element. Live in mind in a palace, and gradually palatial

. surroundings will gravitate to you. But so living in is not pining or longing or complainingly wishing. It is when you are “ down in the world,” calmly and persistently seeing yourself as up. It is when you are now pelled to eat from a tin plate, regarding that tin plate as only the certain step to one of silver. It is not of envying and growling at other people who have silver plates. That growling is just so much capital stock taken from the bank account of mental force.- White Cross Library.


Any person's good will is a real, living, active substance, flowing always to you as that person thinks of you. It has a commercial value in dollars and cents. Ill will is also an element sent from the person who thinks it and works against you, though that person never speaks or acts with the body against you. This you can only successfully oppose by putting out against it the thought element of friendliness. The thought of good to others is the stronger unseen element and can turn the bad (the weaker) aside. It prevents it from reaching or harming you. Through the working of that same law it is dangerous to make enemies, no matter how good or just the cause. White Cross Library.


Some of the Dozevillians hold but a dim remembrance of California's grand opening day,— the rush and gold fever of 1849; yet vessels, twenty odd years ago, carrying away the pick of their young men, sailed directly from Dozeville to San Francisco. But other and greater events have since transpired. California, to many of these Dozevillians, is almost the California of thirty years ago a land remote and unknown. Some of them scarcely know the existence of the Yosemite valley or the big trees. You are disgusted. Worse than this: some of them have quite forgotten certain of the young

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men born and bred in Dozeville, long resident in California. You speak of Tom Travers, who was a “Dozeville boy." Half California knows Tom Travers. “ Why, Uncle Abraham Traver's son, next to the oldest, say you? Well, yes, 'pears as if I do remember something of him."

And then they stop, for they are hardly certain whether they do or not. It is not strange. Year after year in Dozeville have they trotted around a little circusring of life; sitting about the same grocery store in winter, sitting in the same chairs in front of that grocery in summer, droning over the weight of the last murdered hog, or the last strange face seen in the village; reviewing all the Dozeville tattle, until all other recollection is beaten and stamped out. The mental horizon of these Dozevillians has settled thickly just outside their little circus-ring of thought. No wonder that they should forget the well-known Thomas Travers.

You call on old Mr. Scott. He was old to you when a boy. He lives in and on books. He has travelled all over the world in books. He knows California well by books. He speaks of the Yosemite Valley, the Ca-laverous Grove of Big Trees, and the San Joe-a-kin River. You venture to correct his pronunciation, but he has his own laws for pronouncing Californian proper names, and will not stay corrected by a snip of thirty-five. There is another trial for you. Dick Harvey, the pioneer resident of Whiskey Flat, named by and for himself, has done little in California for the last twenty years, save dig, drink, dance, and play poker. Dick's parents reside in Roseville. Dick was one of the pewful of young men, westward bound, who listened to the admonitory sermon. Old Mr. Harvey, Dick's father, calls on you, that he may learn something of his son; he has not heard directly from him for fifteen years. Dick long since renounced writing home. Unfortunately, you know too much of Dick What is he doing?" asks old Mr. Harvey. You believe he is mining, and doing tolerably well (Dick has been


every one he could make a raise” from, for years and years. His bost suit is a gray shirt and a pair of blue jean overalls. He

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never comes to camp without making a disturbance. He was once offered $50 to quit the neighborhood and betake himself to other parts, but refused to leave under $100.) With all this fresh in your mind, you sit before old Mr. Harvey, who longs to hear something from his lost and never-to-be-found son. You wish that he would go, because it is hard work, in answering his inquiries, to equivocate, and squirm, and sneak, and dodge about the truth, which is not to be told at all times about Dick. The Swamp Angel.

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German philologist; born at Dessau, De

cember 6, 1823; died at Oxford, England, October 28, 1900. He studied philology at Leipsic, where he took his degree in 1843. Subsequently he went to Paris to continue his study of the Sanskrit and cognate languages, and especially to fit himself for editing the Rig-Veda, the great Sanskrit poem. In 1846 he went to England for the same purpose. The East India Company offered to pay the expense of the publication of the Rig Veda, the first volume of which appeared in 1849, the sixth and last in 1874, each volume containing more than twelve hundred quarto pages. In 1850 the University of Oxford invited him to deliver courses of lectures on Comparative Philology. In 1854 he was elected Taylorian Professor ; in 1856 was made a curator of the Bodleian Library, and in 1858 a Fellow of All Souls' College. In 1868 the university founded a new professorship of Comparative Philology, Max Müller being expressly named as the first professor. He resigned


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