Daring Woman Hunts Jungle Beasts With Both Movie Camera and Rifle

(Click graphic for a much bigger view.)

1920

BY ELLEN MARIE BAYARD.

"I'll tell you a secret," said Lady MacKenzie to me in her charming, well modulated tones, with just the slightest trace of an English accent, as I was admitted to her superbly furnished apartments in a Broadway hotel at New York City, as the special representative of The Saturday Blade to interview her. "But you'll promise that you'll keep this a secret?"

I promised that I wouldn't tell a soul — excepting the readers of The Saturday Blade.

"It's this," Lady MacKenzie replied. "Just a few days ago I was visiting one of my friends in New York, telling her of a thrilling experience with a tiger in Africa. Just at the most dramatic point of the story, a mouse ran across the room in my direction, and — "

"And you, of course, ignored — " I hastened to interrupt, feeling certain that I was showing the keenness of my powers of anticipation.

Lady MacKenzie smiled at me, that charming, friendly smile of hers.

"Far from it! I picked up my skirts and mounted a chair, just as my hostess did, or any other woman would have done."

Is Wholly Feminine.

This incident, more than any other mentioned during the short interview, seemed to be most indicative of Lady MacKenzie's character. Here was a woman who could shoot a charging elephant in the fetid jungles of Africa without a tremor of an eyelash, but who mounted a chair to escape a mouse in a luxurious New York apartment. This Englishwoman had penetrated further into the dank wilds of Africa than any other living white woman, and as a nimrod had to her credit a long list of such harmless little pets as bull elephants, tigers, leopards and lions — to say nothing of snakes as large thru as the trunk of a tree. Yet she balked at a mouse!

The answer is easy. Lady MacKenzie is wholly feminine. Tho inured to the hardships of the jungles, she dresses in dainty laces while in civilization. In the undramatic environment of a New York hotel, it is hard to believe that this charming, attractive Englishwoman has earned the admiration of the world by her contempt for danger and hardship in tropical jungles.

But it is so. Lady MacKenzie has made two long trips into darkest Africa. She is off now on her third explorative tour and hopes this time to penetrate further and learn more than on either of her previous trips.

War Interrupted Last Tour.

Her exploration of the Tana River, one of the most treacherous streams in the world, winding thru 2,000 miles of dense thicket and papyrus swamp, was interrupted by the war. Her camp at the junction of the Tana and Theka Rivers was taken over by the British as a military base.

Lady MacKenzie's tours are not for purposes of sport. She photographs specimens of wild animals for the Smithsonian Institution and for the American Museum of Natural History.

And with all its hardship and danger, she finds big game hunting an attractive life. She loves adventure and "real life," the life in the open and the thrill of the hunt. And why not? Have men in these days a monopoly on those things? Not that Lady MacKenzie knows of! She likes the ponderous silence of the inky jungles, the sense of stealthy peril ever slinking near, the sharpened instinct of self-survival. She just wonders how people can settle down to a dull, quiet life while Africa is still on the map.

Lion Didn't Like Camera.

"Tell me how you photograph 'em," I pleaded.

"I took a second too long to take a lion's picture once, and he charged me," Lady MacKenzie answered.

Sounds easy, doesn't it? I know that it did to me, as I sat in a soft divan in the New York hotel. But how it really happened in Africa, as I found by questioning the modest English woman further, was this way:

Instead of setting her camera to take a picture by pulling a wire from a convenient retreat in the rear, Lady MacKenzie got right into the thick of things, with her moving picture camera out in front of her.

The lion, of course, didn't like it. Lions often don't.

"G-r-r-r-r! G-r-r!"

Lady MacKenzie kept on turning the crank of the machine as the lion stepped in front of the lens. The animal's tail began switching furiously. Lady MacKenzie coolly adjusted her camera to get a better view. Then the inevitable happened.

Barely Saves Own Life.

The lion leaped. His tawny body describing an angry arc in the air, he met the target directly. Lady MacKenzie's, leap for safety was too late, and the shaggy shoulder of the huge brute dashed her to the ground.

But that was his majesty's last second on earth — for Lady MacKenzie always had her rifle ready and knew how to use it. There was a muffled report and the king of beasts fell with a bullet thru his brain.

"That was a narrow escape," sighs Lady MacKenzie, in recollection of the moment, "but not nearly so exciting as to be caught in a stampede of wild beasts in the heart of the jungle."

