old fashions recur, the ends of the centuries resemble one another, ancient eras of low morals are duplicated in modern times, new conditions are found, upon investigation, to be but replicas of byegone situations. We quote the preacher: "There is no new thing under the sun." The pendulum of time brings the race inevitably back to the old points.

It is easy enough to understand that, in the case of the race, these two points of view may be reconciled, for we have only to remember that cyclic development is truly illustrated, not by the pendulum, but by the helix, the form of the screw. Thus, though we come round again and again to the same viewpoint, each revolution takes us a step higher. But how are we to apply this to human nature? Is our own blind fury at a wrong done to ourselves any different from the fury of Cain against Abel? We give way to pride, to jealousy and to love as did men of yore, perhaps not with such abandon, but the spirit of the impulse is the same. And were there not men of piety, charity and loving kindness of old? What then is different? What is true modernity? Methuselah Methuselah alone can tell us!

What we think of, perhaps, as most typical of our time-what seems to be unique is the growing difference in the relations between the sexes, culminating in the conditions prevalent in the United States. Was such frank comradeship and equality without sentiment ever possible before? Certain phases of French and Roman history suggest analogies, but if so, the swing of the pendulum is wide indeed! It seems impossible to conceive of such modern, sexless familiarity between men and women as possible ever before in the world. The influence of sex has been the one unchanging factor that has underlain the history of mankind, for it is the Spirit of Race itself, seeking self-perpetuation. Have we, then, in the west, a phase of human nature being developed, that even Methuselah himself could not understand?

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Would he be able to advise me in regard to my friendship with Celestine?

For, of all subjects, it is certainly of women that I would talk to him. I would show him a few-not many-of my friends, and say, "was there ever her like before?" Perhaps he knew one when he was a youngster of three hundred and fifty-if so, what a talk could we not have! How many things he could explain! It turns my head at the thought of it!

For each of us occasionally stumbles across a marvel. We have all been actors or witnesses at situations that seemed impossible. My instinctive cry, then, is for that wise old man. Oh, would he understand? What balm would be his talk, with anecdote of this or that strange woman, to illustrate a quirk of femininity! How delicious his story of my own grandfather, some twenty generations removed, who acted so strangely like me on that day of days!

For he would know me, too, that weird old man, and see a thousand ancestors in me. A trick of the hand here, a weak yielding of the brain there, and he would put me together, a composite of his oldtime acquaintances. He would watch the atavism appear; but, bewildered by such a mixture of innumerable qualities, how could he ever predict my actions? Perhaps he would talk to me as eagerly as I to him, and be curious to see how John and Tristram, Hannah Susan and Ethelwyn warred within my blood.

But really it does not matter. Life is wonderful enough. With him to talk to, I would marvel that certain things could happen twice in an aeon, and he would doubtless say, "is this violet you have discovered any less beautiful, when you think that there are myriads of flowerets as fair?" And without him when the impossibly strange, or the incredibly perfect thing happens, I make my wish, as one who sees the flight of a falling star, and thank heaven that I can glory in the wonder of it, even if it is not for me alone.

M

OST of the readers of SUNSET are very familiar with the name of Geronimo, that famous Apache renegade now detained upon the military reservation at Fort Sill, Oklahoma Territory, an alleged "prisoner of war." Very few, however, are acquainted with the details of the story of his life in the days when he was regarded as the most desperate Indian on our frontier, nor do they know just how he first made himself conspicuous in his bloody role more than a quarter century ago.

Geronimo is an Apache of the purest type. There are several subdivisions or branches of the Apache tribe. These are designated as Aravaipas, Coyoteros, Pinals, Tontos, Tulerosas and Chi

fastness in the Dragoon range, and there succeeded in concluding a peace compact with the venerable chief. This was faithfully adhered to by Cochise till the time of his death, which occurred in the spring

of 1874. About six years later a new county was organized in Southeastern Arizona which is called Cochise county, in honor of this famous Indian chieftain.

At the time General Howard made the treaty with Cochise there was a band of Indians known as the Southern Chiricahua Apaches, who really belonged in the vicinity of Janos, Mexico, but who were on friendly terms with the Cochise band, and who were willing to be included in the Howard treaty, since its terms enabled them to participate in the regular issue of rations provided for, without interfering with their periodical raids into Mexico. The chiefs of these Southern Chiricahuas were Geronimo, Hoo and Nolgee.

ricahuas. For many years the Chiricahuas made their home in the Dragoon and Chiricahua mountain ranges in Southeastern Arizona, and old Cochise was their chief. Cochise was an intelligent, vigorous, dauntless leader, who made his prowess respected so long as he followed the war path, and many a pale face was made to "bite the dust" at the hands of his dusky braves.

In 1872 General O. O. Howard was commissioned by the government to arrange a treaty of peace with the Chiricahuas. Accompanied by a single aide he went into Cochise's stronghold, a rugged

Cochise left two sons, Tah-zay and Nah-chee. After his death a bitter rivalry sprung up between Tah-zay, the elder son, and Skin-yea, who had served as head war chief under Cochise, as to who should succeed to the leadership of the tribe. The government officials recognized Tah-zay, but this action, instead of settling the controversy, only widened

very heart of the pass, with all the supporting troops in position for immediate and effective action. The fighting spirit of Skin-yea, the old war chief, was thoroughly aroused, and he exerted himself to the utmost in an effort to induce the entire tribe to take the war path and resist to the bitter end. In this course he was ably supported by his brother, Pi-onse-nay.

Tah-zay and Nah-chee stoutly opposed the plans of the old war chief. These two young sons of Cochise declared that they had sworn to their father on his deathbed to keep the treaty he had made

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-and they would be faithful to their oath.

That night the Indians gathered for council in a deep canyon, illuminated by a great campfire. That bitter enmity which had for two years been smouldering in the breasts of these two families of savages was here to seek and find its ultimate and extreme satisfaction in blood and death. The council began and the hot blood of the Indian was soon beyond control. Suddenly the sharp crack of a rifle rang down the mountain side and the fierce Apache yell proclaimed the deadly strife begun. This fearful test was finally to determine who was fittest