We are suffering from too much collectivism. The young lions of Socialism talk gravely of abolishing all private charity, and of throwing such obligations on to the broad shoulders of the State. Voluntary aid to the old is now indirectly discoursed by a Government which taxes the thrifty worker in order that John Smith, exbricklayer, consistent shirker, wastrel, or cab-runner may have a pension in his old age. Merit seems to be a secondary consideration provided the principle is established. But the Socialists have left us the streets, and particularly the Brompton Road. There the individual may mete out his pity to his brother on the curbstone. At least there is one field left where one may select a mendicant at random and do him charity. But the other side of the question is not so consolatory. It is probably true to say that not one in ten of these woebegone creatures is a deserving object of charity. The best that can be said of them is that they do no harm, and that they afford a vast deal of amusement to those who observe their plan of operations. For instance, a certain Bartimeus was wont to take his seat at the end of Brompton Square, with a well-fed dog at his side sitting on a mat, provided by his master, to protect his hinder-quarters from the cold stone. The dog held a tin money-box attached to his collar. The man simply sat, and the money rolled in. A curious resident on the opposite side of the road took lengthy observations, and then drew up a calculation based on the assumption that one penny was given every time a contribution was made, though frequently silver, and sometimes a shilling was seen to descend into the tin, and taking into consideration the average number of absences in a given time due to inclement weather, the probable income timate may not be very exact, but it is nearer the truth than the ordinary passer-by thinks, or the stream of coin would not be so copious. As he is no longer at the receipt of custom, the inference is that he has retired to live in the country on the proceeds. The blind possess a peculiar advantage over the deaf in eliciting sympathy from strangers, and perhaps that is why they are of an unusually calm and happy disposition. The deaf man cannot flaunt his infirmity in the face of the public unless someone speaks to him. An inscription on his breast "I am deaf" somehow does not strike home, for he does not look helpless, and he cannot hold out the moving spectacle of the dog and string, or the appearance of closed or sightless eyes. The deaf man is the butt of a hundred stories, and the proverbial comparison with a post carries with it the imputation of stockishness and stupidity. But it is impossible to laugh at a blind man, he carries his head high with a trustful dignity that disarms ridicule. He rarely laughs out loud or is boisterous, and this leads to the supposition that laughter, like smoking, is a matter in which the eye must have a part. You may search fiction in vain for a blind character who is ridiculous, and, unless you except the awesome villainy of Stevenson's John Pew and his literary progeny, he is never a bad man. A situation, however, may sometimes make even a blind man ridiculous. I once on a Saturday night saw a saintly, ascetic-looking man, with lank hair descending about his peaky shoulders, being conducted home by his dog. He had spent a jovial evening, his gait was serpentine, and the string which attached him to his dog was too long for convenience. The dog chose one side of a lamp-post, and he the other, which caused a check. Then language broke forth from the man which was neither saintly nor ascetic, as he endeavored to hit the dog with his stick. The dog, fearful for his skin and yet appreciating his advantage, dodged each blow, and protested with derisive barks, leading his master in circles till the two revolved round and round the lamp-post like planetary moons, to the great entanglement of the string. There was Homeric laughter in that bark. The street was convulsed, and even the stolid policeman flung his dignity aside, and held his sides with inextinguishable merriment, and only partially recovered his official gravity on considering the problem of a rescue. A blind drunken man wildly aiming blows at nothing with a heavy ferruled stick is not so easy to tackle. At last the thing was accomplished, and the beggar disarmed of his stick in case he should do a mischief to his dog, and after much soothing of a ruffled temper, a bystander offered to take him home. There is a plaintive-looking man whose usual "pitch" is on the pavement in a conspicuous place. The tray from which he sells studs, laces and like commodities, his dog, and mat occupy a considerable portion of the pavement, and he wears a shade to protect his dark eyes which have the dull and filmy look of the blind. It was the morning after that historic night when the news of the relief of Mafeking had galvanized London into a dancing frenzy, when conversation became general on the tops of omnibuses, and when the most reserved opened out to strangers. The streets were ringing with the shouts of newsboys selling papers, when our friend was seen suddenly to spring up, seize a paper from a boy, and greedily examine its contents. The print was very bad on that morning, and one is driven to the conclusion that there are none so blind as those who see oc casionally. I was sorely tempted to chaff the man when next I bought a bootlace, but my better nature prevailed. Patriotism is too sacred. De Quincey, in his "English Mail Coach," speaking of the effect of the news of the battle of Waterloo on the English people, says: "The beggar, rearing himself against the wall, forgets his lameness-real or assumed-thinks not of his whining trade, but stands erect with bold, exulting smiles, as we pass him." His patriotism, then, is traditional. There was a quaint little mannikin with eyeless sockets who used to raise the echoes of Piccadilly with a penny whistle which matched his stature, for it was half the