Test Bank for Intermediate Financial Management 12th

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CHAPTER 2
RISK AND RETURN: Part I
(Difficulty Levels: Easy, Easy/Medium, Medium, Medium/Hard, and Hard)

Please see the preface for information on the AACSB letter indicators (F, M, etc.) on the subject
lines.

Multiple Choice: True/False

(2.2) Standard deviation F N Answer: b EASY

1. The tighter the probability distribution of its expected future
returns, the greater the risk of a given investment as measured by its
standard deviation.

a. True
b. False

(2.2) Coefficient of variation F N Answer: a EASY

2. The coefficient of variation, calculated as the standard deviation of
expected returns divided by the expected return, is a standardized
measure of the risk per unit of expected return.

© 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted
to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.

Page 20 True/False Chapter 2: Risk and Return: Part I

 a. True
b. False

(2.2) CV vs. SD F N Answer: b EASY

3. The standard deviation is a better measure of risk than the coefficient
of variation if the expected returns of the securities being compared
differ significantly.

a. True
b. False

(2.2) Risk aversion F N Answer: a EASY

4. Risk-averse investors require higher rates of return on investments
whose returns are highly uncertain, and most investors are risk averse.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) Portfolio risk F N Answer: a EASY

5. When adding a randomly chosen new stock to an existing portfolio, the
higher (or more positive) the degree of correlation between the new
stock and stocks already in the portfolio, the less the additional
stock will reduce the portfolio's risk.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) Portfolio risk F N Answer: a EASY

6. Diversification will normally reduce the riskiness of a portfolio of
stocks.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) Portfolio risk F N Answer: a EASY

7. In portfolio analysis, we often use ex post (historical) returns and
standard deviations, despite the fact that we are really interested in
ex ante (future) data.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) Portfolio return F N Answer: b EASY

© 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted
to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.

Chapter 2: Risk and Return: Part I True/False Page 21

(2. F N

8. The realized return on a stock portfolio is the weighted average of the

expected returns on the stocks in the portfolio.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) Market risk F N Answer: a EASY

9. Market risk refers to the tendency of a stock to move with the general
stock market. A stock with above-average market risk will tend to be
more volatile than an average stock, and its beta will be greater than
1.0.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) Market risk F N Answer: b EASY

10. An individual stock's diversifiable risk, which is measured by its
beta, can be lowered by adding more stocks to the portfolio in which
the stock is held.

a. True
b. False

3) Risk and expected returns Answer: b EASY

11. Managers should under no conditions take actions that increase their
firm's risk relative to the market, regardless of how much those
actions would increase the firm's expected rate of return.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) CAPM and risk F N Answer: a EASY

12. One key conclusion of the Capital Asset Pricing Model is that the value
of an asset should be measured by considering both the risk and the
expected return of the asset, assuming that the asset is held in a
well-diversified portfolio. The risk of the asset held in isolation is
not relevant under the CAPM.

a. True
b. False
(2.3) CAPM and risk F N Answer: a EASY
13. According to the Capital Asset Pricing Model, investors are primarily
concerned with portfolio risk, not the risks of individual stocks held
in isolation. Thus, the relevant risk of a stock is the stock's
contribution to the riskiness of a well-diversified portfolio.

a. True
© 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted
to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.

Page 22 True/False Chapter 2: Risk and Return: Part I

 b. False

(2.5) SML and risk aversion F N Answer: b EASY

14. If investors become less averse to risk, the slope of the Security
Market Line (SML) will increase.

a. True
b. False

(2.2) Variance F N Answer: a MEDIUM

15. Variance is a measure of the variability of returns, and since it
involves squaring the deviation of each actual return from the expected
return, it is always larger than its square root, its standard
deviation.

a. True
b. False

(2.2) Coefficient of variation F N Answer: a MEDIUM

16. Because of differences in the expected returns on different
investments, the standard deviation is not always an adequate measure
of risk. However, the coefficient of variation adjusts for differences
in expected returns and thus allows investors to make better
comparisons of investments' stand-alone risk.

