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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Prairie Gold, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Prairie Gold
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Johnson Brigham
+        Lewis Worthington Smith
+        Helen Cowles LeCron
+
+Release Date: June 10, 2012 [EBook #39957]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRAIRIE GOLD ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Dianna Adair and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images generously made available by The
+Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Prairie Gold
+
+[Illustration: Rotating the Crops--Corn Isn't Iowa's Only Product]
+
+
+
+
+  Prairie Gold
+
+
+  By Iowa Authors and Artists
+
+
+  _Jacket and Frontispiece by_ J. N. Darling
+
+  _Decorations by_ Harriet Macy and Louise Orwig
+
+
+  The Reilly & Britton Co.
+  Chicago
+
+  Copyright, 1917
+  By
+  The Reilly & Britton Co.
+
+
+
+
+To those whose tender, cooling fingers bind up the bleeding wounds of
+men who go forth to war:
+
+To those who comfort and sustain the widows and the orphans:
+
+To all those swiftly flying carriers of warmth and love and cheer who
+constitute the workers in that greatest of all humanitarian
+organizations:
+
+The American Red Cross
+
+
+
+
+Preface
+
+
+This volume, from the land of the singing corn, is offered to the
+public by the Iowa Press and Authors' Club as the first bit of
+co-operative work done by Iowa writers. The anticipated needs of the
+brave men who have given themselves as a human sacrifice to the
+establishment of a world-wide democracy, make a strong heart appeal,
+and the members have come together in spirit to do their bit toward the
+relief of suffering.
+
+Many members of the club could not be reached during the short time the
+book was in the making; others doing work every day on schedule time
+had no opportunity to prepare manuscript for this publication, while
+still others preferred helping in ways other than with their pens.
+
+The whole is a work of love and representative of the comradeship, the
+spirit of human sympathy, and the pride of state, existent in the
+hearts of Iowa authors, artists, playwrights, poets, editors and
+journalists.
+
+
+_Officers of the club for 1917-18:_
+
+  Hamlin Garland, Honorary President.
+  Alice C. Weitz, President.
+  J. Edward Kirbye, First Vice President.
+  Nellie Gregg Tomlinson, Second Vice President.
+  Esse V. Hathaway, Secretary.
+  Reuben F. Place, Treasurer.
+  _Editorial Board:_
+  Johnson Brigham.
+  Lewis Worthington Smith.
+  Helen Cowles LeCron.
+
+
+
+
+Index
+
+
+American Wake, An                                            217
+    _Rose A. Crow_
+
+At Kamakura: 1917                                             44
+    _Arthur Davison Ficke_
+
+Ballad of the Corn, A                                        234
+    _S. H. M. Byers_
+
+Box From Home, A                                             138
+    _Helen Cowles LeCron_
+
+Bread                                                         37
+    _Ellis Parker Butler_
+
+But Once a Year                                               51
+    _R. O'Grady_
+
+Call of the Race, The                                        260
+    _Elizabeth Cooper_
+
+Captured Dream, The                                           84
+    _Octave Thanet_
+
+Children's Blessing, The                                     236
+    _Virginia Roderick_
+
+Dog                                                          116
+    _Edwin L. Sabin_
+
+Field, A                                                     285
+    _Minnie Stichter_
+
+First Laugh, The                                             131
+    _Reuben F. Place_
+
+Freighter's Dream, The                                       133
+    _Ida M. Huntington_
+
+God's Back Yard                                              223
+    _Jessie Welborn Smith_
+
+Graven Image, The                                             19
+    _Hamlin Garland_
+
+Happiest Man in I-O-Way, The                                  83
+    _Rupert Hughes_
+
+Iowa as a Literary Field                                     316
+    _Johnson Brigham_
+
+Kings of Saranazett, The                                     177
+    _Lewis Worthington Smith_
+
+Kitchener's Mob                                              241
+    _James Norman Hall_
+
+Load of Hay, A                                               314
+    _James B. Weaver_
+
+Masterpieces                                                  36
+    _Ethel Hueston_
+
+My Baby's Horse                                              259
+    _Emilie Blackmore Stapp_
+
+"Old Bill"                                                    67
+    _Henry C. Wallace_
+
+Old Cane Mill, The                                           195
+    _Nellie Gregg Tomlinson_
+
+One Wreath of Rue                                            278
+    _Cynthia Westover Alden_
+
+Our Bird Friends                                             302
+    _Margaret Coulson Walker_
+
+Peace and Then--?                                            292
+    _Detlev Fredrik Tillisch_
+
+Poet of the Future, The                                      169
+    _Tacitus Hussey_
+
+Professor, The                                               248
+    _Calista Halsey Patchin_
+
+Putting the Stars with the Bars                              173
+    _Verne Marshall_
+
+Queer Little Thing, The                                      199
+    _Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd_
+
+Recruit's Story, The                                          77
+    _Frank Luther Mott_
+
+Reminder, The                                                 63
+    _Allan Updegraff_
+
+Rochester, Minn.                                             221
+    _Marie G. Stapp_
+
+Semper Fidelis                                               300
+    _Addie B. Billington_
+
+September                                                    166
+    _Esse V. Hathaway_
+
+Some Magic and a Moral                                       101
+    _Virginia H. Reichard_
+
+Sonny's Wish                                                 114
+    _Bertha M. Shambaugh_
+
+Spirit of Spring, The                                        140
+    _Laura L. Hinkley_
+
+That Iowa Town                                                45
+    _Oney Fred Sweet_
+
+Tinkling Cymbals                                             126
+    _Helen Sherman Griffith_
+
+Truth                                                         97
+    _Carrie Moss Hawley_
+
+Unredeemed, The                                              121
+    _Emerson Hough_
+
+Wild Crab Apple, The                                         231
+    _Julia Ellen Rogers_
+
+Wind in the Corn, The                                         17
+    _Alice C. Weitz_
+
+Woodrow Wilson and Wells, War's Great Authors                280
+    _Honor� Willsie_
+
+Work                                                         100
+    _Irving N. Brant_
+
+Work Is a Blessing                                           161
+    _Lafayette Young_
+
+Your Lad, and My Lad                                         290
+    _Randall Parrish_
+
+
+
+
+List of Authors
+
+
+Alden, Cynthia Westover                                      278
+
+Billington, Addie B.                                         300
+
+Brainerd, Eleanor Hoyt                                       199
+
+Brant, Irving N.                                             100
+
+Brigham, Johnson                                             316
+
+Butler, Ellis Parker                                          37
+
+Byers, S. H. M.                                              234
+
+Cooper, Elizabeth                                            260
+
+Crow, Rose A.                                                217
+
+Ficke, Arthur Davison                                         44
+
+Garland, Hamlin                                               19
+
+Griffith, Helen Sherman                                      126
+
+Hall, James Norman                                           241
+
+Hathaway, Esse V.                                            166
+
+Hawley, Carrie Moss                                           97
+
+Hinkley, Laura L.                                            140
+
+Hough, Emerson                                               121
+
+Hueston, Ethel                                                36
+
+Hughes, Rupert                                                83
+
+Huntington, Ida M.                                           133
+
+Hussey, Tacitus                                              169
+
+LeCron, Helen Cowles                                         138
+
+Marshall, Verne                                              173
+
+Mott, Frank Luther                                            77
+
+O'Grady, R.                                                   51
+
+Parrish, Randall                                             290
+
+Patchin, Calista Halsey                                      248
+
+Place, Reuben F.                                             131
+
+Reichard, Virginia H.                                        101
+
+Roderick, Virginia                                           236
+
+Rogers, Julia Ellen                                          231
+
+Sabin, Edwin L.                                              116
+
+Shambaugh, Bertha M. H.                                      114
+
+Smith, Jessie Wellborn                                       223
+
+Smith, Lewis Worthington                                     177
+
+Stapp, Emilie Blackmore                                      259
+
+Stapp, Marie G.                                              221
+
+Stichter, Minnie                                             285
+
+Sweet, Oney Fred                                              45
+
+Thanet, Octave                                                84
+
+Tillisch, Detlev Fredrik                                     292
+
+Tomlinson, Nellie Gregg                                      195
+
+Updegraff, Allan                                              63
+
+Walker, Margaret Coulson                                     302
+
+Wallace, Henry C.                                             67
+
+Weaver, James B.                                             314
+
+Weitz, Alice C.                                               17
+
+Willsie, Honor�                                              280
+
+Young, Lafayette                                             161
+
+
+
+
+
+List of Illustrations
+
+
+Rotating the Crops                             _Frontispiece_
+    _J. N. Darling_
+
+"Ding"                                            _Page_  97
+    _Frank Wing_
+
+Host and Houseguest                               _Page_ 169
+    _Orson Lowell_
+
+The Wind in the Corn                              _Page_ 259
+    _C. L. Bartholomew_
+
+
+
+
+The Creed of Iowa--
+
+
+I believe in Iowa, land of limitless prairies, with rolling hills and
+fertile valleys, with winding and widening streams, with bounteous
+crops and fruit-laden trees, yielding to man their wealth and health.
+
+I believe in Iowa, land of golden grains, whose harvests fill the
+granaries of the nation, making it opulent with the power of earth's
+fruitfulness.
+
+I believe in Iowa, rich in her men and women of power and might. I
+believe in her authors and educators, her statesmen and ministers,
+whose intellectual and moral contribution is one of the mainstays of
+the republic--true in the hour of danger and steadfast in the hour of
+triumph.
+
+I believe in Iowa, magnet and meeting place of all nations, fused into
+a noble unity, Americans all, blended into a free people. I believe in
+her stalwart sons, her winsome women, in her colleges and churches, in
+her institutions of philanthropy and mercy, in her press, the voice and
+instructor of her common mind and will, in her leadership and destiny,
+in the magnificence of her opportunity and in the fine responsiveness
+of her citizens to the call of every higher obligation.
+
+I believe in our commonwealth, yet young, and in the process of making,
+palpitant with energy and faring forth with high hope and swift step;
+and I covenant with the God of my fathers to give myself in service,
+mind and money, hand and heart, to explore and develop her physical,
+intellectual and moral resources, to sing her praises truthfully, to
+keep her politics pure, her ideals high, and to make better and better
+her schools and churches, her lands and homes, and to make her in fact
+what she is by divine right, the queen of all the commonwealths.
+
+--_J. Edward Kirbye._
+
+
+
+
+The Wind in the Corn
+
+_By Alice C. Weitz_
+
+
+There stands recorded in the Book of Time a fascinating legend of the
+Sun, whose golden throne allured but for the day; and when the day was
+ended in great glee he hurried forth beyond the broad horizon toward a
+secret trysting place. All his impassioned love, it is said, he poured
+upon the idol of his heart, the boundless plains. Long years were they
+alone, the Rolling Prairie and the Golden Sun, until at last they found
+themselves spied upon by curious Man, who, captivated by the beauty of
+the two, remained and blessed the tryst thereby.
+
+Here Sun and Soil and Man wrought out a work of art; and here Dame
+Nature smiled as was her wont, and brought rich gifts and blessings
+manifold. In sweet content Man's children toiled and wrought until upon
+the bosom of the sunlit plains there nestled close great fields and
+prosperous abodes.
+
+And since that time a ceaseless music steals throughout the land in
+wooing cadences, now crying out in weird and wandering tones, now
+softly soothing in sweet rhythmic chant.
+
+'Tis the music of the wind within the corn--Iowa's Prairie Gold.
+
+It sang itself into the lonely heart of the pioneer with its promise of
+golden harvest; it became the cradle song of restless souls that even
+in their youth longed but to free themselves in verse and song; and
+down through all the prosperous years it steals like a sweet sustaining
+accompaniment to the countless activities which have builded a great
+commonwealth.
+
+He who has stood upon the hilltops in his youthful days and listened to
+the soft, alluring rustle of the wind-swayed leaves retains the music
+ever in his soul. It draws upon the heart-strings of the absent one,
+and like the constant singing of the sea insistent calls upon him to
+return.
+
+Today in spirit come we all to Time's sweet trysting place with story
+song and jest, to add sweet comfort to the braver ones whose paths lie
+wide before them, and whose return lies not within our willing. God
+grant that even in their pains their troubled souls may yet to music be
+attuned, may know again the solace of that sweetly floating song, the
+rustle of the wind within the corn.
+
+
+
+
+The Graven Image
+
+_By Hamlin Garland_
+
+
+Roger Barnes, son of an elder in the little Iowa Society of Friends and
+himself "a man of weight," found his faith sorely tried by the death of
+his young wife, and as the weeks passed without a perceptible
+lightening of his face, the Meeting came at last to consider his deep
+grief unseemly and rebellious. He remained deaf to all words of comfort
+and occupied his Sabbath seat in moody silence, his heart closed to the
+Spirit, his thought bitter toward life and forgetful of God's grace.
+
+The admonition of the elders at last roused him to defense. "Why should
+I not ache?" he demanded. "I have been smitten of the rod." And when
+old Nicholas Asche again reproved him before the assembly, he arose,
+went out, refusing to return, and several of his friends were greatly
+troubled, for it was known that for a long time he had been
+increasingly impatient of the "Discipline" and on terms of undue
+intimacy with Orrin Bailey, one of "the world's people."
+
+As the spring came on his passionate grief calmed, but a new
+consideration came, one which troubled him more and more, until at last
+he opened his heart to his friend.
+
+"Thee knew my wife, friend Bailey. Thee knew her loveliness? Well, now
+she is gone, and does thee know I am utterly disconsolate, for I have
+no portrait of her. No image, no shadow of her, exists and I fear I
+shall lose the memory of her sweet face. Already it is growing dim in
+my mind. What can I do?"
+
+This was in the days when even daguerreotypes were rare, and Bailey,
+who had never seen a painted portrait and could not conceive of an
+artist skillful enough to depict an object he had never known, was not
+able to advise, and the grieving man's fear remained unassuaged till,
+some months later, on a trip to Decorah, he came by accident past the
+gate of a newly established stone-cutter's yard, and there, for the
+first time in his life, he saw human figures cut enduringly in marble.
+Cunning cherubs and angels with calm faces and graceful, half-furled
+wings surrounded granite soldiers standing stiff and straight.
+
+Roger was amazed. The sculptor's magic was an astonishment to him. He
+had never seen the like, and as he looked upon these figures there came
+into his sad eyes the light of a startling purpose.
+
+"I will have this workman cut for me an image of my dear Rachel," he
+resolved and, following this impulse, approached the stone-cutter.
+"Friend," he said abruptly, "I would have thee chisel for me the form
+of my dead wife."
+
+Although an aspiring and self-confident artist, Conrad Heffnew was,
+nevertheless, a little shaken as he drew from his visitor the
+conditions of this commission. "The lack of even a small drawing or
+portrait of the subject is discouraging," he said. "If she had a
+sister, now," he added slowly, "someone about her build, to wear her
+clothes, I might be able to do the figure."
+
+"She has a sister, Ruth," Roger eagerly answered. "She is slimmer than
+Rachel was, but her cast of features is much the same. I am sure she
+will help thee, for she loved Rachel. I will bring her down to see
+thee."
+
+"Very well," replied Conrad. "If she will sit for me I will see what I
+can do for you."
+
+Resting upon this arrangement Roger drove away to his prairie home
+lighter of heart than he had been for many weeks. "Truly an artist is
+of use in the world after all--one to be honored," he thought.
+
+To Ruth he told the story and expressed his wish, but enjoined secrecy.
+"Thee knows how some of our elders would pother about this," he added.
+"Let us conspire together, therefore, so that thee may make the trip to
+the city without exciting undue comment."
+
+Ruth was quite willing to adventure, for the town far down on the
+shining river was a lure to her; but the road was long and after a
+great deal of thought Roger decided to ask the young stone-cutter to
+come first to Hesper, which he could do without arousing suspicion. "We
+will contrive to see him afterward in his shop if necessary," he ended
+decisively, for he could not bring himself to lead Ruth into the
+society of the world's people to serve as a model, an act which might
+be mistaken as a wrong-doing.
+
+The sculptor, anticipating a goodly fee (as well as an increase in
+orders for grave-stones), readily enough consented to visit Hesper, but
+only to study his problem. He immediately insisted on Ruth's coming to
+his studio. "I can't do all the work here--I want to make this my best
+piece," he remarked in explanation. "It is hard to remember the details
+of face and form. It may require several sittings."
+
+Thereafter, as often as he dared, Roger called at his father-in-law's
+house for Ruth and drove her down to the sculptor's shop, and although
+there were many smiling comments on these trips, no one knew their real
+purpose.
+
+Slowly the figure grew from a harsh marble block into an ever more
+appealing female figure, and Roger loved to stand beside the artist
+while he chipped the stone, for Conrad was in very truth a sculptor, a
+stalwart fist at the chisel, not a weak modeller in clay. He often
+hummed a tune as he swung his mall; and so, to the lively beat of
+worldly melodies, the fair form of the Quaker maid emerged from its
+flinty covering.
+
+One day in early autumn, conditions favoring, Ruth went to town with
+Roger for the fifth time and ventured timidly into the stone-cutter's
+yard to gaze with awe upon the nearly-finished snow-white image, and to
+the artist's skill gave breathless words of praise. "Truly thee is a
+magician," she said. "Thee has made a beautiful bonnet out of marble
+and likewise slippers," she added, looking down to where one small foot
+in its square-toed shoe peeped from the plain skirt. "Thee does right
+to make it lovely, for my sister was most comely," she ended with a
+touch of pride.
+
+"My model was also comely," replied Conrad with a glance which made her
+flush with pleasure.
+
+During all these months Roger had maintained such careful logic in his
+comings and goings that only Bailey and one or two of his most intimate
+friends had even a suspicion of what was happening, though many
+predicted that he and Ruth would wed; for it was known that she had
+taken his little son to her father's house and was caring for him.
+Nevertheless Roger well knew that a struggle was preparing for him, and
+that some of the elders would be shocked by the audacity of his plan,
+but no fear of man or church could avail against the force of his
+resolution.
+
+On this final visit, even as they both stood beside him, Conrad threw
+down his mallet saying: "I can do no more. It is finished," and turning
+to Ruth, "What do you think of it?" he demanded.
+
+She, gazing upon the finished statue and seeing only her sister in it,
+said: "I think it beautiful."
+
+And Roger, deeply wrapt in worship of the sculptured face, said: "Thee
+has done wonders. The sweet smile of my beloved is fixed in marble
+forever, and my heart is filled with gratitude to thee." All his
+training was against the graven art, but he gave his hand to the
+sculptor. "Friend Conrad, I thank thee; thee has made me very happy.
+Truly thee has caused this cold marble to assume the very image of my
+Rachel."
+
+As Roger turned again to gaze upon the statue Conrad touched Ruth upon
+the arm and drew her aside, leaving the bereaved man alone with his
+memories.
+
+It was all so wonderful, so moving to Roger that he remained before it
+a long time, absorbed, marveling, exultant. Safe against the years he
+seemed now, and yet, as he gazed, his pleasure grew into a pain, so
+vividly did the chiseled stone bring back the grace he had known. Close
+upon the exultant thought: "Now she can never fade from my memory,"
+came the reflection that his little son would never know how like to
+his mother this image was. "He will know only the cold marble--his
+mother will not even be a memory."
+
+One sixth day morning in the eighth month word was brought to Nicholas
+Asche, leader of the Meeting, that Roger Barnes was about to erect a
+graven image among the low headstones of the burial grounds, and in
+amazement and indignation the old man hastened that way.
+
+He found his two sons and several others of the congregation already
+gathered, gazing with surprise and a touch of awe upon the statue which
+Conrad and young Bailey had already securely based beneath a graceful
+young oak in the very centre of his family plot. Gleaming, life-size,
+it rose above the modest records of the other graves.
+
+As the stern old elder rode up, the throng of onlookers meekly gave way
+for him. He halted only when he had come so near the offending monument
+that he could touch it. For a full minute he regarded it with eyes
+whose anger lit the shadow of his broad-brim, glaring with
+ever-increasing resentment as he came fully to realize what it meant to
+have a tall statue thus set up to dwarf the lowly records of its
+neighbors. It seemed at once impious and rebellious.
+
+Harshly he broke forth: "What has come to thee, Roger Barnes, that thee
+has broken all the rules of the Discipline relative to burial? Thee
+well knows our laws. No one could convey a greater insult to the
+elders, to the dead beneath these other stones, than thee has done by
+this act. Lay that impious object low or I will fetch thee before the
+Meeting."
+
+"I will not," replied the young man. "I was even thinking of exalting
+it still more by putting beneath it another foot of granite block."
+
+"Thee knows full well that by regulation no gravestone can be more than
+three hands high," Nicholas stormed.
+
+"I know that well, but this is not a gravestone," Roger retorted. "It
+is a work of art. It is at once a portrait and a thing of beauty."
+
+"That is but paltering. Thee knows well it is at once a forbidden thing
+and a monument beyond the regulation in height, and therefore doubly
+offensive to the Meeting. We will not tolerate such folly. I say to
+thee again, take the unholy thing down. Will thee urge disrespect to
+the whole Society? Thee knows it is in opposition to all our teaching.
+What devil's spirit has seized upon thee?"
+
+"Thee may storm," stoutly answered Roger, "but I am not to be
+frightened. This plot of ground is mine. This figure is also mine. It
+is a blessed comfort, a sign of love and not a thing of evil--and I
+will not take it away from here for thee nor for all the elders."
+
+Nicholas, perceiving that Roger was not to be coerced at the moment,
+ceased argument, but his wrath did not cool.
+
+"Thee shall come before the Meeting forthwith."
+
+The following day a summons was issued calling a council, and a
+messenger came to Roger calling him before his elders in judgment.
+
+Thereupon a sharp division was set up among the neighbors and the
+discussion spread among the Friends. The question of "Free Will in
+Burial Stones" was hotly debated wherever two or three of the members
+met, so that the mind of each was firmly made up by the time the
+Meeting came together to try the question publicly. "I see no wrong in
+it," said some. "It is disgraceful," others heatedly charged.
+
+Roger's act was denounced by his own family as treason to the Meeting,
+as well as heretical to the faith, and his father, old Nathan Barnes,
+rising with solemn and mournful dignity, admitted this.
+
+"I know not what I have done that a son of mine should bring such shame
+and sorrow to my old age. It is the influence of the world's people
+whose licentious teachings corrupt even the most steadfast of our
+youth. We came here--to this lonely place--to get away from the world's
+people. They thicken about us now, these worldlings; hence I favor
+another journey into a far wilderness where we can live at peace, shut
+away from the contamination of these greedy and blasphemous idolators."
+
+All realized that he spoke in anger as well as in sorrow, and the more
+candid and cool-headed of the Friends deplored his words, for they had
+long since determined that the world's forces must be met and endured;
+but Jacob Farnum was quick to declare himself.
+
+"The welfare of our Society demands the punishment of Roger Barnes. I
+move that a committee be appointed to proceed to the burial ground and
+throw down and break in pieces this graven image."
+
+Here something unexpectedly hot and fierce filled Roger's heart to the
+exclusion of his peaceful teaching and his lifelong awe of his elders.
+Rising to his feet he violently exclaimed: "By what right will thee so
+act? Is it more wicked to have a marble portrait than an ambrotype? It
+is true that I learned the secrets of sculpture from one of the world's
+people; it is true that an outsider has cut the stone, but I believe
+his trade to be worthy and his work justifiable. I believe in such
+portraits." He addressed himself to Nicholas Asche: "Had thee permitted
+Rachel to have had a daguerreotype, it would not have been necessary
+for me to treat with this carver of stone, who is, notwithstanding, a
+man of probity. I will not have him traduced by anyone present," he
+ended with a threat in his eyes; "he is my friend."
+
+Thereupon Nicholas Asche curtly answered: "There also thee is gravely
+at fault. Thee has brought my daughter Ruth under the baleful influence
+of this worldling; and she is even now filled with admiration for him.
+She too needs be admonished of the elders for too much thinking upon
+light affairs. Thee is a traitor to thy sister-in-law, Roger Barnes, as
+thee is a traitor to the Meeting. To permit thee to go thy present ways
+would be to open our gates to vanity and envy and all imaginable folly.
+If thee does not at once remove this graven image from our burial
+grounds, we will ourselves proceed against it and break it and throw it
+into the highway."
+
+Then again young Roger rose in his seat and with his strong hands
+doubled into weapons cried out: "Thee will do well to take this matter
+guardedly and my words to heart, for I tell thee that whosoever goes
+near to lay rude hands on that fair form will himself be thrown down. I
+will break him like a staff across my knee."
+
+He stood thus for a moment like a proud young athlete, meeting the eye
+of his opponent, then, as no one spoke, turned and strode out, resolute
+to be first on the ground, ready to defend with his whole strength the
+marble embodiment of his vanished wife.
+
+And yet, even as he walked away from the church, hot and blinded with
+anger, he began to ache with an indefinable, increasing sorrow. He had
+expected opposition, but not such fury as this. He had noted the
+downcast eyes of his friends. It seemed as if something very precious
+had gone out of his life--as though the whole world had suddenly become
+inimical.
+
+"They were ashamed of me," he said and his heart sank, for
+notwithstanding his resentment he loved the Meeting and its ways. For
+the most part the faces of the congregation were dear to him and the
+pain that sprang from a knowledge that he had cut himself off from
+those he respected soon softened his indignation. Nevertheless he
+hurried on to the burying ground.
+
+It was a glorious September day and all through the fields the crickets
+were softly singing as if in celebration of the gathered ample harvest.
+They spoke from the green grass above the graves with the same
+insistent cheer as from the sere stubble, but Roger heard them not, for
+his ears still rang with the elder's stern voice and his eyes were
+darkened by the lowering brows of his father's moody face. Only when
+the statue rose before him white and still and fair in the misty
+sunlight did his mood lighten.
+
+"How beautiful it is," he exclaimed. "How can they desire to destroy
+it?"
+
+Nevertheless he was smitten with a kind of dismay as he looked around
+upon the low, drab headstones and perceived with what singular
+significance the marble rose above them. "In truth I have dared much in
+doing this thing." It was as if he had been led by some inner spirit
+braver than himself.
+
+And then--even as he raised a first glance to the statue--a pang of
+keen surprise shot through his heart. The face was changed. Something
+new had come into it. It was not his Rachel! With hand pressed upon his
+chilling heart he studied it with new understanding. He had known that
+it somewhat resembled Ruth, for Ruth indeed resembled Rachel--but that
+it was verily in every line and shadow a portrait of the living and not
+of the dead he now realized for the first time.
+
+"The sculptor has deceived me!" he cried. "He loves Ruth and with the
+craft of a lover has wrought out his design deliberately and with
+cunning. He has carved the cold stone to the form of his own desire.
+How blind I have been."
+
+In complete comprehension he addressed the statue: "Thee is but a
+symbol of this artist's love for another after all. Nicholas Asche was
+right. This sculptor under cover of my love--in pretending to work out
+my ideal--has betrayed me and bewitched Ruth."
+
+Ruth, his constant sunny companion, the keeper, the almost second
+mother of his child, had been snared by the fowler! He no longer
+doubted it. He recalled the gladness with which she always accompanied
+him to the sculptor's studio and her silence and preoccupation on the
+homeward drive. She loved the artist. She was about to be taken away.
+
+Something fierce and wild clutched at his throat and with a groan he
+fell upon the ground beneath the figure: "Oh, Ruth, Ruth! Am I to lose
+thee too?"
+
+At this moment he forgot all else but the sweet girl who had become so
+necessary to his life. Truly, to lose all hope of her was to be doubly
+bereaved. "I am now most surely solitary," he mourned. "What will
+become of me hereafter? Who will care for my little son?"
+
+While still he lay there, dark with despair and lax with weakness, Ruth
+and the sculptor came up the walk to the gate and saw his prostrate
+form. Ruth checked the sculptor's advance. "Let me go up to him alone,"
+she said, and approached where Roger lay. She did not know the true
+cause of his grief, but she pitied him: "Do not grieve, Roger; they
+will not dare to touch the figure."
+
+He looked up at her with a glance which was at once old and strange,
+but uttered no word of reply, only steadfastly regarded her; then his
+head dropped upon his arm and his body shook only with sobbing.
+
+She spoke again: "Thee must not despair. There are quite as many for
+thee as there are against thee. All the young people are on thy side.
+No one will dare to harm the statue."
+
+As they stood thus Conrad approached and said: "What does it matter?
+Come out from among these narrow folk. Ruth is to come out and be my
+wife. Why do you stay to be worried by the elders who----"
+
+He spoke no further, for Roger waved his hand in dismissal of them and
+cried out in most lamentable voice: "Leave me. Leave me," and again hid
+his face in his hands.
+
+In troubled wonder the young people moved away slowly, Ruth with
+tear-filled eyes, Conrad very grave. Together they took their stand at
+the gate to guard against the approach of others less sympathetic. "His
+grief is profound," said Ruth, "but the statue will comfort him."
+
+Roger, overwhelmed now by another emotion--a sense of shame, of deep
+contrition--was face to face with a clear conception of his disloyalty
+to the dead. Aye, the statue was Ruth. Its youth, its tender, timid
+smile, its arch brow, all were hers, and as he remembered how Conrad
+had taken the small unresisting hand in his, he knew himself to be
+baser than Nicholas Asche had dared imagine. "I loved thee," he
+confessed; "not as I loved Rachel--but in a most human way. My life has
+closed round thee. I have unconsciously thought of thee as the guardian
+of my child. Thy shining figure I have placed in the glow of my fire."
+
+This was true. Ruth had not displaced the love he still bore for his
+sweet wife--but she had made it an echo of passion, a dim song, a
+tender and haunting memory of his youth.
+
+The sun sank and dusk came on while still he lay at the statue's feet
+in remorseful agony of soul, and those who came near enough to speak
+with him respected his wish and left him undisturbed.
+
+Softly the darkness rose and a warm and mellow night covered the
+mourner, clothing the marble maid with mystery.
+
+The crickets singing innumerably all about him came at last to express
+in some subtle way the futility of his own purpose, the smallness of
+his own affairs, and as he listened he lost the sharpness of his grief.
+His despair lightened. He ceased to accuse; his desire of battle died.
+"How could Conrad know that I had grown disloyal? And how was Ruth to
+perceive my change of heart? The treachery is mine, all mine, dear
+angel, but I will atone. I will atone. Forgive me. Come to me and
+forgive me! Comfort me."
+
+Within his heart the spirit of resentment gave way to one of
+humbleness, of submission. The contest for a place among these gray old
+monuments no longer seemed worthy--or rather he felt himself no longer
+worthy to wage it. His disloyalty to his dead disqualified him as a
+base act disqualified the knights of old. "My cause is lost because my
+heart was false!" he said.
+
+So during the long hours of the night he kept remorseful vigil. The
+moon set, the darkness deepened, cool, odorous, musical with lulling
+songs of insects; and still he lingered, imploring solace, seeking
+relief from self-reproach. At last, just before dawn, the spirit of his
+dead Rachel stepped from the shadow. She approached him and bending
+above him softly said:
+
+"Dear heart, it is true I am not within the graven image. You have no
+need of it. Go home. There I am, always near thee and the child. I am
+not for others; I am thine. Return. Make thy peace with the elders.
+Thee must not live solitary and sad. Our son waits for thee, and when
+thee sits beside his bed, I will be there."
+
+He woke chilled and wet with the midnight damp, but in his heart a
+new-found sense of peace had come. His interest in the statue was at an
+end. He now knew that it was neither the monument he had desired nor
+the image of his love. "How gross I have been," he said, addressing
+himself to the unseen presence, "to think that the beauty of my dead
+could be embodied in stone! Ruth shall go her ways to happiness with my
+blessing."
+
+In this mood he rose and went to his home, deeply resolved to put aside
+his idolatry of Ruth even as he had put behind him the gleaming,
+beautiful figure beneath the shadow of the oak.
+
+
+
+
+Masterpieces
+
+_By Ethel Hueston_
+
+
+      Give me my pen,
+    For I would write fine thoughts, pure thoughts,
+    To touch men's hearts with tenderness,
+    To fire with zeal for service grim,
+    To cheer with mirth when skies are dull;
+      Give me my pen,
+    For I would write a masterpiece.
+
+      Yet stay a while,
+    For I must put away these toys,
+    And wash this chubby, grimy face,
+    And kiss this little hurting bruise,
+    And hum a bedtime lullaby--
+      Take back the pen:
+    This is a woman's masterpiece.
+
+
+
+
+Bread
+
+_By Ellis Parker Butler_
+
+
+They came to Iowa in a prairie schooner with a rounded canvas top and
+where the canvas was brought together at the rear of the wagon it left
+a little window above the tailboard. On the floor of the wagon was a
+heap of hay and an old quilt out of which the matted cotton protruded,
+and on this Martha and Eben used to sit, looking out of the window.
+Martha was a little over two years old and Eben was four.
+
+They crossed the Mississippi at Muscatine on the ferry. It was about
+noon and old Hodges, the crew of the ferry, who was as crooked as the
+branches of an English oak because the huge branch of an English oak
+had fallen on him when he was young, took his dinner from his tin pail.
+He looked up and saw the two eager little faces.
+
+"Want a bite to eat?" he asked, and he peeled apart two thick slices of
+bread, thickly buttered, and handed them up to the two youngsters.
+This, a slice of Mrs. Hodges' good wheat bread, was Martha's welcome to
+Iowa. The butter was as fragrant as a flower and the bread was moist
+and succulent, delicious to the touch and the taste. Martha ate it all,
+even to the last crumb of crust, and, although she did not know it, the
+gift, the acceptance and the eating was a sacrament--the welcome of
+bountiful Iowa.
+
+As the prairie schooner rolled its slow way inward into the state there
+were more slices of bread. The father stopped the weary horses at many
+houses, shacks and dugouts; and always there was a woman to come to the
+wagon with a slice of bread for Martha, and one for Eben, for that was
+the Iowa way. Sometimes the bread was buttered, sometimes it was spread
+with jelly, sometimes it was bread alone. It was all good bread.
+
+There were days at a time, after they reached the new home, when there
+was nothing to eat but bread, but there was always that. The neighbors
+did not wait to be asked to lend; they brought flour unasked and
+Martha's mother kneaded it and set it to rise and baked it. Then the
+harvests began to come in uninterrupted succession of wealth, and the
+dugout became a house, and barns arose, and a school was built, and
+Martha and Eben went along the dusty, unfenced road, barefooted, happy,
+well fed, or in winter leaped through the snowdrifts. In their
+well-filled lunch pail there was always plenty and always bread.
+
+In time Martha taught school, now in one district and now in another;
+and everywhere, wherever she boarded, there was good wheat bread and
+plenty of it. She remembered the boarding places by their bread. Some
+had bread as good as her mother's; some had bread not as good. During
+her first vacation her mother taught her to make bread. Her very first
+baking was a success. John Cartwright, coming to the kitchen door just
+as she was drawing the black bread-pan from the oven on that hot July
+day, saw her eyes sparkle with triumph as she saw the rich brown
+loaves.
+
+"Isn't it beautiful? It is my first bread, John," she said, as she
+stood, flushed and triumphant.
+
+"It smells like mother's," he said, "but she don't seem to get her'n so
+nice and brown."
+
+"I guess Martha is a natural bread-maker," said her mother proudly.
+"Some is and some ain't."
+
+Always good bread and plenty of it! That was Iowa. And it was of
+Martha's bread they partook around the kitchen table the next
+year--Eben and John, Martha and her father and mother--just before the
+two young men drove to the county seat to enlist.
+
+"I guess we won't get bread like this in the army," John said, and he
+was right.
+
+"When I'm chawing this sow-belly and hard tack," Eben wrote, "I wish I
+had some of that bread of yours, Marth. I guess this war won't last
+long and the minute it is over you'll see me skedaddling home for some
+of your bread. Tell ma I'm well and----"
+
+They brought his body home because he was not killed outright but lived
+almost two weeks in the hospital at St. Louis after he was wounded.
+Martha scraped the dough from her fingers to go to the door when her
+father drove up with the precious, lifeless form. That day her bread
+was not as good as usual.
+
+Martha and John were married the month he came back from the war, and
+the bread that was eaten at the wedding dinner was Martha's own baking.
+The bread that was eaten by those who came to prepare her mother for
+the grave and by those who came, a year later, to lay away her father,
+was Martha's. Once, twice, three times, four times Martha did a double
+baking, to "last over," so that there might be bread in the house while
+the babies were being born. Every week, except those four weeks, she
+baked bread.
+
+In succession the small boys and girls of her own began coming to the
+kitchen door pleading, "Ma, may I have a piece of bread an' butter?"
+Always they might. There was always plenty of bread; it was Iowa.
+
+In time Martha became something of a fanatic about flour. One kind was
+the best flour in the world; she would have no other. Once, when John
+brought back another brand, she sent him back to town with it. Her
+bread was so well known that the flour dealer in town was wont to say,
+"This is the kind Mis' Cartwright uses; I guess I can't say no more'n
+that." Eight times in twenty years she won the blue ribbon at the
+county fair for her loaves; the twelve other times John swore the
+judges were prejudiced. "It ain't the flour; that I do know!" Martha
+would answer.
+
+Presently there were children of her children coming on Sunday to spend
+the day with the "old folks," and there was always enough bread for
+all. Sometime in the afternoon the big loaf would be taken out of the
+discarded tin boiler that served as a bread-box and the children would
+have a "piece"--huge slices of bread, limber in the hand, spread with
+brown sugar, or jelly, or honey, or dripping with jam. Then, one
+Sunday, young John's wife brought a loaf of her own bread to show
+Martha. They battled pleasantly for two hours over the merits of two
+brands of flour, comparing the bread, but Martha would no more have
+given up her own brand than she would have deserted the Methodist
+Church to become a Mahometan!
+
+Then came a time when John had difficulty in holding his pipe in his
+mouth because his "pipe tooth" was gone. He no longer ate the crusts of
+Martha's bread except when he dipped them in his coffee. There was a
+strong, young girl to do the housework but Martha still made the bread,
+just such beautiful, richly browned, fragrant bread as she had made in
+her younger days. There had never been a week without the good bread,
+for this was Iowa.
+
+One day, as she was kneading the dough, she stopped suddenly and put
+her hand to her side, under her heart. She had to wait several minutes
+before she could go on with the kneading. Then she shaped the bread
+into loaves and put it in the pan and put the pan in the oven. She went
+out on the porch, where John was sitting, and talked about the weather,
+and then of a grandson, Horace, who was the first to enlist for the
+great war that was wracking the world. She mentioned the poor Belgians.
+
+"And us so comfortable here, and all!" she said. "When I think of them
+not having bread enough to eat----"
+
+"I warrant they never did have bread like yours to eat, ma," said John.
+
+She rocked slowly, happy and proud that her man thought that, and then
+she went in to take the fresh loaves from the oven. They were crisp and
+golden brown as always, great, plump, nourishing loaves of good wheat
+bread. She carried the pan to the table.
+
+"Bertha," she said, "I'll let you put the bread away. I guess I'll go
+up and lie down awhile; I don't feel right well."
+
+She stopped at the foot of the stairs to tell John she was going up;
+that she did not feel very well.
+
+"If I don't come down to supper," she said, "you can have Bertha cut a
+loaf of the fresh bread, but you'd better not eat too much of it, John;
+it don't always agree with you. There's plenty of the other loaf left."
+
+She did not come down again, not Martha herself. She did not mourn
+because she could not come down again. She had lived her life and it
+had been a good life, happy, well-nourished, satisfying as her own
+bread had been. And so, when they came back from leaving Martha beside
+the brother who had died so many years before, the last loaf of her
+last baking was cut and eaten around the kitchen table--the youngsters
+biting eagerly into the thick slices, the elders tasting with thoughts
+not on the bread at all, and old John crumbling the bread in his
+fingers and thinking of long past years.
+
+
+
+
+At Kamakura: 1917
+
+_By Arthur Davison Ficke_
+
+
+    The world shakes with the terrible tramp of war
+    And the foe's menace swirls through every sea.
+    But here the Buddha still broods ceaselessly
+    In hush more real than our strange tumults are.
+
+    Here where the fighting hosts of long ago
+    Once clashed and fell, here where the armored hordes
+    Razed the great city with their flashing swords,
+    Now only waves flash, only breezes blow.
+
+
+
+
+That Iowa Town
+
+_By Oney Fred Sweet_
+
+
+According to the popular songs, we are apt to get the impression that
+the only section of the country where there is moonlight and a waiting
+sweetheart and a home worth longing for is down in Dixie. Judging from
+the movies, a plot to appeal must have a mountain or a desert setting
+of the West. Fictionists, so many of them, seem to think they must
+locate their heroines on Fifth Avenue and their heroes at sea. But
+could I write songs or direct cinema dramas or pen novels I'd get my
+inspiration from that Iowa town.
+
+Did you ever drive in from an Iowa farm to a Fourth of July
+celebration? A few years back the land wasn't worth quite so much an
+acre; the sloughs hadn't been tiled yet and the country hadn't
+discovered what a limited section of real good corn land there was
+after all. But she was Iowa then! Remember how the hot sun dawned early
+to shimmer across the knee-high fields and blaze against the side of
+the big red barn, how the shadows of the willow windbreak shortened and
+the fan on top of the tall windmill faintly creaked? The hired man had
+decorated his buggy-whip with a tiny ribbon of red, white and blue.
+Buggy-whip--sound queer now? Well, there were only three automobiles in
+the county then and they were the feature of the morning parade.
+Remember how the two blocks of Main Street were draped with bunting and
+flags, and the courthouse lawn was dotted with white dresses? Well,
+anyhow you remember the girls with parasols who represented the states,
+and the float bearing the Goddess of Liberty. And then the storm came
+in the middle of the afternoon. The lightning and the thunder, and the
+bunting with the red, white and blue somewhat streaked together but
+still fluttering. And just before sunset, you remember, it brightened
+up again, and out past the low-roofed depot and the tall grain elevator
+you could see the streak of blue and the play of the departing sun
+against the spent clouds. Nowhere else, above no other town, could
+clouds pile just like that.
+
+You remember that morning, once a year, when the lilacs had just turned
+purple out by the front gate, and the dew was still wet on the green
+grass, the faint strains of band-music drifting out above the maples of
+the town, and flags hanging out on the porches--Decoration Day! How we
+used to hunt through the freshly awakened woods north of town for the
+rarest wildflowers! Tender petaled bloodroots there were in plenty, and
+cowslips down by the spring, and honeysuckles on the creek bank those
+late May days, but the lady's slippers and the jack in the pulpits--one
+had to know the hidden recesses where they grew. Withered they became
+before the hot sun sank, sending rays from the west that made the
+tombstones gleam like gold. Somehow, on those days, the sky seemed a
+bluer blue when the words of the speaker at the "Monument of the
+Unknown Dead" were carried off by the faint breeze that muffled, too,
+the song of the quartet and the music of the band. But close in your
+ears were the chirps of the insects in the bluegrass and the robins
+that hopped about in the branches of the evergreens.
+
+We had our quota of civil war veterans in that Iowa town. We had our
+company that went down to Chickamauga in '98. And now--well, you know
+what to expect from the youth of that sort of a community. Prosperity
+can't rob a place like that of its pioneer virtues. That Iowa town is
+an American town and it simply wouldn't fit into the German system at
+all. There's nothing old world about it. The present generation may
+have it easier than their fathers did; they may ride in automobiles
+instead of lumber wagons; they may wear pinch back coats and long beak
+caps instead of overalls and straw hats, but they've inherited
+something beside material wealth. We who owned none of its surrounding
+acres when they were cheap and find them now so out of reach, are yet
+rich, fabulously rich in inheritance. The last I heard from that Iowa
+town its youth was donning khaki for the purpose of helping to keep the
+Kaiser on the other side of the sea.
+
+But it was of the town we used to know that I was speaking. Changed? We
+must realize that. It was the sort that improves rather than grows. But
+we remember the place as it was before the blacksmith shop was turned
+into a garage and before the harness shop was given an electric lighted
+front and transformed into a movie. I guess the new generation has long
+since passed up the old opera house above the drug store for the
+rejuvenated harness shop and the actors that come by express in canned
+celluloid. But at county fair time, you remember, the Cora Warner
+Comedy Company used to come for a week's engagement, Cora Warner,
+noticeably wrinkled as she walked through the park from the hotel,
+donning a blonde wig that enabled her to play soubrette parts of the
+old school. And then there were the Beach and Bowers minstrels with
+their band that swung breezily up Main Street to form a circle on the
+bank corner and lift the whole center of the town out of the
+commonplace by the blare of trombones and the tenderness of clarinets.
+You remember how we Boy Scouts, who didn't know we were Boy Scouts,
+used to clamor for the front row of kitchen chairs after peddling bills
+for "The Octoroon" or "Nevada, and the Lost Mine"?
+
+Oh, well, we're uninteresting old-timers now. And it used to be that I
+knew everyone in town--even the transient baker whose family had no
+garden and chickens but lived up over the furniture store, and the
+temporary telephone man who sat out in front of the hotel evenings with
+the pale-faced traveling man. That hotel--haunted with an atmosphere
+that was brought in from the outside world! Remember how you used to
+walk past it with awe, the hot sun on the plank sidewalk burning your
+bare feet, and your eyes wistful as you heard the bus man on the steps
+call a train? And the time came when we took the train ourselves. And
+when we came back--
+
+When we came back, the town was still there, but the wondrous age when
+all life is roseate belonged to us no longer.
+
+And yet that town, to me, will always be as it was in those days when
+the world was giving me its first pink-tinted impressions. And when my
+tussle with the world as it really is comes to a close, I want to go
+back there and take my last long sleep beneath one of those evergreens
+on the hillside where I know the robins hop along the branches. I know
+how each season's change comes there--the white drifts, the dew on the
+bluegrass, the rustling of crimsoned leaves. I'll know that off on the
+prairies beyond, the cornfields will still wave green in summer, and
+that from back across the creek, over in the school yard, there will
+float the old hushed echo of youth at play.
+
+
+
+
+But Once a Year
+
+_By R. O'Grady_
+
+
+A shabby little woman detached herself from the steadily marching
+throng on the avenue and paused before a shop window, from which solid
+rows of electric bulbs flashed brilliantly into the December twilight.
+The ever-increasing current of Christmas shoppers flowed on. Now and
+then it rolled up, like the waters of the Jordan, while a lady with
+rich warm furs about her shoulders made safe passage from her car to
+the tropic atmosphere of the great department store.
+
+Warmth, and the savory smells from a bakery kitchen wafted up through
+the grating of a near-by pavement, modifying the nipping air. The
+shabby little woman, only half conscious of such gratuitous comfort,
+adjusted her blinking gaze to the brightness and looked hungrily at the
+costumes shimmering under the lights. Wax figures draped with
+rainbow-tinted, filmy evening gowns caught her passing admiration, but
+she lingered over the street costumes, the silk-lined coats and soft,
+warm furs. Elbowed by others who like herself were eager to look, even
+though they could not buy, she held her ground until she had made her
+choice.
+
+With her wistful gaze still fixed upon her favorite, she had begun to
+edge her way through the crowd at the window, when she felt, rather
+than saw, someone different from the rest, close at her side. At the
+same instant, she caught the scent of fresh-cut flowers and looked up
+into the eyes of a tall young girl in a white-plumed velvet hat, with a
+bunch of English violets in her brown mink fur.
+
+As their glances met, the shabby little woman checked a start, and
+half-defensively dropped her lids. The smile that shone evanescently
+from the girl's cordial eyes had aroused in her a feeling of something
+unwonted, and strangely intimate. There had flashed over the mobile
+face beneath the velvet hat a look of personal interest--an
+unmistakable impulse to speak.
+
+The thrill of response that set the woman's pulses throbbing died
+suddenly. The red that mottled her grayish cheeks was the red of shame.
+Through the window, in a mirrored panel cruelly ablaze with light, she
+saw herself: her made-over turban, her short, pigeon-tailed jacket of a
+style long past, and her old otter cape with its queer caudal
+decorations and its yellowed cracks grinning through the plucked and
+ragged fur.
+
+One glance at her own image was enough. The little woman pushed
+determinedly into the slow-moving crush, and headed toward the nearest
+elevated station, to be carried on irresistibly by the army of
+pedestrians.
+
+She caught a last glimpse of the tall young girl, coming in her
+direction, still watching her with that same eager look. But what of
+that? She knew why women stared curiously at her. By the time her
+station was reached, the occurrence had assumed in her mind a painful
+significance which emphasized the sordidness of her evening's routine.
+She made her way along a narrow, dimly lighted street, walking with the
+aimless gait of one who neither expects nor is expected.
+
+But, loiter as she might, she soon reached a neighborhood where rows of
+narrow brick tenements brooded over dingy, cluttered basement shops.
+Here she found it necessary to accelerate her pace to make way for
+romping children and bareheaded women hurrying from the shops with
+their suppers in paper bags.
+
+In spite of the wintry chill, the section had an air of activity all
+its own. Neither did it lack occasional evidences of Christmas cheer.
+In the window of a little news and fruit shop, against the smeared and
+partly frosted glass, a holly wreath was hanging, and within stood a
+rack of gaudy, tinseled Christmas cards. The woman hesitated, as if
+about to enter the shop, then abruptly passed on. She ascended one of
+the stoops that were all alike. Standing in a blur of reddish light
+that filtered through the broken glass above the door, she looked back
+the way she had come.
+
+For an instant her pulses quickened again as they had done on the
+avenue down-town. At the corner, a tall girl with a white-plumed velvet
+hat was smilingly picking her way through the swarming element so
+foreign, apparently, to one of her class. As the white plume came
+nearer and nearer, the tremulous little woman regained her
+self-control. It was but one of the coincidences of the city, she told
+herself, turning resolutely away. The door slammed shut behind her.
+
+Odd, she thought, as she groped her way through the dimly lighted lower
+hall, and the complete darkness of the upper, that such a girl should
+be living in such a neighborhood. Then, with an effort, she dismissed
+the matter from her mind.
+
+To find a match and light the sputtering gas required but very few
+steps in her tiny box of a room. When that was accomplished, she could
+think of nothing more to do. Her little taste of excitement had spoiled
+her zest for any of the homy rites which at other times formed the
+biggest events of her day. As she sank down upon the cot without
+removing her wraps, she was greeted by the usual creaking of rusty
+springs; her table with its meager array of dishes, its coffee pot and
+little alcohol burner, sat as ever in its corner, inviting the
+preparation of her evening meal. But to-night she did not want to eat.
+She had not visited the bake-shop on her way home. She had not even
+bought her daily paper at the corner stand where the postcards
+were--those gay Christmas cards that bring you greetings from friends.
+
+As she slowly removed her turban, her jacket and fur cape and, without
+getting up, tossed them across a chair against the opposite wall, the
+dull ache of dissatisfaction in her heart grew slowly to a sharp pain
+of desire. She wanted to do something, to have something happen that
+might break the sordid routine of her existence.
+
+Still, habit and environment would continue to force at least a part of
+this routine upon her. She glanced at her fingers, stained to an oily,
+bluish grime by the cheap dye of the garments that furnished her daily
+work. Mechanically she rose to wash.
+
+While her hands were immersed in the lather of rankly perfumed toilet
+soap, there came a gentle knock at the door.
+
+"Come in," invited the woman, expecting some famine-pressed neighbor
+for a spoonful of coffee or a drawing of tea.
+
+The door opened slowly, a tentative aperture.
+
+"May I come in?" asked a voice that was sweeter than the breath of
+violets that preceded the caller into the room.
+
+With the towel clutched in her dripping hands, the woman flung wide
+open the door, then hastened to unload the chair which held her
+wraps--her only chair.
+
+"Thank you; don't bother," urged the visitor. "I shall like sitting on
+the couch."
+
+There was a melody of enthusiasm in this remark, which the complaining
+of the cot, as the girl dropped easily upon it, could not wholly drown.
+
+The woman, having absently hung her towel on the doorknob, stared
+dazedly at the visitant. She could hardly credit her eyes. It was--it
+was indeed the girl with the white ostrich plume and the bouquet of
+violets in her brown mink fur.
+
+"I feel like an intruder," began the girl, "and, do you know--" her
+appraising glance directed to the old fur collar on the chair, was
+guiltily withdrawn as she spoke--"do you know, I've such a silly excuse
+for coming." She laughed, and the laugh brought added music to her
+voice.
+
+The woman, now at last recalled from her abstraction, smiled, and the
+weariness passed from her face. She seated herself at the extreme end
+of the humpy, complaining cot.
+
+"I'm sure you'll understand," resumed the girl. "At least, I hope
+you'll not be offended.... I heard ... that is, I noticed you had a
+rare fur-piece--" her vivid glance returned to the pile of wraps on
+the chair--"and I want to ask a very great favor of you. I--now
+_please_ don't be shocked--I've been ransacking the city for something
+like it, and--" with a determined air of taking the plunge--"I should
+like to buy it of you!"
+
+"Buy it!" scorned the woman, with a sudden dull red staining her sallow
+cheeks. "I can't see why anyone would want to pay money for such a
+thing as that."
+
+"It--it's a rare pattern, you know," groped the girl, her sweet tones
+assuming an eloquent, persuasive quiver, "and--and you don't know how
+glad I'd be to have it."
+
+The indignant color faded out of the woman's face. "If you really want
+the thing--" abruptly she put her bizarre possession into her strange
+visitor's lap--"If you really want it--but I don't see--" yearning
+crept into her work-dimmed eyes, a yearning that seemed to struggle
+with disillusionment. "Tell me," she broke off, "is that all you came
+here for?"
+
+Apparently oblivious to the question, the young woman rose to her feet.
+"You'll sell it to me then!" she triumphed, opening her gold-bound
+purse.
+
+"But, see here," demurred the woman, "I can't--it ain't worth----"
+
+The girl's gloved hands went fumbling into her purse, while the old fur
+cape hung limply across one velvet arm.
+
+"You leave it to me," she commanded, and smiled, a radiant, winning
+smile.
+
+Impulsively the woman drew close to her guest. "Excuse me," she
+faltered, "but, do you know--you look ever-so-much like a little niece
+of mine back--home?"
+
+"Do I? That's nice." The visitor looked at her watch. A note of
+abstraction had crept into her beautiful voice, but it still held the
+caress that invited the woman's confidence.
+
+"Yes, my little niece--excuse me--I haven't seen her for twelve
+years--most fifteen years, I guess. She'd be growed up, but I
+thought--when I saw you down-town----"
+
+"Oh, you remember me, then! Forgive me for following--" The girl seized
+the woman's soap-reddened hands in a sudden fervent clasp. "I
+understand," she breathed. "You must be lonely.... I'll try to see you
+again--I surely will.... Good-bye...."
+
+The girl was gone and all at once the room seemed colder and dingier
+than it ever had before. But the woman was not cold. As she sat huddled
+on the cot, warmth and vitality glowed within her, kindled by the
+memory of a recent kindly human touch.
+
+The following evening, after working hours, the shabby woman, wearing a
+faded scarf about her neck to replace the old fur collar, diffidently
+accosted a saleslady at the Sixth Avenue department store. She wanted
+to buy a brown mink collar, just like one worn by a figure in green in
+the window.
+
+It was unusual to sell expensive furs to such a customer. But people
+might send what freaks of servants they pleased to do their Christmas
+shopping, provided they sent the money, too. In this case, the shabby
+little woman was prepared. She produced three crisp ten-dollar
+bills--the fabulous sum which the girl had left in her hand at
+parting--and two dollars more from the savings in her worn little
+purse. Then, hugging the big flat box against the tight-fitting bosom
+of her jacket, she triumphantly left the store.
+
+In a sort of tender ecstasy she dallied along until she came to a
+florist's window. As she paused to gaze at great bunches of carnations
+and roses, tied with broad and streaming ribbons, the anxious look that
+attends the doubtful shopper returned to her face. Would it be of any
+use to go in? Since she must either keep moving or be carried along by
+the crowd, she edged through the revolving door.
+
+"English violets?--Fifty cents for the small bunches," clipped off the
+red-cheeked salesgirl, in reply to the woman's groping inquiry.
+
+The perturbed shopper turned reluctantly away, hesitated, and then
+asked:
+
+"But the roses? A single, half-blown rose--?"
+
+"Twenty-five apiece," replied the girl in the same mechanical tones,
+while she busied herself in rearranging a basket of flowers.
+
+"I--I'll take the rose."
+
+At the express office, where scores were waiting before her, the woman
+had ample time to untie her box and slip the rosebud beneath the tissue
+paper of the inner wrapping. Then, having retied it securely and stuck
+a "Do-not-open-until-Christmas" tag in a conspicuous place, she took
+her stand in line. When it finally came her turn at the desk, a stout
+clerk, who worked like an automaton and breathed like an ox, tore the
+package from her lingering grasp and dashed across the wrapper the
+address she gave.
+
+She paid the charges, wadded the receipt into her purse and turned
+briskly away.
+
+Fresh crullers she took to her room from the bake-shop, having bought
+them from a dark, greasy woman, whom she wished a "Merry Christmas" in
+a voice that almost sang. At dusk she had coffee in her room. It was
+Christmas Eve and she must begin early to get her full share of the
+season's peculiar indulgences. After she had read her paper for an hour
+or so by the recklessly flaming gas jet, she bustled about to brew
+another cup of coffee, and feasted upon crullers for the second time.
+At last she filled a water-bottle with tepid water from a faucet in the
+hall, and prepared for bed.
+
+The chill of the bedclothes, upon which the tepid water-bottle had
+little effect, could not touch the cozy warmth about the woman's heart.
+Neither were the happy memories of her strange and lovely visitor
+disturbed by knowledge of an incident that was taking place at that
+very hour. As she bounced into her cot, humming a little tune, she did
+not know that at a down-town theater a popular young actress was just
+responding to an insistent curtain call. Nor could she have recognized
+the graceful young girl, issuing from the wings in a new character
+part--an extreme type of eccentric maidenhood--except for the plucked
+and ragged fur-piece which formed the keynote of the performer's quaint
+attire.
+
+No knowledge of this episode disturbed the half-drowsy, half-blissful
+state which supplanted the woman's sleep that night. The incident cast
+no cloud upon her eager awakening, nor retarded her active leap from
+bed when the voice of her landlady aroused her with a start on
+Christmas morning.
+
+"_Eggs_-press, _eggs_-press ... a package for Miss Law-lor-r-r!"
+
+Full-chested and lingering, the call reverberated up three flights of
+naked stairs, and by the time the woman had donned her skirt and
+sweater and had emerged into the twilight of the upper hall, frowsy,
+curious heads protruded from every door.
+
+She carried the bulky Christmas package to her own room, moving
+deliberately, in shy, half-guilty triumph, and placed it on the cot.
+Behind her closed door she untied it, removed the cover and smilingly
+bent down to draw an eager inhalation from the tissue paper folds.
+Then, with careful fingers, she parted the crisp inner wrappings and
+unearthed a wilting, half-blown rose from its nest in the brown mink
+fur.
+
+
+
+
+The Reminder
+
+_By Allan Updegraff_
+
+
+    A little Belgian and an old violin--
+    A short, dumpy, melancholy little Belgian
+    And a very fine old violin....
+
+    An inconsequential small Belgian
+    Wearing a discouraged bit of mustache,
+    American "store" clothes that didn't fit,
+    Cheap American shoes, shined but shapeless....
+    (And yet he had often played in high honor
+    Before great audiences in Belgium;
+    But that was before Hell's lid was lifted
+    Somewhere in the North of Germany--
+    May it be clamped down, hard, before long!)
+
+    So this shabby, fat, discouraged oldish Belgian
+    (Too old and fat for military service),
+    And his very old beautiful violin,
+    (Borrowed--he'd lost his better one to his conquerors),
+    Appeared before a dubious tag-end of an audience
+    In a music hall built in the woods
+    Near an American summer resort,
+    And played a dozen selections for forty-five dollars.
+
+    Then we learned why he had often played in high honor
+    Before great audiences in Belgium;
+    And why his king and his country
+    Had given him the honors he still wore,
+    The riches recently taken away
+    By his conquerors.
+
+    Then we saw what manner of man he was,
+    How that his soul was finely clad, upright,
+    Nobly statured, crowned with Apollo's bays.
+    Then we knew, when he played Tartini's sonata for violin,
+    That Belgium would own once more
+    Its little place in the sun.
+
+    For the old Italian master might have written that sonata
+    With the devastated Belgium of these days in mind.
+    First, streaming from beneath the Belgian's sentient bow,
+    The music told of peace and common things,
+    With some bickering, some trivialities,
+    But much melody and deep harmony underneath.
+    The third movement, _affetuoso_, awoke to ruin--
+    To ruin too sudden and complete.
+
+    Too bloody and bestial and cruel
+    And thorough and filthy and Prussian
+    To be more than wailed over softly.
+
+    There was a stabbed child
+    Lying in the mud beneath a half-burned house,
+    Beside the naked corpse of its mother,
+    The mutilated bodies of its old grandfather,
+    And young sister;
+    And the child cried faintly, and moaned,
+    And cried again....
+    And then was silent.
+
+    A while after, from far away,
+    Rose dull outcries, trampling feet,
+    Voices indomitable--
+    Retreating, returning, joined by others, dying, reviving,
+    Always indomitable.
+    And still others joined those beaten but unconquered ones,
+    And the end came in one long, high,
+    Indomitable cry.
+    Then we knew, and bowed our heads,
+    And were ashamed of our poor part,
+    And prayed God we might bear a nobler part,
+    In the reply to that most cold-planned,
+    Murderously carried out,
+    Unexpurgable horror over there.
+
+
+
+
+"Old Bill"
+
+_By Henry C. Wallace_
+
+
+We buried Old Bill to-day. As we came back to the house it seemed
+almost as if we had laid away a member of the family. All afternoon I
+have been thinking of him, and this evening I want to tell you the
+story.
+
+Old Bill was a horse, and he was owned by four generations of our
+family. He was forty-one years old when he died, so you will understand
+that for many years he was what some might call a "dead-beat boarder."
+But long ago he had paid in advance for his board as long as he might
+stay with us. In winter a warm corner of the stable was his as a matter
+of right, and not a day went by but a lump of sugar, an apple, or some
+other tidbit found its way to him from the hands of those who loved
+him. Old Bill was never in the slightest danger of meeting the sad fate
+of many a faithful old horse in the hands of the huckster or trader.
+
+My grandfather liked a good horse. He loved to draw the lines over a
+team that trotted up into the bits as if they enjoyed it. He had such a
+team in a span of eleven-hundred pound mares, full sisters, and well
+matched both as to appearance and disposition. The old gentleman said
+they were Morgan bred. Whether they were or not, they had a lot of warm
+blood in them. He raised several colts from these mares by light
+horses, but none of them had either the spirit or the quality of their
+dams. One year a neighbor brought in a Percheron horse, a rangy fellow
+weighing about seventeen hundred and fifty pounds, clean of limb, and
+with plenty of life, as were most of the earlier horses of that breed,
+and grandfather bred these mares to him. The colts foaled the next
+spring, developed into a fine span, weighing about twelve hundred and
+fifty each, sound as nuts, willing workers and free movers. Grandfather
+gave this team to my father the spring he started to farm for himself.
+They were then three years old, and one of them was Old Bill.
+
+In those days the young farmer's capital was not very large: a team of
+horses, a cow, two or three pigs, and a few farm implements, the horses
+being by far the most important part of it. I shall not try to tell of
+the part these horses played in helping father win out. They were never
+sick; they were always ready for work. And well do I remember father's
+grief when Bill's mate slipped on the ice in the barnyard one cold
+winter day and had to be shot. It was that evening that my father
+talked of the important part a good horse plays in the life of a
+farmer, and gave us a little lecture on the treatment of horses and
+other animals. I was but a lad of ten at that time, but something
+father said, or the way he said it, made a deep impression on me, and
+from that time forward I looked upon horses as my friends and treated
+them as such. What a fine thing it would be if all parents would teach
+the youngsters at an early age the right way to treat our dumb animals.
+
+Bill was already "Old Bill" when he became mine. He was four years
+older than I when we started courting together, and my success must
+have been due in large part to his age and experience. We had but a
+mile and a half to go, and of a summer evening Bill would trot this off
+at a pace equal to a much younger horse. When the girl of my affection
+was snugly seated in the buggy, he would move off briskly for half a
+mile, after which he dropped to a dignified walk, understanding full
+well the importance of the business in hand. He knew where it was safe
+to leave the beaten track and walk quietly along the turf at the side,
+and he had a positive genius for finding nice shady places where he
+could browse the overhanging branches, looking back once in a while to
+see that everything was going along as it should be. I suppose I am
+old-fashioned, but I don't see how a really first-class job of courting
+can be done without such a horse as Old Bill. He seemed to take just
+about as much interest in the matter as I did. One night Jennie brought
+out a couple of lumps of sugar for him (a hopeful sign to me, by the
+way), and after that there was no time lost in getting to her house,
+where Bill very promptly announced our arrival by two or three nickers.
+
+One time I jokingly said to my wife that evidently she married Bill as
+much as she did me. That remark was a mistake. She admitted it more
+cheerfully than seemed necessary, and on sundry occasions afterward
+made free to remind me of it. Sometimes she drew comparisons to my
+discredit, and if Old Bill could have understood them, he would have
+enjoyed a real horse laugh. Jennie always said Bill knew more than some
+real folks.
+
+After the wedding, Old Bill took us on our honeymoon trip--not a very
+long one, you may be sure--and the three of us settled down to the
+steady grind of farm life. We asked nothing hard of Old Bill, but he
+helped chore around, and took Jennie safely where she wanted to go. I
+felt perfectly at ease when she was driving him. I wish I had a picture
+of the three of them when she brought out the boy to show to Old Bill.
+I can close my eyes and see her standing in front of the old horse,
+with the boy cuddled up in a blanket in her arms. I can see the proud
+light in her eyes, and I can see Old Bill's sensitive upper lip
+nuzzling at the blanket. He evidently understood Jennie perfectly, and
+seemed just as proud as she was.
+
+The youngster learned to ride Old Bill at the age most children are
+riding broomsticks. Jennie used to put him on Old Bill's back and lead
+him around, but Old Bill seemed so careful that before a great while
+she would trust him alone with the boy in the front yard, she sitting
+on the porch. I remember a scare I had one summer evening. Old Bill did
+not have much hair left on his withers, but he had a long mane lock
+just in front of the collar mark, and the youngster held onto this. I
+was walking up toward the house, where Bill was marching the youngster
+around in front, Jennie sitting on the porch. Evidently a botfly was
+bothering Bill's front legs, for he threw his head down quickly,
+whereupon the youngster, holding tightly to this mane lock, slid down
+his neck and flopped to the ground. You may be sure I got there in a
+hurry, almost as quickly as Jennie, who was but a few steps away,
+calling as I ran: "Did he step on him?" You should have seen the look
+of scorn Jennie gave me. Such an insult to Old Bill deserved no answer.
+The old horse seemed as much concerned as we were and Jennie promptly
+replaced the boy on his back and the ride was resumed, with me
+relegated to the corner of the porch in disgrace. As if Old Bill would
+hurt her boy!
+
+Old Bill's later years were full of contentment and happiness, if I
+know what constitutes horse happiness. In the winter he had the best
+corner in the stable. In the summer he was the autocrat of the small
+pasture where we kept the colts. He taught the boy to ride properly and
+with due respect for his steed. He would give him a gallop now and
+then, but as a rule he insisted upon a dignified walk, and if the
+youngster armed himself with a switch and tried to have his way about
+it, the old fellow would quickly show who was boss by nipping his
+little legs just hard enough to serve as a warning of what he could do.
+
+Bill had a lot of fun with the mares and colts. We never allowed the
+colts to follow the mares in the fields, but kept them in the five-acre
+pasture with Bill for company. At noon, we would lead the mares in
+after they had cooled off, and let the colts suck, and at night we
+turned the mares into the pasture with them. Bill had a keen sense of
+humor. He would fool around until the colts had finished, and then
+gallop off with all the colts in full tilt after him. Naturally the
+mares resented this. They followed around in great indignation, but it
+did them no good. We used to walk over to the pasture fence and watch
+this little byplay, and I think Bill enjoyed having us there, for he
+kept up the fun as long as we would watch. He surely was not popular
+with the mares. They regarded him about as the proud mother regards
+grandfather when he entices away her darling boy and teaches him tricks
+of which she does not approve.
+
+Although Bill took delight in teaching the colts mean little tricks
+during their days of irresponsibility, when they reached the proper age
+he enjoyed the part he had to play in their training with a grim
+satisfaction. For more than twenty-five years he was our main reliance
+in breaking the colts to work. It was amusing to watch a colt the first
+time he was harnessed and hooked up to the wagon alongside Bill, his
+halter strap being tied back to the hames on Bill's collar.
+
+Our colts were always handled more or less from infancy, and we had
+little trouble in harnessing them. When led out to the wagon with Bill,
+the colt invariably assumed he was out for a good time. But the Bill he
+found now was not the Bill he had known in the pasture, and he very
+quickly learned that he was in for real business.
+
+Bill was a very strict disciplinarian; he tolerated no familiarities;
+with his teeth he promptly suppressed any undue exuberance of spirit;
+he was kind but firm. As he grew older, he would lose patience now and
+then with the colts that persisted in their unruly ways. When they
+lunged forward, he settled back against their plunges with a bored air,
+as much as to say: "Take it easy, my young friend; you surely don't
+think you can run away with Old Bill!" When they sulked, he pulled them
+along for a bit. But if they continued obstreperous he turned upon them
+with his teeth in an almost savage manner, and the way he would bring
+them out of the sulky spell was a joy to see.
+
+Finally, when the tired and bewildered colt had settled down to an
+orderly walk, and had learned to respond to the guiding reins, Bill
+would reward him with a caress on the neck and other evidences of his
+esteem.
+
+Old Bill knew the game thoroughly, and was invaluable in this work of
+training the young ones. But after the first round at the wagon with
+him, the colts always seemed to feel as if they had lost a boon
+companion; they kept their friendship for him, but they maintained a
+very respectful attitude, and never after took liberties unless assured
+by his manner that they would be tolerated.
+
+I got a collie dog for the youngster when he was about three years old.
+When he was riding Old Bill, Jack would rush back and forth, in front
+and behind, barking joyously. Old Bill disliked such frivolity. To him
+it was a serious occasion. I think he never forgot the time the boy
+fell off, for nothing could tempt him out of a steady walk until the
+youngster got to an age when his seat was reasonably secure. When the
+ride was over, Old Bill would lay back his ears and go after Jack so
+viciously that the collie would seek refuge under the porch. Except
+when the boy was about, however, Old Bill and Jack were good friends,
+and in very cold weather Jack would beg a place in Bill's stall,
+curling up between his legs, to the apparent satisfaction of both.
+There was a very real friendship between them, but just as real
+jealousy for the favors of the little fellow. They were much like human
+beings in this respect.
+
+Until the last year of his life Bill was a most useful member of the
+family. Jennie liked a good garden and used to say before we were
+married that when we had our own home, she would have a garden that was
+a garden, and that she did not propose to wear herself out with a hoe
+as her mother had done. She laid out her garden in a long, narrow strip
+of ground between the pasture and the windbreak, just back of the
+house, and with Bill's help she had the garden she talked about. Bill
+plowed the ground and cultivated it, and the care with which he walked
+the long narrow rows was astonishing. This was another place where he
+did not want to be bothered with Jack. He was willing Jack should sit
+at one end and watch the proceedings, but he must keep out of the way.
+
+During the school season Bill's regular job was to take the children to
+school, a mile away. They rode him, turning him loose to come home
+alone. He learned to go back for them in the afternoon, and he
+delivered them at the porch with an air as much as to say: "There are
+your little folks, safe and sound, thanks to Old Bill." Jennie always
+met him with an apple or a lump of sugar. She and Old Bill seemed to be
+in partnership in about everything he could have a part in. They
+understood each other perfectly, and I don't mind confessing now that
+once in a great while I felt rather jealous of Old Bill.
+
+Well, as I said in the beginning, we buried Old Bill to-day. He died
+peacefully, and, as we say of some esteemed citizen, "full of honors."
+He was buried on the farm he helped pay for; and, foolish as it may
+seem to some folks, before long a modest stone will mark his last
+resting place. And sometimes, of a summer afternoon, if I find Jennie
+sitting with her needlework in the shade of the big oak tree under
+which Old Bill rests, I will know that tender memories of a faithful
+servant are being woven into her neat stitches.
+
+
+
+
+The Recruit's Story
+
+_By Frank Luther Mott_
+
+
+Last Sunday afternoon I wandered into Smith Park and sat down on a
+bench near the fountain. It was a fine day. The sun shone warmly and I
+was one of many men who lounged on those benches and luxuriated in the
+grateful warmth of the early spring sunshine.
+
+Men of many kinds were there. There were a few old men, but many were
+young, or middle-aged. Unless I am a very poor observer, not a few of
+them were drifters.
+
+As I sat there I watched the play of the water falling in the fountain.
+I observed the bronze figures of women sitting in the center, musing
+over who knows what great world problem; and I saw, surmounting all,
+the towering figure of a soldier of the Civil War. There he stood in
+his quiet power--apotheosis of the common soldier in the war for the
+Union. He wore the great-coat and military cape of the old uniform. He
+stood at ease, his left foot advanced, and the butt of his gun resting
+on the ground in front of him, while he held the gun-barrel with his
+left hand and rested his forearm on the muzzle. He gazed a little past
+me, steadfastly, toward a corner of the park. On his face was the look
+of the man who is ready--the man undaunted by any emergency--the man
+unafraid in the quiet strength of soul and body.
+
+"He it was," I reflected, "who leaped to the colors when Father Abraham
+called, and by the might of his loyalty and sacrifice saved his country
+in the hour of her greatest need."
+
+Glancing across the park, I saw a poster glaring from the great window
+of a salesroom. I could make out three words, printed in giant type:
+
+MEN WANTED NOW!
+
+Again I looked about me at the men lounging, as I was lounging, there
+on the benches in the sunlight, some of them asleep. I too felt the
+soporific influence of the May sun, and might soon have lapsed into
+unconsciousness myself had it not been for a strange thing that
+happened just then.
+
+I saw the Union soldier turn his head a little and look directly at me.
+
+I am not given to illusions, being generally considered a
+matter-of-fact young man. But, as I live, I saw that Union soldier turn
+his head! And more than that, I knew just why he did it.
+
+I had read the papers, and knew my country's need. I had read the
+flaming posters calling for men to enlist in her armies. I had read
+President Wilson's classic-to-be concerning America's purpose in our
+greatest war for liberty. I had not meant to be a slacker; but, some
+way, I had not been strongly moved. I was letting the other fellow fill
+up the ranks, intending hazily to rally to the colors myself when the
+need seemed greater. Even now, I was inclined to argue the matter.
+
+I leaned back in my seat and said, in a conversational tone:
+
+"Now look here, Mr. Union Soldier, the need was greater when you joined
+the colors. The Union was threatened; the very existence of the nation
+was at hazard. I too will answer the call if worse comes to worst in
+this war."