It was this way, as I learned in the next few moments. The modern Diana came upon an immense herd of buffalo one day, and was intent upon obtaining an "action picture." To get the desired action she shot the leader of the herd with her rifle. The rest of the animals stampeded.

On they came, a mighty, bellowing avalanche of hoofs and horns. There were hundreds of them, bolting directly for Lady MacKenzie and her party.

Quick as a flash milady threw herself flat on the ground and waited. At any moment she expected to be trampled to death beneath the beating hoofs. With the thought came a fleeting picture of being buried by black savages in the wilds far from home and civilization.

Then the unexpected happened — an intervention of Providence, Lady MacKenzie calls it. For some unexplainable reason the herd parted just in front of where she lay and passed around her on the right and left, leaving her unharmed, but killing several of the native guides.

"But outside of the danger, is there much else of romance in the jungle life?" I asked.

"Too much — sometimes, I'm afraid," replied Lady MacKenzie, with a whimsical smile.

African Chieftain Proposes.

Then she told how an African chieftain became enamored of her when he saw her powder her face one morning. He was curious, and when Lady MacKenzie gave him some powder he applied it to his face, and then got her mirror to see if he had achieved the desired result.

By this time he had lost his heart to milady, and immediately proposed, tho he had several score of native wives. He offered to give members of the party ten sleek cows for the Englishwoman's hand in marriage. It required all kinds of tact and diplomacy to turn down the offer without incurring the anger of the chieftain and his powerful tribe of savages.

The Masals are the most interesting of African tribes, says the huntress, but are fast dying out. They are deliberately practicing race suicide to wipe out their own race rather than endure the encroachments of the hated white man. They are a race of polygamists and have no religion.

Africa Is Little Known.

"The world probably knows less about Africa than any other country in the world," says Lady MacKenzie. "And there is so much to know. I predict that Americans will before very long get into Africa in larger numbers. Then we may expect to find out all about it. For the American has a faculty for developing the commercial resources of a new country — of any country. And there are such wonderful resources in Africa — only the surface has been scratched."

But, altho Lady MacKenzie was too modest to say so, I might add that she had contributed a mighty share toward enlightening the world about Africa. She has brought home valuable records containing the native speech of unknown African tribes and thousands of feet of moving pictures on which are forever recorded the habits of the wild jungle animals and the life and customs of the jungle peoples. She has returned with tons of educational trophies. And she's not thru yet!

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Jan. 3, 1920, p. 14.

Comment: This article and Lady MacKenzie are offensive at several levels. To me, the worst has to be when she wanted an "action picture" of the buffalo, so she shot the leader of the herd and made the rest stampede. Then she was in great danger, but, thanks to Providence, she was left unharmed, but the incident killed several of the native guides! That's terrible all the way through. And check out the photo essay, as they hunted animals with "a camera."

Ignore Them — Mosquitoes

1910

The best way to get rid of the mosquito, says the Brooklyn Eagle, is to get the habit of not minding him, like the natives. No native or resident of a few months in a mosquito section minds mosquitoes any more than he does flies. But this method is slow in its appeal to the man who finds the pests attack him with more zeal than they do the natives.


He Knew About Ice Cream

The first time three-year-old Ray noticed a rainbow he shouted: "Oh! That looks just like ice cream in the sky!"


Money Well Spent

"I suppose to educate your daughter in music costs a great deal of money?"
"Yes; but she's brought it all back for me."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; I'd been trying to buy out my next door neighbor at half price for years, and could never bring him to terms until she came home!"

Lazy, Dirty Panama

1905

Although there is a new flag in Panama, and the affairs of state are in new hands, life rolls on in its accustomed way. The bells in the old towers keep calling the faithful to prayer; long files of venders parade the narrow streets, eternally crying for sale their frugal wares; buzzards soar in the hot air or hop on foot in their never ending search for offal; the same horde of quarreling women crowd the market place to chatter, to barter, and to fight; polite men drink in the cafes and busy themselves with political plot and counterplot; and dusky senoritas lounge in cool patios, dreaming the dreams that southern maidens dream.

The south is always the south. Its idle, shiftless children play and parley their hours away, and the years bring little change for them. They are as aimless as the winds that play in the palms. It is no wonder. The word tropic sounds narcotic. It is of no use to resist. You may summon all your powers of will, but drowsiness touches you with its gentle fingers and you drift softly out on the sea of sleep.