a. True
b. False

(2.2) Risk aversion F N Answer: a MEDIUM

17. "Risk aversion" implies that investors require higher expected returns
on riskier than on less risky securities.

a. True
b. False

(2.2) Risk aversion F N Answer: a MEDIUM

18. If investors are risk averse and hold only one stock, we can conclude
that the required rate of return on a stock whose standard deviation is
0.21 will be greater than the required return on a stock whose standard
deviation is 0.10. However, if stocks are held in portfolios, it is
possible that the required return could be higher on the stock with the
low standard deviation.

a. True
b. False

(2.2) Risk prem. and risk aversion F N Answer: a MEDIUM

© 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted
to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.

Chapter 2: Risk and Return: Part I True/False Page 23

(2. F N

19. Someone who is risk averse has a general dislike for risk and a
preference for certainty. If risk aversion exists in the market, then
investors in general are willing to accept somewhat lower returns on
less risky securities. Different investors have different degrees of
risk aversion, and the end result is that investors with greater risk
aversion tend to hold securities with lower risk (and therefore a lower
expected return) than investors who have more tolerance for risk.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) Beta coefficient F N Answer: b MEDIUM

20. A stock's beta measures its diversifiable risk relative to the
diversifiable risks of other firms.

a. True
b. False

(2.3) Beta coefficient F N Answer: b MEDIUM

21. A stock's beta is more relevant as a measure of risk to an investor who
holds only one stock than to an investor who holds a well-diversified
portfolio.

a. True
b. False

© 2013 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted
to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.

Page 24 True/False Chapter 2: Risk and Return: Part I

Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke.

And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl;

And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any soul.

And so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same way;

Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to say,—

And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o’ dozen strong,

And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.

And there have been days together—and many a weary week

—

When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to
speak;

And I have been thinkin’ and thinkin’, the whole of the

summer and fall,

If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t at all.

And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;

And we have agreed together that we can never agree;

And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;

And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.

Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first paragraph—

Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half;

For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day,

And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her pay.
Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam,

But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home.

And I have always determined, and never failed to say,

That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.

There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ tol’rable

pay,

A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,—

Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;

Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.

I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so much;

Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such;

True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young,

And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her tongue.

When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps,

For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;

And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down,

And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.

Once when I had a fever—I won’t forget it soon—

I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon—

Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight;

She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,

Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen,

And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts,

Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other facts.

So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to-night,

And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right;

And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I know—

And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I’ll
go.

And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn’t occur;

That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her,

And lay me under the maple we planted years ago,

When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.

And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me;

And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree;

And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it queer

If we loved each other the better because we’ve quarreled here.

¹ From “Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper &

Brothers.

GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. ¹

( “ .”)
 J .

’VE worked in the field all day, a plowin’ the “stony

streak;”

I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve

tramped till my legs are weak;

I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane fibs,)

When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched

my ribs.

I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;

I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;

And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,

And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.

Well said! the door is locked! out here she’s left the key,

Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;

I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell;

But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.

Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!

The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a going away;

I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true;

But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”

A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to say;

There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day.

There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the han’some kind;

But a loven’er man than I was, I guess she’ll never find.

Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!

May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to scorpion

stings!

Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of

doubt,

And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s blood

out!

Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll some time rue this day;

She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play;

And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born,

And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn.

As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when she

Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man than me;

And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do,

That she who is false to one, can be the same with two.

And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,

And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,

She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the
cost;

And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has lost.

And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,
And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;

And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me—for me—but no!

I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.

And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or other she
had

That fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad;

And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t last;

But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ’em in the

past.

I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;

She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;

But I’ll live a life so square—and I well know that I can,—

That she always will sorry be that she went with that
han’somer man.

Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur;

It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her.

And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day
hat,

And yonder’s her weddin’ gown; I wonder she didn’t take that.