+
+"Young man," replied the soldier, his eyes fixed on mine and his voice
+deep and calm, "young man, your country's call is your country's call.
+This time it is no question of union; thank God, the states stand
+indivisible forever. But this time the crisis is even greater, the need
+of vision and sacrifice even more vital. This time the liberty, not of
+the black man alone, but of the world, is in the balance. Are you deaf
+to the call?"
+
+"But listen," I answered. "This is not our war. Nobody has crossed the
+sea to strike us."
+
+"Have they not?" he countered. "By spies, by intrigue, by a treacherous
+diplomacy, by an unscrupulous policy of world subjugation, the enemy
+has invaded our shores. Yet it is not that alone. As I have stood here,
+I have heard the cries of the people of ravished Belgium; I have heard
+the despairing screams of men and women sinking in watery graves; the
+wails of perishing Armenia assail my ears. Do you say it is not our
+war? It is! Just as the fate of the black man touched the hearts of us
+Northerners, just as the misfortune of the traveler to Jericho touched
+the heart of the Samaritan, just as the suffering Christ on the cross
+has touched the heart of the world--just so must the woeful cry of a
+world perishing to-day touch the heart of America.... And yet I look
+about me here! These men drowsing in the sunshine! Are these Americans?
+From the field I rushed when Lincoln called, scarcely pausing to bid my
+mother good-bye; and I braved cold, and heat, and sickness, and
+privation, and terrors by day and night, and rain of shot and shell,
+and wounds and suffering and death--all because my country called!"
+
+As he spoke his voice rose to a commanding resonance. He raised his
+right arm from the muzzle of the gun where it had rested--raised it
+high in impassioned appeal. At last I was moved; tears ran down my
+cheeks.
+
+I started--awoke. I had been asleep, and the water from the fountain
+was blowing in my face. But was it the spray from the fountain alone
+that made my cheeks wet?
+
+I looked up at the bronze figure surmounting the fountain. There the
+soldier stood at rest, left foot advanced, arm resting on his gun. His
+eyes looked steadfastly toward the corner of the park. But did I not
+see a glow of passion on that bronze face--a passion for the Liberty of
+the World?
+
+I turned to my neighbor on the bench at my left. His eyes were half
+shut, drowsily.
+
+"Pardon me, brother," I said. "Can you tell me where the nearest
+recruiting station is located?"
+
+
+
+
+The Happiest Man in I-o-way
+
+_By Rupert Hughes_
+
+
+    Jes' down the road a piece, 'ith the dust so deep
+      It teched the bay mare's fetlocks; an' the sun
+    So b'ilin' hot, the pewees dassn't peep;
+      Seemed like midsummer 'fore the spring's begun!
+    An' me plumb beat an' good-fer-nothin'-like
+      An' awful lonedsome fer a sight o' you ...
+    I come to that big locus' by the pike,
+      An' she was all in bloom, an' trembly, too,
+    With breezes like drug-store perfumery.
+      I stood up in my stirrups, with my head
+    So deep in flowers they almost smothered me.
+      I kind o' liked to think that I was dead ...
+    An' if I hed 'a' died like that to-day,
+      I'd 'a' be'n the happiest man in I-o-way.
+
+    For whut's the us't o' goin' on like this?
+      Your pa not 'lowin me around the place ...
+    Well, fust I knowed, I'd give them blooms a kiss;
+      They tasted like Good-Night on your white face.
+    I reached my arms out wide, an' hugged 'em--say,
+      I dreamp' your little heart was hammerin' me!
+
+    I broke this branch off for a love-bo'quet;
+      'F I'd be'n a giant, I'd 'a' plucked the tree!
+    The blooms is kind o' dusty from the road,
+      But you won't mind. And, as the feller said,
+    "When this you see remember me"--I knowed
+      Another poem; but I've lost my head
+    From seein' you! 'Bout all that I kin say
+      Is--"I'm the happiest man in I-o-way."
+
+    Well, comin' 'long the road I seen your ma
+      Drive by to town--she didn't speak to me!
+    An' in the farthest field I seen your pa
+      At his spring-plowin', like I'd ought to be.
+    But, knowin' you'd be here all by yourself,
+        I hed to come--for now's our livin' chance.
+    Take off yer apern, leave things on the shelf--
+      Our preacher needs what th' feller calls "romance."
+    Ain't got no red-wheeled buggy; but the mare
+      Will carry double, like we've trained her to.
+    Jes' put a locus'-blossom in your hair
+      An' let's ride straight to heaven--me an' you!
+    I'll build y' a little house, an' folks'll say:
+      "There lives the happiest pair in I-o-way."
+
+
+
+
+The Captured Dream
+
+_By Octave Thanet_
+
+
+Somers rode slowly over the low Iowa hills, fitting an air in his mind
+to Andrew Lang's dainty verses. Presently, being quite alone on the
+country road, he began to sing:
+
+    "In dreams doth he behold her,
+        Still fair and kind and young."
+
+The gentle strain of melancholy and baffled desire faded into silence,
+but the young man's thoughts pursued it. A memory of his own that
+sometimes stung him, sometimes plaintively caressed him, stirred in his
+heart. "I am afraid you hit it, Andy," he muttered, "and I should have
+found it only a dream had I won."
+
+At thirty Somers imagined himself mighty cynical. He consorted with
+daring critics, and believed the worst both of art and letters. He was
+making campaign cartoons for a daily journal instead of painting the
+picture of the future; the panic of '93 had stripped him of his little
+fortune, and his sweetheart had refused to marry him. Therefore he said
+incessantly in the language of Job, "I do well to be angry."
+
+The rubber tires revolved more slowly as his eyes turned from the
+wayside to the smiling hills. The corn ears were sheathed in silvery
+yellow, but the afternoon sun jewelled the green pastures, fresh as in
+May, for rain had fallen in the morning, and maples, oaks and elms
+blended exquisite gradations of color and shade here and there among
+the open fields. Long rows of poplars recalled France to Somers and he
+sighed. "These houses are all comfortable and all ugly," thought the
+artist. "I never saw anything less picturesque. The life hasn't even
+the dismal interest of poverty and revolt, for they are all beastly
+prosperous; and one of the farmers has offered me a hundred dollars and
+my expenses to come here and make a pastel of his wife. And I have
+taken the offer because I want to pay my board bill and buy a
+second-hand bicycle. The chances are he is after something like a
+colored photograph, something slick and smooth, and every hair
+painted--Oh, Lord! But I have to have the money; and I won't sign the
+cursed thing. What does he want it for though? I wonder, did he ever
+know love's dream? Dream? It's all a dream--a mirage of the senses or
+the fancy. Confound it, why need I be harking back to it? I must be
+near his house. House near the corner, they said, where the roads
+cross. Ugh! How it jumps at the eyes."
+
+The house before him was yellow with pea-green blinds; the great barns
+were Indian red; the yard a riot of color from blooming flowers.
+
+Somers wheeled up to the gate and asked of the old man who was leaning
+upon the fence where Mr. Gates lived.
+
+"Here," said the old man, not removing his elbows from the fence bar.
+
+"And, may I ask, are you Mr. Gates?" said Somers.
+
+"Yes, sir. But if you're the young man was round selling 'Mother, Home
+and Heaven,' and going to call again to see if we liked it, we don't
+want it. My wife can't read and we're taking a Chicago paper now, and
+ain't got any time."
+
+Somers smiled. "I'm not selling anything but pictures," said he, "and I
+believe you want me to make one for you."
+
+"Are you Mr. Somers, F. J. S.?" cried the farmer, his face lighting in
+a surprising manner. "Well, I'm glad to see you, sir. My wife said
+you'd come this afternoon and I wouldn't believe her. I'm always caught
+when I don't believe my wife. Come right in. Oh, did you bring your
+tools with you?"
+
+He guided Somers into the house and into a room so dark that he
+stumbled.
+
+"There's the sofy; set down," said Gates, who seemed full of hospitable
+cheer. "I'll get a blind open. Girl's gone to the fair and Mother's
+setting out on the back piazza, listening to the noises on the road.
+She's all ready. Make yourself to home. Pastel like them pictures on
+the wall's what I want. My daughter done them." His tone changed on the
+last sentence, but Somers did not notice it; he was drinking in the
+details of the room to describe them afterwards to his sympathizing
+friends in Chicago.
+
+"What a chamber of horrors," he thought, "and one can see he is proud
+of it." The carpet was soft to the foot, covered with a jungle of
+flowers and green leaves--the pattern of carpet which fashion leaves
+behind for disappointed salesmen to mark lower and lower until it shall
+be pushed into the ranks of shopworn bargains. The cheap paper on the
+wall was delicately tinted, but this boon came plainly from the
+designers, and not the taste of the buyer, since there was a simply
+terrible chair that swung by machinery, and had four brilliant hues of
+plush to vex the eye, besides a paroxysm of embroidery and lace to
+which was still attached the red ticket of the county fair. More
+embroidery figured on the cabinet organ and two tables, and another red
+ticket peeped coyly from under the ornate frame of a pastel landscape
+displaying every natural beauty--forest, mountain, sunlit lake, and
+meadow--at their bluest and greenest. There were three other pictures
+in the room, two very large colored photographs of a lad of twelve and
+of a pretty girl who might be sixteen, in a white gown with a roll of
+parchment in her hand tied with a blue ribbon; and the photograph of a
+cross of flowers.
+
+The girl's dark, wistful, timid eyes seemed to follow the young artist
+as he walked about the room. They appealed to him. "Poor little girl,"
+he thought, "to have to live here." Then he heard a dragging footfall,
+and there entered the mistress of the house. She was a tall woman who
+stooped. Her hair was gray and scanty, and so ill-arranged on the top
+of her head that the mournful tonsure of age showed under the false
+gray braid. She was thin with the gaunt thinness of years and toil, not
+the poetic, appealing slenderness of youth. She had attired herself for
+the picture in a black silken gown, sparkling with jet that tinkled as
+she moved; the harsh, black, bristling line at the neck defined her
+withered throat brutally. Yet Somer's sneer was transient. He was
+struck by two things--the woman was blind, and she had once worn a face
+like that of the pretty girl. With a sensation of pity he recalled
+Andrew Lang's verses; inaudibly, while she greeted him he was repeating:
+
+    "Who watches day by day
+      The dust of time that stains her,
+    The griefs that leave her gray,
+      The flesh that still enchains her,
+    Whose grace has passed away."
+
+Her eyes were closed but she came straight toward him, holding out her
+hand. It was her left hand that was extended; her right closed over the
+top of a cane, and this added to the impression of decrepitude conveyed
+by her whole presence. She spoke in a gentle, monotonous, pleasant
+voice. "I guess this is Mr. Somers, the artist. I feel--we feel very
+glad to have the honor of meeting you, sir."
+
+No one had ever felt honored to meet Somers before. He thought how much
+refinement and sadness were in a blind woman's face. In his most
+deferential manner he proffered her a chair. "I presume I am to paint
+you, madam?" he said.
+
+She blushed faintly. "Ain't it rediculous?" she apologized. "But Mr.
+Gates will have it. He has been at me to have somebody paint a picture
+of me ever since I had my photograph taken. It was a big picture and
+most folks said it was real good, though not flattering; but he
+wouldn't hang it. He took it off and I don't know what he did do to it.
+'I want a real artist to paint you, Mother,' he said. I guess if Kitty
+had lived she'd have suited him, though she was all for landscape;
+never did much figures. You noticed her work in this room, ain't
+you--on the table and chair and organ--art needlework? Kitty could do
+anything. She took six prizes at the county fair; two of 'em come in
+after she was in her last sickness. She was so pleased that she had the
+picture--that's the picture right above the sofy; it's a pastel--and
+the tidy, I mean the art needle work--put on her bed, and she looked at
+them the longest while. Her paw would never let the tickets be took
+off." She reached forth her hand to the chair near her and felt the
+ticket, stroking it absently, her chin quivering a little, while her
+lips smiled. "Mr. Gates was thinking," she said, "that maybe you'd
+paint a head of me--pastel like that landscape--that's why he likes
+pastel so. And he was thinking if--if maybe--my eyes was jest like
+Kitty's when we were married--if you would put in eyes, he would be
+awful much obliged and be willing to pay extra if necessary. Would it
+be hard?"
+
+Somers dissembled a great dismay. "Certainly not," said he, rather
+dryly; and he was ashamed of himself at the sensitive flutter in the
+old features.
+
+"Of course I know," she said, in a different tone than she had used
+before, "I understand how comical it must seem to a young man to have
+to draw an old woman's picture; but it ain't comical to my husband. He
+wants it very much. He's the kindest man that ever lived, to me, caring
+for me all the time. He's got me that organ--me that can't play a note,
+and never could--just because I love to hear music, and sometimes if we
+have an instrument, the neighbors will come in, especially Hattie
+Knight, who used to know Kittie, and is a splendid performer; she comes
+and plays and sings. It is a comfort to me. And though I guess you
+young folks can't understand it, it will be a comfort to him to have a
+picture of me. I mistrusted you'd be thinking it comical, and I hurried
+to come in and speak to you, lest, not meaning anything, you might,
+just by chance, let fall something might hurt his feelings--like you
+thought it queer or some sech thing. And he thinks so much of you, and
+having you here, that I couldn't bear there'd be any mistake."
+
+"Surely it is the most natural thing in the world that he should want a
+portrait of you," Somers hastily interrupted.
+
+"Yes, it is," she answered in her mild, even tones, "but it mightn't
+seem so to young folks. Young folks think they know all there is about
+loving. And it is very sweet and nice to enjoy things together; and you
+don't hardly seem to be in the world at all when you're courting, your
+feet and your head and your heart feel so light. But they don't know
+what it is to need each other? It's when folks suffer together that
+they find out what loving is. I never knew what I felt towards my
+husband till I lost my first baby; and I'd wake up in the night and
+there'd be no cradle there--and he'd comfort me. Do you see that
+picture under the photograph of the cross?"
+
+"He's a pretty boy," said Somers.
+
+"Yes, sir. He was drownded in the river. A lot of boys in playing, and
+one got too far, and Eddy, he swum out to help him. And he clumb up on
+Eddy and the man on shore didn't get there in time. He was a real good
+boy and liked to play home with me 'most as well as with the boys.
+Father was proud as he could be of him, though he wouldn't let on. That
+cross was what his schoolmates sent; and teacher she cried when she
+told me how hard Eddy was trying to win the prize to please his pa.
+Father and I went through that together. And we had to change all the
+things we used to talk of together, because Eddy was always in them;
+and we had to try not to let each other see how our hearts were
+breaking, and not shadder Kitty's life by letting her see how we missed
+him. Only once father broke down; it was when he give Kitty Eddy's
+colt." She stopped, for she could not go on.
+
+"Don't--don't distress yourself," Somers begged lamely. His cheeks were
+very hot.
+
+"It don't distress me," she answered, "only for the minnit; I'm always
+thinking of Eddy and Kitty too. Sometimes I think it was harder for
+father when his girl went than anything else. And then my blindness and
+my rheumatism come; and it seemed he was trying to make up to me for
+the daughter and the son I'd lost, and be all to once to me. He has
+been, too. And do you think that two old people that have grown old
+together, like us, and have been through losses like that--do you think
+they ain't drawed closer and kinder and tenderer to each other, like
+the Lord to his church? Why, I'm plain, and old and blind and
+crooked--but he don't know it. Now, do you understand?"
+
+"Yes," said Somers, "I understand."
+
+"And you'll please excuse me for speaking so free; it was only so
+father's feelings shouldn't get hurt by noticing maybe a look like you
+wanted to laugh."
+
+"God knows I don't want to laugh," Somers burst in. "But I'm glad you
+spoke. It--it will be a better picture. Now may I ask you something? I
+want you to let me dress you--I mean put something about your neck,
+soft and white; and then I want to make two sketches of you--one, as
+Mr. Gates wishes, the head alone; the other of you sitting in the
+rustic chair outside."
+
+"But--" she looked troubled--"it will be so expensive; and I know it
+will be foolish. If you'd just the same----"
+
+"But I shouldn't; I want to do it. And it will not cost you anything. A
+hundred dollars will repay me well enough. I wish--I truly wish I could
+afford to do it all for nothing."
+
+She gasped. "A hundred dollars! Oh, it ain't right. That was why he
+wouldn't buy the new buggy. And jest for a picture of me." But suddenly
+she flushed like a girl and smiled.
+
+At this instant the old man, immaculate in his heavy black suit and
+glossy white shirt, appeared in the doorway bearing a tray.
+
+"Father," said the old wife, "do you mean to tell me you are going to
+pay a hundred dollars jest for a picture of me?"
+
+"Well, Mother, you know there's no fool like an old fool," he replied,
+jocosely; but when the old wife turned her sightless face toward the
+old husband's voice and he looked at her, Somers bowed his head.
+
+He spent the afternoon over his sketches. Riding away in the twilight,
+he knew he had done better work than he had ever done before in his
+life, slight as its form might be; nevertheless he was not thinking of
+himself at all. He was trying to shape his own vague perception that
+the show of dainty thinking and the pomp of refinement are in truth
+amiable and lovely things, yet are they no more than the husks of life;
+not only under them, but under ungracious and sordid conditions, may be
+the human semblance of that "beauty most ancient, beauty most new,"
+that the old saint found too late. He felt the elusive presence of
+something in love higher than his youthful dream; stronger than
+passion, fairer than delight. To this commonplace man and woman had
+come the deepest gift of life.
+
+"A dream?" he murmured. "Yes, perhaps he has captured it."
+
+[Illustration: "DING" BY WING]
+
+
+
+
+Truth
+
+_By Carrie Moss Hawley_
+
+
+The archives of history contain wonderful revelations of the growth and
+physical development of man. Going back to the beginning of time, when
+creation donned its immortal robe of life and nature gave utterance to
+the thought that nothing perishes, we follow down the aisle of
+centuries until we find ourselves to-day where we realize that thought
+has become the most powerful factor in advancement. Gradations are
+everywhere, yet mental processes and volitions take control of the
+wheel of progress and guide everything with majestic power.
+
+The mind, as we commonly think of it, is not a safe guide unless
+directed by wisdom. So we appeal for light to give direction to the
+ideas or conceptions that filter through the brain from the all-holding
+universal thought. How to distinguish true from false conceptions is
+the labor of philosophy.
+
+Truth may be tested by one infallible rule: its power to construct. You
+may see it forming what may terminate in evil, and doing unmistakable
+harm. Then you say: How can this be truth if it creates disaster? But
+all that is created does not act one way. There is the gross and the
+refined, the blemished and the perfect. All is good in the sense that
+it comes from a perfect law. It is the direction creation takes that
+determines the outcome.
+
+The next step is how to direct truth that it may produce only the end
+desired. There are millions of beings on this sphere, each of whom has
+the same access to truth. Many of these do not even know of their power
+in production, and, with sensualized vision which has not been
+renovated, they keep on bringing forth that which another class,
+further advanced, is endeavoring to exterminate. This will continue
+indefinitely, for there will always be growing souls that have to
+learn. Since what appears as evil must exist, when it has become
+abhorrent to you in all its forms, your privilege and power is to
+convert all that comes within your radius into what you desire it to
+be. Minimize your fear of all effects in the negative, and take firm
+hold of the actual forces and mold them into whatever _you desire_.
+
+Were you a sculptor and had a piece of marble before you, you would not
+feel obliged to chisel out of it a cat, because a cat chanced to be
+rubbing her head against your leg in a friendly way. While you would be
+conscious of the cat she would be something outside the realm of your
+perceptions when you struck your first blow upon the marble. You would
+build from your perceptions that have been brought to the foreground by
+your conceptions of the valuable.
+
+Man must reach a certain plane in his development before he realizes
+there are things worthless and things of worth, and that he may possess
+which he will. But when the moral milestone is passed he sees the dawn
+of a new day that will bring him his hopes realized.
+
+Thus, the way to attain truth is first to see it from the vantage-point
+that comes through illumination; then realize that the cosmic world
+possesses all the material you need for its development. What surrounds
+you that does not appeal to you, merely touches and draws attention to
+its existence, need come into your creation no more than the cat came
+into the artist's production.
+
+
+
+
+Work
+
+_By Irving N. Brant_
+
+
+    Let me once more in Druid forest wander,
+    To gain its legacy of ancient lore;
+    Make me its prophet, as I dreamed of yore,
+    A priest, on holy mysteries to ponder.
+    Lead me to realms of quiet, or the fonder
+    Scenes of the rising sea's unruly roar.
+    Or turn my gaze upon the vistaed floor
+    Of quiet valleys, and the blue haze yonder
+    On the opposing hills. Let me traverse
+    The shadows of man's immemorial mind,
+    The haunt of fear, joy, sorrow and despair,
+    God-given wonder and the primal curse.
+    Within the throbbing heart of humankind
+    Give me my work, or let me perish there.
+
+
+
+
+Some Magic and a Moral
+
+_By Virginia H. Reichard_
+
+
+Along in the early nineties as I was traveling in the West, selling
+shoes, I left the train at the little junction of Skywaw and surveyed
+the town. I found that the proverbial hotel, blacksmith shop, general
+store and a handful of houses, beside the depot, comprised the town.
+
+After supper at the hotel, where I was waited upon by the landlord's
+pretty daughter, I asked about the storekeeper across the way and found
+to my surprise that he carried about a ten or twelve thousand dollar
+general stock which included everything from a sheepskin to a paper of
+needles. The farming country being so good, it was no wonder that this
+man did almost as big a business as many others in much larger towns,
+so the daughter told me, while the landlord himself chipped in with a
+question: "Why, don't you know this is just the richest spot in Wahoo
+County? In fact the ground is too rich. Just think of it--too rich to
+grow pumpkins."
+
+"Why," I asked, "can't you grow pumpkins?"
+
+With a smile of confidence that his joke was entirely new he replied:
+"The vines grow so fast it drags them over the ground and wears them
+out. Go up and see the storekeeper and if you sell him you get your
+money for the goods sure thing, for he sells for cash only."
+
+I picked up my grips and started to see my man at once; found him
+standing in the door chewing a quid and spitting out into the street at
+any stray chicken or dog that chanced to wander by. As he stood there
+indifferent, expressionless, he looked the typical Westerner, with an
+air of "do as you darn please" about him; pants tucked into a pair of
+boots that were run over and worn off at the toe in a peculiar way that
+would indicate to a shoeologist that he was a sharp, keen trader, very
+suspicious of strangers, hard to strike a trade with unless he could
+see a hundred per cent in it for himself. In early days he had been a
+horse trader and a dealer in buffalo hides, and had never seen the time
+when he couldn't tell what o'clock it was better by the sun than by a
+watch; a hard man to approach on the shoe subject as his mind didn't
+seem to hover around shoes.
+
+There must have been a depression in his skull where his bump of order
+was supposed to be, as from the general appearance it looked as if the
+devil had held an auction there the day before. I began my little
+"spiel" by telling my business--who I was, where I was from--and asked
+if my conversation would interest him at all if I talked about shoes
+for awhile, remarking incidentally: "You'll have some business now
+sure. Trade will get good right away, as I never opened up my samples
+in a man's store in my life but what customers came dropping in."
+
+"Well, then, for God's sake open them up. I need the business all right
+enough," quoth he.
+
+Then strange to say, as if to cinch what I had said, up rode six
+country boys on horseback, and in a minute the big strapping fellows
+came tramping in. You know the kind that work on a farm all day, ride
+to town to buy one pound of sugar for family use and ten pounds of
+chewing tobacco for their own use, and other articles in like
+proportion while they are having a good time.
+
+Taking seats on the counter opposite, they began a lot of loud talking.
+
+One picked up a turnip and began peeling it, poising it on the tip of
+his knife-blade, taking large bites, and never for a minute losing
+sight of what we were doing in the shoe line.
+
+It took a lot of persuading to get the proprietor to look at my
+samples, but I soon noticed the shrewd gleam of his eyes that told that
+he had had hold of good leather before and was a much better judge of
+my line than I expected to find in such a place. But talk about
+exhorting! How I worked with that fellow. And after keeping it up for
+two whole hours--from seven until nine, I finally landed him, selling
+him a little over five hundred dollars' worth of shoes. As I was
+getting a straight eight per cent commission at that time, the sale
+made me a little over forty dollars for two hours' work, and I was
+feeling mighty good. Even my cold-blooded customer had warmed up some
+from the effects of the deal on which he saw he was bound to make a
+good thing.
+
+While I was packing up my samples he said, sort of edging around: "Say,
+can't you sing us a song or dance us a jig or do something to entertain
+us all? You travelin' fellers allus know somethin' new, and are up to
+whatever is goin' on over the country, ain't ye?"
+
+I replied: "I can't sing; I am out of voice; but if you can furnish the
+music I can dance a jig or clog. Oh, by the way, did you ever see any
+sleight of hand or legerdemain tricks?"
+
+None of them ever had; didn't even know what they were, and solemnly
+assured me they were something new in that burg.
+
+As I had been practicing coin tricks and other feats of sleight of hand
+for the last ten years and could do many of the former, making the
+coins appear and disappear at will in a mysterious manner, I decided to
+try this form of amusement, thinking I had an easy bunch to work on. So
+I showed them a silver dollar, giving it to one of them to examine,
+passing it on to each one of them in succession, just to show them that
+it was a genuine, everyday piece. Then taking it in my hand, I
+proceeded to manipulate the coin by picking it out from underneath one
+fellow's foot as he sat on the counter dangling his long legs; taking
+it from another fellow's chin; picking it out from the pocket of the
+jumper one of them had on; finding it in the next man's ear; and
+finally, coming to the proprietor, I told him to hold his thumb and
+finger together, pointing up; then took the coin from between his own
+thumb and finger without his realizing how it got there or how it got
+away. I caught his startled look--the fellows jumped down off the
+counter and crowded close together--wonder and amazement written all
+over them. This was the first time in their lives they had ever seen a
+sleight of hand trick, where the motion of the hand is so quick the
+sight cannot follow it.
+
+But presto, chango, begono, magico, came near being too much for them.
+They were absolutely horror stricken. Some of them were unable to
+speak; some were afraid to; others couldn't speak above a whisper; and
+one of these desired to know when I would be back in that country
+again. He wanted Brother Bill to see it; in fact he would like to bring
+the whole family in.
+
+The proprietor's face was a study. Doubt, surprise and suspicion passed
+over his face in succession, but gave way to fresh curiosity when I
+asked him to bring me two hats and I would do Hermann's parlor trick
+with two hats and four balls. The method of doing this is to place the
+four balls in a square about three feet apart on a counter or a table,
+then place the hats over two of the balls; the object being to find all
+four balls under one hat, without, of course, anybody seeing how they
+got there. This I accomplished successfully, and this performance
+seemed to bring them close to the limit. They had been craning their
+necks to see, but when it was over they all straightened up, took a
+step backward in line and looked at one another. Then one of them said
+solemnly:
+
+"Folks is gettin' geniuser and geniuser every day, boys. Ain't it so?"
+And Pete nudged Jim to make sure it was no dream, then spat excitedly
+on the rusty stove.
+
+The proprietor had been eyeing me with suspicion for a good while. I
+noticed whenever I would pass in front of him he would step back and
+plant his hands tight on his pockets where he kept his money, as if he
+thought I might somehow coax it to jump out unless he held it in by
+main force. Legerdemain had scared him some and made him both
+suspicious and wary.
+
+Pretty soon I began to realize I had done a little too much; in fact, I
+had given them a little more than they had been able to digest. But
+like many another fool who has overstepped, I tried to make up by
+giving them something in another line.
+
+The proprietor looked up with a distrustful glance. "Is that all you
+can do?"
+
+"That's all in the trick line, gentlemen. But I have something that I
+can do that is out of the line of tricks. It's a gift--mind-reading.
+Only about one in six millions has it. I do the same as Brown, Johnson
+or Bishop--those big guns you have heard about--in finding any given
+object. And if you, sir (to the proprietor), will place your mind on
+any one of the ten thousand articles in this store, concentrating your
+mind on it, I will get the object you are thinking about and hand it to
+you."
+
+"You can't do that; it ain't possible," he said.
+
+One of the boys spoke up: "Aw, let him try, Dan. Gosh! Let him try."
+
+After looking around the store and meditating a little he said: "Durn
+it all, then, go ahead. I've picked out the thing I want you to get and
+by jigger I'll keep my mind on it all right."
+
+Taking his hand, placing it upon my forehead, and holding it there with
+one of mine, I started down the store, the other six rubbering after us
+with all their might. After going about thirty feet with an occasional
+kick or bump at a basket or barrel that happened to be in the way, I
+turned to the left; stopping at the show-case, and sliding back the
+doors, I reached in, picked up a razor--his own razor--that lay in the
+case and handed it to him.
+
+"Great Scott," he yelled. "The very razor I shave myself with--when I
+shave; and that's the very thing I had my mind on too, by thunder." The
+sweat stood out in great drops on his forehead and for a few minutes
+his emotion seemed to be too much for him. So I said:
+
+"Well, boys, this concludes the evening's performance; meeting's out,
+boys."
+
+Dazed with wonder, the six riders looked blankly at each other, turned
+to me grinning foolishly, then filed out, jumped on their horses and
+galloped away, whooping like Comanche Indians.
+
+Bidding the proprietor good night I started for the door.
+
+"Hold on a minute!" he cried. "I want to see you, young feller." He
+strode up to within about two feet of me, hands thrust deep in his
+pockets, looking as if he would like to fight. Then he burst out with:
+
+"Say, you're about the slickest thing I ever saw in my life, ain't you?
+You're durned slick. You're smooth--a little too smooth; and you hear
+me, you needn't send them goods I bought to-night. I won't take 'em."
+
+"What!" I cried.
+
+"You hear me; you needn't send 'em. I won't take the goods," he said in
+a tone there was no mistaking.
+
+I commenced to argue. But no. "You've done killed yourself with me,"
+was all I could get out of him, and nothing I could say or do would
+make any difference. But I was bound not to lose the forty dollars
+without a struggle and brought all the arts, arguments and persuasions
+to bear that I could think of; but without avail. He seemed to be
+convinced that if I wasn't the devil himself, at least I was a near
+relation, and he would have none of me.
+
+Then I did what I never had done before: took the dollar and carefully
+showed him just how I had done the trick, explaining that sight was
+really slower than motion sometimes and that the whole thing was
+intended to be harmless and amusing.
+
+"If that's the way you did with the money, how about the four-ball
+trick?" he asked gruffly.
+
+Still bent upon making the proposition stick, I explained the ball
+trick too, by going over it and explaining how the eye could be
+deceived. You see, I was growing more and more anxious all the time to
+cinch my commission, and felt that my efforts were worth while. When
+suddenly, dubious and still unconvinced, he turned to me and asked:
+
+"Well, how in time did you find the razor?"
+
+"I was very particular to tell you," I said, "before I went after that
+razor that it wasn't a trick. It's a gift I can't explain; nobody can;
+nobody ever did. I can't do it; I don't know how or why. Some call it
+mind-reading and some people have been kept guessing to give it a name.
+I am one of the few who can do it, that's all. When I went after the
+article you had in mind, I didn't know it was a razor; I didn't know
+what it was; but when I came in contact with what you had in mind I
+picked it up and handed it to you. This is my explanation--the only one
+I can give. I call it 'mind-reading,' that's all."
+
+After some more talk I left him mystified and distrustful, in spite of
+all I had said and done, still refusing to reinstate the order. I left
+my grips in the store as it was near the station, and went to the hotel
+to spend a restless night, kicking myself for a fool meanwhile, since
+my attempts to amuse had lost me the neat little sum of forty dollars.
+
+I slept a couple of hours when I was awakened by the most horrible
+noise it was ever my fortune to hear: Two car-loads of calves, just a
+day away from their mothers, were being shipped and their bawling was
+intolerable. Talk about your quiet country towns for rest and sleep! No
+more for me that night, I thought. So I dressed, took a smoke, and
+decided to tackle my man again in the morning and to try to change his
+mind.
+
+A little after daylight I saw him sweeping the sidewalk in front of the
+door, handling the broom as a man does a flail on the barn floor. I
+went over and said: "Good morning." As he looked up I saw that his
+glance was as surly and suspicious as it had been the night before, but
+thought I would make a good start by approaching him upon some of his
+hobbies the landlord had told me about. In his capacity as horse trader
+he prided himself on his ability to judge a good horse. So I opened up
+by telling him about a horse I owned, and asked if he had anything to
+trade for him. This seemed to bring the right twinkle into his eye, and
+he began to brace up and take notice a little. So I talked on until I
+saw the smoke of the approaching train away down the valley seven or
+eight miles along the old Kantopey trail. Then I made a last attempt.
+
+"Now see here, Mister," I said, "I came into your store last night and
+showed you my samples, showed you the names of some of the best
+merchants who have bought big bills of me and I sold you a bill of
+goods in good faith. Then you proposed that I entertain you as you had
+very little amusement in a place like this. I told you I couldn't sing
+but would do what I could with such sleight of hand tricks as I knew,
+and I did exactly what I said I would. It seemed to meet with plenty of
+approval all around until the mind-reading came up, when you turned me
+down for no reason whatever. Now, I ask you a question: Is that a
+square deal to a man on a business proposition?"
+
+He looked at the floor and was silent, though apparently a little
+uneasy. He shook his head doubtfully, which made me feel that he was
+perhaps not so unfriendly after all, and might possibly do the right
+thing yet. Hearing the distant whistle, I said:
+
+"Train's coming; have to go. Wish you good luck, just the same as if
+you'd treated me square. Wish you good crops and plenty of water for
+your stock. As long as you live don't turn another fellow down like you
+have me, just because he's done his best to give you a good time." And
+I made a rush for the depot to check my baggage.
+
+The train came in; there was the usual hurry and noise. The old fellow
+stood there, leaning against the weather-boarding of the depot like a
+picture of Uncle Sam--a queer, awkward figure with his hay-colored
+whiskers, pipe in the corner of his mouth, and hands still planted
+firmly in his pockets, his eyes riveted on every move I made.
+
+I boarded the train, said "Howdy" to a friend, and looking back saw old
+Dan standing where I had left him as if glued to the spot. The engine
+puffed and snorted; the wheels began to go around. "Good-bye," I
+shouted from the platform as if answering his steady gaze.
+
+All of a sudden the long, gaunt figure limbered up, like a corpse that
+had been touched by a galvanic battery. He came chasing down the track
+after the train, waving his arms like a windmill and yelling like
+Bedlam let loose: "Hey! Say there, you young feller; hey there! I'll
+take them goods; send 'em along. I'll take them goods. D'ye hear?"
+
+And I called back to him with great gusto: "All right," as the train
+rounded a curve.
+
+_Moral_: When you have sold your goods make your get-away.
+
+
+
+
+Sonny's Wish
+
+_By Bertha M. H. Shambaugh_
+
+
+    Sometimes before I go to bed
+      I 'member things that Grandpa said
+    When I sat close beside his knee
+      And Grandpa laid his hand on me.
+
+    I 'member how he'd smile and say,
+      "Well, what did Sonny do to-day?"
+    'Cause Grandpa always liked to know
+      (I s'pose that's why I miss him so).
+
+    I never had to coax and plead
+      For things I really didn't need:
+    I'd 'splain it in an off-hand way
+      And Grandpa brought it home next day.
+
+    When I grow up I'd like to be
+      A grandpa with a boy like me
+    To live with and to bring things to:
+      That's what I'd like the _most_ to do.
+
+    I'd rummage 'round and hunt about
+      For things the boy could do without,
+    Because you see of course I'd know
+      That's why the boy would like them so.
+
+    And when I'd bring some brand new toy
+      And someone said, "You'll spoil that boy!"
+    I'd only shake my head and say,
+      "A _good boy_ isn't spoiled that way."
+
+    When Sonny said he'd like to get
+      A nice wee doggie for a pet,
+    And when the grown-ups one and all
+      Said, "Oh, no, Son! You're much too small,"
+
+    I'd whisper, "Come, don't look so blue
+      'Cause Grandpa bought a dog for you,
+    A birthday present! Schh! Don't cry!
+      He's black and just about _so_ high."
+
+    Oh, yes! I'm sure I'd like to be
+      A grandpa with a boy like me
+    To live with and to bring things to:
+      That's what I'd like the _most_ to do.
+
+
+
+
+Dog
+
+_By Edwin L. Sabin_
+
+
+The dog we have always with us; if not active in the garden or passive
+on the best bed, then gracing or disgracing himself in other domestic
+capacities. For the dog is a curious combination, wherein heredity
+constantly opposes culture; and therefore though your dog be a woolly
+dog or a smooth dog, a large dog or a small dog, a house-dog, yard-dog,
+hunting-dog or farm-dog, he will be ever a delight and a scandal
+according as he reveals the complexities of his character. Just as soon
+as you have decided that he is almost human, he will straightway
+unmistakably indicate that he is still very much dog.
+
+As example, select, if you please, the most pampered and carefully
+nurtured dog in dog tribe: some lady's dog--beribboned King Charles,
+bejeweled poodle, befatted pug--and give him the luxury of a half-hour
+in the nearest genuine alley. Do you think that he turns up his
+delicate nose at the luscious smells there encountered? Do you think
+that because of his repeated scented baths he sedulously keeps to the
+middle of the narrow way? Do you venture to assert that he whose jaded
+palate has recently declined the breast of chicken is now nauseated by
+the prodigal waste encountered amidst the garbage cans?
+
+Fie on him, the ingrate! Why, the little rascal fairly revels in the
+riot of d�bris, and ten to one he will even proudly return lugging the
+most unsavoury of bones filched from a particularly odorous repository!
+His lapse into atavism has been prompt and certain. I agree with Robert
+Louis Stevenson that every dog is a vagabond at heart; in adapting
+himself to the companionship of man and woman, and the comforts of
+board and lodging, he leads a double life.
+
+In this respect the dog is far more servile than the cat, his
+contemporary. Generations of attempted coercion have little influenced
+the cat. She (it seems a proper distinction to speak of the cat as
+"she") steadfastly maintains the distance that shall divide cat life
+from man life. Without duress, and in spite of duress, she accepts the
+material favors of civilization and domesticity only to an extent that
+will not inconvenience her; she has no notion of responsibilities or
+indebtedness. Having achieved her demands for a warm nap or a full
+stomach, she then makes no false motions in following her own
+inclinations entirely. But the dog, occupying a limbo between his
+natural instincts and his acquired conscience, must always be a master
+of duplicity.
+
+The dog (as again points out the admirable Stevenson) has become an
+accomplished actor. Observe his ceremonious approach to other dogs.
+Mark the mutual dignity, the stiff-leggedness, the self-conscious
+strut, the rivalrous emulation, all of which plainly says: "I am
+_Mister_ So-and-So; who in the deuce are you?" No dog so small,
+and only a few faint-hearts so squalid, that they do not carry a chip
+on their shoulder. Compare with their progenitors, the wolves in a city
+park. Here encounters are quick and decisive. The one wolf stands, the
+other cringes. Rank and character are recognized at once. The pretences
+of human society have not perverted wolf ethics.
+
+Take a dog at his tricks: not the game of seeking and fetching, which
+he enjoys when in good humor, but parlor tricks. He has learned through
+fear of punishment and hope of reward. Having performed, either
+sheepishly or promptly, with what wrigglings and prancings and
+waggings, or else with what proud self-appreciation does he court
+approval. He knows very well that he is assuming not to be a dog, and
+trusts that you will admit he is smarter than mere dog. On the
+contrary, the cat tribe, jumping through a hoop, does it with a
+negligent, spontaneous grace that makes the act a condescension. The
+cat does not aspire to be human; she is fully content with being cat.
+
+Elevate a dog to a seat in an automobile (any automobile), or even to
+the box of a rattle-trap farm-wagon. How it affects him, this promotion
+from walking to riding! It metamorphoses the meekest, humblest of
+so-called curs into a grandee aristocrat, who by supercilious look and
+offensive words insults every other dog that he passes. He calls upon
+the world about to witness that he is of man-kind, not of dog-kind. A
+dog riding abroad is to me the epitome of satisfied assumption.
+
+It would be interesting to know how much, if any, the dog's brain has
+been increased by constant efforts to be humanized. The Boston bull is,
+I should judge, (and of course!) faster in his intellectual activities
+than is the ordinary English bull. And then I might refer to the truly
+marvelous feats of the sheep-dog, who will, when told, cut out any one
+sheep in a thousand; and I might refer to the finely bred setter, or
+pointer, and his almost human field work; and I can refer to my own
+dog, whose smartness, both natural and acquired, generally is
+extraordinary--although at times woefully askew, as when he buries
+pancakes in the fall expecting, if we may believe that he expects, to
+dig them up during the winter.
+
+And there are dogs with great souls and dogs with small souls. We are
+told of dogs noble enough to sit by and let a needy dog gobble the meal
+from the platter--but I suspect that such dogs are complacent because
+comfortably fixed. We hear of dogs making valiant defenses of life and
+property--which perhaps is the development of the animal instinct to
+guard anything which the animal considers its own. And dogs sometimes
+effect heroic rescues, by orders or voluntarily--although one may query
+whether they consider all the consequences.
+
+The dog's brain must be an oddly struggling mass of fact and fancy. We
+have done our best for him, and as a rule he creditably responds. I
+love my dog; he appears to love me; and by efforts of me and mine he
+has been humanized into a very adaptable personage. But I am certain
+that first principles remain the same with him as when he was a
+wolf-dog of cave age. He might grab me by the collar and swim ashore
+with me, but if on the desert island there was only one piece of meat
+between us and starvation, and he had it, I'd hate to have to risk
+getting my share without fighting for it.
+
+
+
+
+The Unredeemed
+
+THE BALLAD OF THE LUSITANIA BABES
+
+_By Emerson Hough_
+
+
+    THE HOLY THREE BEHOLD
+
+    God the Father leaned out from Heaven,
+    His white beard swept His knee;
+    His eye was sad as He looked far out,
+    Full on the face of the sea.
+    Saith God the Father, "In My Kingdom
+    Never was thing like this;
+    For yonder are sinless unredeemed,
+    And they may not enter Our bliss."
+
+    And Mary the Mother, She stood near by,
+    Her eyes full sad and grieved.
+    Saith Mary the Mother, "Alas! Alas!
+    That they may not be received.
+    Now never since Heaven began," saith She,
+    "Hath sight like this meseemed,
+    That there be sinless dead below
+    Who may not be redeemed!"
+
+    And Jesu, the Saviour, He stood also,
+    And aye! His eyes were wet.
+    Saith Jesu the Saviour, "Since Time began,
+    Never was this thing yet!
+    For these be the Children, the Little Ones,
+    Afloat on the icy sea.
+    They are doomed, they are dead, they are perished,
+    And they may not come unto Me!"
+
+
+    THE CHILDREN CRY OUT
+
+    They float, forever unburied,
+    Their faces turned to the sky;
+    With their little hands uplifted,
+    And their lips forever cry:
+
+    "Oh, we are the helpless murdered ones,
+    Blown far on the icy tide!
+    No sin was ours, but through all the days,
+    On the northern seas we ride.
+    No cerements ever enshroud us,
+    We know no roof of the sod;
+    We float forever unburied,
+    With our faces turned to God.
+
+    "So foul the deed that undid us,
+    So damned in its dull disgrace,
+    That even the sea refused us,
+    And would not give us place.
+    Nor ever a place in the sky--
+    We are lost, we are dead, we are perished,
+    Ah, Jesu, tell us why!"
+
+                 *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Now the Three who heard They wept as one,
+    But Their tears they might not cease.
+    Saith God the Father, "While unavenged
+    These may not know Our peace!
+    When the sons of men are men again,
+    And have smitten full with the sword,
+    At last these sinless but unredeemed
+    Shall enter unto their Lord.
+
+    "But deed like this is a common debt;
+    It lies on the earth-race whole.
+    Till these be avenged they be unredeemed--
+    Each piteous infant soul.
+    We must weep, We must weep, till the debt be paid,
+    Te debt of the sons of men--
+    But well avenged, they are aye redeemed;
+    Ah, how shall We welcome them then!"
+
+
+    THE SONS OF MEN HEARKEN
+
+    Are ye worth the kiss of a woman?
+    Were ye worth the roof of a womb?
+    Are ye worth the price of your grave-clothes?
+    Are ye worth the name on a tomb?
+
+    Nay! None of these is your earning,
+    And none of these be your meed,
+    If the deathless wail of their yearning
+    Shall add to your pulse no speed.
+
+    Never by hand of a warrior,
+    Never by act of a man,
+    Have the Little Ones thus perished,
+    Since ever that Heaven began.
+    Such deed and the beings who wrought it--
+    Ah! deep must the cutting go
+    To cure the world of the memory
+    Of the Little Ones in woe.
+
+    The Three watch high in Their Heaven,
+    And aye! the Three be grieved;
+    The sword is the key of Their Heaven,
+    If the babes shall be received.
+
+    Rise then, men of our banner--
+    Speak in our ancient tone--
+    Each of you for his mother,
+    Each of you for his own!
+    Smite full and fell and fearless,
+    Till that these be set free--
+    These, slain of the foulest slaying
+    That ever made red the sea.
+
+    The sword of the Great Avenger
+    Is now for the sons of men;
+    It must redden in errand holy
+    Till the babes be cradled again.
+
+  _Copyrighted, 1917, by Emerson Hough_
+
+
+
+
+Tinkling Cymbals
+
+_By Helen Sherman Griffith_
+
+
+It was in the spring of 1915 that Margaret Durant came back to her home
+in Greenfield, Iowa, from a visit to friends in the East, and brought
+with her a clear, shining flame of patriotism, with which she proceeded
+to fire the town. Margaret had always been a leader, the foremost in
+civic betterment, in government reform, and in the activities of her
+church and woman's club. She was a born orator, and loved nothing
+better than haranguing--and swaying--a crowd.
+
+A fund was started for the purchase of an ambulance, which, Margaret
+insisted, must be driven by a Greenfield man. And she expressed sorrow
+on every occasion--particularly in the hearing of the mothers of young
+men--that she had no son to offer. The Red Cross rooms became the
+centre of Greenfield social activity, and the young people never
+dreamed of giving an entertainment for any purpose save to benefit the
+Red Cross, the British Relief or the Lafayette Fund. This last became
+presently the object of Margaret's special activities, since her
+husband, Paul, some four generations previously, had come of French
+blood. "So that it is almost like working for my own country," Margaret
+said proudly. And she glowed with gratification whenever the French
+were praised.
+
+So complete and self-sacrificing was her enthusiasm that she announced,
+as the spring advanced, her intention of taking no summer vacation, but
+to dedicate the money thus saved to the Lafayette Fund, and to work for
+that organization during the entire summer.
+
+Her friends were thrilled with admiration at Margaret's attitude, and
+some of them emulated her heroic example. To be sure, staying at home
+that summer was a popular form of self-denial, since a good many
+families, even in Greenfield, Iowa, were beginning to feel the pinch
+of war.
+
+One summer afternoon, Margaret strolled home from an animated meeting
+of the Lafayette Fund, exalted and tingling with emotion. She had
+addressed the meeting, and her speech had been declared the epitome of
+all that was splendid and noble. She had moved even herself to tears
+by her appeal for patriotism. She entered the house, still mentally
+enshrouded by intoxicating murmurs of "Isn't she wonderful!" "Doesn't
+she make you wish you were a man, to go yourself!" and so forth.
+
+Softly humming the Marseillaise, she mounted the steps to her own room,
+to remove her hat. She stopped short on the threshhold with a sudden
+startled cry. Her husband was there, walking up and down the room, and
+also humming the Marseillaise. It was half an hour before his usual
+home-coming time, but that was not why Margaret cried out.
+
+Paul was dressed in khaki! He was walking up and down in front of the
+cheval glass, taking in the effect from different angles. He looked
+around foolishly when he heard his wife.
+
+"Just trying it on," he said lightly. "How do you like me?"
+
+"But Paul--what--what does it _mean?_"
+
+"Just what you have guessed. I've signed up. I'm to drive the
+Greenfield ambulance," he added with justifiable pride.
+
+Margaret stared, gasped, tottered. She would have fallen if she had not
+sat down suddenly. Paul stared, too, astonished.
+
+"Why, old girl, I thought it was what you wanted! I--you said----"
+
+"Paul, Paul! You! It can't be! Why--why, you are all I have!"
+
+"That is one reason the more for my going--we have no son to send."
+
+"But Paul--it--I--the war is so far away! It isn't as if--as if we were
+at war."
+
+"Almost--'France is the land of my ancestors'--your very words,
+Margaret."
+
+"I know, but----"
+
+"'And the cause is so just.'"
+
+"But, Paul, I did not mean----"
+
+"Did not mean what!" Paul turned and faced her sternly. "Margaret, your
+eloquence has sent a good many young men to the front. I wonder--" He
+paused, and a new expression dawned in his eyes; an expression that
+Margaret could not bear: an accusation, a suspicion.
+
+Margaret cowered in her chair and hid her face.
+
+"Oh, Paul, not that, not that! Leave me a moment, please. I--I want
+time to--to grasp it."
+
+When she was alone she sat upright and faced the look she had seen in
+Paul's eyes.
+
+"I am a canting hypocrite. I see it now, plainly. I read it in Paul's
+eyes. But I will show him he's mistaken. God! is hypocrisy always so
+cruelly punished? Merciful God, have pity upon me!"
+
+Rising to her feet, Margaret staggered to the door and called. The
+enthusiasm, the exaltation, had faded from her face, leaving it pinched
+and gray. But in her eyes a new expression had been born, which lent a
+soft radiance to her features, the light of complete self-denial. Paul
+entered, gave one look, then knelt at his wife's feet.
+
+"Forgive me, my love, for misunderstanding you. The fault was mine.
+You've been afraid I would not make good, and were testing me. Ah, my
+love."
+
+For one terrible moment Margaret hesitated. Then she whispered:
+
+"No, Paul, you were right at first; but love has conquered. Not _our_
+love, but a greater, nobler sentiment: love of Right and Justice. Do
+you remember the verse: 'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of
+angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling
+cymbal.' I--I am _not_ a tinkling cymbal, Paul. I--Oh, Paul, take
+me with you! I can be of some use over there. We will go together."
+
+Paul rose and embraced her.
+
+"My precious one! How Greenfield will honor you!"
+
+Margaret winced and hid her face in his breast.
+
+"No, Paul, no, no. Don't let them know! Let us go away quietly, in the
+night. Please, please, Paul. I--I could not bear any other way!"
+
+Durant kissed her and said no more. And if he understood, he never let
+her know that he did.
+
+
+
+
+The First Laugh
+
+_By Reuben F. Place_
+
+
+In the life of every baby there is a continuous succession of first
+impressions and adventures. The first tooth, the first crawl, the first
+step, the first word, each mark a milestone in the child's career. But
+more interesting than any of these is the first laugh--the first
+genuine, sustained, prolonged, whole-hearted laugh. If it is a
+tinkling, bubbling, echoing laugh, it sends its merry waves in all
+directions--the kind that brings smiles to sober faces.
+
+What hope springs up in the parents' breasts at the sound of that first
+laugh! How thoroughly it denotes the future!
+
+A hearty laugh or no laugh in later years may mean the difference
+between fame and obscurity, fortune and poverty, friends and enemies.
+
+"How much lies in laughter: the cipher key, wherewith we decipher the
+whole man!" wrote Carlyle.
+
+A good laugh is a charming, invaluable attribute. It saves the day,
+maintains the health, makes friends, soothes injured feelings, and
+saves big situations.
+
+Laughter is a distinguishing mark between man and beast. It is the sign
+of character and the mirror in which is reflected disposition.
+
+To laugh is to live.
+
+The babe's first laugh is a precious family memory. A load of
+responsibility goes with it. It should be guarded and guided and
+cultivated until it becomes "Laughter that opens the lips and heart,
+that shows at the same time pearls and the soul."
+
+
+
+
+The Freighter's Dream
+
+_By Ida M. Huntington_
+
+
+"Squeak! Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!" The shrill, monotonous sound rent the
+hot noontide air like a wail of complaint.
+
+"Thar she goes ag'in, a-cussin' of her driver!" grumbled old Hi, as he
+walked at the head of his lead oxen, Poly and Bony, with Buck and Berry
+panting behind them. "Jest listen at her! An' 'twas only day afore
+yistiddy that I put in a hull half hour a-greasin of her. Wal, she'll
+hev to fuss till mornin'. We ain't got no time to stop a minute in this
+hot place. If we make the springs afore the beasteses gin out 'twill be
+more'n I look fer!"
+
+Old Hi anxiously gazed ahead, trying to see through the shimmering haze
+of the desert the far-distant little spot of ground where bubbled up
+the precious spring by which they might halt for rest and refreshment.
+"G'lang, Poly! That's right, Bony! Keep it up, ol' fellers!" Hi strove
+to encourage the patient oxen as they plodded wearily along through the
+fearful heat and the suffocating clouds of fine alkali dust.
+
+For weeks the long train of covered wagons had moved steadily westward
+over the dim trails. Starting away back in Ohio, loaded with
+necessities for the prospectors in the far West, they had crossed the
+fertile prairies, stuck in the muddy sloughs, forded the swollen
+rivers, rumbled over the plains and wound in and out the mountain
+passes. Now they were crawling over the desert, man and beast almost
+exhausted, even the seasoned wagons seeming to protest against the
+strain put upon them.
+
+All that afternoon Hi walked with his oxen, talking and whistling, as
+much to keep up his own courage as to quicken their pace. For a few
+moments at a time they would rest, and then onward again towards the
+springs indicated on the map by which they traveled.
+
+Half blind and dizzy from the dust and heat, sometimes Hi stumbled and
+staggered and nearly fell. He dared not turn to see how it fared with
+the men and teams behind him. Wrecks of wagons and bones of oxen by the
+side of the trail told an all-too-plain story. Some there were in every
+train who dropped by the way; men who raved in fever and died calling
+for water; faithful oxen who were shot to put them out of misery.
+Wagons were abandoned with their valuable freight when the teams could
+no longer pull them.
+
+All afternoon they crept forward; the reiterating "Squeak! Squ-e-a-k!
+Scr-e-e-ch!" of the wagon sounded like a maddened human voice to poor
+Hi, fevered and half delirious.
+
+At last the sun sank like a ball of fire in the haze. A cool breath of
+air sighed across the plain. The prairie dogs barked from their
+burrows. The coyotes yapped in the distance. But not yet could the long
+train stop, for rest without water meant death.
+
+Far into the night the white-topped wagons crept on like specters. No
+sound was heard except that of the plodding feet of the oxen, the
+rumble of the heavy wagons and the "Squeak! Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!"
+that had troubled Hi since noon. Suddenly the oxen lifted their heads,
+sniffed the air eagerly, and without urging quickened their pace.
+
+"What is it, ol' fellers?" asked Hi, as hope revived. "Is it the water
+ye are smellin'? Stiddy, thar! Stiddy!"
+
+A few moments more, and Hi gave a shout of joy that was taken up and
+sounded down the line. "The spring! The spring!"
+
+A halt was made. Every drop of the precious water was carefully
+portioned out so that each might have his share. Preparations were made
+for the night. The wagons were pulled up in a circle. The oxen were
+carefully secured that they might not wander away. Here and there a
+flickering little fire was seen as the scanty "grub" was cooked. After
+Hi had bolted his share he wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down
+near his wagon. The large white top loomed dimly before him in the
+darkness.
+
+A little while he stretched and twisted and turned uneasily until his
+tired muscles relaxed. In his ears yet seemed to sound the "Squeak!
+Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!" of the complaining wagon as it had bothered him
+all afternoon. "Darn ye! Won't ye ever shet up?" he muttered as he
+drifted off to sleep.
+
+"Won't I ever shet up? I won't till I git good and ready!" The sharp,
+shrill voice made Hi open his eyes with a start. Above him leaned the
+huge form of an old woman in a white cap drawn close about her
+wrinkled, seamed face, only partly distinguishable in the darkness. As
+he lay blinking, trying to see her more plainly, the high falsetto
+voice continued its plaint.
+
+"Won't I ever shet up? A nice way thet is to talk to me, Hi Smith! Do I
+iver grumble and snarl when ye treat me right? Hain't I been faithful
+to ye through thick an' thin? Hain't I made a home fer ye all this hull
+endurin' trip? Hain't I looked after yer grub and yer blankets and done
+ever'thin' I could to make ye comfortable? Hain't I kep' the rain offen
+ye at night? An' thet time the Injuns was after ye, didn't I stand
+atween ye an' the redskins and pertect ye? Didn't I keep ye from
+gittin' drownded when ye crossed thet river whar the current swep' the
+beasteses offen their feet? Didn't I watch over ye and shield ye from
+the sun when ye lay sick of the fever and hadn't nary wife to look
+after ye? Hain't I follered after them dumb beasteses through mud and
+water and over gravel and through clouds of alkali dust thick enough to
+choke a person, and niver said a word? An' now, jest bekase I'm fair
+swizzled up with the heat and ye fergit to give me some grease to rub
+on my achin' j'ints, ye cuss me! Yis, I heerd ye! Ye needn't deny it!
+A-cussin' of me who has taken the place of home an' mother to ye fer
+years! I heerd ye! I he-e-rd ye! What d'ye mean, I say!" And the tirade
+ended in a perfect screech of anger.
+
+Thoroughly aroused, Hi rolled over and jumped hastily to his feet. He
+looked all around. The old woman had mysteriously vanished. A coyotte
+sneaked past him. Day was breaking in the east. The first gleam of
+light fell on the white-topped wagon drawn up beside him.
+
+He rubbed his eyes. "Wal, I swan!" he muttered, as he gazed
+bewilderedly at the close-drawn white top looming above him. "Glad I
+woke up airly! I'll hev time ter grease that thar wagon afore we
+start!"
+
+
+
+
+A Box From Home
+
+_By Helen Cowles LeCron_
+
+
+    I'll send to you in France, my dear,
+      A box with treasures in it:
+    The patch of sky that meets our hill
+      And changes every minute,
+    The grape-vine that you taught to grow--
+      My pansies young with dew,
+    The plum-tree by the kitchen door--
+      These things I'll send to you.
+
+    I'll pack with care our fragile dawn--
+      The dawn we laughed to greet;
+    I'll send the comfort of the grass
+      That once caressed your feet.
+    No yearning love of mine I'll send
+      To tear your heart in two--
+    Just earth-peace--home-peace--still and strong--
+      These things I'll send to you.
+
+    For you must tire of flags, and guns,
+      And courage high, and pain,
+    And long to rest your heart upon
+      The common things again,
+    And so I'll send no prayers, no tears,
+      No longings--only dew
+    And garden-rows, and goldenrod
+      And country roads to you!
+
+    Since life has given you to know
+      The gentle tenderness
+    Of growing things, I cannot think
+      That death would give you less!
+    Hold fast, hold fast within your heart
+      The earth-sweet hours we knew,
+    And keep, my dear, where'er you are
+      These things I send to you.
+
+
+
+
+The Spirit of Spring
+
+_By Laura L. Hinkley_
+
+
+Margaret Hazeltine sat on her porch with the spring wind blowing over
+her elusive wafts of fragrance--plum-blossom, apple-blossom, young
+grass, budding wood scents, pure, growing earth-smells.
+
+"It is like breathing poetry," Margaret thought.
+
+She was sewing, but now and then her hands fell in her lap while she
+lifted her head, catching in some wandering sweetness with a sharp
+breath, like a sigh.
+
+It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Sunshine mellowed the new
+greenness of short, tender grass on the lawns. It shone upon all the
+bare, budded branches up and down the street, seeking, caressing,
+stimulating. It lay kindly, genially, on the mid-road dust.
+
+Margaret's father was pottering about the garden. He was a very old
+man, with stooping shoulders, but tall and slender like his daughter.
+He came up to the porch and stood leaning on his hoe. The wind
+fluttered his shabby garden-coat and thin, white beard. He rested his
+wrinkled old hands on the top of his hoe handle, and cast up his faded,
+sunken eyes to the intense young blue of the sky with its fleecy clouds
+floating.
+
+Mr. Hazeltine addressed his daughter in the strain of conversational
+piety habitual with him, and in a voice which age and earnestness made
+tremulous:
+
+"Seems like every spring I get more certain of my eternal home up
+yonder!"
+
+Margaret smiled acquiescently. Long since she had silently drifted
+outside the zone of her father's simple, rigid creed; but to-day its
+bald egoism did not repel her. It seemed at one with the sweet will to
+live all about them.
+
+Mr. Hazeltine went back to the garden. A girl appeared on the porch of
+the house opposite. The Hazeltine house was small and old and not
+lately painted. The house opposite was large, fresh, trim, and
+commodious in every visible detail. White cement walks enclosed and
+divided its neatly kept lawns and parking. Its fruit-trees breathed out
+of the unfolding whiteness of their bosoms the sweetest of those
+perfumes that drifted across to Margaret. The girl on the porch pushed
+the wicker chairs about for a moment, then, disdaining them all, sat
+down on the cement steps and rested her chin in her palm.
+
+After a quick look and smile Margaret sewed busily, affecting not to
+see the other. She felt a little sympathetic flutter of pleasure and
+suspense. "Jean is waiting for Frank," she said to herself.
+
+A piano began to play in a house up the street. Through the open
+windows rang joyous, vibrant music. White moths fluttered across the
+street and the lawn and parking opposite, veering vaguely over
+scattered yellow dandelion heads. Around the house opposite on the
+cement walk strutted a very young kitten on soft paws, its short tail
+sticking straight up, its gray coat still rough from its mother's
+tongue.
+
+"Me-ow!" said the kitten plaintively, appalled at its own daring.
+
+Jean sprang up, laughing, snatched up the kitten and carried it back to
+her seat, cuddling it under her chin.
+
+Down the street came a young girl wheeling a baby's cab. The girl was
+but just past childhood, and she had been a homely child. But of late
+she had bloomed as mysteriously and almost as quickly as the
+plum-trees. She wore a light summer dress with a leaf-brown design upon
+it, in which her girlish form still half-confessed the child. Her
+complexion was clear and bright, the cheeks flushed; and the
+strongly-marked features seemed ready to melt and fuse to a softer
+mould. Her brown eyes had grown wistful and winning.
+
+As they advanced, Margaret ran down the rickety wooden walk.
+
+"Oh, is that the new baby?" she cried delightedly. "May I look?"
+
+The girl smiled assent.
+
+Softly Margaret drew back the woolly carriage robe and gazed adoringly.
+The baby was about six weeks old. Its tiny face was translucent, pinky
+white, the closed eyelids with their fringe of fine lashes
+inconceivably delicate. Its wee hands cuddled about its head; the
+curled, pink fingers, each tipped with its infinitesimal, dainty nail,
+were perfection in miniature. The formless mouth, pinker than the rest
+of the face, moved in sleep, betraying the one dream the baby knew.
+
+Margaret drew a long, still breath of rapture, hanging over the little
+pink pearl of humanity.
+
+"Will he wake if I kiss him?" she pleaded.
+
+The girl smiled doubtfully. "Maybe," she said.
+
+She was equally indifferent to the baby and to Margaret. Her wistful
+eyes wandered eagerly down the street, watching each sidewalk, and the
+glow in her cheeks and eyes seemed to kindle and waver momently.
+
+Margaret did not kiss the baby. She only bent her head close over his,
+close enough to feel his warm, quick breathing, to catch the rhythm of
+his palpitating little life.
+
+When she came back to her porch, after the girl had gone on, Margaret
+saw that Jean's caller had come.
+
+The young man sat beside Jean. His head was bare, his black hair
+brushed stiffly up from his forehead pompadour-fashion, his new spring
+suit palpably in its original creases. He and Jean talked eagerly,
+sometimes with shouts of young laughter, at which Margaret smiled
+sympathetically; sometimes with swift, earnest interchange; sometimes
+with lazy, contented intervals of silence. Occasionally he put out his
+hand to pat or tease the kitten which lay in Jean's lap. She defended
+it. Whenever their fingers chanced to touch they started consciously
+apart--covertly to tempt the chance again.
+
+Two little girls came skipping down the street, their white dresses
+tossed about their knees. Their loose hair, of the dusky fairness of
+brunette children, tossed about their shoulders and an immense white
+ribbon bow quivered on the top of each little bare head. Their dress
+and their dancing run gave them the look and the wavering allure of
+butterflies.
+
+They were on Jean's side of the street. They fluttered past the house
+unnoticed by the two on the porch, who were in the midst of an
+especially interesting quarrel about the kitten. The little girls
+passed over the crossing with traces of conscientious care for their
+white slippers, and came up on Margaret's side. Opposite her they
+paused in consultation.
+
+"Won't you come in," she called to them, "and talk to me a minute?"
+
+The two advanced hesitatingly and stood before her at a little distance
+on the young grass in attitudes clearly tentative. They were shy little
+misses, and had not lived long on that street.
+
+"Someone told me," said Margaret, "that your names were Enid and
+Elaine. Which is which?"
+
+The taller one pointed first to her embroidered bosom, then to her
+sister.
+
+"I'm Enid; she's Elaine."
+
+"I've read about you in a book of poetry," observed Margaret--"it must
+have been you! I suppose if you had a little sister her name would be
+Guinevere?"
+
+The large dark eyes of the two exchanged glances of denial. The small
+Elaine shook her head decidedly.
+
+"We _got_ a little sister!" announced Enid, "but her name ain't that;
+it's Katherine."
+
+They were both pretty with the adorable prettiness of small girls, half
+baby's beauty, and half woman's. But Enid's good looks would always
+depend more or less upon happy accident--her time of life, her flow of
+spirits, her fortune in costume. Her face was rather long, with chin
+and forehead a trifle too pronounced. But the little Elaine was
+nature's darling. Her softly rounded person and countenance were
+instinct with charm. Even her little brown hands had delicacy and
+character. Her white-stockinged legs, from the fine ankles to the
+rounded knees at her skirt's edge, were turned to a sculptor's desire.
+Beside them, Enid's merely serviceable legs looked like sticks. The
+white bows in their hair shared the ensemble effect of each: Enid's
+perched precisely in the middle, its loops and ends vibrantly and
+decisively erect; Elaine's drooped a little at one side, its crispness
+at once confessing and defying evanescence and fragility.
+
+Margaret thrilled with the child's loveliness, but for some subtle
+reason she smiled chiefly on Enid.
+
+That little lady concluded she must be a person worthy of confidence.
+
+"My doll's name is Clara," she imparted. "An' hers is Isabel, only she
+calls it 'Ithabel'!"
+
+The color deepened in Elaine's dainty cheek. She was stung to protest;
+which she did with all the grace in the world, hanging her head at one
+side and speaking low.
+
+"I don't either!" she murmured. "I thay Ithabel!"
+
+"Either way is very nice," Margaret hastened to say.
+
+"We've been to Miss Eaton's Sunday school children's party," Enid
+informed her. "These are our best dresses, and our white kid slippers.
+Don't you think they're pretty? Mine tie with ribbons, but hers only
+button like a baby's."
+
+Elaine looked down grievingly at the offensively infantile slippers,
+turning her exquisite little foot.
+
+"I'm going to speak a piece for Easter," Enid pursued, "all alone by
+myself; and she's going to speak one in concert with a class."
+
+"Oh, I hope you will come and speak them for me some time," Margaret
+invited; "and bring Clara and Isabel."
+
+"Maybe we will," answered Enid. "We must go now. Come on, Elaine."
+
+Margaret watched them until they stopped beside a flowerbed along the
+sidewalk where the first tulips of the season were unfolding. Elaine
+bent over to examine them. Margaret reproached herself that, though
+Elaine had spoken but once, it was her image that lingered uppermost.
+Why should she add even the weight of her preference to that child in
+whose favor the dice were already so heavily loaded? For in Margaret's
+eyes, beauty was always the chief gift of the gods.
+
+As she resumed her sewing, a sudden, fantastic fear shot across her
+thoughts--the fear that Elaine would die. She recognized it, in a
+moment, for the heart's old, sad prevision of impermanence in beauty,
+its rooted unbelief in fortune's constancy.
+
+A quick glance up the street showed Elaine still stooping over the
+tulip bed, her stiff little skirts sticking out straight behind her.
+The grotesqueness was somehow reassuring. Margaret smiled, half at the
+absurd little figure, half at her own absurdly tragic fancy.
+
+On the other porch Frank was taking his leave--a process of some
+duration. First he stood on the lower steps talking at length with Jean
+who stood on the top step. Then he raised his cap and started away,
+only to remember something before he reached the corner and to run back
+across the lawn. There he stood talking while Jean sat on the porch
+railing, suggesting a faint Romeo and Juliet effect. The next time,
+Jean called him back. They met halfway down the cement walk and
+conversed earnestly and lengthily.
+
+With an exquisite sympathy Margaret watched these maneuvers from under
+discreet eyelids. She was glad for them both, with a clear-souled,
+generous joy. And yet she felt a sensitive pleasure that walked on the
+edge of pain. In the young man especially she took a quick delight--in
+his supple length of limb, the spread of his shoulders, his
+close-cropped black hair, his new clothes, the way he thrust his hands
+deep in his trousers' pockets while he swung on the balls of his feet,
+the attentive bend of his head toward Jean; she reveled in all his
+elastic, masculine youth which she knew for the garb of a straight,
+strong, kindly, honorable soul. But out of the revel grew a trouble, as
+if some strange spirit prisoned in her own struggled to tear itself
+free, to fling itself, wailing, in the dust.
+
+"Egotism!" said Margaret to herself, curling her lip, sewing very fast.
+The fluttering spirit lay tombed and still.
+
+When Frank was finally gone, Jean sauntered across the street to
+Margaret's porch. She perched on the rail and pulled at the leafless
+vine-stems beside her, talking idly and desultorily of things she was
+not interested in.
+
+She was an attractive girl, more wholesome than beautiful. Her
+bronze-brown hair coiled stylishly about her head, gleamed in the late
+sun. There were some tiny freckles across her nose. She wore a pale
+blue summer-dress with short sleeves out of which her young arms
+emerged, fresh and tender from their winter seclusion.
+
+The two maidens circled warily about the topic they were both longing
+to talk of. Margaret noted in Jean a new aloofness. Every time she
+threw Frank's name temptingly into the open Jean purposely let it lie.
+
+At last, with a little gasp of laughter, looking straight before her,
+Jean exclaimed: "I guess I'm sort of scared!"
+
+"What I like about Frank," said Margaret, "is that he's so true and
+reliable. He's a fellow you can trust!"
+
+"Yes," assented Jean. "Don't you think he looks--nice in that new
+suit?"
+
+"Splendid! Frank's a handsome boy."
+
+"Isn't he?" sighed Jean.
+
+"He'll always be constant to anyone he cares for. And, I think--he does
+care for someone."
+
+"What makes _you_ think so?" demanded Jean, her blue eyes suddenly
+intent on Margaret.
+
+"What makes you think so?" Margaret parried.
+
+Jean sat up instantly very straight and stiff.
+
+"Who said I thought anything?"
+
+"Oh, no, no!" Margaret disclaimed hastily. "I didn't mean that. I meant
+anyone would think so!"
+
+Jean lapsed into a placated limpness, resting her lithe young figure in
+its summer blue against the dingy house-wall.
+
+"Isn't it funny," she mused, "how you can resolve you won't think, and
+keep yourself from thinking, and really not think, because you've made
+up your mind you wouldn't--and all the time you _know_!"
+
+Margaret was searching in her mind for some tenderest phrase of warning
+when Jean anticipated her.
+
+"Well, it's a good thing I don't care!--I thought at first I didn't
+like his hair that way, but I do now--better than the other way. He was
+telling about college."
+
+"He finishes this year, doesn't he?"
+
+"Yes. He's going in with his father next year--unless he makes up his
+mind to go to Yale. But he doesn't think he will. His father wants him
+here; and he's about decided that's best."
+
+"Marg'ret," called a thin, querulous, broken voice from within the
+house; "ain't it time you was gettin' supper?"
+
+Margaret opened the door to call back in a loud, clear voice: "Not yet,
+Mother."
+
+Jean slipped off the railing. "I must go."
+
+"It really isn't time yet. Mother gets nervous, sitting all day. And
+she doesn't care to read any more. Stay a little longer."
+
+These snatches of Jean's confidence were delicious to her.
+
+"Oh, I've got to go."
+
+Jean suddenly put both arms around Margaret's waist and clasped her in
+a swift embrace.
+
+"I wish," she said, "some awfully nice old widower or bachelor would
+come along and marry you!"
+
+As Jean crossed the street with the lowering sun making a nimbus in her
+chestnut-golden hair, she began to sing. The words sprang joyous and
+clear as a bobolink's note--
+
+    "What's this dull town to me?
+        Robin's not here!"
+
+But a sudden waft of consciousness smote them to a vague humming that
+passed swiftly into--
+
+    "My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
+    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."
+
+In the scented dark of the spring evening, Margaret came to the porch
+again. A little curved moon sailed the sky--less a light-giver than a
+shining ornament on the breast of night. A while before children's
+laughter and skurrying footfalls had echoed down the sidewalks. Boys
+had played ball in the middle of the street, with running and violent
+contortions, and shouts and calls rejoicing in the release of their
+animal energies. But these sounds had ceded to silence as the soft
+darkness fell. Then young strollers, two and two, had passed; but these
+also were gone. A gentle wind rustled very softly in the dead
+vine-stalks. The world was alone with the fragrant wind and the
+dreaming dusk and the little silver scimitar of moon.
+
+The house opposite was all dark, except for a line of lamplight beside
+the drawn blind of a side window. Earlier, Jean had turned on the porch
+lights and sat under them in the most graceful of the wicker chairs,
+reading, or affecting to read, and Frank, coming down the street, had
+seen her in all that glow. Then they had turned off the lights and gone
+away together, and the house had sunk into shadowy repose. Vague lines
+of wanness betrayed the place of the cement walks. The fruit-trees were
+dim, withdrawn, half-hinted shapes of whiteness, but their perfume,
+grown bolder in darkness, wandered the winds with poignant, sweet
+desire.
+
+Margaret leaned against the weather-worn corner-post of the porch; her
+hand passed over its cracked, paint-blistered surface with, a soft,
+absent touch. She felt to her finger-tips the wooing lure of the night.
+In the spring of her pulses she was aware of Frank and Jean somewhere
+together in the dusky, fragrant, crescent-clasped folds of it. She
+seemed to draw in with her breath and gather subtly through the pores
+of her flesh all the shy, sweet, youthful yearning of the world--and,
+behind that, wordlessly she knew the driven sap, the life-call, the
+procreant urge. She sighed and stirred restlessly. The strand of pain
+that runs in the pleasure of such moods began to ache gently like an
+old wound touched with foreknowledge of evil weather. She shared the
+pang that lies at the heart of spring.
+
+Words of poetry pressed into her mind, voices of the great
+interpreters. She was not a cultivated woman, hardly to be called
+educated; her horizon, even of books, was chance-formed and narrow; but
+what circumstance had given her she remembered well. The groping, vain
+longing that stirred in her fell on speech, and moved among the haunted
+echoes of the world.
