his courtiers was a young man of that The tiger cages of the kingdom were The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena, while 55 crowds, unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors-those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity! All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there! As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king. But he did not think at all of that royal personage; his eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature, it is probable that the lady would not have been there. But her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done-she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms behind those doors stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess. Not only did she know in which room stood the lady, ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her 5 lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together. It was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space. It may have been on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess, and, with all the intensity of the 10 savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door. When her lover turned and looked at 15 her, and his eye met hers as she sat there paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that 20 she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she 25 had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess 30 in discovering this mystery, and the moment he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded. Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question, "Which?" It 35 was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it must be answered in another. 40 Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man 45 in the arena. He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably 50 upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened it. the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy She had lost him, but who should have him? How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild horror and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger! But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth and torn her hair when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek was lost and drowned! Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in the blessed region of semi-barbaric futurity? And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood! Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right. The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set up myself as the one Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or 55 person able to answer it. So I leave it did the lady? The more we reflect upon this question, with all of you: Which came out of the opened door-the lady or the tiger? JOHN MUIR (1838-1914) John Muir was the most picturesque and the most original member of the out-of-doors school of writers, excepting only Thoreau. He was Scotch born, migrating to America with his parents when he was eleven and settling with them in the wilderness of Wisconsin where he passed the rest of his boyhood. At length he was enabled to study at the University of Wisconsin. For four years he applied himself somewhat irregularly to the studies that he affected: then. as he himself expressed it, he wandered away on a glorious botanical and geological excursion, which has lasted nearly fifty years and is not yet completed, always happy and free, poor and rich, without thought of a diploma, of making a name, urged on and on through endless, inspiring, Godful beauty.' He walked all the way to Florida, crossed to Cuba, then, attacked by malaria, left the tropics, and walked the greater part of the way to California. The rest of his life he passed in the Yosemite region, the Sierras, the upper Rockies, and Alaska. Muir began writing as early as 1871, sending studies of mountain scenery and phenomena to the New York Tribune, to the Overland, and to Harper's. His series entitled Studies in the Sierras in Scribner's Monthly in 1878. later republished as The Mountains of California, first brought him into notice, but he published very little after this. He cared nothing for money, nothing for literary fame, and very little inducement could be offered him to continue his work. He wrote only for his own enjoyment and to make others share the passion he felt for the beauties of the California mountains. In 1901 he published Our National Parks, in 1911 My First Summer in the Sierras, selections from his journal, and in 1913 The Story of My Boyhood and Youth. During all his life he kept a full journal, and, as in the case of Thoreau, parts of it will be issued from time to time as the public demands, and at last undoubtedly the whole journal. No one has written like Muir of the western mountains. He has caught the freedom, the sweep, the vastness and beauty of them in a way that thrills and compels. He is a tempestuous soul whose units are storms and mountain ranges and mighty glacial moraines, who strides excitedly along the bare tops of ragged peaks and rejoices in their vastness and awfulness, who cries, 'Come with me along the glaciers and see God making landscapes!' or THE WATER-OUZEL1 The water-falls of the Sierra Nevada are frequented by only one bird, the ouzel water-thrush (Cinclus Mexicanus, Sw.). He is a singularly joyous and lovable little fellow, about the size of a robin, clad in a plain water-proof suit of a blackish, bluish gray, with a tinge of chocolate on the head and shoulders. In form he 10 is about as smoothly plump and compact as a pot-hole pebble; the flowing contour of his body being interrupted only by his strong feet and bill, and the crisp wingtips, and up-slanted wrenish tail. Among all the countless water-falls I have met in the course of eight years' explorations in the Sierra, whether in the iry Alps, or warm foot-hills, or in the pro 1 Copyright by The Century Co. 15 found Yosemite cañons of the middle region, not one was found without its ouzel. No cañon is too cold for him, none too lonely, provided it be rich in white 5 falling water. Find a fall, or cascade, or rushing rapid, anywhere upon a clear crystalline stream, and there you will surely find its complementary ouzel, flitting about in the spray, diving in foaming eddies, whirling like a leaf among beaten foam-bells; ever