"Holy nature, ever free,
Let me ever follow thee;
Guide me with a hand so mild,
As thou wouldst a little child."

The voice! Her voice! "My Father in Heaven," he cried, "I thank Thee for Thy guidance. I have obeyed the call, and reap the reward Thou hast provided."

The voice ceased. He recalled each sweet sound, burying it in his heart. Lightly were his steps now homeward bound, across the streets, across the park, back to the honeysuckle bower. That night, in light slumber, he dreamed of the one he sought.

With daylight, he arose, freshened from his long rest. The brook was not here for him, but he used the means at hand, and bathed in the clear water of the trough, which for years had provided refreshment for man's most faithful friend. Even the city is kind to nature's lover, he thought.

A vegetable garden thrived back of the house, and with his benefactor's consent, he lived upon Earth's product, and in return, helped her as the wandering son might have done, and she appreciated his worth. Peacefully he lived in his shelter among the roses and honeysuckle vines. Even the curious ones were admirers of his industrious habits.

Evenings, he passed the door of his beloved, and one night, in early twilight, a tall, slender girl, with braids of dusky hair twined round her head, was softly singing while plucking her flowers. He gazed, enraptured by her beauty, while she looked up from her flowers, and from the depths of dark brown eyes, gazed inquiringly at him. "Pardon, dear lady," he said, "Often I look on your flower garden; its flowers bring to me memories of the wild flowers in the hills."

"Oh, nature man," said she, “if you desire these flowers I have plucked, you are welcome to them."

He walked through the gate, and took from her outstretched hand the bunch of flowers, then stood and gazed upon her loveliness, clad simply

and becomingly in the whiteness of snow. He looked upon her little feet, encased in sandals. She is mine, he thought, and I have the right to wonder over her charms.

Blushingly, she acknowledged his scrutiny, and modestly turned toward the house, while he gently said "Good Night," and moved away, back to the home he was now accustomed to. "I have seen her,” he cried, when within its safe shelter, "Mine, mine, and only mine!"

And soon, he thought, as he gazed on the moon's last quarter, when the waning nights pass, I shall take her to the cavern on the mount. And she will come, I know. Did she not call me from its depths? And now the time has come for her to brighten its

dark walls. I yearn for the wilderness. I long for its peace and shelter. How must the mists, that wrap their cloak round the mountain appear tonight! Would that we were there! But the new moon will see us in that haven of peace.

The new moon came, pale in its crescent shape, and lo! the city's gate brings forth two souls from its enclosure. A strong, bronzed, bare-headed man, leading a delicate and timid woman along the broad highway. A heavy cloak envelops her slender form, as he tenderly guides her steps. Happily they walk along their way, their hearts too full to speak the needless endearments that mankind lavishes upon its loved ones. Only the stones in the roadway retard their pace along the highway.

In the distance, the mountain loomed against the sky. The mists were absent this night, and the silvery moonlight enhanced the clearness of its slopes. Past miles of fences, and dusky ways, through silent woods, again upon the moon-lighted road, they followed the trail to the mountain. And as they climbed the rocky paths, she clung closer to him. The rustling of the leaves frightened her. His soft voice, "Quiet, 'tis but the birdlings amongst the leaves," soothed her endless fears.

The sparkling lake shimmered before their eyes, and he gazed lovingly upon it. She, too, seemed enthralled by its beauty, and time passed as the watchers stood by its edge. Then down the trail, past steep cliffs, to the cavern, outstanding against the mountain's side, with the shadows of the

moonlit trees before it.

He led her to the opening, and tenderly embraced her. "Our home," he whispered, "Come, the new moon will soon be passed over, and morn will claim its day." Then, through the mouth of the cavern, they passed into the depths of its shadows.

"Blue Grass and Broadway."

There are many books being written and while we recognize the truth, the tragedy or the passion of these creations, few have the individual charm, the imaginative vision of Maria Thompson Davies' romances. Was it not Pindar who said of himself "There is many an arrow in my quiver, full of speech to the wise, but for the many, they need interpreters ?" It is not so with Miss Davies' dramastories. They are so human-hearted that they ring true. She knows Broadway and she knows the player-folk that frequent it, for it is there that her own plays are produced. Her latest story, "Blue Grass and Broadway," is the tale of a sweet, spirited, Kentucky girl, who comes to New York, to see about a venture of her own in the dramatic world. She is plunged into the mad, merry and the tragic theatrical life that environs her. Her happiness, her hope and all that she loves is at stake. It is a great game that is played there. You will want to read it for you cannot take it for granted.