+
+    "Bloomy the world, yet a blank all the same--
+    Framework that waits for a picture to frame."
+
+And then, sudden as a cry:
+
+    "Never the time and the place,
+    And the loved one all together!"
+
+She drew a long, shivering sigh, and deliberately thrust the lines out
+of her mind. Best not to remember them--on such a night! Their edges
+cut like young grass drawn through careless fingers.
+
+The little new moon was rising higher in the deep, soft blue-darkness
+of the sky. Margaret looked up at its gleaming curve, and other words
+of poetry came to her, words she had read once in an old
+magazine--translated from the Persian:
+
+    "Quaffing Hadji-Kivam's wine-cup, there I saw by grace of him,
+    On the green sea of the night, the new moon's silver shallop
+      swim!"
+
+They swung on, like a familiar, wistful, passionate tune:
+
+    "Oh, my heart is like a tulip, closing up in time of cold!
+    When, at length, shy Bird of Fortune, shall my snare thy
+      wings enfold?"
+
+Footsteps sounded along the walk, the linked steps of two, lingering,
+yet with the springing fall of youth; then a murmur of voices, girl's
+and boy's interchanging, lingering, too, and low, weighted, like the
+footsteps, with the burden of their hour. Margaret drew back a little
+behind the sapless vine-stems. She knew that she could not be seen in
+the shadow of the porch, even by a passer far less absorbed than the
+two who drifted by. She had recognized Frank and Jean at once, and
+thrilled intimately at the quality of their voices. Both were changed
+from the careless tones of every day, Frank's husky and strained,
+Jean's vibrant and tremulous. What they said was quite inaudible--only
+that betraying _timbre_, conscious and unconscious, hung on the
+scented air. A single word in the girl's thrilled voice--a sharpened,
+quivering note of life at high tension--pierced the shadows of the
+porch:
+
+"---- you ----"
+
+"'You!'" Margaret leaned forward among her shadows, thrusting her
+clenched hands downward, then pressed them tight upon her heart. "You!"
+That little key unlocked the flood-gates. The barriers went down, and
+the tide of passionate loneliness swept her soul.
+
+"You!" she whispered to the fragrant, shimmering, vitalizing night; and
+the word mocked her, and returned unto her void. She leaned her bosom
+against the angled surface of the porch-post; she pressed her face
+among the dry, unbudded vines. The cry went out from her into the empty
+spaces of the world--a voiceless, hopeless call: "You! you! you! Oh,
+you who never came to me!"
+
+Her soul was ravaged by that mocking bitterness of loss which comes
+only to those who have not possessed. She, crying for a lover in the
+night, she who had never been sought! If ever her shy and homely
+girlhood might have attracted a youth, poor Margaret's love of poetry
+would have frightened him away. If the burdened poverty of her maturity
+might have admitted a suitor, her acquaintance numbered no man who
+would not have shunned an earnest-minded old maid. And she knew this
+utterly. A thousand old aches were in the sudden rush of anguish, and
+shame fought among them. She was shocked and startled at the drip of
+salt tears down her cheeks, at the heaving of her shaken breast.
+
+She struggled to rebuild her old barriers against the woe--pride, and
+dignity, and the decent acceptance of one's lot. But those were for the
+eyes of men and women; and here were no eyes, only night, and the risen
+sap and the wild heart in her breast. Duty? She had never swerved in
+doing it, but she thrust the thought by with passionate rebellion at
+the waste of her in dull service to the outworn lives which neither
+asked nor could take from her anything but the daily drudgery. She
+groped for the old humble consolations, tender appreciations, generous
+friendships, the joy in others' joy. But there the wall had broken
+through. "I am nothing to them!" thought Margaret bitterly. "Jean will
+not care to talk to me after to-night. And I can't always kiss other
+people's babies! I want one of my own!"
+
+The gauzy veil of dream that wrapped her often had fallen from before
+her eyes. Rent by the piercing beauty of the night, and soaked in her
+tears, that fragile fabric of vision served no more. Imagined blisses
+had betrayed her, naked and tender, to the unpitying lash of truth. The
+remote, the universal, mocked her sore longing for something near and
+real, of earth and flesh--oh, as welcome in sorrow as in joy!--to be
+imperiously her own! The river of life dashed by and would not fill her
+empty cup. The love she loved so had passed her by.
+
+She faced the hollowest desolation known to humanity. She had committed
+no sin; she had been true and tender and faithful; she had not failed
+in the least and humblest dues of love: yet, now she stood wrapped in
+torment, and saw, across a great gulf fixed, the joys of love's elect.
+She stood utterly frustrate and alone--a shared frustration were
+happiness! Her mental life had been so intensely uncompanioned that she
+was tortured with doubts of her own reality. What warrant of Being had
+that soul which could not touch in all the blank, black spaces of the
+void another soul to give it assurance of itself? What if the aching
+throat and riven breast were but the phantom anguish of a dream Thing,
+unpurposed, unjustified, a Thing of ashes and emptiness!
+
+There remained God--perhaps! Was God a dream too? Was there any _You_
+in all the empty worlds?
+
+She stood quite still, questing the universe for God. She thought of
+her father's God--the savage Hebrew deity he thought he worshiped, the
+harsh Puritan formalist who ruled his creed, the hysterical, illogical
+sentimentalist who swayed his heart. She dropped them all out of her
+mind. God was not, for her, in the ancient earthquake or fire or
+whirlwind. But--perhaps--somewhere!
+
+She sank to her knees in the darkness, and, laying her head upon her
+arms on the railing, sought in her soul for God.
+
+"You are Love," she said. "They say it, but they do not believe it;
+but _I_ believe it. You are Love that creates, and makes glad--and
+wounds. You are Love that rises in all creatures in spring, and would
+make all things beautiful and kind. You are Love that gives--and gives
+itself. You made me to love love and love's uses, and nothing else in
+the world! You made my life loveless. Why?"
+
+She waited a moment, then, with a sobbing breath of remembrance, "Oh,
+one spring they nailed you on a cross because you loved too much!"
+
+After that she was very still, her head bent upon her arms, her heart
+quiet, waiting for the still, small voice, the answer of God.
+
+It came presently, and she knew it was the answer. She accepted it with
+comfort, and sad pride, and submission, and a slow, strange, white
+happiness of consecration. The answer came without any words. If there
+had been words, they might have been, perhaps, like these:
+
+"Bear the pain patiently, my daughter, for life is wrought in pain, and
+there is no child born without sharp pangs. I have not shut thee out
+from my festival of spring. Thy part is thy pang. I have given thee a
+coronal of pain and made thee rich with loss and desire. I have made
+thee one of my vestals who guard perpetually the hearth-fire which
+shall not be lit for them. I have denied thee love that love shall be
+manifest in thee. Wherever love fails in my world, there shalt thou
+re-create it in beauty and kindness. The vision thou hast, and the
+passion, are of me, and I charge thee find some fair and sweet way that
+they perish not in thee. All ways are mine. Be thou in peace."
+
+Margaret rose at length. The moon was gone from the sky, but out of its
+deep, tender darkness shone the far, dim light of stars. A cool wind
+touched her cheek, bearing a faint, ethereal odor of blossoms as from a
+great distance. And upon her face, if one might have seen for the
+darkness, shone a fine, ethereal beauty far-brought from that great
+distance which is nearer than hands and feet.
+
+Against the shadowy front of the house opposite, two figures were
+vaguely discernible, the taller a little darker than the encompassing
+space, the other a little lighter. As Margaret looked, they melted
+together, and were no longer two but one.
+
+She smiled in the darkness, very sweetly, and, holding her head high,
+turned and went quietly into the dark little house.
+
+
+
+
+Work Is a Blessing
+
+_By Lafayette Young_
+
+
+Work is a blessing to the human race.
+
+If this had remained a workless world, it would have been a homeless
+world. The progress of the human race began when work began. When work
+began, men began to wear clothes; thus progress commenced.
+
+Industry and happiness go hand in hand.
+
+Men who feel that they are doomed to daily toil, and that there is no
+so-called emancipation from the daily routine, imagine that happiness
+would be theirs if they did not have to work. The man whose employment
+compels him to get up at six o'clock in the morning imagines if he
+could just get out of that slavery he would ask for no greater
+happiness. But if he ever does reach that condition he will find out
+what true misery is.
+
+Some years ago the warden of the Iowa penitentiary told me that he had
+a prisoner serving a long term, who begged a day off. He wanted to stop
+the regular routine. He wanted to be set free in the courtyard for one
+day. He wanted to look straight up at the sky, and to breathe the air
+of the outdoors. I was at the penitentiary the day the prisoner's
+request was granted, and at ten o'clock the prisoner had grown tired of
+idleness. The sky had lost its attraction. There was something missing.
+And he got word to the warden that he wished to be returned to labor.
+
+There are millions of men toiling in factories and in mines, laying
+brick on tall buildings, swinging cranes in the great iron mills,
+tending the machines in cotton or woolen mills, who think that they
+would be perfectly happy if they were once perfectly idle. But their
+experience would be like that of the prisoner's.
+
+What a wretched world this would be without work! How many things we
+have which are indispensable, that we would not have but for somebody's
+work. Work has built every great bridge, every great cathedral, every
+home, large or small. It has made every invention. Work found man in a
+cave, and put him into a good home. Work has made man decent and
+self-respecting.
+
+The great nations are the working nations; the great peoples are the
+working peoples. Nations, like individuals, date their prosperity and
+happiness from the beginning of work. The start was made when man gave
+attention to the primal curse of the race recorded in the book of
+Genesis: "By the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, until thou
+return to the ground." This mandate has never been repealed. Lazy men
+in all parts of the world have undertaken to nullify it. The ambition
+for idleness fills jails and penitentiaries. It causes man to commit
+forgeries and murders. Every man slugged in a dark alley is put out of
+the way by some other man desiring money without working for it.
+
+There has been a foolish notion in many countries in regard to labor.
+They do not consider it dignified. In some countries, missionary
+families learn that they cannot cook their own victuals without losing
+caste. In other countries a certain number of servants must be kept if
+the family would be respected. In our own country there is a false
+pride in regard to labor. Young men avoid the learning of trades
+because they do not wish to soil their hands. Laboring men themselves
+have been guilty of not sufficiently estimating their own callings.
+They demand the rights of their class, but fail to respect it
+themselves. This causes many young men to seek some employment which
+will not soil their hands. Many thousands of young men make the mistake
+of not having some regular calling, some work which they can do better
+than anybody else. The man who has a regular trade is never found
+walking the streets looking for a job. Even when he is called old, he
+can secure employment.
+
+Industry is indispensable to happiness. Idleness destroys the souls of
+more young men, and leads to more forms of dissipation, than any other
+influence.
+
+The experienced mechanic knows how rapidly and joyfully time passes
+when he is interested in his work. He never watches the clock; to him
+quitting time comes all too soon.
+
+Labor can be made a joy if man wills it so.
+
+An appreciation of what a man earns and the thought that he can do
+something with his money, ought to be a part of the happiness of labor.
+Work develops the man. It develops his appreciation of others. He is
+likely to be unhappy if he works solely for himself. The Indian hunter,
+returning from the chase, lays the evidence of his prowess at the feet
+of his squaw. He is glad that he has accomplished something, and in her
+eyes he is a hero.
+
+Once I was driving in the Allegheny Mountains in the early summer.
+Unexpectedly I came to a little cottage almost covered with flowers and
+vines. A brown-faced woman with pruning shears was at her work. Around
+her bees were humming, and birds were twittering. I sought to buy some
+flowers. She said she never had sold a flower in her life. I asked her
+what induced her to work early and late, cultivating, planting and
+pruning. She said, "I do this work because I enjoy it, and because my
+husband and two sons will enjoy these flowers when they come home at
+night." This woman had the whole philosophy of human happiness. If
+there are women in heaven she will be there.
+
+Work came as a blessing. It remains as a blessing. It makes us tired so
+that we can enjoy sleep. We awaken in the morning refreshed for a new
+day. When kings and queens shall be no more, when autocracy shall end,
+when the voices of intelligent men and women shall govern, then if work
+shall be universal, thus satisfying the energy, and giving direction to
+the ambitions of men, there will be no more wars.
+
+To make work enjoyable, men and women must be proud of it; must not
+pretend that they are above it; must not apologize for it. Once I was
+in Holland. I saw women with a peculiar headdress as if they belonged
+to some lodge. They wore smiling faces. I inquired what their regalia
+meant, and was told that they were working women of the peasant or some
+other humble class. They were proud of their position. They were
+content, with plenty to do. They enjoyed the society of their families
+and friends. But their happiness consisted in being proud of, and
+satisfied with, the things they were doing. Who can say that they have
+not chosen the better part?
+
+
+
+
+September
+
+_By Esse V. Hathaway_
+
+
+      Blaze on blaze of scarlet sumach,
+    Roadsides lined with radiant gold,
+      Purple ironweed, regal, slender,
+    Rasping locust, shrill and bold.
+
+      Dusty smell in field and upland,
+    Sky of copper mixed with blue,
+      Life intense as is the weather--
+    Let's away, just me and you!
+
+[Illustration: HOST AND HOUSEGUEST
+
+               "I say, old top, I wish you wouldn't be continually
+               kissing the wife. I think once when you come and once
+               when you go quite sufficient."
+
+               "But, my dear man, I can't wear myself out coming and
+               going all the time just to please you."
+
+               _--From "Judge." Copyright by Leslie-Judge Co._]
+
+
+
+
+The Poet of the Future
+
+_By Tacitus Hussey_
+
+
+    Oh, the poet of the future. Will he come to us as comes
+    The beauty of the bugle's voice above the roar of drums--
+    The beauty of the bugle's voice above the roar and din
+    Of battle drums that pulse the time the victor marches in?
+
+    --_James Whitcomb Riley._
+
+    "Oh, the poet of the future!" Can anybody guess
+    Whether he'll sound his bugle, or she'll wear them on her
+      dress;
+    An' will they kinder get their themes from nature, second
+      hand,
+    An' dish 'em up in language that plain folks can't
+      understand?
+
+    There's a sight of this 'ere po'try stuff, each year, that
+      goes to waste,
+    Jest a-waitin' fer a poet who has the time and taste
+    To tackle it just as it is, an' weave it into rhyme,
+    With warp and woof of hope and love, in life's swift loom
+      of time.
+
+    An' mebbe the future poet, if he understands the thing,
+    Won't start the summer katydids to singin' in the spring,
+    Jest like the croakin' frog; but let the critter wait at
+      most,
+    To announce to timid farmers that "it's jest six weeks till
+      frost."
+
+    The katydid and goldenrod are partners in this way:
+    They sing and bloom where'er there's room, along life's
+      sunny way;
+    So I warn you, future poet, jest let 'em bloom an' lilt
+    Together--don't divorce 'em. That's jest the way they're
+      built.
+
+    In order to be perfect, the future poet should
+    Know every sound of nature, of river, lake an' wood,
+    Should know each whispered note and every answerin' call--
+    He should never set cock-pheasants to drummin' in the fall.
+
+    "Under the golden maples!" Not havin' voice to sing
+    They flap their love out on a log quite early in the spring;
+    For burnin' love will allus find expression in some way--
+    That's the style that _they've_ adopted--don't change
+      their natures, pray.
+
+    I cannot guess just what the future poet's themes may be;
+    Reckon they'll be pretty lofty, fer, as anyone can see,
+    The world of poetry's lookin' up an' poets climbin' higher;
+    With divine afflatus boostin' them, of course they must
+      aspire.
+
+    The poets of the good old times were cruder with the pen;
+    Their idees weren't the same as ours--these good
+      old-fashioned men--
+    Bet old Homer never writ, even in his palmiest day,
+    Such a soul-upliftin' poem as "Hosses Chawin' Hay."
+
+    "Hosses" don't know any better out in the Hawkeye State--
+    Down to Boston now, I reckon, they jest simply masticate.
+    The poet of the future'll blow a bugle, like as not--
+    Most all us modern poets had to blow fer what we've got.
+
+    To keep the pot a-b'ilin' we all have to raise a din
+    To make the public look our way--an' pass the shekels in.
+    The scarcity of bugles seems now the greatest lack
+    Though some of us keep blowin' 'thout a bugle to our back.
+
+    The poet of the future! When once he takes his theme
+    His pen will slip as smoothly as a canoe glides down stream.
+    He'll sing from overflowin' heart--his music will be free--
+    Would you take up a subscription fer a robin in a tree?
+
+    He'll never try to drive the Muse, if he doesn't want to go,
+    But will promptly take the harness off--er drive keerfully
+      an' slow--
+    When po'try's forced, like winter pinks, the people's apt to
+      know it
+    An' labor with it jest about as hard as did the poet.
+
+
+
+
+Putting the Stars with the Bars
+
+_By Verne Marshall_
+
+
+Midnight beneath a low-hanging strip of amber-hued moon. Smoke in one's
+eyes and sulphur in his nostrils; the pounding of cannon in his ears
+and a hatred of war and its sponsors in his soul. A supply wagon piled
+high with dead men on one side of the road and a little ambulance
+waiting for its bruised load to emerge from the mouth of the
+communicating trench near by. Sharp tongues of fire darting into the
+night on every side as the guns of the French barked their challenge at
+the Crown Prince on the other bank of the Meuse. A lurid glare over
+there to the left where the smoke hung thickest under drifting yellow
+illuminating bombs and red and blue signal bombs that added their touch
+to the weird fantasy that wasn't a fantasy at all, but a hill in whose
+spelling men had changed one letter and turned it into hell.
+
+It was Dead Man's Hill at Verdun--Le Cote Mort Homme. And Dead Man's
+Hill it truly was, for among the barbed wire entanglements and in some
+of the shell craters in No Man's Land there still lay the skeletons of
+Frenchmen and Germans who had been killed there months before and whose
+bodies it had been impossible to recover because the trenches had not
+changed positions and to venture out between them was to shake hands
+with Death.
+
+Dead Man's Hill at Verdun--where ten thousand men have fought for a few
+feet of blood-soaked ground in vain effort to satiate the battle-thirst
+of a monarch and his son! The countryside for miles around is laid
+waste. Villages lie in tumbled masses, trees are uprooted or broken
+off, demolished wagons and motors litter the roads and fields, and dead
+horses, legs stiff in the air, dot the jagged landscape. Not a moving
+object is seen there by day except the crows that flutter above the
+uptorn ground and the aeroplanes that soar thousands of feet above.
+But, with the coming of night, long columns of men wind along the
+treacherous roads on their way to or from the trenches, hundreds of
+supply wagons lumber across the shell holes to the stations near the
+line, ammunition trains travel up to the lines and back and the
+ambulances ply their routes to dressing stations. Everything must be
+done under night's partially protecting cloak, for the German gunners
+seldom miss when daylight aids their vision.
+
+A tiny American ambulance--a jitney--threads its way down from the Dead
+Man to ----, carrying a boy through whose breast a dum-dum bullet had
+torn its beastly way. Three hours before, the driver of that ambulance
+had talked with the boy who now lay behind him on a stretcher. Then the
+young Frenchman had been looking forward to the wondrous day when the
+war would end. He had planned to come to America to live, just as soon
+as he could get back to Paris and say good-bye to the mother from whom
+he had received a letter that very day.
+
+"I will be lucky!" he had exclaimed to the American. "I will not be
+killed. I will not even be wounded. Ah, but won't I be glad when the
+war is over!"
+
+But his life was slipping away, faster than the Red Cross car could
+carry him to aid. The checking station reached, two orderlies pulled
+the stretcher from the ambulance. There was a choking sound in the
+wounded soldier's throat and the driver, thinking to ease his
+breathing, lifted his head. The closed eyes fluttered open, the
+indescribable smile of the dying lighted his face and with his last
+faint breath he murmured those words that always still war
+momentarily--
+
+"Ah, _mere_! _Ma mere!_"
+
+"Oh, mother! My mother!"--and he was dead.
+
+Just one little incident of war, just a single glimpse at the
+accomplishments of monarchial militarism.
+
+That French boy has not come to America, but America has gone to him.
+He died for a flag that is red, white and blue--for the tricolor of
+France. And we have gone across the sea to place the stars of our flag
+with the bars of his. His fight was our fight and our fight is his.
+Together we fight against those who menace civilization in both old
+world and new. We fight against the army that outraged Belgium and
+devastated France, against the militaristic clique that sanctioned the
+slaughtering and crippling of little children, the maiming of women,
+against that order of militarists who decorated the commander of the
+submarine that sank the Lusitania with her babies and their mothers.
+
+We are at war and we are Americans.... Enough.
+
+    Verne Marshall was the driver of that ambulance. Three months of
+    his service were spent at Verdun.
+
+
+
+
+The Kings of Saranazett
+
+_By Lewis Worthington Smith_
+
+A SCENE FROM THE FIRST ACT
+
+
+      A drama of the awakening of the nearer Orient. In this scene
+      Nasrulla appears as the royal lover of the fig merchant's
+      daughter, Nourmahal. She has learned something of the ways of
+      the West, where even kings have but one acknowledged consort,
+      and she is not willing to be merely one of a number of queens.
+
+    Before the wall and gate enclosing Nourmahal's Garden. It is early
+    morning, just before dawn. Above the gleaming white of the wall's
+    sun-baked clay there is the deep green of the trees--the plane,
+    the poplar, the acacia, and, beyond the garden, mountains are
+    visible through the purple mist of the hour that waits for dawn,
+    slowly turning to rose as the rising sun warms their snowy
+    heights. At the left the wall extends out of sight behind a clump
+    of trees, but at the right it ends in a tower topped by a turret
+    with a rounded dome passing into a point. The space under the dome
+    is open, except for a railing, and is large enough for one or more
+    persons. It may be entered from the broad top of the wall through
+    a break in the railing. At the left, out from the trees and in
+    front of the wall, there is a well marked out with roughly piled
+    stones.
+
+    At the right, out of sight behind the trees that come almost to
+    the tower at the corner of the wall, a man's voice is heard
+    singing Shelley's "Indian Serenade."
+
+    "I arise from dreams of thee
+      In the first sweet sleep of night,
+    When the winds are breathing low,
+      And the stars are shining bright;
+    I arise from dreams of thee,
+      And a something in my feet
+    Hath led me--who knows how?
+      To thy chamber window, Sweet!
+
+    "The wandering airs they faint
+      On the dark, the silent stream--
+    The Champak odors fail
+      Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+    The nightingale's complaint,
+      It dies upon her heart;--
+    As I must die on thine,
+      O! beloved as thou art!
+
+    "Oh lift me from the grass!
+      I die! I faint! I fail!
+    Let thy love in kisses rain
+      On my lips and eyelids pale.
+    My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+      My heart beats loud and fast;--
+    Oh! press it to thine own again,
+      Where it will break at last."
+
+    During the singing Nourmahal has come slowly out from the left,
+    walking along the broad top of the wall until, coming to the tower,
+    she drops down on the floor by the railing of the turret and
+    listens, her veil falling from before her face. When the song has
+    ended, Nasrulla comes forward and approaches the little tower. He
+    leads a horse, a white horse with its tail dyed red in the Persian
+    fashion.
+
+_Nourmahal._ You turn the gray of the poplars in the darkness into the
+silver of running water.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The dawn is waiting under your veil. I see now only
+the morning star.
+
+_Nourmahal._ I am but the moon, and I must not be seen when My Lord
+the Sun comes.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The Lord of the Sky rises to look on the gardens
+where the nightingales have been singing.
+
+_Nourmahal._ But when he finds that the nightingales are silent, he
+passes to other gardens.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Following the song, as I follow the lisp of spring in
+your voice, the flutter of the wings of birds in the branches when
+buds are swelling.
+
+_Nourmahal._ It is the flutter of wings and the song that you care
+for; it is not the bird.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It is the song of the bird that tells me where I
+shall find the bird herself. It is the oasis lifted up into the sky
+that guides the thirsty traveler across the desert.
+
+_Nourmahal (rising in agitation)._ When I am your queen, will you
+follow the voices of other nightingales?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ You will be my first queen.
+
+_Nourmahal._ I must be your only queen.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Always my first queen, and in your garden the
+fountains shall murmur day and night with a fuller flow of water than
+any others. The flowers there shall be more beautiful than anywhere
+else in all the world, and a hundred maidens shall serve you.
+
+_Nourmahal._ And I shall not be your only queen?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It is not the way of the world.
+
+_Nourmahal._ I have heard stories of places where the king has only
+one queen.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It has never been so in Saranazett.
+
+_Nourmahal._ It has not been so in Saranazett, but does nothing
+change?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I must be king in the way of my ancestors.
+
+_Nourmahal (dropping down by the railing again)._ And we must live in
+the way of our ancestors, over and over again, sunrise and noon-glare
+and star-shine, as it was before our stars rose in the heavens, as it
+always will be?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Our ancestors have taught us that a king should not
+live too meanly.
+
+_Nourmahal._ We cannot appeal to our ancestors. We cannot appeal to
+anything, and nothing can be undone. As the Persian poet says, "The
+moving finger writes," and what is written must be.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ And if what is written is beautiful, and if you are
+to be a king's throne-mate, if all the treasures of all the world are
+to be sought out for you----
+
+_Nourmahal._ It is nothing, nothing, if you must have another wife, if
+you must have two other wives, three.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ My prime minister will choose the others. I choose
+you.
+
+_Nourmahal (passionately)._ But what shall we ever choose again--and
+get what we choose? Have not the hours been counted out for us from
+the beginning of the world? Can we stop the grains of sand in the
+hour-glass?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Each one will make a new pleasure as it falls.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Yes, but it falls. We do not gather it up. It falls out
+of the heavens as the rain comes. We cannot make it rain.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ But the drops are always pleasant.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Yes, like a cup of water to a prisoner who dies of thirst
+and cannot know when his jailer comes. If we could bring the clouds up
+over the sun when the hot dust is flying, it would be really pleasant,
+but
+
+      "That inverted Bowl we call the Sky,
+    Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
+      Lift not your hands to _It_ for help--for It
+    As impotently moves as you or I."
+
+You are my sky, and the old poet is right, if you must have four wives
+because your father had four wives, and his father.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ They are but symbols of kingliness, and they
+shall bow in the dust before you, whom my heart chooses, as weeds by
+the roadside bow when you pass in your tahktiravan and the air follows
+its flying curtains.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Why should anyone bow to me? Why should I care for
+bowing? It would make me a slave to the custom of bowing. Are you a
+king and must you be a slave too? Impotence is the name of such
+kingship, and why should I care to be a queen when my king cannot make
+me queenly?
+
+_King Nasrulla (advancing to the tower and leaving his horse
+standing)._ Come! The stars are paling, and there is only the light
+of your eyes to lift me out of the dust. Come!
+
+    In the side of the wall by the tower a sloping series of stout pegs
+    has been driven, descending to the ground at short intervals.
+    Nourmahal comes out of the tower, puts her foot on the highest of
+    these pegs, takes Nasrulla's hand, and, with his help, comes slowly
+    down the pegs, as if they were a flight of stairs, to the ground.
+
+_Nourmahal._ How I love a horse! It is Samarcand and Delhi and Bokhara
+and Paris, even Paris.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Paris! What is Paris?
+
+_Nourmahal (standing in front of the horse and caressing its head)._ I
+don't know. I have never been there, but a horse makes me think of
+Paris. I don't know London, but a horse makes me think of London too.
+A horse could take me there. I could ride and ride, and every day
+there would be something new and something wonderful. There are cities
+beyond the water, too, marvelous cities, full of things more than we
+dream of here. A horse is swift, and the tapping of his feet on the
+stones is distance. When he lifts his head, when he curves his neck,
+already in his heart he is going on and on.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ And these are the stories that you have heard,
+stories about Paris and London and the cities across the water?
+
+_Nourmahal._ Stories? Perhaps not stories. Dreams, I think, imaginings
+dropped from the wings of falcons flying out of the west.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ You shall sit on the horse, and you can seem to be
+riding. Then as your dreams come true, you can tell them to me. Let
+the horse be Paris in my fancies too, and London and the cities across
+the water.
+
+    The horse is still standing where he stopped when Nasrulla led him
+    out from behind the trees with him. He faces toward the left, and
+    Nasrulla is back of him. Nourmahal puts her foot into Nasrulla's
+    hand, and he lifts her into the saddle. When she is comfortably
+    seated, he stands beside her and in front of her, back of the
+    horse, leaning against the horse's neck and caressing his shoulder.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Now we are on the road, and all the world is moving
+across the horizon. If it is all a dream, let me be in the dream.
+
+_Nourmahal (looking out and away from him and pausing a moment)._
+Stories! Dreams!--What I have heard is only a whisper, but it seems so
+true and so beautiful. Somewhere a man loves one woman always and no
+other. Somewhere a king is not a manikin stalking through ceremonies.
+Somewhere he lives humanly as other men. Somewhere to-day is not like
+yesterday, and man has learned to break the cycle of what has been
+forever, of what seems dead and yet out of death comes back again and
+again. I have not seen it, but I know it. Somewhere you and I could be
+happy without being king or queen. Somewhere a woman thinks her own
+thoughts, and not the thoughts of her lord only. Somewhere men are not
+bound to a king, and somewhere kings are not bound to the words of
+their fathers' fathers.
+
+_King Nasrulla (slowly, after a pause)._ It is the way of the world,
+Nourmahal. What the world is, it is, and that is forever and ever,
+unless it should be the will of God to make a new world.
+
+_Nourmahal._ A new world! (_She pauses dreamily._) Yes, that is what I
+want, a new world. That is what men are making somewhere, I know it.
+That is what is in my heart, and the same thing must be in the hearts
+of other men and women. A new world! What would it be to wake up every
+morning with a fresh wonder, not knowing what the day would bring?
+What would it be every morning to take the saddle and follow a new
+road ahead of the sun?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ If I could go with you----
+
+_Nourmahal._ You have horses.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It is not so decreed. My place is here.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Your place is here, and it is your place to have three or
+four queens as your ministers decide for you. One queen is to keep
+peace with the King of the South, another is to keep peace with the
+King of the West, and the third is to keep peace with the King of the
+East. The fourth queen you may choose for yourself from your own
+people--if you choose before some other king offers a daughter. You
+may make slaves of your queens so that your neighbor kings may make a
+slave of you.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Yes, if I would be king--and you would be queen.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Queen!--in a world where the flowers that bloom to-day
+died centuries ago! Queen--in a world where queens may look out of
+grated windows and never walk the streets! Queen--in a world where My
+Lord the King may not come to my door too often lest the daughter of
+the King of the South put poison in the nectar that her slaves offer
+him to-morrow!
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The world is the world, and its enduring is forever
+and ever. We are but shadows that change and break on the surface of
+running water. We may stand for a moment in the sun, but we cannot
+stop the rain that fills the stream. We cannot fix our images for a
+moment on the drops that are rushing out to the sea.
+
+_Nourmahal (looking away from him dreamily)._ "Ah Love! could you and
+I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things Entire, Would
+we not shatter it to bits--and then Remould it nearer to the Heart's
+desire?"
+
+    He looks at her steadily, but she does not turn her head, and,
+    while they are so silent a woman comes from the left with a water
+    jar, fills it from the well, puts it on her head, and passes off
+    again. The sun is now warming the tops of the mountains to a soft
+    pink.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ We must find the water where it flows--or go thirsty.
+
+_Nourmahal (more passionately)._ But somewhere the women do not carry
+water. The poet only thought of doing what somewhere men have done.
+Here a thousand years are but as yesterday and ten thousand as a watch
+in the night. I am not I, but an echo of the mad desires of dead men
+whose dust has been blown across the desert for countless centuries.
+Why should I not think of my own desires before my dust, too, flies
+forgotten before the passing caravans?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ But you are to be my queen. Nothing more can anyone
+give you in Saranazett.
+
+_Nourmahal._ And to-morrow or next week your ambassador to the King of
+the East comes back with letters and pledges of friendship. Perhaps he
+brings with him the King's daughter.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ But she is only the official seal of a bond, only a
+hostage. She is not the rose that I pin over my heart. She is not the
+nightingale that I love to hear singing in my garden. She is not the
+face behind the lattice that draws my eager feet. She is not the
+fountain that will make me drink and drink again.
+
+_Nourmahal._ But I shall not ride with you into the distance and leave
+the kings' daughters behind?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The King of the East----
+
+_Nourmahal._ I know. The King of the East has a great army. I must
+stay in my garden, or I shall have to spend my life talking about the
+things he likes or dislikes, his angers and his fondnesses, with the
+women of his harem.
+
+    She puts her foot out for his hand, ready to be taken down from
+    the horse.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Nourmahal!
+
+_Nourmahal._ Yes, I must keep my veil before my face and stay within
+my garden.
+
+    He helps her down, and she turns the horse's head back to the right
+    in the direction from which they came.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I shall take you, Nourmahal, and make you queen.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Take me! Take the others and let them be queens. They
+will be happy enough, after the way of their mothers, but you cannot
+take the wind.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Being your lover is not ceasing to be king. May
+not the king ask of his subjects what he will? What is it to be king?
+
+_Nourmahal (turning as she is passing toward the gate)._ Sometimes
+it is making a fresher and happier world for those who come to kneel
+before the throne. Kings are not often so wise.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ And when they are not so wise they think of their
+own happiness. They let love come into the palace, and the favorite
+queen has the riches of the earth heaped in jewels before her. The
+tenderness of the moon shines in the clasp of her girdle, and the
+splendor of the sun glitters in a circlet for her forehead.
+
+_Nourmahal._ And sometimes, seeking their own pleasure, kings make
+the killing of those who are not kings their joy. They teach all men to
+be soldiers and all soldiers to be ruthless. Their women learn to
+delight in the echoes of battle, and the man who is not scarred by the
+marks of many fights they pity and despise. So women forget to be
+gentle, and the lords and masters of earth no longer watch over them
+and care for them, no longer shelter the weak and the defenseless, no
+longer think of right and justice, because they carry in their hands
+the javelins of might and they have learned to fling them far.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ But I shall watch over you as the cloud watches
+over the garden where the roses are waiting for the rain.
+
+_Nourmahal._ No, I shall not have a king to watch over me.
+Somewhere they have no kings. A queen dies daily with loneliness, or
+lives hourly in the burning hate of all her sister queens. To breathe
+the air where there are no queens would be an ecstasy. I will not be a
+king's first queen or his last queen or his concubine or any other
+creature whom he may cast aside for a new fancy whenever the fancy
+comes.
+
+    A messenger enters from the right, preceded by two attendants
+    carrying each one of the long, melon-shaped lanterns that accompany
+    royalty. The messenger bows before Nasrulla, dropping on one knee.
+
+_Messenger._ Your Royal Highness, I am sent to beg that you will hear
+me.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It is my pleasure to listen to your message. Speak!
+
+_Messenger._ It is not I speaking, Your Majesty, but your minister,
+Huseyn.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I listen to the words of Huseyn.
+
+_Messenger._ Know, O Mighty Lord of the Great Center of Earth--the
+ambassador to the King of the East is reported returning by the long
+highway.
+
+    Nourmahal's father, Mehrab, comes out from the gate in the wall and
+    stands listening.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Say to Huseyn that I will see him and make
+arrangements for his reception before nightfall.
+
+_Messenger._ He brings very important tidings, Your Majesty. Pardon
+me, O Lord of the Lives of Your Servants. I speak but the words of
+Huseyn.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I hear the words of Huseyn.
+
+_Messenger._ The ambassador should be received a early as may be, is
+the word of Huseyn. He knows the will of the King of the East, and the
+King of the East would know your will, O Mightiest of the Mighty.
+
+_Nourmahal (bowing to her knees before him)._ Let me beg of you also,
+King Nasrulla, that you give audience at once to the ambassador who
+comes with word from the King of the East.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I listen to the words of Nourmahal with the words of
+Huseyn.
+
+_Messenger._ And I shall say to the Prime Minister Huseyn that His
+Majesty, the Lord of Everlasting Effulgence, will graciously consent
+to speak with him before the sun looks in at his image in the water
+jars.
+
+_Nourmahal._ O King Nasrulla, for the sake of the rule that is thine
+from thy fathers, for the maintaining of peace in all thy borders, for
+the security of thy people, who harvest their hopes in fear, permit
+the approach of the ambassador who returns from the King of the East.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The wish of Nourmahal is a command. I go to make
+ready for the ambassador who comes with word from the King of the
+East.
+
+_Nourmahal._ And for the daughter of the King of the East, give
+thanks, O King Nasrulla. It is said that she is very beautiful, and
+many wooers have sought her vainly. She has been kept for the joy and
+the splendor and the growing greatness of My Lord the King.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Announce my coming to my Prime Minister, Huseyn.
+
+_Messenger (rising)._ Your Noble Majesty is most gracious. I fly with
+your words to Huseyn.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ As a king I go, but my thoughts are not a king's
+thoughts, and they stay here. It may be I shall look for them again,
+as one looks for love in his friend's heart at the home-returning.
+Farewell!
+
+_Nourmahal._ I shall keep your thoughts forever, My Lord Nasrulla, but
+for the King and the ways of the King--farewell!
+
+    The two lantern carriers who have come with the messenger turn to
+    the right to light the way for the King, and, as they pass off, he
+    follows them. Nourmahal watches them until they are gone, while
+    Mehrab, Nourmahal's father, comes forward slowly.
+
+_Mehrab._ He threatened you, did he?
+
+_Nourmahal._ Threaten! No, father, he did not threaten me.
+
+_Mehrab._ Does he not mean to make you queen whether you wish to be or
+not?
+
+_Nourmahal._ He will not dare.
+
+_Mehrab._ I am only a merchant, only a dealer in figs and olives. I am
+not to be feared or considered by him or by those that are about him.
+It is the way of his kind to think that you are to be taken as he
+would take a pomegranate from the garden of one of his satraps.
+
+_Nourmahal._ He will not take me.
+
+_Mehrab._ They despise me because I go with the caravans, but I have
+learned something. I know the world. My camels have tracked the sands
+hundreds of miles from Saranazett, and there are places where the
+words of Nasrulla the King mean less than the words of Mehrab the
+merchant.
+
+_Nourmahal._ They will have horses to follow us. Horses are swifter
+than camels.
+
+_Mehrab._ We shall have horses too, and ours shall be the fleetest.
+The riders of the King's horses will put out their palms for my
+silver. They will know how to make their whips fall lightly.
+
+_Nourmahal (eagerly)._ Let us go to-morrow. Let us go before the
+daughter of the King of the East is carried in her palanquin to the
+palace. I want to see all the places where you have been. I want to
+know something of the strange things that you have seen.
+
+_Mehrab._ The women of Saranazett have never traveled.
+
+_Nourmahal._ But I will not be a woman of Saranazett. There are other
+worlds and other ways for me than the ways of Saranazett.
+
+_Mehrab._ You shall not be queen one day and someone else queen in
+your place the next. I was not born to live in the world's high
+places, but also I was not born to bend the knee. You shall not suffer
+because you are not a king's daughter, and because those that are
+kings' daughters smile at you behind their curtains.
+
+_Nourmahal (more dreamily reluctant)._ If we could make Saranazett
+over into a new world.
+
+_Mehrab._ A new world somewhere else, Nourmahal. The packs are being
+made ready for the camels. Have your women tie up your clothes as if
+they were bundles of figs. Day after to-morrow or the next day or the
+next, we shall take horse and follow. We shall go to a world that is
+an old, old world, wiser than our world, a world where men's thoughts
+are free and their women's eyes look wherever they will.
+
+_Nourmahal (passing to the gate)._ The women shall make ready.
+
+_Mehrab._ At once, and tell Zuleika she goes with you.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Zuleika shall make ready.
+
+    She passes out through the gate into the garden. Mehrab turns and
+    sees the spikes driven into the wall by the tower. For a moment he
+    looks at them in astonishment, observing that they pass down to the
+    ground slopingly, and then, one by one, he pulls them out and
+    flings them down on the ground violently.
+
+
+
+
+The Old Cane Mill
+
+_By Nellie Gregg Tomlinson_
+
+
+    "What's sorghum?" Don't you know sorghum?
+    My gran'son nigh sixteen,
+    Don't boys know nothin' nowadays?
+    Beats all I ever seen.
+    Why sorghum's the bulliest stuff
+    Wuz ever made ter eat.
+    You spread it thick on homemade bread;
+    It's most oncommon sweet.
+
+    "Come from?" Wall yer jist better bet
+    It don't come from no can.
+    Jus' b'iled down juice from sorghum cane,
+    Straight I'way 'lasses bran'.
+    "What's cane?" It's some like corn, yer know,
+    An' topped with plumes o' seed.
+    Grows straight an' tall on yaller clay
+    That wouldn't grow a weed.
+
+    Long in September when 'twuz ripe,
+    The cane-patch battle field
+    Wuz charged by boys with wooden swords,
+    Good temper wuz their shield.
+    They stripped the stalks of all their leaves,
+    Then men, with steel knives keen
+    Slashed off the heads and cut the stalks
+    An' piled them straight an' clean.
+
+    The tops wuz saved ter feed the hens,
+    Likewise fer nex' year's seed.
+    The farmer allus has ter save
+    Against the futur's need.
+    The neighbors cum from miles erbout
+    An' fetched the cane ter mill.
+    They stacked it high betwixt two trees,
+    At Gran'dads, on the hill.
+
+    An' ol' hoss turned the cane mill sweep,
+    He led hisself erroun.
+    The stalks wuz fed inter the press,
+    From them the sap wuz groun'.
+    This juice run through a little trough
+    Ter pans beneath a shed;
+    There it wuz b'iled an' skimmed and b'iled,
+    Till it wuz thick an' red.
+
+    Then it wuz cooled an' put in bar'ls
+    An' toted off to town
+    While us kids got ter lick the pan,
+    Which job wuz dun up brown.
+    Gee whiz! but we did hev good times
+    At taffy pullin' bees.
+    We woun' the taffy roun' girls' necks--
+    Bob wuz the biggest tease.
+
+    Inside the furnace, on live coals,
+    We het cane stalks red hot,
+    Then hit 'em hard out on the groun'--
+    Yer oughter hear 'em pop!
+    Sometimes a barefoot boy would step
+    Inter the skimmin's hole,
+    Er pinch his fingers in the mill,
+    Er fall off from the pole.
+
+    When winter winds went whis'lin' through
+    The door an' winder cracks,
+    An' piled up snow wuz driftin'
+    Till yer couldn't see yer tracks,
+    Then we all drawed roun' the table
+    An' passed the buckwheat cakes,
+    Er mebbe it wuz good corn bread.
+    "What's sorghum?" Good lan' sakes.
+
+    Wall, son, yer hev my symperthy;
+    Yer've missed a lot, I swan.
+    Oh, sure yer dance an' joy-ride
+    Frum ev'nin' untel dawn,
+    Yer've football, skates an' golf ter he'p
+    The passin' time ter kill,
+    But give me mem'ry's boyhood days,
+    Erroun' the ol' cane mill.
+
+
+
+
+The Queer Little Thing
+
+_By Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd_
+
+
+Bonita Allen was a queer little thing. Everyone in the school, from
+Miss Ryder down to the chambermaid, had made remarks to that effect
+before the child had spent forty-eight hours in the house, yet no one
+seemed able to give a convincing reason for the general impression.
+
+The new pupil was quiet, docile, moderately well dressed, fairly good
+looking. She did nothing extraordinary. In fact, she effaced herself
+as far as possible; yet from the first she caused a ripple in the
+placid current of the school, and her personality was distinctly felt.
+
+"I think it's her eyes," hazarded Belinda, as she and Miss Barnes
+discussed the new-comer in the Youngest Teacher's room. "They aren't
+girl eyes at all."
+
+"Fine eyes," asserted the teacher of mathematics with her usual
+curtness.
+
+Belinda nodded emphatic assent. "Yes, of course; beautiful, but so big
+and pathetic and dumb. I feel ridiculously apologetic every time the
+child looks at me, and as for punishing her--I'd as soon shoot a deer
+at six paces. It's all wrong. A twelve-year-old girl hasn't any right
+to eyes like those. If the youngster is unhappy she ought to cry
+twenty-five handkerchiefs full of tears, as Evangeline Marie did when
+she came, and then get over it. And if she's happy she ought to smile
+with her eyes as well as with her lips. I can't stand self-repression
+in children."
+
+"She'll be all right when she has been here longer and begins to feel
+at home," said Miss Barnes. But Belinda shook her head doubtfully as
+she went down to superintend study hour.
+
+Seated at her desk in the big schoolroom she looked idly along the
+rows of girlish heads until she came to one bent stoically over a
+book. The new pupil was not fidgeting like her comrades. Apparently
+her every thought was concentrated upon the book before her. Her
+elbows were on her desk, and one lean little brown hand supported the
+head, whose masses of straight black hair were parted in an unerring
+white line and fell in two heavy braids. The face framed in the smooth
+shining hair was lean as the hand, yet held no suggestion of
+ill-health. It was clean cut, almost to sharpness, brown with the
+brownness that comes from wind and sun, oddly firm about chin and
+lips, high of cheekbones, straight of nose.
+
+As Belinda looked two dark eyes were raised from the book and met her
+own--sombre eyes with a hurt in them--and an uncomfortable lump rose
+in the Youngest Teacher's throat. She smiled at the sad little face,
+but the smile was not a merry one. In some unaccountable way it spoke
+of the sympathetic lump in her throat, and the Queer Little Thing
+seemed to read the message, for the ghost of an answering smile
+flickered in the brown depths before the lids dropped over them.
+
+When study hour was over the Youngest Teacher moved hastily to the
+door, with some vague idea of following up the successful smile, and
+establishing diplomatic relations with the new girl; but she was not
+quick enough. Bonita had slipped into the hall and hurried up the
+stair toward the shelter of her own room.
+
+Shrugging her shoulders, Belinda turned toward the door of Miss
+Ryder's study and knocked.
+
+"Come in."
+
+The voice was not encouraging. Miss Lucilla objected to interruptions
+in the late evening hours, when she relaxed from immaculately fitted
+black silk to the undignified folds of a violet dressing gown.
+
+When she recognized the intruder she thawed perceptibly.
+
+"Oh, Miss Carewe! Come in. Nothing wrong, is there?"
+
+Belinda dropped into a chair with a whimsical sigh.
+
+"Nothing wrong except my curiosity. Miss Ryder, do tell me something
+about that Allen child."
+
+Miss Lucilla eyed her subordinate questioningly.
+
+"What has she been doing?"
+
+"Nothing at all. I wish she would do something. It's what she doesn't
+do, and looks capable of doing, that bothers me. There's simply no
+getting at her. She's from Texas, isn't she?"
+
+The principal regarded attentively one of the grapes she was eating,
+and there was an interval of silence.
+
+"She is a queer little thing," Miss Lucilla admitted at last. "Yes,
+she's from Texas, but that's no reason why she should be odd. We've
+had a number of young ladies from Texas, and they were quite like
+other school girls only more so. Just between you and me, Miss Carewe,
+I think it must be the child's Indian blood that makes her seem
+different."
+
+"Indian?" Belinda sat up, sniffing romance in the air.
+
+"Yes, her father mentioned the strain quite casually when he wrote.
+It's rather far back in the family, but he seemed to think it might
+account for the girl's intense love for nature and dislike of
+conventions. Mrs. Allen died when the baby was born, and the father
+has brought the child up on a ranch. He's completely wrapped up in
+her, but he finally realized that she needed to be with women. He's
+worth several millions and he wants to educate her so that she'll
+enjoy the money--'be a fine lady,' as he puts it. I confess his
+description of the girl disturbed me at first, but he was so liberal
+in regard to terms that----"
+
+Miss Lucilla left the sentence in the air and meditatively ate another
+bunch of grapes.
+
+"Did her father come up with her?" Belinda asked.
+
+"No, he sent her with friends who happened to be coming--highly
+respectable couple, but breezy, very breezy. They told me that Bonita
+could ride any broncho on the ranch and could shoot a jack-rabbit on
+the run. They seemed to think she would be a great addition to our
+school circle on that account. Personally I'm much relieved to find
+her so tractable and quiet, but I've noticed something--well--unusual
+about her."
+
+As Belinda went up to bed she met a slim little figure in a barbaric
+red and yellow dressing gown crossing the hall. There was a shy
+challenge in the serious child face, although the little feet, clad in
+soft beaded moccasins, quickened their steps; and Belinda answered the
+furtive friendliness by slipping an arm around the girl's waist and
+drawing her into the tiny hall bedroom.
+
+"You haven't been to see me. It's one of the rules that every girl
+shall have a cup of cocoa with me before she has been here three
+evenings," she said laughingly.
+
+The Queer Little Thing accepted the overture soberly and, curled up in
+the one big chair, watched the teacher in silence.
+
+The cocoa was soon under way. Then the hostess turned and smiled
+frankly at her guest. Belinda's smile is a reassuring thing.
+
+"Homesick business, isn't it?" she said abruptly, with a warm note of
+comradeship in her voice.
+
+The tense little figure in the big chair leaned forward with sudden,
+swift confidence.
+
+"I'm going home," announced Bonita in a tone that made no
+reservations.
+
+Belinda received the news without the quiver of an eyelash or a sign
+of incredulity.
+
+"When?" she asked with interest warm enough to invite confession and
+not emphatic enough to rouse distrust.
+
+"I don't know just when, but I have to go. I can't stand it and I've
+written to Daddy. He'll understand. Nobody here knows. They're all
+used to it. They've always lived in houses like this, with little back
+yards that have high walls around them, and sidewalks and streets
+right outside the front windows, and crowds of strange people going by
+all the time, and just rules, rules, rules, everywhere. Everybody has
+so many manners, and they talk about things I don't know anything
+about, and nobody would understand if I talked about the real things."
+
+"Perhaps I'll understand a little bit," murmured Belinda. The Queer
+Little Thing put out one hand and touched the Youngest Teacher's knee
+gently in a shy, caressing fashion.
+
+"No, you wouldn't understand, because you don't know; but you could
+learn. The others couldn't. The prairie wouldn't talk to them and
+they'd be lonesome--the way I am here. Dick says you have got to learn
+the language when you are little, or else have a gift for such
+languages, but that when you've once learned it you don't care to hear
+any other."
+
+"Who's Dick?" Belinda asked.
+
+"Dick? Oh he's just Dick. He taught me to ride and to shoot, and he
+used to read poetry to me, and he told me stories about everything. He
+used to go to a big school called Harvard, but he was lonesome
+there--the way I am here."
+
+"The way I am here" dropped into the talk like a persistent refrain,
+and there was heartache in it.
+
+"I want to go home," the child went on. Now that the dam of silence
+was down the pent-up feeling rushed out tumultuously. "I want to see
+Daddy and the boys and the horses and the cattle, and I want to watch
+the sun go down over the edge of the world, not just tumble down among
+the dirty houses, and I want to gallop over the prairie where there
+aren't any roads, and smell the grass and watch the birds and the sky.
+You ought to see the sky down there at night, Miss Carewe. It's so big
+and black and soft and full of bright stars, and you can see clear to
+where it touches the ground all around you, and there's a night breeze
+that's cool as cool, and the boys all play their banjos and guitars
+and sing, and Daddy and I sit over on our veranda and listen. There's
+only a little narrow strip of sky with two or three stars in it out of
+my window here, and it's so noisy and cluttered out in the back
+yards--and I hate walking in a procession on the ugly old streets, and
+doing things when bells ring. I hate it. I hate it."
+
+Her voice hadn't risen at all, had only grown more and more vibrant
+with passionate rebellion. The sharp little face was drawn and pale,
+but there were no tears in the big tragic eyes.
+
+Belinda had consoled many homesick little girls, but this was a
+different problem.
+
+"I'm sorry," she said softly. "Don't you think It will be easier after
+a while?"
+
+The small girl with the old face shook her head.
+
+"No, it won't. It isn't in me to like all this. I'm so sorry, because
+Daddy wants me to be a lady. He said it was as hard for him to send me
+as it was for me to come, but that I couldn't learn to be a lady with
+lots of money to spend down there with only boys and him. There wasn't
+any lady there on the ranch at all, except Mammy Lou, the cook, and
+she didn't have lots of money to spend, so she wasn't the kind he
+meant. I thought I'd come and try, but I didn't know it would be like
+this. I don't want to be a lady, Miss Carewe. I don't believe they can
+be very happy. I've seen them in carriages and they don't look very
+happy. You're nice. I like you, and I'm most sure Daddy and Dick and
+the boys would like you, but then you haven't got lots of money, have
+you? And you were born up here and you don't know any better anyway.
+I'm going home."
+
+The burst of confidence ended where it had begun. She was going home,
+and she was so firm in the faith that Belinda, listening, believed
+her.
+
+"But if your father says no?"
+
+The dark little face was quiet again, all but the great eyes.
+
+"I'll have to go," the Queer Little Thing slowly said.
+
+Four days later Miss Lucilla Ryder called the Youngest Teacher into
+the study.
+
+"Miss Carewe, I'm puzzled about this little Miss Allen. I had a letter
+from her father this morning. He says that she has written that she is
+very homesick and unhappy and doesn't want to stay. He feels badly
+about it, of course, but he very wisely leaves the matter in our
+hands--says he realizes she'll have to be homesick and he'll have to
+be lonesome if she's to be a lady. But he wants us to do all we can to
+make her contented. He very generously sends a check for five hundred
+dollars, which we are to use for any extra expense incurred in
+entertaining her and making her happy. Now, I thought you might take
+her to the theater and the art museum, and the--a--the aquarium, and
+introduce her to the pleasures and advantages of city life. She'll
+soon be all right."
+
+With sinking heart Belinda went in search of the girl. She found her
+practicing five-finger exercises drearily in one of the music-rooms.
+As Belinda entered the child looked up and met the friendly,
+sympathetic eyes. A mute appeal sprang into her own eyes, and Belinda
+understood. The thing was too bad to be talked about, and the Youngest
+Teacher said no word about the homesickness or the expected letter. In
+this way she clinched her friendship with the Queer Little Thing.
+
+But, following the principal's orders, she endeavored to demonstrate
+to Bonita the joy and blessedness of life in New York. The child went,
+quietly wherever she was taken--a mute, pathetic little figure to whom
+the aquarium fish and the Old Masters and the latest matinee idol were
+all one--and unimportant. The other girls envied her her privileges
+and her pocket-money, but they did not understand. No one understood
+save Belinda, and she did her cheerful best to blot out old loves with
+new impressions; but from the first she felt in her heart that she was
+elected to failure. The child was fond of her, always respectful,
+always docile, always grave. Nothing brought a light into her eyes or
+a spontaneous smile to her lips. Anyone save Belinda would have grown
+impatient, angry. She only grew more tender--and more troubled. Day by
+day she watched the sad little face grow thinner. It was pale now,
+instead of brown, and the high cheek bones were strikingly prominent.
+The lips pressed closely together drooped plaintively at the corners
+and the big eyes were more full of shadow than ever; but the child
+made no protest or plea, and by tacit consent she and Belinda ignored
+their first conversation and never mentioned Texas.
+
+Often Belinda made up her mind to put aside the restraint and talk
+freely as she would to any other girl, but there was something about
+the little Texan that forbade liberties, warned off intruders, and the
+Youngest Teacher feared losing what little ground she had gained.
+
+Finally she went in despair to Miss Ryder.
+
+"The Indian character is too much for me," she confessed with a groan
+half humorous, half earnest. "I give it up."
+
+"What's the matter?" asked Miss Ryder.
+
+"Well, I've dragged poor Bonita Allen all over the borough of
+Manhattan and the Bronx and spent many ducats in the process. She has
+been very polite about it, but just as sad over Sherry's tea hour as
+over Grant's tomb, and just as cheerful over the Cesnola collection as
+over the monkey cages at the Zoo. The poor little thing is so unhappy
+and miserable that she looks like a wild animal in a trap, and I think
+the best we can do with her is to send her home.
+
+"Nonsense," said Miss Lucilla. "Her father is paying eighteen hundred
+dollars a year."
+
+Belinda was defiant.
+
+"I don't care. He ought to take her home."
+
+"Miss Carewe, you are sentimentalizing. One would think you had never
+seen a homesick girl before."
+
+"She's different from other girls."
+
+"I'll talk with her myself," said Miss Lucilla sternly.
+
+She did, but the situation remained unchanged, and when she next
+mentioned the Texan problem to Belinda, Miss Lucilla was less positive
+in her views.
+
+"She's a very strange child, but we must do what we can to carry out
+her father's wishes."
+
+"I'd send her home," said Belinda.
+
+It was shortly after this that Katherine Holland, who sat beside
+Bonita at the table, confided to Belinda that that funny little Allen
+girl didn't eat a thing. The waitress came to Belinda with the same
+tale, and the Youngest Teacher sought out Bonita and reasoned with
+her.
+
+"You really must eat, my dear," she urged.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"You'll be ill if you don't."
+
+"How soon?"
+
+Belinda looked dazed.
+
+"I'm afraid I don't understand."
+
+"How soon will I be sick?"
+
+"Very soon, I'm afraid," the puzzled teacher answered.
+
+"That's good. I don't feel as if I could wait much longer."
+
+Belinda gasped.
+
+"Do you mean to say you want to be ill?"
+
+"If I get very sick Daddy will come for me."
+
+The teacher looked helplessly at the quiet, great-eyed child, then
+launched into expostulation, argument, entreaty.
+
+Bonita listened politely and was profoundly unimpressed.
+
+"It's wicked, dear child. It would make your father wretchedly
+unhappy."
+
+"He'd be awfully unhappy if he understood, anyway. He thinks I'm not
+really unhappy and that it's his duty to keep me here and make a lady
+of me, no matter how lonely he is without me. He wrote me so--but I
+know he'd be terribly glad if he had a real excuse for taking me
+home."
+
+Belinda exhausted her own resources and appealed to Miss Lucilla, who
+stared incredulously over her nose-glasses and sent for Bonita.
+
+After the interview she called for the Youngest Teacher, and the two
+failures looked at each other helplessly.
+
+"It's an extraordinary thing," said Miss Lucilla in her most
+magisterial tone--"a most extraordinary thing. In all my experience
+I've seen nothing like it. Nothing seems to make the slightest
+impression upon the child. She's positively crazy."
+
+"You will tell her father to send for her, won't you?"
+
+Miss Lucilla shook her head stubbornly.
+
+"Not at all. It would be the ruination of the child to give in to her
+whims and bad temper now. If she won't listen to reason she must be
+allowed to pay for her foolishness. When she gets hungry enough she
+will eat. It's a shame to talk about a child of twelve having the
+stoicism to starve herself into an illness just because she is
+homesick at boarding-school."
+
+Belinda came back to her thread-worn argument.
+
+"But Bonita is different, Miss Ryder."
+
+"She's a very stubborn, selfish child," said Miss Ryder resentfully,
+and turning to her desk she changed the conversation.
+
+Despite discipline, despite pleadings, despite cajolery, Bonita stood
+firm. Eat she would not, and when, on her way to class one morning the
+scrap of humanity with the set lips and the purple shadows round her
+eyes fainted quietly, Belinda felt that a masterly inactivity had
+ceased to be a virtue.
+
+James, the house man, carried the girl upstairs, and the Youngest
+Teacher put her to bed, where she opened her eyes to look unseeingly
+at Belinda and then closed them wearily and lay quite still, a limp
+little creature whose pale face looked pitifully thin and lifeless
+against the white pillow. The Queer Little Thing's wish had been
+fulfilled and illness had come without long delay.
+
+For a moment Belinda looked down at the girl. Then she turned and went
+swiftly to Miss Ryder's study, her eyes blazing, her mouth so stern
+that Amelia Bowers, who met her on the stairs, hurried to spread the
+news that Miss Carewe "was perfectly hopping mad about something."
+
+Once in the presence of the August One the little teacher lost no time
+in parley.
+
+"Miss Ryder," she said crisply--and at the tone her employer looked up
+in amazement--"I've told you about Bonita Allen. I've been to you
+again and again about her. You knew that she was fretting her heart
+out and half sick, and then you knew that for several days she hasn't
+been eating a thing. I tried to make you understand that the matter
+was serious and that something radical needed to be done, but you
+insisted that the child would come around all right and that we
+mustn't give in to her. I begged you to send for her father and you
+said it wasn't necessary. I'm here to take your orders, Miss Ryder,
+but I can't stand this sort of thing. I know the girl better than any
+of the rest of you do, and I know it isn't badness that makes her act
+so. Now she is ill--really ill. I've just put her to bed, and
+honestly, Miss Ryder, if we don't send for her father we'll have a
+tragedy on our hands. It sounds foolish, but it is true. If nobody
+else telegraphs to Mr. Allen I am going to do it."
+
+                 *       *       *       *       *
+
+When the doctor came there were bright red spots on the Queer Little
+Thing's cheeks, and she was babbling incoherently about prairie
+flowers and horses and Dick and Daddy.
+
+Meanwhile a telegram had gone to Daddy and the messenger who delivered
+it heard a volume of picturesque comment that was startling even on a
+Texas ranch.
+
+"Am coming," ran the answering dispatch received by Miss Ryder that
+night; but it was not until morning that Bonita was able to understand
+the news.
+
+"He's scared, but I know he's glad," she said and she swallowed
+without a murmur the broth against which even in her delirium she had
+fought.
+
+One evening, three days later, a hansom dashed up to the school and
+out jumped a tall, square-shouldered man in a wide-brimmed hat, and
+clothes that bore only a family resemblance to the clothing of the New
+York millionaires, though they were good clothes in their own
+free-and-easy way.
+
+A loud, hearty voice inquiring for "My baby" made itself heard even in
+the sickroom, and a sudden light flashed into the little patient's
+eyes--a light that was an illumination and a revelation.
+
+"Daddy," she said wearily, and the word was a heart-throb.
+
+Mr. Allen wasted no time in a polite interview with Miss Ryder.
+Hypnotized by his masterfulness, the servant led him directly up to
+the sick-room and opened the door.
+
+The man filled the room; a high breeze seemed to come with him, and
+vitality flowed from him in tangible waves. Belinda smiled, but there
+were tears in her eyes, for the big man's heart was in his face.
+
+"Baby!"
+
+"Daddy!"
+
+Belinda remembered an errand downstairs.
+
+When she returned the big Texan was sitting on the side of the bed
+with both the lean little hands in one of his big brawny ones, while
+his other hand awkwardly smoothed the straight black hair.
+
+"When will you take me home, Daddy?" said the child with the shining
+eyes.
+
+"As soon as you're strong enough, Honey. The boys wanted me to let
+them charge New York in a bunch and get you. It's been mighty lonesome
+on that ranch. I wish to heaven I'd never been fool enough to let you
+come away."
+
+He turned to Belinda with a quizzical smile sitting oddly on his
+anxious face.
+
+"I reckon she might as well go, miss. I sent her to a finishing
+school, and by thunder, she's just about finished."
+
+There was a certain hint of pride in his voice as he added
+reflectively:
+
+"I might have known if she said she'd have to come home she meant it.
+Harder to change her mind than to bust any broncho I ever tackled.
+Queer Little Thing, Baby is."
+
+  Copyrighted by Doubleday, Page & Co.
+
+
+
+
+An American Wake
+
+_By Rose A. Crow_
+
+
+This was the last night in the old home, which had sheltered the
+family for five generations. The day had been full of excitement, as
+by a merciful ordinance last days usually are. The final packing had
+been done, the chests and boxes securely fastened and carefully
+labeled. This was all looked after by Margaret, herself, amidst
+interruptions by her brood of young children. Visits from friends and
+relatives, living at a distance, occupied much of the day; attending
+to countless minor things kept them all busy until nightfall. Even
+then there was no time allowed to visit the shrine.
+
+Margaret had a fairy shrine, to which she carried the cares of the day
+and the hopes of the morrow. This charmed place was a stile over the
+ivy-clad walls of the garden. There she brought her childish joys and
+sorrows, and in the quiet received consolation. She had fought the
+fiercest battles of her womanhood with her head resting against the
+ivy-covered pillar. To-night, when she was parting from her country
+and friends, there was no time to commune with her silent friend.
+
+Shortly after dusk, in accordance with local etiquette, very stringent
+on such momentous occasions, the relatives, friends and neighbors of a
+lifetime began to drop in by twos and threes until every inch of wall
+space was filled.
+
+Who of all this gathering was more welcome than "John, the Fiddler"?
+He was a great favorite with young and old. The sight of him carrying
+his fiddle caused a feeling of emotion in the hearts of the older
+people. It recalled the tragic story of John's father who years before
+left for America intending to send for his wife and crippled son. A
+fever contracted on shipboard deprived them of a husband and father.
+It was then that John Doyle became "John, the Fiddler."
+
+John was beckoned into the "room," where with Father O'Connell and a
+few trusty friends, he was treated to a small measure of potheen. Dan
+Monahan had donated a very small jug for this special occasion. To be
+given the first shot from Dan's still was no small favor, as those
+present knew. Before taking his seat at the end of the room, John
+drank Margaret's health, wishing herself and family a safe voyage
+across the water, and a happy home on the prairies of Iowa.
+
+Each guest realized the strain of parting and generously made an
+effort to conceal the gloom with a brave semblance of mirth. There was
+dancing, singing of songs, and elaborate drinking of healths. With
+persistent calls for Margaret's brother James, the dancing stopped.
+The floor was cleared, and he was borne in on the shoulders of the
+leaders, who had found him leaning against the ivy-covered wall,
+gazing at the moon, floating over his old home which, alas! he would
+never see again.
+
+James MacNevin was a magnificent specimen of Irish manhood and a
+charming singer. He was about twenty-three years old, tall and
+broad-shouldered, with a fine head of curly auburn hair. His clear
+blue eyes reflected the sadness of the group around him, while his
+white teeth flashed a smile. In one hand he crushed his handkerchief,
+while with the other he nervously twirled a sprig of ivy. A few
+measures of "Good Night and Joy Be with You All" came from the violin.
+For an instant he wavered, then throwing back his head he sang the
+song, not with full volume, but with intense feeling, emphasis and a
+clear ringing tone. The song seemed to voice his own feelings as his
+chest rose and fell. He was no longer just James MacNevin, but a
+pilgrim traveling to a strange country. His whole soul was filled with
+the sentiment, and there was such pathos in its heart-throb that the
+whole company was moved to tears. The last verse ended, he stood a
+moment with gaze transfixed--then rousing himself, bowed, smiled and
+with one hand in his sister Margaret's, the other clutching the sprig
+of ivy, he passed out of the home forever.
+
+
+
+
+Rochester, Minn.
+
+(With apologies to the Mayos)
+
+_By Marie G. Stapp_
+
+
+    Mr. Smith had gallstones,
+    Mr. Jones had gout,
+    Bad appendices had the Browns
+    But now they've been cut out.
+    Rachel had a goitre,
+    Susan a queer spleen,
+    A tumor worried Mrs. Wright
+    Though it could not be seen.
+    Robert had large tonsils
+    And Dick had adenoids, too,
+    Bill Green had never had an ear,
+    He did when _they_ got through.
+    Peggy had a leaky heart,
+    Her father had no hair,
+    Both heart and head are now fixed up
+    And what a happy pair!
+    And I--well I have nothing wrong--
+    That's why I don't feel right;
+    I'll pay my bill at this hotel
+    And go back home to-night.
+
+
+
+
+God's Back Yard
+
+_By Jessie Welborn Smith_
+
+AN EPISODE FROM ACT THREE
+
+
+    _Place, Tim Murphy's saloon.      Time, evening._
+
+    Men are crowding about the bar, drinking and laughing coarsely.
+    The wives are huddled together on a long bench at one side of the
+    room. The children keep close to their mothers, but stretch their
+    little necks to watch the dancing in the back of the room, where a
+    group of painted women are tangoing to the wheezy accompaniment of
+    an old accordion. Over in the corner a man sprawls drunkenly
+    across a broken-down faro table.
+
+_Dick Long (hammering the bar with his mug and singing)._ Oh, I'm
+goin' to hell, and I don't give a damn. I'm goin' to hell. I'm goin'
+to--hell.
+
+_Murphy (knocking a board from the crate that holds the new
+nickel-in-the-slot gramaphone)._ You're going a damn sight faster than
+that, Dickie Bird, but you'll have to speed up a bit to get in on the
+concert. The program begins at eight o'clock sharp, like it says on
+the card in the window, and everybody gets an invite, but Caruso don't
+sing this time.
+
+_First Painted Lady (stopping the dance and coming down beside
+Murphy)._ Let 'er go, Murph. Give us "Too Much Mustard." The piano
+player down at the Gulch plays that just fine, and a piece about a
+girl that didn't want to love him, but he made her do it. That machine
+was long on personal history, Murph. I heard them all through three
+times. Let 'er go. We're all here.
+
+_First Wife (leaning over and speaking eagerly)._ Mrs. Long won't be
+able to come, Murphy, and Old Moll is settin' up with her to-night. I
+met Doc as I came across. The young-un died. I don't see no use in
+waitin' when we're all here.
+
+_Rosie Phelan (reaching over and pulling Long's sleeve)._ Did you hear
+that, Dick? Your kid is dead. Your kid is--d-e-a-d. Do you get me?
+
+_Man at the Bar._ Aw, break it to him gentle. He don't know he is a
+father yet. Have a heart.
+
+_Rosie Phelan (disgustedly)._ "Have a heart." Well, what do you think
+of that? For a man who guzzles all day you are mighty strong on the
+heart-throb slush. "Speak kindly to the erring." Didn't know you had
+got religion. Was it you got the revivalist to come up from the Gulch?
+
+_Nell (shifting her wad of gum)._ Well, he was sitting over at
+Benton's rather lonesome-like as I came along. I allus follow the
+crowd.
+
+_Murphy (hotly)._ And that is what that preacher will have to do if he
+makes any converts up here at the mine. I reckon that, with that music
+machine, I'm equipped to compete with any preacher that comes larking
+around here until kingdom come. He said he'd save me, if he had to
+chase me to hell and back, did he? Well, that guy should worry. That
+pale chicken-liver chase me to--Pour out the drinks, Bob. It's my
+treat.
+
+    Bob slops a little whiskey into every glass and mug on the bar and
+    passes it round. As it comes to the wives they smile, but shake
+    their heads. Murphy lifts his glass.
+
+_Murphy._ Won't you women drink the minister's health. How about you
+females, Bett? Nell? Rosie? Mollie? You girls never turn down free
+liquor, do you? Ready? To hell with the minister.
+
+_Barkeeper._ To hell with every denatured female that comes round here
+praying for our souls' salvation. I reckon a feller can do what he
+damn pleases with his own soul.
+
+_First Lounger (lazily boastful)._ I told my old woman that if I
+ketched her or the kids hanging round listening to that mollycoddle
+letting off steam, I'd----
+
+_First Wife (spitefully)._ Us women ain't got no call to get religion.
+We're too meek already. My man knows that he'll have a wildcat at his
+head when he comes in with that O'Grady woman, but it don't do no
+good. He ain't afeared o' nothin' short o' the devil. You don't ketch
+me joinin' while my old man is alive. You gotta have some protection.
+Safety first, I say.
+
+_Second Wife (meekly)._ They say the "Blue Ridge Mountains" is a
+mighty tuneful piece. My sister heard it over at Smarty's las'
+Thanksgiving. Can you tell whether your pianoler plays that, Murphy?
+
+_Second Painted Lady (patronizingly)._ How would you expect Murphy to
+know what is stored in that machine? You pays your money and your
+choice is whatever it happens to grind out. If you place your money on
+a "Harem" and draws an "Apple Blossom Time in Normandy," you got to
+take your medicine. What you waiting for, Murph? My gentleman friend
+is coming over from the Pass this evening, and I can't hang around
+here all night.
+
+_Rosie (excitedly, turning from the window that looks upon the
+street)._ The light is out at Benton's. The minister is coming over
+here. Remember and give him hell. Let him turn the other cheek.
+
+_Murphy._ No prayer meeting virgin is going to interfere with my
+business.
+
+    The door opens and the minister steps inside. Murphy goes over and
+    greets him with mock politeness.
+
+_Murphy._ Rosie, you are chief usher to-night. Will you find the
+minister a seat? Sit over, Nell. There's room enough between you and
+Bett for any sky pilot that ever hit the trail. Bob, give the preacher
+a drink. He looks sort of fagged. It's hard work saving sinners in
+God's Back Yard. I hope this little concert ain't going to interfere
+with your meeting, parson.
+
+_Minister (standing at the bar, whiskey glass in hand)._ Not at all,
+friend. What is the bill of fare?
+
+_Rosie (coming forward in her low-cut red gown and swinging her full
+skirts from side to side)._ For Gawd's sake, why didn't you tell me it
+was going to be religious? I'd forgot it was prayer-meetin' night,
+Murph. (_She carefully tucks her handkerchief over her bosom in
+pretense of modesty._) I'd dressed up more, if I'd remembered.
+
+_Nell (holding out a string of glittering beads)._ Here, take these,
+Rosie. These'll cover up some. I ain't takin' an active part, so I
+don't mind.
+
+_Rosie (lifting her arms to fasten the beads)._ Not takin' an active
+part? You don't know what you're sayin'. I heard of a minister once
+who could make hell look so darned nice you wanted to fall for it
+right away. Couldn't such a fellah give the heavenly gates a jar?
+(_She turns to the minister._) Where d'you want to sit? Up there by
+Mollie? Take your choice.
+
+_Old Moll's Daughter (jumping down from her perch at one end of the
+bar and walking over brazenly to drop the first nickel in the slot)._
+Clear the way, can't you? I'm praying for the "Bunny Hug" and the
+minister is backing me. For Gawd's sake, can't you clear the floor? Do
+you want the music to be half done before you find your partners? I'll
+be obliged to you, parson, if you'll save this dance for me. (_She
+pauses a moment, nickel in hand._)
+
+_First Card Player._ I'll stake you ten to one it'll be "The Pullman
+Porters on Parade."
+
+_Second Player (doggedly)._ They always play "A Great Big Blue-Eyed
+Baby."
+
+_Rosie (shaking her head and singing, hands on hips)._ "My harem, my
+harem, my roly, poly harem."
+
+_Nell (with mock sentiment)._ "For it's Apple Blossom Time in
+Normandy, in Normandy, in Normandy."
+
+    The nickel jangles in the slot. The disk begins to revolve. It
+    grates and begins its introductory mechanical clinkety-clinkety
+    clink. A small child wails dismally as the music shivers through
+    the room.
+
+      "Jesus, lover of my soul,
+        Let me to Thy bosom fly.
+      While the nearer waters roll,
+        While the tempest still is high.
+      Hide me, O, my Saviour, hide
+        Till the storm of life is past.
+      Safe into the haven guide,
+        O, receive my soul at last."
+
+    Rosie's hands drop from her hips as the song begins. The dancing
+    impulse passes from her limbs. Even the muscles of her face harden
+    convulsively.
+
+_Rosie (hysterically)._ Oh, I can't stand that, Murphy. For Gawd's
+sake, can't you stop it?