’Twas only this mornin’ she came and called me her “dearest
dear,”

And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here;

O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,

Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!

Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.

You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ heart.

I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to pray,

And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run away.

And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear,

And if I thought I had some little influence there,

I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,

As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago.

J (entering).

Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things all around!

Come, what’s the matter now? and what have you lost or
found?

And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too;

I’ve been a riding with him—he’s that “handsomer man than

you.”

Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,

And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.

Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has crossed your
track?

I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.

J (aside).
Well, now, if this ain’t a joke, with rather a bitter cream!

It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream;

And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me so queer,

I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they didn’t hear!

’Twas one of her practical drives—she thought I’d understand!

But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.

But one thing’s settled with me—to appreciate heaven well,

’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.

¹ Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.

JOAQUIN MILLER.
“ .”
 N the year 1851, a farmer moved from the Wabash
district in Indiana to the wilder regions of
Oregon. In his family was a rude, untaught boy
of ten or twelve years, bearing the unusual
name of Cincinnatus Hiner Miller. This boy
worked with his father on the farm until he was about fifteen
years of age, when he abandoned the family log-cabin in the
Willamette Valley of his Oregon home to try ♦his fortune as a
gold miner.

♦ ‘this’ replaced with ‘his’

A more daring attempt was seldom if ever undertaken by a

fifteen year old youth. It was during the most desperate period of
Western history, just after the report of the discovery of gold had
caused the greatest rush to the Pacific slope. A miscellaneous
and turbulent population swarmed over the country; and, “armed
to the teeth” prospected upon streams and mountains. The
lawless, reckless life of these gold-hunters—millionaires to-day
and beggars to-morrow—deeming it a virtue rather than a crime
to have taken life in a brawl—was, at once, novel, picturesque
and dramatic.—Such conditions furnished great possibilities for
a poet or novelist.—It was an era as replete with a reality of
thrilling excitement as that furnished by the history and
mythology of ancient Greece to the earlier ♦Greek poets.

♦ ‘Greeks’ replaced with ‘Greek’

It was into this whirlpool that the young, untaught—but

observant and daring—farmer lad threw himself, and when its
whirl was not giddy and fast enough for him, or palled upon his
more exacting taste for excitement and daring adventure, he left
it after a few months, and sought deeper and more desperate
wilds. With Walker he became a filibuster and went into
Nicaragua.—He became in turn an astrologer; a Spanish
vaquero, and, joining the wild Indians, was made a Sachem.

For five years he followed these adventurous wanderings;

then as suddenly as he had entered the life he deserted it, and, in
1860 the prodigal returned home to his father’s cabin in Oregon.
In his right arm he carried a bullet, in his right thigh another, and
on many parts of his body were the scars left by Indian arrows.
Shortly after returning home he begun the study of law and was
admitted to practice within a few months in Lane County,
Oregon; but the gold fever or spirit of adventure took possession
of him again and in 1861 we find him in the gold mines of
Idaho; but the yellow metal did not come into his “Pan”
sufficiently fast and he gave it up to become an express
messenger in the mining district. A few months later he was
back in Oregon where he started a Democratic Newspaper at
Eugene City which he ran long enough to get acquainted with a
poetical contributor, Miss Minnie Myrtle, whom he married in
1862—in his usual short-order way of doing things—after an
acquaintance of three days. Where “Joaquin” Miller—for he was
now called “Joaquin” after a Spanish brigand whom he had
defended—got his education is a mystery; but through the years
of wandering, even in boyhood, he was a rhymester and his
verses now began to come fast in the columns of his paper.
 JOAQUIN MILLER’S STUDY, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA.

