I

T HAPPENED to be the day of the fiesta of the Santos Reyes, and, of course, nobody worked in Valle Allegre. The cock-fight was to take place at high noon in the open space back of Catarino Cabrera's drinking shop-almost directly in front of Dionysio Aguirre's, where the long burro packtrains rest on their mountain journeys, and the muleteers swap tale over their tequila.

At one, the sunny side of the dry arroyo that is called a street was lined with double rows of squatting peons-silent, dreamily sucking their cornhusk cigarets as they waited. The bibulously inclined drifted in and out of Catarino's, whence came a cloud of tobacco smoke and a strong reek of aguardiente. Small boys played leap-frog with a large yellow sow, and on opposite sides of the arroyo the competing roosters, tethered by the leg, crowed defiantly.

with flowers and grass growing on them, blue feather of smoke waving from the chimneys, and occasional palms sticking up between. They fell away to the yellow plain where the horse-races are run, and beyond that the barren mountains crouched, tawny as lions, then faintly blue, then purple and wrinkled, notched and jagged across the fierce, bright sky. Straight down and away through the arroyo one saw a great valley, like an elephant's hide, where the heat-waves buck-jumped.

A lazy smoke of human noises floated up: roosters crowing, pigs grunting, burros giving great racking sobs, the rustling crackle of dried cornstalks being shaken out of the mesquite tree, a woman singing as she mashed her corn on the stones, the wailing of a myriad babies.

It came on toward two o'clock, and still no one moved, except to follow the sun a few feet as it swung the black edge of the shadow eastward. The shadow was very cold, and the sun white hot.

On the edge of the shadow lay Ignacio, the violinist, wrapped in a tattered serape, sleeping off a drunk. He can play one tune when intoxicated-Tosti's "Good By." When very drunk he also remembers fragments of Mendelssohn's "Spring Song." In fact, he is the only high-brow musician in the whole State of Durango, and possesses a just celebrity. Ignacio used to be brilliant and industrious-his sons and daughters are innumerable-but the artistic temperament was too much for him.

The color of the street was red-deep, rich, red clay—and the open space where the burros stood olive drab. There were brown crumbling adobe walls and squat houses, their roofs heaped high with yellow cornstalks or hung with strings of red peppers. A gigantic green mesquite tree, with roots like a chicken's foot, was thatched on every branch with dried hay and corn.

Below, the town fell steeply down the arroyo, roofs tumbled together like blocks,

on the back with one hand while we shook the other.

"Ah, no, señor. A caballero of your age is in the prime of life. But tell me. Is it true what I hear, that the Maderistas are now at Mapimi?"

"Si, señor. Soon Villa will take Torreon, they say, and then it is only a matter of a few months before the revolution is accomplished."

"I think that. Yes. But tell me; I have great respect for your opinion. Which cock would you advise me to bet on?"

We approached the combatants and looked them over, while their owners clamored in our ears. They sat upon the curbing negligently herding their birds apart. It was getting toward three of the afternoon.

"But will there be a cock-fight?" I asked them.

"Quien sabe?" drawled one.

The other murmured that possibly it would be mañana. It developed that the steel spurs had been forgotten in El Oro, and that a small boy had gone after them on a burro. It was six miles over the mountains to El Oro.

However, no one was in any hurry, so we sat down also. Appeared then Catarino Cabrera, the saloon-keeper, and also the Constitutionalist jefe politico of Valle Allegre, very drunk, walking arm ir arm with Don Priciliano Saucedes, the former jefe under the Diaz government. Dor "Buenos tardes, amigo," he murmured, Priciliano is a fine-looking, white-haired "How do you seat yourself?" old Castilian who used to deflower the "Very well, much thanks. And you? young women of the village and lend How have they treated you?" "Delicious. Superlative. Thanks. I Don Catarino is a former schoolmaster, have longed to see you again."

"And your family? How are they?" (It is considered more delicate in Mexico not to ask about one's wife, because so few people are married.)