"Blue Grass and Broadway."-The Century Co., New York; cloth, ornamental, 12 mo. 373 pp.; $1.50.

"Uncle Sam's Boys With Pershing."

The "Altemus Boys of the Army Series" has been still further strengthened by the addition of another volume "Uncle Sam's Boys With Pershing," by H. Irving Hancock. This

story is fully up in thrill and dash to those that have gone before it in the boys series by Mr. Hancock. The young readers will follow the fortunes of Captain Dick Prescott at grips with the Boche with absorbed interest. They will rejoice with him and sorrow with him and live right with him and his friend, Tom Reade, the daring aviator, from cover to finish. These boy heroes are strong and vital and they have the zeal and push that are inherent in the real American wherever he may be at home or "Over There."

"Uncle Sam's Boys With Pershing." Henry Altemus Co., Philadelphia; cloth, ornamental, 12 mo. 255 pp.; 50c.

"Twelfth U. S. Infantry."

There are a number of regimental books, in the course of preparation, but at the time when the men of the Twelfth Infantry began their book, last December, the idea was a new one. Their book is also the first one that is off the press. It is therefore a pioneer, as it were. California dearly loves a pioneer, especially when they are "native sons," and the men who have written this history story are largely Californians.

The book is made up of unsigned sketches of army and camp life, charming little bits of fiction, poetry and regimental life and history. It is bright, witty and reaches the spirit of comradeship, the universal spirit of

brotherly love, which is illuminating of this epoch-making time, when as Carlyle voices it, "A small Poet every Worker is." The Photographic work was done, for the most part, by two moving picture directors from Los Angeles; Edward R. Watkins of Berkeley, has his name on a number of clever sketches. Then there are also the drawings of Timothy Brereton, a resident of Los Angeles, whose work the critics of New York thought so promising. That is a pathetic phase of the work as he was accidentally shot and killed before he saw the completed book. The business and publicity end of the book was upheld by men from San Jose, Bakersfield and Mill Valley. Former President William Howard Taft wrote the Foreword from which I append a part, "The spirit of the men at the front was felt by the men training at home -nor should these typically American boys and their commanders allow themselves to feel that they did not take part in winning this war. The Germans showed a yellow streak in not fighting this war through to the end. They surrendered in anticipation of the just punishment they and their country would have suffered by being subjected to the devastation of war, had they further resisted. They did not further resist because they knew that the United States had two million men on French soil and two million men at home, who were being hastened to the front and that with these reinforcements defeat was as certain for them as if they accepted it by immediate surrender. The army of the United States was a unit. Those who were in front were strengthened, protected and given weight, by those who were back of the front. Every man in khaki was part of the forces that won the war. The Twelfth Regular Infantry was a unit in the Army of the Republic and carries the laurels of the victory. This

book is its history. May it have a wide circulation." - "Twelfth U. S. Infantry," from the press of G. P. Putnam Sons, New York; cloth, illustrated, 8 vol., 425 pp.; $2.50. On sale at Paul Elder's, San Francisco.

"How to Live."

Its

This carefully prepared book comes to us enlarged and rewritten so that the subject of hygiene both personal and general is right up to date. sponsers, Irving Fisher, Professor of Political Economy, Yale; and Eugene Lyman Fisk, M. D. Medical Director of Life Extension Institute, are eminently qualified to place this health saving volume before the people. Former President William H. Taft writes the foreword. In it he quotes from Disraeli, the great statesman and writer, who alert to the influences affecting national prosperity stated: "Public health is the foundation on which reposes the happiness of the people and the power of a country." Without individual and family care there can be no public health. This book is a guide and a moving factor in bringing about an improved physical condition and an extension of life among our people.

A chapter on "air," which embraces, housing, clothing, outdoor sleeping and deep breathing, is among the many subjects treated. Food, activity, alcohol, tobacco, as well as all the necessary factors for the making of health and the toning up of the system are exhaustively gone into. Tables, guides and charts are supplied, as well as illustrations. If you will study this book faithfully with an open mind you may be like unto"Olympian Bards who sung

Divine ideas below, Which always find us young

And always keep us so."

"How to Live."-Funk & Wagnalls Co., New York and London; cloth, illustrated, 12 mo., 460 pp.; $1.00.