In 1862, after his marriage he resumed the practice of law,

and, in 1866, at the age of twenty-five, was elected Judge of
Grant County. This position he held for four years during which
time he wrote much poetry. One day with his usual “suddenness”
he abandoned his wife and his country and sailed for London to
seek a publisher. At first he was unsuccessful, and had to print a
small volume privately. This introduced him to the friendship of
English writers and his “Songs of the Sierras” was issued in
1871. Naturally these poems were faulty in style and called forth
strong adverse criticism; but the tales they told were glowing and
passionate, and the wild and adventurous life they described was
a new revelation in the world of song, and, verily, whatever the
austere critic said, “The common people heard him gladly” and
his success became certain. Thus encouraged Miller returned to
California, visited the tropics and collected material for another
work which he published in London in 1873 entitled “Sunland
Songs.” Succeeding, the “Songs of the Desert” appeared in
1875; “Songs of Italy” 1878; “Songs of the Mexican Seas” 1887.
Later he has published “With Walker in Nicaragua” and he is
also author of a play called “The Danites,” and of several prose
works relating to life in the West among which are “The Danites
in the Sierras,” “Shadows of Shasta” and ’49, or “The Gold-
seekers of the Sierras.”

The chief excellencies of Miller’s works are his gorgeous

pictures of the gigantic scenery of the Western mountains. In this
sense he is a true poet. As compared with Bret Harte, while
Miller has the finer poetic perception of the two, he does not
possess the dramatic power nor the literary skill of Harte; nor
does he seem to recognize the native generosity and noble
qualities which lie hidden beneath the vicious lives of outlaws,
as the latter reveals it in his writings. After all the question arises
which is the nearer the truth? Harte is about the same age as
Miller, lived among the camps at about the same time, but he
was not, to use a rough expression, “one of the gang,” was not so
pronouncedly “on the inside” as was his brother poet. He never
dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian Sachem.
All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the
plumb line of truth in his delineations after all.

Mr. Miller’s home is on the bluffs overlooking the San

Francisco Bay in sight of the Golden Gate. In July, 1897, he
joined the gold seekers in the Klondike regions of Alaska.

THOUGHTS OF MY WESTERN HOME.

.

IERRAS, and eternal tents

Of snow that flashed o’er battlements

Of mountains! My land of the sun,

Am I not true? have I not done

All things for thine, for thee alone,

O sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own?

From other loves and other lands,

As true, perhaps, as strong of hands,

Have I not turned to thee and thine,

O sun-land of the palm and pine,

And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies,

Till Europe lifted up her face

And marveled at thy matchless grace,

With eager and inquiring eyes?

Be my reward some little place

To pitch my tent, some tree and vine

Where I may sit above the sea,

And drink the sun as drinking wine,

And dream, or sing some songs of thee;

Or days to climb to Shasta’s dome

Again, and be with gods at home,

Salute my mountains—clouded Hood,

Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood—

Where sweeps the Oregon, and where

White storms are in the feathered fir.

MOUNT SHASTA.
O lord all Godland! lift the brow

Familiar to the noon,—to top

The universal world,—to prop

The hollow heavens up,—to vow

Stern constancy with stars,—to keep

Eternal ward while ♦eons sleep;

To tower calmly up and touch

God’s purple garment—hems that sweep

The cold blue north! Oh, this were much!

Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt

I knew thee in my glorious youth,

I loved thy vast face, white as truth,

I stood where thunderbolts were wont

To smite thy Titan-fashioned front,

And heard rent mountains rock and roll.

I saw thy lightning’s gleaming rod

Reach forth and write on heaven’s scroll

The awful autograph of God!

 ♦ ‘cons’ replaced with ‘eons’

KIT CARSON’S RIDE.

UN? Now you bet you; I rather guess so.

But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, Paché boy,

whoa!

No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his eyes,

But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise;—

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels,

Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride.

“Forty full miles if a foot to ride,

Forty full miles if a foot and the devils

Of red Camanches are hot on the track

When once they strike it. Let the sun go down

Soon, very soon,” muttered bearded old Revels

As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back,

Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked at his steed,

And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around,

And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground,—

Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride,

While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud,
His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud,

And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed,—

“Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed,

And speed, if ever for life you would speed;

And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride,

For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire,

And feet of wild horses, hard flying before

I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore;

While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea,

Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three

As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.”