length of the ordinary instrument. The execution with which he discoursed his shrill music was extraordinary, and, if set to the accompaniment of a music-hall band, might have commanded a handsome competence. He would take up his station outside Devonshire House and pipe lustily by the hour. You would have heard his birdlike notes from afar, in spite of the roar of the traffic. But, alas! a change has come over the spirit of his fortune, for his pipe is now silent and he plays no more. Whether an inartistic policeman has forbidden his music, or whether something has broken for ever those four or five inches of tin, who shall say? He is now to be seen silently soliciting alms, cheerful as ever, but songless. A tragedy lies somewhere about the loss of that unique penny whistle. As a rule there is nothing aggressive about these blind men: they stand. either in a retired spot against the wall, or on the curbstone, speechless; they do not follow you with an insistent whine, or pluck your sleeve. One exception, however, must be noted. A fat, well fed man with sleek hair used to sit against a shop corner not far from the top of Sloane Street, and grind a little hand organ. It came about that, during some alterations in the place, a temporary wooden sidewalk was erected scarcely six feet wide, for the accommodation of the public. Our fat friend saw his opportunity. He took up his station in the narrow way, occupying half the gangway. You could barely pass him without treading on his feet. People tumbled over him and kicked him by mistake, and for very shame had to solace him, his blind face looked so innocent. A friend of mine, indignant at such blatant obstruction, complained to a constable, and the answer was, "Oh, we never interfere with him, he has been there for years." My friend pointed out that "there" was a different place altogether. At last the bold blind beggar became such a public nuisance, thrusting his feet forward to be trodden on, that others complained, and the police had to relegate him to his old and less assertive position by the shop. these. He heaved alongside of me one day twirling his moustache like an art critic before an undiscovered masterpiece. "Excuse me, sir, but I've been a fool." It was so confidential and bland. I looked at him in astonishment, and said: "Don't say that. You don't look like a fool." He positively bridled. "You flatter me, sir, but I really have made a fool of myself." "How is that?" I asked. "Well, the fact is I've been horse-racing like a silly ass, put my money on a succession of wrong 'uns, couldn't stop in time, and here I am. This is literally my last shirt." The garment in question was spotless, a great deal cleaner than my own in fact. "If you could just lend me half a sov., I should be awfully obliged. Of course I'll give you my name and address, and you shall have it back in a fortnight." He might have been asking for a light, and explaining how he left his matchbox behind. He was rather conferring a favor on me by pointing out the obvious thing to do. I know it is quite incredible, but I refused to lend him the ten shilings. "Of course," he retorted with a pitying air, "I am a total stranger to you, but I thought perhaps you might feel inclined to do me a favor. Good-day, sir." There was no anger, no whine, no sneers at my close fist, and his pity made me feel that I had lost an opportunity. I went home feeling very mean. But I had not seen the last of my friend. Some months later he accosted me in Piccadilly on a foggy day. "Excuse me, sir, . . ." "Oh, yes," I replied. "I know. You are the man who has been a fool." He burst forth into purple language, and disappeared. Everyone is familiar with the man who has lost his money, and wants a third-class ticket with which to get home; the tale is thrice told, and deceives none save those who give the sum asked for under a fond hope that they may have come across a genuine case; but for cool impudence commend me to the jocular familiarity of the "well-dressed stranger" who used to haunt the highways of South Kensington. He was a smart, military-looking man, arrayed point-device, with a frank, truthful gaze which looked you between the eyes, the embodiment of gentility without any shabbiness. His linen was clean, he carried an expensive walking-stick, and he used to spend much of his spare time in public Such engaging candor was irresistlibraries reading reviews. How he ible, and probably succeeded nearly utilized this cheaply acquired knowl- every time, and if ten shillings reedge I cannot tell, unless he compiled warded each friendly chat, he may statistics or novels, but his methods now be living in affluent respectability for his immediate requirements were and is probably a churchwarden. remembered. The favorite gait of the animal is a slink. When a common dog, or even two common dogs, half as big again as he is, set off after him to run him down, the coyote lopes off on a three-legged hirple. With his head screwed round over his shoulder watching the progress of the pursuers, he gets over the ground at a remarkable pace. Sometimes the dogs gain on him, and give extra tongue as they feel they are winning and about to destroy him. Then a strange thing happens. The coyote plays trumps. He sits down, merely sits right down on his hindquarters, and gazes abstractedly around. The dogs somehow stop, and proceed no nearer,-that is three times out of four they stop. Should they keep on, the coyote simply picks himself up, and getting four legs into play this time, leaves them hands down. When a coyote, in his daytime circuits, strikes a ranch-house where fowls are kept, and the people are from home, he regales himself, of course, but that is not all. His meal over, he goes to scientific sporting with live hens, tossing them up and catching them in his mouth, apparently to see how often he can do it, and how nearly he can pluck a fowl before a kill. There is a bounty on his head, and he is systematically poisoned or shot, yet he is still to be