+
+    She starts over toward the machine impulsively. Then something
+    catches her, she pauses and is held a moment while a superstitious
+    awe makes her eyes again the big roundness of childhood's wonder.
+    She draws the back of her hand across her forehead in an endeavor
+    to bring herself out of the daze.
+
+_Rosie (falling sobbing beside the bench)_. "O, receive my soul at
+last." Why did you leave your little Rosie? Mother, Oh, mother. I
+ain't fit to come to you no more, mother--I ain't fit, I ain't fit.
+
+    One of the mothers reaches over and strokes her hair.
+
+_Old Moll's Daughter (opening the door and stepping out into the
+lonely street as she laughs madly)._ Old Murphy in cahoots with the
+minister. Oh, hell!
+
+    The door slams shut. The glasses on the bar jangle harshly. A
+    snatch of song boldly defiant rings in from the street: "Don't
+    tell me that you've lost your dog." Murphy walks over and stands
+    looking at the music box. It is still grinding out the music.
+
+      "Other refuge have I none.
+        Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.
+      Leave, ah, leave me not alone.
+        Still support and comfort me.
+      All my trust on Thee is staid.
+        All my help from Thee I bring.
+      Cover my defenseless head
+        With the shadow of Thy wing."
+
+    The wives are all crying quietly. Rosie and Bett are sobbing with
+    the wild abandon that such natures know. Tears are falling upon
+    the idle hands at the card table. The men at the bar are strangely
+    quiet.
+
+_Man at the Faro Table (lifting himself up on his elbow)._ I ushe
+shing--I ushe shing zhat--I ushe shing Jeshus--Jeshus--I ushe
+shing--(_He drops his head over on the table and weeps drunkenly._)
+
+_Little Child (pulling at her mother's shoulders and whining
+peevishly)._ Who is Jesus, mamma? Do we know Jesus? (_Happily._) Will
+he cover my head with a pretty birdie's wing? (_The mother shakes with
+sobs and the child speaks more caressingly._) Don't cry, mother. I
+like my hat with the posies on it. You can have the feathers, nice,
+good mamma. Don't cry.
+
+_Murphy (absently, looking at the minister)._ They sang that at the
+funeral. Sally didn't have no call to hide anything. She was that
+white and pure. I always felt her slippin'--slippin' away. She worried
+so them last days because of the little kid. "Take him back home,
+Murph," she kept sayin'. "A little child has got to have some raisin'.
+A kid has got to go to Sunday school, Tim, dear, and there ain't never
+no meetin's in God's Back Yard."
+
+_Man at the Bar (dejectedly, going over to the door)._ It's all right
+for the young-uns, but when a man has got a thirst and is down on his
+luck, I don't allow that God is going to help much. You got to get 'em
+young, parson, and keep 'em headed straight. It's hell turning back. I
+tried it, and I couldn't make it go.
+
+_Minister (gently, as if speaking to someone very near)._ Oh, Jesus,
+lover of all these misguided souls, come down to this little room
+to-night, for it is dark here, and, Oh, so cold and dreary. Speak to
+them, Jesus, as you did to me. Let them see the glory of Thy face.
+Will someone pray?
+
+_Murphy (looking across at the loafers and speaking half as an
+invitation, half as a command)._ Are you staying, boys?
+
+_One of the Men (doggedly, as they look at one another sheepishly and
+no one moves to go)._ Ain't we always stayin' till closin' time?
+
+_Murphy (warmly)._ You sure do, boys. (_He buries his head in his
+crossed arms over the music-box._) It's your lead, parson.
+
+
+
+
+The Wild Crab Apple
+
+_By Julia Ellen Rogers_
+
+
+The wild, sweet-scented crab apple! The bare mention of its name is
+enough to make the heart leap up, though spring be months away, and
+barriers of brick hem us in. In the corner of the back pasture stands
+a clump of these trees, huddled together like cattle. Their flat,
+matted tops reach out sidewise until the stubby limbs of neighboring
+trees meet. It would not occur to anyone to call them handsome trees.
+But wait! The twigs silver over with young foliage, then coral buds
+appear, thickly sprinkling the green leaves. Now all their asperity is
+softened, and a great burst of rose-colored bloom overspreads the
+treetops and fills the air with perfume. It is not mere sweetness, but
+an exquisite, spicy, stimulating fragrance that belongs only to wild
+crab-apple flowers. Linn�us probably never saw more than a dried
+specimen, but he named this tree most worthily, _coronaria_, "fit
+for crowns and garlands."
+
+Break off an armful of these blossoming twigs and take them home. They
+will never be missed. Be thankful that your friends in distant parts
+of the country may share your pleasure, for though this particular
+species does not cover the whole United States, yet there is a wild
+crab apple for each region.
+
+In the fall the tree is covered with hard little yellow apples. They
+have a delightful fragrance, but they are neither sweet nor mellow.
+Take a few home and make them into jelly. Then you will understand why
+the early settlers gathered them for winter use. The jelly has a wild
+tang in it, an indescribable piquancy of flavor as different from
+common apple jelly as the flowers are in their way more charming than
+ordinary appleblossoms. It is the rare gamy taste of a primitive
+apple.
+
+Well-meaning horticulturists have tried what they could do toward
+domesticating this _Malus coronaria_. The effort has not been a
+success. The fruit remains acerb and hard; the tree declines to be
+"ameliorated" for the good of mankind. Isn't it, after all, a
+gratuitous office? Do we not need our wild crab apple just as it is,
+as much as we need more kinds of orchard trees? How spirited and fine
+is its resistance! It seems as if this wayward beauty of our woodside
+thickets considered that the best way to serve mankind was to keep
+inviolate those charms that set it apart from other trees and make its
+remotest haunt the Mecca of eager pilgrims every spring.
+
+The wild crab apple is not a tree to plant by itself in park or
+garden. Plant it in companies on the edge of woods, or in obscure and
+ugly fence corners, where there is a background, or where, at least,
+each tree can lose its individuality in the mass. Now, go away and let
+them alone. They do not need mulching nor pruning. Let them gang their
+ain gait, and in a few years you will have a crab-apple thicket. You
+will also have succeeded in bringing home with these trees something
+of the spirit of the wild woods where you found them.
+
+  --From _The Tree Book_.
+
+
+
+
+A Ballad of the Corn
+
+_By S. H. M. Byers_
+
+
+    Oh, the undulating prairies,
+      And the fields of yellow corn,
+    Like a million soldiers waiting for the fray.
+      Oh, the rustling of the corn leaves
+      Like a distant fairy's horn
+    And the notes the fairy bugles seem to play.
+
+    "We have risen from the bosom
+      Of the beauteous mother earth,
+    Where the farmer plowed his furrow straight and long.
+      There was gladness and rejoicing
+      When the summer gave us birth,
+    In the tumult and the dancing and the song.
+
+    "When the sumach turns to scarlet,
+      And the vines along the lane
+    Are garmented in autumn's golden wine--
+      Then the land shall smile for plenty,
+      And the toiler for his pain,
+    When the soldiers of our army stand in line.
+
+    "With our shining blades before us,
+      And our banners flaming far,
+    Want and hunger shall be slain forevermore.
+      And the cornfield's lord of plenty
+      In his golden-covered car
+    Then shall stop at every happy toiler's door."
+
+    Oh, the sunshine and the beauty
+      On the fields of ripened corn,
+    And the wigwams and the corn-rows where they stand.
+      In the lanes I hear the music
+      Of the faintly blowing horn
+    And the blessed Indian summer's on the land.
+
+
+
+
+The Children's Blessing
+
+_By Virginia Roderick_
+
+
+On the slope of a hill, beneath silvery olives, a group was gathered
+about the young stranger. He had entered the village only that
+morning, seeking the companionship of such Nazarenes as might be
+there. And they had brought him out here in the open to receive his
+message. But though he carried them greetings, and news from the
+distant groups of the Christ's followers, it was plain that he had not
+been sent to them on a mission.
+
+They waited until he should be ready to explain his quest.
+
+"You did not see Him, then?"
+
+Into the young man's eyes there came a great, yearning sadness. "No,"
+he answered. "But you," he asked eagerly, "did none of you see Him?"
+
+They shook their heads, all of them.
+
+"We were too far away," one murmured.
+
+"But I had for spiritual father one who had seen Him," the traveler
+offered, his face lighting. "You know how He blessed a company of
+little children? How He put His hands upon them?" He paused and they
+nodded silently. "My teacher was one of those children," he said, his
+dark eyes aglow with reverent pride.
+
+A quick glance flashed about the group; but no one spoke and the
+traveler went on, the radiance of his face blotted out again in
+sadness. "It is because he is gone that I am a wanderer now. I was
+always with him, and we went about together, preaching the Kingdom. It
+was all so clear to my teacher because he had seen Him. He told me of
+His wonderful look."
+
+They fell silent, brooding and thoughtful.
+
+Then one asked: "What was it like--the blessing He gave your teacher?
+Did he gain goods and store?"
+
+The young traveler's eyes opened in amazement. "Why no! How could that
+be? My teacher was like Him," he explained simply.
+
+Again the quick look passed about the circle. At last one spoke,
+slowly: "There is a man here in the village who was also blessed with
+the children."
+
+The young traveler started up joyously. "Take me to him," he
+entreated. "Let me talk with him; that is what I have come here
+seeking--another teacher."
+
+"Nay, friend--" began one; but another hurriedly whispered: "Let us
+not tell him. Perhaps he can help." And so the first speaker finished:
+"I fear you will not find him like your teacher, but you shall go; it
+is only a step."
+
+And they guided him, all but impatient, to a mean hovel just within
+the town. There they left him.
+
+It was a man with a dark, bitter face that answered his knock. "May I
+speak with Nemuel?" the stranger asked courteously.
+
+"I am Nemuel," growled the man curtly.
+
+"But I mean Nemuel who was one of the children that Jesus blessed,"
+persisted the young traveler, his face softly alight as the name
+passed his lips.
+
+"Come in; I am the man." He straightened proudly. "I was a child seven
+years old when I saw Him----"
+
+He stopped, for the young stranger, pale and gasping, broke in: "You
+saw Him! He touched you! You have seen His face, and yet your
+own--forgive me, friend. But my master was also one of the children
+blessed by the Christ, and he was ... different." He hesitated, still
+looking at the somber face in puzzled distress.
+
+The man caught the young stranger's arm. "You knew another of those He
+blessed? Tell me, did he have great wealth, palaces, honors? Did he
+wait long? Did the blessing tarry so long in the fulfilment as with
+me?"
+
+The young stranger shook his head in deep bewilderment. "I do not
+understand. No, he had no wealth, no palaces, no honors. He followed
+the Christ. He was blessed by His spirit. Why, how could one want
+goods and honors when one had seen His wonderful smile, when His
+arms--" He broke off, gazing at his host in appalled incomprehension.
+
+Nemuel's dark face grew darker, more bitter. "Then there _is_ no
+blessing, after all," he said slowly. "I have waited, believing,
+trusting. I have kept my life clean. I have kept myself holy--away
+from those He had not touched--" The stranger drew a quick breath and
+his eyes softened with pity. "I have never forgotten that I was
+blessed above others. And now there _is_ no blessing." And he covered
+his face with his hands.
+
+There was a silence and then the young stranger spoke very gently:
+"The blessing my master taught me, was for all children--for all
+childlike faith and trust and purity. It was a sanctification of the
+child spirit."
+
+Nemuel had lifted his head and was listening, his eyes fastened
+wonderingly on the stranger's face.
+
+"And it was not a blessing to be wrapped up in a napkin. It was not
+one to bring you good fortune, as if it had been a sorcerer's charm.
+It was a blessing for you to take and to make--to use it--to give it
+to others. Through you He blessed _all_ children.... And yet--" the
+stranger's voice deepened--"yet there _was_ something special too."
+
+"What was it?" Nemuel breathed.
+
+The stranger bent on him a gaze full of yearning. "Have you not
+remembered His face?" he asked. "His wonderful look--just for you?"
+There was a pleading note of reproach in his voice as he leaned toward
+Nemuel, but his face was all love and tenderness.
+
+Nemuel began to shake his head slowly, still fixing the stranger with
+his gaze.
+
+"No," he confessed. "I haven't been able to remember--not for years.
+At first I did. Afterward I _knew_ His face was wonderful, but I
+could not _see_ it. But now--now I begin to remember----"
+
+The young stranger waited for the halting words, his face lighting
+softly with a holy hope and joy.
+
+"Why, your face--" Nemuel still hesitated, groping, and then suddenly
+his voice rang out in triumph, and memory dawned clearly in his
+eyes--"why, _your face_--is--like--_His_! Oh, I do remember!--and--I
+begin to understand."
+
+
+
+
+Kitchener's Mob
+
+From The Atlantic Monthly
+
+_By James Norman Hall_
+
+
+Trench-mortaring was more to our liking. That is an infantryman's
+game, and while extremely hazardous, the men in the trenches have a
+sporting chance. Everyone forgot breakfast when word was passed down
+the line that we were going to "mortarfy" Fritzie. Our projectiles
+were immense balls of hollow steel, filled with high explosive.
+Eagerly, expectantly, the boys gathered in the first-line trenches to
+watch the fun. First a dull boom from the reserve trench in rear where
+the mortar was operated.
+
+"There she is!" "See 'er?" "Goin' true as a die!" All the boys would
+be shouting at once.
+
+Up it goes, turning over and over, rising to a height of several
+hundred feet. Then, if well aimed, it reaches the end of its upward
+journey directly over the enemy's line, and falls straight into his
+trench. There is a moment of silence, followed by a terrific explosion
+which throws dirt and d�bris high in the air. By this time, the
+Tommies all along the line are standing on the firing benches, head
+and shoulders above the parapet, forgetting their danger in their
+excitement, and shouting at the top of their voices:
+
+"'Ow's that one, Fritzie boy?"
+
+"Guten morgen, you Proosian sausage wallopers!"
+
+"Tyke a bit o' that there 'ome to yer missus!"
+
+But Fritzie kept up his end of the game, always. He gave us just as
+good as we sent, and often he added something for good measure. His
+surprise packages were sausage-shaped missiles which came wobbling
+toward us, slowly, almost awkwardly; but they dropped with lightning
+speed. The explosion was terrible, and alas for any Tommy who
+misjudged the place of its fall! However, everyone had a chance.
+Trench-mortar projectiles are so large, and they describe so leisurely
+an arc before they fall, that men have time to run.
+
+I've always admired Tommy Atkins for his sense of fair play. He loved
+giving Fritz "a little bit of all right," but he never resented it
+when Fritz had his own fun at our expense. I used to believe, in the
+far-off days of peace, that men had lost their old primal love for
+dangerous sport, their native ignorance of fear. But on those
+trench-mortaring days, when I watched boys playing with death with
+right good zest, heard them shouting and laughing as they tumbled over
+one another in their eagerness to escape being killed, I was convinced
+that I was wrong. Daily I saw men going through the test of fire
+triumphantly, and at the last, what a fearful test it was, and how
+splendidly they met it! During six months, continuously in the firing
+line, I met less than a dozen natural-born cowards; and my experience
+was largely among clerks, barbers, plumbers, shopkeepers, men who had
+no fighting tradition to back them up, to make them heroic in spite of
+themselves.
+
+The better I knew Tommy, the better I liked him. He hasn't a shred of
+sentimentality in his make-up. There is plenty of sentiment, sincere
+feeling, but it is very well concealed. I had been a soldier of the
+King for many months before I realized that the men with whom I was
+living, sharing rations and hardships, were anything other than the
+healthy animals they looked. They seemed to live for their food. They
+talked of it, anticipated it with the zest of men who were
+experiencing for the first time the joy of being genuinely hungry.
+They watched their muscles harden with the satisfaction known to every
+normal man when he is becoming physically fit for the first time. But
+they said nothing about patriotism, or the duty of Englishmen in
+wartime. And if I tried to start a conversation on that line, they
+walked right over me with their boots on.
+
+This was a great disappointment at first. I would never have known,
+from anything that was said, that a man of them was stirred at the
+thought of fighting for old England. England was all right, but, "I
+ain't a-goin' balmy about the old flag and all that stuff." Many of
+them insisted that they were in the army for personal and selfish
+reasons alone. They went out of their way to ridicule any and every
+indication of sentiment.
+
+There was the matter of talk about mothers, for example. I can't
+imagine this being the case in a volunteer army of American boys; but
+never, during sixteen months of British army life, did I hear a
+discussion of mothers. When the weekly parcels post from England
+arrived, and the boys were sharing their cake and chocolate and
+tobacco, one of them would say, "Good old mum. She ain't a bad sort,"
+to be answered with reluctant, mouth-filled grunts, or grudging nods
+of approval. As for fathers, I often thought to myself, "This is
+certainly a tremendous army of posthumous sons!" Months before I
+should have been astonished at this reticence. But I had learned to
+understand Tommy. His silences were as eloquent as any splendid
+outbursts or glowing tributes could have been. It was a matter of
+constant wonder to me that men living in the daily and hourly presence
+of death could so control and conceal their feelings. Their talk was
+of anything but home; and yet I knew that they thought of little else.
+
+One of our boys was killed, and there was a letter to be written to
+his parents. Three Tommies who knew him best were to attempt this.
+They made innumerable beginnings. Each of them was afraid of
+blundering, of causing unnecessary pain by an indelicate revelation of
+the facts. There was a feminine fineness about their concern which was
+beautiful to see. The final draft of the letter was a masterpiece, not
+of English, but of insight; such a letter as any one of us would have
+liked his own parents to receive under similar circumstances. Nothing
+was forgotten which could make the news in the slightest degree more
+endurable. Every trifling personal belonging was carefully saved up
+and packed in a little box to follow the letter. All this was done
+amid much boisterous jesting; and there was hilarious singing to the
+wheezing accompaniment of an old mouth-organ. But of reference to
+home, or mothers, or comradeship, not a word.
+
+Rarely a night passed without its burial parties. "Digging in the
+garden," Tommy calls the grave-making. The bodies, wrapped in blankets
+or water-proof ground-sheets, are lifted over the parados and carried
+back a convenient twenty yards or more. The desolation of that garden
+was indescribable. It was strewn with wreckage, gaping with
+shell-holes, billowing with numberless nameless graves, a waste land
+speechlessly pathetic. The poplars and willow hedges had been blasted
+and splintered by shell-fire. Tommy calls these "Kaiser Bill's
+flowers." Coming from England, he feels more deeply than he would care
+to admit the crimes done to trees in the name of war.
+
+Our chaplain was a devout man, but prudent to a fault. He never
+visited us in the trenches; therefore our burial parties proceeded
+without the rites of the church. This arrangement was highly
+satisfactory to Tommy. He liked to "get the planting done" with the
+least possible delay or fuss. His whispered conversations, while the
+graves were being scooped, were, to say the least, quite out of the
+spirit of the occasion. Once we were burying two boys with whom we had
+been having a supper a few hours before. There was an artillery duel
+in progress, the shells whistling high over our heads and bursting in
+great splotches of white fire, far in rear of the opposing lines of
+trenches. The grave-making went speedily on while the diggers argued
+in whispers as to the calibre of the guns. Some said they were
+six-inch, while others thought nine-inch. Discussion was momentarily
+suspended when trench-rockets went soaring up from the enemy's line.
+We crouched motionless until the welcome darkness spread again. And
+then, in loud whispers--
+
+"'Ere! If they was nine-inch they would 'ave more screech."
+
+And one of different opinion would reply:
+
+"Don't talk so bloomin' silly! Ain't I a-tellin' you you can't always
+size 'em by the screech?"
+
+Not a prayer. Not a word either of censure or praise for the boys who
+had gone. Not an expression of opinion as to the meaning of the great
+change which had come to them and which might come as suddenly to any
+or all of us. And yet I knew that every man was thinking of these
+things.
+
+There were days when the front was really quiet. The thin trickle of
+rifle-fire only accentuated the stillness of an early summer morning.
+Far down the line many a Tommy could be heard singing to himself as he
+sat in the door of his dug-out, cleaning his rifle. There would be the
+pleasant crackle of burning pine sticks, the sizzle of frying bacon,
+the lazy buzzing of swarms of bluebottle flies. Occasionally, across a
+pool of noonday silence, we heard the birds singing; for they didn't
+desert us. When we gave them a hearing, they did their cheery little
+best to assure us that everything would come right in the end. Once we
+heard a skylark, an English skylark, and for a while it made the world
+beautiful again. It was a fine thing to watch the faces of those
+English lads as they listened. I was deeply touched when one of them
+said, "Ain't 'e a plucky little chap, singin' right in front of
+Fritzie's trenches fer us English blokes?"
+
+It was a sincere and beautiful tribute.
+
+
+
+
+The Professor
+
+_By Calista Halsey Patchin_
+
+
+The professor had been dead two months. He had left the world very
+quietly, at that precise hour of the early evening when he was
+accustomed to say that his "spirit friends" came to him. The hospital
+nurse had noticed that there was always a time at twilight when the
+patient had a good hour; when pain and restlessness seemed to be
+charmed away, and he did not mind being left alone, and did not care
+whether or not there was a light in the room. Then it was that those
+who had gone came back to him with quiet, friendly ways and loving
+touch. He said nothing of this to the nurse. It was an old friend who
+told me that this had been his belief and solace for years.
+
+When the professor had first come to town he had spoken of the wife
+who would follow him shortly, from the East. He did not display her
+picture, he did not talk about her enough so that the town, though it
+made an honest effort, ever really visualized her. She would
+come--without a doubt she would come--but not just yet. It was only
+that the East still held her. Gradually, he spoke of her less and less
+often, with a dignified reserve that brooked no inquiry, and finally
+not at all.
+
+The town forgot. It was only when his illness became so serious that
+all felt someone should be written to, that it was discovered there
+was no one. The professor, when he was appealed to, said so. Then
+also, the hospital nurse noticed that at the twilight hour, when he
+talked quietly to his unseen friends, there was always One who stayed
+longer than the rest.
+
+But he had been dead two months now, and the undertaker was pressing
+his bill, and there were other expenses which had been cheerfully
+borne by friends at the time, and indeed if there had been no other
+reason, it remains that something must become of the personal
+possessions of a man who leaves neither will nor known heirs. So the
+professor's effects were appraised, and a brief local appeared in the
+daily paper until it had made a dent in the memory of the public,
+apprising them that his personal property would be offered at public
+auction at two p.m. of a Thursday, in his rooms on the third floor of
+the Eureka Block.
+
+It was the merest thread of curiosity that drew me to this sale. I did
+not want to buy anything. It was a sort of posthumous curiosity, and
+it concerned itself solely with the individuality of the dead man. Not
+having had the opportunity of knowing him well in life, and never
+having known until I read his obituary what I had missed, I took this
+last chance of trying to evolve the man from his belongings. All I did
+know was that he was a teacher of music of the past generation in a
+Western town which grew so fast that it made a man seem older than he
+was. More than this, he was a composer, a music master, who took crude
+young voices, shrill with the tension of the Western winds and the
+electric air, and tamed and trained them till they fell in love with
+harmony. When he heard a voice he knew it. One of his contraltos is
+singing now in grand opera across the sea. A tenor that he discovered
+has charmed the world with an "upper note."
+
+All the same, the professor had grown old--a new generation had arisen
+which knew not Joseph; he failed to advertise, and every young girl
+who "gave lessons" crowded him closer to the wall. Now and then there
+would appear in the daily paper--not the next morning, but a few days
+after the presentation of some opera--a column of musical criticism,
+keen, delicate, reminiscent--fragrant with the rosemary that is for
+remembrance. When "Elijah" was given by home talent with soloists
+imported from Chicago, it was the professor who kindly wrote,
+beforehand this time, luminous articles full of sympathetic
+interpretation of the great masters. And at rare intervals there would
+appear a communication from him on the beauty of the woods and the
+fields, the suburbs of the town and the country, as though he were
+some simple prophet of nature who stood by the wayside. And this was
+no affectation. Long, solitary walks were his recreation.
+
+It was a good deal of a rookery, up the flights of narrow, dirty
+stairs to the third floor of the Eureka Block. And here the professor
+had lived and taught. Two rooms were made from one by the sort of
+partition which does not reach to the ceiling--a ceiling which for
+some inexplicable reason was higher in some places than in others.
+
+The voice of the auctioneer came down that winding way in professional
+cadences. There were in the room about as many people as might come to
+a funeral where only friends of the family are invited. It was very
+still. The auctioneer took an easy conversational tone. There was a
+silent, forlorn sort of dignity about the five pianos standing in a
+row that put professional banter and cheap little jokes out of the
+question. The pianos went without much trouble--a big one of the best
+make, an old-fashioned cottage piano, a piano with an iron frame. One
+of the appraisers, himself a musician, became an assistant auctioneer,
+and kindly played a little--judiciously very little--on each
+instrument in turn.
+
+Then came the bric-a-brac of personal effects--all the flotsam and
+jetsam that had floated into these rooms for years. The walls were
+pockmarked with pictures, big and little. There was no attempt at high
+art; the professor had bought a picture as a child might buy
+one--because he thought it was pretty. It was a curious showing of how
+one artistic faculty may be dormant while another is cultivated to its
+highest point. But no matter how cheap the picture, it was always
+conscientiously framed. And this was a great help to the auctioneer.
+Indeed, it was difficult to see how he could have cried the pictures
+at all without the frames.
+
+By this time the rooms were fuller of people. There were ladies who
+had come in quietly, just to get some little thing for a remembrance
+of their old friend and teacher. These mostly went directly over to
+the corner where the music lay and began looking for something of
+"his." If it were manuscript music so much the better. But there was
+little of this. It appeared that with the professor, as with most of
+us, early and middle manhood had been his most productive time, and
+that was long enough ago for everything to have been duly published in
+sheet and book form--long enough, indeed, for the books themselves to
+have gone out of date.
+
+There they were--long, green notebooks, bearing the familiar names of
+well known publishers, and with such a hydra-head of title as "The
+Celestina, or New Sacred Minstrel; a Repository of Music adapted to
+every variety of taste and grade of capacity, from the million to the
+amateur or professor."
+
+There were four or five of these. There was sheet music by the pile.
+There was an opera, "Joseph," the production of which had been a
+musical event.
+
+Presently the auctioneer came that way. He had just sold a large
+oleograph, framed, one of those gorgeous historical pictures which are
+an apotheosis of good clothes. He approached an engraving of an
+old-fashioned lady in voluminous muslin draperies, with her hair
+looped away from her face in a "Book of Beauty" style.
+
+"_He_ liked that," murmured a lady.
+
+"What do I hear!" cries the auctioneer, softly. "Oh, such a little bid
+as that--I can't see it at all in this dark corner. Suppose we throw
+these peaches in--awfully pretty thing for dining room--and this
+flower piece--shall we group these three?--now, how much for all? Ah,
+there they go!"
+
+"Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a gold-headed cane which was presented
+to the deceased by his admiring friends. It is pure gold--you _know_
+they would not give him anything else. How much for this? How much?
+No--his name is _not_ engraved on it--so much the better--what do
+I hear?"
+
+"Look at this telescope, gentlemen--a good one--you know the professor
+was quite an astronomer in his way--and this telescope is all
+right--sound and in good condition"--the auctioneer had officiated at
+a stock sale the day before. "You can look right into futurity through
+this tube. Five dollars' worth of futurity? Five--five and a half?
+Case and all complete."
+
+There was a pocketful of odds and ends; gold pens, lead pencils, some
+odd pocket knives; these inconsiderable trifles brought more in
+proportion than articles of greater intrinsic value. Evidently this
+was an auction of memories, of emotion, of sentiment.
+
+There was a bit of the beam of the barn that was burned down when the
+cow kicked over the historic lamp that inaugurated the Chicago
+fire--no less than three persons were ready to testify to their belief
+in the genuineness of the relic, had anyone been disposed to question
+it. But no one was. Nearly all the people in the room were the dead
+music teacher's personal friends; they had heard the story of all
+these things; they knew who had sent him the stuffed brown prairie
+chicken that perched like a raven above the door--the little
+old-fashioned decanter and wine glasses of gilded glass--the
+artificial begonias--that clever imitation that goes far toward making
+one forswear begonias forevermore. There were lamps of various shapes
+and sizes, there was a kit of burglarious looking tools for piano
+tuning, there was a little globe--"Who wants the earth?" said the
+auctioneer. "You all want it."
+
+There was a metronome, which, set to go, began to count time in a
+metallic whisper for some invisible pupil. Over in the corner just
+beyond the music were the professor's books. Now we shall find him
+out, for what a man reads he is, or wishes to be. There was a good
+deal of spiritualistic literature of the better sort. There was a
+"History of Christianity and Paganism by the Roman Emperor Julian," a
+copy of "She," a long shelf full of _North American Reviews_, a
+dozen or so of almanacs, a copy of Bluebeard. There were none of the
+"popular" magazines, and if there had been newspapers--those vagrants
+of literature--they had gone their way. There was a manuscript play
+for parlor presentation, with each part written out in legible script,
+entitled, "The Winning Card."
+
+All these and many more things which only the patient appraisers can
+fully know were sold or set aside as unsalable, until all was done.
+And then those who had known and loved him and those who had not known
+or cared for him came down the stairs together.
+
+Fate stood on the landing. As always, Fate ran true to form. She was a
+woman; a little tired, as a woman might well be who had come a
+thousand miles; a little out of breath from the two flights of stairs.
+Her old-fashioned draperies clung about her; her hair was looped away
+from her face in a "Book of Beauty" style. The man who stood aside to
+let her pass was talking. "Of course," he was saying, "he was a
+side-tracked man. But I believe he stands the biggest chance of being
+remembered of any man in Iowa."
+
+Swift protest at his first words clouded her face; sheer gratitude for
+his last words illumined it. She bent forward a little and went on up
+the stairs alone.
+
+She faltered in the doorway, her hand fumbling at her throat. One of
+the men who had been talking below hastened to her side.
+
+"It's all over," he said, then added, at the dumb misery that grayed
+her face: "--the auction."
+
+"I--I--didn't come for that," the apathy in her voice holding it
+steady. "I--I am his wife. His last letter--he sent for me." A sob
+broke her speech. "It came last week--two months too late."
+
+[Illustration: What the Iowa Boy Hears in the Wind in the Corn]
+
+
+
+
+My Baby's Horse
+
+_By Emilie Blackmore Stapp_
+
+
+    My baby's horse is Daddy's knee;
+    When nighttime comes he rides away
+    To Sleepytown by Dreamland Sea;
+    I love to hear their laughter gay.
+
+    Ride, baby, ride, the Sandman bold
+    Is following close behind you, dear,
+    But Daddy's arms will you enfold
+    And so for you I have no fear.
+
+    Your prancing steed is slowing down;
+    The Sandman's riding very fast.
+    Oh, here you are at Sleepytown;
+    The Sandman's caught you, dear, at last.
+
+    He'll tie your steed by Dreamland Sea,
+    And on its shores all night you'll play,
+    Then you'll come riding home to me
+    To make life sweet another day.
+
+
+
+
+The Call of the Race
+
+_By Elizabeth Cooper_
+
+
+It was the last day of September, the maple trees were turning to red
+and gold, the mist of purple haze was in the air, and all Japan was
+going to the parks and woods to revel in the colors they loved so
+well.
+
+Three men came out of the American Embassy, and looked for a moment
+over the roofs below them, half conscious of the beauty of this autumn
+time. They chatted for a few moments, then one of them motioned to a
+servant to put his mail bag in the jinrickshaw and slowly stepping
+into the tiny carriage he was whirled away.
+
+The other men watched him for a few moments in silence, then as they
+turned to go to the English club, the elder shook his head slowly as
+he rather viciously bit the end from his cigar.
+
+"Freeman's made a big fool of himself," he said. "Nice man, too."
+
+The younger man looked after the fast disappearing jinrickshaw and
+asked after a moment's hesitation:
+
+"He's married a Jap, hasn't he? I'm new here but I have heard
+something about him that's queer."
+
+"Yes," the Ambassador replied. "Married her, preacher, ring, the whole
+thing."
+
+"How did it happen? Why did he _marry_ her?" the younger man asked
+with a laugh.
+
+"We all talked to him. I talked to him like a father, but he wouldn't
+listen to reason. Saw her at the mission school, fell head and heels
+in love with her and wouldn't take anyone's advice. Even the
+missionary was against it. Told him that mixed marriages never came
+out right; that the girl always reverted to type," said the Ambassador
+a little bitterly.
+
+"Well, has it turned out as they predicted?" inquired the secretary
+interestedly.
+
+"Well, no," admitted the Ambassador. "It's been two years, and
+everything seems to be all right so far. No one ever sees much of
+either of them. You meet her with him once in a while in some garden
+admiring the wistaria, or the lotus. She's a beauty--a real
+beauty--and belongs to one of the old Samurai families up north
+somewhere."
+
+"How did the mission get her? I thought they went in more for the
+lower classes," asked the secretary.
+
+"Well, it seems that some missionary up north saw her and was
+attracted by her cleverness and her pretty face, and she persuaded the
+girl's parents to send her to school here. They're as poor as Job's
+turkey; but they live in a great old palace and observe all the old
+time Jap customs. Haven't changed a bit for centuries. The real thing
+in old-time aristocracy. But the missionary got past them some way and
+the girl came down--when was it?--six years ago, I think. Missionary
+says she's clever, has become a Christian, and evidently forgotten
+that she's a Jap."
+
+"It'll perhaps be the exception that proves that all mixed marriages
+are not failures," said the optimistic secretary.
+
+"No," said the older man, "I know Japan and the Japanese. There's
+something in them that never changes--the call of the blood or
+whatever it is. No matter how much education they have, change of
+religion, life in foreign countries--anything--they're Japanese, and
+in a crisis they go back to their gods and the instincts of their
+race. We all told Freeman this--the missionary, myself, everybody took
+a hit at him when we found he really meant business, but he only
+laughed. He said Yuki was as European as he was. Never thought of the
+gods, hardly remembered her people, and all that rot. He ought to know
+better: this is his second post in Japan. Was out here twelve years
+ago and got in some kind of trouble. I was surprised when the
+government sent him back; but I suppose they thought it had all blown
+over, and I presume it has, although the Japs don't forget."
+
+The Ambassador was quiet for a few moments, then he said:
+
+"No, I don't believe at all in intermarriage between the Oriental and
+the Occidental. Their traditions, customs, everything is different.
+They have no common meeting ground, and that racial instinct, that
+inherent something is stronger in the Oriental than in the Westerner.
+A woman here in this country, for example, is taught from babyhood
+that she must obey her parents, her clan, _absolutely_. Her family is
+first, and she must sacrifice her life if necessary for them, and they
+will go to any lengths in this obedience. I told this to Freeman,
+everyone did, but he just gave his happy laugh, and said that his
+wife-to-be was no more Japanese in feeling and sentiment than he
+was--that she had outgrown the old religion, the old beliefs. He
+laughed at the idea that her family would have any influence over her
+after she was his wife. Yet--I know these people--and have always been
+a little worried----"
+
+The two men chatted until they entered the doors of the English club.
+
+Morris Freeman with his fast runner was drawn swiftly through the
+modern streets of new Japan, then more slowly through the little
+alleys, where the shops were purely native. Finally he drew up at an
+entrance and stopped under the tiny roof of a gateway. He had been
+expected, evidently, because no sooner had he stopped than the great
+gate was swung open and a smiling servant stood in the entrance.
+Freeman handed him the mail bag and said:
+
+"Tell the Ok San that I will be back in about an hour," and was taken
+swiftly up the street. The coolie at the gate was still watching the
+disappearing jinrickshaw when a Japanese approached, and bowing to the
+servant asked: "Is your mistress within?" The servant answered in the
+affirmative, looking at him interestedly, as he was different from the
+average man one sees in Tokio. He was dressed in an old-time costume
+that immediately told the city-bred servant that the man was from some
+distant province.
+
+The visitor went to the veranda, dropped his clogs, and entered the
+doorway. A young girl was kneeling before a koto lightly strumming its
+strings and did not hear the entrance of the man. He stood for a
+moment looking around the room; then he saw Yuki and walking over to
+her sat down facing her. Yuki stared at him first in astonishment;
+then a look of fear came into her black eyes. He was silent for many
+minutes, then he coolly remarked:
+
+"You do not speak to your uncle. You do not care to make me welcome in
+this your home." He looked down at her contemptuously.
+
+She saluted him, touching her head to her folded hands upon the floor.
+After a few polite phrases she rose, went to the hibachi, fanned the
+flame a moment, poured water from the kettle into the teapot, and
+brought a tiny tray on which was a cup and the pot of tea. She poured
+out the tea, and, taking the cup in both hands, slid it across the
+floor to him; when he took it, she again touched her head to the
+floor, and inquired:
+
+"I trust my honorable Uncle is in the enjoyment of good health?"
+
+The man sipped the tea slowly, gazing around the room, taking in all
+its details. His eyes especially rested upon the shrine in the corner.
+Then he regarded her long and intently.
+
+"I see you have brought your family shrine to the house of the
+foreigner with whom you live--the man who has made you forget your
+people. Have you opened it; do you offer the daily incense; or is it
+simply an article of furniture for your foreign husband to admire?"
+
+Yuki said nothing; she could not explain to this old man that the
+shrine had meant nothing to her, but having come from her old home she
+had kept it simply as a remembrance of the past.
+
+Not receiving an answer the man continued:
+
+"The foreigner is kind to you?"
+
+Yuki smiled and said softly to herself: "Kind--kind--my Dana San."
+Then seeing her uncle expected an answer, she said in a quiet tone:
+
+"Most kind, my honorable Uncle."
+
+"You wonder why I come to you to-night?" he inquired.
+
+Yuki took the tea-things and put them behind her, then remarked:
+
+"My humble house is honored by your presence."
+
+"Honored, yes," sneered the uncle. "But still you wonder. I will tell
+you why I came to you to-night. Once upon a time there was a family in
+Japan--happy, honored--proud of their title, of their history--and,
+more than all, proud of their overlord. He was impetuous, and like
+many of the older Japanese, resentful of the foreigner's intrusion.
+Here, one day on a visit to his capital, he met a stranger, one of
+that hated race who spoke slightingly of his country, of his gods.
+There was the quick retort, the blow, and he our lord went to the Land
+of Shadows. The evil gods of the foreigner protected the man who gave
+the blow. His name was never discovered--it was claimed he did the
+cowardly act in self-defense and he got safely away."
+
+Yuki leaned forward eagerly.
+
+"Oh, it is of my honorable father you speak?"
+
+"Yes, it is of your father I speak," said the man in a low, bitter
+voice. "Since his death the gods have not favored our house; we have
+lost position, money, everything. But at last--at last our prayers to
+the gods have been answered. The enemy of our house is delivered into
+our hands--into _your_ hands."
+
+Yuki looked bewildered.
+
+"_My_ hands? What do you mean, my honorable Uncle?"
+
+"Yuki San, we have learned the name of the man who struck your
+father!" he exclaimed in a low, tense voice.
+
+Yuki looked at the tragic face before her a moment, then she said: "At
+last, at last you know?"
+
+"Yes," replied her uncle. "At last, after all these years of patience,
+revenge is in our hands. Oh, Yuki San, the foreigner, your husband, is
+the man who killed your father."
+
+Yuki drew back, her face pallid, her body trembling.
+
+"Morris, my Dana San?"
+
+"Yes, your Dana San."
+
+Yuki sat for a moment in bewilderment, then the color came back to her
+face and she leaned forward eagerly.
+
+"But, my lord, my lord, he could not have done it! He is so kind, so
+good, he never hurt a thing in all his life."
+
+The man leaned forward, gazing intently into her eyes.
+
+"Has this stranger made you forget your father? Have you forgotten
+your oath, _your_ oath? Have you forgotten why your father is now
+in the Land of Shadows?" He pointed to the shrine.
+
+"Look, there is his tablet within that shrine. But the doors are
+closed. In our home, in our family temple are tablets. The doors of
+the shrines have never been opened. His spirit has not had the incense
+to help him on the way. The morning offering has not been his. He has
+been compelled to travel alone on the way to the gods, because we, his
+family--you and I--have not avenged his death.
+
+"No, do not speak," he continued, as Yuki was about to interrupt. "He
+was murdered, and until the man who sent him on his way joins him in
+his journey, his spirit can have no peace. And you, his daughter, dare
+not, for fear of the gods, open the shrine to make the offering that
+the poorest peasant makes to his dead! But to-night I bring you the
+final word of the clan. To give you the honor of doing the deed that
+will wash the stain from our name. You know that a servant must avenge
+the death of his master, a son that of his father, a Samurai the death
+of his overlord, and I come to give you--a girl, an inheritance that
+will make you envied of men."
+
+"I do not understand--my lord, you mean----"
+
+"Yuki San, he killed your father, the head of our house, and he must
+die to-night."
+
+Yuki rose and went to the man. Taking him by the arms she looked up
+into his face piteously, with wide, frightened eyes.
+
+"My lord, my lord, you can not mean it--that he shall die--Morris
+die!"
+
+The old man looked down into the pale face, the searching, pitiful
+eyes; but there shone no mercy in the hard eyes that met the ones
+raised pleadingly to his.
+
+"Yes, and you, the only child of the man he killed, shall fulfill the
+sacred oath, and bring peace to your father's honorable soul."
+
+Yuki was utterly bewildered and said falteringly: "I do not
+understand--I do not understand."
+
+With the monotonous voice of the fatalist the uncle continued:
+
+"It would have been better if a man-child had been born to our lord,
+as his arm would not falter; but you will take as sure a way, if not
+as honorable as the sword. Here is the means." He drew a little bottle
+from the sleeve of his kimono. "A little of this and he sleeps
+instantly and well."
+
+Yuki held out her hands to the man sitting like fate before her.
+
+"My lord, how can I? We have been so happy! My Dana San has never
+given me an unkind look, never caused me a moment's sorrow. I love
+him, Uncle, not as a Japanese woman loves her lord, but as a foreign
+woman from over the seas loves the man whom she has chosen from all
+the world. For two years we have been in this little house, for two
+years he has been my every breath. My first thought in the morning was
+for Morris, my Dana San, my last thought at night was joy in the
+thought that I was his and that he loved me. Sometimes I waken and
+look at him, and wonder how such a great man can care for such a
+simple Japanese girl as I am. And now you ask me to hurt him?" She
+drew her head up proudly. "I can not and I will not. He is my husband,
+and no matter what he has done I will protect him--even from you."
+
+The man rose, and striding to her, grasped her roughly by the arm.
+
+"Woman, you will do as we say. You are a Japanese and you know even
+unto death you must obey. I have no fear. It will be done--and by
+you--to-night."
+
+He released her arm, and she, looking down upon the tatami, moved her
+foot silently to and fro, absorbed with this tragedy that had come
+into her happy life. Then she had a thought that brought hope to her,
+and she looked up eagerly. "Perhaps it is not true--perhaps it was not
+really Morris----"
+
+"Listen," said the man roughly. "It was he. We _know_. But you--if you
+do not believe--make him confess to-night. If it was not he, then you
+are free. If it is, you will know what to do--and it will be done
+to-night--remember."
+
+Yuki looked into the hard black eyes staring at her, fascinating her,
+taking all the life from her, and she said slowly as if under a spell:
+
+"Yes--if he confesses--if it was he--I know it will be done. But--if
+the gods take him, they will also take me."
+
+The uncle shook her roughly by the arm.
+
+"_No!_ Listen to me. Your work is not yet done. You must live. It
+would be too much happiness to have your spirit travel with him the
+lonely road. He must walk the path alone, without love to guide him.
+You will return to me to-night, return to your home and family who
+await you. Our vengeance would be only half complete if we allowed you
+to journey to the Land of Shadows with him. Come to me--" and he drew
+her to him. "Look at me. I will await you at the Willow Tea House."
+
+He took her face in his hands and gazed steadily into her eyes, saying
+in a low, tense voice:
+
+"I do not fear--you will obey. Are you not a Japanese? I
+expect--you--to--come--to--me--after your work is done--and the gods
+will be with you. Sayonara."
+
+He put on his clogs at the entrance and went away, his form scarcely
+distinguishable in the gloom as he went down the pathway. Yuki looked
+after him, then threw herself on her face on the floor with a little
+moan, beating her hands in the manner of an Eastern woman.
+
+It was absolutely quiet in the room, no noise coming from the street
+outside, except from a far distance a woman's voice chanting in a tone
+of singular sweetness words that sounded in their minor key like the
+soft tones of a flute: "_Amma Konitchi Wahyak Mo_," then between
+these sweet calls a plaintive whistle--one long-drawn note, then two
+shorter ones--the cry of the blind massage woman, making her rounds
+for her evening's toil.
+
+The cry died away, and only the low moan was heard within the little
+room. Morris opened the gate and came lightly up the pathway,
+whistling a few bars of the latest popular song. He came inside the
+room, and, hardly able to distinguish the objects, looked about
+wonderingly, then seeing Yuki lying where she had thrown herself, he
+went over to her and picked her up.
+
+"My sweetheart, what is it? What has happened?" He sat down upon the
+long chair and held her against him. "Tell me, dear one, tell me."
+
+Morris went over to the lamp after a few moments and lighted it, then
+came back and showed Yuki a little gift he had brought her. She took
+it and looked at it with eyes filled with tragic grief; then, pressing
+it against her face, put her head on his shoulder and began sobbing in
+a heart-broken way that amazed Morris.
+
+She lay with her face hidden, he softly caressing her hair. Finally
+she said:
+
+"Morris, we have been here two years. Tell me--have I made you happy?"
+
+Morris threw back his head and laughed happily.
+
+"Happy, Yuki, happy? Dear heart, I had a long time ago put aside the
+thought that love meant happiness and happiness meant love. Now you
+have taught me that one cannot exist without the other. I love you, I
+live with you, you are mine. That tells everything. When you came into
+my life, into my heart, I was soured and embittered. Life meant only
+work and duties done; after that, comfort and a cigar--that was all.
+But now, I love my work as well, I do it as thoroughly, but there is
+something more. I know when I shut the office-door, I can come here
+where no one can enter. I can be alone with the woman I love and who
+loves me. There is no question of society or dinners, but just us two
+alone, you and me--and," turning up her face, "you are happy with me,
+my Yuki San? You love me?"
+
+Yuki did not reply at once. Then in a low, sweet voice she replied:
+
+"Morris, we Japanese women never speak of love. It is to us a subject
+left to singing girls and geishas. Without it we marry, and without it
+we live, and it is, unless by chance, a closed book to us. I do not
+know if I love you as the women of your race love their Dana Sans--I
+know I think of you by day, and I dream of you by night. I live only
+for you--to be what you wish me to be--and when you take me in your
+arms and say, 'My Yuki San, my sweetheart,' it seems to me that my
+heart with its happiness will break! I do not know if that is
+love--but if it be--I love you, my Dana San, I love you."
+
+She lay quietly, and he rested his face against her hair, caressing it
+from time to time. After a silence, he inquired lightly:
+
+"What about supper, Yuki?"
+
+Yuki drew him to her again, for he moved as if he would rise.
+
+"Wait, dear, let us talk a little. Tell me, when you to Tokio
+came--the first time----"
+
+"Twelve years ago, when O Yuki San was a little girl."
+
+"Twelve years ago--there was much trouble then between foreigners and
+Japanese. You and your friends--had--had trouble."
+
+Morris looked at her quickly and his eyes darkened.
+
+"Where did you hear that?" he asked.
+
+Yuki, carelessly: "Oh, they gossip in the market-place."
+
+Morris rose and walked up and down the room.
+
+"I don't know what you have heard, but I might as well tell you the
+whole story. I did have trouble here in Japan. One night some of us
+got in a mix-up--a sort of quarrel with a Japanese, and I don't know
+how it happened--I never have known--but I struck and killed him. It
+was in the dark, and I could hardly see him."
+
+After a silence Yuki stammered: "You--killed him?"
+
+"In self-defense, O Yuki San," Morris defended eagerly; "it was in
+self-defense. But afterwards, what a time it was! Shall I ever forget
+that night getting back to my ship?" He passed his hand over his face,
+and then came back to his place beside her on the couch. "Don't speak
+of it any more; I don't want to think of it."
+
+Yuki slipped down to the floor and sat there with her head against his
+knee. She sat very quietly, then finally put her hand up to the flower
+in her dress and slowly took it out and let it fall to the floor,
+petal by petal, watching the leaves as they fell. Then, after a long
+silence, she rose and started towards the tea table, hesitated, went a
+little way, and then came back to him. She knelt by the couch and
+said, in a low voice:
+
+"Morris, no matter what happens, what you learn, what the gods may
+teach you soon--remember, I love you with all the love of my life.
+That I would give that life for you--oh, so willingly, if I only
+could! That through whatever you pass, I would gladly be with you; but
+I will come to you soon. I will not send you where I may not follow. I
+will come. I am yours, and the gods cannot let you go alone. You need
+me, and I would not be afraid. I love you--I want to go with you--but
+I am a Japanese--and I understand."
+
+She let her face fall upon her hands and knelt there quietly. Morris
+looked at her blankly, thinking she was worried about something.
+Finally he lifted her face and kissed her.
+
+"Never mind, dear one. I don't know what is troubling you, but of
+course you shall go with me wherever I go. I need you, and could not
+be without my Yuki San."
+
+He started to read the papers; she rose and stood by the couch a
+moment, then taking a step toward the tea-things:
+
+"Would my Dana San--like--a cup of tea?"
+
+Morris, absorbed in his papers, assented. "Why, yes, I don't mind if I
+do."
+
+She turned and walked slowly to the hibachi, knelt beside it, fanned
+the fire a moment, then poured the water from the iron kettle into the
+tiny teapot, let it stand a moment, looking over towards Morris. Then
+she took the bottle from her sleeve and poured a few drops into the
+cup, filling it with tea. She rose slowly and walked over to the long
+chair. She looked down at him as he lay half-reclining, hesitated,
+then handed him the cup. He took it, and looking up at her half
+laughing, exclaimed:
+
+"To you, sweetheart!" and drank.
+
+He fell back on the chair; the cup dropped from his hands. Yuki looked
+down at him in silence; then she bent over him, and lovingly crossed
+his hands upon his breast, touched his face caressingly with her
+fingers; then bent down and kissed him.
+
+She turned slowly, and, in turning, her eyes fell upon the shrine. She
+looked at it intently, slowly crossed the room and knelt in front of
+it, bowed her head to the floor; then opened the doors, and bowed her
+head again.
+
+She took out two candlesticks, two little jars of incense, a small
+bowl for rice, and another for water. She lighted the candles, lighted
+the incense, poured water in one bowl and rice in the other. Then she
+again touched her head to the floor, once--twice--thrice--rose, and
+walked backward to the open shojii.
+
+She stood a moment looking around the room that she had loved so well;
+then turned her face to her lover lying so quietly in the chair. She
+knelt down facing him, touched her head to the floor and rising in the
+kneeling position, said, stretching out her arms towards Morris:
+
+"Sayonara, my Dana San, good-bye, good-bye."
+
+
+
+
+One Wreath of Rue
+
+_By Cynthia Westover Alden_
+
+
+    The brawny lad in khaki clad,
+      We rightly cheer. Alas,
+    My eyes grow dim! I weigh with him,
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+    A heart more brave no man could have,
+      His soul as clear as glass.
+    He faced with zest the doctor-test--
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+    And now the blow is hurting so,
+      He sees the legions mass.
+    They go to war. Be sorry for
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+    The future grim is flouting him
+      As in the weakling class.
+    Though fine and true, his years are few--
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+    For warriors proud blow bugles loud,
+      Of silver or of brass;
+    One wreath of rue is due unto
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+
+
+
+Woodrow Wilson and Wells, War's Great Authors
+
+_An Interview with Honor� Willsie_
+
+
+"The war has thus far produced two great pieces of literature. One of
+these is H. G. Wells' 'Mr. Britling Sees It Through.' The other is
+President Wilson's War Message. I was curiously moved by 'Mr. Britling
+Sees It Through.' The effect of that novel on me was to move me away
+from the war, to let me get a picture of the war as a great procession
+against the horizon.
+
+"Every code that I had--in government, in religion, in ethics--had
+been obliterated by the events of the last three years. But this novel
+showed me that there could be a code--that something coherent and true
+must come out of the chaos. Reading as many manuscripts as I do, I
+grow stale on ideas. I want to read out-and-out trash or else
+something that will give me a new philosophy of life. And Wells, at
+any rate, showed me that there could be a new philosophy.
+
+"The great task before our writers to-day is to do for the individual
+what President Wilson's Declaration of War did for the nations of the
+world. This is the most important thing a writer can do--to make a new
+code for mankind. I can't think of any American writer able to do it.
+But did any of us expect Wells to write such a book as 'Mr. Britling
+Sees It Through'?
+
+"One significant thing about President Wilson's message is that its
+author is absolutely sure of the hereafter. He is convinced that God
+is Eternal Goodness. All his utterances are the utterances of a man
+with a deep faith that never has been disturbed. And that sort of man
+is essentially the man for statesmanship.
+
+"Religious fervor was the driving force of the fathers of our country.
+For an agnostic like myself to witness an exhibition of this force is
+to look wistfully at a power that cannot be understood. It is the
+spirit of the little red schoolhouse, of the meeting-house, of the
+town meeting--the spirit of American statesmanship and of American
+democracy.
+
+"Human beings aren't big enough to get along without religion. Somehow
+or other we moderns have got to have some faith--as Lincoln had it,
+and Adams, and Washington--as Wilson has it. We need a new religion.
+For Wilson won't happen again very often.
+
+"President Wilson's message formulates a new philosophy of government.
+His message came on Europe like a flash of light in the darkness of
+battle.
+
+"President Wilson seems to have started his message with a definite
+conviction as to the existence of God. Mr. Wells must have started his
+novel with the hope of finding God through it. I size Wells up as a
+modern with the modern craving for God. Wells does not lead you to
+God, but he gives you the idea that God exists, and is just over
+beyond.
+
+"But then religion is a favorite theme of the novelist. Winston
+Churchill's 'The Inside of the Cup' indicated that social service
+would take the place of religion. Well, maybe it would for some
+people. But nowadays most people need a religion that says that there
+is a hereafter.
+
+"I think that I am the only human being in captivity who has read all
+of Holt's book on the cosmic relations. And what I got out of it was
+not a belief in spiritualism, but a realization of the fact that every
+one, high and low, rich and poor, educated and illiterate, has a
+craving for knowledge of life after death, has a craving for belief in
+life after death. And the war has raised this feeling to the nth
+power. We feel that we shall go mad if there is no hereafter. Mr.
+Wells leads us to believe that he will find that there is a hereafter.
+President Wilson shows us that he is sure there is one.
+
+"This craving for conviction of the hereafter, increased by the war,
+inevitably makes our literature more spiritual. So we are seeing the
+last for awhile of the sex novel and of sordid realism. We no longer
+find people who believe that since you are an artist you should
+describe the contents of a garbage can. The soul of man as well as the
+body of man is coming into its own as the theme of the novelist.
+
+"And the war is responsible. You can't stick out your tongue and make
+a face at God when a shell may momentarily hurl you from the earth.
+And who cares to read a sex novel now? What do the little bedroom
+scandals of the flimsy novels matter when the womanhood of Belgium has
+been despoiled?
+
+"I am asked if our writers have deteriorated of late years. I think
+that the rank and file of our serial writers are way below those of
+forty or fifty years ago. Then our novelists were fewer and better.
+Look at the files of the old magazines and you will find that the
+novels that appeared serially in those days were much better than
+those that are appearing to-day. But one or two of our best novelists
+are just as fine as any of our writers of a bygone generation--Margaret
+Deland and Gertrude Atherton, for instance.
+
+"And in other branches of literature I think we have improved on our
+forefathers. American poets have never before done such exquisite
+things as they are doing to-day, and one or two short story writers
+are doing better things than were ever done before in this country. If
+you compare the short stories in old issues of the magazines with
+those in the current issues you will find that the old short stories
+are as much inferior to the new short stories as the old novels--the
+serialized novels--are superior to the new ones."
+
+
+
+
+A Field
+
+_By Minnie Stichter_
+
+
+Sometime I expect to turn a sharp corner and come face to face with
+myself, according to the ancient maxim, "extremes meet." For, did I
+not vow to the Four Great Walls that had imprisoned me for nine
+months, that I would fly to the uttermost parts of the earth so soon
+as vacation should open the doors? And did I not spend almost my
+entire summer within sight of my home, and in a field of a few acres
+dimension?
+
+I caught sight of some flowers, just inside the barbed wire fencing
+the track, that were fairer than any I had yet gathered for my vases.
+As the old song has it, "O, brighter the flowers on the other side
+seem!" No one saw me get under that six-stranded barbed-wire fence,
+and I am not going to tell how I did it. But when I got through I felt
+as well guarded as though attended by a retinue of soldiers. And I
+found myself in another world--a dream-world!
+
+It was a large field rosy with red clover and waving with tall
+timothy. A single tree glistened and rustled invitingly. In its shade
+I rested, refreshing myself with the field sights and sounds and
+fragrances. It was delightful to be the center of so much beauty as
+circled round about me. Then I had only to rest on the rosy
+clover-carpet at the foot of the tree, and the tall grass eclipsed all
+things earthly save the tree, and the sky overhead, and the round mat
+of clover under the tree which the grass ringed about. I had often
+wished for Siegfried's magic cloak. Well, here was something quite as
+good, which, if it did not render me invisible to the world, made the
+world invisible to me. Who of you would not be glad to have the old
+world with its "everyday endeavors and desires," its folly, its pride
+and its tears, drop out of sight for a while, leaving you in a flowery
+zone of perfect quiet and beauty, hedged in by a wall of grass!
+
+There were many "afterwards." And the marvel of it all was that, for
+all I could do, the field retained its virgin splendor and kept the
+secret of my goings-in and comings-out most completely.
+
+After the daisies, there came a season of black-eyed Susans. That was
+when the grasses were tallest and the feeling of mystery did most
+abound. I know I had been there many days before I discovered the
+myriads of wild roses near the crabtree thicket--those fairies'
+flowers so exquisite in their pink frailty that mortal breath is rude.
+Only when I reached the hedge, bounding the remote side of the field,
+did I enter into my full inheritance. Along a barbed-wire fence had
+grown up sumac, elderberry, crabtrees and nameless brambles, while
+over all trailed the wild grapevine, bearing the most perfect
+miniature clusters, fit to be sculptured by Trentanove into immortal
+beauty. And this hedge was the source of ever increasing wonder the
+whole summer long. I depended on it alone for sensational denouements
+after the grass was cut for hay. When the field lay shorn, like other
+fields about it far and wide, I could not have been lured hitherward
+but for the hedge. There the hard green berries of a peculiar bramble
+ripened into wax-white pellet-sized drops clustered together on a
+woody stem by the most coral-pink pedicles ever designed by
+sea-sprites.
+
+In its time came the elderberry bloom, and its purple fruit; the
+garnet fruit of the sumach and its flaming foliage; the lengths of
+vines and their purple clusters--all these and more also ministered to
+my delight.
+
+About goldenrod time, the school-bell rang me in from the field, but I
+managed to take recesses long enough to behold the kaleidoscopic views
+brought before me by the turning of nature's hand. The smooth velvety
+green of the field with its border of gold and lavender--great widths
+of thistle and goldenrod following the line of fence--was like the
+broidered mantle of some celestial Sir Walter Raleigh, spread for the
+queens of earth. I was no queen; but I did not envy royalty, since I
+doubted if it had any such cherished possessions as my field in its
+various phases.
+
+In the November days, the brightness of the fields seemed to be
+inverted and to be seen in the opalescent tints of the sky. Then, the
+clearness of the atmosphere, the wider horizon, the less hidden homes
+and doings of men, had this message for the children of men: "If there
+is any secret in your life, leave it out."
+
+When it is December and the fields are too snowy and wind-swept for
+pleasure-grounds, where the only bits of brightness are the
+embroideries of the scarlet pips of the wild-rose, it is good to
+nestle by the cozy fireside and conjure it all up again, and nourish a
+feeling of expectancy for the spring and summer that shall come.
+Again, the flowers and waving grass and drowsy warmth of the summer
+day; again, the songs of flitting birds, the scented sweets of the
+new-mown hay. Again the work of the fields goes on before me like a
+play in pantomime! Again, with my eyes, I follow home the boys with
+their cows, to the purple rim of the hill beyond which only my fancy
+has ever gone. Again I quit work with the tired laborer. Again I dream
+of the open, free, unfettered song that life might be if it were lived
+more simply, with less of artificiality. And again, for the sake of
+one patient toiler in the town, whose life-task admits of no holiday,
+I have the grace to return thither and begin where I left off--the
+life common to you and to me, the life ordained for us from the
+beginning.
+
+
+
+
+Your Lad, and My Lad
+
+_By Randall Parrish_
+
+
+    Down toward the deep blue water, marching to the throb of drum,
+    From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come;
+    The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal,
+    While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel.
+    With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance;
+    And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.
+
+    A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,
+    Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;
+    The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle call,
+    With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.
+    Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance;
+    For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.
+
+    Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,
+    Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;
+    The same old Flag, the same old Faith--the Freedom of the World--
+    Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.
+    Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance,
+    As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.
+
+
+
+
+Peace and Then--?
+
+_By Detlev Fredrik Tillisch_
+
+
+    _Suburb of London. Three months after declaration of peace.
+    Time: Noon._
+
+    CAST
+
+    Mrs. Claire Hamilton--about 35 years of age--portly--simply
+    dressed.
+
+    Master Hal Hamilton--her son--about 10 years of age--full of
+    life--dressed in Boy Scout uniform.
+
+    Mr. John Hamilton--soldier--botanist--about 39 years of
+    age--tall--well built.
+
+    Sergeant, soldiers and pedestrians.
+
+    Claire Hamilton is seen fixing her corner flower stand and
+    endeavoring to sell her plants to passers-by, but after three
+    futile attempts she becomes tired of standing and takes seat on
+    wooden bench in front of her stand. Takes letter from
+    pocket--sighs and begins to read letter aloud.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (reading)._ "Dearest Love and Hal Boy--We are still in
+the bowels of hell--but even this would be nothing if I but knew my
+loved ones were well and happy. (_She wipes away a tear and continues
+reading._) Nothing but a miracle can end this terrible war. Give my
+own dear Hallie boy a kiss from his longing papa." (_She lays letter
+on her lap and meditates._) Peace (_shakes her head--looks at date of
+letter._) February 16th--six months past and now it's all over--three
+months ago--Oh, God, bring him back to me and my boy. (_She goes back
+of flower stand and brings out box of mignonettes. Hal comes running
+in with bundle of newspapers and very much excited--his sleeve is
+torn. He stands still and looks at mother rather proudly and
+defiantly._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal Boy--what's the trouble?
+
+_Hal._ I licked Fritz.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ What for?
+
+_Hal._ He said it took the whole world to lick the Germans.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ But, Hal, my boy--the war is over--you mustn't be
+hateful--be kind and forgiving.
+
+_Hal._ Make them bring back my daddy then.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ You still have your mother--(_Hal runs to mother and
+embraces her tenderly._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Whose birthday is it to-day? (_He thinks--pause._)
+This is the 20th of August--now think hard. (_She awaits
+answer--silence--then takes box of mignonettes._) Whose favorite
+flower is the mignonette?
+
+_Hal._ Papa's! Papa's! (_Claps his hands boyishly._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes, Hal--it's papa's birthday and mother is
+remembering the day by decorating our little stand with the flowers
+your papa has grown. (_He caresses the mignonettes tenderly._)
+
+_Hal._ Dear daddy--dear flowers--aren't they lovely, mother?
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes, Hal. (_She wipes away a tear, trying to conceal
+her emotions from her son._)
+
+_Hal._ Maybe some day I'll be a famous botanist like papa and then
+you'll have two boxes. (_Mother is silent trying to keep back the
+tears and Hal notices it._) Papa is coming home soon, isn't he,
+mother? (_She just shakes her head._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ We must be brave.
+
+_Hal._ When I get big I'm going to be a soldier and be brave like
+daddy.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ That won't be necessary any more--it isn't the people
+who want to fight.
+
+_Hal._ But daddy did and you bet if anybody makes me sore I'll fight
+too.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ No, my boy--daddy didn't want to fight----
+
+_Hal._ Then why did he go?
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal, you're a little boy and wouldn't understand--but
+just remember what your mother tells you: Don't be selfish--be
+tolerant, honest and charitable to all the peoples of the world, the
+big and the small alike. (_Enter passer-by who stops to look over
+plants. After Mrs. Hamilton has shown several and given him prices, he
+picks up the box of mignonettes._)
+
+_Man._ I'll take this box.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (confused, not knowing whether to tell stranger about
+that particular box of flowers or sell it, as she sorely needs money.
+Then she picks up another plant to show it.)_ Here's a very sturdy
+plant, sir.
+
+_Man._ But I want this one. (_Pointing to box of mignonettes._) How
+much is it? I'm in a hurry.
+
+_Hal (goes to stranger and takes box from his hands)._ You can't have
+them--they're daddy's.
+
+_Man (pushing him to one side)._ Get away from here, you little
+ruffian.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ That's my son, sir--he's not a ruffian. His father
+has not returned from the front and that----
+
+_Man (interrupting)._ Oh, yes--yes--we hear those stories every day
+now on every corner--it's the beggar's capital. (_He walks away
+hurriedly, but Hal starts after with clenched fist._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal! Hal! What did mother tell you a few moments ago?
+
+_Hal (coming back)._ But he made me sore.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ What's the news--(_Hal hands her a paper, kisses her
+and starts up street._)
+
+_Hal._ Paper--extra--paper! (_He disappears._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (is attracted by headlines in paper and begins to read
+aloud)._ "Fifty men return to-day from the front to be placed in the
+asylum." (_She buries her face in her hands._) Better that he were
+dead. (_Sound of footsteps is heard. Enter detachment of ten men in
+uniform in charge of a sergeant. They swing corner of flower stand and
+Mrs. Hamilton watches every man and there is a tense silence. Suddenly
+Mrs. Hamilton rushes toward them._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ John! John! My boy! (_They halt. Mrs. Hamilton
+swoons. Sergeant goes to her and assists her to bench in front of
+stand. She becomes calm and goes toward husband with out-stretched
+arms._) Don't you know me? Claire, your wife! (_He stares at her, but
+shows no signs of recognition._) You remember Hal--Hal, your own
+boy--our little boy--John! (_He just looks at her and smiles
+foolishly. Sergeant takes her gently by the arm to lead her away,
+thinking her hysterically mistaken as many others have been._)
+
+_Sergeant._ Are you quite sure, madam, that he is your husband?
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes--John Hamilton--have you no record----
+
+_Sergeant._ Not yet. But time will clear away any doubts----
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Time--time! I've waited long enough on time. He's
+mine and I want him. (_Turns toward husband._) You want to stay here
+with me and our boy--don't you, John? (_Pause._) Sergeant, let me have
+him.
+
+_Sergeant (trying to hide his emotion)._ You're quite sure,
+madam--(_Mrs. Hamilton nods and sergeant takes John from ranks. John
+just stares. Mrs. Hamilton leads him tenderly to seat. Sergeant starts
+others to march._)
+
+_Sergeant._ I'll return for him after delivering these men. (_Mrs.
+Hamilton takes no notice of his remarks and they march off._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (kissing his hands tenderly and giving him all signs of
+love and affection)._ Doesn't it seem good to be with us again? (_He
+smiles foolishly._) And our boy Hal--He is so large now--You'll see
+him soon. Think of it--he's ten years old. (_Hal enters and without
+noticing father rushes toward his mother, holding a package in his
+hand. His father sees him and notices his uniform--rises quickly and
+rushes toward him but mother grabs his arm and holds him back. Hal
+remains standing._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ That's Hal--your own boy. Hal--your son.
+
+_Mr. Hamilton (looks at Hal fiercely)._ Attention! (_Hal looks
+perplexed._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ This is your own papa--my boy. (_Hal runs toward him
+but stops._)
+
+_Mr. Hamilton._ Attention! (_His hands grab his pocket for revolver
+but finds none._) You scullion--this is my girl! (_Turns and puts arms
+around Mrs. Hamilton._) Aren't you, Sissy? (_Mrs. Hamilton realizes
+situation and plays her part--leads him to seat--strokes his hair and
+caresses him._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ What have you, Hal?
+
+_Hal._ I sold all my papers and brought you a little cake for daddy's
+birthday.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (smiles and shakes her head. She takes box of
+mignonettes and shows them to Mr. Hamilton.)._ You surely remember
+these--your own mignonettes--your prize? (_She is silent. He smells
+flowers--she anxiously awaits any signs of recognition--long pause--a
+slight spark of intelligence comes over him as he fondles the
+flowers--Mrs. Hamilton very tense but says nothing. Hal remains
+standing as if rooted to the spot. Enter sergeant._)
+
+_Sergeant._ I must deliver him with the others, madam. (_No reply._)
+It's my duty. (_He goes to take Mr. Hamilton by the arm, but Mrs.
+Hamilton interferes._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Duty! Duty! It has been my duty to slave and
+starve--my husband has done his duty--he volunteered his services--I
+willingly let him go--for what? For whom? (_Pause._) Now it's all
+over. This is the result to me--to thousands, but now--(_stands
+between Mr. Hamilton and sergeant_)--God has brought him back to me
+and God will keep him with me!
+
+_Mr. Hamilton (in a whisper)._ God--(_rubs hands over eyes_)--God----
+(_Smells fragrance of the mignonettes. He takes Mrs. Hamilton's hand
+and Hal runs to him and kneels beside him._) My mignonette. (_Smiles
+to Mrs. Hamilton and Hal._) My mignonettes.
+
+
+
+
+Semper Fidelis
+
+_By Addie B. Billington_
+
+
+    When free from earthly toil and thrall of pain,
+          Time's transient guest,
+    One large of heart and finely quick of brain
+          Found early rest.
+    Kind friends ordained that on his coffin lid,
+          Bedecked with flowers,
+    His last Romance should lie, forever hid
+          From sight of ours.
+    Th' unfinished page no other hand might press,
+          Where his had wrought,
+    Nor Fancy weave strange threads--to match by guess
+          The strands he sought.
+    The motives worthy and the action grand,
+          In faithful trust,
+    To bury what they could not understand,
+          With fleeting dust.
+    And if within the years there treasured lies,
+          'Neath Memory's trance,
+    Wreathed in forget-me-nots, my sacred prize--
+          A life's Romance--
+    Heav'n grant no ruthless hand the pages turn,
+          When I am gone,
+    Striving its inmost meaning to discern;
+          'Tis mine alone.
+
+
+
+
+Our Bird Friends
+
+_By Margaret Coulson Walker_
+
+
+Lovers of birds will doubtless be pleased to know that some of the
+most agreeable and interesting legends of the past were centered about
+these guests of our groves, whose actions formed the basis of
+innumerable fancies and superstitions. An acquaintance with the
+literature as well as with the life history of our feathered friends
+will not only increase our interest in the bird life about us but it
+will broaden our sympathies as well.
+
+Birds exercised a strong influence on prehistoric religion, having
+been worshipped as gods in the earlier days and later looked upon as
+representatives of the higher powers. The Greeks went so far as to
+attribute the origin of the world itself to the egg of some mysterious
+bird. To others, these small creatures flitting about among our trees,
+represented the visible spirits of departed friends. The Aztecs
+believed that the good, as a reward of merit, were metamorphosed at
+the close of life into feathered songsters, and as such were permitted
+to pass a certain term in the beautiful groves of Paradise. To them,
+as to all North American Indians, thunder was the cloud bird flapping
+his mighty wings, while the lightning was the flash of his eye. The
+people of other countries believed that higher powers showed their
+displeasure by transforming wrong-doers into birds and animals as a
+punishment for their crimes.
+
+In all lands birds were invested with the power of prophecy. They were
+believed to possess superior intelligence through being twice-born,
+once as an egg, and again as an animal. Because of their wisdom, not
+only they, but their graven images also, were consulted on all
+important affairs of life. Many nations, notably the Japanese, are
+still believers in the direct communication between man and unseen
+beings, through birds and other agents. In their country, birds are
+regarded as sacred, and for this reason the agriculturist gladly
+shares with them the fruit of his toil.
+
+While we of to-day attach no supernatural significance to the presence
+of these feathered songsters, and even though to us they possess no
+powers of prophecy, we can find a great deal of pleasure in observing
+these beings whose boding cries were regarded as omens by the greatest
+of earth--beings whose actions in Vespasian's time were considered of
+vital national importance.
+
+Aside from their historic and literary interest, these multitudinous,
+and often contradictory, legends and superstitions are of interest to
+us as a part of the faith of our fathers, much of which, combined with
+other and higher things, is in us yet. These beliefs of theirs, like
+many of what we are pleased to think are original ideas and opinions
+to-day, were hereditary and largely a matter of geography.
+
+In ancient times the chief birds of portent were the raven or crow,
+the owl and the woodpecker, though there were a number of others on
+the prophetic list.
+
+As an example of interest let us consider our friend the raven and his
+congener the crow, who are so confused in literature, as well as in
+the minds of those not familiar with ornithological classification,
+that it is almost impossible to treat them separately. The raven is a
+larger bird and not quite so widely distributed as the crow, but in
+general appearance and habits they are practically the same.
+
+If tradition is to be credited, we are more indebted to this bird of
+ancient family than to any other feathered creature, for he has played
+an important part in history, sacred and profane, in literature, and
+in art.
+
+On the authority of the Koran we know that it was he who first taught
+man to bury his dead. When Cain did not know what disposition to make
+of the body of his slain brother, "God sent a raven, who killed
+another raven in his presence and then dug a pit with his beak and
+claws and buried him therein." It was the raven whom Noah sent forth
+to learn whether the waters had abated--one of the rare instances
+wherein he ever proved faithless to his trust--and it was he who gave
+sustenance to the prophet Elijah.
+
+In Norse mythology, Odin, the greatest of all the gods, the raven's
+God, had for his chief advisers two ravens, Hugin and Munin (Mind and
+Memory), who were sent out by him each morning on newsgathering
+journeys, and who returned to him at nightfall to perch on his
+shoulders and whisper into his ears intelligence of the day. When news
+of unusual importance was desired, Odin himself in raven guise went
+forth to seek it, and when the Norse armies went into battle they
+followed the raven standard, a banner under which William the
+Conqueror fought. When bellied by the breezes it betokened success,
+but when it hung limp, only defeat was expected.
+
+Norse navigators took with them a pair of ravens to be liberated and
+followed as guides; if the bird returned it was known that land did
+not lie in that direction; if they did not, they were followed. The
+discoveries of both Iceland and Greenland are attributed to their
+leadership.
+
+To the Romans and Greeks the raven was the chief bird of omen, whose
+effigy was borne on their banners, and whose auguries were followed
+with greatest confidence, while to the German mind he was his satanic
+majesty made manifest in feathers. In some parts of Germany these
+birds are believed to hold the souls of the damned, while in other
+European sections priests only are believed to be so reincarnated.
