T

HERE were no neighbors near the old Lewis farm, and the

children grew up in a little world of their own-a lovely world in the Blue Ridge hills of South Carolina overlooking the Seneca River, rich with Indian lore and Indian relics. Little Mary and her brothers and sisters bunted arrowheads, dug for Indian graves, built forts, made tepees of cornstalks, and dyed their faces with pokeberry juice, playing over and over the dramas of bygone warriors and their squaws.

A quarrel always arose over the rôle of Catechee, their favorite heroine, who had saved the settlers from her own people, naming all the neighborhood streams on her historic ride. Whenever Mary was the lucky child to accompany Mother on her infrequent trips to the next village, she always paused over the muddy stream known as Eighteen-Mile Creek, asking with a delighted shiver: "That's where Catechee rode right through the water, isn't it?" And once more Mother would have to tell the old legend as she had heard it in her childhood.

The Legend of Catechee

As remembered by Mary Lewis.

an Outlook reader

I was long, long ago, in the early seventeen hundreds, when South Carolina was still a battleground between Indians and white settlers, that the people of Fort Star found a little redskin girl in the woods, lying still and apparently dead. But she was only weak and very ill, so, although this was a daughter of the enemy, the kind-hearted women nursed her back to health, and named her Catechee.

At first the settlers' children were afraid of the dark-eyed child with her

straight black hair and reddish-brown skin that reminded them of the cruel savages who had killed so many of their fathers and brothers, but little Catechee was so shy and so sweet-natured, and so skillful at running and riding and arrowshooting, outdistancing even the boys, of themselves. that they soon grew to love her as one

forgotten her own people, yet as she Every one thought the little girl had grew older her playmates often caught a strange sadness in her big dark eyes, and one day, during an Indian raid, she disappeared.

The children were broken-hearted. "Ungrateful Catechee," said their elders, "after all we have done for her! It is the call of the wild-she has gone back to her own people."

But the children could not believe evil of their playmate; for a long time they missed her sadly, with her quick ways and her sweet nature, but all too soon playtime passed into the life of grownup burdens, and little Catechee became only a memory.

As time went on, the Indians seemed there had been no attack, and the setto grow less hostile; for three years tlers began to build log cabins and culti

vate land farther and farther away from the fort, growing more careless about guarding their settlement.

Meantime, many miles away, deep in

1 The stories in this department are the favorite tales of various families which have been handed down to each succeeding younger generation. The Outlook will be glad to receive and to pay for any such stories which our readers remember from their own childhood and which are found available. They should be told as simply as possible in the language one would use in talking to a child. We should also be glad of suggestions from older and younger readers as to well-known people whom they would be especially interested to have Mrs. Davis interview for stories remembered from childhood.

an Indian mountain village, where her people had taken her, Catechee had grown into a beautiful maiden, so lovely that one of the boldest and fiercest of the young warriors began to woo her to become his bride. But, though he was strong and handsome, Catechee could not return his love, for he hated the white settlers and often boasted how some day, when the Chief's plans were complete, Fort Star would be surprised and everybody killed-men, women, and children.

Catechee remembered her kind fosterparents and her little playmates, and, though she knew that her penalty from her own people would be death, she determined to save her old friends. Cleverly she questioned her lover about the route to the Fort, which, of course, she had long since forgotten, and every evening she crept to the tent of the warriors and listened to their powwow. One night, when spring floods had run their course and the boiling streams returned to their banks, the Chief announced that the time was ripe for the attack, and bade all to be in readiness at daybreak. With a whoop that curdled Catechee's blood, the warriors answered and began building a great fire for their wardance.

So, while her people leaped and screamed by the red glow of the fire, Catechee mounted the swiftest and strongest of the ponies and slipped away, bareback, into the dark forest. Somewhere to the south, all unaware of their danger, slept her paleface friends. She must find them, though all she knew of the way were the bits of knowledge picked up from her warrior lover.

Silently and lightly Catechee and her pony winged their way through the black and pathless woods until they were halted by a broad, rushing stream, but (Please turn to continuation, page 40)

May 2, 1928

W

E have in our time made a lot of fun of people who said, "I don't know much about art, but I know what I like." But after observing a number of people who know a lot about art and don't like anything, we think we prefer the former group. When a member of it begins to learn about art, you may be pretty sure that his last state is going to be worse than his first. For the average person who isn't willing to trust-with, of course, certain reservations to his own preferences, too much knowledge about art is likely to bring an uncertainty which will spoil most of his pleasure in beauty. The more he knows, the less he will be sure what is good. He will be afraid of expressing an opinion, even to himself. He will become critical instead of appreciative for him there will be no giants any more-and that state of mind, in viewing any field, marks the death of real pleasure.