We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein,

Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again,

And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer,

Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold,

Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold,

And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years,

Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath

And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse.

Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall,

Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call

Of love-note or courage, but on o’er the plain

So steady and still, leaning low to the mane,

With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,

Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and nose,

Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows,

Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer,

There was work to be done, there was death in the air,

And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang

Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rang

And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck

Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck.

Twenty miles! thirty miles—a dim distant speck—

Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight.

And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.

I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right,

But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder

And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping

Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping

Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder

Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire.

To right and to left the black buffalo came,

In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair,

With their beards to the dust and black tails in the air.

As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame

Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher,

And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,

The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full

Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire

Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud

And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud

Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,

While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his mane

Like black lances lifted and lifted again;

And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through,

And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.

I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder

Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;

And up through the black blowing veil of her hair

Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes

With a longing and love, yet look of despair,

And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.

Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell

To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s swell

Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead.

Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his head

With a look of delight, for this Paché, you see,

Was her father’s and once at the South Santafee

Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down

In a race where the world came to run for the crown;

And so when I won the true heart of my bride,—

My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child,

And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,—

She brought me this steed to the border the night

She met Revels and me in her perilous flight,

From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side;

And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,

As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride

The fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursue

I should surely escape without other ado

Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side,

And await her,—and wait till the next hollow moon

Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon

And swift she would join me, and all would be well

Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell

From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,

The last that I saw was a look of delight

That I should escape,—a love,—a desire,—

Yet never a word, not a look of appeal.—

Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel

One instant for her in my terrible flight.

Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under,

And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder,—

Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,

As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her

Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,—

Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,

As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone,

And into the Brazos I rode all alone—

All alone, save only a horse long-limbed,

And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.

Then just as the terrible sea came in

And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,

 Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed

In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.

“Sell Paché—blind Paché? Now, mister! look here!

You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer

Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,”

For the ways they were rough and Comanches were near;

“But you’d better pack up, sir! That tent is too small

For us two after this! Has an old mountaineer,

Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all?

Sell Paché! You buy him! a bag full of gold!

You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told!

Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is old!

... Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin

To them cities you tell of.... Blast you and your tin!”

JOAQUIN MILLER’S ALASKA LETTER.

As a specimen of this author’s prose writing and style, we present the following extract
from a syndicate letter clipped from the “Philadelphia Inquirer.”

Head of Lake Bennett, Alaska, August 2, 1897.

WRITE by the bank of what is already a big river, and at

the fountain head of the mighty Yukon, the second if
not the first of American rivers. We have crossed the
summit, passed the terrible Chilkoot Pass and Crater
Lake and Long Lake and Lideman Lake, and now I sit
down to tell the story of the past, while the man who is to take me up the
river six hundred miles to the Klondike rows his big scow, full of cattle,
brought from Seattle.

THE BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF CHILKOOT PASS.

All the pictures that had been painted by word, all on easel, or even
in imagination of Napoleon and his men climbing up the Alps, are but
childish playthings in comparison with the grandeur of Chilkoot Pass.
Starting up the steep ascent, we raised a shout and it ran the long, steep
and tortuous line that reached from a bluff above us, and over and up till
it lost itself in the clouds. And down to us from the clouds, the shout and
cry of exultation of those brave conquerers came back, and only died
away when the distance made it possible to be heard no longer. And now
we began to ascend.

It was not so hard as it seemed. The stupendous granite mountain,

the home of the avalanche and the father of glaciers, melted away before
us as we ascended, and in a single hour of brisk climbing we stood
against the summit or rather between the big granite blocks that marked
the summit. As I said before, the path is not so formidable as it looked,
and it is not half so formidable as represented, but mark you, it is no
boy’s play, no man’s play. It is a man’s and a big strong man’s honest
work, and takes strength of body and nerve of soul.