Soldiers Eat Ice Cream

The sweet tooth seems to flourish in a hot climate. Children gnawing at pieces of sugar cane is always a familiar sight in tropical lands. Sometimes they get little else to eat. On a former trip to the tropics I had in my employ a little black by the name of Domingo, who ran errands for me. Necessarily I became quite familiar with the habits of my young assistant. I found that, aside from sleeping a great deal, he was quite an eater. His blouse was his larder, and he kept it well stocked with eatables, mostly sweets. If he were disturbed while eating he would chuck the unfinished morsel inside his shirt to await a more favorable opportunity to consume it.

Domingo's tendency toward economy was commendable, even if his idea of cleanliness was not praiseworthy. There was always a noticeable bulging in his blouse, and I frequently heard a rattling sound as he moved about. One day I said to him: "Domingo, what is that in your shirt which rattles so?" He replied: "That's my ice cream dish, sir."

It was a well battered tin cup, and, after some contortions, he brought forth a crooked, much abused metal spoon. "For two cents I get this half full of cream, sir. It is very good. May I bring you some?" I did not avail myself of his generosity.

Domingo is a soldier now. The salary he gets for being a fighting man amounts to about 40 cents per day, American money, and he boards himself. This is a satisfactory arrangement to Domingo, because feeding himself is an old habit. He does not have to put up with whatever rations the head of the commissary department may see fit to issue.

He still has his battered cup and crooked spoon, and he buys ice cream and cake as many times a day as the spirit moves him. His fellows do likewise. Around their camp there is a hovering swarm of venders.

Steamer on the Spot

The Panama railway steamer, City of Washington, which rendered such valuable service during the recent trouble, has been an actor in other stirring events. It was in Havana harbor when the Maine was blown up, and was anchored next to that ill-fated vessel.

The Washington's small boats were the first to begin picking up the men from the water, and its crew saved many of their lives. Over 100 women and children were kept on the Washington for two days and nights at Colon. They were given their meals and the best service the ship afforded, and no charges were made at all.

After the trouble was over this boat took the commissioners to New York, and later, took the treaty to Panama to be signed. When it was brought on board, Capt. Jones was given a printed letter of instructions, in which it was stated that his charge concerned $50,000,000 worth of interests.

The valuable document was incased in a steel box made especially for it, and this box was contained in a stronger and larger steel safe. Two smaller steel boxes contained two keys, which were sealed with the seal of the United States. There was considerable red tape to be gone through with in delivering the treaty to the proper authorities at Colon, because it was neither freight, baggage, mail nor express. It was one of those little jobs of Uncle Sam's that, as the saying goes, "had to be done just so."

An incident occurred during the "bloodless insurrection" which caused a stampede among the black population. There are thousands of negroes on the isthmus, who were brought here from Jamaica and other islands of the West Indies to work on the French canal. When that fantastic fizzle spent itself they were left to "root, hog, or die."

Most of them are English subjects, and while they are a miserable, poverty-stricken lot, their one pride is that they are subjects of Great Britain. It stands them well in hand, because it saves them from being pressed into service for military duty. It is to the credit of the English officials that they look after them in this respect, and prevent them from being imposed upon. If the pretenders to authority, or those who have so frequently to defend their position, were allowed to round them up and force them to carry arms, they would not last long.

The stampede referred to was caused by an accident. One of the volunteers, who was not used to handling firearms, while in the act of examining his weapon, allowed it to go off. The bullet went between his toes, and it was all so sudden that he thought the enemy surely had him. He let out a yell and started to run. Several hundred negroes who were lounging in the vicinity, curiously waiting for developments, heard the shot and yell and started a precipitate rush for safety. As they ran they spread the news and gathered recruits. The retreat of Britain's black brigade on that warm, warm morning was not a success from a standpoint of order, but deserves special mention as regards speed. Some of them are probably running yet.

The Shade in the Jungle

Panama has waited long to gain the center of the stage. It is as gray and worn as an old man. It has seen enough sorrow to make a thousand tragedies. Its green swamp is the lair of death, where fever, like a slinking thief, always lurks in hiding.

Yellow Jack is an invisible horror. It advances with noiseless steps and clutches its victims with fleshless hand. Ever as it passes there are dead men and women.

