The record-union., 1893-12-23
TIE WHITE HORSE OF THE GOSPEL.


"a long, low stretch Of wave-washed sand
With skies of blue, low bending over
The oceans palpitaung breast
Fondly as some enamored lover"
No mint OF snow. or cold, or rime,
In California's Christmas time.
To landward drifts the fine, uprising
spray, and the wave-born music crashes
through the twilight. The north cliffs,
that short time ago were draped in rosy
robes lent them by the sun ere he set.
had again donned their sober browns and
grays. The long stretch Of beach seemed
deserted; not even an echo of the gay
voices and laughter of the brilliant and
well-dressed throng-some in carriages.
some on foot, some on mettlesome horses
that had pranced and curvetted and SHE'D
as the foan-tipped rollers sprayed their
glossy flanks. Everyone was enjoying
the long, sunny, winter afternoon. And
they only left when the sun set in gCr-
geous blaze of colors, as if he, too, was
bent on giving at the last some spec
tacular that would command admiration.
Not a sound save the call of some
homeward faring sea birds, whose notes
were calling plaintively from their rest
ing places on the tall toWer-lke rocks out
In the bay-calling them 10 hasten ere
the dusk fell. From the closed shutters
OF the shell and curio stores there
sifted round sunlke spots OF light on the
sandy sidewalk, and few stray beams
lit rainb bows in the foam bubbles flung
up by the waves. The one horse-car was
motionless on the turnta ole, the horse
with dropping head awaiting the ten
minutes time ere he turned on the down
trip.
Suddenly beating of iron hoots on the
I
tall, white, gaunt-loOking horse, with
brown spots on his hide like gigantic
treckles. A slight, graceful girl is riding
him; a mass OF hair tumbles down her
back in riotous red brown curls. Her
eyes are wine brown, with long curling
lashes. a battered hat is far back on her
head, and faded blue skirt floats TO the
wind. AS the white horse pounds along
On an awkward gallop the breeze and ex-
ercise brings a crimson like the heart OF
rose, ''or a crimson dawn kindled in
stainless heaven to her cheeks. Away
she flies through the dusk into the night
like spirit hurrying on some mission,
and the dark cliff shadows hide the horse
and rider.
When she returns the stars are peeping
out but the white horse goes slowly, and
the alert, graceful figure OF his rider is
dropping like a wounded bird. What
has happened to crush the spirit and life
out OF one so fair, so slight? And the
horse is IN sympathy with his rider, as
one can see. for be goes heavily and the
sea breeze catches the sObbing sighs and
carries them afar over the water.
Along a dark bridge and out on
the woodland road go the pair
straight to a tumble-down cabin
the girl calls home. Here she lives with
her father, Con Peterson, an old repro
bate, who gets a scanty living for himself
and daughter. No one knows exactly
how, but all suspect the ways and means
except his daughter. good, pretty and in
nOcent loving and caring for him as if he
was the most desirable of parents. A
small patch of fertile land yields the
green muscat, and few trees the luscious
red fg. Bill, the horse, earns his living
by hauling sand and wood five days in
the week, and the rest of the tune he car
ries his loved mistress here and there
1t is quite dark when the girl dis
mounts and goes into the unlighted
house, while Bill rolls himself in dust
and delight and groans heavily as he thus
disports himself on his spinal column.
But his groans are not signs of dolor as
much as of Joy. He takes his pleasures
heavily or with apparent heaviness of
spirit, and rises with a snort of relish to
browse on the much-nipped-at grass.
But his mistress, Marcella, has re-
ceived a blow she will never recover
from. Her faith, her love for her father.
had received a shock on that never-to- be-
forgotten ride. She had seen with her
own eyes-seen him robbing some poor
mans crab-trap and rif1ing a fish-uet, as
he thought, unObserved. To those who
knew him this would have OccasiOned no
surprise, for custom accustOms," but to
his daughter it was heart-breaking dis
coVery.
The San Lorenzo is noted for it's fine
salmon, and fisherman can stand on
the bank and whip the stream and hear
the shrill song OF the whirring reel, or
take a spear and draw the fish in with
scarce a struggle. Jack Wistar a wealthy
young man, has come from the city with
his friends, Bert HenshaW and Will Kelly.
They had taken a furnished cottage,
brought a Chinese cook with skin like cha
lnOis leather, and form that melted (by
its fat the young men to call him after the
Roman General Suetonius, which struck
their friends as a very appropriate cog
nomen, for his expanive chest secuted
any idea of Wun Lung, his Mongolian
title
They had been enjoying fishing in the
river and bay and shooting in the ada
cent hills. They were q jolly, cheerful
set of young men to have around. And
the general opinion Of the townspeople
was that they had "brains enough to be
useful and beauty enough to be Orna-
mental"
Jack Wistar, their host. had never
known aught of poverty or its tempta-
iions. I'VE start in life the same but
some drift TO Oriental gardens and some
to glaciers" Jacks apparently selfish
life was more the result of his surround
lngs than his nature. The wealthy firm
OF Black, DensmOre & Co. furnished him
with business and large margin for va
cations. His father had been the Co. part
of the firm and on his death bed left his
interest to Jack.
Jack is in high glee this morning
He has speared his six large salmon, and
leaving them in all their quiYering sill
very beauty on the bank, he had his two
friends make up stream to try rod and
reel. The fish are leaping high to escape
the whirling eddies around the rocks
that bar their course to the sea, and the
young men wade in over their boot tops
in their eagerness.
They were all intent in their sport
when Marcella, on her white horse,
passed by. Bert called out, ''Say, Jack.
we will have great luck. There goes the
white horse OF the gospel and the red
headed girl. Wonder if l crossed over
the bay If 1 could head her off and ask
her how her par sells crabs?"
How he steals them, you mean," said
VIII, as he wound up some line.
when he dies his soul will go into a
mule and he'll nave to haul stones for his
own monument" remarked Jack.
Yes, If he wants one. He's monu-
mental liar and a thief now,' said Bert;
'and it beats me how he came to have
such a refined little beauty for a daugh-
ter. He's not worth picayune him
sell"
His picayuniary affairs are not of the
best, l believe" said Will.
4 groan greeted this pun, and the sport
went on.
A.