+
+In Sweden the ravens croaking at night in the swamps are said to be
+the ghosts of murdered persons who have been denied Christian burial,
+and whom on this account Charon has refused ferriage across the River
+Styx.
+
+As a companion of saints this bird has had too many experiences to
+mention.
+
+By some nations he was regarded as the bearer of propitious news from
+the gods--and sacrosanct, to others he was the precursor of evil and
+an object of dread. With divining power, which enabled him for ages to
+tell the farmer of coming rain, the maiden of the coming of her lover
+and the invalid of the coming of death, he was received with joy or
+sadness, according to the messages he bore.
+
+In England he was looked upon with greater favor; there the mere
+presence of the home of a raven in a tree-top was enough to insure the
+continuance in power of the family owning the estate.
+
+The wealth of raven literature bears indubitable testimony to the
+interest people of all times and all localities have felt in this
+remarkable bird--an interest certain to increase with acquaintance.
+
+To one with mind open to rural charm, this picturesque bird, solemnly
+stalking about the fields, or majestically flapping his way to the
+treetops, is as much a part of the landscape as the fields themselves,
+or the trees upon their borders; it possesses an interest different
+from that of any other creature of the feathered race. Though he no
+longer pursues the craft of the augur, his superior intelligence,
+great dignity and general air of mystery inspire confidence in his
+abilities in that line.
+
+What powers were his in the old days! Foolish maidens and ignorant
+sailors might put their faith in the divining powers of the flighty
+wren; others might consult the swallow and the kingfisher; but it was
+to the "many-wintered crow" that kings and the great ones of earth
+applied for advice, and it was he who never failed them. According to
+Pliny, he was the only bird capable of realizing the meaning of his
+portents.
+
+In the early morning light the worthy successors of the ancient Hugin
+and Munin go forth to-day in quest of news of interest to their clan,
+just as those historic messengers did in the days when the mighty
+Norse gods awaited their return, that they might act on the
+intelligence gathered by them during the daylight hours; and when
+slanting beams call forth the vesper songs of more tuneful birds, they
+return, followed by long lines of other crows, to their usual haunts
+on the borders of the marshes. Singly or in long lines, never in loose
+flocks like blackbirds, they arrive from all directions, till what
+must be the whole tribe is gathered together--a united family--for the
+night's repose.
+
+As there in the treetops in the early evening, in convention
+assembled, they discuss important affairs, who can doubt that certain
+ones of their number are recognized as leaders, and that they have
+some form of government among themselves? One after another delivers
+himself of a harangue, then the whole assemblage joins in noisy
+applause--or is it disapproval? At other times sociability seems to be
+the sole object of the gathering.
+
+As one old crow, more meditative than the rest, at the close of the
+conclave always betakes himself to the same perch, the lonely,
+up-thrust shaft of a lightning-shattered tree on the hillside, we
+decide that here is old Munin, who has selected this perch as one
+favorable to meditation--a place where he may ponder undisturbed over
+the occurrences of the day.
+
+Others among the group have habits as fixed and noticeable. Even
+though approaching his perch from the opposite direction, one will be
+seen to circle and draw near it from the accustomed side; some of the
+more decided ones will invariably remain just where they alight;
+others will turn around and arrange themselves on their perches
+indefinitely. In the fields it will be noticed that some are socially
+inclined and forage in groups, while others, either from personal
+choice or that of their neighbors, are more solitary. Like members of
+the human family, each has his own individual characteristic.
+
+While the chief charm of the crow is his intelligence, his dignity
+also claims our attention. Who ever saw one of his tribe do anything
+foolish or unbecoming to the funeral director he has been ever since
+the birth of time, and that he must ever be while time endures? The
+ancients believed him to be able to scent a funeral several days
+before death occurred, so sensitive was he to mortuary influences, and
+there is little doubt he still possesses the power to discern
+approaching death in many creatures smaller than himself--and to whom
+he expects to extend the rite of sepulchre. Inside and out he is
+clothed in deepest black; even his tongue and the inside of his mouth
+are in mourning. Seeming to think it incumbent on him to live up to
+his funeral garb and occupation, faithful to his trust, with clerical
+solemnity he goes about his everyday duties.
+
+Gazing on them from his watchtower in the tree tops, what does this
+grave creature think of the gayer birds that dwell in the meadows and
+groves round about? What thinks he of the clownish bobolink, in motley
+nuptial livery, pouring out his silly soul in gurgling, rollicking
+song, in his efforts to please a possible mate, then quarreling with
+both her and his rivals, who also have donned cap and bell to win her
+favor? What of the unpretentious home--a mere hollow in the
+ground--where the care-free pair go to housekeeping? What of the
+redwings building their nests among the reeds in the midst of the
+marsh--so low as almost to touch the water? Of the fitful wren,
+incessantly singing of love to his mate, yet who fails to assist her
+in nest-building, and who proves but an indifferent provider for his
+young family? Of the lonely phoebe, calling in plaintive, mysterious
+tones to a mate unresponsive to his sorrowful beseechings? Of the
+robin, who makes of the grove a sanctuary? He doubtless has his
+opinions concerning every one of them, for he views them all with
+interest. Hearing all the other birds singing their love and seeing
+them winning favor with their brilliant colors, does he envy them?
+
+On the theory of compensation, his sterling qualities render
+accomplishments and decorative raiment unnecessary. With no song in
+which to tell his story, and no garments gay to captivate the eye, the
+crow must needs live his love--and he does--to the end. Seriously he
+wins the mate to whom he remains true forever. To him the marital bond
+is not the mere tie of a season, but one that holds through life. He
+assists the dusky bride of his choice in establishing a commodious
+home in the most commanding situation available--the top of the
+tallest tree in the edge of the wood, and which may have been planted
+by one of his ancestors. He assists her in giving warmth to their eggs
+in the nest. He carries food to her while she broods over them. He
+braves every danger in protecting both her and them against predatory
+hawks and owls and frolicking squirrels, to whom he is known as the
+"warrior crow." With tenderest solicitude he relieves his mate as far
+as he can in ministering to their nestlings.
+
+And what of the young crows in the nest? When their elders are away on
+commissary tours, the young ones, bewailing the absence of parents
+almost constantly, are always found, on the return, in attitudes of
+expectancy. To them the approach of older crows, even though it be
+from the left, is never ominous of anything but good. And when after
+many excursions baby appetites have been satisfied, in their lofty
+cradles in the tree tops, the infant crows are rocked by the breezes,
+and though the tuneless throats of the parents yield no songs they are
+not without music, for soft �olian lullabies soothe them to sleep.
+
+On hearing farmers talk, one would think that the diet of the crow is
+entirely granivorous, while no bird has a more adaptable appetite;
+everything eatable is perfectly acceptable--harmful grubs, beetles,
+worms, young rats, mice, snakes and moles, as well as mollusks,
+acorns, nuts, wild fruit and berries are among his staple articles of
+diet. And, though it is no longer believed that "he shakes contagion
+from his ominous wing," he occasions a lamentable amount of infant
+mortality among rabbits, and squirrels, and even among weak-limbed
+lambs, depriving them of health, strength and happiness--but not
+through magic. These last he attacks in the eye, as the most
+vulnerable point. In the old days he is reputed to have met with great
+success as an oculist; in these his patients never recover.
+
+In winter, when cereal stores and acorns which supply the season's
+want lie buried in the snow, and when such animals as in youth were
+ready prey have grown to a more formidable majority, crows frequently
+suffer and perish from hunger, and when snows lie long on the ground
+many of them are found dead beneath their roosting places.
+
+The voice of the crow when heard distinctly has in it something of the
+winter's harshness and seems to harmonize best with winter
+sounds--creaking boughs and shrieking winds--but when modulated by
+distance it is not unmusical. In the twilight, when calling to his
+belated brethren across the marshes, his uncanny call might well be
+taken for the cry of a lost soul craving Christian burial. Yet this
+might depend on one's mood. To each he seems to speak a different
+language. To St. Athanasius he said: "Cras, cras!" (To-morrow,
+to-morrow). To the sympathetic Tennyson he always called, in tenderest
+accents, the name "Maud."
+
+Though this bird is said to have no tongue for expressing the happier
+emotions, the voice of the mother crow when soothing her nestlings,
+with gurgling notes of endearment, is tender as the robin's; and the
+head of the family, though croaking savagely when his mate is
+molested, and though able to send an exultant "caw" after a retreating
+enemy, never lowers himself by scolding as the jay does.
+
+Whatever his faults may be--and they are many--to anyone taking the
+trouble to study the crow, either in captivity or in his native
+environment, he will prove the most interesting example of his race,
+an agreeable companion, an ideal home-maker, a thrifty being, a
+liberal provider, an able defender of his family, a destroyer of
+harmful insect and animal life, a burier of the dead, a creature of
+dignity, a keen observer, and the intellectual marvel of the bird
+world.
+
+
+
+
+A Load of Hay
+
+_By James B. Weaver_
+
+
+    Hard paved streets and hurrying feet,
+    Where it's oft but a nod when old friends meet,
+    Rattle of cart and shriek of horn,
+    Laughing Youth and Age forlorn,
+    Bound for the office I speed away,
+    When my auto brushes--a load of hay!
+
+    Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,
+    For things I loved as a boy seem near:
+    Scent of meadows at early morn,
+    Miles of waving fields of corn,
+    Lowing cattle and colts at play--
+    Far have I drifted another way!
+
+    Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!
+    Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!
+    Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,
+    Rattle of corn in the old feed-box,
+    Answering nicker at toss of hay--
+    Old sweet sounds of a far-off day.
+
+    There, my driver stops with a jerk;
+    Then far aloft to the scene of my work;
+    But all day long midst the city's roar
+    My heart is the heart of a boy once more,
+    My feet in old-time fields astray,
+    Lured--by the scent from a load of hay!
+
+
+
+
+Iowa As a Literary Field
+
+_By Johnson Brigham_[1]
+
+
+LITERARY IOWA IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
+
+Late in the last century readers of books awoke to the fact that the
+world-including, world-inviting prairies of the Mississippi Valley
+were no longer inarticulate; that in this great "Heart of the World's
+Heart," among the millions who have been drawn to these prairie
+states, there are lives as rich--in all that really enriches--as those
+immortalized in the literature of New England, or of the Pacific
+slope. It was not to be expected that the westward-moving impulse to
+create would cease on reaching the Mississippi River.
+
+          [1] Editor of the "Midland Monthly" and author of "Life of
+          James Harlan," "Iowa--Its History and Its Foremost
+          Citizens," "An Old Man's Idyl," etc.
+
+In Iowa's pioneer days but little original matter found its way into
+print except contributions to the rough and ready journalism of the
+period. A few pioneer writers, possessed of the historiographer's
+instinct, performed a rare service to the young commonwealth by
+passing on to future generations their first-hand knowledge of the
+prominent men and events of the first half of the century. Chief among
+these are Theodore S. Parvin, William Salter, Alexander R. Fulton,
+Samuel S. Howe and Charles Aldrich. The two last named published
+several series of "The Annals of Iowa" which remain unfailing
+reservoirs of information to later historians and students of Iowa
+history. Iowa Masonry is specially indebted to Professor Parvin for
+his invaluable contributions to the history of the order in Iowa. Dr.
+Salter wrote the first notable Iowa biography, that of James W.
+Grimes, published in 1876. Fulton's "Red Men of Iowa" is as valuable
+as it is rare, for, though written as late as 1882, it is the first
+exhaustive attempt to describe the tribes originally inhabiting Iowa.
+
+The war period--1861-5--developed "Iowa in War Times," by S. H. M.
+Byers, and "Iowa Colonels and Regiments," by A. A. Stuart, also many
+valuable personal sketches and regimental histories.
+
+Long before the close of the century, the name of Samuel Hawkins
+Marshall Byers had grown familiar to the people of Iowa, because of
+the popularity of his song entitled "Sherman's March to the Sea," and
+because contemporary historians, attracted by its suggestive title,
+adapted it as especially appropriate for the most dramatic event in
+the history of the war for the Union.
+
+Major Byers' most lasting contribution to literature is his poem "The
+March to the Sea," epic in character and interspersed with lyrics of
+the war. Reading this, one can hear the thrilling bugle call, and "see
+once again the bivouacs in the wood."
+
+Looking again, one can see the army in motion--
+
+      "A sight it was! that sea of army blue,
+    The sloping guns of the swift tramping host,
+      Winding its way the fields and forests through,
+    As winds some river slowly to the coast.
+      The snow-white trains, the batteries grim, and then
+      The steady tramp of sixty thousand men."
+
+Passing over pages filled with stories of the camp and march, and with
+moving pictures of the dusky throng of camp-followers who saw in the
+coming of Sherman's men "God's new exodus," we come to the dramatic
+climax:
+
+      "But on a day, while tired and sore they went,
+    Across some hills wherefrom the view was free,
+      A sudden shouting down the lines was sent;
+    They looked and cried, 'This is the sea! the sea!'
+      And all at once a thousand cheers were heard
+      And all the army shout the glorious word.
+
+      "Bronzed soldiers stood and shook each other's hands;
+    Some wept for joy, as for a brother found;
+      And down the slopes, and from the far-off sands,
+    They thought they heard already the glad sound
+      Of the old ocean welcoming them on
+      To that great goal they had so fairly won."
+
+I would not be unmindful of our Iowa poet's other contributions.
+Before the century's close, Mr. Byers had written "Switzerland and the
+Swiss," and "What I saw in Dixie," also a book of verse entitled
+"Happy Isles and Other Poems," besides much occasional verse in
+celebration of events in Iowa history. So many and excellent are Major
+Byers' contributions to such occasions that their author has fitly
+been styled the "uncrowned poet laureate of Iowa." The title is
+strengthened by two distinctively Iowa songs, one, "The Wild Rose of
+Iowa," a tribute to our State Flower; the other entitled "Iowa," sung
+to the air of "My Maryland."
+
+One of Iowa's pioneer poets was signally honored by public insistence
+that his "swan song" was the song of another and greater. In July,
+1863, John L. McCreery, of Delhi, Iowa, published in _Arthur's Home
+Magazine_ a poem entitled "There Is No Death." The poem went the
+round of the press attributed to Bulwer Lytton. A newspaper
+controversy followed, the result of which was that the Iowa poet was
+generally awarded the palm of authorship. But error sometimes seems to
+possess more vitality than truth! Every few years thereafter, the
+McCreery poem would make another round of the press with Bulwer
+Lytton's name attached! Finally, in response to urgent request, the
+modest author published his story of the poem.
+
+It is interesting to note the circumstances under which the first and
+best stanza was conceived. The author was riding over the prairie on
+horseback when night overtook him. Orion was "riding in triumph down
+the western sky." The "subdued and tranquil radiance of the heavenly
+host" imparted a hopeful tinge to his somber meditations on life and
+death, and under the inspiration of the scene he composed the lines:
+
+      "There is no death; the stars go down
+      To rise upon some other shore;
+    And bright in heaven's jeweled crown
+      They shine forever more."
+
+The next morning he wrote other stanzas, the last of which reads:
+
+      "And ever near us, though unseen,
+      The dear, immortal spirits tread;
+    For all the boundless universe
+      Is life--there are no dead."
+
+One of the curiosities of literature is the fact that the substitution
+of Bulwer's name for that of the author arose from the inclusion of
+McCreery's poem (without credit) in an article on "Immortality" signed
+by one "E. Bulmer." An exchange copied the poem with the name Bulmer
+"corrected" to Bulwer--and thus it started on its rounds. As late as
+1870, Harper's "Fifth Reader" credited the poem to Lord Lytton! The
+Granger "Index to Poetry" (1904) duly credits it to the Iowa author.
+
+It is interesting to recall, in passing, the fact that nowhere in or
+out of the state is there to be found a copy of McCreery's little
+volume of "Songs of Toil and Triumph," published by Putnam's Sons in
+1883, the unsold copies of which the author says he bought, "thus
+acquiring a library of several hundred volumes."
+
+It seems to have been the fate of Iowa's pioneer poets to find their
+verse attributed to others. So it was with Belle E. Smith's well-known
+poem, "If I Should Die To-night." Under the reflex action of Ben
+King's clever parody, it has been the habit of newspaper critics to
+smile at Miss Smith's poem. But when we recall the fact that several
+poets thought well enough of it to stake their reputation on it; and
+that, in the course of its odyssey to all parts of the English-reading
+world, it was variously attributed to Henry Ward Beecher, F. K.
+Crosby, Robert C. V. Myers, Lucy Hooper, Letitia E. Landon, and
+others, and that Rider Haggard used it, in a mutilated form, in
+"Jess," leaving the reader to infer that it was part of his own
+literary creation, may we not conclude that the verse is a real poem
+worthy of its place in the anthologies? In the Granger Index (1904) it
+is credited to Robert C. V. Myers,--the credit followed by the words:
+"Attributed to Arabella E. Smith"!
+
+If support of Miss Smith's unasserted but now indisputable claim to
+the poem be desired, it can be found in Professor W. W. Gist's
+contribution on the subject entitled "Is It Unconscious
+Assimilation?"[2] Miss Smith--long a resident of Newton, Iowa, and
+later a sojourner in California until her recent death--was of a
+singularly retiring nature. She lived much within herself and thought
+profoundly, as her poetical contributions to the _Midland Monthly_
+reveal. In none of her other poems did she reveal herself quite as
+clearly as in the poem under consideration. It is in four stanzas. In
+the first is this fine line referring to her own face, calm in death:
+"And deem that death had left it almost fair."
+
+          [2] Midland Monthly, March, 1894.
+
+The poem concludes with the pathetic word to the living:
+
+      "Oh! friends, I pray to-night,
+    Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow--
+    The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
+    Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;
+    My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
+    Forgive, O hearts estranged; forgive, I plead!
+    When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
+    The tenderness for which I long to-night!"
+
+I like to think of the veteran Tacitus Hussey, of Des Moines, as that
+octogenarian with the heart of youth. This genial poet and quaint
+philosopher made a substantial contribution to the century's output of
+literature, a collection of poems of humor and sentiment entitled "The
+River Bend and Other Poems." This author has contributed the words of
+a song which is reasonably sure of immortality. I refer to "Iowa,
+Beautiful Land," set to music by Congressman H. M. Towner. It fairly
+sings itself into the melody.
+
+    "The corn-fields of billowy gold,
+      In Iowa, 'Beautiful Land,'
+    Are smiling with treasure untold,
+      In Iowa,'Beautiful Land.'"
+
+The next stanza, though including one prosaic line, has taken on a new
+poetic significance since the war-stricken nations of the old world
+are turning to America for food. The stanza concludes:
+
+    "The food hope of nations is she--
+    With love overflowing and free
+    And her rivers which run to the sea,
+        In Iowa, 'Beautiful Land.'"
+
+Among Iowans in middle-life and older, the name of Robert J. Burdette,
+or "Bob" Burdette as he was familiarly called, brings vividly to mind
+a genial, sunny little man from Burlington, who went about doing good,
+making people forget their woes by accepting his philosophy--a simple
+philosophy, that of looking upon the sunny side of life. The "Chimes
+from a Jester's Bells" still ring in our ears, though the jester has
+passed on.
+
+Reference has been made to the pioneer magazine of Iowa, the
+_Midland Monthly_, of Des Moines. As its eleven volumes include
+the first contributions of a considerable number of Iowa authors who
+have since become famous, this publication may be said to have
+inaugurated an era of intellectual activity in Iowa. Its first number
+contained an original story, "The Canada Thistle," by "Octave Thanet"
+(Miss French), a group of poems by Hamlin Garland from advance proofs
+of his "Prairie Songs," an original story by S. H. M. Byers, and other
+inviting contributions.
+
+Looking back over the Iowa field from the viewpoint of 1894, when the
+_Iowa Magazine_ entered upon its short-lived career (1894-99), I
+find, in addition to the authors and works already mentioned, a
+nationally interesting episode of the John Brown raid, by Governor B.
+F. Gue. Maud Meredith (Mrs. Dwight Smith), Calista Halsey Patchin and
+Alice Ilgenfritz Jones, the three pioneer novelists of Iowa, were
+among the magazine's contributors. In 1879, the Lippincotts published
+"High-water Mark" by Mrs. Jones. In 1881 appeared Maud Meredith's
+"Rivulet and Clover Blossoms," and two years later her "St. Julien's
+Daughter." Mrs. Patchin's "Two of Us" appeared at about the same time.
+
+Miss Alice French, "Octave Thanet" to the literary world, has been a
+known quantity since 1887, when her fine group of short stories,
+"Knitters in the Sun," put Iowa on the literary map. "Expiation," "We
+All," a book for boys, "Stories of a Western Town" and "An Adventure
+in Photography" followed. Miss French has continued to write novels
+and short stories well on into the new century. In fact some of her
+strongest creations bear the twentieth century stamp.
+
+Hamlin Garland was also known and read by many as early as the
+eighties. His, too, was the short-story route to fame, and Iowa was
+his field. From his literary vantage ground in Boston, the young
+author wrote in the guise of fiction his vivid memories of boy life
+and the life of youth in northeastern Iowa and southwestern Wisconsin.
+His "Main Traveled Roads," the first of many editions appearing in
+1891, made him famous. Though the stories contained flashes of humor,
+the dominant note was serious, as befitted the West in the Seventies
+in which the author as boy and man struggled with adverse conditions.
+But the joy of youth would rise superior to circumstance, as is
+evidenced in the charming sketch of "Boy Life in the West."[3] I like
+to recall the prose-poem with which it concludes:
+
+          [3] Midland Monthly, February, 1894.
+
+"I wonder if, far out in Iowa, the boys are still playing 'Hi Spy'
+around the straw-piles.... That runic chant, with its endless
+repetitions, doubtless is heard on any moonlight night in far-off
+Iowa. I wish I might join once more in the game--I fear I could not
+enjoy 'Hi Spy' even were I invited to join. But I sigh with a curious
+longing for something that was mine in those days on the snowy Iowa
+plains. What was it? Was it sparkle of winter days? Was it stately
+march of moon? Was it the presence of dear friends? Yes; all these and
+more--it was Youth!"
+
+Before the century closed, this transplanted Iowan had also written
+"Jason Edwards," a story of Iowa politics, "Wayside Courtships,"
+"Prairie Folks," "Spirit of Sweetwater," "Trail of the Gold-seekers,"
+and scores of short stories first published in the magazines.
+
+Mr. Garland's twentieth century output has been prolific of popular
+novels and short stories. His latest book, "A Son of the Middle
+Border," is pronounced by William Dean Howells a unique achievement
+and ranking well up with the world's best autobiographies.
+
+A new name associated with Iowa at the close of the last century was
+that of Emerson Hough. "The Story of the Cowboy" (1897) can hardly be
+classed as fiction, and yet it "reads like a romance." Mr. Hough, long
+a roving correspondent of _Forest and Stream_, first tried "his
+'prentice han'" as a story-writer in "Belle's Roses," a tense story of
+army life on the plains.[4] This was followed by several promising
+short stories and, in 1902, by "The Mississippi Bubble," a historical
+romance of quality founded upon the adventurous career of John Law,
+pioneer in the fields of frenzied finance. Three years later came his
+"Heart's Desire," a beautiful love story of the Southwest. In 1907
+appeared his "Way of a Man" and "Story of the Outlaw." Several other
+novels have come from his facile pen. The most severely criticized and
+best seller of the series is his "54-40 or Fight," a historical novel
+based on the diplomatic controversy over Oregon in 1845-6. Mr. Hough
+is the most successful alumnus of Iowa State University in the
+difficult field of fiction.
+
+          [4] Midland Monthly, June-July, 1895.
+
+Lingering over the index to the eleven volumes of Iowa's pioneer
+magazine, I am tempted to mention in passing several other names that
+stand out prominently in the memory of _Midland_ readers.
+
+Mrs. Virginia H. Reichard contributed an interesting paper, "A Glimpse
+of Arcadia." Mrs. Caroline M. Hawley gave a valuable illustrated paper
+on "American Pottery." Mrs. Addie B. Billington, Mrs. Virginia K.
+Berryhill, Mrs. Clara Adele Neidig, and other Iowans contributed to
+the poetry in the magazine's columns. Hon. Jonathan P. Dolliver, Hon.
+William B. Allison, Gen. James B. Weaver, and many other men prominent
+in the public life of Iowa contributed articles of permanent value.
+Mrs. Cora Bussey Hillis was the author of "Madame Deser�e's Spirit
+Rival." Editor Ingham, of the _Register_, then of Algona, Editor
+Moorhead, then of Keokuk, now a Des Moines journalist, Minnie Stichter
+(Mrs. C. J. Fulton of Fairfield), Mrs. Harriet C. Towner, of Corning,
+Charles Eugene Banks, born in Clinton County, now a prominent
+journalist and _litterateur_ in Seattle, Dr. J. Foster Bain, then
+assistant state geologist, now a resident of London, and one of the
+world's most famous consulting geologists, Barthinius L. Wick, of
+Cedar Rapids, a voluminous historiographer, are among the many who,
+during the last five years of the old century, did their bit toward
+putting Iowa on the literary map.
+
+Irving Berdine Richman, of Muscatine, had already written "Appenzell,"
+a study of the Swiss, with whom, as consul-general, he had lived for
+several years. His _Midland_ sketch, "The Battle of the Stoss," was
+followed by a little volume, "John Brown Among the Quakers, and Other
+Sketches." But the two great historical works to which he gave years
+of enthusiastic research were not published until well on in the
+twentieth century. The first of these, "Rhode Island; a Study of
+Separation," was honored with an introduction by John Bryce. It was so
+well received that the "study" was amplified into a two-volume work,
+"Rhode Island; Its Making and Meaning." The second, a work compelling
+years of research in old Mexico and Spain, is entitled "California
+Under Spain and Mexico." These alone give the Iowa historian an
+enviable world-reputation.
+
+
+LITERARY IOWA IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY
+
+Our study of the high places in Iowa literature has already been
+somewhat extended into the new century. The transfer of the Iowa
+magazine to St. Louis, in 1898, and its speedy suspension thereafter
+did not deter many Iowans from continuing to write. Difficult as it
+was for our unknowns to find a market for their wares in Eastern
+magazines and publishing houses, the persistent few, who knew they had
+what the public should want, "knocked" again and again "at the golden
+gates of the morning," and in due time the gates were opened unto
+them.
+
+Edwin Legrange Sabin's first essay in _Midland_ fiction was "A
+Ghostly Carouse,"--full of promise. His first book, "The Magic Mashie
+and other Golfish Stories," in common with all his other works, throbs
+with the heart of youth. His magazine verse, mainly humorous, has the
+same quality. Latterly he has been illuminating history, and
+especially the fast-dissolving wild life of the West, with stories
+closely adhering to fact and yet rampant with adventure--the kind of
+books our outdoor boys take to bed with them! To his readers Kit
+Carson, Fremont, Buffalo Bill, are as much alive as are the heroes of
+the stadium, the tennis court and the links. But underneath this
+delightfully light literature there is well-nigh concealed a poet of
+the Swinburne type, as witness this bit of verse:
+
+    "Upon the purple hillside, vintage-stained,
+      In drowsy langour brown October lies,
+    Like one who has the banquet goblet drained,
+      And looks abroad with dream enchanted eyes."[5]
+
+          [5] Country Life in America, October, 1902.
+
+Mrs. Bertha M. Shambaugh's _Midland_ sketch of "Amana Colony; a
+Glimpse of the Community of True Inspiration,"[6] suggested something
+more than "a glimpse," and in 1908 appeared an exhaustive study of
+that "peculiar people," entitled "Amana, the Community of True
+Inspiration," a valuable contribution to Iowa history.
+
+          [6] In the Midland Monthly, v. 6, p. 27.
+
+Professor Selden L. Whitcomb, of Grinnell, had previously published
+several outlines for the study of literature, but his first volume of
+"Lyrical Verse" appeared in 1898. Two other books of poems followed,
+one in 1912, the other in 1914. His verse is marked by delicacy of
+poetical suggestion and perfection of rhyme and rhythm.
+
+George Meason Whicher, of New York, whose name is now often seen in
+_The Continent_ of Chicago, is the author of "From Muscatine and Other
+Poems" and of recent prose with Italian and Latin background. Mr.
+Whicher is the author of four poems in the _Midland_, all harking back
+to the poet's boyhood days in Muscatine, Iowa.
+
+Dr. Frank Irving Herriott, dean of sociology at Drake University, a
+voluminous writer on historical and sociological themes, has a long
+list of works to his credit, all bearing twentieth century dates
+except one published by the American Academy which appeared in 1892.
+He wrote for the _Midland_ a strong plea for public libraries, a
+plea which, doubtless, had its influence in inaugurating the library
+movement in Iowa beginning with the new century.
+
+Another scholar in the sociological field who has made his impression
+upon thousands of students and adult readers is Dr. Frank L. McVey,
+president of the University of North Dakota. His historical sketch in
+the _Midland_, "The Contest in the Maumee Valley," was followed
+by other published papers and these by several books on sociological
+themes, among them "Modern Industrialism" and "The Making of a Town."
+
+There are few more scholarly literary critics than Welker Given, of
+Clinton, Iowa. His Shakespearean and classical studies have won for
+him an enviable place among students of the classics.
+
+Mrs. Anna Howell Clarkson, of New York, wife of Hon. J. S. Clarkson,
+long prominent in Iowa journalism and in national politics, followed
+up her _Midland_ article on "The Evolution of Iowa Politics" with
+a book entitled "A Beautiful Life and Its Associations," a tribute of
+loving regard to a former teacher and friend, Mrs. Drusilla Alden
+Stoddard.
+
+A _critique_ on "Our Later Literature and Robert Browning" in the Iowa
+magazine in April, 1897, may, or may not, have turned the current of
+Lewis Worthington Smith's whole life; but its critical power made
+friends for the Nebraska professor and warmed the welcome given him
+when, in 1902, he took up his work in the English department of Drake
+University of Des Moines. While Professor Smith has published several
+works on language and literature and an acting drama entitled "The Art
+of Life," his literary reputation rests mainly upon his poetry. Since
+the opening of the new century, volume has followed volume; first
+"God's Sunlight," then "In the Furrow," and, in 1916, "The English
+Tongue," and "Ships in Port." Many of the poems in the two last
+named evince the impact of the World War upon a soul of strong
+sensibilities. Tempted to quote whole poems, as showing the wide range
+of this poet's vision, I will limit myself to the first stanza of "The
+English Tongue":
+
+    "Words that have tumbled and tossed from the Avon and Clyde
+    On to where Indus and Ganges pour down to the tide.
+    Words that have lived, that have felt, that have gathered and
+      grown.
+    Words! Is it nothing that no other people have known
+    Speech of such myriad voices, so full and so free,
+    Song by the fireside and crash of the thunders at sea?"
+
+Jessie Welborn Smith, wife of Professor Smith, is a frequent
+contributor of short stories and sketches to popular magazines.
+
+The late Henry Wallace, though for many years an agricultural editor
+in Iowa, modestly began his contribution to general literature in
+the _Midland_ with a pen-picture of the Scotch-Irish in America.
+Subsequently he wrote his "Uncle Henry's Letters to a Farm Boy," which
+has run through many editions; also "Trusts and How to Deal With Them"
+and "Letters to the Farm-Folk."
+
+Eugene Secor, of Forest City, published poems in the _Midland_ which
+were followed by "Verses for Little Folk and Others," "A Glimpse of
+Elysium" and "Voices of the Trees."
+
+Helen Hoyt Sherman's modest "Village Romance" led to a long list of
+popular books, published since her marriage and under her married
+name, Helen Sherman Griffiths. Born in Des Moines, her present home is
+in Cincinnati.
+
+Herbert Bashford, born in Sioux City, now living in Washington and
+California, contributed to the _Midland_ a half-dozen poems of
+much promise. Mr. Bashford is now literary editor of the _San
+Francisco Bulletin_ and has several books of poems and several
+popular dramas to his credit.
+
+Mrs. Ella Hamilton Durley, of Los Angeles, formerly of Des Moines, a
+pioneer president of our Press and Authors' Club, and a prolific
+writer for the press, followed her journal and magazine successes with
+two novels, "My Soldier Lady" and "Standpatter," a novel of Southern
+California love and politics.
+
+Caroline M. Sheldon, Professor of Romance Languages in Grinnell
+College, has followed up her _Midland_ study of American poetry with
+"Princess and Pilgrim in England," and a translation and study of
+Echegary's play, "The Great Galeoto."
+
+Many still recall with interest the realistic serial which ran in the
+_Midland_, entitled "The Young Homesteaders," also a number of short
+sketches and stories of pioneer life in the West, by Frank Welles
+Calkins, then of Spencer, Iowa, now a Minnesotan. Mr. Calkins has
+since become a frequent contributor to magazines, and a writer of
+books of outdoor life and adventure. His latest novel, "The Wooing of
+Takala," appeared in 1907.
+
+One of the marked successes in the world of books and periodicals is
+Julia Ellen Rogers, long a teacher of science in Iowa high schools.
+While a resident of Des Moines she contributed to the _Midland_ a
+descriptive article, "Camping and Climbing in the Big Horn," which
+evinced her love of "all outdoors" and her ability to describe what
+she saw. Her editorial connection with _Country Life in America_ and
+her popular series of nature studies, "Among Green Trees," "Trees
+Every Child Should Know," "Earth and Sky," "Wild Animals Every Child
+Should Know," have given their author and her books a warm welcome
+from Maine to California.
+
+One of the bright particular stars in our firmament, remaining almost
+undiscovered until near the close of the century's first decade, is
+Arthur Davison Ficke, of Davenport. Circumstances--his father's
+eminence at the bar--conspired to make the young poet a lawyer; but he
+could not--long at a time--close his ears to the wooing of the muse,
+and off he went, at frequent intervals, in hot pursuit of the elusive
+Euterpe. Though still a lawyer of record, the inward call of the soul
+must soon become too strong to be resisted. _Poeta nascitur._ I can
+see the young lawyer-poet in his own "Dream Harbor," and can feel his
+glad response to the call from the dream-world:
+
+    "Winds of the South from the sunny beaches
+      Under the headland call to me;
+    And I am sick for the purple reaches,
+      Olive-fringed, by an idle sea.
+
+    "Where low waves of the South are calling
+      Out of the silent sapphire bay,
+    And slow tides are rising, falling,
+      Under the cliffs where the ripples play."
+
+It was natural that the sons of the late Henry Sabin should write
+acceptably. Though slightly older in years, Elbridge H. Sabin is
+younger in literature than his brother "Ed." The first decade of the
+new century was well advanced before Elbridge turned his attention
+from law to literature. The brief touch of life in the open given him
+while soldiering during the Spanish-American war may have suggested
+the change in his career. His first essay in authorship was "Early
+American History for Young Americans" (1904). He then turned his gaze
+skyward and in 1907 appeared "Stella's Adventures in Starland."
+Fairyland next invited him and in 1910 appeared "The Magical Man of
+Mirth," soon followed by "The Queen of the City of Mirth." In 1913
+appeared his "Prince Trixie."
+
+James B. Weaver, son of General Weaver, another lawyer with the poet
+soul, but with a somewhat firmer hold on "the things that are," has
+written much prose which only requires the touch of the _vers
+libre_ editor to turn it into poetry. His appreciation of Kipling
+and other poets and his fine character-sketches, as for example that
+of Martin Burke, pioneer stage-driver and farmer, are remembered with
+delight. Just once, many years ago, when, a happy father, he looked
+for the first time upon his "Baby Boy," the poet in his nature
+obtained the upper hand of the lawyer and he wrote:
+
+    "O golden head! O sunny heart!
+    Forever joyous be thy part
+    In this fair world; and may no care
+    Cut short thy youth, and may no snare
+    Entrap thy feet! I pray thee, God,
+    For smoother paths than I have trod."[7]
+
+          [7] Midland Monthly, March, 1897.
+
+Mr. Weaver was president of the Iowa Press and Authors Club in 1914-15
+and the success of the famous Iowa Authors' Homecoming in October,
+1914, was in large measure due to his untiring efforts.
+
+In that Great American Desert of "free verse," the Chicago magazine,
+_Poetry_, the persistent seeker can find here and there an oasis
+that will well repay his search. One of these surprises is a poem
+entitled "The Wife,"[8] by Mrs. Helen Cowles LeCron, of Des Moines. It
+is the plea of a longing soul for relief from the "sullen silence,"
+and the "great gaunt shadows" of the "shaggy mountains," and for a
+return to "the gentle land," and to "the careless hours when life was
+very sweet." Mrs. LeCron is a prolific writer of clever and timely
+verse for the press, and is a poet of many possibilities.
+
+          [8] Poetry, Chicago, June, 1913.
+
+Honor� Willsie (whose maiden name is Dunbar) was born in Ottumwa,
+Iowa, is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin, and is a resident
+of New York City. To her able editorship may be attributed the new
+literary quality of _The Delineator_. It was Mrs. Willsie's
+varied successes as a writer of papers on social problems, sketches,
+short stories and serials which won for her the literary editorship of
+that popular periodical. Her success as a novelist mainly rests upon
+"Heart of the Desert," "Still Jim," and "Lydia of the Pines," all
+published within the last four years, and each stronger than its
+predecessor.
+
+A successful art publisher and an enthusiastic traveler, Thomas D.
+Murphy, a native Iowan, long a resident of Red Oak, is the author of a
+group of well-written and profusely illustrated books of travel, all
+written within the last decade, as follows: "British Highways and
+Byways"; "In Unfamiliar England"; "Three Wonderlands of the American
+West"; "On Old-World Highways"; and "On Sunset Highways."
+
+Allan Updegraff is a born Iowan whose fame has come early in life. His
+"Second Youth" (1917) is winning praise from the critics as "an
+agreeable contrast with the stuffy bedroom atmosphere" of many books
+of the period, as refreshingly "modest humor," and as having "touches
+of characterization and serious feeling" which keep up the interest to
+the close.
+
+Among the native Iowans who have distinguished themselves in
+literature is Willis George Emerson, of Denver, born near Blakesburg,
+Iowa. Mr. Emerson is author of "Buell Hampton," and a half-dozen other
+novels, the latest, "The Treasure of Hidden Mountain," also a hundred
+or more sketches and stories of travel.
+
+Of the well-known authors who, during the impressionable years of
+their youth resided for a time in Iowa, the most famous is "Mark
+Twain" (Samuel L. Clemens) who, after his _wanderjahr_, in the late
+summer of 1854, took the "Keokuk Packet" and landed in Muscatine,
+Iowa, and there became the guest of his brother, Orrin, and his
+sister, Jane. Early in the spring of '55, his brother meantime having
+married and removed to Keokuk, Iowa, he paid his brother another
+visit. Orrin offered him five dollars a week and board to remain and
+help him in his printing office. The offer was promptly accepted. The
+Keokuk episode extended over a period of nearly two years, "two vital
+years, no doubt, if all the bearings could be known." Here he made his
+first after-dinner speech, which delighted his audience. Here he made
+a record in a debating society. Unable to pay his brother his wages,
+Orrin took him in as a partner! A lucky find of a fifty-dollar bill
+enabled Twain to start on his travels. Meanwhile he contracted to
+write travel sketches for the Keokuk _Saturday Post_. His first letter
+was dated "Cincinnati, November 14, 1856." "It was written in the
+exaggerated dialect then considered humorous. The genius that a little
+more than ten years later would delight the world flickered feebly
+enough at twenty-one."[9] A second letter concluded the series! Years
+later, just before he joined the Holy Land excursion out of which grew
+his "Innocents Abroad," he visited Keokuk and delivered a lecture. He
+came again after his return from the trip, on his triumphal lecture
+tour across the continent. Years later he and Cable gave readings in
+Keokuk, and while there he arranged a permanent residence for his
+mother. In 1886, with his wife and daughter, he paid his mother a
+visit, renewing old acquaintances and making new friends. In August,
+1890, he was called to Keokuk by the last illness of his mother. It
+will thus be seen that, next to his home in Elmira, New York, his
+"heart's home" was Keokuk.
+
+          [9] Paine--Life of "Mark Twain."
+
+Nixon Waterman, author, journalist and lecturer, born in Newark,
+Illinois, and long a resident of Boston, was for several years an
+attach� of a small daily paper in Creston, Iowa. Among his published
+works is a comedy entitled "Io, from Iowa." In his several books of
+verse are many poems evidently inspired by memories of old times on
+the prairies of southwestern Iowa. Here is an echo from the poet's
+lost youth:
+
+      "Strange how Memory will fling her
+      Arms about some scenes we bring her,
+    And the fleeting years but make them fonder grow;
+      Though I wander far and sadly
+      From that dear old home, how gladly
+    I recall the cherished scenes of long ago!"[10]
+
+          [10] "Memories" from "A Book of Verses," by Nixon Waterman,
+          1900.
+
+William Otis Lillibridge, of Sioux Falls, whose brilliant career as a
+novelist was closed by death in 1909, was graduated from the College
+of Dentistry, State University of Iowa, in 1898. His "Ben Blair" and
+"Where the Trail Divides," gave abundant promise.
+
+Randall Parish, though born in Illinois, was admitted to the bar in
+Iowa, and for a time was engaged in newspaper work in Sioux City.
+Since 1904, when he leaped into fame by his historical novel, "When
+Wilderness Was King," volume after volume has come from the press and
+every one has met with quick response from the public.
+
+It is hard to account for Herbert Quick. Born on a farm in Grundy
+County, Iowa, a teacher in Mason City and elsewhere in Iowa, a lawyer
+in Sioux City, mayor of Sioux City for three terms, a telephone
+manager, editor of _La Follette's Weekly_, editor of _Farm and
+Fireside_, democratic politician, at present an active member of
+the Federal Farm Loan Board--with all this record of service, Mr.
+Quick has somehow found time, since 1904, to make for himself a name
+and fame as a magazine contributor, and, too, as a novelist who writes
+novels so novel that they find thousands of readers! Among his best
+known books are "Aladdin & Co," "Virginia of the Air Lanes," and "On
+Board the Good Ship Earth." Mr. Quick is preeminently a twentieth
+century man of affairs. Immersed as he now is in farm loans, it would
+not surprise his friends at any time if he were to issue another
+compelling novel!
+
+Rupert Hughes, eminently successful as a novelist and dramatist,
+though Missouri-born, was for years a resident of Keokuk, Iowa, and
+his Iowa associations were so strong that he dropped everything to
+come halfway across the continent that he might participate in the
+reunion of Iowa authors in 1914. Mr. Hughes' books are among the
+best-selling and his plays among the best-drawing. This popular author
+has turned soldier. He was an officer of the New York National Guards
+in Mexico and again when war against Germany was declared he was among
+the first to respond to the call for troops.
+
+Dr. Edward A. Steiner, of Grinnell, Iowa, a sociologist with a vision,
+has done more than any other man to bring together in friendly working
+relationship our native-born and foreign-born Americans. He has not
+only gone up and down the earth preaching an applied Christianity, but
+he has also written into nearly a dozen books, all of which have had
+many readers, his own experiences in the old world and the new, and
+his valuable observations--those of a trained sociologist bent upon
+righting the wrongs of ignorance and selfishness as he has found them
+embedded in customs and laws. The World War has opened a large field
+of usefulness for the Grinnell preacher of national and international
+righteousness.
+
+Newell Dwight Hillis, the popular Brooklyn preacher, lecturer and
+author, was born in Maquoketa, Iowa, but has spent most of his life
+outside the state.
+
+A new name in fictional literature is that of Ethel Powelson Hueston.
+Mrs. Hueston was reared in a family of eleven children, and her
+popular first book, "Prudence of the Parsonage," written on a claim in
+Idaho while caring for her invalid husband--who died in 1915--is the
+story of her own experience in a parsonage in Mt. Pleasant, Iowa.
+"Prudence Says So" is a continuation of the story. Mrs. Hueston was
+recently married to Lieutenant Edward J. Best, at Golden, Colorado.
+
+Margaret Coulson Walker and Ida M. Huntington, both of Des Moines,
+have added to the information and delight of children by a number of
+illustrated books. Miss Walker's "Bird Legends and Life," and "Lady
+Hollyhock and Her Friends," and Miss Huntington's "Garden of Heart's
+Delight," and "Peter Pumpkin in Wonderland" are favorites with many.
+
+Miss Emilie Blackmore Stapp, literary editor of the _Des Moines
+Capital_, has written a number of popular stories for children. Her
+"Squaw Lady," "Uncle Peter Heathen," and "The Trail of the Go-Hawks"
+have found many readers. She has done more than write stories. She has
+organized a national club called the "Go-Hawks Happy Tribe," and the
+Tribe has undertaken to raise a million pennies to help buy food for
+starving children in France and Belgium. The grand total of pennies
+reported September, 1917, was 255,000!
+
+Edna Ferber, of "Emma McChesney" fame, and the author of a half-dozen
+clever novels, the latest of which is "Fanny Herself," was born in
+Wisconsin, but spent much of her youth in Ottumwa, Iowa, where her
+father was a successful merchant.
+
+Oney Fred Sweet, born in Hampton, Iowa, and sometime a journalist in
+Des Moines, has made a national reputation as a feature writer on the
+_Chicago Tribune_ and as a contributor of verse and sketches to the
+magazines.
+
+Laura L. Hinckley, of Mount Vernon, Iowa, is a frequent contributor to
+the leading magazines. Recent stories in the _Saturday Evening Post_
+and in the _Woman's Home Companion_ attest her ability in a difficult
+field.
+
+A promising young claimant for literary honors is (Lotta) Allen
+Meachem, of New York, born in Washington County, Iowa. Following
+several good stories in the magazines, comes her "Belle Jones--A Story
+of Fulfilment," published by Dutton.
+
+Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd, born in Iowa City, now a resident of New York,
+was in early life a teacher, but since 1898 has been on the staff of
+the _New York Sun_. Her "Misdemeanors of Nancy," in 1892, was the
+beginning of a successful career in authorship. Her "Nancy," "Bettina"
+and "Belinda" are better known to many than are their own next door
+neighbors.
+
+Men who have not learned to deny the eternal boy in their nature find
+as much enjoyment as boys themselves in reading "Widow O'Callahan's
+Boys," and everybody enjoys "Maggie McLanehan," both creations of
+Gulielma Zollinger, of Newton, Iowa. Three other books, not so well
+known, are added to the list of Miss Zollinger's achievements in
+literature.
+
+Mrs. Elizabeth (Eslick) Cooper, born in Homer, Iowa, has spent most of
+her adult life in the Orient and is an authority on the status of
+women in Oriental lands. She is the author of "Sayonara," a play
+produced by Maxine Elliot, of many magazine articles, and of a half
+dozen books, all published since 1910. Her books are vivid pictures of
+life in China, Egypt, Turkey and Japan.
+
+Among the most prominent magazine writers and journalists of the
+period is Judson Welliver. He several years ago graduated from Iowa
+journalism to the larger field, the national capital, and has latterly
+become one of the regular contributors to _Munsey's_, and a frequent
+contributor to other periodicals.
+
+Another prominent magazine writer is Joe Mitchell Chapple, early in
+life editor of a La Porte, Iowa, weekly. Mr. Chapple is the founder,
+publisher and editor of the _National Magazine_, Boston, and the
+author of "Boss Bart," a novel, and editor of a popular collection of
+verse.
+
+One of the youngest magazine writers forging to the front is Horace M.
+Towner, Jr., of Corning, Iowa, son of Congressman Towner. A long list
+might be made of his recent contributions to the leading magazines.
+
+A group of new writers, some of them Iowans, have happily been given a
+medium for reaching the public through the new _Midland_, of Iowa
+City. Mr. Frederick, the editor, has in the main evinced excellent
+judgment in the selection of stories, sketches and verse, and has won
+commendation from our severest Eastern critics. The new _Midland_ has,
+doubtless, started not a few middle-western authors on their way to
+the front in the field of literature.
+
+The World War has already added the names of several Iowans to the
+literature of the great struggle. The best known is James Norman Hall,
+of Colfax, Iowa, whose "Kitchener's Mob" and articles in the
+_Atlantic_ have added greatly to popular knowledge of conditions
+at the front. Already twice wounded, the first time in the trenches;
+the latest--may it be the last!--in the air, this brave young American
+can well say with Virgil, "all of which I saw and part of which I
+was." After his discharge from the English army, Mr. Hall went abroad
+commissioned to do literary work for Houghton, Mifflin & Company; but
+his zeal for the cause of the Allies, combined possibly with a young
+man's love of adventure, led him to re-enter the service, this time in
+the Aviation Corps. He is now (in September, 1917) slowly recovering
+from a shot which penetrated his left lung.
+
+The Gleasons, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Gleason, of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and
+of New York City, have both won honors in the Red Cross work in
+Belgium and incidentally have made valuable contributions to the
+"human interest" story of the World War. Mrs. Helen Hayes Gleason was
+the first American woman knighted by King Albert for meritorious
+service at the front. Mr. Gleason in his "Young Hilda at the Wars"
+begins his charming story of Hilda with this tribute to the state in
+which his wife first saw the light:
+
+"She was an American girl from the very prosperous State of Iowa,
+which if not as yet the mother of presidents, is at least the parent
+of many exuberant and useful persons. Will power is grown out yonder
+as one of the crops."
+
+"Golden Lads," by Mr. and Mrs. Gleason, is a vivid recital of
+experiences with the Hector Munro Ambulance Corps at the front in
+Belgium.
+
+Though the evaluations in this review are confined chiefly to _belles
+lettres_, it would not be fair to the reader to omit the state's large
+indebtedness to Dr. B. F. Shambaugh and his scholarly associates of
+the State Historical Society, of Iowa City, for their many valuable
+contributions to the general, social and economic history of Iowa; to
+Dr. Jesse Macy, of Grinnell, for his valuable studies in the science
+of government; to the late Samuel Calvin, also to Dr. Thomas H.
+McBride, of the State University, Dr. Louis H. Pammel, of the State
+College, and Dr. Charles Keyes, of Des Moines, for their contributions
+to science; to Dr. Charles H. Weller, of the State University, for his
+"Athens and Its Monuments," and other works throwing light upon an
+ancient civilization; to George E. Roberts, of New York, a native
+Iowan, for his clear elucidation of national and world problems; to
+the late Judges Kinne, Deemer and MacLean, and other jurists for
+standard works on jurisprudence; to Carl Snyder, Woods Hutchinson and
+a host of other Iowans who are contributing to the current literature
+of our time.
+
+This review, incomplete at best, would be unfair to the president of
+the Iowa Press and Authors Club were it to conclude without mention of
+the inspiration of her leadership. Mrs. Alice Wilson Weitz began life
+as a journalist at the Iowa State Capital. In the course of her busy
+and successful later career as wife, mother and public-spirited
+citizen, she has somehow found time to write on literary and timely
+themes. Her latest contribution to the state of her birth is a
+scenario entitled "The Wild Rose of Iowa" which was to have been
+produced on the screen in all the cities of the state; but,
+unfortunately, the film, prepared with great labor and expense, and
+with the aid of some of the best dramatic talent in Iowa, was
+destroyed or lost on the way from Chicago to Des Moines. It is to be
+hoped that this may soon be reproduced, for Mrs. Weitz' scenario
+admirably presented in symbol the whole story of Iowa's wonderful
+development from savagery to twentieth-century civilization.
+
+A list of Iowa State University publications--a pamphlet of forty-one
+pages--includes hundreds of monographs, dissertations, etc., covering
+a wide range of original research.
+
+It must have become evident from this incomplete review that Iowa is
+literarily, to say the least, no longer inarticulate. It is equally
+apparent, to those who really know their Iowa, that, far from being a
+dead level of uninteresting prosperity, our state is rich in
+suggestive literary material, ready and waiting for the authors of the
+future. Topographically, Iowa abounds in surprises. In the midst of
+her empire of rich rolling prairie are lakes and rivers, rugged cliffs
+and wooded hills, villages and cities set upon hills overlooking
+beautiful valleys through which streams wind their way seaward, her
+east and west borders defended by castellated rocks overlooking our
+two great rivers. Ethnologically, within these borders are communities
+of blanket Indians still living in wigwams, surrounded by communities
+in which are practiced all the arts of an advanced civilization.
+Sociologically, side by side with her native-born and native-bred
+citizens, are communities of Christian Socialists, also remnants of a
+French experiment in Communism, Quakers, Mennonites, anti-polygamous
+Mormons, and whole regions in which emigrants from Holland, Germany
+and Scandinavia are slowly and surely acquiring American habits of
+thought and life. Historically speaking, we have the early and late
+pioneer period with its rapid adjustment to new conditions, with its
+multiform perils developing latent heroism, its opportunities for
+character-building and for public service. Later the heroic period,
+during which a peace-loving people quit the plow, the workshop, the
+country store, the office and even the pulpit, to rally to the defence
+of the Union. Then, the reconstruction and the new-construction
+period, in which Iowa prospered under the leadership of _men_--men who
+knew their duties as well as their rights, men who recognized, and
+insisted upon recognition of, that "sovereign law, the state's
+collected will." And now, an epoch of reviving patriotism coupled with
+a world-embracing passion for democracy, in which the youths and young
+men of the state are consecrating their strength, their talents and
+their lives to a great cause.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prairie Gold, by Various
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Prairie Gold, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Prairie Gold
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Johnson Brigham
+        Lewis Worthington Smith
+        Helen Cowles LeCron
+
+Release Date: June 10, 2012 [EBook #39957]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRAIRIE GOLD ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Dianna Adair and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images generously made available by The
+Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" width="342" height="500"></div>
+<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/frontis001.jpg" alt="Prairie Gold" width="290" height="500"></div>
+
+<div class="figcenter"><a name="crops"><img src="images/002.jpg" alt="Rotating the crops" width="344" height="450"></a></div>
+<p class="caption">Rotating the Crops&mdash;Corn Isn't Iowa's Only Product
+</p>
+
+
+<br>
+
+<p class="fm1">
+  Prairie Gold
+</p>
+
+<br>
+
+<p class="fm3">
+  By
+</p>
+
+
+<p class="fm2">
+Iowa Authors and Artists
+</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="Publisher's logo" width="206" height="97"></div>
+
+<p class="fm4">
+  <i>Jacket and Frontispiece by</i>
+</p>
+
+<p class="fm3">
+J. N. Darling
+</p>
+<br>
+<p class="fm4">
+  <i>Decorations by</i>
+</p>
+
+<p class="fm3">
+Harriet Macy<br>and<br>Louise Orwig
+</p>
+
+<br>
+
+<p class="fm5">
+  The Reilly &amp; Britton Co.<br>
+  Chicago
+</p>
+
+<p class="fm5">
+  Copyright, 1917<br>
+  By<br>
+  The Reilly &amp; Britton Co.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="med">
+
+
+<p class="ctr">
+<img src="images/003.jpg" alt="Flower decoration" width="400" height="108">
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To those whose tender, cooling fingers bind up the bleeding wounds of
+men who go forth to war:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To those who comfort and sustain the widows and the orphans:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To all those swiftly flying carriers of warmth and love and cheer who
+constitute the workers in that greatest of all humanitarian
+organizations:
+</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+The American Red Cross
+</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+<img src="images/004.jpg" alt="Two flowers" width="166" height="100">
+</p>
+
+<hr class="med">
+
+
+
+<p class="section">
+Preface
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+This volume, from the land of the singing corn, is offered to the
+public by the Iowa Press and Authors' Club as the first bit of
+co-operative work done by Iowa writers. The anticipated needs of the
+brave men who have given themselves as a human sacrifice to the
+establishment of a world-wide democracy, make a strong heart appeal,
+and the members have come together in spirit to do their bit toward the
+relief of suffering.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Many members of the club could not be reached during the short time the
+book was in the making; others doing work every day on schedule time
+had no opportunity to prepare manuscript for this publication, while
+still others preferred helping in ways other than with their pens.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The whole is a work of love and representative of the comradeship, the
+spirit of human sympathy, and the pride of state, existent in the
+hearts of Iowa authors, artists, playwrights, poets, editors and
+journalists.
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+<i>Officers of the club for 1917-18:</i>
+</p>
+
+<ul>
+<li>Hamlin Garland, Honorary President.</li>
+<li>Alice C. Weitz, President.</li>
+<li>J. Edward Kirbye, First Vice President.</li>
+<li>Nellie Gregg Tomlinson, Second Vice President.</li>
+<li>Esse V. Hathaway, Secretary.</li>
+<li>Reuben F. Place, Treasurer.</li>
+<li><i>Editorial Board:</i></li>
+<li>Johnson Brigham.</li>
+<li>Lewis Worthington Smith.</li>
+<li>Helen Cowles LeCron.</li>
+</ul>
+
+
+<hr class="med">
+
+
+
+<p class="section">
+Index
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Contents">
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">American Wake, An</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#american">217</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Rose A. Crow</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+At Kamakura: 1917</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#at">44</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Arthur Davison Ficke</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Ballad of the Corn, A</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#ballad">234</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>S. H. M. Byers</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Box From Home, A</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#box">138</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Helen Cowles LeCron</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Bread</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#bread">37</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Ellis Parker Butler</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+But Once a Year</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#but">51</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>R. O'Grady</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Call of the Race, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#call">260</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Elizabeth Cooper</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Captured Dream, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#captured">84</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Octave Thanet</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Children's Blessing, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#children">236</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Virginia Roderick</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Dog</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#dog">116</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Edwin L. Sabin</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Field, A</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#field">285</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Minnie Stichter</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+First Laugh, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#first">131</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Reuben F. Place</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Freighter's Dream, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#freighter">133</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Ida M. Huntington</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+God's Back Yard</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#god">223</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Jessie Welborn Smith</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Graven Image, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#graven">19</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Hamlin Garland</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Happiest Man in I-O-Way, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#happiest">83</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Rupert Hughes</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Iowa as a Literary Field</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#iowa">316</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Johnson Brigham</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Kings of Saranazett, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#kings">177</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Lewis Worthington Smith</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Kitchener's Mob</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#mob">241</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>James Norman Hall</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Load of Hay, A</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#load">314</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>James B. Weaver</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Masterpieces</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#master">36</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Ethel Hueston</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+My Baby's Horse</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#my">259</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Emilie Blackmore Stapp</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+"Old Bill"</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#old">67</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Henry C. Wallace</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Old Cane Mill, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#cane">195</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Nellie Gregg Tomlinson</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+One Wreath of Rue</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#wreath">278</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Cynthia Westover Alden</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Our Bird Friends</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#bird">302</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Margaret Coulson Walker</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Peace and Then&mdash;?</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#peace">292</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Detlev Fredrik Tillisch</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Poet of the Future, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#poet">169</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Tacitus Hussey</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Professor, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#professor">248</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Calista Halsey Patchin</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Putting the Stars with the Bars</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#putting">173</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Verne Marshall</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Queer Little Thing, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#queer">199</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Recruit's Story, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#recruit">77</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Frank Luther Mott</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Reminder, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#reminder">63</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Allan Updegraff</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Rochester, Minn.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#rochester">221</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Marie G. Stapp</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Semper Fidelis</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#semper">300</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Addie B. Billington</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+September</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#september">166</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Esse V. Hathaway</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Some Magic and a Moral</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#magic">101</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Virginia H. Reichard</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Sonny's Wish</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#sonny">114</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Bertha M. Shambaugh</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Spirit of Spring, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#spirit">140</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Laura L. Hinkley</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+That Iowa Town</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#that">45</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Oney Fred Sweet</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Tinkling Cymbals</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#tinkling">126</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Helen Sherman Griffith</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Truth</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#truth">97</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Carrie Moss Hawley</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Unredeemed, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#unredeemed">121</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Emerson Hough</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Wild Crab Apple, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#wild">231</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Julia Ellen Rogers</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Wind in the Corn, The</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#wind">17</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Alice C. Weitz</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Woodrow Wilson and Wells, War's Great Authors</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#woodrow">280</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Honor&eacute; Willsie</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Work</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#work">100</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Irving N. Brant</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Work Is a Blessing</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#blessing">161</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Lafayette Young</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">
+Your Lad, and My Lad</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#lad">290</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Randall Parrish</i></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+
+<hr class="med">
+
+
+<p class="section">
+List of Authors
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Authors">
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Alden, Cynthia Westover</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#alden">278</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Billington, Addie B.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#billington">300</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Brainerd, Eleanor Hoyt</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#brainerd">199</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Brant, Irving N.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#brant">100</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Brigham, Johnson</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#brigham">316</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Butler, Ellis Parker</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#butler">37</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Byers, S. H. M.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#byers">234</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Cooper, Elizabeth</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#cooper">260</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Crow, Rose A.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#crow">217</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Ficke, Arthur Davison</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#ficke">44</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Garland, Hamlin</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#garland">19</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Griffith, Helen Sherman</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#griffith">126</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Hall, James Norman</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#hall">241</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Hathaway, Esse V.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#hathaway">166</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Hawley, Carrie Moss</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#hawley">97</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Hinkley, Laura L.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#hinkley">140</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Hough, Emerson</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#hough">121</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Hueston, Ethel</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#hueston">36</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Hughes, Rupert</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#hughes">83</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Huntington, Ida M.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#huntington">133</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Hussey, Tacitus</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#hussey">169</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">LeCron, Helen Cowles</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#lecron">138</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Marshall, Verne</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#marshall">173</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Mott, Frank Luther</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#mott">77</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">O'Grady, R.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#ogrady">51</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Parrish, Randall</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#parrish">290</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Patchin, Calista Halsey</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#patchin">248</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Place, Reuben F.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#place">131</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Reichard, Virginia H.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#reichard">101</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Roderick, Virginia</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#roderick">236</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Rogers, Julia Ellen</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#rogers">231</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Sabin, Edwin L.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#sabin">116</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Shambaugh, Bertha M. H.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#shambaugh">114</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Smith, Jessie Wellborn</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#smith">223</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Smith, Lewis Worthington</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#lewis">177</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Stapp, Emilie Blackmore</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#stapp">259</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Stapp, Marie G.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#marie">221</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Stichter, Minnie</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#stichter">285</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Sweet, Oney Fred</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#sweet">45</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Thanet, Octave</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#thanet">84</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Tillisch, Detlev Fredrik</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#tillisch">292</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Tomlinson, Nellie Gregg</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#tomlinson">195</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Updegraff, Allan</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#updegraff">63</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Walker, Margaret Coulson</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#walker">302</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Wallace, Henry C.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#wallace">67</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Weaver, James B.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#weaver">314</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Weitz, Alice C.</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#weitz">17</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Willsie, Honor&eacute;</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#willsie">280</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Young, Lafayette</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#young">161</a></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr class="med">
+
+
+<p class="section">
+List of Illustrations
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Illustrations">
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Rotating the Crops</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#crops"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>J. N. Darling</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">"Ding"</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#ding"><i>Page</i> &nbsp;&nbsp;97</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Frank Wing</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">Host and Houseguest</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#host"><i>Page</i> 169</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>Orson Lowell</i></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td class="txt">The Wind in the Corn</td>
+<td class="pg"><a href="#windin"><i>Page</i> 259</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="author"><i>C. L. Bartholomew</i></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr class="med">
+
+<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/006a.jpg" alt="The Creed of Iowa" width="532" height="262"></div>
+<br>
+
+<p><span class="floatl">
+<img src="images/006b.jpg" alt="I" width="51" height="84"></span>
+<span class="caps">believe</span> in Iowa, land of limitless prairies, with rolling hills and
+fertile valleys, with winding and widening streams, with bounteous
+crops and fruit-laden trees, yielding to man their wealth and health.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I believe in Iowa, land of golden grains, whose harvests fill the
+granaries of the nation, making it opulent with the power of earth's
+fruitfulness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I believe in Iowa, rich in her men and women of power and might. I
+believe in her authors and educators, her statesmen and ministers,
+whose intellectual and moral contribution is one of the mainstays of
+the republic&mdash;true in the hour of danger and steadfast in the hour of
+triumph.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I believe in Iowa, magnet and meeting place of all nations, fused into
+a noble unity, Americans all, blended into a free people. I believe in
+her stalwart sons, her winsome women, in her colleges and churches, in
+her institutions of philanthropy and mercy, in her press, the voice and
+instructor of her common mind and will, in her leadership and destiny,
+in the magnificence of her opportunity and in the fine responsiveness
+of her citizens to the call of every higher obligation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I believe in our commonwealth, yet young, and in the process of making,
+palpitant with energy and faring forth with high hope and swift step;
+and I covenant with the God of my fathers to give myself in service,
+mind and money, hand and heart, to explore and develop her physical,
+intellectual and moral resources, to sing her praises truthfully, to
+keep her politics pure, her ideals high, and to make better and better
+her schools and churches, her lands and homes, and to make her in fact
+what she is by divine right, the queen of all the commonwealths.
+</p>
+
+<p class="sig">
+&mdash;<i>J. Edward Kirbye.</i>
+</p>
+
+
+<hr class="med">
+
+
+<a name="wind">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="firstchapter">The Wind in the Corn</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Alice C. Weitz</i><a name="weitz">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+<span class="floatl"><img src="images/005.jpg" alt="T" width="251" height="366"></span>
+
+<span class="caps">here</span> stands recorded in the Book of Time a fascinating legend of the
+Sun, whose golden throne allured but for the day; and when the day was
+ended in great glee he hurried forth beyond the broad horizon toward a
+secret trysting place. All his impassioned love, it is said, he poured
+upon the idol of his heart, the boundless plains. Long years were they
+alone, the Rolling Prairie and the Golden Sun, until at last they found
+themselves spied upon by curious Man, who, captivated by the beauty of
+the two, remained and blessed the tryst thereby.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here Sun and Soil and Man wrought out a work of art; and here Dame
+Nature smiled as was her wont, and brought rich gifts and blessings
+manifold. In sweet content Man's children toiled and wrought until upon
+the bosom of the sunlit plains there nestled close great fields and
+prosperous abodes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And since that time a ceaseless music steals throughout the land in
+wooing cadences, now crying out in weird and wandering tones, now
+softly soothing in sweet rhythmic chant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+'Tis the music of the wind within the corn&mdash;Iowa's Prairie Gold.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It sang itself into the lonely heart of the pioneer with its promise of
+golden harvest; it became the cradle song of restless souls that even
+in their youth longed but to free themselves in verse and song; and
+down through all the prosperous years it steals like a sweet sustaining
+accompaniment to the countless activities which have builded a great
+commonwealth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He who has stood upon the hilltops in his youthful days and listened to
+the soft, alluring rustle of the wind-swayed leaves retains the music
+ever in his soul. It draws upon the heart-strings of the absent one,
+and like the constant singing of the sea insistent calls upon him to
+return.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Today in spirit come we all to Time's sweet trysting place with story
+song and jest, to add sweet comfort to the braver ones whose paths lie
+wide before them, and whose return lies not within our willing. God
+grant that even in their pains their troubled souls may yet to music be
+attuned, may know again the solace of that sweetly floating song, the
+rustle of the wind within the corn.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="graven">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Graven Image</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Hamlin Garland</i><a name="garland">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Roger Barnes, son of an elder in the little Iowa Society of Friends and
+himself "a man of weight," found his faith sorely tried by the death of
+his young wife, and as the weeks passed without a perceptible
+lightening of his face, the Meeting came at last to consider his deep
+grief unseemly and rebellious. He remained deaf to all words of comfort
+and occupied his Sabbath seat in moody silence, his heart closed to the
+Spirit, his thought bitter toward life and forgetful of God's grace.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The admonition of the elders at last roused him to defense. "Why should
+I not ache?" he demanded. "I have been smitten of the rod." And when
+old Nicholas Asche again reproved him before the assembly, he arose,
+went out, refusing to return, and several of his friends were greatly
+troubled, for it was known that for a long time he had been
+increasingly impatient of the "Discipline" and on terms of undue
+intimacy with Orrin Bailey, one of "the world's people."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As the spring came on his passionate grief calmed, but a new
+consideration came, one which troubled him more and more, until at last
+he opened his heart to his friend.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Thee knew my wife, friend Bailey. Thee knew her loveliness? Well, now
+she is gone, and does thee know I am utterly disconsolate, for I have
+no portrait of her. No image, no shadow of her, exists and I fear I
+shall lose the memory of her sweet face. Already it is growing dim in
+my mind. What can I do?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This was in the days when even daguerreotypes were rare, and Bailey,
+who had never seen a painted portrait and could not conceive of an
+artist skillful enough to depict an object he had never known, was not
+able to advise, and the grieving man's fear remained unassuaged till,
+some months later, on a trip to Decorah, he came by accident past the
+gate of a newly established stone-cutter's yard, and there, for the
+first time in his life, he saw human figures cut enduringly in marble.
+Cunning cherubs and angels with calm faces and graceful, half-furled
+wings surrounded granite soldiers standing stiff and straight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Roger was amazed. The sculptor's magic was an astonishment to him. He
+had never seen the like, and as he looked upon these figures there came
+into his sad eyes the light of a startling purpose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I will have this workman cut for me an image of my dear Rachel," he
+resolved and, following this impulse, approached the stone-cutter.
+"Friend," he said abruptly, "I would have thee chisel for me the form
+of my dead wife."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although an aspiring and self-confident artist, Conrad Heffnew was,
+nevertheless, a little shaken as he drew from his visitor the
+conditions of this commission. "The lack of even a small drawing or
+portrait of the subject is discouraging," he said. "If she had a
+sister, now," he added slowly, "someone about her build, to wear her
+clothes, I might be able to do the figure."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"She has a sister, Ruth," Roger eagerly answered. "She is slimmer than
+Rachel was, but her cast of features is much the same. I am sure she
+will help thee, for she loved Rachel. I will bring her down to see
+thee."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Very well," replied Conrad. "If she will sit for me I will see what I
+can do for you."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Resting upon this arrangement Roger drove away to his prairie home
+lighter of heart than he had been for many weeks. "Truly an artist is
+of use in the world after all&mdash;one to be honored," he thought.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To Ruth he told the story and expressed his wish, but enjoined secrecy.
+"Thee knows how some of our elders would pother about this," he added.
+"Let us conspire together, therefore, so that thee may make the trip to
+the city without exciting undue comment."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ruth was quite willing to adventure, for the town far down on the
+shining river was a lure to her; but the road was long and after a
+great deal of thought Roger decided to ask the young stone-cutter to
+come first to Hesper, which he could do without arousing suspicion. "We
+will contrive to see him afterward in his shop if necessary," he ended
+decisively, for he could not bring himself to lead Ruth into the
+society of the world's people to serve as a model, an act which might
+be mistaken as a wrong-doing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sculptor, anticipating a goodly fee (as well as an increase in
+orders for grave-stones), readily enough consented to visit Hesper, but
+only to study his problem. He immediately insisted on Ruth's coming to
+his studio. "I can't do all the work here&mdash;I want to make this my best
+piece," he remarked in explanation. "It is hard to remember the details
+of face and form. It may require several sittings."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thereafter, as often as he dared, Roger called at his father-in-law's
+house for Ruth and drove her down to the sculptor's shop, and although
+there were many smiling comments on these trips, no one knew their real
+purpose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Slowly the figure grew from a harsh marble block into an ever more
+appealing female figure, and Roger loved to stand beside the artist
+while he chipped the stone, for Conrad was in very truth a sculptor, a
+stalwart fist at the chisel, not a weak modeller in clay. He often
+hummed a tune as he swung his mall; and so, to the lively beat of
+worldly melodies, the fair form of the Quaker maid emerged from its
+flinty covering.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day in early autumn, conditions favoring, Ruth went to town with
+Roger for the fifth time and ventured timidly into the stone-cutter's
+yard to gaze with awe upon the nearly-finished snow-white image, and to
+the artist's skill gave breathless words of praise. "Truly thee is a
+magician," she said. "Thee has made a beautiful bonnet out of marble
+and likewise slippers," she added, looking down to where one small foot
+in its square-toed shoe peeped from the plain skirt. "Thee does right
+to make it lovely, for my sister was most comely," she ended with a
+touch of pride.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"My model was also comely," replied Conrad with a glance which made her
+flush with pleasure.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During all these months Roger had maintained such careful logic in his
+comings and goings that only Bailey and one or two of his most intimate
+friends had even a suspicion of what was happening, though many
+predicted that he and Ruth would wed; for it was known that she had
+taken his little son to her father's house and was caring for him.
+Nevertheless Roger well knew that a struggle was preparing for him, and
+that some of the elders would be shocked by the audacity of his plan,
+but no fear of man or church could avail against the force of his
+resolution.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On this final visit, even as they both stood beside him, Conrad threw
+down his mallet saying: "I can do no more. It is finished," and turning
+to Ruth, "What do you think of it?" he demanded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She, gazing upon the finished statue and seeing only her sister in it,
+said: "I think it beautiful."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And Roger, deeply wrapt in worship of the sculptured face, said: "Thee
+has done wonders. The sweet smile of my beloved is fixed in marble
+forever, and my heart is filled with gratitude to thee." All his
+training was against the graven art, but he gave his hand to the
+sculptor. "Friend Conrad, I thank thee; thee has made me very happy.
+Truly thee has caused this cold marble to assume the very image of my
+Rachel."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As Roger turned again to gaze upon the statue Conrad touched Ruth upon
+the arm and drew her aside, leaving the bereaved man alone with his
+memories.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was all so wonderful, so moving to Roger that he remained before it
+a long time, absorbed, marveling, exultant. Safe against the years he
+seemed now, and yet, as he gazed, his pleasure grew into a pain, so
+vividly did the chiseled stone bring back the grace he had known. Close
+upon the exultant thought: "Now she can never fade from my memory,"
+came the reflection that his little son would never know how like to
+his mother this image was. "He will know only the cold marble&mdash;his
+mother will not even be a memory."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One sixth day morning in the eighth month word was brought to Nicholas
+Asche, leader of the Meeting, that Roger Barnes was about to erect a
+graven image among the low headstones of the burial grounds, and in
+amazement and indignation the old man hastened that way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He found his two sons and several others of the congregation already
+gathered, gazing with surprise and a touch of awe upon the statue which
+Conrad and young Bailey had already securely based beneath a graceful
+young oak in the very centre of his family plot. Gleaming, life-size,
+it rose above the modest records of the other graves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As the stern old elder rode up, the throng of onlookers meekly gave way
+for him. He halted only when he had come so near the offending monument
+that he could touch it. For a full minute he regarded it with eyes
+whose anger lit the shadow of his broad-brim, glaring with
+ever-increasing resentment as he came fully to realize what it meant to
+have a tall statue thus set up to dwarf the lowly records of its
+neighbors. It seemed at once impious and rebellious.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Harshly he broke forth: "What has come to thee, Roger Barnes, that thee
+has broken all the rules of the Discipline relative to burial? Thee
+well knows our laws. No one could convey a greater insult to the
+elders, to the dead beneath these other stones, than thee has done by
+this act. Lay that impious object low or I will fetch thee before the
+Meeting."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I will not," replied the young man. "I was even thinking of exalting
+it still more by putting beneath it another foot of granite block."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Thee knows full well that by regulation no gravestone can be more than
+three hands high," Nicholas stormed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I know that well, but this is not a gravestone," Roger retorted. "It
+is a work of art. It is at once a portrait and a thing of beauty."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"That is but paltering. Thee knows well it is at once a forbidden thing
+and a monument beyond the regulation in height, and therefore doubly
+offensive to the Meeting. We will not tolerate such folly. I say to
+thee again, take the unholy thing down. Will thee urge disrespect to
+the whole Society? Thee knows it is in opposition to all our teaching.
