are the Western yellow pine, the blue spruce, the white and Douglas firs, and the mountain ash. There are lesser pines and cedars, and for the expressing of an almost indescribable forest beauty there are the quaking aspens. It is a forest almost without underbrush, and the great trees are so deliberately spaced that, as Roosevelt found and commented upon, a mountain horse can carry a rider among them at a brisk canter. The forest monarchs have a way of covering a ridge quite unbrokenly and then down one slope or the other, halting abruptly at the edge of a meadow which is allowed to unroll its narrow width sometimes for miles without a single invading trunk. The meadows, looking strangely as though the hands of gardeners gave them their even green, afford the aspens their opportunity. These delicate white-boled trees, with countless tiny leaves that are never still, are found throughout the Forest, but it is when they stretch along the edges of the sweeping meadows as a shining, graduated buffer between the pine giants and the grass that their grace and symmetry are almost startling.

DE

EER-full-bodied, black-tailed deer -fill the Forest. They graze openly in the meadows and retreat but slowly before the camera. There are, it is estimated, no less than thirty thousand of them on this green plateau, which they leave only when the heavy snows drive them down to winter range in Houserock Valley. Their numbers to-day would gratify Roosevelt. He foresaw the increase under a protection he himself had helped to bring about; but the deer were there even in 1913, and the Colonel in his Outlook article became almost poetic in describing an experience with them.

"One of the most beautiful sights I ever saw was on this trip," he wrote. "We were slowly riding through the open pine forest when we came on a party of seven bucks. Four were yearlings or two-year-olds; but three were mighty master bucks, and their velvet-clad antlers made them look as if they had rocking-chairs on their heads. Stately of port and bearing, they walked a few steps at a time, or stood at gaze on the carpet of brown needles strewn with cones; on their red coats the flecked and broken sun rays played; and as we watched them, down the aisles of tall tree trunks the odorous breath of the pines. blew in our faces."

Cougars great, tawny panthers; the most successful of all still hunters, Roosevelt called them-were and are the arch-enemies of the deer. They lie on the ledges below the rim of the Canyon during the day and slip up at night to prowl the forest, strike down a deer, and

leave it after eating a haunch or the tender meat of a flank. In other days when Mormon settlers grazed their large herds here the cougars were as quick to pull down the cattle. Many a faithful pack animal, horse or mule, has made the woods ring with a throaty, agonized cry as a cougar seized its neck or ripped out its vitals. Although plentiful, there are not as many cougars as there were, thanks in part to "Uncle Jim" Owens, Roosevelt's guide, who killed no less than fifteen hundred of them before turning to the propagating of buffalo in Houserock Valley. The cabin where "Uncle Jim" lived during his years as warden of the Game Reserve and where he entertained the Colonel is now the Bright Angel Ranger station.

The visitors of the past summer spent a night in the heart of the Kaibab at the old V. T. Ranch, where a lodge and cabin bedrooms provided for their comfort. They stalked and photographed the herds and pairs of half-willing deer, started an occasional coyote or a great horned owl, found the tracks or caught a distant glimpse of galloping wild mus tangs, perhaps were fortunate enough to see one of the beautiful white-tailed squirrels, and, if they stayed over for a day or two, visited well-preserved homes, of the cliff-dwellers and even made some discoveries of their own in a region where the relics of the primitive people have the relics of the primitive people have been little disturbed. Under the spell of the great Forest the visitors moved on over a splendid road to the North Rim and became guests in the amply furnished tents of the Wylie Way Camp, in a spot back of Bright Angel Point that had known no residents-at least none for several thousand years-when Roosevelt topped out of the Grand Canyon near by in 1913.

THA
THAT yawning abyss separates two
brinks that are decidedly unlike.
Even those who knew the South Rim well

found the North Rim an undiminished joy. It is more rugged; the great shapes that rise from the Canyon floor are, many of them, much nearer to this wall, and thus seem more intimate and understandable; and, not least important, the North Rim has an elevation of from one thousand to three thousand feet greater than the other. This added height and the clear atmosphere make it possible for one to enjoy a view of the colorful country extending back from the South Rim to the Navajo and San Francisco Mountains, and embracing the Painted Desert.

Along the North Rim, where Roosevelt moved with more or less difficulty, there are now horse trails and auto roads

that lead westward to Point Sublime and eastward to Cape Royal, and half a

dozen selected lookout points from which the Canyon view, changing with every hour of the day, is in essence no different than when the Colonel's understanding eye feasted upon sunrises and sunsets the wonder and splendor of which he said it was not given to the sons of men to tell.

