famous. About twenty of us lived there; a dozen more, sleeping in their own cabins, gathered under its roof three times a day to eat a little and drink a great deal. We made a queer party, thirty-two men hailing from almost as many different parts of the world - stray bits of wreckage from all round the globe-stranded at last in this out-of-the-way mining camp, nestling in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, ten thousand feet above the sea.

roof began. An old-fashioned church pul- | balls, church meetings, and shooting afpit, discarded by the Methodist society fairs had each in turn done some little when they repaired their chapel, stood in towards making and keeping the house one corner of the room for the use of the judge on court days; a lot of rough pine boards piled up in a corner made benches for the jury, the witnesses, and lawyers. The only evidence of luxury or suggestion of his old home in the east, was a large easy-chair that always stood in front of the window, through which could be seen Arapaho Peak, fifteen thousand feet high. This was the judge's favorite corner. Here he would sit by the hour when the days were cold or stormy, smoking his large pipe. He always had a book open before him, but it was noticed he seldom turned the leaves, but with eyes fastened on the snow-covered peak across the valley, sat quietly dreaming the hours away. Of what he thought or dreamed, we, his friends in the camp, could not tell; perhaps we could not have understood his thoughts had we known them; that he loved the old mountain was plain; that he turned to it a far different side of his character from the jolly, good-tempered one known in the camp, we suspected. Perhaps his sorrows, if he had any, and Heaven knows we all have some, were told to his cold and silent friend, "The Peak."

Many an afternoon I have looked across the valley from my shaft to the judge's little cabin, as the sun went down, to see him bid it good-night.

In the morning at the breakfast-table, when the dim light filtering in through dirty windows gave to face and figure a strange, unreal appearance, they were a rough lot to look upon. Conversation was limited, for each man was busy with thoughts of the day's chances. A poor man now, to-night he might be a millionaire, and, snapping his fingers, turn his back on the camp forever. This possibility made our speech and action quick and nervous, as if begrudging the few moments required to consume the necessary amount of food. It was at such a time and surrounded by such men the judge showed to advantage. Leaning back in his chair in spite of the rush, somehow he would find time to work in the thin edge of some good story. We couldn't but stop a moment and laugh, and this laugh seemed to clear the atmosphere, let off our surplus stock of nervous excitement, and establish a good feeling all round the table. But if the judge was entertaining at breakfast, he waxed positively brilliant in the evening. For it was then our life in camp took on its brightest side.

If the day was clear, you were sure to see him at this hour pacing up and down the narrow platform in front of his cabin, every few moments stopping to look across the valley where the glory of the sunset rested. At last, striking an attitude Napoleonic in the extreme, with head critically balanced on one side, he would stand and watch the close of the day. Nodding in a familiar way to the sun as it dropped behind the mountain, his every movement seemed to say, "Very well done to-night, old boy - very well done indeed. I could suggest a few improve-side the wind whistled, dashing the snow ments, but what's the good? Every one is satisfied with the show as you give it, so don't change on my account.”

When the bright color in the west had faded, and the stars began to cluster around Arapaho Peak and blossom far and wide, he would close his door and come slowly down the narrow path leading from his cabin to the Caribou House, where he took all his meals.

The Caribou House was the centre of social life in camp; political conventions,

In the long winter nights we all gathered around the large fireplace in the bar-room; with chairs tilted back, legs crossed, and hands clasped behind our heads, we would sit and smoke while the judge spun yarns. Many of them were old, some were poor, but somehow we never got tired of hearing them. The room was dimly lighted; out

in passionate gusts against the windowpanes. The purring of the wood fire, dropping lower and lower as the evening waned, the shadows above and around us, all seemed to draw our little circle closer and closer together; and the judge's soft voice seemed just to fit in with the surroundings.

He appeared to have such a childlike belief in all his old stock lies. I suppose they had developed slowly from smail, perhaps truthful beginnings, right under

his eye to their present size, and, like a father, he was blind to weak points in these children of his imagination.

