Hank and Walter drew their horses out of the path and joined the men. Indian Joe and his father passed forward on the trail.

All this was counted a kindness and a great honor in the campoodie. Walter could find out things by looking in a book, which was sheer magic, and had taught

"Good-by, Joe," said Walter half aloud.

The other did not turn his head, but as he went they noticed that he had bared his right arm from the hunting shirt, and an inch above the elbow showed a thin, white scar. Walter had the twin of that mark under his flannels.

Mr. Baker did not mind fighting Indians; he thought it a good thing to have their troubles settled all at once in this way, but he did not want his son mixed up in it. The first thing he did when he got home was to send him off secretly by night to the fort, and from there he passed over the mountains with other of the settlers' families under strong escort, and finally went to his mother's people in the East, and was put to school. As it turned out he never came back to Tres Pinos; he does not come into this story any more.

When the first smoke rose up that showed where the fierce hate of the Paiutes had broken into flame, the Indians took their women and children away from the pleasant open slopes, and hid them in deep cañons in secret places of the rocks. There they feathered arrows, and twisted bowstrings of the sinew of deer. And because there were so many grave things done, and it was not the custom for boys to question their elders, Joe never heard how Walter had been sent away. He thought him still at the ranch with his father, and it is because of this mistake that there is any more story at all. You may be sure that, of those two boys, Joe's was the deeper loving, for, besides having grown up together, Walter was white, therefore thinking himself, and making the other believe it, the better of the two. But for this Walter made no difference in his behavior; had Joe to eat at his table, and would have him sleep in his bed, but Joe laughed, and lay on the floor.

word by means of a piece of paper, which was cleverer than the tricks Joe had taught him, of reading the signs of antelope and elk and deer. The white boy was to the Indian a little of all the heroes and bright ones of the arrow-maker's tales come alive again. Therefore he quaked in his heart when he heard the rumors that ran about the camp.

The war began about Cottonwood, and ran like wildfire that licked up all the ranches in its course. Then the whites came strongly against the Paiutes at the Stone Corral, and made an end of the best of their fighting men. Then the Indians broke out in the north, and at last it came to such a pass that the very boys must do fighting, and the women make bowstrings. The cattlemen turned in to Baker's ranch as a centre, and all the northern campoodies gathered together to attack them. They had not much to hope for, only to do as much killing as possible before the winter set in with the hunger and the deep snows.

By this time Joe's father was dead, and his mother had brought the boy a quiver full of arrows and a new bowstring, and sent him down to the battle.

And Joe went hotly enough to join the men of the other village, nursing his bow with great care, remembering his father, but when he came to counsel and found where the fight must be, his heart turned again, for he remembered his friend. The braves camped by Little Round Valley, and he thought of the talk he and Walter had there; the war party went over the tongue of hills, and Joe saw Winnedumah shining whitely on Waban, and remembered his boyish errand, the mystery of the tall, strange warrior that came upon them in the night, their talk in the hut of the arrow-maker, and the vow that came afterward.

The Indians came down a ravine to

ward Tres Pinos, and there met a band of horses which some of their party had run in from the ranches; among them was a pinto pony which Walter had used to ride, and it came to Joe's hand when he called. Then the boy wondered if Walter might be dead, and leaned his head against the pony's mane; it turned its head and nickered softly at his ear.

The war party stayed in the ravine until it grew dark, and Joe watched how Winnedumah swam in a mist above the hills long after the sun had gone quite down, as if in his faithfulness he would outwatch the dark; and then the boy's heart was lifted up to the great chief standing still by Tinnemaha. "I will not forget," he said. "I, too, will be faithful." Perhaps at this moment he expected a miracle to help him in his vow as it had helped Winnedumah.

In the dusk the mounted Indians rode down by the Creek of Tres Pinos. When they came by the ruined hut where his father had lived, Joe's heart grew hot again, and when he passed the arrowmaker's he remembered his vow. Suddenly he wheeled his pony in the trail, hardly knowing what he would do. The man next to him laid an arrow across his bow and pointed it at the boy's breast.

"Coward," he whispered, but an older Indian laid his hand on the man's arm. "Save your arrows," he said. Then the ponies swept forward in the charge, but Joe knew in an instant how it would be with him. He would be called false and a coward, killed for it, driven from the tribe, but he would not fight against his sworn brother. He would keep his vow.

A sudden rain of arrows flew from the advancing Paiutes; Joe fumbled his and dropped it on the ground. He was wondering if one of the many aimed would find his brother. Bullets answered the arrow flight. He saw the braves pitch forward, and heard the scream of wounded ponies.

