near the present site of Ashland and north toward Fremont. Now, one of two things we must do, either accept the evidence that places Quivera at Columbus or reject the whole as a fiction. Well, if the manuscript should be a fiction and a fancy of Freytas or of Penelosa, what a splendid imagination they must have had to describe our flora and fauna so accurately that one of the best authorities in the State testified not long since that this enumeration might serve very well to-day as an enumeration of the resources of Nebraska.

Scarcely a single old Spanish map is in existence but has a Quivera marked on it. The whole Aztec nation was as familiar with Quivera through traditions as they were with their own country, and every Spanish geographer had ample authority for marking upon his map the metes and bounds of the Empire of Quivera.

Father Marquette, when he descended the Mississippi River in 1673, also heard of Quivera from the natives along the Mississippi and put it on his map with the Missouri and Platte rivers, intact, Quivera north of the Platte at the very point at which Penelosa's manuscript tells us it was. He described it as a fair country which he hoped some day to visit. This map is now in Toronto, Canada, and in a good state of preservation.

If the grandeur of this empire could penetrate a thousand miles in all directions in those days of slow travel, across barren deserts and through trackless forests, with enough force to give it a place on every map, how dare we, in the face of the overwhelming evidence still existing, at the close of this enlightened nineteenth century, presume to call Quivera a myth unworthy of a thought?

THE LATE SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN

NOT

от only England but the whole civilized world is the poorer now that Sir Arthur Sullivan has passed away, for he belonged to all those to whom humor in music is dear, and by his magic strains lightened the world's burden of toil.

Unlike many great musicians he received a full share of the world's honors. Royalty, wealth, and intellect paid him honor, and at his funeral in the Chapel Royal and in St. Paul's, where he is buried, the tributes of affection and respect were those of the great to the great.

It were idle to discuss Sir Arthur Sullivan's place in musical history, whether he is to rank as a great composer of light opera alone or whether that fame will be adorned with honors won in the more serious paths of his art. He essayed many forms of composition and succeeded in them all; not the highest success, perhaps, but still success. That he was satisfied with what he achieved may be doubted; he was too much the artist and too seriously devoted to his art for the complacency of mediocrity. That he aimed at more ambitious work is certain, and it is possible that had his life been prolonged music might have been vastly the gainer. But in the face of his removal all such speculation is idle and by the way.

Sir Arthur Sullivan delighted in calling himself a British musician, rejoiced in his training (though he never forgot his debt to Germany), and gave of his best to further British music at a time when British music was at a low ebb and British musicians lightly esteemed.

It has been the fashion in certain quarters to depreciate

his work as not reaching the highest ideals, and the reproach has been leveled at him that he used his talents in a form of music that was unworthy of them-comic opera. Even so fair a journal as the London Times belittled his life's work in its notice of the composer's life. Sullivan's work needs no justification, no apology. Were he naught but the composer of those comic operas which have elevated the lighter operatic taste of two continents, he did enough to merit all the honors he received, and when it is remembered that his oratorios, cantatas, hymns, and songs form a portion of England's cherished music, it is but carping that demands more of him than he gave.

America sorrows with England, for Sullivan was nearly as popular in the United States as he was in his own country. Germany, too, mourns his loss.

IN DISTRICT No. I

(An Economic Novel)

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE SIXTEENTH AMendment'

CHAPTER XXXIV-(Continued)

"There seems to be quite a finger of Fate in all this, Eddie, darling," said Lydia. "The wild and reckless exchange of hearts at the railroad depot last Monday, on which I believe I ventured to comment at the time, was-no, I'll not say 'predestined,' in spite of all conventional temptations to do so. I know that I'm a free agent, Eliza. Of course you may reply, with the Weismans, the Herbert Spencers, the James Gordon Bennetts, and the O'Hallorans. Say, Eddie! don't forget to make Tom Boreen tell you about what was said in Dublin of my riding-you remember-with the Professor in Paris last year. You'll have to hold somebody's arm very tight around your waist, though, to prevent your injuring your health with laughing."

“Hush, Lydia!” cried Eliza, placing her hand over L. B.'s laughing lips, and getting it bitten and then kissed for her pains.

"To interrupt a woman when she's talking is a good deal more risky than to 'speak to the man at the wheel' on those nasty, jumpy, corky little Channel steamers. Whenever will they make real ports of Boulogne and Folkestone, and put into service a few of the splendid sea-sickness-proof gassigoes, such as we're building at Newport News?"

"When there's a Legion in France and another in England."

"You'll be a grandmother, Eddie, before Cousin John and Friend Jules will make up their minds that Uncle Sam is not quite such a fool as they now think he looks with his District No. I."

"How dreadfully you put things, Lydia."

"How? Oh! I see I must really reply, with Dick Westeron,' dreadfully your grandmother!' I presume you'll admit that, if you marry, I am warranted in supposing grandmaternity to be at least within the bounds of possibility?"

"And to that, I must really reply, with your Mr. Simms, 'It's practical, ain't it?""

While the two girls are recovering from their lapse into mutual laughter and kisses, I may express a doubt whether if she had thought the conversation would one day be printed, Eddie would have reported it so faithfully when she subsequently talked over the scenes, both wild and mirthful, that mingled with the sunshine, storm, and stress of those fate-laden days. I am but a plain citizen and humble scribe, and do not profess to much gyneosophy; but Cuyler, the Cornelius of the thirteen kisses, assures me that no woman is so lovely as not to be able to crack a joke upon occasion, and that even the most prudish of blue-stockings and the most camel-kneed devotees have some knowledge, be it but theoretical, of the world, the flesh, and the devil. He argues, therefore (I have consulted him with respect to most of the perplexing points of this plain narrative), that were I to mention only the high-level graces and feats and words of L. B. and E. D., I should do the dear girls quite as great an injustice (for all departure from truth is, strictly, injustice) as though I were to describe them as hump-backed and bandy-legged.

"Speaking of that Simms," resumed Eddie, "I declare I'm afraid of him. And a little fellow called Warner, too. They were at church yesterday morning, and in the afternoon they called here. Warner looked at me in the rudest way. I was quite angry; only poor, dear Henry was so jealous that it did me good to see him. And that Simms