He was writing a book, he once told us - a book for children; it was to be called "The Three Buckets of Blood, or The Bloody Beer Brewer of Bolivia." I don't think he ever finished it; even his patient friends at the Caribou House mutinied when the first chapter was read to them. In his stories he was always figuring as a hero in some wonderful love adventure; unfortunately, so it appeared to us, the "other fellow" always carried off the girl; but this fact never seemed to trouble the judge, he married them off without a tremor, and allotted each one a family of from six to sixteen children.

One night Jim Strickland, a miner living down at Nederland Camp, made one of our party around the fire. He listened with interest and apparent pleasure to one of the judge's old love-stories; when it came to an end a disagreeable smile lighted up his ugly face. "Judge," he broke out, "the last time I heard you spin that yarn you only allowed the woman had seven children. I'm sure it was only seven, for I noticed at the time it was just the number of kids I had at home; to-night you say the woman had nine children."

The judge turned and looked him squarely in the face; this style of criticism was new. "When did you hear me tell that story?"

"The night Yankee Jim shot the little chap from Boulder, the one we used to call the Widder's Mite,' 'cause he was the only kid she had."

"That was about ten months ago, wasn't it?" queried the judge. "Yes," about."

answered Strickland, "just

"If you hadn't been a bloomen idiot you wouldn't have chipped in with such a simple question. Because you and your sleepy old camp never move, you mustn't imagine my friends stand still. Got a letter from this dear girl last week. 'Twins, born Thursday, both boys.' She had decided, long before little stranger arrived, to name it after me, after her worthless old lover, Billy Woods; didn't expect two, so only had one name ready, so she had to split it up, the name, not the babies; called one Billy, the other Woods - clever, wasn't it? clever in the little woman to remember me nothing small either in the way she did it. Twins that's handsome, shows she had her heart in it, don't it, boys?"

to his own camp he is said to have re marked: "Boys, if this old camp ever gets out of debt and has a surplus, I shall vote to buy an ornamental liar like Judge Woods. Why, bless my soul, boys, a camp ain't in working order without one." Of course local jealousy may have been largely responsible for this opinion of the judge.

One night on his return from the valley, the judge surprised us with a story of a wonderful scarecrow he had seen at Jamieson's ranch, just below Nederland Camp. "So natural, boys, it not only kept the crows from taking any more corn, but one old bird was so worked up, he brought back some corn he had carried away the day before. Seems hard to swallow, don't it, boys? That's the way it struck me, boys, at first. But, boys, just as I had about made up my mind Jamieson was lying, a flock of crows passed over the field, and that galoot pointed out the very crow; pointed it out without a moment's hesitation, in a crowd of nigh on to a hundred other crows; that's why I believe his story. No one could doubt after such evidence as that."

The judge had taken an active part in the late civil war - a very prominent part, if all his stories were to be believed. His description of a retreat is characteristic of the man. "Yes, boys, we were licked; I saw it at a glance, and I rode right over to General Sheridan and told him so. 'I guess you're right, Billy,' he said, 'it hasn't looked right to me for the last hour.' Then he turned, and, with his big blue eyes full of tears, said, 'Boys, we're licked; skedaddle out of range; and you bet they did. I led the crowd. Crossing one of the fields I saw a poor fellow ahead of me carrying a wounded soldier on his back; his right leg had been shot off. Just before I overtook him, a stray shot from a battery on the hill whizzed over my head. It missed me, but carried away the head of the wounded man the soldier just in front of me was carrying. It did it so nicely the soldier never suspected his wounded friend was now minus a head as well as a leg. At this moment old Captain Browning, a gruff old fellow, rode by. Noticing the soldier and his strange burden, he pulled up by his side. Hullo, boy! where are you taking that fellow?'

