LITERARY Nothing To Be Thankful For "Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving" for what? Business is failing, death visited my door only six months ago and took away the one I loved most; the one for whom I would willingly have laid down my life. Why should I be thus punished? Why should I suffer all this, I who have tried so hard to live in God's way?" The man standing at the window, who had been thus musing-was a strongly built keen-eyed person with a shade of white in his hair around his temples, which only served to increase the tired, discouraged look which he wore so frequently. If, as he stood at the window, he would only have let his eyes wander to the people below him on the busy thoroughfare, his words might not have been so harsh. For in the crowd, was the little lame newsboy who had, for his home, a dry goods box back of one of the large stores. His lot was hard, yet his eyes were always bright and a song was always on his lips. There was the washerwoman, bent from toil, yet always ready to speak a kind word or lend a helping hand whenever it was needed. Many little ragged urchins played near the gutter and out in the street, darting around automobiles and other vehicles with an agility they had acquired through doing it many times. There was a young wife whose coat was threadbare and whose hat was a relic of by-gone days; yet she looked proudly at her husband with a smile on her lips, and her feet seemed fairly to bound over the hard pavement. But the man at the window was not thinking of other people, his mind was too full of his own troubles, which seemed to him to be greater than anyone else's could be. The telephone rang sharply. The man aroused himself with a jerk and started toward the instrument. "Another business venture failed, I suppose," he muttered as he took down the receiver. ACORN 4 "Hello yes, this is Mr. Forrestt What? Belle hurt-" and the receiver fell from his hand and he sat for a few moments, as though stunned. "Belle. My only child! She must be stricken. As if my troubles were not complete." He arose heavily from his chair, and then stirred on the sudden action, he snatched his hat from its hook and rushed from the office. Thanksgiving day dawned, but the sun was hidden by the many dark clouds which scudded across the sky. In an elaborately furnished bedroom in Mr. Forrestt's house, a pale, worn man sat by the bed holding a limp, white hand of a small girl who was lying on the bed. The child seemed lifeless save for the faint movement of the lips every few minutes. Then, for a time an interminable time it seemed to the watcher the lips were silent. He placed his fingers near the blue lips. Yes! She was still breathing faintly, and it seemed to him, a little stronger than she had since she had lost consciousness when she was struck by the automobile. Mr. Forrestt watched through the long hours. The child's breathing seemed to get stronger each hour. And then, late in the afternoon, the eyelids fluttered, and then opened and a gleam of recognition came into them as the curly head turned toward the man watching over her. Her lips formed his name and a glad smile played on them. Mr. Forrestt, the humbled man. knelt down at the bedside and offered a fervent prayer of Thanksgiving to his Maker. And then through the window, a gleam of sunlight came. The clouds, had cleared and the sun shone in all its glory. The Hawk of Blue Ridge It was a beautiful moonlight night in June. The gentle breezes wafted the fragrance of the sage and the wild flowers down into the valley of Blue Vale, and from the coulee sounded the song of a lonely whippoorwill. On a stump just outside of the bunk house of the Blue Ridge ranch, sat Frank Hawkins, his head dropped upon his breast and his eyebrows contracted in deep thought. "Well, Hawk, what's the matter? You look as if your best girl had quit you. Come on, let's pull in," came from Guy Wilson, with a clap upon his friend's shoulder. "Oh nothing, I was just thinking," replied Hawk. "Oh, yes, planning some work for next fall, I suppose. Hawk,