanoes, is situated on the Colorado Desert, in the vicinity of Dos Palmas station on the Southern Pacific Railroad. The other, known as Death Valley, is located on the northern border of the Mohave Desert, two hundred miles further to the north. The former is seventy feet below the level of the sea, and the latter one hundred and fifty. The two cover an area of several thousand square miles. In the basin of the salses, miniature volcanoes forming and dissolving, and the hot gases escaping from innumera

ble vents, denote there the continuance of a feeble solfataric action.

Owing to the presence of extensive salines, and the rapid evaporation that here occurs, the mirage is frequently seen on these deserts, appearing sometimes in great perfection. These optical illusions take on here not only the semblance of real objects, but also at times many weird and fantastic forms. Ly ing off in the hazy atmosphere are seen what seem to be pellucid lakes, dotted with islands and indented with headlands. Stretching away in the mist are green meadows and groves, with palatial structures and castellated ruins beyond. While we look, the scene undergoes a strange transformation, and taking on less familiar and pleasing shapes, slowly fades away-cloud-land of youth-emblem of human hopes !

A peculiarity of this wilderness climate is the sand-storm, a meteorological phenomenon not unlike the simoon that prevails in Arabia and other parts of Africa. It consists of a strong wind, amounting sometimes to a gale, which, coming up with a black cloud that obscures the sun, fills the atmosphere so completely with sand and dust, that vision is obscured, thirst greatly increased, and respiration rendered extremely difficult. The stifling air, the darkness, the strangeness of the entire surroundings, fill the trayeler with a dread that inclines him to stop and shelter himself as best he can from the effects of the gale. Even animals are so oppressed with fear when exposed to the sirocco, that they stop in their tracks, and obstinately refuse to go on.

Having raged for a day or two, the wind ceases to blow, the dust clouds settle, the air clears up, and the sun, shining out with its accustomed fierceness, restores to the leaden sky its former brazen aspect. Swept by the blast, the sand dunes shift like the billows of the ocean, vanishing from one place and reappearing in another with each recurring

tempest. These simoons, though hardly less terrifying than the thunder storms that visit in the summer the countries further east, are by no means so refreshing.

Very misleading to the stranger are the maps of this region, with their arroyos and rivers, their lakes and springs, laid down thereon at convenient intervals. It is well to supply, as far as may be, the deficiencies of nature, wherever we find them: wherefore, one appreciates the motive of the topographer in his endeavor to represent this arid and forbidding country as it should be, even while one has to lament that these additions are almost wholly mythical. The only stream of any size in this entire Edom is the so-called Mohave River, which, as if abashed at the unmerited honor conferred upon it, hastens to hide itself in the sand, asserting its presence thereafter only in a series of modest pools, which, standing apart along its faintly marked bed, grow smaller and smaller, and finally disappear altogether. Of the few springs that have an actual existence here, the water in some is so impregnated with salt, soda, or other deleterious mineral, that it is wholly unfit to drink.

Traversing these deserts, more particularly in the neighborhood of the mountains, are numerous deep ravines, having steep sides, and broad, evenly sloping bottoms. They are the creations of the cloud-bursts which are not uncommon here, and which, when they occur, fill these channels with water in a very few minutes. The flood, which soon subsides, carries down great quantities of sand and gravel; some of this lodges along the bed of the gorge, but the greater portion is swept down and deposited at its mouth, where it forms moraines stretching far out into the plain below. A ravine so eroded and afterwards partially filled up is called a "wash "—the "arroyo seco" of the Spaniards. So far as running streams or useful forests are concerned, this may be called a waterless and a timberless land. The only trees found growing in it, save some willow and cottonwood along the Colorado River, consist of the several varieties of the palm, a worthless wood, and the mesquite, which, though use

less for lumber, makes an excellent fuel. Bunch grass of a nutritious kind is found growing over a large portion of these deserts; sparsely in some places, and very abundantly in others. Much of the soil here is, in fact, exceedingly fertile, and with irrigation capable of producing large crops of both fruit and grain; its sterility is due only to its dryness. The cactus of many varieties abounds. It is a vile shrub, detested alike by man and brute. Reptiles take shelter under it, but do not feed upon it. The only animals that abide in these fields of desolation are hares, rabbits, and coyotes. There are no Indians; even the Digger cannot live here. Birds are rarely seen. The reptile family is represented by the lizard, the horned toad, and the rattlesnake.

Such are the inhabitants and the products, the conditions and the aspect of this " mauvais terre"-these bad lands of southeastern California. Little do they who at this day travel by rail across them think, because little do they know, of the sufferings that have been endured and the horrors that in times past have been enacted on these deserts. Carried swiftly over these hideous wastes in luxurious cars, protected from the glaring sun and the suffocating sandstorm, these travelers, experiencing nothing of danger and little of discomfort, can have no conception how much. of both fell to the lot of those who in the earlier day were forced to make this passage under conditions so widely different.

It is not known, nor can it be at this day ascertained, who among the whites were the first to make their way over a country so little inviting to civilized man. Some have inclined to award this dubious honor to the early Spanish explorers of the Northwest. While there are vague traditions tending to sustain such award, there is really nothing authoritative on this point. Of the various expeditions sent out from Mexico for the above purpose, some proceeded overland, and some by sea. Among the former, the first party to enter the field was the monk Marcos de Niza, followed soon after by Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, both of whom had for their objective point the fabled seven