He hoped he would be shot; he would not have minded that; it would be better than being called a coward. And then

it occurred to him, if Walter and his father came out and found him when the fight was done, they would think that he had broken his word. The Paiutes began to seek cover, but Joe drove out wildly from them, and rode back in the friendly dark, and past the ruined campoodie, to the black rocks. There he crept into the cave which only he and Walter knew, and lay on his face and cried, for though he was an Indian he was only a boy, and he had seen his first fight. He was sick with the thoughts of his vow. He lay in the black rocks all the night and the day, and watched the cattlemen and the soldiers ranging all that county for the stragglers of his people, and guessed that the Paiute had made the last stand. Then in the second night he began to work back by secret paths to the mountain camp. It never occurred to him not to go. He had the courage to meet what waited for him there, but he had not the heart to go to it in the full light of day. He came in by his mother's place, and she spat upon him, for she had heard how he had carried himself in the fight.

"No son of mine," said she.

He went by the women and children and heard their jeers. His heart was very sick. He went apart and sat down and waited what the men would say. There were few of them left about the dying fire. They had washed off their war paint, and their bows were broken. When they spoke at last it was with mocking and sad scorn.

"We have enough of killing," said the one called Scar-Face. "Let him have a woman's dress and stay to mend the fire." So it was done in the presence of all the camp; and because he was a boy, and because he was an Indian, he said nothing of his vow, nor opened his mouth in his defense, though his heart quaked and his knees shook. He had the courage to wear the badge of being afraid all his life. They brought him a woman's dress, though they were all too sad for much laughter, and in the morning he set to bringing the wood for the fire.

Afterward there was a treaty made be

tween the Paiutes and the settlers, and the remnant went back to the campoodie of Tres Pinos, and Joe learned how Walter had been sent out of the valley in the beginning of the war, but that did not make any difference about the woman's dress. He and Walter never met again. He continued to go about in dresses, though in time he was allowed to do a man's work, and his knowledge of Eng

lish helped to restore a friendly footing with the cattlemen. The valley filled very rapidly with settlers after that, and under the slack usage of the tribe, Mahala Joe, as he came to be known, might have thrown aside his woman's gear without offense, but he had the courage to wear it to his life's end. He kept his sentence as he kept his vow, and yet it is certain that Walter never knew.

BECAUSE advertisements are the stimulants of trade, the dwellers in cities and towns cannot expect to be without them. There may be restriction of the advertisement, but there will not be suppression of it. Nor should the most rabid opponent of the excesses and evils of advertising desire its elimination. With a thought he must recognize the usefulness of the purpose it serves, as much to the purchaser as to the seller.

Here, then, is a great force, stamping its imprint for good or for evil on the visible aspect of cities, and more and more entering into their mental life. It is, too, a steadily growing power, rising with the increase in the city's population of sellers and buyers; waxing stronger with the gain in the financial resources of trade; becoming more efficient with better organization; and at last expanding under the artificial but enormous stimulus of keen competition. To attempt restriction of this rising flood, to set its proper bounds, and to say "Thou shalt not overflow the walls of propriety and self-restraint," without offering a new outlet or changing the channel of the growing stream, is like an effort to stem a torrent with a set of resolutions and a frown. The restrictions may be well planned, may be ever so rea

sonable and logical; but they can have permanent efficiency only as the competition is given a new direction. This direction must be in line with the general purpose of the attempted restraint. The one must supplement the other; they must coöperate for a like result. In short, since we would not and may not suppress the advertisement, our destructive criticism should be balanced by creative criticism.

What is the purpose of advertisement control? It is to prevent the advertisement's destruction of such stateliness, beauty, or dignity as there may be in town or country in street, or park, or quiet dell, in building, or amid the sublimity of nature. This is the "Thou shalt not,' the wall of propriety that we would not have overflowed. And the new, concurrent outlet, the positive of this restriction? Must it not be, most appropriately, to heighten the beauty and picturesqueness of the way; to transfer the competition from mere size to beauty; to change the goal from effectiveness through repetition to effectiveness through delight; to substitute quality for quantity? The task is not hopeless.

In open country the advertising can probably be reduced to an unimportant total. With the scenic reservations under

public control, or under a private control based on appreciation of their scenic attractiveness, it is easy to suppress advertising entirely within their bounds. And this is being done. In the rest of the country, as distinguished from town limits, the advertiser has so little to lose or gain, save on main highways close to cities, that the position is hardly worth his fighting for. And as to the highways, the railroads are owned by corporations that, themselves great advertisers, look with decreasing friendliness upon the despoilment of the scenery by irrelevant announcements that have not even the merit of adding something to the company's receipts, although it is the road's presence alone which gives to the site its advertising value. In fact, in their own advertising the more important roads are now making use of the beautiful, not only by giving publicity, in photographs and descriptions, to the natural beauty through which they pass, an act that makes submission to scenic injury by advertisements an economic lapse, but by the improvement of their station grounds, and the beautifying of their right of way, through the planting of turf, trees, vines, and hedges. The railroads, then, may be counted upon to oppose, with increasing vigor, the marring of landscape by advertisements. There remain in the country only the public thoroughfares. The advertisements on these are to be considered, with those on the streets of the town, as in need of reformation, or change of character, since their suppression is not to be expected.