vigorous and enthusiastic, yet self-contained. and neither seeking nor shunning your company. If disturbed while dipping about in the margin shallows, he either sets off with a rapid whir to some other feeding-ground up or down the stream, or alights on some half-submerged rock or snag out in the foaming current, and immediately begins 20 to nod and courtesy like a wren, turning his head from side to side and performing many other odd dainty manners as if he had been trained at some bird dancingschool. He is the mountain streams' own darling, the humming-bird of blooming waters, loving rocky ripple-slopes and sheets of foam, as a bee loves flowers,as a lark loves sunshine and meadows. Among all the mountain birds, none has cheered me so much in my lonely wan- 10 derings, none so unfailing. For winter and summer he sings, independent alike of sunshine and love; requiring no other inspiration than the stream on which he dwells. While water sings, so must he; 15 in heat or cold, calm or storm, ever attuning his voice in sure accord; low in the drouth of summer and drouth of winter, but never silent. hastening back to their hidings out of the wind, puffing out their breast feathers, and subsiding among the leaves, cold and break fastless, while the snow continues to fall, and no sign of clearing. But the ouzel never calls forth a single touch of pity; not because he is strong to endure. but rather because he seems to live a charmed life beyond the reach of every influence that makes endurance necessary. One wild winter morning, when Yosemite Valley was swept from west to east by a cordial snow-storm, I sallied forth to see what I might learn and enjoy. A sort of gray, gloaming-like darkness was kept up by the storm, and the loudest booming of the falls was at times buried beneath its sublime roar. The snow was already over five feet deep on During the golden days of Indian sum- 20 the meadows, making very extended mer the mountain streams are feeble, a It is pitiful to see wee frost-pinched 55 sparrows, on cold mornings, shaking the snow from their feathers, and hopping about as if anxious to be cheery, then walks impossible without the aid of snowshoes. I found no great difficulty, however, in making my way to a certain ripple on the river where one of my ouzels lived. He was at home as usual, gleaning his breakfast among the pebbles of a shallow portion of the margin, and apparently altogether unconscious of anything extraordinary in the weather. Presently he flew out to a stone against which the icy current was beating, and turning his back to the wind, sang delightfully as a lark in spring-time. After spending an hour or two with my favorite, I went plodding through the drifts, to learn as definitely as possible how the other birds were spending their time. The Yosemite birds are easily found during the winter, because all excepting the ouzel are restricted to the sunny north side of the valley, the south side being constantly eclipsed by the great frosty shadow of the wall. And because the Indian Cañon groves from their peculiar exposure are the warmest, all the birds congregate there, more especially in severe weather. I found most of the robins cowering on the lee side of the larger branches where the snow could not fall upon them, while two or three of the most enterprising were making desperate efforts to reach the mistletoe berries by clinging nervously to the under side of the snow-crowned masses, back downward, like woodpeckers. Every now and then they would dislodge some of the loose fringes of the snow-crown which would come sifting down upon their heads and send them screaming back to camp, where they would subside among their companions with a shiver, muttering in low, querulous chatters like hungry children. 5 30 Some of the sparrows were busy at the foot of the larger trees gleaning seeds and benumbed insects, joined now and then by a robin weary of his unsuccessful attempts upon the snow-covered berries. 10 The brave woodpeckers were clinging to the snowless sides of the larger boles and overarching branches of the camp trees, making short flights from side to side of the grove, pecking and chatter- 15 ing aimlessly as if unable to keep still, yet evidently putting in the time in a very dull way, like storm-bound travelers The hardy nutat a country tavern. hatches were threading the open furrows 20 of the bark in their usual industrious manner, and uttering their quaint notes, evidently much less discomposed than their neighbors. The Steller's jays were of course making more noisy stir than all 25 the other birds combined; ever coming and going with loud bluster, screaming as if each had a lump of melting sludge in his throat, and taking very good care to improve the favorable opportunity afforded by the storm to steal from the acorn stores of the woodpeckers. I also noticed one solitary gray eagle braving the storm on the top of a tall pine stump just outside the main grove. He was 35 standing bolt upright with his back to the wind, and with a tuft of snow piled on his square shoulders, the very type of passive endurance. Thus every bound bird seemed more or less uncom-40 fortable if not in positive distress. The storm was reflected in every gesture, and not one cheerful note, not to say song, came from a single bill; their cowering, joyless endurance offering a most striking contrast to the spontaneous, irrepressible gladness of the ouzel, who could no more help exhaling sweet song, than a rose sweet fragrance. He must sing if the heavens fall. I remember noticing the 50 distress of a pair of robins during the violent earthquake of the year 1872, when the pines of the valley, with strange movements, flapped and waved their branches, and beetling rock-brows came thundering 55 to the meadows in fiery avalanches. It did not occur to me in the midst of the excitement of other observations to look snow 45 923 for the ouzels, but I doubt not they were What may be regarded as the separate The more striking strains are perfect. The ouzel never sings in chorus with His food consists of all kinds of water insects, which in summer are chiefly procured along shallow margins. Here he wades about ducking his head under water, and deftly turning over pebbles and fallen leaves with his bill, seldom choosing to go into deep water where he has to use his wings in diving. He seems to be especially fond of the |