From Far View Point one studies close at hand Mount Imperial, the highest point on the Canyon, rising six thousand feet above the Colorado River and attaining an elevation of nine thousand feet. The view across is up the canyon of the Little Colorado and across a hundred miles of red and blue and yellow desert to the Navajo Mountains.

From Vista Point the rushing brown river is visible through Nankoweap Gap. One sees the high wall called Saddle Ridge, which is the official beginning of the Grand Canyon National Park. On a day free of haze he will see Ship Rock, in New Mexico, one hundred and fifty miles away. A little farther along the North Rim the eye commands the Purple Wall, said to be the greatest known exposure of the foundational formation known to geologists as the Algonkian.

From Cape Royal, on a promontory called Greenland, which juts out into the Canyon and affords a superb sweep in either direction, one gets a most vivid impression of those exalted buttes or temples rising out of the Canyon depths known as Vishnu, Wotan's Throne, Angels' Gate, Zoroaster, Brahma, Buddha, Shiva, and many others. From this point is seen the phenomenon of the Colorado and Little Colorado flowing in parallel basins but in opposite directions for ten miles before they come together. Bringing his eyes back to his immediate vicinity, the wondering beholder discovers the Angels' Window, with a casing fifty feet in height, which lets the sunlight beat through a cliff of Kaibab limestone.

In seeing these sights from the newly accessible vantage-points one is fortunate if he has as his guide Mr. Thomas H. McKee, of Wylie Way Camp, with whom the North Rim is a passion and to whose devoted explorations and sturdy efforts in trail-blazing the visitors of the first real season owe a large debt of gratitude.

Plainly the North Rim had a fascination for the earliest human inhabitants of whom there is any record. In the very rim itself sometimes, but more often in ledges back from it, as though the everpresence of the great chasm was too awful to be withstood, are the plentiful relics of these cliff-dwelling people. Here, especially in the ravines back of Greenland, are the sure evidences that they built on the flat ground and the sloping hillsides as well as in the yielding rock high above the reach of an enemy. The summer's visitors turned back from

the rim to become absorbed in puzzling out the story of early occupation which the relics tell even to the unpracticed eye. In the center of what must have been a considerable number of buildings on a flat are the fallen but readily followed walls of what is believed to have been a fortress. Excitement prevailed when the amateur explorers discovered that their slight efforts at turning the soil were rewarded by the finding of the broken pottery and the arrowheads of a vanished race.

Under one hillside boulder there is a comfortable chamber, the ingenious smoke outlet of which is still black from the fire of an ancient householder. Entirely unbroken is the wall of first-class masonry with which he shut off what the local explorers call his "turkey pen." This abandoned home-it is too well protected from the weather for even the centuries to have turned it into a ruinmade a strong appeal to Colonel Roosevelt, who is said to have felt, although he made no point of it in his Outlook article, that the whole region should have the careful attention of scientists before ignorant persons may lay waste things of whose value they have no adequate com prehension.

though he refrained from written comment, must have given him a severe twinge. It was at Dripping Springs, the site of his best-beloved North Rim camp. The main pool of the springs is at the end of a long gallery beneath a tremendous overhanging ledge of red sandstone. Sixty years ago, when the cattlemen came in, they needed this pool for their herds. The path along the edge was narrow, for nearly the entire width of the shelf was occupied by a primitive apartment-house -cliff dwellings adjoining each other wall to wall and extending for more than six hundred feet. The cattlemen wanted a path in which the cattle might approach the spring and depart from it three or four abreast. With gunpowder they blew out of their way and out of existence what was perhaps one of the finest galleries of homes the ancient people had left behind. The Colonel merely

says:

The last days before we left this beautiful holiday region we spent on the tableland called Greenland, which projects out into the Canyon east of Bright Angel. We were camped by the Dripping Springs in singular and striking surroundings. A large wall leads south through the tableland; and just as it breaks into a sheer-walled chasm which opens into one of the side loops of the great Canyon, the trail

turns into a natural gallery along the face of the cliff. For a couple of hundred yards a rock shelf a dozen feet wide runs under a rock overhang which often projects beyond it. The gallery is in some places twenty feet high; in other places a man on horseback must stoop his head as he rides. Then, at a point where the shelf broadens, the clear spring pools of living water, fed by constant dripping from above, lie on the inner side and next to the rock wall. A little beyond these pools, with the chasm at our feet, and its opposite wall towering immediately in front of us, we threw down our bedding and made camp. Darkness fell; the stars were brilliant overhead; the fire of pitchy pine stumps flared; and in the light of the wavering flames, the cliff walls and jutting rock momentarily shone with ghastly clearness and as instantly vanished in utter gloom.