Right in the path and within ten feet of a snow bank that has not
perished for a thousand years, I picked and ate a little strawberry, and as
I rested and roamed about a bit, looking down into the brightly blue lake
that made the head waters of the Yukon, I gathered a little sun flower, a
wild hyacinth and a wild tea blossom for my buttonhole.
 OUR MOST NOTED
NOVELISTS.

JAMES FENIMORE
COOPER.
.

UR first American novelist, and to the present time

perhaps the only American novelist whose
fame is permanently established among
foreigners, is James Fenimore Cooper. While
Washington Irving, our first writer of short
stories, several years Cooper’s senior, was so strikingly popular
in England and America, Cooper’s “Spy” and “Pilot” and the
“Last of the Mohicans” went beyond the bounds of the English
language, and the Spaniard, the Frenchman, the German, the
Italian and others had placed him beside their own classics and
were dividing honors between him and Sir Walter Scott; and it
was they who first called him the Walter Scott of America. Nor
was this judgment altogether wrong. For six or seven years
Scott’s Waverly Novels had been appearing, and his “Ivanhoe,”
which was first published in 1820—the first historical novel of
the world—had given the clue to Cooper for “The Spy,” which
appeared in 1821, the first historical novel of America. Both
books were translated into foreign languages by the same
translators, and made for their respective authors quick and
lasting fame.

James Fenimore Cooper was born in Burlington, New Jersey,

September 15, 1789—the same year that George Washington
was inaugurated President of the United States. His father owned
many thousand acres of wild land on the head waters of the
Susquehanna River in New York, and while James was an infant
removed thither and built a stately mansion on Otsego Lake,
near the point where the little river issues forth on its journey to
the sea. Around Otsego Hall, as it was called, the village of
Cooperstown grew up. In this wilderness young Cooper passed
his childhood, a hundred miles beyond the advancing lines of
civilization. Along the shores of the beautiful lake, shut in by
untouched forests, or in the woods themselves, which rose and
fell unbroken—except here and there by a pioneer’s hut or a
trapper’s camp—he passed his boyhood days and slept at night
among the solemn silence of nature’s primeval grandeur. All the
delicate arts of the forest, the craft of the woodsman, the trick of
the trapper, the stratagem of the Indian fighter, the wiley
shrewdness of the tawny savage, the hardships and dangers of
pioneer life were as familiar to Cooper as were the legends of
North Britain and the stirring ballads of the highlands and the
lowlands to Walter Scott. But for this experience we should
never have had the famous Leather Stocking Tales.
 From this wilderness the boy was sent at the age of thirteen
to Yale College, where he remained three years, but was too
restless and adventurous to devote himself diligently to study
and was dismissed in disgrace at sixteen. For one year he
shipped before the mast as a common sailor and for the next five
years served as a midshipman in the United States Navy, making
himself master of that knowledge and detail of nautical life
which he afterwards employed to so much advantage in his
romances of the sea.

In 1811 Cooper resigned his post as midshipman, and

married Miss Delancey, with whom he lived happily for forty
years. The first few years of his married life were spent in quiet
retirement. For some months he resided in Westchester County,
the scene of his book “The Spy.” Then he removed to his old
home at Cooperstown and took possession of the family
mansion, to which he had fallen heir through the death of his
father. Here he prepared to spend his life as a quiet country
gentleman, and did so until a mere accident called him into
authorship. Up to that date he seems never to have touched a pen
or even thought of one except to write an ordinary letter. He was,
however, fond of reading, and often read aloud to his wife. One
day while reading a British novel he looked up and playfully
said: “I could write a better book than that myself.” “Suppose
you try,” replied his wife, and retiring to his library he wrote a
chapter which he read to Mrs. Cooper. She was pleased with it
and suggested that he continue, which he did, and published the
book, under the title of “Precaution,” in 1820.