This shapeless, hiding thing, which strikes unseen, is the real defender of the bar that God laid down to mark the separation of the seas. If it is His supreme will that the waiting oceans blend their waters, He must make strong the arm that is preparing to strike the barrier away; He must guard the blow that will shatter the mountains by calling off the shade that stalks so ruthlessly through the jungle.

Meant to Have His Life

1910

Vicious Attack by Australian Natives on Trespassers in Their Country

Men who venture into the interior of northern Australia are likely to meet with adventures at the hands of hostile natives. Here is a matter-of-fact yarn concerning one James Runine McPherson, engaged in pearl-shelling operations:

On July 18 he was fishing for trepang (sea cucumber or sea slug) at the mouth of the Liverpool river. He landed in a dingey on the east bank of the river, where a bush smokehouse for the curing of trepang had been erected. He dispatched a Malay with canoes and working natives to gather trepang around a distant point, while two natives who paddled the dingey went off to the lugger, which was anchored more than a mile out, with a load of fresh water. He remained at the smokehouse with three old Junction Bay natives, who assisted him in manipulating the trepang. At 3 o'clock in the afternoon, feeling tired, he was reclining on the floor of the smokehouse, with a rifle across his knees, when he was startled by the loud swishing sound of several spears passing through the bough-covered enclosure.

McPherson immediately rushed out and saw seven or eight Liverpool river natives at the back of the smokehouse with spears shipped and with murder in their faces. Another shower of spears fell around him and he retired toward the water's edge and as he dodged one another long-barbed spear struck him in the hip. He felt no more, he says, than a burning twinge from the wound at the moment and instantly broke it off with his hand, leaving about eight inches of the barbed point buried in the fleshy part of his hip, The natives at this time were about forty yards away, having never shifted from their first point of attack near some thick bushes.

The man who had wounded McPherson was in the act of throwing another spear when McPherson shot and hit him. He then emptied his revolver at his assailants, who immediately disappeared in the adjacent scrub. Hearing shots, the two Daly river natives came hurrying ashore with the dingey, and conveyed McPherson to his boat, where he subsequently succeeded himself in tearing the barbed spearhead from the wound. Several barbs shaped like fishhooks were broken off in the process and remained in the wound.

The following day McPherson shifted his trepang gear and crew to another part of the coast and started for Palmerston to report the matter and have the wound attended to.

A Dangerous Nap In Desert Caravan

1899

That travellers in the desert would be wise not to take a nap when ahead of their caravans is proved — though it hardly needed proving — by the experience of Robert L. Jefferson, F. R. G. S., who relates his adventure in the Wide World Magazine.

I had got ahead, not only of the caravan, but of Bekel [his guide], and wearied with my exertions, lay down on the sand. I think I must have fallen asleep. I certainly remember picking from my face what looked like an enormous spider.

I thought nothing of it until I began to feel a pain underneath my left eye, similar to that left by a mosquito sting. In ten minutes my cheek had swollen enormously, and it was clear that I had been stung by some venomous reptile or insect. By the time Bekel came up the swelling had increased so much that I could not see out of the left eye.

As soon as Bekel saw my face, he seemed stricken with terror. He leaped from his horse, knocked rather than pushed me down, and with the fingers of both hands commenced pressing the protuberance under my eye.

The pain was terrible, and I yelled in my agony, until I think I must have fainted, although I well remember one of the Kirghiz coming with a long knife, when at once the idea entered my brain that they meant to "do for" me. The knife, however, was used only to extract the sting of the tarantula.

When I reached Petro-Alexandrovsk and related the incident to the doctor of the lazaret there, I learned that I owed my life to the promptitude of Bekel and the Kirghiz. Another hour and help would have been too late.

This Swindler Outdoes Fiction

1908

Pittsburg Society Folk Are Victims of Alleged Remarkable Crook

Pittsburg. — A career more extraordinary than half the villains of fiction is charged against Reginald Spauldlng, or Oscar F. Spate, or George Frederick Spate, the man who proposed to introduce Pittsburg people of wealth at the court of St. James in exchange for Pittsburg money.

Pittsburgers who wined and dined Spaulding a few days ago will be horrified when they learn that he is said to have been a convict in South Africa, but they can take some consolation out of another report that he is a son-in-law of Lady Suffield, the woman who, he asserted, would bring about the introductions at the court of St. James. It is charged against the prisoner that he sold his noble wife a "salted" mine and then abandoned her in the interior of South Africa.