Were Roosevelt here to-day, he would rejoice, doubtless, because the wonders he saw a dozen years in advance are made accessible to the masses of his fellow-countrymen. And surely he could wish nothing better for them than that their souls might open as his own did when they pass through the green shriving-chamber of the Kaibab and look down in silence from the incomparable North Rim of sublimity itself.

T

HE power and passion of Miss Ostenso's "Wild Geese"1 are the more vivid because the narrative is told with restraint. In Oeland, far away in the bleak north country, live Caleb Gare and his cowed and overworked wife and children. As a farmer Caleb is prosperous and avaricious; as a man he is the meanest and cruelest thing alive. He slyly and deeply enjoys "getting something on" people; he forces his neighbors to sell land cheap to him because of his knowledge of past wrong-doing; he mentally tortures his wife for years because he knows of a slip in her youth and threatens to tell the children that she has an illegitimate son living. Greed and malevolence count about equally in all he does. Only his daughter Judith, a superb creature physically and mad with desire for life and love, resists him and barely escapes from his grasp. Caleb's death (for, thank goodness, he dies in his sins, wildly trying to save his beloved crops from fire) pleases me more than that of almost any other villain in fiction. He is so perfectly and consistently bad that he is a great creation.

2

Some readers readers may regard Miss Cleugh's "Ernestine Sophie" and its predecessor, "Matilda, Governess of the English," as a reversion to the Victorian type of fiction. They at least get away from the type of novel which some one has called "a form of frivolity with a dash of immorality" into that of frank gayety, free range into the realm of fancy without much care about realism and probability, and friendly feeling between readers, author, and characters. Ernestine Sophie is an honest-minded, stout-hearted, and uncompromisingly plain-spoken English girl of fourteen who is suddenly discovered to be the crown princess of a little kingdom in Europe. How she holds her own against the stiff etiquette and the mean intrigues of the Court, how she loves and is loved by her royal grandfather, and how she meets the crisis of revolution and succession to the throne, all combine to make a lively and at the end a dramatic tale. A cheerful,

1 Wild Geese. By Martha Ostenso. Dodd, Mead & Co., New York. $2.

2 Ernestine Sophie. By Sophia Cleugh. The Macmillan Company, New York. $2.

amusing, and lively story is this, with plenty of incident to keep the interest alive.

The winning of Oregon for this country and the part played therein by Marcus Whitman form the best part of Mrs. Morrow's "We Must March." The semi-historical narrative is well done; a specially fine chapter is that about Whitman's journey to the East over the Rockies in midwinter to plead at Washington for American action and his return at the head of a thousand emigrants. The author is fair to the "enemy"—that is, the Hudson Bay Company acting for Great Britain. The romantic part of the book is not as good as the historical side. One doubts the reality of the marvelous wife of Whitman, the mingled tearful sentimentalism and savagery of the Indians, the alternating devotion and mean spirit of missionaries both Protestant and Catholic. There may be historic basis for some of this; but for fictional purposes these things are crowded in confusedly without full exposition of the themes.

Perhaps it is a little stretch of classification to call David Grayson's "Adventures in Understanding" fiction, but David meets so many interesting characters in his experiment with city life after the tranquil country town he has told us about in his "Adventures in Contentment," and enters so happily into the lives and work of these people that the book has much of the entertaining quality of a novel. To David, the iceman, the bootblack, the tree agent, the old fellow who puts the love of art for art's sake into his handicraft, all give chances for friendship and human understanding. The book is charmingly printed, and Mr. Fogarty's drawings precisely interpret the author's gentle sentiment.

5

Miss Furman in "The Glass Window" tells us the further fortunes and adventures of what the Kentucky mountaineers living about the Hindman Settlement called "the quare women," and with them are woven two romances, one

3 We Must March. By Honoré Willsie Morrow. The F. A. Stokes Company, New York. $2.

Adventures in Understanding. By David Grayson. Doubleday, Page & Co., New York. $2.50.