There is, of course, a satisfaction in demolishing, in picking flaws. It gives a grand kick to your ego to find out where Rembrandt missed a finesse that would have given him two more tricks. But you'd get more pleasure out of the work if you never realized that he'd made a mistake.

This department, you see, is only justifying its lack of knowledge in matters artistic. The view expressed above is therefore neither entirely disinterested nor as you will have gathered-entirely sincere. Yet there is a certain amount of truth in it. We believe you would rather have us tell you about the things we like than to give you an expert criticism of something that perhaps isn't very good. We shall therefore be appreciative rather than critical.

If we like a thing, we shall tell you about it, whether we are sure we understand it or not.

And another thing. We shall try to describe the kind of pictures that you will want to buy to hang on your own walls, not necessarily the kind you would buy if you were making a collection for your local museum. A slight thing, an unimportant thing, might be very important for you, might appeal to you personally, whereas having no particular artistic value in the larger sense, and no wide appeal, it would be totally unsuitable in a public gallery.

Of course, we don't hold much ourself with public galleries and museums, and educating the public to appreciate art, and so on. For two reasons. One is that almost no work of art looks well in close juxtaposition to another work of art. Your eye can't jump immediately from one fine thing to another fine thing and appreciate either. Even if it could, it doesn't get a chance. The wall of a gallery is a jumble of colors. You can't get the full force of the Hottentot maiden under the banyan tree with snow-tipped Alp intruding on the outer corner of your left eye and a heap of overripe or jaundiced vegetables intruding on the outer corner of your right eye. Ideas as well as colors and lines and masses clash and confuse you.

The second reason is that in a gallery there's always self-consciousness on the human side. A picture should be looked at in solitude. Get three people in a gallery, and they really forget all about the pictures. They either make wisecracks or else try to impress one another with their knowledge. We're willing to bet that when you go to an art exhibit less than ten per cent of your mind is

really occupied with the pictures. It's so with us. We think: "I like that picture,

At least, I guess I ought to. I wonder what I can say about it that will sound intelligent enough so that Cousin Mary won't think I'm a fool. I think that woman in the brown hat is listening to us. The man with the ribbon on his glasses is probably an art critic. I wish my feet didn't hurt." And so on.

Well, we went to a gallery yesterday. We were much embarrassed, because there was a tea party under way, and people were standing around with teacups in their hands eating sandwiches and talking art. It fascinated us for a few minutes. They'd take in a little sandwich, and then give out a little art. It was very uplifting. But nobody offered us anything, so we broke through the tea barrage and got off in a room by ourself, far from the clatter of teeth and the clash of cutlery, and there we found some water-oils by Charles S. Chapman which we liked.

This is the way he does 'em. On the surface of a tank of water he floats oil colors. These he stirs up gently until he gets an interesting design. He has developed a technique by which he can keep the line between two colors from blurring, and by which also he can do a good deal of drawing. Then he drops a sheet of paper on the water. This picks up the colors, and he can then go on and develop them with water-colors to any extent he wishes. You remember the marbled covers and end-papers of oldfashioned ledgers? They were made in the same way.

The results that Mr. Chapman has achieved seemed to us extraordinarily suggestive. They don't look at all like paintings, but rather like slabs of highly colored veined and polished marble. There was a genie coming out of a jar, and around him several Arabian Nights figures, against a chaotic and gorgeous background. There was a pale horse with a veiled rider galloping through a wildly romantic landscape lit by a low wan moon. We liked best the undersea pictures a mermaid and sev eral grotesque fish, and, above, the foaming shoulder of a huge green wave. We preferred the pictures that had had the least retouching. Too much definite detail made these seem rather cluttered, whereas the suggestiveness of the others was unhampered by clearness.

We would like to have one or two of these pictures. Definiteness is a tiring thing to live with, whether it is in opin ions or in line, and these, besides being interesting in design and color, are delightfully vague.

Would box shooks or cut-to-size crating effect a worth while economy? Could you use part of your packing room space for more production?

These are important questions. They all have a bearing on your yearly profits or your opportunity to get ahead of competition.

The Weyerhaeuser man can answer them. Ask him. Apply his expert crating experience and knowledge of lumber to your shipping problems. Let him advise which is most advantageous for you to use- crating lumber, box shooks or cut-to-size crating.