"Their health is of the best. Great, great thanks. And your family?"

money to the peons at twenty per cent.

an ardent revolutionist-he lends money at a slightly less rate of usury to the same parties. Don Catarino wears no collar, but he sports a revolver and two cartridge belts. Don Priciliano during the first revolution was deprived of most of his property by the Maderistas of the town, and then strapped naked upon his horse and beaten upon his bare back with the flat of a sword.

"Aie!" he says to my question. "The revolution! I have most of the revolution upon my back!"

"Bien, bien! I saw your son with the army at Jimenez. He gave me many, many remembrances of you. Would you desire a cigaret?" "Thanks. Permit me a light. You are in Valle Allegre many days?" "For the fiesta only, señor." And the two pass on to Don Priciliano's "I hope your visit is fortunate, señor. house, where Catarino is courting a beauMy house is at your orders."

"Thanks. How is it that I did not see you at the baile last night, señor? You, who were always such a sympathetic dancer!"

"Unhappily Juanita is gone to visit her mother in El Oro, and now, therefore, I am a platonico. I grow too old for the señoritas."

tiful daughter.

Then, with the thunder of hoofs, dashes up the gay and gallant young Jesus Triano, who was a captain under Orozco. But Valle Allegre is a ten days' ride to the railroad, and politics are not a burning issue there; so Jesus rides his stolen horse with impunity around the streets. He is a large young man with shining

teeth, a rifle and bandolier and leather trousers fastened up the side with buttons as big as dollars-his spurs are twice that big. They say that his dashing ways, and the fact that he shot Emetario Flores in the back, have won him the hand of Dolores, youngest daughter of Manuel Paredes, the charcoal contractor. He plunges down the arroyo at a gallop, his horse tossing bloody froth from the cruel curb. Captain Adolfo Melendez, of the Constitutionalist army, slouches around the corner in a new, bottle-green, corduroy uniform. He wears a handsome gilded sword which once belonged to the Knights of Pythias. Adolfo came to Valle Allegre on a two weeks' leave, which he

A TALE OF THE BALKANS

prolonged indefinitely in order to take to himself a wife- the fourteen-year-old daughter of a village aristocrat.

They say that his wedding was magnificent beyond belief, two priests officiating and the service lasting an hour more than necessary. But this may have been good economy on Adolfo's part, since he already had one wife in Chihuahua, another in Parral, and a third in Monterey, and of course had to placate the parents of the bride. He had now been away from his regiment three months, and told me simply that he thought they had forgotten all about him by now.

At half-past four a thunder of cheers announced the arrival of the small boy

135

with the steel spurs. It seems that he had got into a card game at El Oro, and had temporarily forgotten. his errand.

But of course nothing was said about it. He had arrived, which was the important thing. We formed a wide ring in the open space where the burros stood, and the two owners began to "throw" their birds. But at the first onslaught the fowl upon which we had all bet our money spread its wings, and, to the astonishment of the assembled company, soared screaming over the mesquite tree and disappeared toward the mountains.

Ten minutes later the two owners unconcernedly divided the proceeds before our eyes, and we strolled home content.

T

plight.

HREE captives of the Brda (Brda Mountains of Montenegro) lamented aloud in the prison of Skutari. Loudly they lamented and bitter was their

The Pasha of Skutari had lured them to white Skutari—had plighted his faithand then had cast them into his dark dungeon. There were Lijesh, Voyvoda of Piperi, Vaso of the Vasojevich, and Vuksan, Voyvoda of Rovatz.

Then said Vuksan of Rovatz: "Oh my brethren-ye my sworn brothers in God and St. John-to-day is Friday, the holy day of the Turks. They are gathering before the Mosque and they will surely slay us all three. Unless God help us, we shall die like dogs. To-day is St. Ilija's (Elijah's) day. Have we never a little piaster, nor a golden ducat, that we may buy wine and drink to the glory of God to-day and forever?"

But never a little piaster nor golden ducat had they-but only the silver handjar (short sword) of Vuksan, Voyvoda of Rovatz.

And from the window cried Vuksan : "Oh thou merchant of Skutari-thou my brother in God-I ask thee not for the price of my handjar, it is worth thirty ducats-I ask only for a plenty of red wine, that three Voyvodas of the Brda may take communion and drink to the glory of God!"