The Pittsburg police received a letter from Inspector McCafferty of the New York police department containing a report which one of the New York detectives made on Spaulding. The report follows:

"Spate is the same man whom I met in Cape Town, South Africa, at the Mount Nelson hotel. He advertised there for men to act as agents for the American Trading company. They were to go into the interior of South Africa and collect hides and ivory from the natives, which they were to ship to various points. These agents were required to deposit £100 in money to secure the position.

"He collected the amount from many young men. This was in March, 1903. He was arrested while boarding the steamer Walmer Castle for England. He was convicted and served for two years in the government prison. He was also at Johannesburg, South Africa, and tried to secure a franchise from the park commissioners to put benches in Joubert park, but was refused."

Simultaneously with this report, a communication reached the Pittsburg police from a source which they will not divulge to the effect that Spaulding under the name of George Fredrick Spate in 1902, was married to Muriel, daughter of Lord and Lady Suffield, who left her home in London because of a difference with her parents, and went to South Africa during the Boer war as a Red Cross nurse, in consequence her parents disowned her, and her name was removed from the records of the British nobility.

It is claimed Spate is a younger son of a noble English family.

He secured a subaltern berth in the English army and fought in South Africa during the Boer war.

It was while he was wandering about South Africa that he is alleged to have married the daughter of Lord and Lady Suffield. Spate is alleged to have interested his wife in a diamond mine which he had "salted" and finally sold the mine to her and some others for a large sum.

Before the discovery was made that the mine was "salted," Spate is said to have taken his wife into the interior of Africa, where he deserted her in the land of the Zulu chief, Mosilikaps.

He returned to Johannesburg, where he circulated a story to the effect that his wife had been killed by the natives. Spate then started to organize a new Zulu kingdom, with himself as chief, with the purported object of going into the land of Mosilikaps and avenging the death of his wife. Just about this time, however, the woman appeared at Johannesburg.

A Deadly Boomerang, Made and Thrown With Precision

1898

He Learned the Secret From the Natives of Australia

Civilized people, especially of the English speaking races, pride themselves upon their discoveries in electricity with which they now operate the guns of great ships of war, and they point with fear and trembling as well as satisfaction to the perfection in all sorts of dynamite bombs and explosives which they may, on occasion, use to kill people by the hundreds; but with all their cleverness, says the Detroit Free Press, they have never learned to make what a savage can fashion out of a crooked stick. It has been stated that there is nothing made of wood which a Yankee boy cannot copy with the aid of his jackknife, but the man who said that had probably never heard of a boomerang.

Horace Baker of New York, who spent several years in Australia, and went "boomerang crazy," is said to be the first white man who ever made boomerangs that would "go," and he learned to make them by almost living with the savages and watching them as they sat whittling away at a piece of wood with their crude stone hatchets and sharp shells.

Besides those which he has made himself, Mr. Baker has the largest collection of real Australian black man's boomerangs in this country. There are almost a hundred of them, and a queer lot they are. Some of them are haggled as if the savage had used his teeth to make them, yet as true to the boomerang principle as the perfectly carved specimens which decorate his walls. He keeps them hung up in clusters as some men have their guns and pistols arranged with a view to proud display before their friends. A few of these date away back to the time when Captain Cook landed on the coast of Australia.

"Why is it so difficult to make a boomerang?" said this connoisseur of the crooked stick. "Well, because it is so delicately balanced that the least divergence from the proper angle will alter its course in the air and prevent the perfect revolution which is necessary to its flight. When correctly made, a boomerang should balance exactly on a knife blade held at its centre, if it doesn't balance, some more whittling must be done on the heavy end. That seems easy enough — to whittle a piece of curved wood into a flat shape — so that the ends balance exactly — and if that were all there is to it, any boy could make one. The hard part of it is to cut the edges in such a way that they will strike the air at a certain angle in one part of the curve, and at another in another part, and so on until every line of both edges contributes to the perfect revolution of the weapon. Then, when it is whirled, it has two motions, the rotary one, which is a result of its shape, and the forward one, given it in the throwing. It's a pity that the baseball players cannot 'get onto' those black fellows' 'curves.' A pitcher who could do it would make his fortune.

