SOUTHERN PINES 



By EMILY PARET ATWATER 



Where the shifting sunbeams fall, 

 Through the pine trees, straight and tall, 

 And their dancing light has made 

 Checkered patterns of the shade ; 

 There on fragrant couch I'm lying, 

 (For the needles are my bed), 

 List'ning to the gentle sighing 

 Of the pine tops overhead. 



Back and forth they bend and away. 

 All the livelong summer day, 

 Making music, soft and low, 

 As the fitful breezes blow ; 

 Echoing the ocean's sound, 

 As the strong wind, in his glee 

 Shakes the brown cones on the ground 

 For the woodland world to see. 



Centuries, perhaps, they've stood 

 Making music in the wood, 

 Now the wanton hand of man 

 On their ranks has laid his ban ; 

 Tempests wild may sorely tax, 

 All the strength in which they trust, 

 But the dreaded woodman's axe. 

 Lays their glory in the dust ! 



THE MAKING OF A GENTLEMAN 



By FLORENCE FINCH KELLY 



IVE feet ten 

 in his hob- 

 nailed shoes 

 — spare and 

 muscular in 

 figure, alert 

 and agile in 

 movement, 

 well grizzled 

 in hair and 

 beard, gen- 

 tle in manner, and frank and steady in 

 the gaze of his steel-blue eyes — such 

 was Ned Rogers, ex-guide, as he held 

 the bridle of my mule and helped me to 

 mount one bright morning in the Yose- 

 mite Valley. A little party had 

 been made up to ride to the sum- 

 mit of Cloud's Rest mountain, but 

 just before we were ready to start, 

 the guide, who was to have conducted 

 us, had had a rib smashed by a vicious 

 horse which he was trying to tame. 



We were about to give up the trip for 

 that day, when Ned Rogers came for- 

 ward and offered to take his place. He 

 had been a guide in the Valley years be- 

 fore, and now owned a ranch a dozen 

 miles or so down the river, and had 

 come . up to the Yosemite to bargain 

 with the owner of the saddle train con- 

 cerning certain mules. 



"It's been nearly ten years since I 



was up to Cloud's Rest," he said, "and 



I'd like to go up there again and 



see if the old fellow looks like he 



• used to." 



Brief conversation with him, as we 

 stood on the veranda waiting for the 

 inevitable behind-timers, had made me 

 feel that he possessed, in high degree, 

 manliness and force of character. Self- 

 respect, of the sort that commands the 

 respect of others, wis written all over 

 his tanned and wrinkled face, and 

 found expression in his bearing and 

 his manner of speech. But it was a 



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