"To the field hospital, captain.' "The field hospital! What can they do for him there his head is shot off?" "The soldier dropped his burden on the ground, looked at it a moment in amazeThe next day when Strickland got back ment, then exclaimed, 'The fool told me it

for one of us." Addressing the crowd of miners who filled the room, he went on: "It's a pity the missionaries can't civilize these brutes, Christianize them up to a level where a free and enlightened American citizen can kill the yellow devils without striking a blow at his self-respect and lowering his dignity. Sheriff, don't bring any more Chinamen here unless you have enough evidence to convict them. If there is any doubt, we can settle with them better out of court. Here, I'm apt to execute the law in a correct but unpopular manner, but when I lay aside my judicial ermine I'm with you-with you every time."

would shoulder his trout rod, and, fol lowed by half-a-dozen children, start for a tramp in the woods. He claimed to be a great fisherman, but he never was known to bring back any fish from his excursions into the mountains. At last I discovered the reason of his poor success. I was coming down the mountain one summer afternoon, walking slowly, for I was very tired. I had been over in the Grand Middle Park prospecting. The ground under the trees was so thickly strewn with pine needles that my steps made little noise. Suddenly, through a break in the underbush, I saw the judge and a party of little children. The judge was seated on the The silver mine that originally brought ground, his back resting against the trunk the judge to Caribou occupied very little of a pine-tree in his arms was a little of his time; indeed, he seldom visited it. child fast asleep. Playing in front of him Every now and then he would find some were the rest of the little party-six poor fellow in camp out of work and out happy children, their mouths and hands of money. He would at once decide to full of candy, all trying hard to laugh and do some new work on the mine, and send- | talk and eat candy at the same time. By ing the poor miner down into one of the the judge's side lay an open book, a volume drifts, keep him busy until he could find of Hans Andersen's fairy-tales — I recog. steady work in some other mine. No one nized its peculiar binding. His fishingin camp ever heard of any one being rod leaned against a tree, the fly dangling taken out of the mine. "No, he was only harmlessly over the little stream that went opening up the mine, not working it," the hurrying by, merrily singing as it swept judge would say when questioned. "The on from its home of play in the mountains mine is a splendid one; the hole in the to its field of work on the plains below. side of the mountain represents the Sover- The judge was gravely smoking his large eign People my stockholders; the suf- pipe and seemed to be far away in dreamfering people neither bother me much. land he was looking out through an The governor owns all the stock. He opening in the trees, on the wide prairie never thought it worth anything why twenty miles away, and more than ten should I startle him with a dividend? As thousand feet below. Just over his shoulfor me, I don't want to get rich; what der the Peak lifted its snowy face, the good would the money do me? I'm trees parting to let it complete the picture. happy now I couldn't say more if IA woodpecker plied his noisy trade overowned the earth. If I did strike it rich, what would be the result? I would grow stuck up, turn my back on you worthless vagabonds, and go off and live with people who didn't care for me only wanted my gold dust. Why, it would just break my poor old heart; that is all the good money would do me. But come, boys, this particular miner is very thirsty. I struck a good pocket this morning" (the old man's monthly remittance). "There is silver enough in sight for one last drink. Gentlemen of the jury, are you ready? Yes,' bottoms up down with crime.'" In this peculiar and original manner the judge discharged the arduous duties of genera! manager of the Sovereign People Mining and Milling Company, Limited.

In the long summer afternoons, when the pine woods were full of sweet odors and the sun dropped long pencils of light through the interlacing boughs, the judge

head. Two small birds flew from a thicket across the stream and perched fearlessly on a stump near the children; they seemed to be waiting for an invitation to join the happy little party. Only the laughter of the children, the ripples of the stream, and the tapping of the woodpecker broke the solemn stillness of the woods. The soft air was heavy with the odor of the pines. The tops of the trees interlacing far above shut out the bright sunshine, making the long aisles of pine-trees look weird and strange in the half-light of the woods; the earth, warm with the breath of summer, seemed throbbing with life. Overcome by all these influences, I fell asleep; when I awoke, an hour later, the judge and his party had gone back to camp. After this I never was surprised to see the judge bring home an empty basket; neither did I wonder that time with him seemed to stand still, nor that

years in passing traced no wrinkles on his | fun was absent. Even the judge seemed kindly face. to feel the shadow, and although he tried manfully to keep up our spirits, he found it well-nigh impossible. The snow had been falling all day, the wind was now rising, drifting the dry snow in every direction and burying some of the smaller cabins out of sight. The talk around the fire having ended, we sat watching through the window opposite a Christmas service in the little church across the street.