"The quality of wood used has a great deal to do with the excellence of a boomerang. The Australian brave will tramp miles to find a branch of the right shape, and a wood of the proper density. Gnarled trees are at a premium there, and the heaviest wood is the best. Our lignum vitae corresponds the nearest to the tree they like best. The piece for the boomerang is usually cut where a branch curves out from the tree trunk, for this is the most natural crook in the tree's formation.

"In throwing a boomerang, the savage holds it by one end over his right shoulder, his body turned to the right, then without straightening the arm he whirls the body back to front position, bringing the weapon with the arm still bent, with it, then suddenly lets go, straightening the arm at the elbow as he does so. This adds the force of the whole body to the momentum of the weapon, instead of depending entirely upon that of the arm. It will go whirling around, keeping straight ahead for a certain distance then gradually swerve to the left and at last return to the thrower.

"When a savage wants to kill or disable a kangaroo, he throws it so that it will strike the ground at a stated distance from him and then begin turning somersaults until it reaches the kangaroo, striking him even then with such force as to break a leg or kill him, if it strikes on the head.

"Or suppose he sees a flock of ducks swimming about on the river. He creeps up softly behind a clump of trees, throws his boomerang swirling over the tree tops in a curved line which he can calculate as well as a civilized gunner sights a straight one, and down comes the flying stick among the ducks flopping like a live thing, and killing or disabling everything within reach of its wooden wings. It really looks very much like a bird in its flight through the air.

"The savages have many different varieties of these weapons. The average length is twenty-four or twenty-six inches. Such as these are used in hunting birds, rabbits and other small game, and none of them weighs over three-quarters of a pound. There are immense hunting and war weapons which are as much as three feet long, but they are rarely used, and nobody has sufficient strength to throw them so that they will return."

River in Paraguay Leads Only To Mystery

1903

A GREAT MYSTERY

A Land From Which No Traveler Has Returned

One of the great mysteries of the world that is left for explorers to solve is the course of a river in South America and the land through which it runs.

The river is the Pilcomayo, and the land is the territory known as the Chaco in Paraguay. Explorer after explorer has entered this unknown country and none has returned. Last year the famous explorer, Erland Nordenskiold, one of the great Nordenskiold family of explorers and naturalists, tried to follow the Pilcomayo to its source, but, although he penetrated further than any other man ever managed to go and return, he did not succeed.

Enemies who could not be seen surrounded him day and night, and at last the mysterious terrors of the region forced even him to return. He has announced that Chaco still waits for the traveler who can conquer its secrets. So constant and unchangeable has been the doom of the explorers who tried it that the natives have named the Pilcomayo the River of Death and they speak of the Chaco as the Unknown Land.

Geographers know where the Pilcomayo river begins. It is in the high plateau of Bolivia. Near Asuncion in Paraguay, a broad and beautiful river empties into the Paraguay river. It is called the Pilcomayo, and it is supposed that it is that river. But no man knows for no man has followed the great stream from its source to its mouth.

Men have tried to follow the Pilcomayo in canoes that were hung with hides to serve as protection against Indians who occupy the Chaco. But after days of fighting they were beaten back and accounted themselves lucky to escape alive. Some of the best men of South America have lost their lives there, and of their parties not one man escaped to tell what fate had befallen them.

Fiercest of the several tribes of Indians who hold Chaco against exploration are the Tobias and Chorotes Indians. They are utterly uncivilized, subsisting entirely on game, fish, wild honey and roots. Their few garments and shelters are made from jaguar skins. They rub pieces of wood together to make fire.

Most of them are gorgeously painted and tattooed and they ornament themselves still further with feathers and flowers.

They do not know anything about metal working and do not even use flints for their weapons, but make them entirely out of hard wood, even their arrows being made simply out of pointed wood.

They bore holes through their lips and ears and thrust a piece of polished wood through them. They are splendidly formed, immensely strong and agile, but hideous in countenance; and they will not have anything to do with strangers, but seek to kill them as soon as they find them. They fight fiercely among themselves, also, and it is believed that they are cannibals — at least part of them.

This is the county that has lured explorer after explorer in the last twenty years without letting one return. It appears probably that it will continue to defy the world for many years to come. — Ex.