+What devil's spirit has seized upon thee?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Thee may storm," stoutly answered Roger, "but I am not to be
+frightened. This plot of ground is mine. This figure is also mine. It
+is a blessed comfort, a sign of love and not a thing of evil&mdash;and I
+will not take it away from here for thee nor for all the elders."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nicholas, perceiving that Roger was not to be coerced at the moment,
+ceased argument, but his wrath did not cool.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Thee shall come before the Meeting forthwith."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The following day a summons was issued calling a council, and a
+messenger came to Roger calling him before his elders in judgment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thereupon a sharp division was set up among the neighbors and the
+discussion spread among the Friends. The question of "Free Will in
+Burial Stones" was hotly debated wherever two or three of the members
+met, so that the mind of each was firmly made up by the time the
+Meeting came together to try the question publicly. "I see no wrong in
+it," said some. "It is disgraceful," others heatedly charged.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Roger's act was denounced by his own family as treason to the Meeting,
+as well as heretical to the faith, and his father, old Nathan Barnes,
+rising with solemn and mournful dignity, admitted this.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I know not what I have done that a son of mine should bring such shame
+and sorrow to my old age. It is the influence of the world's people
+whose licentious teachings corrupt even the most steadfast of our
+youth. We came here&mdash;to this lonely place&mdash;to get away from the world's
+people. They thicken about us now, these worldlings; hence I favor
+another journey into a far wilderness where we can live at peace, shut
+away from the contamination of these greedy and blasphemous idolators."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All realized that he spoke in anger as well as in sorrow, and the more
+candid and cool-headed of the Friends deplored his words, for they had
+long since determined that the world's forces must be met and endured;
+but Jacob Farnum was quick to declare himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"The welfare of our Society demands the punishment of Roger Barnes. I
+move that a committee be appointed to proceed to the burial ground and
+throw down and break in pieces this graven image."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here something unexpectedly hot and fierce filled Roger's heart to the
+exclusion of his peaceful teaching and his lifelong awe of his elders.
+Rising to his feet he violently exclaimed: "By what right will thee so
+act? Is it more wicked to have a marble portrait than an ambrotype? It
+is true that I learned the secrets of sculpture from one of the world's
+people; it is true that an outsider has cut the stone, but I believe
+his trade to be worthy and his work justifiable. I believe in such
+portraits." He addressed himself to Nicholas Asche: "Had thee permitted
+Rachel to have had a daguerreotype, it would not have been necessary
+for me to treat with this carver of stone, who is, notwithstanding, a
+man of probity. I will not have him traduced by anyone present," he
+ended with a threat in his eyes; "he is my friend."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thereupon Nicholas Asche curtly answered: "There also thee is gravely
+at fault. Thee has brought my daughter Ruth under the baleful influence
+of this worldling; and she is even now filled with admiration for him.
+She too needs be admonished of the elders for too much thinking upon
+light affairs. Thee is a traitor to thy sister-in-law, Roger Barnes, as
+thee is a traitor to the Meeting. To permit thee to go thy present ways
+would be to open our gates to vanity and envy and all imaginable folly.
+If thee does not at once remove this graven image from our burial
+grounds, we will ourselves proceed against it and break it and throw it
+into the highway."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then again young Roger rose in his seat and with his strong hands
+doubled into weapons cried out: "Thee will do well to take this matter
+guardedly and my words to heart, for I tell thee that whosoever goes
+near to lay rude hands on that fair form will himself be thrown down. I
+will break him like a staff across my knee."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stood thus for a moment like a proud young athlete, meeting the eye
+of his opponent, then, as no one spoke, turned and strode out, resolute
+to be first on the ground, ready to defend with his whole strength the
+marble embodiment of his vanished wife.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And yet, even as he walked away from the church, hot and blinded with
+anger, he began to ache with an indefinable, increasing sorrow. He had
+expected opposition, but not such fury as this. He had noted the
+downcast eyes of his friends. It seemed as if something very precious
+had gone out of his life&mdash;as though the whole world had suddenly become
+inimical.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"They were ashamed of me," he said and his heart sank, for
+notwithstanding his resentment he loved the Meeting and its ways. For
+the most part the faces of the congregation were dear to him and the
+pain that sprang from a knowledge that he had cut himself off from
+those he respected soon softened his indignation. Nevertheless he
+hurried on to the burying ground.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a glorious September day and all through the fields the crickets
+were softly singing as if in celebration of the gathered ample harvest.
+They spoke from the green grass above the graves with the same
+insistent cheer as from the sere stubble, but Roger heard them not, for
+his ears still rang with the elder's stern voice and his eyes were
+darkened by the lowering brows of his father's moody face. Only when
+the statue rose before him white and still and fair in the misty
+sunlight did his mood lighten.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"How beautiful it is," he exclaimed. "How can they desire to destroy
+it?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nevertheless he was smitten with a kind of dismay as he looked around
+upon the low, drab headstones and perceived with what singular
+significance the marble rose above them. "In truth I have dared much in
+doing this thing." It was as if he had been led by some inner spirit
+braver than himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And then&mdash;even as he raised a first glance to the statue&mdash;a pang of
+keen surprise shot through his heart. The face was changed. Something
+new had come into it. It was not his Rachel! With hand pressed upon his
+chilling heart he studied it with new understanding. He had known that
+it somewhat resembled Ruth, for Ruth indeed resembled Rachel&mdash;but that
+it was verily in every line and shadow a portrait of the living and not
+of the dead he now realized for the first time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"The sculptor has deceived me!" he cried. "He loves Ruth and with the
+craft of a lover has wrought out his design deliberately and with
+cunning. He has carved the cold stone to the form of his own desire.
+How blind I have been."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In complete comprehension he addressed the statue: "Thee is but a
+symbol of this artist's love for another after all. Nicholas Asche was
+right. This sculptor under cover of my love&mdash;in pretending to work out
+my ideal&mdash;has betrayed me and bewitched Ruth."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ruth, his constant sunny companion, the keeper, the almost second
+mother of his child, had been snared by the fowler! He no longer
+doubted it. He recalled the gladness with which she always accompanied
+him to the sculptor's studio and her silence and preoccupation on the
+homeward drive. She loved the artist. She was about to be taken away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Something fierce and wild clutched at his throat and with a groan he
+fell upon the ground beneath the figure: "Oh, Ruth, Ruth! Am I to lose
+thee too?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this moment he forgot all else but the sweet girl who had become so
+necessary to his life. Truly, to lose all hope of her was to be doubly
+bereaved. "I am now most surely solitary," he mourned. "What will
+become of me hereafter? Who will care for my little son?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While still he lay there, dark with despair and lax with weakness, Ruth
+and the sculptor came up the walk to the gate and saw his prostrate
+form. Ruth checked the sculptor's advance. "Let me go up to him alone,"
+she said, and approached where Roger lay. She did not know the true
+cause of his grief, but she pitied him: "Do not grieve, Roger; they
+will not dare to touch the figure."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked up at her with a glance which was at once old and strange,
+but uttered no word of reply, only steadfastly regarded her; then his
+head dropped upon his arm and his body shook only with sobbing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She spoke again: "Thee must not despair. There are quite as many for
+thee as there are against thee. All the young people are on thy side.
+No one will dare to harm the statue."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As they stood thus Conrad approached and said: "What does it matter?
+Come out from among these narrow folk. Ruth is to come out and be my
+wife. Why do you stay to be worried by the elders who&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He spoke no further, for Roger waved his hand in dismissal of them and
+cried out in most lamentable voice: "Leave me. Leave me," and again hid
+his face in his hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In troubled wonder the young people moved away slowly, Ruth with
+tear-filled eyes, Conrad very grave. Together they took their stand at
+the gate to guard against the approach of others less sympathetic. "His
+grief is profound," said Ruth, "but the statue will comfort him."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Roger, overwhelmed now by another emotion&mdash;a sense of shame, of deep
+contrition&mdash;was face to face with a clear conception of his disloyalty
+to the dead. Aye, the statue was Ruth. Its youth, its tender, timid
+smile, its arch brow, all were hers, and as he remembered how Conrad
+had taken the small unresisting hand in his, he knew himself to be
+baser than Nicholas Asche had dared imagine. "I loved thee," he
+confessed; "not as I loved Rachel&mdash;but in a most human way. My life has
+closed round thee. I have unconsciously thought of thee as the guardian
+of my child. Thy shining figure I have placed in the glow of my fire."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This was true. Ruth had not displaced the love he still bore for his
+sweet wife&mdash;but she had made it an echo of passion, a dim song, a
+tender and haunting memory of his youth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sun sank and dusk came on while still he lay at the statue's feet
+in remorseful agony of soul, and those who came near enough to speak
+with him respected his wish and left him undisturbed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Softly the darkness rose and a warm and mellow night covered the
+mourner, clothing the marble maid with mystery.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The crickets singing innumerably all about him came at last to express
+in some subtle way the futility of his own purpose, the smallness of
+his own affairs, and as he listened he lost the sharpness of his grief.
+His despair lightened. He ceased to accuse; his desire of battle died.
+"How could Conrad know that I had grown disloyal? And how was Ruth to
+perceive my change of heart? The treachery is mine, all mine, dear
+angel, but I will atone. I will atone. Forgive me. Come to me and
+forgive me! Comfort me."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Within his heart the spirit of resentment gave way to one of
+humbleness, of submission. The contest for a place among these gray old
+monuments no longer seemed worthy&mdash;or rather he felt himself no longer
+worthy to wage it. His disloyalty to his dead disqualified him as a
+base act disqualified the knights of old. "My cause is lost because my
+heart was false!" he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So during the long hours of the night he kept remorseful vigil. The
+moon set, the darkness deepened, cool, odorous, musical with lulling
+songs of insects; and still he lingered, imploring solace, seeking
+relief from self-reproach. At last, just before dawn, the spirit of his
+dead Rachel stepped from the shadow. She approached him and bending
+above him softly said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Dear heart, it is true I am not within the graven image. You have no
+need of it. Go home. There I am, always near thee and the child. I am
+not for others; I am thine. Return. Make thy peace with the elders.
+Thee must not live solitary and sad. Our son waits for thee, and when
+thee sits beside his bed, I will be there."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He woke chilled and wet with the midnight damp, but in his heart a
+new-found sense of peace had come. His interest in the statue was at an
+end. He now knew that it was neither the monument he had desired nor
+the image of his love. "How gross I have been," he said, addressing
+himself to the unseen presence, "to think that the beauty of my dead
+could be embodied in stone! Ruth shall go her ways to happiness with my
+blessing."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In this mood he rose and went to his home, deeply resolved to put aside
+his idolatry of Ruth even as he had put behind him the gleaming,
+beautiful figure beneath the shadow of the oak.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="master">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Masterpieces</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Ethel Hueston</i><a name="hueston">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">Give me my pen,</p>
+<p>For I would write fine thoughts, pure thoughts,</p>
+<p>To touch men's hearts with tenderness,</p>
+<p>To fire with zeal for service grim,</p>
+<p>To cheer with mirth when skies are dull;</p>
+<p class="i2">Give me my pen,</p>
+<p>For I would write a masterpiece.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">Yet stay a while,</p>
+<p>For I must put away these toys,</p>
+<p>And wash this chubby, grimy face,</p>
+<p>And kiss this little hurting bruise,</p>
+<p>And hum a bedtime lullaby&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">Take back the pen:</p>
+<p>This is a woman's masterpiece.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="bread">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Bread</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Ellis Parker Butler</i><a name="butler">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+They came to Iowa in a prairie schooner with a rounded canvas top and
+where the canvas was brought together at the rear of the wagon it left
+a little window above the tailboard. On the floor of the wagon was a
+heap of hay and an old quilt out of which the matted cotton protruded,
+and on this Martha and Eben used to sit, looking out of the window.
+Martha was a little over two years old and Eben was four.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They crossed the Mississippi at Muscatine on the ferry. It was about
+noon and old Hodges, the crew of the ferry, who was as crooked as the
+branches of an English oak because the huge branch of an English oak
+had fallen on him when he was young, took his dinner from his tin pail.
+He looked up and saw the two eager little faces.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Want a bite to eat?" he asked, and he peeled apart two thick slices of
+bread, thickly buttered, and handed them up to the two youngsters.
+This, a slice of Mrs. Hodges' good wheat bread, was Martha's welcome to
+Iowa. The butter was as fragrant as a flower and the bread was moist
+and succulent, delicious to the touch and the taste. Martha ate it all,
+even to the last crumb of crust, and, although she did not know it, the
+gift, the acceptance and the eating was a sacrament&mdash;the welcome of
+bountiful Iowa.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As the prairie schooner rolled its slow way inward into the state there
+were more slices of bread. The father stopped the weary horses at many
+houses, shacks and dugouts; and always there was a woman to come to the
+wagon with a slice of bread for Martha, and one for Eben, for that was
+the Iowa way. Sometimes the bread was buttered, sometimes it was spread
+with jelly, sometimes it was bread alone. It was all good bread.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There were days at a time, after they reached the new home, when there
+was nothing to eat but bread, but there was always that. The neighbors
+did not wait to be asked to lend; they brought flour unasked and
+Martha's mother kneaded it and set it to rise and baked it. Then the
+harvests began to come in uninterrupted succession of wealth, and the
+dugout became a house, and barns arose, and a school was built, and
+Martha and Eben went along the dusty, unfenced road, barefooted, happy,
+well fed, or in winter leaped through the snowdrifts. In their
+well-filled lunch pail there was always plenty and always bread.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In time Martha taught school, now in one district and now in another;
+and everywhere, wherever she boarded, there was good wheat bread and
+plenty of it. She remembered the boarding places by their bread. Some
+had bread as good as her mother's; some had bread not as good. During
+her first vacation her mother taught her to make bread. Her very first
+baking was a success. John Cartwright, coming to the kitchen door just
+as she was drawing the black bread-pan from the oven on that hot July
+day, saw her eyes sparkle with triumph as she saw the rich brown
+loaves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Isn't it beautiful? It is my first bread, John," she said, as she
+stood, flushed and triumphant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It smells like mother's," he said, "but she don't seem to get her'n so
+nice and brown."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I guess Martha is a natural bread-maker," said her mother proudly.
+"Some is and some ain't."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Always good bread and plenty of it! That was Iowa. And it was of
+Martha's bread they partook around the kitchen table the next
+year&mdash;Eben and John, Martha and her father and mother&mdash;just before the
+two young men drove to the county seat to enlist.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I guess we won't get bread like this in the army," John said, and he
+was right.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"When I'm chawing this sow-belly and hard tack," Eben wrote, "I wish I
+had some of that bread of yours, Marth. I guess this war won't last
+long and the minute it is over you'll see me skedaddling home for some
+of your bread. Tell ma I'm well and&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They brought his body home because he was not killed outright but lived
+almost two weeks in the hospital at St. Louis after he was wounded.
+Martha scraped the dough from her fingers to go to the door when her
+father drove up with the precious, lifeless form. That day her bread
+was not as good as usual.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Martha and John were married the month he came back from the war, and
+the bread that was eaten at the wedding dinner was Martha's own baking.
+The bread that was eaten by those who came to prepare her mother for
+the grave and by those who came, a year later, to lay away her father,
+was Martha's. Once, twice, three times, four times Martha did a double
+baking, to "last over," so that there might be bread in the house while
+the babies were being born. Every week, except those four weeks, she
+baked bread.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In succession the small boys and girls of her own began coming to the
+kitchen door pleading, "Ma, may I have a piece of bread an' butter?"
+Always they might. There was always plenty of bread; it was Iowa.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In time Martha became something of a fanatic about flour. One kind was
+the best flour in the world; she would have no other. Once, when John
+brought back another brand, she sent him back to town with it. Her
+bread was so well known that the flour dealer in town was wont to say,
+"This is the kind Mis' Cartwright uses; I guess I can't say no more'n
+that." Eight times in twenty years she won the blue ribbon at the
+county fair for her loaves; the twelve other times John swore the
+judges were prejudiced. "It ain't the flour; that I do know!" Martha
+would answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently there were children of her children coming on Sunday to spend
+the day with the "old folks," and there was always enough bread for
+all. Sometime in the afternoon the big loaf would be taken out of the
+discarded tin boiler that served as a bread-box and the children would
+have a "piece"&mdash;huge slices of bread, limber in the hand, spread with
+brown sugar, or jelly, or honey, or dripping with jam. Then, one
+Sunday, young John's wife brought a loaf of her own bread to show
+Martha. They battled pleasantly for two hours over the merits of two
+brands of flour, comparing the bread, but Martha would no more have
+given up her own brand than she would have deserted the Methodist
+Church to become a Mahometan!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then came a time when John had difficulty in holding his pipe in his
+mouth because his "pipe tooth" was gone. He no longer ate the crusts of
+Martha's bread except when he dipped them in his coffee. There was a
+strong, young girl to do the housework but Martha still made the bread,
+just such beautiful, richly browned, fragrant bread as she had made in
+her younger days. There had never been a week without the good bread,
+for this was Iowa.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, as she was kneading the dough, she stopped suddenly and put
+her hand to her side, under her heart. She had to wait several minutes
+before she could go on with the kneading. Then she shaped the bread
+into loaves and put it in the pan and put the pan in the oven. She went
+out on the porch, where John was sitting, and talked about the weather,
+and then of a grandson, Horace, who was the first to enlist for the
+great war that was wracking the world. She mentioned the poor Belgians.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"And us so comfortable here, and all!" she said. "When I think of them
+not having bread enough to eat&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I warrant they never did have bread like yours to eat, ma," said John.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rocked slowly, happy and proud that her man thought that, and then
+she went in to take the fresh loaves from the oven. They were crisp and
+golden brown as always, great, plump, nourishing loaves of good wheat
+bread. She carried the pan to the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Bertha," she said, "I'll let you put the bread away. I guess I'll go
+up and lie down awhile; I don't feel right well."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stopped at the foot of the stairs to tell John she was going up;
+that she did not feel very well.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"If I don't come down to supper," she said, "you can have Bertha cut a
+loaf of the fresh bread, but you'd better not eat too much of it, John;
+it don't always agree with you. There's plenty of the other loaf left."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not come down again, not Martha herself. She did not mourn
+because she could not come down again. She had lived her life and it
+had been a good life, happy, well-nourished, satisfying as her own
+bread had been. And so, when they came back from leaving Martha beside
+the brother who had died so many years before, the last loaf of her
+last baking was cut and eaten around the kitchen table&mdash;the youngsters
+biting eagerly into the thick slices, the elders tasting with thoughts
+not on the bread at all, and old John crumbling the bread in his
+fingers and thinking of long past years.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="at">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">At Kamakura: 1917</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Arthur Davison Ficke</i><a name="ficke">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The world shakes with the terrible tramp of war</p>
+<p>And the foe's menace swirls through every sea.</p>
+<p>But here the Buddha still broods ceaselessly</p>
+<p>In hush more real than our strange tumults are.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Here where the fighting hosts of long ago</p>
+<p>Once clashed and fell, here where the armored hordes</p>
+<p>Razed the great city with their flashing swords,</p>
+<p>Now only waves flash, only breezes blow.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="that">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">That Iowa Town</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Oney Fred Sweet</i><a name="sweet">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+According to the popular songs, we are apt to get the impression that
+the only section of the country where there is moonlight and a waiting
+sweetheart and a home worth longing for is down in Dixie. Judging from
+the movies, a plot to appeal must have a mountain or a desert setting
+of the West. Fictionists, so many of them, seem to think they must
+locate their heroines on Fifth Avenue and their heroes at sea. But
+could I write songs or direct cinema dramas or pen novels I'd get my
+inspiration from that Iowa town.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Did you ever drive in from an Iowa farm to a Fourth of July
+celebration? A few years back the land wasn't worth quite so much an
+acre; the sloughs hadn't been tiled yet and the country hadn't
+discovered what a limited section of real good corn land there was
+after all. But she was Iowa then! Remember how the hot sun dawned early
+to shimmer across the knee-high fields and blaze against the side of
+the big red barn, how the shadows of the willow windbreak shortened and
+the fan on top of the tall windmill faintly creaked? The hired man had
+decorated his buggy-whip with a tiny ribbon of red, white and blue.
+Buggy-whip&mdash;sound queer now? Well, there were only three automobiles in
+the county then and they were the feature of the morning parade.
+Remember how the two blocks of Main Street were draped with bunting and
+flags, and the courthouse lawn was dotted with white dresses? Well,
+anyhow you remember the girls with parasols who represented the states,
+and the float bearing the Goddess of Liberty. And then the storm came
+in the middle of the afternoon. The lightning and the thunder, and the
+bunting with the red, white and blue somewhat streaked together but
+still fluttering. And just before sunset, you remember, it brightened
+up again, and out past the low-roofed depot and the tall grain elevator
+you could see the streak of blue and the play of the departing sun
+against the spent clouds. Nowhere else, above no other town, could
+clouds pile just like that.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+You remember that morning, once a year, when the lilacs had just turned
+purple out by the front gate, and the dew was still wet on the green
+grass, the faint strains of band-music drifting out above the maples of
+the town, and flags hanging out on the porches&mdash;Decoration Day! How we
+used to hunt through the freshly awakened woods north of town for the
+rarest wildflowers! Tender petaled bloodroots there were in plenty, and
+cowslips down by the spring, and honeysuckles on the creek bank those
+late May days, but the lady's slippers and the jack in the pulpits&mdash;one
+had to know the hidden recesses where they grew. Withered they became
+before the hot sun sank, sending rays from the west that made the
+tombstones gleam like gold. Somehow, on those days, the sky seemed a
+bluer blue when the words of the speaker at the "Monument of the
+Unknown Dead" were carried off by the faint breeze that muffled, too,
+the song of the quartet and the music of the band. But close in your
+ears were the chirps of the insects in the bluegrass and the robins
+that hopped about in the branches of the evergreens.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We had our quota of civil war veterans in that Iowa town. We had our
+company that went down to Chickamauga in '98. And now&mdash;well, you know
+what to expect from the youth of that sort of a community. Prosperity
+can't rob a place like that of its pioneer virtues. That Iowa town is
+an American town and it simply wouldn't fit into the German system at
+all. There's nothing old world about it. The present generation may
+have it easier than their fathers did; they may ride in automobiles
+instead of lumber wagons; they may wear pinch back coats and long beak
+caps instead of overalls and straw hats, but they've inherited
+something beside material wealth. We who owned none of its surrounding
+acres when they were cheap and find them now so out of reach, are yet
+rich, fabulously rich in inheritance. The last I heard from that Iowa
+town its youth was donning khaki for the purpose of helping to keep the
+Kaiser on the other side of the sea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But it was of the town we used to know that I was speaking. Changed? We
+must realize that. It was the sort that improves rather than grows. But
+we remember the place as it was before the blacksmith shop was turned
+into a garage and before the harness shop was given an electric lighted
+front and transformed into a movie. I guess the new generation has long
+since passed up the old opera house above the drug store for the
+rejuvenated harness shop and the actors that come by express in canned
+celluloid. But at county fair time, you remember, the Cora Warner
+Comedy Company used to come for a week's engagement, Cora Warner,
+noticeably wrinkled as she walked through the park from the hotel,
+donning a blonde wig that enabled her to play soubrette parts of the
+old school. And then there were the Beach and Bowers minstrels with
+their band that swung breezily up Main Street to form a circle on the
+bank corner and lift the whole center of the town out of the
+commonplace by the blare of trombones and the tenderness of clarinets.
+You remember how we Boy Scouts, who didn't know we were Boy Scouts,
+used to clamor for the front row of kitchen chairs after peddling bills
+for "The Octoroon" or "Nevada, and the Lost Mine"?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Oh, well, we're uninteresting old-timers now. And it used to be that I
+knew everyone in town&mdash;even the transient baker whose family had no
+garden and chickens but lived up over the furniture store, and the
+temporary telephone man who sat out in front of the hotel evenings with
+the pale-faced traveling man. That hotel&mdash;haunted with an atmosphere
+that was brought in from the outside world! Remember how you used to
+walk past it with awe, the hot sun on the plank sidewalk burning your
+bare feet, and your eyes wistful as you heard the bus man on the steps
+call a train? And the time came when we took the train ourselves. And
+when we came back&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When we came back, the town was still there, but the wondrous age when
+all life is roseate belonged to us no longer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And yet that town, to me, will always be as it was in those days when
+the world was giving me its first pink-tinted impressions. And when my
+tussle with the world as it really is comes to a close, I want to go
+back there and take my last long sleep beneath one of those evergreens
+on the hillside where I know the robins hop along the branches. I know
+how each season's change comes there&mdash;the white drifts, the dew on the
+bluegrass, the rustling of crimsoned leaves. I'll know that off on the
+prairies beyond, the cornfields will still wave green in summer, and
+that from back across the creek, over in the school yard, there will
+float the old hushed echo of youth at play.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="but">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">But Once a Year</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By R. O'Grady</i><a name="ogrady">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+A shabby little woman detached herself from the steadily marching
+throng on the avenue and paused before a shop window, from which solid
+rows of electric bulbs flashed brilliantly into the December twilight.
+The ever-increasing current of Christmas shoppers flowed on. Now and
+then it rolled up, like the waters of the Jordan, while a lady with
+rich warm furs about her shoulders made safe passage from her car to
+the tropic atmosphere of the great department store.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Warmth, and the savory smells from a bakery kitchen wafted up through
+the grating of a near-by pavement, modifying the nipping air. The
+shabby little woman, only half conscious of such gratuitous comfort,
+adjusted her blinking gaze to the brightness and looked hungrily at the
+costumes shimmering under the lights. Wax figures draped with
+rainbow-tinted, filmy evening gowns caught her passing admiration, but
+she lingered over the street costumes, the silk-lined coats and soft,
+warm furs. Elbowed by others who like herself were eager to look, even
+though they could not buy, she held her ground until she had made her
+choice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With her wistful gaze still fixed upon her favorite, she had begun to
+edge her way through the crowd at the window, when she felt, rather
+than saw, someone different from the rest, close at her side. At the
+same instant, she caught the scent of fresh-cut flowers and looked up
+into the eyes of a tall young girl in a white-plumed velvet hat, with a
+bunch of English violets in her brown mink fur.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As their glances met, the shabby little woman checked a start, and
+half-defensively dropped her lids. The smile that shone evanescently
+from the girl's cordial eyes had aroused in her a feeling of something
+unwonted, and strangely intimate. There had flashed over the mobile
+face beneath the velvet hat a look of personal interest&mdash;an
+unmistakable impulse to speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The thrill of response that set the woman's pulses throbbing died
+suddenly. The red that mottled her grayish cheeks was the red of shame.
+Through the window, in a mirrored panel cruelly ablaze with light, she
+saw herself: her made-over turban, her short, pigeon-tailed jacket of a
+style long past, and her old otter cape with its queer caudal
+decorations and its yellowed cracks grinning through the plucked and
+ragged fur.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One glance at her own image was enough. The little woman pushed
+determinedly into the slow-moving crush, and headed toward the nearest
+elevated station, to be carried on irresistibly by the army of
+pedestrians.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She caught a last glimpse of the tall young girl, coming in her
+direction, still watching her with that same eager look. But what of
+that? She knew why women stared curiously at her. By the time her
+station was reached, the occurrence had assumed in her mind a painful
+significance which emphasized the sordidness of her evening's routine.
+She made her way along a narrow, dimly lighted street, walking with the
+aimless gait of one who neither expects nor is expected.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But, loiter as she might, she soon reached a neighborhood where rows of
+narrow brick tenements brooded over dingy, cluttered basement shops.
+Here she found it necessary to accelerate her pace to make way for
+romping children and bareheaded women hurrying from the shops with
+their suppers in paper bags.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In spite of the wintry chill, the section had an air of activity all
+its own. Neither did it lack occasional evidences of Christmas cheer.
+In the window of a little news and fruit shop, against the smeared and
+partly frosted glass, a holly wreath was hanging, and within stood a
+rack of gaudy, tinseled Christmas cards. The woman hesitated, as if
+about to enter the shop, then abruptly passed on. She ascended one of
+the stoops that were all alike. Standing in a blur of reddish light
+that filtered through the broken glass above the door, she looked back
+the way she had come.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For an instant her pulses quickened again as they had done on the
+avenue down-town. At the corner, a tall girl with a white-plumed velvet
+hat was smilingly picking her way through the swarming element so
+foreign, apparently, to one of her class. As the white plume came
+nearer and nearer, the tremulous little woman regained her
+self-control. It was but one of the coincidences of the city, she told
+herself, turning resolutely away. The door slammed shut behind her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Odd, she thought, as she groped her way through the dimly lighted lower
+hall, and the complete darkness of the upper, that such a girl should
+be living in such a neighborhood. Then, with an effort, she dismissed
+the matter from her mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To find a match and light the sputtering gas required but very few
+steps in her tiny box of a room. When that was accomplished, she could
+think of nothing more to do. Her little taste of excitement had spoiled
+her zest for any of the homy rites which at other times formed the
+biggest events of her day. As she sank down upon the cot without
+removing her wraps, she was greeted by the usual creaking of rusty
+springs; her table with its meager array of dishes, its coffee pot and
+little alcohol burner, sat as ever in its corner, inviting the
+preparation of her evening meal. But to-night she did not want to eat.
+She had not visited the bake-shop on her way home. She had not even
+bought her daily paper at the corner stand where the postcards
+were&mdash;those gay Christmas cards that bring you greetings from friends.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As she slowly removed her turban, her jacket and fur cape and, without
+getting up, tossed them across a chair against the opposite wall, the
+dull ache of dissatisfaction in her heart grew slowly to a sharp pain
+of desire. She wanted to do something, to have something happen that
+might break the sordid routine of her existence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still, habit and environment would continue to force at least a part of
+this routine upon her. She glanced at her fingers, stained to an oily,
+bluish grime by the cheap dye of the garments that furnished her daily
+work. Mechanically she rose to wash.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While her hands were immersed in the lather of rankly perfumed toilet
+soap, there came a gentle knock at the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Come in," invited the woman, expecting some famine-pressed neighbor
+for a spoonful of coffee or a drawing of tea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The door opened slowly, a tentative aperture.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"May I come in?" asked a voice that was sweeter than the breath of
+violets that preceded the caller into the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With the towel clutched in her dripping hands, the woman flung wide
+open the door, then hastened to unload the chair which held her
+wraps&mdash;her only chair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Thank you; don't bother," urged the visitor. "I shall like sitting on
+the couch."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a melody of enthusiasm in this remark, which the complaining
+of the cot, as the girl dropped easily upon it, could not wholly drown.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The woman, having absently hung her towel on the doorknob, stared
+dazedly at the visitant. She could hardly credit her eyes. It was&mdash;it
+was indeed the girl with the white ostrich plume and the bouquet of
+violets in her brown mink fur.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I feel like an intruder," began the girl, "and, do you know&mdash;" her
+appraising glance directed to the old fur collar on the chair, was
+guiltily withdrawn as she spoke&mdash;"do you know, I've such a silly excuse
+for coming." She laughed, and the laugh brought added music to her
+voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The woman, now at last recalled from her abstraction, smiled, and the
+weariness passed from her face. She seated herself at the extreme end
+of the humpy, complaining cot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'm sure you'll understand," resumed the girl. "At least, I hope
+you'll not be offended&hellip;. I heard &hellip; that is, I noticed you had a
+rare fur-piece&mdash;" her vivid glance returned to the pile of wraps on the
+chair&mdash;"and I want to ask a very great favor of you. I&mdash;now
+<i>please</i> don't be shocked&mdash;I've been ransacking the city for
+something like it, and&mdash;" with a determined air of taking the
+plunge&mdash;"I should like to buy it of you!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Buy it!" scorned the woman, with a sudden dull red staining her sallow
+cheeks. "I can't see why anyone would want to pay money for such a
+thing as that."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It&mdash;it's a rare pattern, you know," groped the girl, her sweet tones
+assuming an eloquent, persuasive quiver, "and&mdash;and you don't know how
+glad I'd be to have it."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The indignant color faded out of the woman's face. "If you really want
+the thing&mdash;" abruptly she put her bizarre possession into her strange
+visitor's lap&mdash;"If you really want it&mdash;but I don't see&mdash;" yearning
+crept into her work-dimmed eyes, a yearning that seemed to struggle
+with disillusionment. "Tell me," she broke off, "is that all you came
+here for?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Apparently oblivious to the question, the young woman rose to her feet.
+"You'll sell it to me then!" she triumphed, opening her gold-bound
+purse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But, see here," demurred the woman, "I can't&mdash;it ain't worth&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl's gloved hands went fumbling into her purse, while the old fur
+cape hung limply across one velvet arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You leave it to me," she commanded, and smiled, a radiant, winning
+smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Impulsively the woman drew close to her guest. "Excuse me," she
+faltered, "but, do you know&mdash;you look ever-so-much like a little niece
+of mine back&mdash;home?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Do I? That's nice." The visitor looked at her watch. A note of
+abstraction had crept into her beautiful voice, but it still held the
+caress that invited the woman's confidence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes, my little niece&mdash;excuse me&mdash;I haven't seen her for twelve
+years&mdash;most fifteen years, I guess. She'd be growed up, but I
+thought&mdash;when I saw you down-town&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, you remember me, then! Forgive me for following&mdash;" The girl seized
+the woman's soap-reddened hands in a sudden fervent clasp. "I
+understand," she breathed. "You must be lonely&hellip;. I'll try to see you
+again&mdash;I surely will&hellip;. Good-bye&hellip;."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl was gone and all at once the room seemed colder and dingier
+than it ever had before. But the woman was not cold. As she sat huddled
+on the cot, warmth and vitality glowed within her, kindled by the
+memory of a recent kindly human touch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The following evening, after working hours, the shabby woman, wearing a
+faded scarf about her neck to replace the old fur collar, diffidently
+accosted a saleslady at the Sixth Avenue department store. She wanted
+to buy a brown mink collar, just like one worn by a figure in green in
+the window.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was unusual to sell expensive furs to such a customer. But people
+might send what freaks of servants they pleased to do their Christmas
+shopping, provided they sent the money, too. In this case, the shabby
+little woman was prepared. She produced three crisp ten-dollar
+bills&mdash;the fabulous sum which the girl had left in her hand at
+parting&mdash;and two dollars more from the savings in her worn little
+purse. Then, hugging the big flat box against the tight-fitting bosom
+of her jacket, she triumphantly left the store.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a sort of tender ecstasy she dallied along until she came to a
+florist's window. As she paused to gaze at great bunches of carnations
+and roses, tied with broad and streaming ribbons, the anxious look that
+attends the doubtful shopper returned to her face. Would it be of any
+use to go in? Since she must either keep moving or be carried along by
+the crowd, she edged through the revolving door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"English violets?&mdash;Fifty cents for the small bunches," clipped off the
+red-cheeked salesgirl, in reply to the woman's groping inquiry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The perturbed shopper turned reluctantly away, hesitated, and then
+asked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But the roses? A single, half-blown rose&mdash;?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Twenty-five apiece," replied the girl in the same mechanical tones,
+while she busied herself in rearranging a basket of flowers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I&mdash;I'll take the rose."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the express office, where scores were waiting before her, the woman
+had ample time to untie her box and slip the rosebud beneath the tissue
+paper of the inner wrapping. Then, having retied it securely and stuck
+a "Do-not-open-until-Christmas" tag in a conspicuous place, she took
+her stand in line. When it finally came her turn at the desk, a stout
+clerk, who worked like an automaton and breathed like an ox, tore the
+package from her lingering grasp and dashed across the wrapper the
+address she gave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She paid the charges, wadded the receipt into her purse and turned
+briskly away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fresh crullers she took to her room from the bake-shop, having bought
+them from a dark, greasy woman, whom she wished a "Merry Christmas" in
+a voice that almost sang. At dusk she had coffee in her room. It was
+Christmas Eve and she must begin early to get her full share of the
+season's peculiar indulgences. After she had read her paper for an hour
+or so by the recklessly flaming gas jet, she bustled about to brew
+another cup of coffee, and feasted upon crullers for the second time.
+At last she filled a water-bottle with tepid water from a faucet in the
+hall, and prepared for bed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The chill of the bedclothes, upon which the tepid water-bottle had
+little effect, could not touch the cozy warmth about the woman's heart.
+Neither were the happy memories of her strange and lovely visitor
+disturbed by knowledge of an incident that was taking place at that
+very hour. As she bounced into her cot, humming a little tune, she did
+not know that at a down-town theater a popular young actress was just
+responding to an insistent curtain call. Nor could she have recognized
+the graceful young girl, issuing from the wings in a new character
+part&mdash;an extreme type of eccentric maidenhood&mdash;except for the plucked
+and ragged fur-piece which formed the keynote of the performer's quaint
+attire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+No knowledge of this episode disturbed the half-drowsy, half-blissful
+state which supplanted the woman's sleep that night. The incident cast
+no cloud upon her eager awakening, nor retarded her active leap from
+bed when the voice of her landlady aroused her with a start on
+Christmas morning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"<i>Eggs</i>-press, <i>eggs</i>-press &hellip; a package for Miss
+Law-lor-r-r!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Full-chested and lingering, the call reverberated up three flights of
+naked stairs, and by the time the woman had donned her skirt and
+sweater and had emerged into the twilight of the upper hall, frowsy,
+curious heads protruded from every door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She carried the bulky Christmas package to her own room, moving
+deliberately, in shy, half-guilty triumph, and placed it on the cot.
+Behind her closed door she untied it, removed the cover and smilingly
+bent down to draw an eager inhalation from the tissue paper folds.
+Then, with careful fingers, she parted the crisp inner wrappings and
+unearthed a wilting, half-blown rose from its nest in the brown mink
+fur.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="reminder">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Reminder</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Allan Updegraff</i><a name="updegraff">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>A little Belgian and an old violin&mdash;</p>
+<p>A short, dumpy, melancholy little Belgian</p>
+<p>And a very fine old violin&hellip;.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>An inconsequential small Belgian</p>
+<p>Wearing a discouraged bit of mustache,</p>
+<p>American "store" clothes that didn't fit,</p>
+<p>Cheap American shoes, shined but shapeless&hellip;.</p>
+<p>(And yet he had often played in high honor</p>
+<p>Before great audiences in Belgium;</p>
+<p>But that was before Hell's lid was lifted</p>
+<p>Somewhere in the North of Germany&mdash;</p>
+<p>May it be clamped down, hard, before long!)</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>So this shabby, fat, discouraged oldish Belgian</p>
+<p>(Too old and fat for military service),</p>
+<p>And his very old beautiful violin,</p>
+<p>(Borrowed&mdash;he'd lost his better one to his conquerors),</p>
+<p>Appeared before a dubious tag-end of an audience</p>
+<p>In a music hall built in the woods</p>
+<p>Near an American summer resort,</p>
+<p>And played a dozen selections for forty-five dollars.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Then we learned why he had often played in high honor</p>
+<p>Before great audiences in Belgium;</p>
+<p>And why his king and his country</p>
+<p>Had given him the honors he still wore,</p>
+<p>The riches recently taken away</p>
+<p>By his conquerors.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Then we saw what manner of man he was,</p>
+<p>How that his soul was finely clad, upright,</p>
+<p>Nobly statured, crowned with Apollo's bays.</p>
+<p>Then we knew, when he played Tartini's sonata for violin,</p>
+<p>That Belgium would own once more</p>
+<p>Its little place in the sun.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>For the old Italian master might have written that sonata</p>
+<p>With the devastated Belgium of these days in mind.</p>
+<p>First, streaming from beneath the Belgian's sentient bow,</p>
+<p>The music told of peace and common things,</p>
+<p>With some bickering, some trivialities,</p>
+<p>But much melody and deep harmony underneath.</p>
+<p>The third movement, <i>affetuoso</i>, awoke to ruin&mdash;</p>
+<p>To ruin too sudden and complete.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Too bloody and bestial and cruel</p>
+<p>And thorough and filthy and Prussian</p>
+<p>To be more than wailed over softly.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>There was a stabbed child</p>
+<p>Lying in the mud beneath a half-burned house,</p>
+<p>Beside the naked corpse of its mother,</p>
+<p>The mutilated bodies of its old grandfather,</p>
+<p>And young sister;</p>
+<p>And the child cried faintly, and moaned,</p>
+<p>And cried again&hellip;.</p>
+<p>And then was silent.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>A while after, from far away,</p>
+<p>Rose dull outcries, trampling feet,</p>
+<p>Voices indomitable&mdash;</p>
+<p>Retreating, returning, joined by others, dying, reviving,</p>
+<p>Always indomitable.</p>
+<p>And still others joined those beaten but unconquered ones,</p>
+<p>And the end came in one long, high,</p>
+<p>Indomitable cry.</p>
+<p>Then we knew, and bowed our heads,</p>
+<p>And were ashamed of our poor part,</p>
+<p>And prayed God we might bear a nobler part,</p>
+<p>In the reply to that most cold-planned,</p>
+<p>Murderously carried out,</p>
+<p>Unexpurgable horror over there.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="old">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">"Old Bill"</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Henry C. Wallace</i><a name="wallace">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+We buried Old Bill to-day. As we came back to the house it seemed
+almost as if we had laid away a member of the family. All afternoon I
+have been thinking of him, and this evening I want to tell you the
+story.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Bill was a horse, and he was owned by four generations of our
+family. He was forty-one years old when he died, so you will understand
+that for many years he was what some might call a "dead-beat boarder."
+But long ago he had paid in advance for his board as long as he might
+stay with us. In winter a warm corner of the stable was his as a matter
+of right, and not a day went by but a lump of sugar, an apple, or some
+other tidbit found its way to him from the hands of those who loved
+him. Old Bill was never in the slightest danger of meeting the sad fate
+of many a faithful old horse in the hands of the huckster or trader.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My grandfather liked a good horse. He loved to draw the lines over a
+team that trotted up into the bits as if they enjoyed it. He had such a
+team in a span of eleven-hundred pound mares, full sisters, and well
+matched both as to appearance and disposition. The old gentleman said
+they were Morgan bred. Whether they were or not, they had a lot of warm
+blood in them. He raised several colts from these mares by light
+horses, but none of them had either the spirit or the quality of their
+dams. One year a neighbor brought in a Percheron horse, a rangy fellow
+weighing about seventeen hundred and fifty pounds, clean of limb, and
+with plenty of life, as were most of the earlier horses of that breed,
+and grandfather bred these mares to him. The colts foaled the next
+spring, developed into a fine span, weighing about twelve hundred and
+fifty each, sound as nuts, willing workers and free movers. Grandfather
+gave this team to my father the spring he started to farm for himself.
+They were then three years old, and one of them was Old Bill.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In those days the young farmer's capital was not very large: a team of
+horses, a cow, two or three pigs, and a few farm implements, the horses
+being by far the most important part of it. I shall not try to tell of
+the part these horses played in helping father win out. They were never
+sick; they were always ready for work. And well do I remember father's
+grief when Bill's mate slipped on the ice in the barnyard one cold
+winter day and had to be shot. It was that evening that my father
+talked of the important part a good horse plays in the life of a
+farmer, and gave us a little lecture on the treatment of horses and
+other animals. I was but a lad of ten at that time, but something
+father said, or the way he said it, made a deep impression on me, and
+from that time forward I looked upon horses as my friends and treated
+them as such. What a fine thing it would be if all parents would teach
+the youngsters at an early age the right way to treat our dumb animals.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bill was already "Old Bill" when he became mine. He was four years
+older than I when we started courting together, and my success must
+have been due in large part to his age and experience. We had but a
+mile and a half to go, and of a summer evening Bill would trot this off
+at a pace equal to a much younger horse. When the girl of my affection
+was snugly seated in the buggy, he would move off briskly for half a
+mile, after which he dropped to a dignified walk, understanding full
+well the importance of the business in hand. He knew where it was safe
+to leave the beaten track and walk quietly along the turf at the side,
+and he had a positive genius for finding nice shady places where he
+could browse the overhanging branches, looking back once in a while to
+see that everything was going along as it should be. I suppose I am
+old-fashioned, but I don't see how a really first-class job of courting
+can be done without such a horse as Old Bill. He seemed to take just
+about as much interest in the matter as I did. One night Jennie brought
+out a couple of lumps of sugar for him (a hopeful sign to me, by the
+way), and after that there was no time lost in getting to her house,
+where Bill very promptly announced our arrival by two or three nickers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One time I jokingly said to my wife that evidently she married Bill as
+much as she did me. That remark was a mistake. She admitted it more
+cheerfully than seemed necessary, and on sundry occasions afterward
+made free to remind me of it. Sometimes she drew comparisons to my
+discredit, and if Old Bill could have understood them, he would have
+enjoyed a real horse laugh. Jennie always said Bill knew more than some
+real folks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the wedding, Old Bill took us on our honeymoon trip&mdash;not a very
+long one, you may be sure&mdash;and the three of us settled down to the
+steady grind of farm life. We asked nothing hard of Old Bill, but he
+helped chore around, and took Jennie safely where she wanted to go. I
+felt perfectly at ease when she was driving him. I wish I had a picture
+of the three of them when she brought out the boy to show to Old Bill.
+I can close my eyes and see her standing in front of the old horse,
+with the boy cuddled up in a blanket in her arms. I can see the proud
+light in her eyes, and I can see Old Bill's sensitive upper lip
+nuzzling at the blanket. He evidently understood Jennie perfectly, and
+seemed just as proud as she was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The youngster learned to ride Old Bill at the age most children are
+riding broomsticks. Jennie used to put him on Old Bill's back and lead
+him around, but Old Bill seemed so careful that before a great while
+she would trust him alone with the boy in the front yard, she sitting
+on the porch. I remember a scare I had one summer evening. Old Bill did
+not have much hair left on his withers, but he had a long mane lock
+just in front of the collar mark, and the youngster held onto this. I
+was walking up toward the house, where Bill was marching the youngster
+around in front, Jennie sitting on the porch. Evidently a botfly was
+bothering Bill's front legs, for he threw his head down quickly,
+whereupon the youngster, holding tightly to this mane lock, slid down
+his neck and flopped to the ground. You may be sure I got there in a
+hurry, almost as quickly as Jennie, who was but a few steps away,
+calling as I ran: "Did he step on him?" You should have seen the look
+of scorn Jennie gave me. Such an insult to Old Bill deserved no answer.
+The old horse seemed as much concerned as we were and Jennie promptly
+replaced the boy on his back and the ride was resumed, with me
+relegated to the corner of the porch in disgrace. As if Old Bill would
+hurt her boy!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Bill's later years were full of contentment and happiness, if I
+know what constitutes horse happiness. In the winter he had the best
+corner in the stable. In the summer he was the autocrat of the small
+pasture where we kept the colts. He taught the boy to ride properly and
+with due respect for his steed. He would give him a gallop now and
+then, but as a rule he insisted upon a dignified walk, and if the
+youngster armed himself with a switch and tried to have his way about
+it, the old fellow would quickly show who was boss by nipping his
+little legs just hard enough to serve as a warning of what he could do.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bill had a lot of fun with the mares and colts. We never allowed the
+colts to follow the mares in the fields, but kept them in the five-acre
+pasture with Bill for company. At noon, we would lead the mares in
+after they had cooled off, and let the colts suck, and at night we
+turned the mares into the pasture with them. Bill had a keen sense of
+humor. He would fool around until the colts had finished, and then
+gallop off with all the colts in full tilt after him. Naturally the
+mares resented this. They followed around in great indignation, but it
+did them no good. We used to walk over to the pasture fence and watch
+this little byplay, and I think Bill enjoyed having us there, for he
+kept up the fun as long as we would watch. He surely was not popular
+with the mares. They regarded him about as the proud mother regards
+grandfather when he entices away her darling boy and teaches him tricks
+of which she does not approve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although Bill took delight in teaching the colts mean little tricks
+during their days of irresponsibility, when they reached the proper age
+he enjoyed the part he had to play in their training with a grim
+satisfaction. For more than twenty-five years he was our main reliance
+in breaking the colts to work. It was amusing to watch a colt the first
+time he was harnessed and hooked up to the wagon alongside Bill, his
+halter strap being tied back to the hames on Bill's collar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Our colts were always handled more or less from infancy, and we had
+little trouble in harnessing them. When led out to the wagon with Bill,
+the colt invariably assumed he was out for a good time. But the Bill he
+found now was not the Bill he had known in the pasture, and he very
+quickly learned that he was in for real business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bill was a very strict disciplinarian; he tolerated no familiarities;
+with his teeth he promptly suppressed any undue exuberance of spirit;
+he was kind but firm. As he grew older, he would lose patience now and
+then with the colts that persisted in their unruly ways. When they
+lunged forward, he settled back against their plunges with a bored air,
+as much as to say: "Take it easy, my young friend; you surely don't
+think you can run away with Old Bill!" When they sulked, he pulled them
+along for a bit. But if they continued obstreperous he turned upon them
+with his teeth in an almost savage manner, and the way he would bring
+them out of the sulky spell was a joy to see.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Finally, when the tired and bewildered colt had settled down to an
+orderly walk, and had learned to respond to the guiding reins, Bill
+would reward him with a caress on the neck and other evidences of his
+esteem.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Bill knew the game thoroughly, and was invaluable in this work of
+training the young ones. But after the first round at the wagon with
+him, the colts always seemed to feel as if they had lost a boon
+companion; they kept their friendship for him, but they maintained a
+very respectful attitude, and never after took liberties unless assured
+by his manner that they would be tolerated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I got a collie dog for the youngster when he was about three years old.
+When he was riding Old Bill, Jack would rush back and forth, in front
+and behind, barking joyously. Old Bill disliked such frivolity. To him
+it was a serious occasion. I think he never forgot the time the boy
+fell off, for nothing could tempt him out of a steady walk until the
+youngster got to an age when his seat was reasonably secure. When the
+ride was over, Old Bill would lay back his ears and go after Jack so
+viciously that the collie would seek refuge under the porch. Except
+when the boy was about, however, Old Bill and Jack were good friends,
+and in very cold weather Jack would beg a place in Bill's stall,
+curling up between his legs, to the apparent satisfaction of both.
+There was a very real friendship between them, but just as real
+jealousy for the favors of the little fellow. They were much like human
+beings in this respect.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Until the last year of his life Bill was a most useful member of the
+family. Jennie liked a good garden and used to say before we were
+married that when we had our own home, she would have a garden that was
+a garden, and that she did not propose to wear herself out with a hoe
+as her mother had done. She laid out her garden in a long, narrow strip
+of ground between the pasture and the windbreak, just back of the
+house, and with Bill's help she had the garden she talked about. Bill
+plowed the ground and cultivated it, and the care with which he walked
+the long narrow rows was astonishing. This was another place where he
+did not want to be bothered with Jack. He was willing Jack should sit
+at one end and watch the proceedings, but he must keep out of the way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During the school season Bill's regular job was to take the children to
+school, a mile away. They rode him, turning him loose to come home
+alone. He learned to go back for them in the afternoon, and he
+delivered them at the porch with an air as much as to say: "There are
+your little folks, safe and sound, thanks to Old Bill." Jennie always
+met him with an apple or a lump of sugar. She and Old Bill seemed to be
+in partnership in about everything he could have a part in. They
+understood each other perfectly, and I don't mind confessing now that
+once in a great while I felt rather jealous of Old Bill.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Well, as I said in the beginning, we buried Old Bill to-day. He died
+peacefully, and, as we say of some esteemed citizen, "full of honors."
+He was buried on the farm he helped pay for; and, foolish as it may
+seem to some folks, before long a modest stone will mark his last
+resting place. And sometimes, of a summer afternoon, if I find Jennie
+sitting with her needlework in the shade of the big oak tree under
+which Old Bill rests, I will know that tender memories of a faithful
+servant are being woven into her neat stitches.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="recruit">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Recruit's Story</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Frank Luther Mott</i><a name="mott">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Last Sunday afternoon I wandered into Smith Park and sat down on a
+bench near the fountain. It was a fine day. The sun shone warmly and I
+was one of many men who lounged on those benches and luxuriated in the
+grateful warmth of the early spring sunshine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Men of many kinds were there. There were a few old men, but many were
+young, or middle-aged. Unless I am a very poor observer, not a few of
+them were drifters.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I sat there I watched the play of the water falling in the fountain.
+I observed the bronze figures of women sitting in the center, musing
+over who knows what great world problem; and I saw, surmounting all,
+the towering figure of a soldier of the Civil War. There he stood in
+his quiet power&mdash;apotheosis of the common soldier in the war for the
+Union. He wore the great-coat and military cape of the old uniform. He
+stood at ease, his left foot advanced, and the butt of his gun resting
+on the ground in front of him, while he held the gun-barrel with his
+left hand and rested his forearm on the muzzle. He gazed a little past
+me, steadfastly, toward a corner of the park. On his face was the look
+of the man who is ready&mdash;the man undaunted by any emergency&mdash;the man
+unafraid in the quiet strength of soul and body.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"He it was," I reflected, "who leaped to the colors when Father Abraham
+called, and by the might of his loyalty and sacrifice saved his country
+in the hour of her greatest need."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Glancing across the park, I saw a poster glaring from the great window
+of a salesroom. I could make out three words, printed in giant type:
+</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+MEN WANTED NOW!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again I looked about me at the men lounging, as I was lounging, there
+on the benches in the sunlight, some of them asleep. I too felt the
+soporific influence of the May sun, and might soon have lapsed into
+unconsciousness myself had it not been for a strange thing that
+happened just then.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I saw the Union soldier turn his head a little and look directly at me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I am not given to illusions, being generally considered a
+matter-of-fact young man. But, as I live, I saw that Union soldier turn
+his head! And more than that, I knew just why he did it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I had read the papers, and knew my country's need. I had read the
+flaming posters calling for men to enlist in her armies. I had read
+President Wilson's classic-to-be concerning America's purpose in our
+greatest war for liberty. I had not meant to be a slacker; but, some
+way, I had not been strongly moved. I was letting the other fellow fill
+up the ranks, intending hazily to rally to the colors myself when the
+need seemed greater. Even now, I was inclined to argue the matter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I leaned back in my seat and said, in a conversational tone:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Now look here, Mr. Union Soldier, the need was greater when you joined
+the colors. The Union was threatened; the very existence of the nation
+was at hazard. I too will answer the call if worse comes to worst in
+this war."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Young man," replied the soldier, his eyes fixed on mine and his voice
+deep and calm, "young man, your country's call is your country's call.
+This time it is no question of union; thank God, the states stand
+indivisible forever. But this time the crisis is even greater, the need
+of vision and sacrifice even more vital. This time the liberty, not of
+the black man alone, but of the world, is in the balance. Are you deaf
+to the call?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But listen," I answered. "This is not our war. Nobody has crossed the
+sea to strike us."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Have they not?" he countered. "By spies, by intrigue, by a treacherous
+diplomacy, by an unscrupulous policy of world subjugation, the enemy
+has invaded our shores. Yet it is not that alone. As I have stood here,
+I have heard the cries of the people of ravished Belgium; I have heard
+the despairing screams of men and women sinking in watery graves; the
+wails of perishing Armenia assail my ears. Do you say it is not our
+war? It is! Just as the fate of the black man touched the hearts of us
+Northerners, just as the misfortune of the traveler to Jericho touched
+the heart of the Samaritan, just as the suffering Christ on the cross
+has touched the heart of the world&mdash;just so must the woeful cry of a
+world perishing to-day touch the heart of America&hellip;. And yet I look
+about me here! These men drowsing in the sunshine! Are these Americans?
+From the field I rushed when Lincoln called, scarcely pausing to bid my
+mother good-bye; and I braved cold, and heat, and sickness, and
+privation, and terrors by day and night, and rain of shot and shell,
+and wounds and suffering and death&mdash;all because my country called!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As he spoke his voice rose to a commanding resonance. He raised his
+right arm from the muzzle of the gun where it had rested&mdash;raised it
+high in impassioned appeal. At last I was moved; tears ran down my
+cheeks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I started&mdash;awoke. I had been asleep, and the water from the fountain
+was blowing in my face. But was it the spray from the fountain alone
+that made my cheeks wet?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I looked up at the bronze figure surmounting the fountain. There the
+soldier stood at rest, left foot advanced, arm resting on his gun. His
+eyes looked steadfastly toward the corner of the park. But did I not
+see a glow of passion on that bronze face&mdash;a passion for the Liberty of
+the World?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I turned to my neighbor on the bench at my left. His eyes were half
+shut, drowsily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Pardon me, brother," I said. "Can you tell me where the nearest
+recruiting station is located?"
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="happiest">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Happiest Man in I-O-Way</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Rupert Hughes</i><a name="hughes">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Jes' down the road a piece, 'ith the dust so deep</p>
+<p class="i2">It teched the bay mare's fetlocks; an' the sun</p>
+<p>So b'ilin' hot, the pewees dassn't peep;</p>
+<p class="i2">Seemed like midsummer 'fore the spring's begun!</p>
+<p>An' me plumb beat an' good-fer-nothin'-like</p>
+<p class="i2">An' awful lonedsome fer a sight o' you &hellip;</p>
+<p>I come to that big locus' by the pike,</p>
+<p class="i2">An' she was all in bloom, an' trembly, too,</p>
+<p>With breezes like drug-store perfumery.</p>
+<p class="i2">I stood up in my stirrups, with my head</p>
+<p>So deep in flowers they almost smothered me.</p>
+<p class="i2">I kind o' liked to think that I was dead &hellip;</p>
+<p>An' if I hed 'a' died like that to-day,</p>
+<p class="i2">I'd 'a' be'n the happiest man in I-o-way.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>For whut's the us't o' goin' on like this?</p>
+<p class="i2">Your pa not 'lowin me around the place &hellip;</p>
+<p>Well, fust I knowed, I'd give them blooms a kiss;</p>
+<p class="i2">They tasted like Good-Night on your white face.</p>
+<p>I reached my arms out wide, an' hugged 'em&mdash;say,</p>
+<p class="i2">I dreamp' your little heart was hammerin' me!</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>I broke this branch off for a love-bo'quet;</p>
+<p class="i2">'F I'd be'n a giant, I'd 'a' plucked the tree!</p>
+<p>The blooms is kind o' dusty from the road,</p>
+<p class="i2">But you won't mind. And, as the feller said,</p>
+<p>"When this you see remember me"&mdash;I knowed</p>
+<p class="i2">Another poem; but I've lost my head</p>
+<p>From seein' you! 'Bout all that I kin say</p>
+<p class="i2">Is&mdash;"I'm the happiest man in I-o-way."</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Well, comin' 'long the road I seen your ma</p>
+<p class="i2">Drive by to town&mdash;she didn't speak to me!</p>
+<p>An' in the farthest field I seen your pa</p>
+<p class="i2">At his spring-plowin', like I'd ought to be.</p>
+<p>But, knowin' you'd be here all by yourself,</p>
+<p class="i4">I hed to come&mdash;for now's our livin' chance.</p>
+<p>Take off yer apern, leave things on the shelf&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">Our preacher needs what th' feller calls "romance."</p>
+<p>Ain't got no red-wheeled buggy; but the mare</p>
+<p class="i2">Will carry double, like we've trained her to.</p>
+<p>Jes' put a locus'-blossom in your hair</p>
+<p class="i2">An' let's ride straight to heaven&mdash;me an' you!</p>
+<p>I'll build y' a little house, an' folks'll say:</p>
+<p class="i2">"There lives the happiest pair in I-o-way."</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="captured">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Captured Dream</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Octave Thanet</i><a name="thanet">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Somers rode slowly over the low Iowa hills, fitting an air in his mind
+to Andrew Lang's dainty verses. Presently, being quite alone on the
+country road, he began to sing:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"In dreams doth he behold her,</p>
+<p class="i4">    Still fair and kind and young."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+The gentle strain of melancholy and baffled desire faded into silence,
+but the young man's thoughts pursued it. A memory of his own that
+sometimes stung him, sometimes plaintively caressed him, stirred in his
+heart. "I am afraid you hit it, Andy," he muttered, "and I should have
+found it only a dream had I won."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At thirty Somers imagined himself mighty cynical. He consorted with
+daring critics, and believed the worst both of art and letters. He was
+making campaign cartoons for a daily journal instead of painting the
+picture of the future; the panic of '93 had stripped him of his little
+fortune, and his sweetheart had refused to marry him. Therefore he said
+incessantly in the language of Job, "I do well to be angry."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The rubber tires revolved more slowly as his eyes turned from the
+wayside to the smiling hills. The corn ears were sheathed in silvery
+yellow, but the afternoon sun jewelled the green pastures, fresh as in
+May, for rain had fallen in the morning, and maples, oaks and elms
+blended exquisite gradations of color and shade here and there among
+the open fields. Long rows of poplars recalled France to Somers and he
+sighed. "These houses are all comfortable and all ugly," thought the
+artist. "I never saw anything less picturesque. The life hasn't even
+the dismal interest of poverty and revolt, for they are all beastly
+prosperous; and one of the farmers has offered me a hundred dollars and
+my expenses to come here and make a pastel of his wife. And I have
+taken the offer because I want to pay my board bill and buy a
+second-hand bicycle. The chances are he is after something like a
+colored photograph, something slick and smooth, and every hair
+painted&mdash;Oh, Lord! But I have to have the money; and I won't sign the
+cursed thing. What does he want it for though? I wonder, did he ever
+know love's dream? Dream? It's all a dream&mdash;a mirage of the senses or
+the fancy. Confound it, why need I be harking back to it? I must be
+near his house. House near the corner, they said, where the roads
+cross. Ugh! How it jumps at the eyes."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The house before him was yellow with pea-green blinds; the great barns
+were Indian red; the yard a riot of color from blooming flowers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Somers wheeled up to the gate and asked of the old man who was leaning
+upon the fence where Mr. Gates lived.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Here," said the old man, not removing his elbows from the fence bar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"And, may I ask, are you Mr. Gates?" said Somers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes, sir. But if you're the young man was round selling 'Mother, Home
+and Heaven,' and going to call again to see if we liked it, we don't
+want it. My wife can't read and we're taking a Chicago paper now, and
+ain't got any time."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Somers smiled. "I'm not selling anything but pictures," said he, "and I
+believe you want me to make one for you."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Are you Mr. Somers, F. J. S.?" cried the farmer, his face lighting in
+a surprising manner. "Well, I'm glad to see you, sir. My wife said
+you'd come this afternoon and I wouldn't believe her. I'm always caught
+when I don't believe my wife. Come right in. Oh, did you bring your
+tools with you?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He guided Somers into the house and into a room so dark that he
+stumbled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"There's the sofy; set down," said Gates, who seemed full of hospitable
+cheer. "I'll get a blind open. Girl's gone to the fair and Mother's
+setting out on the back piazza, listening to the noises on the road.
+She's all ready. Make yourself to home. Pastel like them pictures on
+the wall's what I want. My daughter done them." His tone changed on the
+last sentence, but Somers did not notice it; he was drinking in the
+details of the room to describe them afterwards to his sympathizing
+friends in Chicago.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What a chamber of horrors," he thought, "and one can see he is proud
+of it." The carpet was soft to the foot, covered with a jungle of
+flowers and green leaves&mdash;the pattern of carpet which fashion leaves
+behind for disappointed salesmen to mark lower and lower until it shall
+be pushed into the ranks of shopworn bargains. The cheap paper on the
+wall was delicately tinted, but this boon came plainly from the
+designers, and not the taste of the buyer, since there was a simply
+terrible chair that swung by machinery, and had four brilliant hues of
+plush to vex the eye, besides a paroxysm of embroidery and lace to
+which was still attached the red ticket of the county fair. More
+embroidery figured on the cabinet organ and two tables, and another red
+ticket peeped coyly from under the ornate frame of a pastel landscape
+displaying every natural beauty&mdash;forest, mountain, sunlit lake, and
+meadow&mdash;at their bluest and greenest. There were three other pictures
+in the room, two very large colored photographs of a lad of twelve and
+of a pretty girl who might be sixteen, in a white gown with a roll of
+parchment in her hand tied with a blue ribbon; and the photograph of a
+cross of flowers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl's dark, wistful, timid eyes seemed to follow the young artist
+as he walked about the room. They appealed to him. "Poor little girl,"
+he thought, "to have to live here." Then he heard a dragging footfall,
+and there entered the mistress of the house. She was a tall woman who
+stooped. Her hair was gray and scanty, and so ill-arranged on the top
+of her head that the mournful tonsure of age showed under the false
+gray braid. She was thin with the gaunt thinness of years and toil, not
+the poetic, appealing slenderness of youth. She had attired herself for
+the picture in a black silken gown, sparkling with jet that tinkled as
+she moved; the harsh, black, bristling line at the neck defined her
+withered throat brutally. Yet Somer's sneer was transient. He was
+struck by two things&mdash;the woman was blind, and she had once worn a face
+like that of the pretty girl. With a sensation of pity he recalled
+Andrew Lang's verses; inaudibly, while she greeted him he was repeating:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Who watches day by day</p>
+<p class="i2">The dust of time that stains her,</p>
+<p>The griefs that leave her gray,</p>
+<p class="i2">The flesh that still enchains her,</p>
+<p>Whose grace has passed away."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+Her eyes were closed but she came straight toward him, holding out her
+hand. It was her left hand that was extended; her right closed over the
+top of a cane, and this added to the impression of decrepitude conveyed
+by her whole presence. She spoke in a gentle, monotonous, pleasant
+voice. "I guess this is Mr. Somers, the artist. I feel&mdash;we feel very
+glad to have the honor of meeting you, sir."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+No one had ever felt honored to meet Somers before. He thought how much
+refinement and sadness were in a blind woman's face. In his most
+deferential manner he proffered her a chair. "I presume I am to paint
+you, madam?" he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She blushed faintly. "Ain't it rediculous?" she apologized. "But Mr.
+Gates will have it. He has been at me to have somebody paint a picture
+of me ever since I had my photograph taken. It was a big picture and
+most folks said it was real good, though not flattering; but he
+wouldn't hang it. He took it off and I don't know what he did do to it.
+'I want a real artist to paint you, Mother,' he said. I guess if Kitty
+had lived she'd have suited him, though she was all for landscape;
+never did much figures. You noticed her work in this room, ain't
+you&mdash;on the table and chair and organ&mdash;art needlework? Kitty could do
+anything. She took six prizes at the county fair; two of 'em come in
+after she was in her last sickness. She was so pleased that she had the
+picture&mdash;that's the picture right above the sofy; it's a pastel&mdash;and
+the tidy, I mean the art needle work&mdash;put on her bed, and she looked at
+them the longest while. Her paw would never let the tickets be took
+off." She reached forth her hand to the chair near her and felt the
+ticket, stroking it absently, her chin quivering a little, while her
+lips smiled. "Mr. Gates was thinking," she said, "that maybe you'd
+paint a head of me&mdash;pastel like that landscape&mdash;that's why he likes
+pastel so. And he was thinking if&mdash;if maybe&mdash;my eyes was jest like
+Kitty's when we were married&mdash;if you would put in eyes, he would be
+awful much obliged and be willing to pay extra if necessary. Would it
+be hard?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Somers dissembled a great dismay. "Certainly not," said he, rather
+dryly; and he was ashamed of himself at the sensitive flutter in the
+old features.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Of course I know," she said, in a different tone than she had used
+before, "I understand how comical it must seem to a young man to have
+to draw an old woman's picture; but it ain't comical to my husband. He
+wants it very much. He's the kindest man that ever lived, to me, caring
+for me all the time. He's got me that organ&mdash;me that can't play a note,
+and never could&mdash;just because I love to hear music, and sometimes if we
+have an instrument, the neighbors will come in, especially Hattie
+Knight, who used to know Kittie, and is a splendid performer; she comes
+and plays and sings. It is a comfort to me. And though I guess you
+young folks can't understand it, it will be a comfort to him to have a
+picture of me. I mistrusted you'd be thinking it comical, and I hurried
+to come in and speak to you, lest, not meaning anything, you might,
+just by chance, let fall something might hurt his feelings&mdash;like you
+thought it queer or some sech thing. And he thinks so much of you, and
+having you here, that I couldn't bear there'd be any mistake."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Surely it is the most natural thing in the world that he should want a
+portrait of you," Somers hastily interrupted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes, it is," she answered in her mild, even tones, "but it mightn't
+seem so to young folks. Young folks think they know all there is about
+loving. And it is very sweet and nice to enjoy things together; and you
+don't hardly seem to be in the world at all when you're courting, your
+feet and your head and your heart feel so light. But they don't know
+what it is to need each other? It's when folks suffer together that
+they find out what loving is. I never knew what I felt towards my
+husband till I lost my first baby; and I'd wake up in the night and
+there'd be no cradle there&mdash;and he'd comfort me. Do you see that
+picture under the photograph of the cross?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"He's a pretty boy," said Somers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes, sir. He was drownded in the river. A lot of boys in playing, and
+one got too far, and Eddy, he swum out to help him. And he clumb up on
+Eddy and the man on shore didn't get there in time. He was a real good
+boy and liked to play home with me 'most as well as with the boys.
+Father was proud as he could be of him, though he wouldn't let on. That
+cross was what his schoolmates sent; and teacher she cried when she
+told me how hard Eddy was trying to win the prize to please his pa.
+Father and I went through that together. And we had to change all the
+things we used to talk of together, because Eddy was always in them;
+and we had to try not to let each other see how our hearts were
+breaking, and not shadder Kitty's life by letting her see how we missed
+him. Only once father broke down; it was when he give Kitty Eddy's
+colt." She stopped, for she could not go on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Don't&mdash;don't distress yourself," Somers begged lamely. His cheeks were
+very hot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It don't distress me," she answered, "only for the minnit; I'm always
+thinking of Eddy and Kitty too. Sometimes I think it was harder for
+father when his girl went than anything else. And then my blindness and
+my rheumatism come; and it seemed he was trying to make up to me for
+the daughter and the son I'd lost, and be all to once to me. He has
+been, too. And do you think that two old people that have grown old
+together, like us, and have been through losses like that&mdash;do you think
+they ain't drawed closer and kinder and tenderer to each other, like
+the Lord to his church? Why, I'm plain, and old and blind and
+crooked&mdash;but he don't know it. Now, do you understand?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes," said Somers, "I understand."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"And you'll please excuse me for speaking so free; it was only so
+father's feelings shouldn't get hurt by noticing maybe a look like you
+wanted to laugh."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"God knows I don't want to laugh," Somers burst in. "But I'm glad you
+spoke. It&mdash;it will be a better picture. Now may I ask you something? I
+want you to let me dress you&mdash;I mean put something about your neck,
+soft and white; and then I want to make two sketches of you&mdash;one, as
+Mr. Gates wishes, the head alone; the other of you sitting in the
+rustic chair outside."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But&mdash;" she looked troubled&mdash;"it will be so expensive; and I know it
+will be foolish. If you'd just the same&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But I shouldn't; I want to do it. And it will not cost you anything. A
+hundred dollars will repay me well enough. I wish&mdash;I truly wish I could
+afford to do it all for nothing."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She gasped. "A hundred dollars! Oh, it ain't right. That was why he
+wouldn't buy the new buggy. And jest for a picture of me." But suddenly
+she flushed like a girl and smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this instant the old man, immaculate in his heavy black suit and
+glossy white shirt, appeared in the doorway bearing a tray.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Father," said the old wife, "do you mean to tell me you are going to
+pay a hundred dollars jest for a picture of me?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, Mother, you know there's no fool like an old fool," he replied,
+jocosely; but when the old wife turned her sightless face toward the
+old husband's voice and he looked at her, Somers bowed his head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He spent the afternoon over his sketches. Riding away in the twilight,
+he knew he had done better work than he had ever done before in his
+life, slight as its form might be; nevertheless he was not thinking of
+himself at all. He was trying to shape his own vague perception that
+the show of dainty thinking and the pomp of refinement are in truth
+amiable and lovely things, yet are they no more than the husks of life;
+not only under them, but under ungracious and sordid conditions, may be
+the human semblance of that "beauty most ancient, beauty most new,"
+that the old saint found too late. He felt the elusive presence of
+something in love higher than his youthful dream; stronger than
+passion, fairer than delight. To this commonplace man and woman had
+come the deepest gift of life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"A dream?" he murmured. "Yes, perhaps he has captured it."
