T

HE Chinese are noted for the tenacity with which they cling to their traditions and customs. To a traveler in the Flowery Kingdom, it soon becomes apparent that the celestials have created models, set up patterns, and created customs and modes of procedure, which from their standpoint leave no room

that ordinarily there is but little law breaking. With the abnormal conditions following the Boxer rebellion of 1900, there was a great increase of crime-so great, indeed, that the methods to restrain crime used in the United States and enlightened European countries, had but little, if any, deterrent effect; and as soon as possible after

for improvement; and, owing to the tenets of ancestor worship, it would be sacrilege to alter or depart from those things which pleased and satisfied their forefathers. Thus it is the style of clothing, means of transportation, architecture, furniture, etc., have undergone no change for centuries. It is the same with their laws, the punishments imposed thereby and the methods of infliction.

The penalty of death attaches to several crimes-rape, arson, robbery with violence, burglary, murder, etc., and it is always carried out by beheading, and so swift and certain does punishment follow crime

the occupation of Peking by the co-operating forces, the commanding generals of the various armies established Chinese courts, presided over by Chinese judges for the trial of Chinese under the Chinese law for offenses committed against their countrymen.

Heads began to fall rapidly in all parts of Peking except the American section, where General Chaffee prohibited the execution of the death penalty without his official sanction; and he was so loth to affix his signature to a paper which meant the taking of human life, that Chinese criminals, apparently, began to think him easy, and flocked to the

American district. One night there was a particularly brutal "robbery with violence" within the limits of American jurisdiction. The thieves, nine in number, were caught red-handed by the native police and United States army guards. They were tried the next day and sentenced to death. General Chaffee concluded it was time to act, and approved the sentences, which were to be carried into effect. It was feared the execution of so many persons at one time would attract a crowd too large for safety;

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condemned men of the justness of the punishment they were about to receive. There they sat, smoking and chatting as lively as village gossips, with the executioner in plain view trying the edge of his knife.

Presently the judge calls one by name. He drops his cigarette, approaches the judge, falls on his knees and bumps his head three times on the ground, and from his prostrate position makes his acknowledgment. He rises and proceeds a few yards to one side, and kneels on one of nine small rugs. In

but so inured to such scenes were the masses, that the throngs passed by almost heedless of the event.

The criminals approached death with a stoicism rarely equalled. They emerged from "The Tiger's Mouth"* and were each, with guard, put in a Peking cart and jolted to the execution ground. Once arrived at the "Vegetable Market" (for centuries the execution ground), they were seated on a bench opposite the judge, who according to Chinese law, had repaired to the temporary shed constructed of light poles and matting, to hear the public acknowledgment by the

stantly his hands are pinioned, a rope put in his mouth, crossed back of his head and under his chin; then, with his queue and the rope pulled forward by one coolie, while another bears down upon the victim's back to "stretch the neck," the swordsman makes one feint as an aiming blow, and then with a strong, swift stroke, strikes the middle of the neck and the head rolls to one side and probably opens its eyes once or twice, and may run out its tongue to complete the ghastly picture, while the body quivers and the limbs draw up.

Before the first victim is finished, a second

IF THE CRITICS WERE DOING IT ALL.

BY S. E. KISER IN "CHICAGO RECORD-HERALD,"

I

If the critics could write all the books,
How charming the stories would be,
For the critics would never let faults

Creep into their pages, you see.
Such blunders as Shakespeare has made,
Such faults as in Dickens abound,
And such blemishes as are displayed
In the new volumes going around
Would never cause readers to sigh

Or turn with sore hearts and sad looks, To wonder why fools scribble when They ought to be shunning the penIf the critics could write all the books.

II

If the critics could be in command
When armies go rushing to fight,
No blunders would ever be made,

Each move and each plan would be right.
Such foolish shortcomings as brought
The mighty Napoleon low;

Such failures as fell to Lee's lot

Would never occur, as we know; There could never be any mistake

In the warring at sea or on land, And, through an unbreakable law, Each fight would of course be a draw, If the critics could be in command.

III

If the critics were favored with trust
And held every office of state,
The scheming and stealing would cease,
The small be as glad as the great.
The laws that are wrong would be dropped
And laws that we need would be made;
The grasping would quickly be stopped,

The briber would learn a new trade;
The ones who combine and have gains

That are more than they earn and unjust Would straightway be shorn of their strength And we'd each have a square deal, at length, If the critics were favored with trust.

IV

The Lord sadly blundered, it seems,
In laying things out on this earth,
For the critics who measure and weigh
And judge things, each after its worth,
Must sit far removed from the throngs
In order to see and decide.
They never may rectify wrongs;

They may merely sit back and deride—
Or if they come forward, sometimes,
To substitute actions for dreams,
From critics they turn to mere men;
They have all of men's weaknesses then-
The Lord sadly blundered, it seems.