A Wild Leap in the Dark Over A Precipice

1916

Climax to the Reckless Ride of a Fearless Horseman

HIS WILD LEAP IN THE DARK

It Carried Horse and Rider Pact the Edge of a Sheer Cliff to a Tall of Two Hundred and Fifty Feet to the Rocks and Water Below, Yet the Man Lived

Perhaps the most extraordinary fall that a human being ever survived is that described by Thormanby in his "Sporting Stories." The lucky man was Colonel William Yorke Moore, a British officer, who rode his horse in the dark over a sheer precipice 247 feet in height and came out alive! It seems incredible that such a fearful experience should result in anything but instant death, yet here are the facts, which once again confirm the adage that truth is more wonderful than fiction:

Colonel Moore, who commanded the troops at Dominica, lost his way one evening after sunset. In complete darkness he endeavored to make his way home. Two or three times he had difficulty in making his horse cross obstacles, and at last they came to something that the horse would not face.

Colonel Moore was a fearless rider. Again and again he rode his horse at full speed against the unknown obstacle, but in vain. At last, urged fiercely by whip and spur, the terrified animal, with a snort of terror, cleared the low hedge — for such the obstruction proved to be — and went over the cliff.

Colonel Moore says that during his flight on horseback through the air every event of his whole life seemed to pass in a luminous panorama before him. Suddenly there came a terrific concussion, which deprived him of his senses and left him with his legs in the sea and his body on the rocks, apparently dead.

He must have lain there stunned for some hours, for when at last the lapping water and the cool breezes restored him the moon was shining brightly in midheaven, and its beams fell upon the upturned, glittering shoes of his gallant horse, which lay dead and mangled beside him.

As soon as he had collected his scattered wits Colonel Moore coolly began to examine himself to ascertain what injuries he had sustained. He found that he was severely cut about the body and head, that his right ankle was dislocated and that his back was benumbed or paralyzed by the concussion of his fall.

When the sun rose it shone upon his bare, bleeding head with such intolerable heat that, as a protection from its rays, he tied his cotton handkerchief about his forehead. Above his head projected the two ends of the knotted bandage stained crimson with his blood.

After lying in horrible pain for several hours he spied a boatful of natives rowing toward the spot where he lay. As they came near he hailed them in a faint voice, but the moment they saw the ghastly figure of the colonel, with his bloody headdress, they set up a yell and rowed away as if 20,000 fiends were after them.

After some time a single black man came clambering over the rocks, intent on catching fish. He was within a few yards of the colonel when the latter hailed him. The moment he caught sight of the bleeding head and the blood stained bandage he, too, uttered a fearful yell, flung down his rod and line and scrambled off over the rocks as fast as his feet and hands would carry him.

The colonel now began to resign himself to the prospect of a lingering death, but fortunately his English servant, alarmed at his master's absence, went in search of him and, following the horse's tracks, at last came to the edge of the precipice.

The sudden disappearance of the hoof prints near the low hedge fence convinced him that an accident had happened. He ran to the barracks and got out a boat, which a party of soldiers rowed to the foot of the cliff.

Very tenderly and carefully the soldiers lifted the colonel into the boat and brought him back to the barracks. For some months he lay in great pain and danger, but in time the paralyzed muscles of his back recovered, and eventually he was restored to complete health. Not even the slightest touch of lameness remained to remind him of his fall.

—Stevens Point Daily Journal, Stevens Point, Wisconsin, July 29, 1916, page 6.

Talk About the High Cost of Clothing; Fig Leaves Up in Price

1920

Talk About the H. C. of Clothing!
Even Fig Leaves Up 300 Per Cent

ST. PAUL, Minn. -- The St. Paul housewives and business men bemoaning the high cost of living and the concomitant depreciation in the purchasing power of money, are, if they only knew it, much more fortunately situated financially than the jungle dweller, as is shown by the letters of a Baptist foreign missionary received here recently.

Whereas, the monetary experts of our Nation will tell us that the buying power of a dollar has only descended to 40 cents, the modest inhabitant of the jungle's fastness must pay four monkey tails for a palm leaf to cover his nakedness, where formerly one simian appendage sufficed.

And this proportion holds true for everything the human denizens of the tropical forests might want to buy. In the good old days, any father would sell his most lovely daughter into marriage for a tiger's tooth, and now he is profiteering and wants three tigers' teeth and an American plug hat.

The ways of the flat hunter in St. Paul are hard, but the ways of the head hunter in Borneo are even harder, for the unfortunate savage can no longer establish his rank in society by purchasing a head at a moderate price, but is forced to go out and look for one, unless he has the wealth of a Croesus.

--The Saturday Blade, Chicago, March 27, 1920, page 1.