And, because he was bidden in God's name, the Skutarene hearkened to him, and brought a plenty of red wine.

And when the Voyvodas had drank, thus spake Vuksan of Rovatz: "Oh my sworn brothers in God and St. John-we

must die. What is it that is the bitterest is Vuksan, Voyvoda of Rovatz? of all in leaving this life?"

Then spake Lijesh, Voyvoda of Piperi: "Oh, Vuksan, my brother-truly I will tell thee. I have built me a little tower. I have wedded a young wife. My little tower is masterless. My young wife is unkissed and uncherished. And this, to me, is the bitterest of all."

Then spake Vaso of the Vasojevich: "Oh, Vuksan, thou my sworn brother, in Vasojevich have I two aged parents. On me alone do they depend for bread. They will wander forth alone and ahungered. And this, to me, is the bitterest of all!"

Loudly spake Vuksan of Rovatz: "Shame on ye, my brethren! Ye lament a tower, and a love, and aged parents. To me, the bitterest of all is that we must die like dogs, with never a fight for life!"

Just then came to the prison three bloody headsmen. And the first stepped forth and cried in a loud voice: "Where is Lijesh, Voyvoda of Piperi? His young wife has ransomed him from our Vezir. Let him step forth and go home!"

This had Lijesh scarce dared hope. He stepped forth swiftly. And the headsman severed his head from his body with one blow.

Then cried the second headsman in a loud voice: "Where is Vaso, of the Vasojevich? His aged parents have ransomed him of our Vezir. Let him step forth and go home."

This had Vaso scarce dared hope. He stepped forth swiftly-and the headsman severed his head from his body with one blow.

Then cried the third headsman: "Where

His

men have ransomed him from our Vezir. Let him step forth and go home."

But Vuksan heard him heedfully. Slowly he stepped forth to the doorway and cried: "Oh, thou young headsmanthou, my brother in God-help me off with my silver toka (a cuirass) lest thou sully the silver with blood!"

Up came the young headsman. Thenas doth a gray falcon-Vuksan fell upon him. God and a warrior's luck were with him. He tore the handjar from the young headsman. He smote off the heads of all three headsmen.

Oh, my brother, if thou could'st but have seen him!

Vuksan rushed through white Skutari and left a bloody track behind him. Dear God, we thank thee for all things!

He left a bloody track behind him, and he came to the bridge on the Boyana. And on the bridge were the Kadi and the Hodja and thirty young Turks.

And the Kadi cried aloud: "Get thee back, Vuksan, of Rovatz! There is no way out for thee here!"

And Vuksan answered: "If there be no way forward, neither is there any way back! Have a care, oh ye Turks!"

He cut down the Kadi and the Hodja, and of the young Turks those that were saved threw themselves into the Boyana.

And Vuksan crossed the bridge. God and a warrior's luck were with him. The night received him, and he fled by Rumia, till he came to the house of that gray falcon Gjuro Kapich.

And Gjuro received him and lent him a saddle-horse and rode with him back to Rovatz.

T

HE discussion that has been going on in the pages of an English magazine, Poetry and Drama, between Louis Untermyer and John Alford as to the respective merits of British and American poets of to-day is an interesting one in many ways, but it does not seem likely to settle anything except the fact of John Bull's continued complacency as to his own accomplishments. Mr. Alford manifests the same indurated indifference for American

poetry that Sidney Smith manifested for all American literature seventy

years ago. It is noticeable, however, that in decrying the work of our living poets he compares them, in nearly every case, not with the living but the dead poets of England. He does, indeed, compare Mr. Markham's "Man with the Hoe” with an ode by Mr. Abercrombie, but he places Edward Arlington Robinson alongside Christina Rossetti, Bliss Carman alongside Stevenson, Wheelock alongside Wordsworth, and thus finds them all lacking in one way or another. “Only one man appears," says Mr. Alford, in concluding his review of American poets of to-day, "from the evidence I have available, to present either new thought, new feeling, or new expression, and that is Mr. Lindsay, who has at least two of these qualities.'

