They went together up steep and rocky paths. The sun scorched, the rain fell upon them, the mountain mists clung about them, and the snow fell in beautiful and treacherous softness, obscuring the way as they climbed. Time swiftly passed and the golden locks of the Youth took on the whiteness of the snow. His form grew bent with the toil of climbing; his hand grew weak and his voice quivering and high. The Spirit had not changed and upon his face was the inscrutable smile of wisdom. They stood at last upon the topmost peak. The old man that was the Youth said to the Spirit: "Give me the apple of Success. I have come upon the heights where it grows and it is mine. Be quick, for there is a strange dimness in my sight." The Spirit gave him an apple round and red and fair to behold. The man bit into it and found rottenness and bitter dust. "What is this?" he asked. "It was the apple of Life," said the Spirit. "It is now the apple of Success." How It Started "You had better move your chair a little further back," said the old resident. "I saw one of the Judkinses go into the newspaper office just now with his gun, and there may be some shooting." The reporter, who was in the town gathering information for the big edition, got his chair quickly behind a pillar of the hotel piazza, and asked what the trouble was about. "It's an old feud of several years' standing," said the old resident, "between the editor and the Judkins family. About every two months they get to shooting at one another. Everybody in town knows about it. This is the way it started. The Judkinses live in another town, and one time a good-looking young lady of the family came here on a visit to a Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown gave her a big party--a regular high-toned affair, to get the young men acquainted with her. One young fellow fell in love with her, and sent a little poem to our paper, the _Observer_. This is the way it read: To Miss Judkins (Visiting Mrs. T. Montcalm Brown.) "We love to see her wear A gown of simple white. Nothing but a rose in her hair At Mrs. Brown's that night, The fairest of them all She stood, with blushes red, While bright the gaslight shone Upon her lovely head. "That poem, now, was what started the feud." "I don't see anything wrong with the poem," said the reporter. "It seems a little crude, but contains nothing to give offense." "Well," said the old resident, "the poem was all right as it was written. The trouble originated in the newspaper office. The morning after it was sent in the society editress got hold of it first. She is an old maid and she didn't think the second line quite proper, so she ran her pencil through it. Then the advertising manager prowled around through the editor's mail as usual, and read the poem. Old Brown owed the office $17 back subscription, and the advertising manager struck out the fourth line. He said old Brown shouldn't get any free advertising in that office.