blurred or quite obliterated by drifts of sifting sand. It was a small
house fenced about; but the fence was for the most part buried under
sand, and looked as if it were a rampart erected for the defense of this
isolated cot. Some few hardy flowers had been planted there, but they
were knee-deep in sand, and their petals were full of grit. One usually
blew into that house with a pinch of sand, but how good it was to be
there!

Within those walls there was the unmistakable evidence of the feminine
touch, the aesthetic influence that refines and beautifies everything.
It was not difficult to idealize in that atmosphere. It was the home of
a lady who chose to conceal her identity, though her pen-name was a
household word from one end of the coast to the other. She was a star
contributor to the weekly columns of the _Golden Era,_ a periodical we
all subscribed for and were immensely proud of. It was unique in its
way. Of late years I have found no literary journal to compare with it
at its best. It introduced Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Prentice Mulford,
Joaquin Miller, Ina Coolbrith, and many others, to their first circle of
admirers. In the large mail-box at its threshold--a threshold I dared
not cross for awe of it--I dropped my earliest efforts in verse, and
then ran for fear of being caught in the act.

Imagine the joy of a lad whose ambition was to write something worth
printing, and whose wildest dream was to be named some day with those
who had won their laurels in the field of letters,--imagine his joy at
being petted in the sanctum of one who was in his worshipful eyes the
greatest lady in the land! About her were the trophies of her triumph,
though she was personally known to few. Each post brought her tribute
from the grateful hearts of her readers afar off in the mountain mining
camps, and perhaps from beyond the Rockies; or, it may have been, from