This also is characteristic. What the British want of an. American writer, and what they are always disappointed if they fail to get, is something in the nature of a "wild barbaric yawp." All that Mr. Alford seems to care for of Lindsay's is what the latter himself has styled his vaudeville stunts. The "Kallyope Yell" especially seems to have captured Mr. Alford's mind, just as it was Whitman's most unconventional verse and Bret Harte's most unconventional heroes and Joaquin Miller's most unconventional manners that captured the British fancy of a gen

eration or two ago.

For some similar reason, doubtless, Mr. Alford speaks of "cosmicality" as "a current American vice." It was not a vice in Wordsworth or Coleridge or Milton, or in any of the other great British poets; but American poets have no business with anything but distinctive American topics. The cosmic universe has been preempted by the British bards, or so it would seem, and -William Ellery Leonard and John G. Neihardt and George Sterling and Edna St. Vincent Millay and others among us who deal with things primordial and primeval, with stellar spaces and elemental powers, with the music of the spheres and the flowing robe of nature, are in some wise poachers on British preserves.

Well, it seems as tho we never would

To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight;

To meet with confidence the cynic years; Battling in wars that never can be won, Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat.

Another of our poets who has shown a marked predilection for the cosmic in her verse is Grace Fallow Norton. In her latest volume, "The Sister of the Wind and Other Poems" (Houghton Mifflin Co.), we find a marked mystic strain, which does not take hold of us as her "Little Gray Songs of St. Joincludes some fine poetic work. We seph's" did, but which, nevertheless, quote the following:

W

REBIRTH.

BY GRACE FALLOW NORTON.
HEN I went out to the meadow,
When I went over the hill,
The whole world was a-waiting
My coming to fulfill.

The whole world was a-waiting
To sing its song for me,
To make for me its color-
The earth, the sky, the sea.
I knew not that my going

Was such a wondrous thing,
Till I came unto the meadow
And the world began to sing.
It sang: "To-day and ever

Your soul's another hue, Because of the purple shadows And because the sky is blue;

"O you are changed forever

Bred in the blood of you
Are beach and billow and shallow
And green and gold and blue;

"Forever and forever

Because of the ancient hill, And the motion and the music

And the moments when all is still." And I have taken the purple,

The green and the sunny gold, And the long, long years of the old hill, Altho I am not old;

And I have taken the sea-swing,

(Tho who can carry a wave?) And I have taken the sea-song, I shall sing it in my grave.

Encarnadined, incarnate,

Bred in the blood of me—

And I am one forever

With the earth and sky and sea.

One of the most striking poems developed by the revolutionary spirit of our day is now going the rounds of the radical papers. It preaches assassination, of the most cowardly sort, and we can't recommend it for the school readers. But for effective expression of a certain attitude toward society it is worth reading, even tho we may well regard the attitude itself as despicable. We copy it from the Industrialist, of East Pittsburgh, organ

BY FRANCIS STEARNS GIFFORD.
OW since I cannot make it out:
Why people love and lose and die;
Why there is agony and doubt,
And so much cause to brood and
cry;

Hardly any of our poets-Kipling is
a shining exception-can see anything Oh, since I cannot understand
to praise in our modern industrial sys-
tem. They all seem to hark back, in
their thought, to a golden age before
the days of factories and mills, the
existence of which is, to say the least,
doubtful. This tendency is very mani-
fest in Markham's "The Man with the
Hoe," in Mrs. Marks's "The Singing
Man," and in hundreds of lesser poems.
It is a sign of the times, we presume.
It is evident in all of Miss Widdemer's
recent work, including this from The
Craftsman:

God's will for all the world, and me,-
I will go take the wind's cold hand,
And dance a little, foolishly.

The hills are green and simple folk;
The wind is quick with comrade-calls;
White wayside apple-trees, and smoke
Of wood-fires, and bright water-falls;—
They never bid me understand.
They never say, "You too must die."
I will go take the wind's cold hand.
God knows, I cannot always cry!