+</p>
+<br>
+<div class="figcenter"><a name="ding"><img src="images/007.jpg" alt="A man sitting at a desk" width="378" height="450"></a></div>
+<p class="caption"><span class="sc">"Ding" by Wing</span>
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="truth">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Truth</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Carrie Moss Hawley</i><a name="hawley">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+The archives of history contain wonderful revelations of the growth and
+physical development of man. Going back to the beginning of time, when
+creation donned its immortal robe of life and nature gave utterance to
+the thought that nothing perishes, we follow down the aisle of
+centuries until we find ourselves to-day where we realize that thought
+has become the most powerful factor in advancement. Gradations are
+everywhere, yet mental processes and volitions take control of the
+wheel of progress and guide everything with majestic power.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The mind, as we commonly think of it, is not a safe guide unless
+directed by wisdom. So we appeal for light to give direction to the
+ideas or conceptions that filter through the brain from the all-holding
+universal thought. How to distinguish true from false conceptions is
+the labor of philosophy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Truth may be tested by one infallible rule: its power to construct. You
+may see it forming what may terminate in evil, and doing unmistakable
+harm. Then you say: How can this be truth if it creates disaster? But
+all that is created does not act one way. There is the gross and the
+refined, the blemished and the perfect. All is good in the sense that
+it comes from a perfect law. It is the direction creation takes that
+determines the outcome.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The next step is how to direct truth that it may produce only the end
+desired. There are millions of beings on this sphere, each of whom has
+the same access to truth. Many of these do not even know of their power
+in production, and, with sensualized vision which has not been
+renovated, they keep on bringing forth that which another class,
+further advanced, is endeavoring to exterminate. This will continue
+indefinitely, for there will always be growing souls that have to
+learn. Since what appears as evil must exist, when it has become
+abhorrent to you in all its forms, your privilege and power is to
+convert all that comes within your radius into what you desire it to
+be. Minimize your fear of all effects in the negative, and take firm
+hold of the actual forces and mold them into whatever <i>you
+desire</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Were you a sculptor and had a piece of marble before you, you would not
+feel obliged to chisel out of it a cat, because a cat chanced to be
+rubbing her head against your leg in a friendly way. While you would be
+conscious of the cat she would be something outside the realm of your
+perceptions when you struck your first blow upon the marble. You would
+build from your perceptions that have been brought to the foreground by
+your conceptions of the valuable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Man must reach a certain plane in his development before he realizes
+there are things worthless and things of worth, and that he may possess
+which he will. But when the moral milestone is passed he sees the dawn
+of a new day that will bring him his hopes realized.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus, the way to attain truth is first to see it from the vantage-point
+that comes through illumination; then realize that the cosmic world
+possesses all the material you need for its development. What surrounds
+you that does not appeal to you, merely touches and draws attention to
+its existence, need come into your creation no more than the cat came
+into the artist's production.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="work">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Work</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Irving N. Brant</i><a name="brant">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Let me once more in Druid forest wander,</p>
+<p>To gain its legacy of ancient lore;</p>
+<p>Make me its prophet, as I dreamed of yore,</p>
+<p>A priest, on holy mysteries to ponder.</p>
+<p>Lead me to realms of quiet, or the fonder</p>
+<p>Scenes of the rising sea's unruly roar.</p>
+<p>Or turn my gaze upon the vistaed floor</p>
+<p>Of quiet valleys, and the blue haze yonder</p>
+<p>On the opposing hills. Let me traverse</p>
+<p>The shadows of man's immemorial mind,</p>
+<p>The haunt of fear, joy, sorrow and despair,</p>
+<p>God-given wonder and the primal curse.</p>
+<p>Within the throbbing heart of humankind</p>
+<p>Give me my work, or let me perish there.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="magic">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Some Magic and a Moral</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Virginia H. Reichard</i><a name="reichard">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Along in the early nineties as I was traveling in the West, selling
+shoes, I left the train at the little junction of Skywaw and surveyed
+the town. I found that the proverbial hotel, blacksmith shop, general
+store and a handful of houses, beside the depot, comprised the town.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After supper at the hotel, where I was waited upon by the landlord's
+pretty daughter, I asked about the storekeeper across the way and found
+to my surprise that he carried about a ten or twelve thousand dollar
+general stock which included everything from a sheepskin to a paper of
+needles. The farming country being so good, it was no wonder that this
+man did almost as big a business as many others in much larger towns,
+so the daughter told me, while the landlord himself chipped in with a
+question: "Why, don't you know this is just the richest spot in Wahoo
+County? In fact the ground is too rich. Just think of it&mdash;too rich to
+grow pumpkins."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Why," I asked, "can't you grow pumpkins?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With a smile of confidence that his joke was entirely new he replied:
+"The vines grow so fast it drags them over the ground and wears them
+out. Go up and see the storekeeper and if you sell him you get your
+money for the goods sure thing, for he sells for cash only."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I picked up my grips and started to see my man at once; found him
+standing in the door chewing a quid and spitting out into the street at
+any stray chicken or dog that chanced to wander by. As he stood there
+indifferent, expressionless, he looked the typical Westerner, with an
+air of "do as you darn please" about him; pants tucked into a pair of
+boots that were run over and worn off at the toe in a peculiar way that
+would indicate to a shoeologist that he was a sharp, keen trader, very
+suspicious of strangers, hard to strike a trade with unless he could
+see a hundred per cent in it for himself. In early days he had been a
+horse trader and a dealer in buffalo hides, and had never seen the time
+when he couldn't tell what o'clock it was better by the sun than by a
+watch; a hard man to approach on the shoe subject as his mind didn't
+seem to hover around shoes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There must have been a depression in his skull where his bump of order
+was supposed to be, as from the general appearance it looked as if the
+devil had held an auction there the day before. I began my little
+"spiel" by telling my business&mdash;who I was, where I was from&mdash;and asked
+if my conversation would interest him at all if I talked about shoes
+for awhile, remarking incidentally: "You'll have some business now
+sure. Trade will get good right away, as I never opened up my samples
+in a man's store in my life but what customers came dropping in."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, then, for God's sake open them up. I need the business all right
+enough," quoth he.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then strange to say, as if to cinch what I had said, up rode six
+country boys on horseback, and in a minute the big strapping fellows
+came tramping in. You know the kind that work on a farm all day, ride
+to town to buy one pound of sugar for family use and ten pounds of
+chewing tobacco for their own use, and other articles in like
+proportion while they are having a good time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Taking seats on the counter opposite, they began a lot of loud talking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One picked up a turnip and began peeling it, poising it on the tip of
+his knife-blade, taking large bites, and never for a minute losing
+sight of what we were doing in the shoe line.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It took a lot of persuading to get the proprietor to look at my
+samples, but I soon noticed the shrewd gleam of his eyes that told that
+he had had hold of good leather before and was a much better judge of
+my line than I expected to find in such a place. But talk about
+exhorting! How I worked with that fellow. And after keeping it up for
+two whole hours&mdash;from seven until nine, I finally landed him, selling
+him a little over five hundred dollars' worth of shoes. As I was
+getting a straight eight per cent commission at that time, the sale
+made me a little over forty dollars for two hours' work, and I was
+feeling mighty good. Even my cold-blooded customer had warmed up some
+from the effects of the deal on which he saw he was bound to make a
+good thing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While I was packing up my samples he said, sort of edging around: "Say,
+can't you sing us a song or dance us a jig or do something to entertain
+us all? You travelin' fellers allus know somethin' new, and are up to
+whatever is goin' on over the country, ain't ye?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I replied: "I can't sing; I am out of voice; but if you can furnish the
+music I can dance a jig or clog. Oh, by the way, did you ever see any
+sleight of hand or legerdemain tricks?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+None of them ever had; didn't even know what they were, and solemnly
+assured me they were something new in that burg.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As I had been practicing coin tricks and other feats of sleight of hand
+for the last ten years and could do many of the former, making the
+coins appear and disappear at will in a mysterious manner, I decided to
+try this form of amusement, thinking I had an easy bunch to work on. So
+I showed them a silver dollar, giving it to one of them to examine,
+passing it on to each one of them in succession, just to show them that
+it was a genuine, everyday piece. Then taking it in my hand, I
+proceeded to manipulate the coin by picking it out from underneath one
+fellow's foot as he sat on the counter dangling his long legs; taking
+it from another fellow's chin; picking it out from the pocket of the
+jumper one of them had on; finding it in the next man's ear; and
+finally, coming to the proprietor, I told him to hold his thumb and
+finger together, pointing up; then took the coin from between his own
+thumb and finger without his realizing how it got there or how it got
+away. I caught his startled look&mdash;the fellows jumped down off the
+counter and crowded close together&mdash;wonder and amazement written all
+over them. This was the first time in their lives they had ever seen a
+sleight of hand trick, where the motion of the hand is so quick the
+sight cannot follow it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But presto, chango, begono, magico, came near being too much for them.
+They were absolutely horror stricken. Some of them were unable to
+speak; some were afraid to; others couldn't speak above a whisper; and
+one of these desired to know when I would be back in that country
+again. He wanted Brother Bill to see it; in fact he would like to bring
+the whole family in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The proprietor's face was a study. Doubt, surprise and suspicion passed
+over his face in succession, but gave way to fresh curiosity when I
+asked him to bring me two hats and I would do Hermann's parlor trick
+with two hats and four balls. The method of doing this is to place the
+four balls in a square about three feet apart on a counter or a table,
+then place the hats over two of the balls; the object being to find all
+four balls under one hat, without, of course, anybody seeing how they
+got there. This I accomplished successfully, and this performance
+seemed to bring them close to the limit. They had been craning their
+necks to see, but when it was over they all straightened up, took a
+step backward in line and looked at one another. Then one of them said
+solemnly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Folks is gettin' geniuser and geniuser every day, boys. Ain't it so?"
+And Pete nudged Jim to make sure it was no dream, then spat excitedly
+on the rusty stove.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The proprietor had been eyeing me with suspicion for a good while. I
+noticed whenever I would pass in front of him he would step back and
+plant his hands tight on his pockets where he kept his money, as if he
+thought I might somehow coax it to jump out unless he held it in by
+main force. Legerdemain had scared him some and made him both
+suspicious and wary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pretty soon I began to realize I had done a little too much; in fact, I
+had given them a little more than they had been able to digest. But
+like many another fool who has overstepped, I tried to make up by
+giving them something in another line.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The proprietor looked up with a distrustful glance. "Is that all you
+can do?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"That's all in the trick line, gentlemen. But I have something that I
+can do that is out of the line of tricks. It's a gift&mdash;mind-reading.
+Only about one in six millions has it. I do the same as Brown, Johnson
+or Bishop&mdash;those big guns you have heard about&mdash;in finding any given
+object. And if you, sir (to the proprietor), will place your mind on
+any one of the ten thousand articles in this store, concentrating your
+mind on it, I will get the object you are thinking about and hand it to
+you."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You can't do that; it ain't possible," he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of the boys spoke up: "Aw, let him try, Dan. Gosh! Let him try."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After looking around the store and meditating a little he said: "Durn
+it all, then, go ahead. I've picked out the thing I want you to get and
+by jigger I'll keep my mind on it all right."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Taking his hand, placing it upon my forehead, and holding it there with
+one of mine, I started down the store, the other six rubbering after us
+with all their might. After going about thirty feet with an occasional
+kick or bump at a basket or barrel that happened to be in the way, I
+turned to the left; stopping at the show-case, and sliding back the
+doors, I reached in, picked up a razor&mdash;his own razor&mdash;that lay in the
+case and handed it to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Great Scott," he yelled. "The very razor I shave myself with&mdash;when I
+shave; and that's the very thing I had my mind on too, by thunder." The
+sweat stood out in great drops on his forehead and for a few minutes
+his emotion seemed to be too much for him. So I said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, boys, this concludes the evening's performance; meeting's out,
+boys."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dazed with wonder, the six riders looked blankly at each other, turned
+to me grinning foolishly, then filed out, jumped on their horses and
+galloped away, whooping like Comanche Indians.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bidding the proprietor good night I started for the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Hold on a minute!" he cried. "I want to see you, young feller." He
+strode up to within about two feet of me, hands thrust deep in his
+pockets, looking as if he would like to fight. Then he burst out with:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Say, you're about the slickest thing I ever saw in my life, ain't you?
+You're durned slick. You're smooth&mdash;a little too smooth; and you hear
+me, you needn't send them goods I bought to-night. I won't take 'em."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What!" I cried.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You hear me; you needn't send 'em. I won't take the goods," he said in
+a tone there was no mistaking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I commenced to argue. But no. "You've done killed yourself with me,"
+was all I could get out of him, and nothing I could say or do would
+make any difference. But I was bound not to lose the forty dollars
+without a struggle and brought all the arts, arguments and persuasions
+to bear that I could think of; but without avail. He seemed to be
+convinced that if I wasn't the devil himself, at least I was a near
+relation, and he would have none of me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then I did what I never had done before: took the dollar and carefully
+showed him just how I had done the trick, explaining that sight was
+really slower than motion sometimes and that the whole thing was
+intended to be harmless and amusing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"If that's the way you did with the money, how about the four-ball
+trick?" he asked gruffly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still bent upon making the proposition stick, I explained the ball
+trick too, by going over it and explaining how the eye could be
+deceived. You see, I was growing more and more anxious all the time to
+cinch my commission, and felt that my efforts were worth while. When
+suddenly, dubious and still unconvinced, he turned to me and asked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, how in time did you find the razor?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I was very particular to tell you," I said, "before I went after that
+razor that it wasn't a trick. It's a gift I can't explain; nobody can;
+nobody ever did. I can't do it; I don't know how or why. Some call it
+mind-reading and some people have been kept guessing to give it a name.
+I am one of the few who can do it, that's all. When I went after the
+article you had in mind, I didn't know it was a razor; I didn't know
+what it was; but when I came in contact with what you had in mind I
+picked it up and handed it to you. This is my explanation&mdash;the only one
+I can give. I call it 'mind-reading,' that's all."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After some more talk I left him mystified and distrustful, in spite of
+all I had said and done, still refusing to reinstate the order. I left
+my grips in the store as it was near the station, and went to the hotel
+to spend a restless night, kicking myself for a fool meanwhile, since
+my attempts to amuse had lost me the neat little sum of forty dollars.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I slept a couple of hours when I was awakened by the most horrible
+noise it was ever my fortune to hear: Two car-loads of calves, just a
+day away from their mothers, were being shipped and their bawling was
+intolerable. Talk about your quiet country towns for rest and sleep! No
+more for me that night, I thought. So I dressed, took a smoke, and
+decided to tackle my man again in the morning and to try to change his
+mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A little after daylight I saw him sweeping the sidewalk in front of the
+door, handling the broom as a man does a flail on the barn floor. I
+went over and said: "Good morning." As he looked up I saw that his
+glance was as surly and suspicious as it had been the night before, but
+thought I would make a good start by approaching him upon some of his
+hobbies the landlord had told me about. In his capacity as horse trader
+he prided himself on his ability to judge a good horse. So I opened up
+by telling him about a horse I owned, and asked if he had anything to
+trade for him. This seemed to bring the right twinkle into his eye, and
+he began to brace up and take notice a little. So I talked on until I
+saw the smoke of the approaching train away down the valley seven or
+eight miles along the old Kantopey trail. Then I made a last attempt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Now see here, Mister," I said, "I came into your store last night and
+showed you my samples, showed you the names of some of the best
+merchants who have bought big bills of me and I sold you a bill of
+goods in good faith. Then you proposed that I entertain you as you had
+very little amusement in a place like this. I told you I couldn't sing
+but would do what I could with such sleight of hand tricks as I knew,
+and I did exactly what I said I would. It seemed to meet with plenty of
+approval all around until the mind-reading came up, when you turned me
+down for no reason whatever. Now, I ask you a question: Is that a
+square deal to a man on a business proposition?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at the floor and was silent, though apparently a little
+uneasy. He shook his head doubtfully, which made me feel that he was
+perhaps not so unfriendly after all, and might possibly do the right
+thing yet. Hearing the distant whistle, I said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Train's coming; have to go. Wish you good luck, just the same as if
+you'd treated me square. Wish you good crops and plenty of water for
+your stock. As long as you live don't turn another fellow down like you
+have me, just because he's done his best to give you a good time." And
+I made a rush for the depot to check my baggage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The train came in; there was the usual hurry and noise. The old fellow
+stood there, leaning against the weather-boarding of the depot like a
+picture of Uncle Sam&mdash;a queer, awkward figure with his hay-colored
+whiskers, pipe in the corner of his mouth, and hands still planted
+firmly in his pockets, his eyes riveted on every move I made.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I boarded the train, said "Howdy" to a friend, and looking back saw old
+Dan standing where I had left him as if glued to the spot. The engine
+puffed and snorted; the wheels began to go around. "Good-bye," I
+shouted from the platform as if answering his steady gaze.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All of a sudden the long, gaunt figure limbered up, like a corpse that
+had been touched by a galvanic battery. He came chasing down the track
+after the train, waving his arms like a windmill and yelling like
+Bedlam let loose: "Hey! Say there, you young feller; hey there! I'll
+take them goods; send 'em along. I'll take them goods. D'ye hear?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And I called back to him with great gusto: "All right," as the train
+rounded a curve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>Moral</i>: When you have sold your goods make your get-away.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="sonny">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Sonny's Wish</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Bertha M. H. Shambaugh</i><a name="shambaugh">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Sometimes before I go to bed</p>
+<p class="i2">I 'member things that Grandpa said</p>
+<p>When I sat close beside his knee</p>
+<p class="i2">And Grandpa laid his hand on me.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>I 'member how he'd smile and say,</p>
+<p class="i2">"Well, what did Sonny do to-day?"</p>
+<p>'Cause Grandpa always liked to know</p>
+<p class="i2">(I s'pose that's why I miss him so).</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>I never had to coax and plead</p>
+<p class="i2">For things I really didn't need:</p>
+<p>I'd 'splain it in an off-hand way</p>
+<p class="i2">And Grandpa brought it home next day.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>When I grow up I'd like to be</p>
+<p class="i2">A grandpa with a boy like me</p>
+<p>To live with and to bring things to:</p>
+<p class="i2">That's what I'd like the <i>most</i> to do.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>I'd rummage 'round and hunt about</p>
+<p class="i2">For things the boy could do without,</p>
+<p>Because you see of course I'd know</p>
+<p class="i2">That's why the boy would like them so.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>And when I'd bring some brand new toy</p>
+<p class="i2">And someone said, "You'll spoil that boy!"</p>
+<p>I'd only shake my head and say,</p>
+<p class="i2">"A <i>good boy</i> isn't spoiled that way."</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>When Sonny said he'd like to get</p>
+<p class="i2">A nice wee doggie for a pet,</p>
+<p>And when the grown-ups one and all</p>
+<p class="i2">Said, "Oh, no, Son! You're much too small,"</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>I'd whisper, "Come, don't look so blue</p>
+<p class="i2">'Cause Grandpa bought a dog for you,</p>
+<p>A birthday present! Schh! Don't cry!</p>
+<p class="i2">He's black and just about <i>so</i> high."</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Oh, yes! I'm sure I'd like to be</p>
+<p class="i2">A grandpa with a boy like me</p>
+<p>To live with and to bring things to:</p>
+<p class="i2">That's what I'd like the <i>most</i> to do.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="dog">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Dog</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Edwin L. Sabin</i><a name="sabin">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+The dog we have always with us; if not active in the garden or passive
+on the best bed, then gracing or disgracing himself in other domestic
+capacities. For the dog is a curious combination, wherein heredity
+constantly opposes culture; and therefore though your dog be a woolly
+dog or a smooth dog, a large dog or a small dog, a house-dog, yard-dog,
+hunting-dog or farm-dog, he will be ever a delight and a scandal
+according as he reveals the complexities of his character. Just as soon
+as you have decided that he is almost human, he will straightway
+unmistakably indicate that he is still very much dog.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As example, select, if you please, the most pampered and carefully
+nurtured dog in dog tribe: some lady's dog&mdash;beribboned King Charles,
+bejeweled poodle, befatted pug&mdash;and give him the luxury of a half-hour
+in the nearest genuine alley. Do you think that he turns up his
+delicate nose at the luscious smells there encountered? Do you think
+that because of his repeated scented baths he sedulously keeps to the
+middle of the narrow way? Do you venture to assert that he whose jaded
+palate has recently declined the breast of chicken is now nauseated by
+the prodigal waste encountered amidst the garbage cans?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fie on him, the ingrate! Why, the little rascal fairly revels in the
+riot of d&eacute;bris, and ten to one he will even proudly return lugging the
+most unsavoury of bones filched from a particularly odorous repository!
+His lapse into atavism has been prompt and certain. I agree with Robert
+Louis Stevenson that every dog is a vagabond at heart; in adapting
+himself to the companionship of man and woman, and the comforts of
+board and lodging, he leads a double life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In this respect the dog is far more servile than the cat, his
+contemporary. Generations of attempted coercion have little influenced
+the cat. She (it seems a proper distinction to speak of the cat as
+"she") steadfastly maintains the distance that shall divide cat life
+from man life. Without duress, and in spite of duress, she accepts the
+material favors of civilization and domesticity only to an extent that
+will not inconvenience her; she has no notion of responsibilities or
+indebtedness. Having achieved her demands for a warm nap or a full
+stomach, she then makes no false motions in following her own
+inclinations entirely. But the dog, occupying a limbo between his
+natural instincts and his acquired conscience, must always be a master
+of duplicity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The dog (as again points out the admirable Stevenson) has become an
+accomplished actor. Observe his ceremonious approach to other dogs.
+Mark the mutual dignity, the stiff-leggedness, the self-conscious
+strut, the rivalrous emulation, all of which plainly says: "I am
+<i>Mister</i> So-and-So; who in the deuce are you?" No dog so small,
+and only a few faint-hearts so squalid, that they do not carry a chip
+on their shoulder. Compare with their progenitors, the wolves in a city
+park. Here encounters are quick and decisive. The one wolf stands, the
+other cringes. Rank and character are recognized at once. The pretences
+of human society have not perverted wolf ethics.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Take a dog at his tricks: not the game of seeking and fetching, which
+he enjoys when in good humor, but parlor tricks. He has learned through
+fear of punishment and hope of reward. Having performed, either
+sheepishly or promptly, with what wrigglings and prancings and
+waggings, or else with what proud self-appreciation does he court
+approval. He knows very well that he is assuming not to be a dog, and
+trusts that you will admit he is smarter than mere dog. On the
+contrary, the cat tribe, jumping through a hoop, does it with a
+negligent, spontaneous grace that makes the act a condescension. The
+cat does not aspire to be human; she is fully content with being cat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Elevate a dog to a seat in an automobile (any automobile), or even to
+the box of a rattle-trap farm-wagon. How it affects him, this promotion
+from walking to riding! It metamorphoses the meekest, humblest of
+so-called curs into a grandee aristocrat, who by supercilious look and
+offensive words insults every other dog that he passes. He calls upon
+the world about to witness that he is of man-kind, not of dog-kind. A
+dog riding abroad is to me the epitome of satisfied assumption.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It would be interesting to know how much, if any, the dog's brain has
+been increased by constant efforts to be humanized. The Boston bull is,
+I should judge, (and of course!) faster in his intellectual activities
+than is the ordinary English bull. And then I might refer to the truly
+marvelous feats of the sheep-dog, who will, when told, cut out any one
+sheep in a thousand; and I might refer to the finely bred setter, or
+pointer, and his almost human field work; and I can refer to my own
+dog, whose smartness, both natural and acquired, generally is
+extraordinary&mdash;although at times woefully askew, as when he buries
+pancakes in the fall expecting, if we may believe that he expects, to
+dig them up during the winter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And there are dogs with great souls and dogs with small souls. We are
+told of dogs noble enough to sit by and let a needy dog gobble the meal
+from the platter&mdash;but I suspect that such dogs are complacent because
+comfortably fixed. We hear of dogs making valiant defenses of life and
+property&mdash;which perhaps is the development of the animal instinct to
+guard anything which the animal considers its own. And dogs sometimes
+effect heroic rescues, by orders or voluntarily&mdash;although one may query
+whether they consider all the consequences.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The dog's brain must be an oddly struggling mass of fact and fancy. We
+have done our best for him, and as a rule he creditably responds. I
+love my dog; he appears to love me; and by efforts of me and mine he
+has been humanized into a very adaptable personage. But I am certain
+that first principles remain the same with him as when he was a
+wolf-dog of cave age. He might grab me by the collar and swim ashore
+with me, but if on the desert island there was only one piece of meat
+between us and starvation, and he had it, I'd hate to have to risk
+getting my share without fighting for it.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="unredeemed">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Unredeemed</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+<span class="sc"><b>The Ballad of the Lusitania Babes</b></span>
+</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Emerson Hough</i><a name="hough">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">THE HOLY THREE BEHOLD</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>God the Father leaned out from Heaven,</p>
+<p>His white beard swept His knee;</p>
+<p>His eye was sad as He looked far out,</p>
+<p>Full on the face of the sea.</p>
+<p>Saith God the Father, "In My Kingdom</p>
+<p>Never was thing like this;</p>
+<p>For yonder are sinless unredeemed,</p>
+<p>And they may not enter Our bliss."</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>And Mary the Mother, She stood near by,</p>
+<p>Her eyes full sad and grieved.</p>
+<p>Saith Mary the Mother, "Alas! Alas!</p>
+<p>That they may not be received.</p>
+<p>Now never since Heaven began," saith She,</p>
+<p>"Hath sight like this meseemed,</p>
+<p>That there be sinless dead below</p>
+<p>Who may not be redeemed!"</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>And Jesu, the Saviour, He stood also,</p>
+<p>And aye! His eyes were wet.</p>
+<p>Saith Jesu the Saviour, "Since Time began,</p>
+<p>Never was this thing yet!</p>
+<p>For these be the Children, the Little Ones,</p>
+<p>Afloat on the icy sea.</p>
+<p>They are doomed, they are dead, they are perished,</p>
+<p>And they may not come unto Me!"</p></div></div>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">THE CHILDREN CRY OUT</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>They float, forever unburied,</p>
+<p>Their faces turned to the sky;</p>
+<p>With their little hands uplifted,</p>
+<p>And their lips forever cry:</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Oh, we are the helpless murdered ones,</p>
+<p>Blown far on the icy tide!</p>
+<p>No sin was ours, but through all the days,</p>
+<p>On the northern seas we ride.</p>
+<p>No cerements ever enshroud us,</p>
+<p>We know no roof of the sod;</p>
+<p>We float forever unburied,</p>
+<p>With our faces turned to God.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"So foul the deed that undid us,</p>
+<p>So damned in its dull disgrace,</p>
+<p>That even the sea refused us,</p>
+<p>And would not give us place.</p>
+<p>Nor ever a place in the sky&mdash;</p>
+<p>We are lost, we are dead, we are perished,</p>
+<p>Ah, Jesu, tell us why!"</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p><span class="asterisk">* * * * *</span></p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Now the Three who heard They wept as one,</p>
+<p>But Their tears they might not cease.</p>
+<p>Saith God the Father, "While unavenged</p>
+<p>These may not know Our peace!</p>
+<p>When the sons of men are men again,</p>
+<p>And have smitten full with the sword,</p>
+<p>At last these sinless but unredeemed</p>
+<p>Shall enter unto their Lord.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"But deed like this is a common debt;</p>
+<p>It lies on the earth-race whole.</p>
+<p>Till these be avenged they be unredeemed&mdash;</p>
+<p>Each piteous infant soul.</p>
+<p>We must weep, We must weep, till the debt be paid,</p>
+<p>Te debt of the sons of men&mdash;</p>
+<p>But well avenged, they are aye redeemed;</p>
+<p>Ah, how shall We welcome them then!"</p></div></div>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">THE SONS OF MEN HEARKEN</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Are ye worth the kiss of a woman?</p>
+<p>Were ye worth the roof of a womb?</p>
+<p>Are ye worth the price of your grave-clothes?</p>
+<p>Are ye worth the name on a tomb?</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Nay! None of these is your earning,</p>
+<p>And none of these be your meed,</p>
+<p>If the deathless wail of their yearning</p>
+<p>Shall add to your pulse no speed.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Never by hand of a warrior,</p>
+<p>Never by act of a man,</p>
+<p>Have the Little Ones thus perished,</p>
+<p>Since ever that Heaven began.</p>
+<p>Such deed and the beings who wrought it&mdash;</p>
+<p>Ah! deep must the cutting go</p>
+<p>To cure the world of the memory</p>
+<p>Of the Little Ones in woe.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The Three watch high in Their Heaven,</p>
+<p>And aye! the Three be grieved;</p>
+<p>The sword is the key of Their Heaven,</p>
+<p>If the babes shall be received.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Rise then, men of our banner&mdash;</p>
+<p>Speak in our ancient tone&mdash;</p>
+<p>Each of you for his mother,</p>
+<p>Each of you for his own!</p>
+<p>Smite full and fell and fearless,</p>
+<p>Till that these be set free&mdash;</p>
+<p>These, slain of the foulest slaying</p>
+<p>That ever made red the sea.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The sword of the Great Avenger</p>
+<p>Is now for the sons of men;</p>
+<p>It must redden in errand holy</p>
+<p>Till the babes be cradled again.</p></div></div>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+  <i>Copyrighted, 1917, by Emerson Hough</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="tinkling">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Tinkling Cymbals</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Helen Sherman Griffith</i><a name="griffith">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+It was in the spring of 1915 that Margaret Durant came back to her home
+in Greenfield, Iowa, from a visit to friends in the East, and brought
+with her a clear, shining flame of patriotism, with which she proceeded
+to fire the town. Margaret had always been a leader, the foremost in
+civic betterment, in government reform, and in the activities of her
+church and woman's club. She was a born orator, and loved nothing
+better than haranguing&mdash;and swaying&mdash;a crowd.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A fund was started for the purchase of an ambulance, which, Margaret
+insisted, must be driven by a Greenfield man. And she expressed sorrow
+on every occasion&mdash;particularly in the hearing of the mothers of young
+men&mdash;that she had no son to offer. The Red Cross rooms became the
+centre of Greenfield social activity, and the young people never
+dreamed of giving an entertainment for any purpose save to benefit the
+Red Cross, the British Relief or the Lafayette Fund. This last became
+presently the object of Margaret's special activities, since her
+husband, Paul, some four generations previously, had come of French
+blood. "So that it is almost like working for my own country," Margaret
+said proudly. And she glowed with gratification whenever the French
+were praised.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So complete and self-sacrificing was her enthusiasm that she announced,
+as the spring advanced, her intention of taking no summer vacation, but
+to dedicate the money thus saved to the Lafayette Fund, and to work for
+that organization during the entire summer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her friends were thrilled with admiration at Margaret's attitude, and
+some of them emulated her heroic example. To be sure, staying at home
+that summer was a popular form of self-denial, since a good many
+families, even in Greenfield, Iowa, were beginning to feel the pinch
+of war.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One summer afternoon, Margaret strolled home from an animated meeting
+of the Lafayette Fund, exalted and tingling with emotion. She had
+addressed the meeting, and her speech had been declared the epitome of
+all that was splendid and noble. She had moved even herself to tears
+by her appeal for patriotism. She entered the house, still mentally
+enshrouded by intoxicating murmurs of "Isn't she wonderful!" "Doesn't
+she make you wish you were a man, to go yourself!" and so forth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Softly humming the Marseillaise, she mounted the steps to her own room,
+to remove her hat. She stopped short on the threshhold with a sudden
+startled cry. Her husband was there, walking up and down the room, and
+also humming the Marseillaise. It was half an hour before his usual
+home-coming time, but that was not why Margaret cried out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Paul was dressed in khaki! He was walking up and down in front of the
+cheval glass, taking in the effect from different angles. He looked
+around foolishly when he heard his wife.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Just trying it on," he said lightly. "How do you like me?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But Paul&mdash;what&mdash;what does it <i>mean?</i>"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Just what you have guessed. I've signed up. I'm to drive the
+Greenfield ambulance," he added with justifiable pride.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret stared, gasped, tottered. She would have fallen if she had not
+sat down suddenly. Paul stared, too, astonished.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Why, old girl, I thought it was what you wanted! I&mdash;you said&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Paul, Paul! You! It can't be! Why&mdash;why, you are all I have!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"That is one reason the more for my going&mdash;we have no son to send."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But Paul&mdash;it&mdash;I&mdash;the war is so far away! It isn't as if&mdash;as if we were
+at war."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Almost&mdash;'France is the land of my ancestors'&mdash;your very words,
+Margaret."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I know, but&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"'And the cause is so just.'"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But, Paul, I did not mean&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Did not mean what!" Paul turned and faced her sternly. "Margaret, your
+eloquence has sent a good many young men to the front. I wonder&mdash;" He
+paused, and a new expression dawned in his eyes; an expression that
+Margaret could not bear: an accusation, a suspicion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret cowered in her chair and hid her face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, Paul, not that, not that! Leave me a moment, please. I&mdash;I want
+time to&mdash;to grasp it."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she was alone she sat upright and faced the look she had seen in
+Paul's eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I am a canting hypocrite. I see it now, plainly. I read it in Paul's
+eyes. But I will show him he's mistaken. God! is hypocrisy always so
+cruelly punished? Merciful God, have pity upon me!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rising to her feet, Margaret staggered to the door and called. The
+enthusiasm, the exaltation, had faded from her face, leaving it pinched
+and gray. But in her eyes a new expression had been born, which lent a
+soft radiance to her features, the light of complete self-denial. Paul
+entered, gave one look, then knelt at his wife's feet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Forgive me, my love, for misunderstanding you. The fault was mine.
+You've been afraid I would not make good, and were testing me. Ah, my
+love."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For one terrible moment Margaret hesitated. Then she whispered:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No, Paul, you were right at first; but love has conquered. Not
+<i>our</i> love, but a greater, nobler sentiment: love of Right and
+Justice. Do you remember the verse: 'Though I speak with the tongues of
+men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass or
+a tinkling cymbal.' I&mdash;I am <i>not</i> a tinkling cymbal, Paul. I&mdash;Oh,
+Paul, take me with you! I can be of some use over there. We will go
+together."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Paul rose and embraced her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"My precious one! How Greenfield will honor you!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret winced and hid her face in his breast.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No, Paul, no, no. Don't let them know! Let us go away quietly, in the
+night. Please, please, Paul. I&mdash;I could not bear any other way!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Durant kissed her and said no more. And if he understood, he never let
+her know that he did.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="first">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The First Laugh</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Reuben F. Place</i><a name="place">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+In the life of every baby there is a continuous succession of first
+impressions and adventures. The first tooth, the first crawl, the first
+step, the first word, each mark a milestone in the child's career. But
+more interesting than any of these is the first laugh&mdash;the first
+genuine, sustained, prolonged, whole-hearted laugh. If it is a
+tinkling, bubbling, echoing laugh, it sends its merry waves in all
+directions&mdash;the kind that brings smiles to sober faces.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What hope springs up in the parents' breasts at the sound of that first
+laugh! How thoroughly it denotes the future!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A hearty laugh or no laugh in later years may mean the difference
+between fame and obscurity, fortune and poverty, friends and enemies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"How much lies in laughter: the cipher key, wherewith we decipher the
+whole man!" wrote Carlyle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A good laugh is a charming, invaluable attribute. It saves the day,
+maintains the health, makes friends, soothes injured feelings, and
+saves big situations.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Laughter is a distinguishing mark between man and beast. It is the sign
+of character and the mirror in which is reflected disposition.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To laugh is to live.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The babe's first laugh is a precious family memory. A load of
+responsibility goes with it. It should be guarded and guided and
+cultivated until it becomes "Laughter that opens the lips and heart,
+that shows at the same time pearls and the soul."
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="freighter">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Freighter's Dream</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Ida M. Huntington</i><a name="huntington">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+"Squeak! Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!" The shrill, monotonous sound rent the
+hot noontide air like a wail of complaint.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Thar she goes ag'in, a-cussin' of her driver!" grumbled old Hi, as he
+walked at the head of his lead oxen, Poly and Bony, with Buck and Berry
+panting behind them. "Jest listen at her! An' 'twas only day afore
+yistiddy that I put in a hull half hour a-greasin of her. Wal, she'll
+hev to fuss till mornin'. We ain't got no time to stop a minute in this
+hot place. If we make the springs afore the beasteses gin out 'twill be
+more'n I look fer!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Old Hi anxiously gazed ahead, trying to see through the shimmering haze
+of the desert the far-distant little spot of ground where bubbled up
+the precious spring by which they might halt for rest and refreshment.
+"G'lang, Poly! That's right, Bony! Keep it up, ol' fellers!" Hi strove
+to encourage the patient oxen as they plodded wearily along through the
+fearful heat and the suffocating clouds of fine alkali dust.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For weeks the long train of covered wagons had moved steadily westward
+over the dim trails. Starting away back in Ohio, loaded with
+necessities for the prospectors in the far West, they had crossed the
+fertile prairies, stuck in the muddy sloughs, forded the swollen
+rivers, rumbled over the plains and wound in and out the mountain
+passes. Now they were crawling over the desert, man and beast almost
+exhausted, even the seasoned wagons seeming to protest against the
+strain put upon them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All that afternoon Hi walked with his oxen, talking and whistling, as
+much to keep up his own courage as to quicken their pace. For a few
+moments at a time they would rest, and then onward again towards the
+springs indicated on the map by which they traveled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Half blind and dizzy from the dust and heat, sometimes Hi stumbled and
+staggered and nearly fell. He dared not turn to see how it fared with
+the men and teams behind him. Wrecks of wagons and bones of oxen by the
+side of the trail told an all-too-plain story. Some there were in every
+train who dropped by the way; men who raved in fever and died calling
+for water; faithful oxen who were shot to put them out of misery.
+Wagons were abandoned with their valuable freight when the teams could
+no longer pull them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All afternoon they crept forward; the reiterating "Squeak! Squ-e-a-k!
+Scr-e-e-ch!" of the wagon sounded like a maddened human voice to poor
+Hi, fevered and half delirious.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last the sun sank like a ball of fire in the haze. A cool breath of
+air sighed across the plain. The prairie dogs barked from their
+burrows. The coyotes yapped in the distance. But not yet could the long
+train stop, for rest without water meant death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Far into the night the white-topped wagons crept on like specters. No
+sound was heard except that of the plodding feet of the oxen, the
+rumble of the heavy wagons and the "Squeak! Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!"
+that had troubled Hi since noon. Suddenly the oxen lifted their heads,
+sniffed the air eagerly, and without urging quickened their pace.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What is it, ol' fellers?" asked Hi, as hope revived. "Is it the water
+ye are smellin'? Stiddy, thar! Stiddy!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few moments more, and Hi gave a shout of joy that was taken up and
+sounded down the line. "The spring! The spring!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A halt was made. Every drop of the precious water was carefully
+portioned out so that each might have his share. Preparations were made
+for the night. The wagons were pulled up in a circle. The oxen were
+carefully secured that they might not wander away. Here and there a
+flickering little fire was seen as the scanty "grub" was cooked. After
+Hi had bolted his share he wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down
+near his wagon. The large white top loomed dimly before him in the
+darkness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A little while he stretched and twisted and turned uneasily until his
+tired muscles relaxed. In his ears yet seemed to sound the "Squeak!
+Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!" of the complaining wagon as it had bothered him
+all afternoon. "Darn ye! Won't ye ever shet up?" he muttered as he
+drifted off to sleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Won't I ever shet up? I won't till I git good and ready!" The sharp,
+shrill voice made Hi open his eyes with a start. Above him leaned the
+huge form of an old woman in a white cap drawn close about her
+wrinkled, seamed face, only partly distinguishable in the darkness. As
+he lay blinking, trying to see her more plainly, the high falsetto
+voice continued its plaint.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Won't I ever shet up? A nice way thet is to talk to me, Hi Smith! Do I
+iver grumble and snarl when ye treat me right? Hain't I been faithful
+to ye through thick an' thin? Hain't I made a home fer ye all this hull
+endurin' trip? Hain't I looked after yer grub and yer blankets and done
+ever'thin' I could to make ye comfortable? Hain't I kep' the rain offen
+ye at night? An' thet time the Injuns was after ye, didn't I stand
+atween ye an' the redskins and pertect ye? Didn't I keep ye from
+gittin' drownded when ye crossed thet river whar the current swep' the
+beasteses offen their feet? Didn't I watch over ye and shield ye from
+the sun when ye lay sick of the fever and hadn't nary wife to look
+after ye? Hain't I follered after them dumb beasteses through mud and
+water and over gravel and through clouds of alkali dust thick enough to
+choke a person, and niver said a word? An' now, jest bekase I'm fair
+swizzled up with the heat and ye fergit to give me some grease to rub
+on my achin' j'ints, ye cuss me! Yis, I heerd ye! Ye needn't deny it!
+A-cussin' of me who has taken the place of home an' mother to ye fer
+years! I heerd ye! I he-e-rd ye! What d'ye mean, I say!" And the tirade
+ended in a perfect screech of anger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thoroughly aroused, Hi rolled over and jumped hastily to his feet. He
+looked all around. The old woman had mysteriously vanished. A coyotte
+sneaked past him. Day was breaking in the east. The first gleam of
+light fell on the white-topped wagon drawn up beside him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He rubbed his eyes. "Wal, I swan!" he muttered, as he gazed
+bewilderedly at the close-drawn white top looming above him. "Glad I
+woke up airly! I'll hev time ter grease that thar wagon afore we
+start!"
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="box">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">A Box From Home</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Helen Cowles LeCron</i><a name="lecron">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>I'll send to you in France, my dear,</p>
+<p class="i2">A box with treasures in it:</p>
+<p>The patch of sky that meets our hill</p>
+<p class="i2">And changes every minute,</p>
+<p>The grape-vine that you taught to grow&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">My pansies young with dew,</p>
+<p>The plum-tree by the kitchen door&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">These things I'll send to you.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>I'll pack with care our fragile dawn&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">The dawn we laughed to greet;</p>
+<p>I'll send the comfort of the grass</p>
+<p class="i2">That once caressed your feet.</p>
+<p>No yearning love of mine I'll send</p>
+<p class="i2">To tear your heart in two&mdash;</p>
+<p>Just earth-peace&mdash;home-peace&mdash;still and strong&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">These things I'll send to you.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>For you must tire of flags, and guns,</p>
+<p class="i2">And courage high, and pain,</p>
+<p>And long to rest your heart upon</p>
+<p class="i2">The common things again,</p>
+<p>And so I'll send no prayers, no tears,</p>
+<p class="i2">No longings&mdash;only dew</p>
+<p>And garden-rows, and goldenrod</p>
+<p class="i2">And country roads to you!</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Since life has given you to know</p>
+<p class="i2">The gentle tenderness</p>
+<p>Of growing things, I cannot think</p>
+<p class="i2">That death would give you less!</p>
+<p>Hold fast, hold fast within your heart</p>
+<p class="i2">The earth-sweet hours we knew,</p>
+<p>And keep, my dear, where'er you are</p>
+<p class="i2">These things I send to you.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="spirit">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Spirit of Spring</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Laura L. Hinkley</i><a name="hinkley">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Margaret Hazeltine sat on her porch with the spring wind blowing over
+her elusive wafts of fragrance&mdash;plum-blossom, apple-blossom, young
+grass, budding wood scents, pure, growing earth-smells.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It is like breathing poetry," Margaret thought.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was sewing, but now and then her hands fell in her lap while she
+lifted her head, catching in some wandering sweetness with a sharp
+breath, like a sigh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Sunshine mellowed the new
+greenness of short, tender grass on the lawns. It shone upon all the
+bare, budded branches up and down the street, seeking, caressing,
+stimulating. It lay kindly, genially, on the mid-road dust.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret's father was pottering about the garden. He was a very old
+man, with stooping shoulders, but tall and slender like his daughter.
+He came up to the porch and stood leaning on his hoe. The wind
+fluttered his shabby garden-coat and thin, white beard. He rested his
+wrinkled old hands on the top of his hoe handle, and cast up his faded,
+sunken eyes to the intense young blue of the sky with its fleecy clouds
+floating.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Hazeltine addressed his daughter in the strain of conversational
+piety habitual with him, and in a voice which age and earnestness made
+tremulous:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Seems like every spring I get more certain of my eternal home up
+yonder!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret smiled acquiescently. Long since she had silently drifted
+outside the zone of her father's simple, rigid creed; but to-day its
+bald egoism did not repel her. It seemed at one with the sweet will to
+live all about them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Hazeltine went back to the garden. A girl appeared on the porch of
+the house opposite. The Hazeltine house was small and old and not
+lately painted. The house opposite was large, fresh, trim, and
+commodious in every visible detail. White cement walks enclosed and
+divided its neatly kept lawns and parking. Its fruit-trees breathed out
+of the unfolding whiteness of their bosoms the sweetest of those
+perfumes that drifted across to Margaret. The girl on the porch pushed
+the wicker chairs about for a moment, then, disdaining them all, sat
+down on the cement steps and rested her chin in her palm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a quick look and smile Margaret sewed busily, affecting not to
+see the other. She felt a little sympathetic flutter of pleasure and
+suspense. "Jean is waiting for Frank," she said to herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A piano began to play in a house up the street. Through the open
+windows rang joyous, vibrant music. White moths fluttered across the
+street and the lawn and parking opposite, veering vaguely over
+scattered yellow dandelion heads. Around the house opposite on the
+cement walk strutted a very young kitten on soft paws, its short tail
+sticking straight up, its gray coat still rough from its mother's
+tongue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Me-ow!" said the kitten plaintively, appalled at its own daring.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jean sprang up, laughing, snatched up the kitten and carried it back to
+her seat, cuddling it under her chin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Down the street came a young girl wheeling a baby's cab. The girl was
+but just past childhood, and she had been a homely child. But of late
+she had bloomed as mysteriously and almost as quickly as the
+plum-trees. She wore a light summer dress with a leaf-brown design upon
+it, in which her girlish form still half-confessed the child. Her
+complexion was clear and bright, the cheeks flushed; and the
+strongly-marked features seemed ready to melt and fuse to a softer
+mould. Her brown eyes had grown wistful and winning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As they advanced, Margaret ran down the rickety wooden walk.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, is that the new baby?" she cried delightedly. "May I look?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl smiled assent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Softly Margaret drew back the woolly carriage robe and gazed adoringly.
+The baby was about six weeks old. Its tiny face was translucent, pinky
+white, the closed eyelids with their fringe of fine lashes
+inconceivably delicate. Its wee hands cuddled about its head; the
+curled, pink fingers, each tipped with its infinitesimal, dainty nail,
+were perfection in miniature. The formless mouth, pinker than the rest
+of the face, moved in sleep, betraying the one dream the baby knew.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret drew a long, still breath of rapture, hanging over the little
+pink pearl of humanity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Will he wake if I kiss him?" she pleaded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl smiled doubtfully. "Maybe," she said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was equally indifferent to the baby and to Margaret. Her wistful
+eyes wandered eagerly down the street, watching each sidewalk, and the
+glow in her cheeks and eyes seemed to kindle and waver momently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret did not kiss the baby. She only bent her head close over his,
+close enough to feel his warm, quick breathing, to catch the rhythm of
+his palpitating little life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she came back to her porch, after the girl had gone on, Margaret
+saw that Jean's caller had come.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The young man sat beside Jean. His head was bare, his black hair
+brushed stiffly up from his forehead pompadour-fashion, his new spring
+suit palpably in its original creases. He and Jean talked eagerly,
+sometimes with shouts of young laughter, at which Margaret smiled
+sympathetically; sometimes with swift, earnest interchange; sometimes
+with lazy, contented intervals of silence. Occasionally he put out his
+hand to pat or tease the kitten which lay in Jean's lap. She defended
+it. Whenever their fingers chanced to touch they started consciously
+apart&mdash;covertly to tempt the chance again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two little girls came skipping down the street, their white dresses
+tossed about their knees. Their loose hair, of the dusky fairness of
+brunette children, tossed about their shoulders and an immense white
+ribbon bow quivered on the top of each little bare head. Their dress
+and their dancing run gave them the look and the wavering allure of
+butterflies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were on Jean's side of the street. They fluttered past the house
+unnoticed by the two on the porch, who were in the midst of an
+especially interesting quarrel about the kitten. The little girls
+passed over the crossing with traces of conscientious care for their
+white slippers, and came up on Margaret's side. Opposite her they
+paused in consultation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Won't you come in," she called to them, "and talk to me a minute?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two advanced hesitatingly and stood before her at a little distance
+on the young grass in attitudes clearly tentative. They were shy little
+misses, and had not lived long on that street.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Someone told me," said Margaret, "that your names were Enid and
+Elaine. Which is which?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The taller one pointed first to her embroidered bosom, then to her
+sister.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'm Enid; she's Elaine."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I've read about you in a book of poetry," observed Margaret&mdash;"it must
+have been you! I suppose if you had a little sister her name would be
+Guinevere?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The large dark eyes of the two exchanged glances of denial. The small
+Elaine shook her head decidedly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"We <i>got</i> a little sister!" announced Enid, "but her name ain't
+that; it's Katherine."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were both pretty with the adorable prettiness of small girls, half
+baby's beauty, and half woman's. But Enid's good looks would always
+depend more or less upon happy accident&mdash;her time of life, her flow of
+spirits, her fortune in costume. Her face was rather long, with chin
+and forehead a trifle too pronounced. But the little Elaine was
+nature's darling. Her softly rounded person and countenance were
+instinct with charm. Even her little brown hands had delicacy and
+character. Her white-stockinged legs, from the fine ankles to the
+rounded knees at her skirt's edge, were turned to a sculptor's desire.
+Beside them, Enid's merely serviceable legs looked like sticks. The
+white bows in their hair shared the ensemble effect of each: Enid's
+perched precisely in the middle, its loops and ends vibrantly and
+decisively erect; Elaine's drooped a little at one side, its crispness
+at once confessing and defying evanescence and fragility.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret thrilled with the child's loveliness, but for some subtle
+reason she smiled chiefly on Enid.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That little lady concluded she must be a person worthy of confidence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"My doll's name is Clara," she imparted. "An' hers is Isabel, only she
+calls it 'Ithabel'!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The color deepened in Elaine's dainty cheek. She was stung to protest;
+which she did with all the grace in the world, hanging her head at one
+side and speaking low.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I don't either!" she murmured. "I thay Ithabel!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Either way is very nice," Margaret hastened to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"We've been to Miss Eaton's Sunday school children's party," Enid
+informed her. "These are our best dresses, and our white kid slippers.
+Don't you think they're pretty? Mine tie with ribbons, but hers only
+button like a baby's."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Elaine looked down grievingly at the offensively infantile slippers,
+turning her exquisite little foot.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'm going to speak a piece for Easter," Enid pursued, "all alone by
+myself; and she's going to speak one in concert with a class."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, I hope you will come and speak them for me some time," Margaret
+invited; "and bring Clara and Isabel."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Maybe we will," answered Enid. "We must go now. Come on, Elaine."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret watched them until they stopped beside a flowerbed along the
+sidewalk where the first tulips of the season were unfolding. Elaine
+bent over to examine them. Margaret reproached herself that, though
+Elaine had spoken but once, it was her image that lingered uppermost.
+Why should she add even the weight of her preference to that child in
+whose favor the dice were already so heavily loaded? For in Margaret's
+eyes, beauty was always the chief gift of the gods.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As she resumed her sewing, a sudden, fantastic fear shot across her
+thoughts&mdash;the fear that Elaine would die. She recognized it, in a
+moment, for the heart's old, sad prevision of impermanence in beauty,
+its rooted unbelief in fortune's constancy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A quick glance up the street showed Elaine still stooping over the
+tulip bed, her stiff little skirts sticking out straight behind her.
+The grotesqueness was somehow reassuring. Margaret smiled, half at the
+absurd little figure, half at her own absurdly tragic fancy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the other porch Frank was taking his leave&mdash;a process of some
+duration. First he stood on the lower steps talking at length with Jean
+who stood on the top step. Then he raised his cap and started away,
+only to remember something before he reached the corner and to run back
+across the lawn. There he stood talking while Jean sat on the porch
+railing, suggesting a faint Romeo and Juliet effect. The next time,
+Jean called him back. They met halfway down the cement walk and
+conversed earnestly and lengthily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With an exquisite sympathy Margaret watched these maneuvers from under
+discreet eyelids. She was glad for them both, with a clear-souled,
+generous joy. And yet she felt a sensitive pleasure that walked on the
+edge of pain. In the young man especially she took a quick delight&mdash;in
+his supple length of limb, the spread of his shoulders, his
+close-cropped black hair, his new clothes, the way he thrust his hands
+deep in his trousers' pockets while he swung on the balls of his feet,
+the attentive bend of his head toward Jean; she reveled in all his
+elastic, masculine youth which she knew for the garb of a straight,
+strong, kindly, honorable soul. But out of the revel grew a trouble, as
+if some strange spirit prisoned in her own struggled to tear itself
+free, to fling itself, wailing, in the dust.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Egotism!" said Margaret to herself, curling her lip, sewing very fast.
+The fluttering spirit lay tombed and still.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Frank was finally gone, Jean sauntered across the street to
+Margaret's porch. She perched on the rail and pulled at the leafless
+vine-stems beside her, talking idly and desultorily of things she was
+not interested in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was an attractive girl, more wholesome than beautiful. Her
+bronze-brown hair coiled stylishly about her head, gleamed in the late
+sun. There were some tiny freckles across her nose. She wore a pale
+blue summer-dress with short sleeves out of which her young arms
+emerged, fresh and tender from their winter seclusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two maidens circled warily about the topic they were both longing
+to talk of. Margaret noted in Jean a new aloofness. Every time she
+threw Frank's name temptingly into the open Jean purposely let it lie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last, with a little gasp of laughter, looking straight before her,
+Jean exclaimed: "I guess I'm sort of scared!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What I like about Frank," said Margaret, "is that he's so true and
+reliable. He's a fellow you can trust!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes," assented Jean. "Don't you think he looks&mdash;nice in that new
+suit?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Splendid! Frank's a handsome boy."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Isn't he?" sighed Jean.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"He'll always be constant to anyone he cares for. And, I think&mdash;he does
+care for someone."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What makes <i>you</i> think so?" demanded Jean, her blue eyes suddenly
+intent on Margaret.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What makes you think so?" Margaret parried.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jean sat up instantly very straight and stiff.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Who said I thought anything?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, no, no!" Margaret disclaimed hastily. "I didn't mean that. I meant
+anyone would think so!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jean lapsed into a placated limpness, resting her lithe young figure in
+its summer blue against the dingy house-wall.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Isn't it funny," she mused, "how you can resolve you won't think, and
+keep yourself from thinking, and really not think, because you've made
+up your mind you wouldn't&mdash;and all the time you <i>know</i>!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret was searching in her mind for some tenderest phrase of warning
+when Jean anticipated her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, it's a good thing I don't care!&mdash;I thought at first I didn't
+like his hair that way, but I do now&mdash;better than the other way. He was
+telling about college."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"He finishes this year, doesn't he?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes. He's going in with his father next year&mdash;unless he makes up his
+mind to go to Yale. But he doesn't think he will. His father wants him
+here; and he's about decided that's best."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Marg'ret," called a thin, querulous, broken voice from within the
+house; "ain't it time you was gettin' supper?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret opened the door to call back in a loud, clear voice: "Not yet,
+Mother."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jean slipped off the railing. "I must go."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It really isn't time yet. Mother gets nervous, sitting all day. And
+she doesn't care to read any more. Stay a little longer."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These snatches of Jean's confidence were delicious to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, I've got to go."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jean suddenly put both arms around Margaret's waist and clasped her in
+a swift embrace.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I wish," she said, "some awfully nice old widower or bachelor would
+come along and marry you!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As Jean crossed the street with the lowering sun making a nimbus in her
+chestnut-golden hair, she began to sing. The words sprang joyous and
+clear as a bobolink's note&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"What's this dull town to me?</p>
+<p class="i4">Robin's not here!"</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+But a sudden waft of consciousness smote them to a vague humming that
+passed swiftly into&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;</p>
+<p>Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+In the scented dark of the spring evening, Margaret came to the porch
+again. A little curved moon sailed the sky&mdash;less a light-giver than a
+shining ornament on the breast of night. A while before children's
+laughter and skurrying footfalls had echoed down the sidewalks. Boys
+had played ball in the middle of the street, with running and violent
+contortions, and shouts and calls rejoicing in the release of their
+animal energies. But these sounds had ceded to silence as the soft
+darkness fell. Then young strollers, two and two, had passed; but these
+also were gone. A gentle wind rustled very softly in the dead
+vine-stalks. The world was alone with the fragrant wind and the
+dreaming dusk and the little silver scimitar of moon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The house opposite was all dark, except for a line of lamplight beside
+the drawn blind of a side window. Earlier, Jean had turned on the porch
+lights and sat under them in the most graceful of the wicker chairs,
+reading, or affecting to read, and Frank, coming down the street, had
+seen her in all that glow. Then they had turned off the lights and gone
+away together, and the house had sunk into shadowy repose. Vague lines
+of wanness betrayed the place of the cement walks. The fruit-trees were
+dim, withdrawn, half-hinted shapes of whiteness, but their perfume,
+grown bolder in darkness, wandered the winds with poignant, sweet
+desire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret leaned against the weather-worn corner-post of the porch; her
+hand passed over its cracked, paint-blistered surface with, a soft,
+absent touch. She felt to her finger-tips the wooing lure of the night.
+In the spring of her pulses she was aware of Frank and Jean somewhere
+together in the dusky, fragrant, crescent-clasped folds of it. She
+seemed to draw in with her breath and gather subtly through the pores
+of her flesh all the shy, sweet, youthful yearning of the world&mdash;and,
+behind that, wordlessly she knew the driven sap, the life-call, the
+procreant urge. She sighed and stirred restlessly. The strand of pain
+that runs in the pleasure of such moods began to ache gently like an
+old wound touched with foreknowledge of evil weather. She shared the
+pang that lies at the heart of spring.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Words of poetry pressed into her mind, voices of the great
+interpreters. She was not a cultivated woman, hardly to be called
+educated; her horizon, even of books, was chance-formed and narrow; but
+what circumstance had given her she remembered well. The groping, vain
+longing that stirred in her fell on speech, and moved among the haunted
+echoes of the world.
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Bloomy the world, yet a blank all the same&mdash;</p>
+<p>Framework that waits for a picture to frame."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+And then, sudden as a cry:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Never the time and the place,</p>
+<p>And the loved one all together!"</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+She drew a long, shivering sigh, and deliberately thrust the lines out
+of her mind. Best not to remember them&mdash;on such a night! Their edges
+cut like young grass drawn through careless fingers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The little new moon was rising higher in the deep, soft blue-darkness
+of the sky. Margaret looked up at its gleaming curve, and other words
+of poetry came to her, words she had read once in an old
+magazine&mdash;translated from the Persian:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Quaffing Hadji-Kivam's wine-cup, there I saw by grace of him,</p>
+<p>On the green sea of the night, the new moon's silver shallop swim!"</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+They swung on, like a familiar, wistful, passionate tune:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Oh, my heart is like a tulip, closing up in time of cold!</p>
+<p>When, at length, shy Bird of Fortune, shall my snare thy wings enfold?"</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+Footsteps sounded along the walk, the linked steps of two, lingering,
+yet with the springing fall of youth; then a murmur of voices, girl's
+and boy's interchanging, lingering, too, and low, weighted, like the
+footsteps, with the burden of their hour. Margaret drew back a little
+behind the sapless vine-stems. She knew that she could not be seen in
+the shadow of the porch, even by a passer far less absorbed than the
+two who drifted by. She had recognized Frank and Jean at once, and
+thrilled intimately at the quality of their voices. Both were changed
+from the careless tones of every day, Frank's husky and strained,
+Jean's vibrant and tremulous. What they said was quite inaudible&mdash;only
+that betraying <i>timbre</i>, conscious and unconscious, hung on the
+scented air. A single word in the girl's thrilled voice&mdash;a sharpened,
+quivering note of life at high tension&mdash;pierced the shadows of the
+porch:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"&mdash;&mdash; you &mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"'You!'" Margaret leaned forward among her shadows, thrusting her
+clenched hands downward, then pressed them tight upon her heart. "You!"
+That little key unlocked the flood-gates. The barriers went down, and
+the tide of passionate loneliness swept her soul.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You!" she whispered to the fragrant, shimmering, vitalizing night; and
+the word mocked her, and returned unto her void. She leaned her bosom
+against the angled surface of the porch-post; she pressed her face
+among the dry, unbudded vines. The cry went out from her into the empty
+spaces of the world&mdash;a voiceless, hopeless call: "You! you! you! Oh,
+you who never came to me!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her soul was ravaged by that mocking bitterness of loss which comes
+only to those who have not possessed. She, crying for a lover in the
+night, she who had never been sought! If ever her shy and homely
+girlhood might have attracted a youth, poor Margaret's love of poetry
+would have frightened him away. If the burdened poverty of her maturity
+might have admitted a suitor, her acquaintance numbered no man who
+would not have shunned an earnest-minded old maid. And she knew this
+utterly. A thousand old aches were in the sudden rush of anguish, and
+shame fought among them. She was shocked and startled at the drip of
+salt tears down her cheeks, at the heaving of her shaken breast.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She struggled to rebuild her old barriers against the woe&mdash;pride, and
+dignity, and the decent acceptance of one's lot. But those were for the
+eyes of men and women; and here were no eyes, only night, and the risen
+sap and the wild heart in her breast. Duty? She had never swerved in
+doing it, but she thrust the thought by with passionate rebellion at
+the waste of her in dull service to the outworn lives which neither
+asked nor could take from her anything but the daily drudgery. She
+groped for the old humble consolations, tender appreciations, generous
+friendships, the joy in others' joy. But there the wall had broken
+through. "I am nothing to them!" thought Margaret bitterly. "Jean will
+not care to talk to me after to-night. And I can't always kiss other
+people's babies! I want one of my own!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The gauzy veil of dream that wrapped her often had fallen from before
+her eyes. Rent by the piercing beauty of the night, and soaked in her
+tears, that fragile fabric of vision served no more. Imagined blisses
+had betrayed her, naked and tender, to the unpitying lash of truth. The
+remote, the universal, mocked her sore longing for something near and
+real, of earth and flesh&mdash;oh, as welcome in sorrow as in joy!&mdash;to be
+imperiously her own! The river of life dashed by and would not fill her
+empty cup. The love she loved so had passed her by.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She faced the hollowest desolation known to humanity. She had committed
+no sin; she had been true and tender and faithful; she had not failed
+in the least and humblest dues of love: yet, now she stood wrapped in
+torment, and saw, across a great gulf fixed, the joys of love's elect.
+She stood utterly frustrate and alone&mdash;a shared frustration were
+happiness! Her mental life had been so intensely uncompanioned that she
+was tortured with doubts of her own reality. What warrant of Being had
+that soul which could not touch in all the blank, black spaces of the
+void another soul to give it assurance of itself? What if the aching
+throat and riven breast were but the phantom anguish of a dream Thing,
+unpurposed, unjustified, a Thing of ashes and emptiness!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There remained God&mdash;perhaps! Was God a dream too? Was there any
+<i>You</i> in all the empty worlds?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stood quite still, questing the universe for God. She thought of
+her father's God&mdash;the savage Hebrew deity he thought he worshiped, the
+harsh Puritan formalist who ruled his creed, the hysterical, illogical
+sentimentalist who swayed his heart. She dropped them all out of her
+mind. God was not, for her, in the ancient earthquake or fire or
+whirlwind. But&mdash;perhaps&mdash;somewhere!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sank to her knees in the darkness, and, laying her head upon her
+arms on the railing, sought in her soul for God.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You are Love," she said. "They say it, but they do not believe it; but
+<i>I</i> believe it. You are Love that creates, and makes glad&mdash;and
+wounds. You are Love that rises in all creatures in spring, and would
+make all things beautiful and kind. You are Love that gives&mdash;and gives
+itself. You made me to love love and love's uses, and nothing else in
+the world! You made my life loveless. Why?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She waited a moment, then, with a sobbing breath of remembrance, "Oh,
+one spring they nailed you on a cross because you loved too much!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After that she was very still, her head bent upon her arms, her heart
+quiet, waiting for the still, small voice, the answer of God.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It came presently, and she knew it was the answer. She accepted it with
+comfort, and sad pride, and submission, and a slow, strange, white
+happiness of consecration. The answer came without any words. If there
+had been words, they might have been, perhaps, like these:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Bear the pain patiently, my daughter, for life is wrought in pain, and
+there is no child born without sharp pangs. I have not shut thee out
+from my festival of spring. Thy part is thy pang. I have given thee a
+coronal of pain and made thee rich with loss and desire. I have made
+thee one of my vestals who guard perpetually the hearth-fire which
+shall not be lit for them. I have denied thee love that love shall be
+manifest in thee. Wherever love fails in my world, there shalt thou
+re-create it in beauty and kindness. The vision thou hast, and the
+passion, are of me, and I charge thee find some fair and sweet way that
+they perish not in thee. All ways are mine. Be thou in peace."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret rose at length. The moon was gone from the sky, but out of its
+deep, tender darkness shone the far, dim light of stars. A cool wind
+touched her cheek, bearing a faint, ethereal odor of blossoms as from a
+great distance. And upon her face, if one might have seen for the
+darkness, shone a fine, ethereal beauty far-brought from that great
+distance which is nearer than hands and feet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Against the shadowy front of the house opposite, two figures were
+vaguely discernible, the taller a little darker than the encompassing
+space, the other a little lighter. As Margaret looked, they melted
+together, and were no longer two but one.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She smiled in the darkness, very sweetly, and, holding her head high,
+turned and went quietly into the dark little house.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="blessing">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Work Is a Blessing</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Lafayette Young</i><a name="young">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Work is a blessing to the human race.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If this had remained a workless world, it would have been a homeless
+world. The progress of the human race began when work began. When work
+began, men began to wear clothes; thus progress commenced.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Industry and happiness go hand in hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Men who feel that they are doomed to daily toil, and that there is no
+so-called emancipation from the daily routine, imagine that happiness
+would be theirs if they did not have to work. The man whose employment
+compels him to get up at six o'clock in the morning imagines if he
+could just get out of that slavery he would ask for no greater
+happiness. But if he ever does reach that condition he will find out
+what true misery is.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Some years ago the warden of the Iowa penitentiary told me that he had
+a prisoner serving a long term, who begged a day off. He wanted to stop
+the regular routine. He wanted to be set free in the courtyard for one
+day. He wanted to look straight up at the sky, and to breathe the air
+of the outdoors. I was at the penitentiary the day the prisoner's
+request was granted, and at ten o'clock the prisoner had grown tired of
+idleness. The sky had lost its attraction. There was something missing.
+And he got word to the warden that he wished to be returned to labor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There are millions of men toiling in factories and in mines, laying
+brick on tall buildings, swinging cranes in the great iron mills,
+tending the machines in cotton or woolen mills, who think that they
+would be perfectly happy if they were once perfectly idle. But their
+experience would be like that of the prisoner's.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What a wretched world this would be without work! How many things we
+have which are indispensable, that we would not have but for somebody's
+work. Work has built every great bridge, every great cathedral, every
+home, large or small. It has made every invention. Work found man in a
+cave, and put him into a good home. Work has made man decent and
+self-respecting.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The great nations are the working nations; the great peoples are the
+working peoples. Nations, like individuals, date their prosperity and
+happiness from the beginning of work. The start was made when man gave
+attention to the primal curse of the race recorded in the book of
+Genesis: "By the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, until thou
+return to the ground." This mandate has never been repealed. Lazy men
+in all parts of the world have undertaken to nullify it. The ambition
+for idleness fills jails and penitentiaries. It causes man to commit
+forgeries and murders. Every man slugged in a dark alley is put out of
+the way by some other man desiring money without working for it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There has been a foolish notion in many countries in regard to labor.
+They do not consider it dignified. In some countries, missionary
+families learn that they cannot cook their own victuals without losing
+caste. In other countries a certain number of servants must be kept if
+the family would be respected. In our own country there is a false
+pride in regard to labor. Young men avoid the learning of trades
+because they do not wish to soil their hands. Laboring men themselves
+have been guilty of not sufficiently estimating their own callings.
+They demand the rights of their class, but fail to respect it
+themselves. This causes many young men to seek some employment which
+will not soil their hands. Many thousands of young men make the mistake
+of not having some regular calling, some work which they can do better
+than anybody else. The man who has a regular trade is never found
+walking the streets looking for a job. Even when he is called old, he
+can secure employment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Industry is indispensable to happiness. Idleness destroys the souls of
+more young men, and leads to more forms of dissipation, than any other
+influence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The experienced mechanic knows how rapidly and joyfully time passes
+when he is interested in his work. He never watches the clock; to him
+quitting time comes all too soon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Labor can be made a joy if man wills it so.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+An appreciation of what a man earns and the thought that he can do
+something with his money, ought to be a part of the happiness of labor.
+Work develops the man. It develops his appreciation of others. He is
+likely to be unhappy if he works solely for himself. The Indian hunter,
+returning from the chase, lays the evidence of his prowess at the feet
+of his squaw. He is glad that he has accomplished something, and in her
+eyes he is a hero.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Once I was driving in the Allegheny Mountains in the early summer.
+Unexpectedly I came to a little cottage almost covered with flowers and
+vines. A brown-faced woman with pruning shears was at her work. Around
+her bees were humming, and birds were twittering. I sought to buy some
+flowers. She said she never had sold a flower in her life. I asked her
+what induced her to work early and late, cultivating, planting and
+pruning. She said, "I do this work because I enjoy it, and because my
+husband and two sons will enjoy these flowers when they come home at
+night." This woman had the whole philosophy of human happiness. If
+there are women in heaven she will be there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Work came as a blessing. It remains as a blessing. It makes us tired so
+that we can enjoy sleep. We awaken in the morning refreshed for a new
+day. When kings and queens shall be no more, when autocracy shall end,
+when the voices of intelligent men and women shall govern, then if work
+shall be universal, thus satisfying the energy, and giving direction to
+the ambitions of men, there will be no more wars.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To make work enjoyable, men and women must be proud of it; must not
+pretend that they are above it; must not apologize for it. Once I was
+in Holland. I saw women with a peculiar headdress as if they belonged
+to some lodge. They wore smiling faces. I inquired what their regalia
+meant, and was told that they were working women of the peasant or some
+other humble class. They were proud of their position. They were
+content, with plenty to do. They enjoyed the society of their families
+and friends. But their happiness consisted in being proud of, and
+satisfied with, the things they were doing. Who can say that they have
+not chosen the better part?
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="september">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">September</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Esse V. Hathaway</i><a name="hathaway">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">Blaze on blaze of scarlet sumach,</p>
+<p>Roadsides lined with radiant gold,</p>
+<p class="i2">Purple ironweed, regal, slender,</p>
+<p>Rasping locust, shrill and bold.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">Dusty smell in field and upland,</p>
+<p>Sky of copper mixed with blue,</p>
+<p class="i2">Life intense as is the weather&mdash;</p>
+<p>Let's away, just me and you!</p></div></div>
+<br>
+<div class="figcenter"><a name="host"><img src="images/008.jpg" alt="Two men speaking to each other" width="484" height="500"></a></div>
+<p class="caption"><span class="sc">Host and Houseguest</span>
+</p>
+
+<p class="dialogue">"I say,
+old top, I wish you wouldn't be continually kissing the wife. I think
+once when you come and once when you go quite sufficient."
+</p>
+
+<p class="dialogue">
+"But, my dear man, I can't wear myself out coming and going all the
+time just to please you."
+</p>
+
+<p class="dialogue">
+<i>&mdash;From "Judge." Copyright by Leslie-Judge Co.</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="poet">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Poet of the Future</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Tacitus Hussey</i><a name="hussey">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Oh, the poet of the future. Will he come to us as comes</p>
+<p>The beauty of the bugle's voice above the roar of drums&mdash;</p>
+<p>The beauty of the bugle's voice above the roar and din</p>
+<p>Of battle drums that pulse the time the victor marches in?</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i20">&mdash;<i>James Whitcomb Riley.</i></p></div></div>
+<br>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Oh, the poet of the future!" Can anybody guess</p>
+<p>Whether he'll sound his bugle, or she'll wear them on her dress;</p>
+<p>An' will they kinder get their themes from nature, second hand,</p>
+<p>An' dish 'em up in language that plain folks can't understand?</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>There's a sight of this 'ere po'try stuff, each year, that goes to waste,</p>
+<p>Jest a-waitin' fer a poet who has the time and taste</p>
+<p>To tackle it just as it is, an' weave it into rhyme,</p>
+<p>With warp and woof of hope and love, in life's swift loom of time.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>An' mebbe the future poet, if he understands the thing,</p>
+<p>Won't start the summer katydids to singin' in the spring,</p>
+<p>Jest like the croakin' frog; but let the critter wait at most,</p>
+<p>To announce to timid farmers that "it's jest six weeks till frost."</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The katydid and goldenrod are partners in this way:</p>
+<p>They sing and bloom where'er there's room, along life's sunny way;</p>
+<p>So I warn you, future poet, jest let 'em bloom an' lilt</p>
+<p>Together&mdash;don't divorce 'em. That's jest the way they're built.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>In order to be perfect, the future poet should</p>
+<p>Know every sound of nature, of river, lake an' wood,</p>
+<p>Should know each whispered note and every answerin' call&mdash;</p>
+<p>He should never set cock-pheasants to drummin' in the fall.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Under the golden maples!" Not havin' voice to sing</p>
+<p>They flap their love out on a log quite early in the spring;</p>
+<p>For burnin' love will allus find expression in some way&mdash;</p>
+<p>That's the style that <i>they've</i> adopted&mdash;don't change their natures, pray.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>I cannot guess just what the future poet's themes may be;</p>
+<p>Reckon they'll be pretty lofty, fer, as anyone can see,</p>
+<p>The world of poetry's lookin' up an' poets climbin' higher;</p>
+<p>With divine afflatus boostin' them, of course they must aspire.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The poets of the good old times were cruder with the pen;</p>
+<p>Their idees weren't the same as ours&mdash;these good old-fashioned men&mdash;</p>
+<p>Bet old Homer never writ, even in his palmiest day,</p>
+<p>Such a soul-upliftin' poem as "Hosses Chawin' Hay."</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Hosses" don't know any better out in the Hawkeye State&mdash;</p>
+<p>Down to Boston now, I reckon, they jest simply masticate.</p>
+<p>The poet of the future'll blow a bugle, like as not&mdash;</p>
+<p>Most all us modern poets had to blow fer what we've got.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>To keep the pot a-b'ilin' we all have to raise a din</p>
+<p>To make the public look our way&mdash;an' pass the shekels in.</p>
+<p>The scarcity of bugles seems now the greatest lack</p>
+<p>Though some of us keep blowin' 'thout a bugle to our back.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The poet of the future! When once he takes his theme</p>
+<p>His pen will slip as smoothly as a canoe glides down stream.</p>
+<p>He'll sing from overflowin' heart&mdash;his music will be free&mdash;</p>
+<p>Would you take up a subscription fer a robin in a tree?</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>He'll never try to drive the Muse, if he doesn't want to go,</p>
+<p>But will promptly take the harness off&mdash;er drive keerfull an' slow&mdash;</p>
+<p>When po'try's forced, like winter pinks, the people's apt to know it</p>
+<p>An' labor with it jest about as hard as did the poet.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="putting">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Putting the Stars with the Bars</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Verne Marshall</i><a name="marshall">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Midnight beneath a low-hanging strip of amber-hued moon. Smoke in one's
+eyes and sulphur in his nostrils; the pounding of cannon in his ears
+and a hatred of war and its sponsors in his soul. A supply wagon piled
+high with dead men on one side of the road and a little ambulance
+waiting for its bruised load to emerge from the mouth of the
+communicating trench near by. Sharp tongues of fire darting into the
+night on every side as the guns of the French barked their challenge at
+the Crown Prince on the other bank of the Meuse. A lurid glare over
+there to the left where the smoke hung thickest under drifting yellow
+illuminating bombs and red and blue signal bombs that added their touch
+to the weird fantasy that wasn't a fantasy at all, but a hill in whose
+spelling men had changed one letter and turned it into hell.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was Dead Man's Hill at Verdun&mdash;Le Cote Mort Homme. And Dead Man's
+Hill it truly was, for among the barbed wire entanglements and in some
+of the shell craters in No Man's Land there still lay the skeletons of
+Frenchmen and Germans who had been killed there months before and whose
+bodies it had been impossible to recover because the trenches had not
+changed positions and to venture out between them was to shake hands
+with Death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dead Man's Hill at Verdun&mdash;where ten thousand men have fought for a few
+feet of blood-soaked ground in vain effort to satiate the battle-thirst
+of a monarch and his son! The countryside for miles around is laid
+waste. Villages lie in tumbled masses, trees are uprooted or broken
+off, demolished wagons and motors litter the roads and fields, and dead
+horses, legs stiff in the air, dot the jagged landscape. Not a moving
+object is seen there by day except the crows that flutter above the
+uptorn ground and the aeroplanes that soar thousands of feet above.