3 The Glass Window. By Lucy Furman. Little, Brown & Co., Boston. $2.

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of misunderstanding and restoration of confidence and love, the other of a finenatured, self-educated young mountaineer and his winning, of a bride from the "outside world." For drawling, unconscious humor "Uncle Tutt's Typhoids" is one of the best tales Miss Furman has given us, while the narrative of the heroic removal of Florindy's appendix by a city surgeon under the aimed rifles of her relatives, who firmly believe in a life for a life and mean to take his if the woman dies, is thrilling and sounds like an actual incident. All who enjoyed "The Quare Women" will surely want to read "The Glass Window" also, and those others who do not know the primitive customs and ancient turns of speech of the Kentucky mountains should make their acquaintance here.

In his new book' Mr. Poole has given us a fine and sympathetic study of boy psychology. Delightful is the comradeship between the imaginative boy, Amory, and his grandfather, who has tramped the world and has collected wonderful folk-songs. They have a meeting nook on the roof, where the Hunter's Moon lights their confabs, and in the end the old man rescues the boy from ill-natured relatives and stifling city life and carries him away to the far West and the open country. Slight in its plot, the art of this book puts it among Mr. Poole's best stories.

such accomplishments, but not to speak of them; nevertheless in this way Mr. James has done, and done particularly well, what he set out to do. He has given us a graphic picture of life as it is still lived by those gentlemen who tend the Roast Beef of Old England, Chicago, Paris, Rome, and Pompton Plains, New Jersey.

For Mr. James is an artist. It would be mean and uncalled for to propose him as a Munsification of the other James boys, Henry and Jesse, retaining and combining the best features of each, but we shouldn't be far off at that. He is, first and foremost, a graphic artist, as will be obvious to any one glancing at the accompanying illustration, with a command of the pencil and a knowl

a man of parts, is insistent that he be considered a cowboy pure and simple. "The Drifting Cowboy" is written entirely in the first person, and recounts the author's experiences in Montana, Arizona, Hollywood, and intervening stations. There is a naïve insistence on his own virtuosity as a rope twirler and his ability to remain seated upon a horse who would not have it so. There is a subtle reiteration of these facts which would not meet with favor with Eastern horsemen, with whom it is the fashion to strive for

edge of anatomy (apparently acquired between roundups) for which Frederic Remington gave a lifetime of study, and with a wealth of action in his pictures which that eminent illustrator never attained. Will James's horses are chain lightning and sure death, every one of them.

Laurence Stallings, writing of his first book, "Cowboys North and South," says

even further that Will James has a disdistinct literary style. He has all of that and more, and the Scribners have had the good judgment not to translate the book into English. For instance, he can say of Dave Simmons, a great bronco buster: "His rope was always tied hard and fast to his saddle horn when he snared anything, and that I think is the most dangerous thing a man can do on an unbroke horse; he'd get in mix-ups that way that couldn't be watched for the dust that was stirred, but the first thing you'd see when the dust had settled was Dave's head a-smiling and watching the conglomeration of a horse and critter all mixed with rope."

There is cowboy talk and cowboy life in the book; a grundified version of each, perhaps, for observation leads to the belief that the cowboy's love affairs are constant and various, and frequently referred to. So far as it goes, however, the book rings true.

Fiction

POSSESSION. By Louis Bromfield. The Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York. $2.50. Louis Bromfield is a young American novelist who has deliberately planned to make his work a serious and consistent criticism of modern life. He dares to announce in the present "Foreword" that, while "Possession" is in no sense a sequel to "The Green Bay Tree," it is in some sense supplementary to the earlier narrative: "The two are what might be called novels in a screen which, when complete, will consist of at least a half-dozen panels all interrelated and each giving certain phase

a

of the ungainly, swarming, glittering spectacle of American Life." A fine, dignified plan, and Mr. Bromfield has set about carrying it out in responsible fashion. "The Green Bay Tree" was, centrally, the tale of Lily Shane, gay and frail offspring of American pro

vincial respectability. "Possession" is the story of her cousin and contemporary, Ellen Tolliver. Like "The Green Bay Tree," it is a leisurely, thoroughgoing, penetrative study. The reader must be capable of patience, of endurance even, to follow with sympathy the fortunes of Ellen Tolliver to the end of these nearly five hundred pages. We confess to wondering if the whole per