So the problem narrows. We are not to paint the lily at all, and, hence, have not the impossible task of painting it with. a skill that will improve it. We are to bring art only into the advertisements on the highways in or near the town, into the signs that are on hoardings, fences, and walls; to change the disfigurement of buildings to their embellishment, the concealment of architectural effects to their heightening. But this is enough. The opportunity, indeed, is splendid, for

we have to deal with a business of immense financial backing, of tireless enthusiasm and efficient organization, that might be diverted from the positive injury of our cities to their beautifying, to the increase of their picturesqueness, interest, and general charm. And the gain, whatever it might be, would be double, for it would mean not only the creation of something good, but the removal of something bad. Surely it is worth trying for.

And if the desirability of the change requires no argument, from the standpoint of æsthetics and of civics, the time must be fast coming when its desirability to the advertisers will need as little arguing. For the strenuousness of their competition must at last reach a limit. There must be a point in costliness and sheer bigness and multiplicity of announcements, beyond which in any community financial returns will cease. To continue merely for the sake of outdoing a rival would then be suicidal. In how many cases this limit has been already reached; how often the bills that are injuring the city's beauty are not worth to the advertisers the paper upon which they are printed, the advertisers know best. It may be very often. But the opposing forces, drawn into a contest from which they cannot retreat, continue it, courageous warriors should, choosing slow destructive fighting to immediate surrender, and knowing no other sort of combat. It is a hopeless contest, of which the cities are the desolated battlefields. If for the "irrepressible conflict" there be devised now a new kind of warfare, that will spread no desolation, and that will not have ruthless waste as the product of extravagant expenditures, the advertisers would have reason to welcome the strategy as gladly as would the cities.

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But the best of the idea is that it has already had sufficient trial in various places to test its practicability, and to prove the advertisers' interest in it and approval. In one important department, unmolested by public criticism, the ad

vertisers have even now established tastefulness as the underlying essential principle of their competition. This is in window dressing, a vital part of advertising. The beautiful, not the bizarre; the attractive rather than the startling; the alluring and interesting are now sought in the window effects of every shop,- from the great department store to the little candy kitchen; from the basement lights of a modest florist to the long plate-glass front of a shoe emporium. Salaries of several thousand dollars a year are paid in cities to the "artists" most skilled in window dressing; and their requisitions for plants or ribbons - totally irrelevant as these may be to the stock on sale, and designed merely to add to the beauty of the window picture—are honored ungrudgingly. In effect, the merchant says, "Give me a beautiful window that people will stop and look at, and that yet shall indicate generally the sort of goods I handle, and I do not care what it costs."

To bring him to this point of view regarding the printed sign that he posts in front of his store and about the town is the task before those who would bring art into advertisements. It is made more difficult than in the case of the window, because there is no longer the restriction of space that requires a maximum of effect from a single exhibit; it is, on the other hand, made easier by the facts that the changed attitude may mean a saving rather than an increase in expenses, that the window has shown that the maximum of desirable effectiveness does lie in attractiveness, not in the repellent, and that size is of comparative insignificance. We should, therefore, take up the task with hope. Its limitations, too, are perfectly distinct and comprehensible. We have to deal only with advertisements on streets and highways, or visible there from, while the advertisers have shown themselves aware that in some departments, at least, a beautiful announcement pays better than any other. Finally, success, if it can be gained, would mean

much to art, to the cities, to the advertisers, and to the public.

An interesting experiment on a large scale has been tried in Belgium, where a national society- L'Œuvre Nationale Belge composed of those who have at heart the beauty of the Flemish cities, with their rich inheritance from the Renaissance, began its work by organizing an exhibition of designs of artistic advertisements, and by offering prizes for the new signs, constructed for actual use, that were judged most artistic. This beginning was made nine years ago, the exhibition having been held in Brussels in 1895. More recently Paris, where Flameng has painted a signboard for a prominent newspaper, and Willette has done one for a cookshop, to name two from many, has had its exhibition of artistic signs, ancient and modern. In the Belgian competition, which had a persuasive rather than a historic purpose, stress was laid upon the requirement that the sign be considered not merely by itself, but in connection with the exact place it was to occupy, it being argued that for satisfactory results it should harmonize with the architectural façade, and be treated as a decorative feature of it, an excellent suggestion.

It is significant that L'Euvre chose this for its first undertaking, as showing the importance it attached to the development of the artistic possibilities of advertising in the evolution of civic æsthetics. It is significant, too, that the first results were not nearly as good as the later, and that to-day the average character of shop advertising in Belgian cities is far higher than a decade ago. There are many very interesting signs and a number of lovely ones. Merchants, who perhaps care nothing for art, commission sculptors, painters, and skilled workers in wrought iron because of the incidental advertisement they get. The competition has been transferred, in part at least, from number and size to beauty, and the transference is continuing in a steadily increasing degree