No one at that time had thought of writing a novel with the

scene laid in America, and “Precaution,” which had an English
setting, was so thoroughly English that it was reviewed in
London with no suspicion of its American authorship. The
success which it met, while not great, impressed Cooper that as
he had not failed with a novel describing British life, of which he
knew little, he might succeed with one on American life, of
which he knew much. It was a happy thought. Scott’s “Ivanhoe”
had just been read by him and it suggested an American
historical theme, and he wrote the story of “The Spy,” which he
published in 1821. It was a tale of the Revolution, in which the
central figure, Harvey Birch, the spy, is one of the most
interesting and effective characters in the realm of romantic
literature. It quickly followed Scott’s “Ivanhoe” into many
languages.

Encouraged by the plaudits from both sides of the Atlantic

Cooper wrote another story, “The Pioneers” (1823), which was
the first attempt to put into fiction the life of the frontier and the
character of the backwoodsman. Here Cooper was in his
element, on firm ground, familiar to him from his infancy, but
the book was a revelation to the outside world. It is in this work
that one of the greatest characters in fiction, the old
backwoodsman Natty Bumpo—the famous Leather-Stocking—
appeared and gave his name to a series of tales, comprised, in
five volumes, which was not finally completed for twenty years.
Strange to say, this famous series of books was not written in
regular order. To follow the story logically the reader is
recommended to read first the “Deerslayer,” next the “Last of the
Mohicans,” followed by “The Pathfinder,” then “The Pioneers,”
and last “The Prairie,” which ends with the death of Leather-
Stocking.

The sea tales of Cooper were also suggested by Walter Scott,

who published the “Pirate” in 1821. This book was being
discussed by Cooper and some friends. The latter took the
position that Scott could not have been its author since he was a
lawyer and therefore could not have the knowledge of sea life
which the book displayed. Cooper, being himself a mariner,
declared that it could not have been written by a man familiar
with the sea. He argued that it lacked that detail of information
which no mariner would have failed to exhibit. To prove this
point he determined to write a sea tale, and in 1823 his book
“The Pilot” appeared, which was the first genuine salt-water
novel ever written and to this day is one of the best. Tom Coffin,
the hero of this novel, is the only one of all Cooper’s characters
worthy to take a place beside Leather-Stocking, and the two
books were published within two years of each other. In 1829
appeared “The Red Rover,” which is wholly a tale of the ocean,
as “The Last of the Mohicans” is wholly a tale of the forest. In
all, Cooper wrote ten sea tales, which with his land stories
established the fact that he was equally at home whether on the
green billows or under the green trees.

In 1839 Cooper published his “History of the United States

Navy,” which is to this day the only authority on the subject for
the period of which it treats. He also wrote many other novels on
American subjects and some eight or ten like “Bravo,” “The
Headsman” and others on European themes; but it is by “The
Spy,” the five Leather-Stocking tales, and four or five of his sea
tales that his fame has been secured and will be maintained.

In 1822, after “The Spy” had made Cooper famous, he

removed to New York, where he lived for a period of four years,
one of the most popular men in the metropolis. His force of
character, big-heartedness, and genial, companionable nature—
notwithstanding the fact that he was contentious and frequently
got into the most heated discussions—made him unusually
popular with those who knew him. He had many friends, and his
friends were the best citizens of New York. He founded the
“Bread and Cheese Lunch,” to which belonged Chancellor Kent,
the poets Fitz-Green Halleck and Wm. Cullen Bryant, Samuel
Morse, the inventor of the telegraph, and many other
representatives of science, literature, and the learned professions.
In 1826 he sailed for Europe, in various parts of which he
resided for a period of six years. Before his departure he was
tendered a dinner in New York, which was attended by many of
the most prominent men of the nation. Washington Irving had
gone to the Old World eleven years before and traveled
throughout Great Britain and over the Continent, but Cooper’s
works, though it was but six years since his first volume was
published, were at this time more widely known than those of
Irving; and with the author of the “Sketchbook” he divided the
honors which the Old World so generously showered upon those
two brilliant representatives of the New.

