1895. 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KI'lEPER. 



?,V, 



its sheath laid my left hand upon 

 the handle of my knife. 



"There's a very decent camping 

 place two miles farther on," I said 

 slowly. 



The cowboy hesitated and turned 

 to his Gom])anion. A few words pass- 

 ed between them which I could not 

 hear. Then my friend remarked in 

 a mild and patronizing tone without 

 dismounting: 



"Are you a buster, j'oung man?" 



"Not as a rule. But there's not 

 room for more than one white man 

 in the Ponil tonight." 



"We guess there is, though." 



"Then itll he your own funeral." 



Another pause. I began to find 

 breathing a laborious business and 

 made the unpleasant discovery that 

 both mj' hands were quivering in a 

 peculiar and distressing way. 



I longed for the sti'uggle to begin, 

 if it was to come at all, yet I knew 

 that my only chance lay in keeiJing 

 strictly on the defensive. 



Again the cowboy turned to his 

 companion, and some commanica- 

 tion j)assed between them which I 

 could not hear. Then he settled 

 himself in his saddle with a grunt, 

 and turning his horse with a tran- 

 quil "Good night" paced away, fol- 

 lowed by his friend, as carelessly as 

 if such had been his intention from 

 the beginning. 



The moment that the departure of 

 the cowboys became an established 

 fact I was surrounded by Mexicans, 

 all jabbering at once and wringmg 

 my hands viutil my arms were in 

 danger of dislocation. 



It was in vain that I laughed and 

 tried to explain that if I had done 

 less than help them to defend the 

 homestead I should have been the 

 most despicable coward alive. Their 

 euthusiasiu was boundless, and pres- 

 ently I saw the big door open wide 

 and souora and her familj' coming 

 toward me. This made me desper- 

 ate, and I begged fervently to be al- 

 lowed to go to rest. A procession of 



all the men and boys in the place 

 was then formed, and I was con- 

 ducted with prodigious state to a 

 little cabin higher up the hill, where 

 a spacious and comfortable bed had 

 been preparei.l for me. — Condensed 

 From T^m nle J3ar. .. 



It Was No News. 



"The feelings of those two manag- 

 ing editors give one an idea of how 

 the publisher of a German paper in 

 St. Louis once felt, "said a corre- 

 spondent representing a paper in 

 that town as the crowd of news gath- 

 erers filed out into the night to take 

 the last oar home. "There had been 

 a big fire directly opposite the office 

 of his paper the night before. A 

 magnificent building was destroyed, 

 with all its contents. The streets 

 in the vicinity were filled with peo- 

 ple, wlio so choked the thorough- 

 fares as to almost prevent the fire- 

 men working. It was the event of 

 the season, in a news sense, and the 

 papers were naturally filled with 

 telling the whole story. The pub- 

 lisher of the paper in question on 

 reaching his office the-nest morning 

 looked over the papers of his con- 

 temporaries first, and then, lighting 

 a fresh cigar, took up his own paper 

 to read what he felt sure would be 

 the best report of all. To his amaze- 

 ment there was not a line concern- 

 ing the fire in his paper. When he 

 sufficiently realized the fact that no 

 mention had been made of the con- 

 flagration he dashed up stairs to his 

 city editor, and bursting into the 

 room exclaimed: 



" 'Why didn't we have a story of 

 the fire?' 



"The city editor, who was a Ger- 

 man without a great deal of expe- 

 rience in this country, looked up 

 calmly and replied: 



" 'Vat vas the use of brintin any- 

 ting aboud it? Everypody in town 

 vas dero to see do whole ting for his- 

 self.' " — Washington Post. 



