YELLOW POPPY. 



On one of my trips over the Northern Pacific road, at a 

 little station called " Santa Rosa," a man hurriedly entered the 

 car, followed closely by his wife and little girl. Depositing the 

 many bundles on the seat, he kissed them both and said, "There! 

 Good-by ! Take good care of yourselves and enjoy your trip." 

 To the little girl he said, "Don't call me back or watch me out 

 of sight, it's bad luck." 



So simple and honest was this warning, I became interested 

 in the man and watched him from the car window. Oh ! no 

 wonder he did not want them to watch him out of sight. The 

 tears were falling fast as he unhitched his horses and jumped in 

 the wagon and drove away, not once looking toward the car that 

 held those most dear to him. What a sacrifice of feelings was 

 this man making, and perhaps of his means also. 



At this moment the train started. I felt so interested in 

 this little family I offered some courtesy to the child, and soon 

 had the mother in conversation. She had come to California 

 when a young girl, with her father. Had married and settled 

 on a ranch near Santa Rosa. Her husband, she said, had lived 

 in the state nine years, and during that time they had married 

 and had this one little girl. "He ain't been back once," she 

 said, "although his mother writes constantly for him to come, 

 and now since the tickets are so cheap, he insists on my going 

 and taking daughter." 



O <j 