found in plenty. He is notoriously hard to "spot kill" with a rifle, though he tries to make up to the hunter for this disappointing trait by a way he has, as a ball passes through his deceptive fur, of jumping a couple of cubits heavenward, as though all Even if hit in a vital part, he will frequently do one more threelegged inimitable sprint to where he means to die. The prairie coyote is a genuine humorist, though natural history books do not tell us so. was over. A sheep-herder in the district of which I write is privileged to eat mutton at his discretion. Not very much advantage, however, is taken of the prerogative, the operation of butchering involving trouble, and the meat, of course, in the prevailing high temperature, keeping but a short time. The Mexican will have none of it at all, always insisting on being well supplied with bacon. During an eight months' spell of tent life I more than once ran short of provisions, and until my chuck-box was replenished I had perforce to indulge in mutton diet ad nauseam. I consumed the flesh to such an extent, indeed, that for a long time I was almost ashamed to look a sheep square in the face. Elusive as the mirage of the plains are the charms of pastoral life upon them. On a snap judgment it might be thought that "this our life exempt from public haunt" was an ideal one for lifting a man out of his petty self, and promoting within him a peaceful tranquillity of mind. Nevertheless, lover or worshipper of nature if you be, in order to get the fullest joy out of her that she is capable of yielding, you cannot go into her solitudes and find it in company with a bunch of sheep. The loneliness you may get used to, the primitive you may get used to, and may after a while possibly even enjoy, but the incubus of these ever-present woollies, and some incidentals of attendance upon them, detract over much from the calm. There are many minor troubles and harassments in the life of a herder. One of them is ants. In idle moments, when the flock is resting, and you have nothing to do but loiter in their neighborhood, there is no need of following the good old advice of going to the ant in order to consider her ways. She goes to you and she goes for you, and she brings her sisters and her cousins to promenade over you and sample you and help to keep you amused. The earth teems with her. Microscopic, medium, and overgrown, golden, red, brown, and black, she is everywhere. Select your place and sit down anywhere during the heat of the day, and soon her thin various-hued lines begin to lead up to you from different directions. She bites, and the less visible she is the harder and the more she bites, and the bite is sore. Woe-betide the shepherd of lethargic turn who chances to drop into slumber in one of her extra thickly peopled zones. One heavy sleeper who did so found that his noonday siesta cost him a few days in bed, and much pathological research to allay the inflammation. Unless care is taken, the ant, always accompanied by friends, finds her way into your food, and her aromatic flavor, albeit some tribes of Indians claim it is wholesome and much enjoy it, is purely an acquired taste. It was ever a matter of deep regret with me that I had not acquired it in early life. Another of the ills incidental to the craft of the gentle tenting shepherd is the dustiness thereof. Thirty-five hundred sheep have fourteen thousand trotters, and these continually triturating the arid surface of the soil, in the neighborhood of corrals and wateringplaces particularly, add an alkaline element to the atmosphere that the human lungs were not designed to utilize. As the tent is set so near to the fold, one's food at times is gritty and nasty. "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return," is our decree, yet the surfeited shepherd is at times tempted to think that the thing can be just a little overdone. Then as another disturbance of the even tenor of one's way, there are the roaming prairie cattle. Wild and wanton, yet inquisitive, they come round in the absence of the shepherd: with alert nostril divining they are come into the magic precincts of salt, and that the same is probably sack-enshrined beneath that conical canvas erection, they make short work of any feeble fence outworks, and proceed to business. By one of nature's inscrutable laws, salt-hungry cattle become at once omnivorous, and will attack cloth, rope, or leather with avidity. Anything else that comes their way, in their search for the coveted salt, has to take its chance. Thus when you arrive home of an evening, and find a section gnawed out of your half-overturned tent, a blanket in a masticated frazzle, your spare boots a partially devoured pulpy wad, and the camp in general indicating the passage of a recent whirlwind, you will know that a cow has called. To safeguard against these cattle, insects, and other depredators, the plan is adopted in many places of substituting a wagon for the tent. Besides being more proof against inroad, it is more reliable in the event of storms, which in their intensity here oftentimes lay a tent low, unless it is extra well guyed. With a wagon on the spot, more frequent moves of camp can be made to get to fresh pasturage and less dust-ridden sites. The caravan of the European gypsy would be a boon to the West. My own heaviest trials, however, came from two members of the flock itself two beautiful, silky, milkywhite, innocent-looking creatures of the Angora goat family. Popularly tain believed to possess a cermascot or healthful virtue, one or more of these animals is sometimes inserted in a band of sheep. Among the dirty grey billows of sheep fleece their snowy forms show up like beacon-lights, for they are always spotless. They are cool and easy-mannered, and seemingly hold their woolbearing companions somewhat in disdain. When overcrowded in a press in the pen, they will perch on the backs of the sheep or step over them to a more airy point of vantage, the top of the fence by preference. The hours |