Many pleasant pages might be filled with the records of

Cooper’s six years in Europe, during which time he enjoyed the
association and respect of the greatest literary personages of the
Old World. It would be interesting to tell how Sir Walter Scott
sought him out in Paris and renewed the acquaintance again in
London; how he lived in friendship and intimacy with General
Lafayette at the French capital; to tell of his associations with
Wordsworth and Rogers in London; his intimate friendship with
the great Italian Greenough, and his fondness for Italy, which
country he preferred above all others outside of America; of the
delightful little villa where he lived in Florence, where he said he
could look out upon green leaves and write to the music of the
birds; to picture him settled for a summer in Naples; living in
Tasso’s villa at Sarento, writing his stories in the same house in
which the great Latin author had lived, with the same glorious
view of the sea and the bay, and the surf dashing almost against
its walls. But space forbids that we should indulge in recounting
these pleasant reminiscences. Let it be said that wherever he was
he was thoroughly and pronouncedly an American. He was
much annoyed by the ignorance and prejudice of the English in
all that related to his country. In France he vigorously defended
the system of American government in a public pamphlet which
he issued in favor of General Lafayette, upon whom the public
press was making an attack. He was equally in earnest in
bringing forward the claims of our poets, and was accustomed at
literary meetings and dinner parties to carry volumes of Bryant,
Halleck, Drake and others, from which he read quotations to
prove his assertions of their merits. Almost every prominent
American who visited Europe during his seven years’ sojourn
abroad brought back pleasant recollections of his intercourse
with the great and patriotic novelist.

Cooper returned to America in 1833, the same year that

Washington Irving came back to his native land. He retired to his
home at Cooperstown, where he spent the remaining nineteen
years of his life, dying on the 14th day of September, 1852, one
day before the sixty-second anniversary of his birth. His palatial
home at Cooperstown, as were also his various places of
residence in New York and foreign lands, were always open to
his deserving countrymen, and many are the ambitious young
aspirants in art, literature and politics who have left his
hospitable roof with higher ideals, loftier ambitions and also
with a more exalted patriotism.

A few days after his death a meeting of prominent men was

held in New York in honor of their distinguished countryman.
♦ Washington Irving presided and William Cullen Bryant
delivered an oration paying fitting tribute to the genius of the
first great American novelist, who was first to show how fit for
fiction were the scenes, the characters, and the history of his
native land. Nearly fifty years have passed since that day, but
Cooper’s men of the sea and his men of the forest and the plain
still survive, because they deserve to live, because they were true
when they were written, and remain to-day the best of their kind.
Though other fashions in fiction have come and gone and other
novelists have a more finished art nowadays, no one of them all
has succeeded more completely in doing what he tried to do than
did James Fenimore Cooper.

♦ ‘Washingion’ replaced with ‘Washington’

If we should visit Cooperstown, New York, the most

interesting spot we should see would be the grave of America’s
first great novelist; and the one striking feature about it would be
the marble statue of Leather Stocking, with dog and gun,
overlooking the last resting-place of his great creator. Then we
should visit the house and go into the library and sit in the chair
and lean over the table where he was created. Then down to the
beautiful Otsego Lake, and as the little pleasure steamer comes
into view we peer to catch the gilded name painted on its side.
Nearer it comes, and we read with delight “Natty Bumpo,” the
real name of Leather Stocking. Otsego Hall, the cemetery and
the lake alike, are a shrine to the memory of Cooper and this
greatest hero of American fiction. And we turn away determined
to read again the whole of the Leather Stocking Tales.

ENCOUNTER WITH A PANTHER.

( “ .”)

Y this time they had gained the summit of the mountain,

where they left the highway, and pursued their course
under the shade of the stately trees that crowned the
eminence. The day was becoming warm, and the girls
plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found its
invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive heat they had
experienced in the ascent. The conversation, as if by mutual consent, was
entirely changed to the little incidents and scenes of their walk, and