The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1911-07-14
Ioanuin NIiIIer,s HOMO.

JOAQUIN Miller, the poet of the SierFas,
sits once more ON the doorstep OF MS
cabin on The flights, his wild, noun
tain estate across the bay from which
he overIooks San Francisco and the
Golden Gate, and to name when ne
coined a new-spelled word
"Why I Decided Not to Die" might
well be the title of an additional vol
ume to the set of six which the poet
has been spending the last three years
in preparing. For his own tale OF his
fight with death, as he told it to
World reporter recently, is altogether
as romantic and as virile in its signifi-
canoe as anything this civilization hat
ing writer ever penned.
The flights is about as accessible as
Mount Mckinley. It's ascent involves
toiIing up an almost precipitous trail
which winds about the mountain for q
full three miles from the end of the ca
line below. Joaquin (no one who ever
met him could call him Mr.. Miller) has
no love for visitors, particularly east
| ern tourists who consider The Nights
| in the same class as Golden Gate park
and Chinatown, and who invariably
attempt to make the trip. At numer-
Gus points along the trail are rudely
lettered signs stuck up on trees, III
forming climbers that the path grows
sleeper and the view less interesting
with every foot of ascent.
To friends the aged poet is host OF
| hosts. From the moment he catches
| sight of q friend-from his seat in the
| nevershut doorway of his bedroom
cabin, where he spends a. greater part
of each day-until he finally permits
such a visitor to leave his hospitality
| is comparable only to that kind which
| long since vanished even in this land
of the far-famed Spanish hospitality.
Joaqin's bedroom cabin, like the other
six little shacks scattered at irregular
intervals over an acre or two of the top
of the mountain, serves only as one
room. Similarity the parlor, the dining
room, and the kitchen are each in
dividual cabins. One walks almost a
mile when Joaquin shows one through
l his 'seven-room house."
| It was in the bedroom that Joaquin
| told his newest story. Seated on the
edge of the four poster bed with its
sheets of silk and its grizzly bear COW
erlet) and with d wicker-covered demi-
john on the floor close by, the vener-
able poet explained why he couldn't
die.
I'm the first place." he began with
| just a suspicion of twinkle in the
| deep-set blue eyes, Il didn't want to
have people think wanted to be eulo-
gized with that poem of Stedman's-
that very fine poem of Stedman 81
which goes like this:
| ION A GREAT MAN WHOSE MIND
IS CLOUDING.
That sovereign thought obscured? That
vision clear
Dimmed in the shadow Of the sable
wing,
And fainter grown the fine interpreting
Which as an oracle was ours to hear?
Nay. but the Gods reclaim not from the
seer
Their gift-although he ceases here tc
sing,
And like the antique sage,a covering
Draws round his head, knowing what
change is near
| "Of course it would be almost worth
1 while dying to know that such mag
nificent example of poetry could be
| sincerely read at your obsequies. But
l am not at all sure any one except me
would ever think of it in connection
with my demise. In any event, 1t real
" had nothing to do with the prime
| motive that caused me to decide not to
die just yet. the verdict of physicians
and the assumption of newspapers that
my recovery was impossible to the
contrary notwithstanding. New York
| World