of the cliff, but was swept away every time
by the surf, and finally abandoned the attempt as hopeless. At that
crisis in the struggle ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have given
up and allowed themselves to drown; but this man was not a "quitter." He
turned his face again seaward, struck out for the half-submerged ship,
and after a long and desperate struggle succeeded in reaching her and
getting on board. He climbed the fore-shrouds, waved his hand to the
pitying but powerless fishermen on the edge of the cliff, and lashed
himself again in the rigging. At intervals, until dark, he made signals
to the fishermen to show that he was yet alive. At daybreak on the
following morning he could still be seen in the fore-rigging, but his
head had fallen on his breast and he was motionless. He had frozen to
death in the night. That man died, as a man in adverse circumstances
ought to die, fighting to the last. You may call it foolish, and say
that he might better have ended his sufferings by allowing himself to
drown when he found that he could not make a landing at the base of the
cliff; but deep down in your hearts you pay secret homage to his
courage, his endurance, and his indomitable will. He was defeated at
last, but, so long as he had consciousness, neither fire nor cold nor
tempest could break down his manhood.

The Caucasian mountaineers have a proverb which says: "Heroism is
endurance for one moment more." That proverb recognizes the fact that in
this world the human spirit, with its dominating force, the will, may be
and ought to be superior to all bodily sensations and all accidents of
environment. We should not only feel, but we should teach, by our
conversation and by our literature, that, in the struggle of life, it is
essentially a noble thing and a heroic thing to die fighting. In a
recent psychological story called "My Friend Will," Charles F. Lummis
pays a striking tribute to the power of the human mind over the
accidents of life and chance when he makes his "friend Will" say: "I am
bigger than anything that can happen to me. All these things--sorrow,
misfortune, and suffering--are outside my door. I'm in the house and
I've got the key!"

PRAIRIE DAWN

BY WILLA SIBERT CATHER

A crimson fire that vanquishes the stars;
A pungent odor from the dusty sage;
A sudden stirring of the huddled herds;
A breaking of the distant table-lands
Through purple mists ascending, and the flare
Of