THE UNOFFICIAL AUTOCRAT.

Mr. Robertus Love, of St. Louis, conducts a department under the above title in the "Valley Magazine," which is semi-humorous, semi-wise and semi-satirical (if there can be three semis).

PADDED LEATHER POETS.

I have just read in a holiday book advertisement this interesting line:

"Padded Leather Poets for 39 cents, 59 cents, 79 cents."

At

The advertisement set me to thinking. first reading I was amused; I thought of padded cells in connection with poets--some poets-and smiled. There are poets who lend themselves most readily to padding of various sorts. Poetry itself, in the modern magazine, is a mere matter of padding. The editors put it in to fill up, to pad out odd unfinished corners. It is used just like upholstery material. Maybe some of the poets write it on pads.

But the Padded Leather Poet was something new to me, and I was just about to betake myself to a bookstore for enlightenment when I bethought myself of the "Lucile" which a kind friend presented to me as a Christmas gift in my early youth, when the sentimental world was Meredith-mad, and at least one "Lucile," and usually two or three, smiled up at one from every parlor center-table. This presentation “Lucile' was a Padded Leather Poet! The fact flashed across my zone of prescience like a sliver of lightning athwart a clouded sky. "I saw it all!" The Padded Leather Poet was merely the volume of poetry bound in padded leather. This realization was distinctly a disappointment. Fondly I believed, for a brief space, that I had discovered a new school of poets, not of the fleshly sort like the Pre-Raphaelites, but yet soft and soothing to the touch.

Alas! it was not to be. The Padded Leather Poets were not in a class by themselves, a group of glorious originals, but just ordinary poets bound in padded leather.

Somehow I never have approved the notion of binding poets in padded leather. I wonder who originated it. I should like to meet him some dark night in a padded cell and tell him what I think of him. I think it is a shame to dress up a poet-particularly a dead poet, who can't kick -in padded leather and set him adrift amongst his fellows. It is worse than putting Fauntleroy clothes on a live boy. Our real poets are not dainty dandies, thus to be upholstered in pads. They are stout, firm-fleshed fellows, capable of withstanding all the hard knocks of critics, andshouldn't be padded out like hirsute football gladiators garbed for mortal combat.

Give me the hard-bound poet every time!

I love the ringing clangor of his rhyme.
To bind him 'round with cushions were a crime!

But I rejoice to observe that the Padded Leather Poet is going out. The prices quoted

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in the advertisement which incited these remarks show that the demand for upholstered poetry has declined greatly since the days of the centertable "Lucile," which had such becushioned sides that you scarce could find the reading text, and when you found it you were sorely tempted to close the book and sit down upon it, or use it for a pillow. When your Padded Leather Poet drops to 39 cents he is near the vanishing point, and it is well. Let us hope that next Christmas the bookstores will offer poets bound in weathered oak, or genuine mahogany, or even unpainted clapboards, rather than padded leather.

CONSEQUENCES.

L. H. Robbins, of Newark, N. J., is the proud father of a daughter named Ruth, born on December 9, of last year. The following joke in his column in the "Newark News" may have some bearing on the subject in hand.

NIPPY-"There was a wedding in the house next door to mine last night, and I was kept up till two o'clock in consequence. Such a racket!"

JINKSON "Strange; I was kept up all night last night in consequence of a wedding in my father-in-law's house four years ago."

Mem'ry often takes an outing
From the present passing show,
Spreads her pinions and goes scouting
To the scenes of long ago.
Back unto the fun and frolic

Of the rural sports and plays;
Pleasures charmingly bucolic
That were ours in younger days,
And the very chief of these
Were the country huskin' bees.

On the old barn floor we'd gather,
Boys and girls and older folks,
Hearts as light as downy feather,
Lips all ripe with rustic jokes;
Air just sparkling with our laughter
As the gay hours onward sped,
Until every cobwebbed rafter

In the shadows overhead
Seemed to quiver and to ring
As a high-keyed fiddle string.

Now and then the air was riven
With a shout 'td wake the dead,
When the fates had kindly given

Some fair girl an ear of red.
Then would come the kissing struggle
'Mid the husks upon the floor,
After which the girl would snuggle
To him closer than before,
Blushing to her finger tips
From the thrill upon her lips.

How the jolly picture lingers

With us through the fleeting years, Of the way the toil-scarred fingers Snatched the jackets from the ears; Of the flashing lanterns hanging

'Round, and casting flickers o'er Merry dancers who were banging

Dust from out the old barn floor, As the fiddler jerked his bow Musically to and fro.