+But, with the coming of night, long columns of men wind along the
+treacherous roads on their way to or from the trenches, hundreds of
+supply wagons lumber across the shell holes to the stations near the
+line, ammunition trains travel up to the lines and back and the
+ambulances ply their routes to dressing stations. Everything must be
+done under night's partially protecting cloak, for the German gunners
+seldom miss when daylight aids their vision.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A tiny American ambulance&mdash;a jitney&mdash;threads its way down from the Dead
+Man to &mdash;&mdash;, carrying a boy through whose breast a dum-dum bullet had
+torn its beastly way. Three hours before, the driver of that ambulance
+had talked with the boy who now lay behind him on a stretcher. Then the
+young Frenchman had been looking forward to the wondrous day when the
+war would end. He had planned to come to America to live, just as soon
+as he could get back to Paris and say good-bye to the mother from whom
+he had received a letter that very day.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I will be lucky!" he had exclaimed to the American. "I will not be
+killed. I will not even be wounded. Ah, but won't I be glad when the
+war is over!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But his life was slipping away, faster than the Red Cross car could
+carry him to aid. The checking station reached, two orderlies pulled
+the stretcher from the ambulance. There was a choking sound in the
+wounded soldier's throat and the driver, thinking to ease his
+breathing, lifted his head. The closed eyes fluttered open, the
+indescribable smile of the dying lighted his face and with his last
+faint breath he murmured those words that always still war
+momentarily&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Ah, <i>mere</i>! <i>Ma mere!</i>"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, mother! My mother!"&mdash;and he was dead.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just one little incident of war, just a single glimpse at the
+accomplishments of monarchial militarism.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That French boy has not come to America, but America has gone to him.
+He died for a flag that is red, white and blue&mdash;for the tricolor of
+France. And we have gone across the sea to place the stars of our flag
+with the bars of his. His fight was our fight and our fight is his.
+Together we fight against those who menace civilization in both old
+world and new. We fight against the army that outraged Belgium and
+devastated France, against the militaristic clique that sanctioned the
+slaughtering and crippling of little children, the maiming of women,
+against that order of militarists who decorated the commander of the
+submarine that sank the Lusitania with her babies and their mothers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We are at war and we are Americans&hellip;. Enough.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote">
+<p>Verne Marshall was the driver of that ambulance. Three months of his service were spent at Verdun.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="kings">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Kings of Saranazett</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Lewis Worthington Smith</i><a name="lewis">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+<p class="subhead">
+<span class="sc">A Scene From the First Act</span>
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote">
+<p>
+      A drama of the awakening of the nearer Orient. In this scene
+      Nasrulla appears as the royal lover of the fig merchant's
+      daughter, Nourmahal. She has learned something of the ways of
+      the West, where even kings have but one acknowledged consort,
+      and she is not willing to be merely one of a number of queens.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+    Before the wall and gate enclosing Nourmahal's Garden. It is early
+    morning, just before dawn. Above the gleaming white of the wall's
+    sun-baked clay there is the deep green of the trees&mdash;the plane,
+    the poplar, the acacia, and, beyond the garden, mountains are
+    visible through the purple mist of the hour that waits for dawn,
+    slowly turning to rose as the rising sun warms their snowy
+    heights. At the left the wall extends out of sight behind a clump
+    of trees, but at the right it ends in a tower topped by a turret
+    with a rounded dome passing into a point. The space under the dome
+    is open, except for a railing, and is large enough for one or more
+    persons. It may be entered from the broad top of the wall through
+    a break in the railing. At the left, out from the trees and in
+    front of the wall, there is a well marked out with roughly piled
+    stones.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+    At the right, out of sight behind the trees that come almost to
+    the tower at the corner of the wall, a man's voice is heard
+    singing Shelley's "Indian Serenade."
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"I arise from dreams of thee</p>
+<p class="i2">In the first sweet sleep of night,</p>
+<p>When the winds are breathing low,</p>
+<p class="i2">And the stars are shining bright;</p>
+<p>I arise from dreams of thee,</p>
+<p class="i2">And a something in my feet</p>
+<p>Hath led me&mdash;who knows how?</p>
+<p class="i2">To thy chamber window, Sweet!</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"The wandering airs they faint</p>
+<p class="i2">On the dark, the silent stream&mdash;</p>
+<p>The Champak odors fail</p>
+<p class="i2">Like sweet thoughts in a dream;</p>
+<p>The nightingale's complaint,</p>
+<p class="i2">It dies upon her heart;&mdash;</p>
+<p>As I must die on thine,</p>
+<p class="i2">O! beloved as thou art!</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Oh lift me from the grass!</p>
+<p class="i2">I die! I faint! I fail!</p>
+<p>Let thy love in kisses rain</p>
+<p class="i2">On my lips and eyelids pale.</p>
+<p>My cheek is cold and white, alas!</p>
+<p class="i2">My heart beats loud and fast;&mdash;</p>
+<p>Oh! press it to thine own again,</p>
+<p class="i2">Where it will break at last."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+    During the singing Nourmahal has come slowly out from the left,
+    walking along the broad top of the wall until, coming to the tower,
+    she drops down on the floor by the railing of the turret and
+    listens, her veil falling from before her face. When the song has
+    ended, Nasrulla comes forward and approaches the little tower. He
+    leads a horse, a white horse with its tail dyed red in the Persian
+    fashion.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> You turn the gray of the poplars in the darkness into
+the silver of running water.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> The dawn is waiting under your veil. I see now
+only the morning star.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang"><i>Nourmahal.</i> I am but the moon, and I must not be seen when My
+Lord the Sun comes.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> The Lord of the Sky rises to look on the gardens
+where the nightingales have been singing.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> But when he finds that the nightingales are silent,
+he passes to other gardens.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Following the song, as I follow the lisp of
+spring in your voice, the flutter of the wings of birds in the branches
+when buds are swelling.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> It is the flutter of wings and the song that you care
+for; it is not the bird.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> It is the song of the bird that tells me where I
+shall find the bird herself. It is the oasis lifted up into the sky
+that guides the thirsty traveler across the desert.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (rising in agitation).</i> When I am your queen, will you
+follow the voices of other nightingales?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> You will be my first queen.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> I must be your only queen.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Always my first queen, and in your garden the
+fountains shall murmur day and night with a fuller flow of water than
+any others. The flowers there shall be more beautiful than anywhere
+else in all the world, and a hundred maidens shall serve you.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> And I shall not be your only queen?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> It is not the way of the world.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> I have heard stories of places where the king has
+only one queen.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> It has never been so in Saranazett.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> It has not been so in Saranazett, but does nothing
+change?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> I must be king in the way of my ancestors.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (dropping down by the railing again).</i> And we must live
+in the way of our ancestors, over and over again, sunrise and
+noon-glare and star-shine, as it was before our stars rose in the
+heavens, as it always will be?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Our ancestors have taught us that a king should
+not live too meanly.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> We cannot appeal to our ancestors. We cannot appeal
+to anything, and nothing can be undone. As the Persian poet says, "The
+moving finger writes," and what is written must be.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> And if what is written is beautiful, and if you
+are to be a king's throne-mate, if all the treasures of all the world
+are to be sought out for you&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> It is nothing, nothing, if you must have another
+wife, if you must have two other wives, three.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> My prime minister will choose the others. I
+choose you.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (passionately).</i> But what shall we ever choose
+again&mdash;and get what we choose? Have not the hours been counted out for
+us from the beginning of the world? Can we stop the grains of sand in
+the hour-glass?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Each one will make a new pleasure as it falls.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Yes, but it falls. We do not gather it up. It falls
+out of the heavens as the rain comes. We cannot make it rain.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> But the drops are always pleasant.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Yes, like a cup of water to a prisoner who dies of
+thirst and cannot know when his jailer comes. If we could bring the
+clouds up over the sun when the hot dust is flying, it would be really
+pleasant, but
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"That inverted Bowl we call the Sky,</p>
+<p>Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,</p>
+<p class="i2">Lift not your hands to <i>It</i> for help&mdash;for It</p>
+<p>As impotently moves as you or I."</p></div></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+You are my sky, and the old poet is right, if you must have four wives
+because your father had four wives, and his father.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> They are but symbols of kingliness, and they
+shall bow in the dust before you, whom my heart chooses, as weeds by
+the roadside bow when you pass in your tahktiravan and the air follows
+its flying curtains.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Why should anyone bow to me? Why should I care for
+bowing? It would make me a slave to the custom of bowing. Are you a
+king and must you be a slave too? Impotence is the name of such
+kingship, and why should I care to be a queen when my king cannot make
+me queenly?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla (advancing to the tower and leaving his horse
+standing).</i> Come! The stars are paling, and there is only the light
+of your eyes to lift me out of the dust. Come!
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    In the side of the wall by the tower a sloping series of stout pegs
+    has been driven, descending to the ground at short intervals.
+    Nourmahal comes out of the tower, puts her foot on the highest of
+    these pegs, takes Nasrulla's hand, and, with his help, comes slowly
+    down the pegs, as if they were a flight of stairs, to the ground.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> How I love a horse! It is Samarcand and Delhi and
+Bokhara and Paris, even Paris.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Paris! What is Paris?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (standing in front of the horse and caressing its
+head).</i> I don't know. I have never been there, but a horse makes me
+think of Paris. I don't know London, but a horse makes me think of
+London too. A horse could take me there. I could ride and ride, and
+every day there would be something new and something wonderful. There
+are cities beyond the water, too, marvelous cities, full of things more
+than we dream of here. A horse is swift, and the tapping of his feet on
+the stones is distance. When he lifts his head, when he curves his
+neck, already in his heart he is going on and on.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> And these are the stories that you have heard,
+stories about Paris and London and the cities across the water?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Stories? Perhaps not stories. Dreams, I think,
+imaginings dropped from the wings of falcons flying out of the west.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> You shall sit on the horse, and you can seem to
+be riding. Then as your dreams come true, you can tell them to me. Let
+the horse be Paris in my fancies too, and London and the cities across
+the water.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    The horse is still standing where he stopped when Nasrulla led him
+    out from behind the trees with him. He faces toward the left, and
+    Nasrulla is back of him. Nourmahal puts her foot into Nasrulla's
+    hand, and he lifts her into the saddle. When she is comfortably
+    seated, he stands beside her and in front of her, back of the
+    horse, leaning against the horse's neck and caressing his shoulder.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Now we are on the road, and all the world is
+moving across the horizon. If it is all a dream, let me be in the
+dream.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (looking out and away from him and pausing a moment).</i>
+Stories! Dreams!&mdash;What I have heard is only a whisper, but it seems so
+true and so beautiful. Somewhere a man loves one woman always and no
+other. Somewhere a king is not a manikin stalking through ceremonies.
+Somewhere he lives humanly as other men. Somewhere to-day is not like
+yesterday, and man has learned to break the cycle of what has been
+forever, of what seems dead and yet out of death comes back again and
+again. I have not seen it, but I know it. Somewhere you and I could be
+happy without being king or queen. Somewhere a woman thinks her own
+thoughts, and not the thoughts of her lord only. Somewhere men are not
+bound to a king, and somewhere kings are not bound to the words of
+their fathers' fathers.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla (slowly, after a pause).</i> It is the way of the
+world, Nourmahal. What the world is, it is, and that is forever and
+ever, unless it should be the will of God to make a new world.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> A new world! (<i>She pauses dreamily.</i>) Yes, that
+is what I want, a new world. That is what men are making somewhere, I
+know it. That is what is in my heart, and the same thing must be in the
+hearts of other men and women. A new world! What would it be to wake up
+every morning with a fresh wonder, not knowing what the day would
+bring? What would it be every morning to take the saddle and follow a
+new road ahead of the sun?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> If I could go with you&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> You have horses.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> It is not so decreed. My place is here.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Your place is here, and it is your place to have
+three or four queens as your ministers decide for you. One queen is to
+keep peace with the King of the South, another is to keep peace with
+the King of the West, and the third is to keep peace with the King of
+the East. The fourth queen you may choose for yourself from your own
+people&mdash;if you choose before some other king offers a daughter. You may
+make slaves of your queens so that your neighbor kings may make a slave
+of you.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Yes, if I would be king&mdash;and you would be queen.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Queen!&mdash;in a world where the flowers that bloom
+to-day died centuries ago! Queen&mdash;in a world where queens may look out
+of grated windows and never walk the streets! Queen&mdash;in a world where
+My Lord the King may not come to my door too often lest the daughter of
+the King of the South put poison in the nectar that her slaves offer
+him to-morrow!
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> The world is the world, and its enduring is
+forever and ever. We are but shadows that change and break on the
+surface of running water. We may stand for a moment in the sun, but we
+cannot stop the rain that fills the stream. We cannot fix our images
+for a moment on the drops that are rushing out to the sea.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (looking away from him dreamily).</i> "Ah Love! could you
+and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things Entire,
+Would we not shatter it to bits&mdash;and then Remould it nearer to the
+Heart's desire?"
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    He looks at her steadily, but she does not turn her head, and,
+    while they are so silent a woman comes from the left with a water
+    jar, fills it from the well, puts it on her head, and passes off
+    again. The sun is now warming the tops of the mountains to a soft
+    pink.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> We must find the water where it flows&mdash;or go
+thirsty.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (more passionately).</i> But somewhere the women do not
+carry water. The poet only thought of doing what somewhere men have
+done. Here a thousand years are but as yesterday and ten thousand as a
+watch in the night. I am not I, but an echo of the mad desires of dead
+men whose dust has been blown across the desert for countless
+centuries. Why should I not think of my own desires before my dust,
+too, flies forgotten before the passing caravans?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> But you are to be my queen. Nothing more can
+anyone give you in Saranazett.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> And to-morrow or next week your ambassador to the
+King of the East comes back with letters and pledges of friendship.
+Perhaps he brings with him the King's daughter.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> But she is only the official seal of a bond, only
+a hostage. She is not the rose that I pin over my heart. She is not the
+nightingale that I love to hear singing in my garden. She is not the
+face behind the lattice that draws my eager feet. She is not the
+fountain that will make me drink and drink again.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> But I shall not ride with you into the distance and
+leave the kings' daughters behind?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> The King of the East&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> I know. The King of the East has a great army. I must
+stay in my garden, or I shall have to spend my life talking about the
+things he likes or dislikes, his angers and his fondnesses, with the
+women of his harem.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    She puts her foot out for his hand, ready to be taken down from the
+    horse.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Nourmahal!
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Yes, I must keep my veil before my face and stay
+within my garden.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    He helps her down, and she turns the horse's head back to the right
+    in the direction from which they came.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> I shall take you, Nourmahal, and make you queen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Take me! Take the others and let them be queens. They
+will be happy enough, after the way of their mothers, but you cannot
+take the wind.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Being your lover is not ceasing to be king. May
+not the king ask of his subjects what he will? What is it to be king?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (turning as she is passing toward the gate).</i> Sometimes
+it is making a fresher and happier world for those who come to kneel
+before the throne. Kings are not often so wise.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> And when they are not so wise they think of their
+own happiness. They let love come into the palace, and the favorite
+queen has the riches of the earth heaped in jewels before her. The
+tenderness of the moon shines in the clasp of her girdle, and the
+splendor of the sun glitters in a circlet for her forehead.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> And sometimes, seeking their own pleasure, kings make
+the killing of those who are not kings their joy. They teach all men to
+be soldiers and all soldiers to be ruthless. Their women learn to
+delight in the echoes of battle, and the man who is not scarred by the
+marks of many fights they pity and despise. So women forget to be
+gentle, and the lords and masters of earth no longer watch over them
+and care for them, no longer shelter the weak and the defenseless, no
+longer think of right and justice, because they carry in their hands
+the javelins of might and they have learned to fling them far.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> But I shall watch over you as the cloud watches
+over the garden where the roses are waiting for the rain.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> No, I shall not have a king to watch over me.
+Somewhere they have no kings. A queen dies daily with loneliness, or
+lives hourly in the burning hate of all her sister queens. To breathe
+the air where there are no queens would be an ecstasy. I will not be a
+king's first queen or his last queen or his concubine or any other
+creature whom he may cast aside for a new fancy whenever the fancy
+comes.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    A messenger enters from the right, preceded by two attendants
+    carrying each one of the long, melon-shaped lanterns that accompany
+    royalty. The messenger bows before Nasrulla, dropping on one knee.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Messenger.</i> Your Royal Highness, I am sent to beg that you will
+hear me.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> It is my pleasure to listen to your message.
+Speak!
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Messenger.</i> It is not I speaking, Your Majesty, but your
+minister, Huseyn.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> I listen to the words of Huseyn.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Messenger.</i> Know, O Mighty Lord of the Great Center of Earth&mdash;the
+ambassador to the King of the East is reported returning by the long
+highway.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    Nourmahal's father, Mehrab, comes out from the gate in the wall and
+    stands listening.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Say to Huseyn that I will see him and make
+arrangements for his reception before nightfall.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Messenger.</i> He brings very important tidings, Your Majesty.
+Pardon me, O Lord of the Lives of Your Servants. I speak but the words
+of Huseyn.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> I hear the words of Huseyn.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Messenger.</i> The ambassador should be received a early as may be,
+is the word of Huseyn. He knows the will of the King of the East, and
+the King of the East would know your will, O Mightiest of the Mighty.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (bowing to her knees before him).</i> Let me beg of you
+also, King Nasrulla, that you give audience at once to the ambassador
+who comes with word from the King of the East.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> I listen to the words of Nourmahal with the words
+of Huseyn.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Messenger.</i> And I shall say to the Prime Minister Huseyn that His
+Majesty, the Lord of Everlasting Effulgence, will graciously consent to
+speak with him before the sun looks in at his image in the water jars.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> O King Nasrulla, for the sake of the rule that is
+thine from thy fathers, for the maintaining of peace in all thy
+borders, for the security of thy people, who harvest their hopes in
+fear, permit the approach of the ambassador who returns from the King
+of the East.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> The wish of Nourmahal is a command. I go to make
+ready for the ambassador who comes with word from the King of the East.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> And for the daughter of the King of the East, give
+thanks, O King Nasrulla. It is said that she is very beautiful, and
+many wooers have sought her vainly. She has been kept for the joy and
+the splendor and the growing greatness of My Lord the King.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> Announce my coming to my Prime Minister, Huseyn.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Messenger (rising).</i> Your Noble Majesty is most gracious. I fly
+with your words to Huseyn.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>King Nasrulla.</i> As a king I go, but my thoughts are not a king's
+thoughts, and they stay here. It may be I shall look for them again, as
+one looks for love in his friend's heart at the home-returning.
+Farewell!
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> I shall keep your thoughts forever, My Lord Nasrulla,
+but for the King and the ways of the King&mdash;farewell!
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    The two lantern carriers who have come with the messenger turn to
+    the right to light the way for the King, and, as they pass off, he
+    follows them. Nourmahal watches them until they are gone, while
+    Mehrab, Nourmahal's father, comes forward slowly.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> He threatened you, did he?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang"><i>Nourmahal.</i> Threaten! No, father, he did not threaten me.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> Does he not mean to make you queen whether you wish to
+be or not?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> He will not dare.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> I am only a merchant, only a dealer in figs and olives.
+I am not to be feared or considered by him or by those that are about
+him. It is the way of his kind to think that you are to be taken as he
+would take a pomegranate from the garden of one of his satraps.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> He will not take me.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> They despise me because I go with the caravans, but I
+have learned something. I know the world. My camels have tracked the
+sands hundreds of miles from Saranazett, and there are places where the
+words of Nasrulla the King mean less than the words of Mehrab the
+merchant.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> They will have horses to follow us. Horses are
+swifter than camels.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> We shall have horses too, and ours shall be the
+fleetest. The riders of the King's horses will put out their palms for
+my silver. They will know how to make their whips fall lightly.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (eagerly).</i> Let us go to-morrow. Let us go before the
+daughter of the King of the East is carried in her palanquin to the
+palace. I want to see all the places where you have been. I want to
+know something of the strange things that you have seen.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> The women of Saranazett have never traveled.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> But I will not be a woman of Saranazett. There are
+other worlds and other ways for me than the ways of Saranazett.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> You shall not be queen one day and someone else queen in
+your place the next. I was not born to live in the world's high places,
+but also I was not born to bend the knee. You shall not suffer because
+you are not a king's daughter, and because those that are kings'
+daughters smile at you behind their curtains.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (more dreamily reluctant).</i> If we could make Saranazett
+over into a new world.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> A new world somewhere else, Nourmahal. The packs are
+being made ready for the camels. Have your women tie up your clothes as
+if they were bundles of figs. Day after to-morrow or the next day or
+the next, we shall take horse and follow. We shall go to a world that
+is an old, old world, wiser than our world, a world where men's
+thoughts are free and their women's eyes look wherever they will.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal (passing to the gate).</i> The women shall make ready.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mehrab.</i> At once, and tell Zuleika she goes with you.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nourmahal.</i> Zuleika shall make ready.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote">
+<p>    She passes out through the gate into the garden. Mehrab turns and
+    sees the spikes driven into the wall by the tower. For a moment he
+    looks at them in astonishment, observing that they pass down to the
+    ground slopingly, and then, one by one, he pulls them out and
+    flings them down on the ground violently.
+</p></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="cane">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Old Cane Mill</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Nellie Gregg Tomlinson</i><a name="tomlinson">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"What's sorghum?" Don't you know sorghum?</p>
+<p>My gran'son nigh sixteen,</p>
+<p>Don't boys know nothin' nowadays?</p>
+<p>Beats all I ever seen.</p>
+<p>Why sorghum's the bulliest stuff</p>
+<p>Wuz ever made ter eat.</p>
+<p>You spread it thick on homemade bread;</p>
+<p>It's most oncommon sweet.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Come from?" Wall yer jist better bet</p>
+<p>It don't come from no can.</p>
+<p>Jus' b'iled down juice from sorghum cane,</p>
+<p>Straight I'way 'lasses bran'.</p>
+<p>"What's cane?" It's some like corn, yer know,</p>
+<p>An' topped with plumes o' seed.</p>
+<p>Grows straight an' tall on yaller clay</p>
+<p>That wouldn't grow a weed.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Long in September when 'twuz ripe,</p>
+<p>The cane-patch battle field</p>
+<p>Wuz charged by boys with wooden swords,</p>
+<p>Good temper wuz their shield.</p>
+<p>They stripped the stalks of all their leaves,</p>
+<p>Then men, with steel knives keen</p>
+<p>Slashed off the heads and cut the stalks</p>
+<p>An' piled them straight an' clean.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The tops wuz saved ter feed the hens,</p>
+<p>Likewise fer nex' year's seed.</p>
+<p>The farmer allus has ter save</p>
+<p>Against the futur's need.</p>
+<p>The neighbors cum from miles erbout</p>
+<p>An' fetched the cane ter mill.</p>
+<p>They stacked it high betwixt two trees,</p>
+<p>At Gran'dads, on the hill.</p></div>
+
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>An' ol' hoss turned the cane mill sweep,</p>
+<p>He led hisself erroun.</p>
+<p>The stalks wuz fed inter the press,</p>
+<p>From them the sap wuz groun'.</p>
+<p>This juice run through a little trough</p>
+<p>Ter pans beneath a shed;</p>
+<p>There it wuz b'iled an' skimmed and b'iled,</p>
+<p>Till it wuz thick an' red.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Then it wuz cooled an' put in bar'ls</p>
+<p>An' toted off to town</p>
+<p>While us kids got ter lick the pan,</p>
+<p>Which job wuz dun up brown.</p>
+<p>Gee whiz! but we did hev good times</p>
+<p>At taffy pullin' bees.</p>
+<p>We woun' the taffy roun' girls' necks&mdash;</p>
+<p>Bob wuz the biggest tease.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Inside the furnace, on live coals,</p>
+<p>We het cane stalks red hot,</p>
+<p>Then hit 'em hard out on the groun'&mdash;</p>
+<p>Yer oughter hear 'em pop!</p>
+<p>Sometimes a barefoot boy would step</p>
+<p>Inter the skimmin's hole,</p>
+<p>Er pinch his fingers in the mill,</p>
+<p>Er fall off from the pole.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>When winter winds went whis'lin' through</p>
+<p>The door an' winder cracks,</p>
+<p>An' piled up snow wuz driftin'</p>
+<p>Till yer couldn't see yer tracks,</p>
+<p>Then we all drawed roun' the table</p>
+<p>An' passed the buckwheat cakes,</p>
+<p>Er mebbe it wuz good corn bread.</p>
+<p>"What's sorghum?" Good lan' sakes.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Wall, son, yer hev my symperthy;</p>
+<p>Yer've missed a lot, I swan.</p>
+<p>Oh, sure yer dance an' joy-ride</p>
+<p>Frum ev'nin' untel dawn,</p>
+<p>Yer've football, skates an' golf ter he'p</p>
+<p>The passin' time ter kill,</p>
+<p>But give me mem'ry's boyhood days,</p>
+<p>Erroun' the ol' cane mill.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="queer">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Queer Little Thing</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd</i><a name="brainerd">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Bonita Allen was a queer little thing. Everyone in the school, from
+Miss Ryder down to the chambermaid, had made remarks to that effect
+before the child had spent forty-eight hours in the house, yet no one
+seemed able to give a convincing reason for the general impression.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The new pupil was quiet, docile, moderately well dressed, fairly good
+looking. She did nothing extraordinary. In fact, she effaced herself
+as far as possible; yet from the first she caused a ripple in the
+placid current of the school, and her personality was distinctly felt.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I think it's her eyes," hazarded Belinda, as she and Miss Barnes
+discussed the new-comer in the Youngest Teacher's room. "They aren't
+girl eyes at all."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Fine eyes," asserted the teacher of mathematics with her usual
+curtness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda nodded emphatic assent. "Yes, of course; beautiful, but so big
+and pathetic and dumb. I feel ridiculously apologetic every time the
+child looks at me, and as for punishing her&mdash;I'd as soon shoot a deer
+at six paces. It's all wrong. A twelve-year-old girl hasn't any right
+to eyes like those. If the youngster is unhappy she ought to cry
+twenty-five handkerchiefs full of tears, as Evangeline Marie did when
+she came, and then get over it. And if she's happy she ought to smile
+with her eyes as well as with her lips. I can't stand self-repression
+in children."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"She'll be all right when she has been here longer and begins to feel
+at home," said Miss Barnes. But Belinda shook her head doubtfully as
+she went down to superintend study hour.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Seated at her desk in the big schoolroom she looked idly along the
+rows of girlish heads until she came to one bent stoically over a
+book. The new pupil was not fidgeting like her comrades. Apparently
+her every thought was concentrated upon the book before her. Her
+elbows were on her desk, and one lean little brown hand supported the
+head, whose masses of straight black hair were parted in an unerring
+white line and fell in two heavy braids. The face framed in the smooth
+shining hair was lean as the hand, yet held no suggestion of
+ill-health. It was clean cut, almost to sharpness, brown with the
+brownness that comes from wind and sun, oddly firm about chin and
+lips, high of cheekbones, straight of nose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As Belinda looked two dark eyes were raised from the book and met her
+own&mdash;sombre eyes with a hurt in them&mdash;and an uncomfortable lump rose
+in the Youngest Teacher's throat. She smiled at the sad little face,
+but the smile was not a merry one. In some unaccountable way it spoke
+of the sympathetic lump in her throat, and the Queer Little Thing
+seemed to read the message, for the ghost of an answering smile
+flickered in the brown depths before the lids dropped over them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When study hour was over the Youngest Teacher moved hastily to the
+door, with some vague idea of following up the successful smile, and
+establishing diplomatic relations with the new girl; but she was not
+quick enough. Bonita had slipped into the hall and hurried up the
+stair toward the shelter of her own room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Shrugging her shoulders, Belinda turned toward the door of Miss
+Ryder's study and knocked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Come in."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The voice was not encouraging. Miss Lucilla objected to interruptions
+in the late evening hours, when she relaxed from immaculately fitted
+black silk to the undignified folds of a violet dressing gown.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she recognized the intruder she thawed perceptibly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, Miss Carewe! Come in. Nothing wrong, is there?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda dropped into a chair with a whimsical sigh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Nothing wrong except my curiosity. Miss Ryder, do tell me something
+about that Allen child."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Lucilla eyed her subordinate questioningly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What has she been doing?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Nothing at all. I wish she would do something. It's what she doesn't
+do, and looks capable of doing, that bothers me. There's simply no
+getting at her. She's from Texas, isn't she?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The principal regarded attentively one of the grapes she was eating,
+and there was an interval of silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"She is a queer little thing," Miss Lucilla admitted at last. "Yes,
+she's from Texas, but that's no reason why she should be odd. We've
+had a number of young ladies from Texas, and they were quite like
+other school girls only more so. Just between you and me, Miss Carewe,
+I think it must be the child's Indian blood that makes her seem
+different."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Indian?" Belinda sat up, sniffing romance in the air.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes, her father mentioned the strain quite casually when he wrote.
+It's rather far back in the family, but he seemed to think it might
+account for the girl's intense love for nature and dislike of
+conventions. Mrs. Allen died when the baby was born, and the father
+has brought the child up on a ranch. He's completely wrapped up in
+her, but he finally realized that she needed to be with women. He's
+worth several millions and he wants to educate her so that she'll
+enjoy the money&mdash;'be a fine lady,' as he puts it. I confess his
+description of the girl disturbed me at first, but he was so liberal
+in regard to terms that&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Lucilla left the sentence in the air and meditatively ate another
+bunch of grapes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Did her father come up with her?" Belinda asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No, he sent her with friends who happened to be coming&mdash;highly
+respectable couple, but breezy, very breezy. They told me that Bonita
+could ride any broncho on the ranch and could shoot a jack-rabbit on
+the run. They seemed to think she would be a great addition to our
+school circle on that account. Personally I'm much relieved to find
+her so tractable and quiet, but I've noticed something&mdash;well&mdash;unusual
+about her."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As Belinda went up to bed she met a slim little figure in a barbaric
+red and yellow dressing gown crossing the hall. There was a shy
+challenge in the serious child face, although the little feet, clad in
+soft beaded moccasins, quickened their steps; and Belinda answered the
+furtive friendliness by slipping an arm around the girl's waist and
+drawing her into the tiny hall bedroom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You haven't been to see me. It's one of the rules that every girl
+shall have a cup of cocoa with me before she has been here three
+evenings," she said laughingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Queer Little Thing accepted the overture soberly and, curled up in
+the one big chair, watched the teacher in silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cocoa was soon under way. Then the hostess turned and smiled
+frankly at her guest. Belinda's smile is a reassuring thing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Homesick business, isn't it?" she said abruptly, with a warm note of
+comradeship in her voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The tense little figure in the big chair leaned forward with sudden,
+swift confidence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'm going home," announced Bonita in a tone that made no
+reservations.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda received the news without the quiver of an eyelash or a sign
+of incredulity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"When?" she asked with interest warm enough to invite confession and
+not emphatic enough to rouse distrust.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I don't know just when, but I have to go. I can't stand it and I've
+written to Daddy. He'll understand. Nobody here knows. They're all
+used to it. They've always lived in houses like this, with little back
+yards that have high walls around them, and sidewalks and streets
+right outside the front windows, and crowds of strange people going by
+all the time, and just rules, rules, rules, everywhere. Everybody has
+so many manners, and they talk about things I don't know anything
+about, and nobody would understand if I talked about the real things."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Perhaps I'll understand a little bit," murmured Belinda. The Queer
+Little Thing put out one hand and touched the Youngest Teacher's knee
+gently in a shy, caressing fashion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No, you wouldn't understand, because you don't know; but you could
+learn. The others couldn't. The prairie wouldn't talk to them and
+they'd be lonesome&mdash;the way I am here. Dick says you have got to learn
+the language when you are little, or else have a gift for such
+languages, but that when you've once learned it you don't care to hear
+any other."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Who's Dick?" Belinda asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Dick? Oh he's just Dick. He taught me to ride and to shoot, and he
+used to read poetry to me, and he told me stories about everything. He
+used to go to a big school called Harvard, but he was lonesome
+there&mdash;the way I am here."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"The way I am here" dropped into the talk like a persistent refrain,
+and there was heartache in it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I want to go home," the child went on. Now that the dam of silence
+was down the pent-up feeling rushed out tumultuously. "I want to see
+Daddy and the boys and the horses and the cattle, and I want to watch
+the sun go down over the edge of the world, not just tumble down among
+the dirty houses, and I want to gallop over the prairie where there
+aren't any roads, and smell the grass and watch the birds and the sky.
+You ought to see the sky down there at night, Miss Carewe. It's so big
+and black and soft and full of bright stars, and you can see clear to
+where it touches the ground all around you, and there's a night breeze
+that's cool as cool, and the boys all play their banjos and guitars
+and sing, and Daddy and I sit over on our veranda and listen. There's
+only a little narrow strip of sky with two or three stars in it out of
+my window here, and it's so noisy and cluttered out in the back
+yards&mdash;and I hate walking in a procession on the ugly old streets, and
+doing things when bells ring. I hate it. I hate it."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her voice hadn't risen at all, had only grown more and more vibrant
+with passionate rebellion. The sharp little face was drawn and pale,
+but there were no tears in the big tragic eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda had consoled many homesick little girls, but this was a
+different problem.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'm sorry," she said softly. "Don't you think It will be easier after
+a while?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The small girl with the old face shook her head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No, it won't. It isn't in me to like all this. I'm so sorry, because
+Daddy wants me to be a lady. He said it was as hard for him to send me
+as it was for me to come, but that I couldn't learn to be a lady with
+lots of money to spend down there with only boys and him. There wasn't
+any lady there on the ranch at all, except Mammy Lou, the cook, and
+she didn't have lots of money to spend, so she wasn't the kind he
+meant. I thought I'd come and try, but I didn't know it would be like
+this. I don't want to be a lady, Miss Carewe. I don't believe they can
+be very happy. I've seen them in carriages and they don't look very
+happy. You're nice. I like you, and I'm most sure Daddy and Dick and
+the boys would like you, but then you haven't got lots of money, have
+you? And you were born up here and you don't know any better anyway.
+I'm going home."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The burst of confidence ended where it had begun. She was going home,
+and she was so firm in the faith that Belinda, listening, believed
+her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But if your father says no?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The dark little face was quiet again, all but the great eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'll have to go," the Queer Little Thing slowly said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Four days later Miss Lucilla Ryder called the Youngest Teacher into
+the study.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Miss Carewe, I'm puzzled about this little Miss Allen. I had a letter
+from her father this morning. He says that she has written that she is
+very homesick and unhappy and doesn't want to stay. He feels badly
+about it, of course, but he very wisely leaves the matter in our
+hands&mdash;says he realizes she'll have to be homesick and he'll have to
+be lonesome if she's to be a lady. But he wants us to do all we can to
+make her contented. He very generously sends a check for five hundred
+dollars, which we are to use for any extra expense incurred in
+entertaining her and making her happy. Now, I thought you might take
+her to the theater and the art museum, and the&mdash;a&mdash;the aquarium, and
+introduce her to the pleasures and advantages of city life. She'll
+soon be all right."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With sinking heart Belinda went in search of the girl. She found her
+practicing five-finger exercises drearily in one of the music-rooms.
+As Belinda entered the child looked up and met the friendly,
+sympathetic eyes. A mute appeal sprang into her own eyes, and Belinda
+understood. The thing was too bad to be talked about, and the Youngest
+Teacher said no word about the homesickness or the expected letter. In
+this way she clinched her friendship with the Queer Little Thing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But, following the principal's orders, she endeavored to demonstrate
+to Bonita the joy and blessedness of life in New York. The child went,
+quietly wherever she was taken&mdash;a mute, pathetic little figure to whom
+the aquarium fish and the Old Masters and the latest matinee idol were
+all one&mdash;and unimportant. The other girls envied her her privileges
+and her pocket-money, but they did not understand. No one understood
+save Belinda, and she did her cheerful best to blot out old loves with
+new impressions; but from the first she felt in her heart that she was
+elected to failure. The child was fond of her, always respectful,
+always docile, always grave. Nothing brought a light into her eyes or
+a spontaneous smile to her lips. Anyone save Belinda would have grown
+impatient, angry. She only grew more tender&mdash;and more troubled. Day by
+day she watched the sad little face grow thinner. It was pale now,
+instead of brown, and the high cheek bones were strikingly prominent.
+The lips pressed closely together drooped plaintively at the corners
+and the big eyes were more full of shadow than ever; but the child
+made no protest or plea, and by tacit consent she and Belinda ignored
+their first conversation and never mentioned Texas.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Often Belinda made up her mind to put aside the restraint and talk
+freely as she would to any other girl, but there was something about
+the little Texan that forbade liberties, warned off intruders, and the
+Youngest Teacher feared losing what little ground she had gained.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Finally she went in despair to Miss Ryder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"The Indian character is too much for me," she confessed with a groan
+half humorous, half earnest. "I give it up."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What's the matter?" asked Miss Ryder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, I've dragged poor Bonita Allen all over the borough of
+Manhattan and the Bronx and spent many ducats in the process. She has
+been very polite about it, but just as sad over Sherry's tea hour as
+over Grant's tomb, and just as cheerful over the Cesnola collection as
+over the monkey cages at the Zoo. The poor little thing is so unhappy
+and miserable that she looks like a wild animal in a trap, and I think
+the best we can do with her is to send her home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Nonsense," said Miss Lucilla. "Her father is paying eighteen hundred
+dollars a year."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda was defiant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I don't care. He ought to take her home."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Miss Carewe, you are sentimentalizing. One would think you had never
+seen a homesick girl before."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"She's different from other girls."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'll talk with her myself," said Miss Lucilla sternly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did, but the situation remained unchanged, and when she next
+mentioned the Texan problem to Belinda, Miss Lucilla was less positive
+in her views.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"She's a very strange child, but we must do what we can to carry out
+her father's wishes."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'd send her home," said Belinda.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was shortly after this that Katherine Holland, who sat beside
+Bonita at the table, confided to Belinda that that funny little Allen
+girl didn't eat a thing. The waitress came to Belinda with the same
+tale, and the Youngest Teacher sought out Bonita and reasoned with
+her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You really must eat, my dear," she urged.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Why?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You'll be ill if you don't."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"How soon?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda looked dazed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I'm afraid I don't understand."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"How soon will I be sick?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Very soon, I'm afraid," the puzzled teacher answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"That's good. I don't feel as if I could wait much longer."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda gasped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Do you mean to say you want to be ill?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"If I get very sick Daddy will come for me."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The teacher looked helplessly at the quiet, great-eyed child, then
+launched into expostulation, argument, entreaty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Bonita listened politely and was profoundly unimpressed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It's wicked, dear child. It would make your father wretchedly
+unhappy."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"He'd be awfully unhappy if he understood, anyway. He thinks I'm not
+really unhappy and that it's his duty to keep me here and make a lady
+of me, no matter how lonely he is without me. He wrote me so&mdash;but I
+know he'd be terribly glad if he had a real excuse for taking me
+home."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda exhausted her own resources and appealed to Miss Lucilla, who
+stared incredulously over her nose-glasses and sent for Bonita.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the interview she called for the Youngest Teacher, and the two
+failures looked at each other helplessly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It's an extraordinary thing," said Miss Lucilla in her most
+magisterial tone&mdash;"a most extraordinary thing. In all my experience
+I've seen nothing like it. Nothing seems to make the slightest
+impression upon the child. She's positively crazy."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You will tell her father to send for her, won't you?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Lucilla shook her head stubbornly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Not at all. It would be the ruination of the child to give in to her
+whims and bad temper now. If she won't listen to reason she must be
+allowed to pay for her foolishness. When she gets hungry enough she
+will eat. It's a shame to talk about a child of twelve having the
+stoicism to starve herself into an illness just because she is
+homesick at boarding-school."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda came back to her thread-worn argument.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But Bonita is different, Miss Ryder."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"She's a very stubborn, selfish child," said Miss Ryder resentfully,
+and turning to her desk she changed the conversation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Despite discipline, despite pleadings, despite cajolery, Bonita stood
+firm. Eat she would not, and when, on her way to class one morning the
+scrap of humanity with the set lips and the purple shadows round her
+eyes fainted quietly, Belinda felt that a masterly inactivity had
+ceased to be a virtue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James, the house man, carried the girl upstairs, and the Youngest
+Teacher put her to bed, where she opened her eyes to look unseeingly
+at Belinda and then closed them wearily and lay quite still, a limp
+little creature whose pale face looked pitifully thin and lifeless
+against the white pillow. The Queer Little Thing's wish had been
+fulfilled and illness had come without long delay.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For a moment Belinda looked down at the girl. Then she turned and went
+swiftly to Miss Ryder's study, her eyes blazing, her mouth so stern
+that Amelia Bowers, who met her on the stairs, hurried to spread the
+news that Miss Carewe "was perfectly hopping mad about something."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Once in the presence of the August One the little teacher lost no time
+in parley.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Miss Ryder," she said crisply&mdash;and at the tone her employer looked up
+in amazement&mdash;"I've told you about Bonita Allen. I've been to you
+again and again about her. You knew that she was fretting her heart
+out and half sick, and then you knew that for several days she hasn't
+been eating a thing. I tried to make you understand that the matter
+was serious and that something radical needed to be done, but you
+insisted that the child would come around all right and that we
+mustn't give in to her. I begged you to send for her father and you
+said it wasn't necessary. I'm here to take your orders, Miss Ryder,
+but I can't stand this sort of thing. I know the girl better than any
+of the rest of you do, and I know it isn't badness that makes her act
+so. Now she is ill&mdash;really ill. I've just put her to bed, and
+honestly, Miss Ryder, if we don't send for her father we'll have a
+tragedy on our hands. It sounds foolish, but it is true. If nobody
+else telegraphs to Mr. Allen I am going to do it."
+</p>
+
+<hr class="short">
+
+<p>
+When the doctor came there were bright red spots on the Queer Little
+Thing's cheeks, and she was babbling incoherently about prairie
+flowers and horses and Dick and Daddy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meanwhile a telegram had gone to Daddy and the messenger who delivered
+it heard a volume of picturesque comment that was startling even on a
+Texas ranch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Am coming," ran the answering dispatch received by Miss Ryder that
+night; but it was not until morning that Bonita was able to understand
+the news.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"He's scared, but I know he's glad," she said and she swallowed
+without a murmur the broth against which even in her delirium she had
+fought.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One evening, three days later, a hansom dashed up to the school and
+out jumped a tall, square-shouldered man in a wide-brimmed hat, and
+clothes that bore only a family resemblance to the clothing of the New
+York millionaires, though they were good clothes in their own
+free-and-easy way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A loud, hearty voice inquiring for "My baby" made itself heard even in
+the sickroom, and a sudden light flashed into the little patient's
+eyes&mdash;a light that was an illumination and a revelation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Daddy," she said wearily, and the word was a heart-throb.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Allen wasted no time in a polite interview with Miss Ryder.
+Hypnotized by his masterfulness, the servant led him directly up to
+the sick-room and opened the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man filled the room; a high breeze seemed to come with him, and
+vitality flowed from him in tangible waves. Belinda smiled, but there
+were tears in her eyes, for the big man's heart was in his face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Baby!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Daddy!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Belinda remembered an errand downstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she returned the big Texan was sitting on the side of the bed
+with both the lean little hands in one of his big brawny ones, while
+his other hand awkwardly smoothed the straight black hair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"When will you take me home, Daddy?" said the child with the shining
+eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"As soon as you're strong enough, Honey. The boys wanted me to let
+them charge New York in a bunch and get you. It's been mighty lonesome
+on that ranch. I wish to heaven I'd never been fool enough to let you
+come away."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He turned to Belinda with a quizzical smile sitting oddly on his
+anxious face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I reckon she might as well go, miss. I sent her to a finishing
+school, and by thunder, she's just about finished."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a certain hint of pride in his voice as he added
+reflectively:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I might have known if she said she'd have to come home she meant it.
+Harder to change her mind than to bust any broncho I ever tackled.
+Queer Little Thing, Baby is."
+</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+  Copyrighted by Doubleday, Page &amp; Co.
+</p>
+
+
+
+<a name="american">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">An American Wake</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Rose A. Crow</i><a name="crow">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+This was the last night in the old home, which had sheltered the
+family for five generations. The day had been full of excitement, as
+by a merciful ordinance last days usually are. The final packing had
+been done, the chests and boxes securely fastened and carefully
+labeled. This was all looked after by Margaret, herself, amidst
+interruptions by her brood of young children. Visits from friends and
+relatives, living at a distance, occupied much of the day; attending
+to countless minor things kept them all busy until nightfall. Even
+then there was no time allowed to visit the shrine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret had a fairy shrine, to which she carried the cares of the day
+and the hopes of the morrow. This charmed place was a stile over the
+ivy-clad walls of the garden. There she brought her childish joys and
+sorrows, and in the quiet received consolation. She had fought the
+fiercest battles of her womanhood with her head resting against the
+ivy-covered pillar. To-night, when she was parting from her country
+and friends, there was no time to commune with her silent friend.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Shortly after dusk, in accordance with local etiquette, very stringent
+on such momentous occasions, the relatives, friends and neighbors of a
+lifetime began to drop in by twos and threes until every inch of wall
+space was filled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Who of all this gathering was more welcome than "John, the Fiddler"?
+He was a great favorite with young and old. The sight of him carrying
+his fiddle caused a feeling of emotion in the hearts of the older
+people. It recalled the tragic story of John's father who years before
+left for America intending to send for his wife and crippled son. A
+fever contracted on shipboard deprived them of a husband and father.
+It was then that John Doyle became "John, the Fiddler."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+John was beckoned into the "room," where with Father O'Connell and a
+few trusty friends, he was treated to a small measure of potheen. Dan
+Monahan had donated a very small jug for this special occasion. To be
+given the first shot from Dan's still was no small favor, as those
+present knew. Before taking his seat at the end of the room, John
+drank Margaret's health, wishing herself and family a safe voyage
+across the water, and a happy home on the prairies of Iowa.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Each guest realized the strain of parting and generously made an
+effort to conceal the gloom with a brave semblance of mirth. There was
+dancing, singing of songs, and elaborate drinking of healths. With
+persistent calls for Margaret's brother James, the dancing stopped.
+The floor was cleared, and he was borne in on the shoulders of the
+leaders, who had found him leaning against the ivy-covered wall,
+gazing at the moon, floating over his old home which, alas! he would
+never see again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James MacNevin was a magnificent specimen of Irish manhood and a
+charming singer. He was about twenty-three years old, tall and
+broad-shouldered, with a fine head of curly auburn hair. His clear
+blue eyes reflected the sadness of the group around him, while his
+white teeth flashed a smile. In one hand he crushed his handkerchief,
+while with the other he nervously twirled a sprig of ivy. A few
+measures of "Good Night and Joy Be with You All" came from the violin.
+For an instant he wavered, then throwing back his head he sang the
+song, not with full volume, but with intense feeling, emphasis and a
+clear ringing tone. The song seemed to voice his own feelings as his
+chest rose and fell. He was no longer just James MacNevin, but a
+pilgrim traveling to a strange country. His whole soul was filled with
+the sentiment, and there was such pathos in its heart-throb that the
+whole company was moved to tears. The last verse ended, he stood a
+moment with gaze transfixed&mdash;then rousing himself, bowed, smiled and
+with one hand in his sister Margaret's, the other clutching the sprig
+of ivy, he passed out of the home forever.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="rochester">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Rochester, Minn.</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+<b>(With apologies to the Mayos)</b>
+</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Marie G. Stapp</i><a name="marie">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Mr. Smith had gallstones,</p>
+<p>Mr. Jones had gout,</p>
+<p>Bad appendices had the Browns</p>
+<p>But now they've been cut out.</p>
+<p>Rachel had a goitre,</p>
+<p>Susan a queer spleen,</p>
+<p>A tumor worried Mrs. Wright</p>
+<p>Though it could not be seen.</p>
+<p>Robert had large tonsils</p>
+<p>And Dick had adenoids, too,</p>
+<p>Bill Green had never had an ear,</p>
+<p>He did when <i>they</i> got through.</p>
+<p>Peggy had a leaky heart,</p>
+<p>Her father had no hair,</p>
+<p>Both heart and head are now fixed up</p>
+<p>And what a happy pair!</p>
+<p>And I&mdash;well I have nothing wrong&mdash;</p>
+<p>That's why I don't feel right;</p>
+<p>I'll pay my bill at this hotel</p>
+<p>And go back home to-night.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="god">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">God's Back Yard</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Jessie Welborn Smith</i><a name="smith">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+<p class="subhead">
+<span class="sc">An Episode from Act Three</span>
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote">
+<p class="ctr">
+    <i>Place, Tim Murphy's saloon.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Time, evening.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+    Men are crowding about the bar, drinking and laughing coarsely.
+    The wives are huddled together on a long bench at one side of the
+    room. The children keep close to their mothers, but stretch their
+    little necks to watch the dancing in the back of the room, where a
+    group of painted women are tangoing to the wheezy accompaniment of
+    an old accordion. Over in the corner a man sprawls drunkenly
+    across a broken-down faro table.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Dick Long (hammering the bar with his mug and singing).</i> Oh, I'm
+goin' to hell, and I don't give a damn. I'm goin' to hell. I'm goin'
+to&mdash;hell.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Murphy (knocking a board from the crate that holds the new
+nickel-in-the-slot gramaphone).</i> You're going a damn sight faster
+than that, Dickie Bird, but you'll have to speed up a bit to get in on
+the concert. The program begins at eight o'clock sharp, like it says
+on the card in the window, and everybody gets an invite, but Caruso
+don't sing this time.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>First Painted Lady (stopping the dance and coming down beside
+Murphy).</i> Let 'er go, Murph. Give us "Too Much Mustard." The piano
+player down at the Gulch plays that just fine, and a piece about a
+girl that didn't want to love him, but he made her do it. That machine
+was long on personal history, Murph. I heard them all through three
+times. Let 'er go. We're all here.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>First Wife (leaning over and speaking eagerly).</i> Mrs. Long won't
+be able to come, Murphy, and Old Moll is settin' up with her to-night.
+I met Doc as I came across. The young-un died. I don't see no use in
+waitin' when we're all here.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Rosie Phelan (reaching over and pulling Long's sleeve).</i> Did you
+hear that, Dick? Your kid is dead. Your kid is&mdash;d-e-a-d. Do you get
+me?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Man at the Bar.</i> Aw, break it to him gentle. He don't know he is
+a father yet. Have a heart.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Rosie Phelan (disgustedly).</i> "Have a heart." Well, what do you
+think of that? For a man who guzzles all day you are mighty strong on
+the heart-throb slush. "Speak kindly to the erring." Didn't know you
+had got religion. Was it you got the revivalist to come up from the
+Gulch?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang"><i>Nell (shifting her wad of gum).</i> Well, he was sitting over at
+Benton's rather lonesome-like as I came along. I allus follow the
+crowd.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Murphy (hotly).</i> And that is what that preacher will have to do
+if he makes any converts up here at the mine. I reckon that, with that
+music machine, I'm equipped to compete with any preacher that comes
+larking around here until kingdom come. He said he'd save me, if he
+had to chase me to hell and back, did he? Well, that guy should worry.
+That pale chicken-liver chase me to&mdash;Pour out the drinks, Bob. It's my
+treat.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    Bob slops a little whiskey into every glass and mug on the bar and
+    passes it round. As it comes to the wives they smile, but shake
+    their heads. Murphy lifts his glass.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Murphy.</i> Won't you women drink the minister's health. How about
+you females, Bett? Nell? Rosie? Mollie? You girls never turn down free
+liquor, do you? Ready? To hell with the minister.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Barkeeper.</i> To hell with every denatured female that comes round
+here praying for our souls' salvation. I reckon a feller can do what
+he damn pleases with his own soul.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>First Lounger (lazily boastful).</i> I told my old woman that if I
+ketched her or the kids hanging round listening to that mollycoddle
+letting off steam, I'd&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>First Wife (spitefully).</i> Us women ain't got no call to get
+religion. We're too meek already. My man knows that he'll have a
+wildcat at his head when he comes in with that O'Grady woman, but it
+don't do no good. He ain't afeared o' nothin' short o' the devil. You
+don't ketch me joinin' while my old man is alive. You gotta have some
+protection. Safety first, I say.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Second Wife (meekly).</i> They say the "Blue Ridge Mountains" is a
+mighty tuneful piece. My sister heard it over at Smarty's las'
+Thanksgiving. Can you tell whether your pianoler plays that, Murphy?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Second Painted Lady (patronizingly).</i> How would you expect
+Murphy to know what is stored in that machine? You pays your money and
+your choice is whatever it happens to grind out. If you place your
+money on a "Harem" and draws an "Apple Blossom Time in Normandy," you
+got to take your medicine. What you waiting for, Murph? My gentleman
+friend is coming over from the Pass this evening, and I can't hang
+around here all night.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Rosie (excitedly, turning from the window that looks upon the
+street).</i> The light is out at Benton's. The minister is coming over
+here. Remember and give him hell. Let him turn the other cheek.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Murphy.</i> No prayer meeting virgin is going to interfere with my
+business.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    The door opens and the minister steps inside. Murphy goes over and
+    greets him with mock politeness.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Murphy.</i> Rosie, you are chief usher to-night. Will you find the
+minister a seat? Sit over, Nell. There's room enough between you and
+Bett for any sky pilot that ever hit the trail. Bob, give the preacher
+a drink. He looks sort of fagged. It's hard work saving sinners in
+God's Back Yard. I hope this little concert ain't going to interfere
+with your meeting, parson.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Minister (standing at the bar, whiskey glass in hand).</i> Not at
+all, friend. What is the bill of fare?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Rosie (coming forward in her low-cut red gown and swinging her full
+skirts from side to side).</i> For Gawd's sake, why didn't you tell me
+it was going to be religious? I'd forgot it was prayer-meetin' night,
+Murph. (<i>She carefully tucks her handkerchief over her bosom in
+pretense of modesty.</i>) I'd dressed up more, if I'd remembered.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nell (holding out a string of glittering beads).</i> Here, take
+these, Rosie. These'll cover up some. I ain't takin' an active part,
+so I don't mind.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Rosie (lifting her arms to fasten the beads).</i> Not takin' an
+active part? You don't know what you're sayin'. I heard of a minister
+once who could make hell look so darned nice you wanted to fall for it
+right away. Couldn't such a fellah give the heavenly gates a jar?
+(<i>She turns to the minister.</i>) Where d'you want to sit? Up there
+by Mollie? Take your choice.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Old Moll's Daughter (jumping down from her perch at one end of the
+bar and walking over brazenly to drop the first nickel in the
+slot).</i> Clear the way, can't you? I'm praying for the "Bunny Hug"
+and the minister is backing me. For Gawd's sake, can't you clear the
+floor? Do you want the music to be half done before you find your
+partners? I'll be obliged to you, parson, if you'll save this dance
+for me. (<i>She pauses a moment, nickel in hand.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>First Card Player.</i> I'll stake you ten to one it'll be "The
+Pullman Porters on Parade."
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Second Player (doggedly).</i> They always play "A Great Big
+Blue-Eyed Baby."
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Rosie (shaking her head and singing, hands on hips).</i> "My harem,
+my harem, my roly, poly harem."
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Nell (with mock sentiment).</i> "For it's Apple Blossom Time in
+Normandy, in Normandy, in Normandy."
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    The nickel jangles in the slot. The disk begins to revolve. It
+    grates and begins its introductory mechanical clinkety-clinkety
+    clink. A small child wails dismally as the music shivers through
+    the room.
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"Jesus, lover of my soul,</p>
+<p class="i2">Let me to Thy bosom fly.</p>
+<p>While the nearer waters roll,</p>
+<p class="i2">While the tempest still is high.</p>
+<p>Hide me, O, my Saviour, hide</p>
+<p class="i2">Till the storm of life is past.</p>
+<p>Safe into the haven guide,</p>
+<p class="i2">O, receive my soul at last."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+    Rosie's hands drop from her hips as the song begins. The dancing
+    impulse passes from her limbs. Even the muscles of her face harden
+    convulsively.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Rosie (hysterically).</i> Oh, I can't stand that, Murphy. For
+Gawd's sake, can't you stop it?
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    She starts over toward the machine impulsively. Then something
+    catches her, she pauses and is held a moment while a superstitious
+    awe makes her eyes again the big roundness of childhood's wonder.
+    She draws the back of her hand across her forehead in an endeavor
+    to bring herself out of the daze.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Rosie (falling sobbing beside the bench)</i>. "O, receive my soul
+at last." Why did you leave your little Rosie? Mother, Oh, mother. I
+ain't fit to come to you no more, mother&mdash;I ain't fit, I ain't fit.
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    One of the mothers reaches over and strokes her hair.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Old Moll's Daughter (opening the door and stepping out into the
+lonely street as she laughs madly).</i> Old Murphy in cahoots with the
+minister. Oh, hell!
+</p>
+
+<div class="blockquote"><p>
+    The door slams shut. The glasses on the bar jangle harshly. A
+    snatch of song boldly defiant rings in from the street: "Don't
+    tell me that you've lost your dog." Murphy walks over and stands
+    looking at the music box. It is still grinding out the music.
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"Other refuge have I none.</p>
+<p class="i2">Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.</p>
+<p>Leave, ah, leave me not alone.</p>
+<p class="i2">Still support and comfort me.</p>
+<p>All my trust on Thee is staid.</p>
+<p class="i2">All my help from Thee I bring.</p>
+<p>Cover my defenseless head</p>
+<p class="i2">With the shadow of Thy wing."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+    The wives are all crying quietly. Rosie and Bett are sobbing with
+    the wild abandon that such natures know. Tears are falling upon
+    the idle hands at the card table. The men at the bar are strangely
+    quiet.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Man at the Faro Table (lifting himself up on his elbow).</i> I ushe
+shing&mdash;I ushe shing zhat&mdash;I ushe shing Jeshus&mdash;Jeshus&mdash;I ushe
+shing&mdash;(<i>He drops his head over on the table and weeps
+drunkenly.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Little Child (pulling at her mother's shoulders and whining
+peevishly).</i> Who is Jesus, mamma? Do we know Jesus?
+(<i>Happily.</i>) Will he cover my head with a pretty birdie's wing?
+(<i>The mother shakes with sobs and the child speaks more
+caressingly.</i>) Don't cry, mother. I like my hat with the posies on
+it. You can have the feathers, nice, good mamma. Don't cry.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Murphy (absently, looking at the minister).</i> They sang that at
+the funeral. Sally didn't have no call to hide anything. She was that
+white and pure. I always felt her slippin'&mdash;slippin' away. She worried
+so them last days because of the little kid. "Take him back home,
+Murph," she kept sayin'. "A little child has got to have some raisin'.
+A kid has got to go to Sunday school, Tim, dear, and there ain't never
+no meetin's in God's Back Yard."
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Man at the Bar (dejectedly, going over to the door).</i> It's all
+right for the young-uns, but when a man has got a thirst and is down
+on his luck, I don't allow that God is going to help much. You got to
+get 'em young, parson, and keep 'em headed straight. It's hell turning
+back. I tried it, and I couldn't make it go.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Minister (gently, as if speaking to someone very near).</i> Oh,
+Jesus, lover of all these misguided souls, come down to this little
+room to-night, for it is dark here, and, Oh, so cold and dreary. Speak
+to them, Jesus, as you did to me. Let them see the glory of Thy face.
+Will someone pray?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Murphy (looking across at the loafers and speaking half as an
+invitation, half as a command).</i> Are you staying, boys?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>One of the Men (doggedly, as they look at one another sheepishly
+and no one moves to go).</i> Ain't we always stayin' till closin'
+time?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Murphy (warmly).</i> You sure do, boys. (<i>He buries his head in
+his crossed arms over the music-box.</i>) It's your lead, parson.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="wild">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Wild Crab Apple</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Julia Ellen Rogers</i><a name="rogers">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+The wild, sweet-scented crab apple! The bare mention of its name is
+enough to make the heart leap up, though spring be months away, and
+barriers of brick hem us in. In the corner of the back pasture stands
+a clump of these trees, huddled together like cattle. Their flat,
+matted tops reach out sidewise until the stubby limbs of neighboring
+trees meet. It would not occur to anyone to call them handsome trees.
+But wait! The twigs silver over with young foliage, then coral buds
+appear, thickly sprinkling the green leaves. Now all their asperity is
+softened, and a great burst of rose-colored bloom overspreads the
+treetops and fills the air with perfume. It is not mere sweetness, but
+an exquisite, spicy, stimulating fragrance that belongs only to wild
+crab-apple flowers. Linn&aelig;us probably never saw more than a dried
+specimen, but he named this tree most worthily, <i>coronaria</i>, "fit
+for crowns and garlands."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Break off an armful of these blossoming twigs and take them home. They
+will never be missed. Be thankful that your friends in distant parts
+of the country may share your pleasure, for though this particular
+species does not cover the whole United States, yet there is a wild
+crab apple for each region.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the fall the tree is covered with hard little yellow apples. They
+have a delightful fragrance, but they are neither sweet nor mellow.
+Take a few home and make them into jelly. Then you will understand why
+the early settlers gathered them for winter use. The jelly has a wild
+tang in it, an indescribable piquancy of flavor as different from
+common apple jelly as the flowers are in their way more charming than
+ordinary appleblossoms. It is the rare gamy taste of a primitive
+apple.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Well-meaning horticulturists have tried what they could do toward
+domesticating this <i>Malus coronaria</i>. The effort has not been a
+success. The fruit remains acerb and hard; the tree declines to be
+"ameliorated" for the good of mankind. Isn't it, after all, a
+gratuitous office? Do we not need our wild crab apple just as it is,
+as much as we need more kinds of orchard trees? How spirited and fine
+is its resistance! It seems as if this wayward beauty of our woodside
+thickets considered that the best way to serve mankind was to keep
+inviolate those charms that set it apart from other trees and make its
+remotest haunt the Mecca of eager pilgrims every spring.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The wild crab apple is not a tree to plant by itself in park or
+garden. Plant it in companies on the edge of woods, or in obscure and
+ugly fence corners, where there is a background, or where, at least,
+each tree can lose its individuality in the mass. Now, go away and let
+them alone. They do not need mulching nor pruning. Let them gang their
+ain gait, and in a few years you will have a crab-apple thicket. You
+will also have succeeded in bringing home with these trees something
+of the spirit of the wild woods where you found them.
+</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+  &mdash;From <i>The Tree Book</i>.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="ballad">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">A Ballad of the Corn</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By S. H. M. Byers</i><a name="byers">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Oh, the undulating prairies,</p>
+<p class="i2">And the fields of yellow corn,</p>
+<p>Like a million soldiers waiting for the fray.</p>
+<p class="i2">Oh, the rustling of the corn leaves</p>
+<p class="i2">Like a distant fairy's horn</p>
+<p>And the notes the fairy bugles seem to play.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"We have risen from the bosom</p>
+<p class="i2">Of the beauteous mother earth,</p>
+<p>Where the farmer plowed his furrow straight and long.</p>
+<p class="i2">There was gladness and rejoicing</p>
+<p class="i2">When the summer gave us birth,</p>
+<p>In the tumult and the dancing and the song.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"When the sumach turns to scarlet,</p>
+<p class="i2">And the vines along the lane</p>
+<p>Are garmented in autumn's golden wine&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">Then the land shall smile for plenty,</p>
+<p class="i2">And the toiler for his pain,</p>
+<p>When the soldiers of our army stand in line.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"With our shining blades before us,</p>
+<p class="i2">And our banners flaming far,</p>
+<p>Want and hunger shall be slain forevermore.</p>
+<p class="i2">And the cornfield's lord of plenty</p>
+<p class="i2">In his golden-covered car</p>
+<p>Then shall stop at every happy toiler's door."</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Oh, the sunshine and the beauty</p>
+<p class="i2">On the fields of ripened corn,</p>
+<p>And the wigwams and the corn-rows where they stand.</p>
+<p class="i2">In the lanes I hear the music</p>
+<p class="i2">Of the faintly blowing horn</p>
+<p>And the blessed Indian summer's on the land.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="children">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Children's Blessing</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Virginia Roderick</i><a name="roderick">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+On the slope of a hill, beneath silvery olives, a group was gathered
+about the young stranger. He had entered the village only that
+morning, seeking the companionship of such Nazarenes as might be
+there. And they had brought him out here in the open to receive his
+message. But though he carried them greetings, and news from the
+distant groups of the Christ's followers, it was plain that he had not
+been sent to them on a mission.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They waited until he should be ready to explain his quest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You did not see Him, then?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Into the young man's eyes there came a great, yearning sadness. "No,"
+he answered. "But you," he asked eagerly, "did none of you see Him?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They shook their heads, all of them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"We were too far away," one murmured.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But I had for spiritual father one who had seen Him," the traveler
+offered, his face lighting. "You know how He blessed a company of
+little children? How He put His hands upon them?" He paused and they
+nodded silently. "My teacher was one of those children," he said, his
+dark eyes aglow with reverent pride.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A quick glance flashed about the group; but no one spoke and the
+traveler went on, the radiance of his face blotted out again in
+sadness. "It is because he is gone that I am a wanderer now. I was
+always with him, and we went about together, preaching the Kingdom. It
+was all so clear to my teacher because he had seen Him. He told me of
+His wonderful look."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They fell silent, brooding and thoughtful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then one asked: "What was it like&mdash;the blessing He gave your teacher?
+Did he gain goods and store?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The young traveler's eyes opened in amazement. "Why no! How could that
+be? My teacher was like Him," he explained simply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again the quick look passed about the circle. At last one spoke,
+slowly: "There is a man here in the village who was also blessed with
+the children."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The young traveler started up joyously. "Take me to him," he
+entreated. "Let me talk with him; that is what I have come here
+seeking&mdash;another teacher."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Nay, friend&mdash;" began one; but another hurriedly whispered: "Let us
+not tell him. Perhaps he can help." And so the first speaker finished:
+"I fear you will not find him like your teacher, but you shall go; it
+is only a step."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And they guided him, all but impatient, to a mean hovel just within
+the town. There they left him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a man with a dark, bitter face that answered his knock. "May I
+speak with Nemuel?" the stranger asked courteously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I am Nemuel," growled the man curtly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But I mean Nemuel who was one of the children that Jesus blessed,"
+persisted the young traveler, his face softly alight as the name
+passed his lips.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Come in; I am the man." He straightened proudly. "I was a child seven
+years old when I saw Him&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He stopped, for the young stranger, pale and gasping, broke in: "You
+saw Him! He touched you! You have seen His face, and yet your
+own&mdash;forgive me, friend. But my master was also one of the children
+blessed by the Christ, and he was &hellip; different." He hesitated, still
+looking at the somber face in puzzled distress.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man caught the young stranger's arm. "You knew another of those He
+blessed? Tell me, did he have great wealth, palaces, honors? Did he
+wait long? Did the blessing tarry so long in the fulfilment as with
+me?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The young stranger shook his head in deep bewilderment. "I do not
+understand. No, he had no wealth, no palaces, no honors. He followed
+the Christ. He was blessed by His spirit. Why, how could one want
+goods and honors when one had seen His wonderful smile, when His
+arms&mdash;" He broke off, gazing at his host in appalled incomprehension.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nemuel's dark face grew darker, more bitter. "Then there <i>is</i> no
+blessing, after all," he said slowly. "I have waited, believing,
+trusting. I have kept my life clean. I have kept myself holy&mdash;away
+from those He had not touched&mdash;" The stranger drew a quick breath and
+his eyes softened with pity. "I have never forgotten that I was
+blessed above others. And now there <i>is</i> no blessing." And he
+covered his face with his hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a silence and then the young stranger spoke very gently:
+"The blessing my master taught me, was for all children&mdash;for all
+childlike faith and trust and purity. It was a sanctification of the
+child spirit."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nemuel had lifted his head and was listening, his eyes fastened
+wonderingly on the stranger's face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"And it was not a blessing to be wrapped up in a napkin. It was not
+one to bring you good fortune, as if it had been a sorcerer's charm.
+It was a blessing for you to take and to make&mdash;to use it&mdash;to give it
+to others. Through you He blessed <i>all</i> children&hellip;. And yet&mdash;"
+the stranger's voice deepened&mdash;"yet there <i>was</i> something special
+too."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What was it?" Nemuel breathed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The stranger bent on him a gaze full of yearning. "Have you not
+remembered His face?" he asked. "His wonderful look&mdash;just for you?"
+There was a pleading note of reproach in his voice as he leaned toward
+Nemuel, but his face was all love and tenderness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nemuel began to shake his head slowly, still fixing the stranger with
+his gaze.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No," he confessed. "I haven't been able to remember&mdash;not for years.
+At first I did. Afterward I <i>knew</i> His face was wonderful, but I
+could not <i>see</i> it. But now&mdash;now I begin to remember&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The young stranger waited for the halting words, his face lighting
+softly with a holy hope and joy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Why, your face&mdash;" Nemuel still hesitated, groping, and then suddenly
+his voice rang out in triumph, and memory dawned clearly in his
+eyes&mdash;"why, <i>your face</i>&mdash;is&mdash;like&mdash;<i>His</i>! Oh, I do
+remember!&mdash;and&mdash;I begin to understand."
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="mob">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Kitchener's Mob</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+<b>From The Atlantic Monthly</b>
+</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By James Norman Hall</i><a name="hall">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Trench-mortaring was more to our liking. That is an infantryman's
+game, and while extremely hazardous, the men in the trenches have a
+sporting chance. Everyone forgot breakfast when word was passed down
+the line that we were going to "mortarfy" Fritzie. Our projectiles
+were immense balls of hollow steel, filled with high explosive.
+Eagerly, expectantly, the boys gathered in the first-line trenches to
+watch the fun. First a dull boom from the reserve trench in rear where
+the mortar was operated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"There she is!" "See 'er?" "Goin' true as a die!" All the boys would
+be shouting at once.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Up it goes, turning over and over, rising to a height of several
+hundred feet. Then, if well aimed, it reaches the end of its upward
+journey directly over the enemy's line, and falls straight into his
+trench. There is a moment of silence, followed by a terrific explosion
+which throws dirt and d&eacute;bris high in the air. By this time, the
+Tommies all along the line are standing on the firing benches, head
+and shoulders above the parapet, forgetting their danger in their
+excitement, and shouting at the top of their voices:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"'Ow's that one, Fritzie boy?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Guten morgen, you Proosian sausage wallopers!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Tyke a bit o' that there 'ome to yer missus!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Fritzie kept up his end of the game, always. He gave us just as
+good as we sent, and often he added something for good measure. His
+surprise packages were sausage-shaped missiles which came wobbling
+toward us, slowly, almost awkwardly; but they dropped with lightning
+speed. The explosion was terrible, and alas for any Tommy who
+misjudged the place of its fall! However, everyone had a chance.
+Trench-mortar projectiles are so large, and they describe so leisurely
+an arc before they fall, that men have time to run.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I've always admired Tommy Atkins for his sense of fair play. He loved
+giving Fritz "a little bit of all right," but he never resented it
+when Fritz had his own fun at our expense. I used to believe, in the
+far-off days of peace, that men had lost their old primal love for
+dangerous sport, their native ignorance of fear. But on those
+trench-mortaring days, when I watched boys playing with death with
+right good zest, heard them shouting and laughing as they tumbled over
+one another in their eagerness to escape being killed, I was convinced
+that I was wrong. Daily I saw men going through the test of fire
+triumphantly, and at the last, what a fearful test it was, and how
+splendidly they met it! During six months, continuously in the firing
+line, I met less than a dozen natural-born cowards; and my experience
+was largely among clerks, barbers, plumbers, shopkeepers, men who had
+no fighting tradition to back them up, to make them heroic in spite of
+themselves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The better I knew Tommy, the better I liked him. He hasn't a shred of
+sentimentality in his make-up. There is plenty of sentiment, sincere
+feeling, but it is very well concealed. I had been a soldier of the
+King for many months before I realized that the men with whom I was
+living, sharing rations and hardships, were anything other than the
+healthy animals they looked. They seemed to live for their food. They
+talked of it, anticipated it with the zest of men who were
+experiencing for the first time the joy of being genuinely hungry.
+They watched their muscles harden with the satisfaction known to every
+normal man when he is becoming physically fit for the first time. But
+they said nothing about patriotism, or the duty of Englishmen in
+wartime. And if I tried to start a conversation on that line, they
+walked right over me with their boots on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This was a great disappointment at first. I would never have known,
+from anything that was said, that a man of them was stirred at the
+thought of fighting for old England. England was all right, but, "I
+ain't a-goin' balmy about the old flag and all that stuff." Many of
+them insisted that they were in the army for personal and selfish
+reasons alone. They went out of their way to ridicule any and every
+indication of sentiment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was the matter of talk about mothers, for example. I can't
+imagine this being the case in a volunteer army of American boys; but
+never, during sixteen months of British army life, did I hear a
+discussion of mothers. When the weekly parcels post from England
+arrived, and the boys were sharing their cake and chocolate and
+tobacco, one of them would say, "Good old mum. She ain't a bad sort,"
+to be answered with reluctant, mouth-filled grunts, or grudging nods
+of approval. As for fathers, I often thought to myself, "This is
+certainly a tremendous army of posthumous sons!" Months before I
+should have been astonished at this reticence. But I had learned to
+understand Tommy. His silences were as eloquent as any splendid
+outbursts or glowing tributes could have been. It was a matter of
+constant wonder to me that men living in the daily and hourly presence
+of death could so control and conceal their feelings. Their talk was
+of anything but home; and yet I knew that they thought of little else.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of our boys was killed, and there was a letter to be written to
+his parents. Three Tommies who knew him best were to attempt this.
+They made innumerable beginnings. Each of them was afraid of
+blundering, of causing unnecessary pain by an indelicate revelation of
+the facts. There was a feminine fineness about their concern which was
+beautiful to see. The final draft of the letter was a masterpiece, not
+of English, but of insight; such a letter as any one of us would have
+liked his own parents to receive under similar circumstances. Nothing
+was forgotten which could make the news in the slightest degree more
+endurable. Every trifling personal belonging was carefully saved up
+and packed in a little box to follow the letter. All this was done
+amid much boisterous jesting; and there was hilarious singing to the
+wheezing accompaniment of an old mouth-organ. But of reference to
+home, or mothers, or comradeship, not a word.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rarely a night passed without its burial parties. "Digging in the
+garden," Tommy calls the grave-making. The bodies, wrapped in blankets
+or water-proof ground-sheets, are lifted over the parados and carried
+back a convenient twenty yards or more. The desolation of that garden
+was indescribable. It was strewn with wreckage, gaping with
+shell-holes, billowing with numberless nameless graves, a waste land
+speechlessly pathetic. The poplars and willow hedges had been blasted
+and splintered by shell-fire. Tommy calls these "Kaiser Bill's
+flowers." Coming from England, he feels more deeply than he would care
+to admit the crimes done to trees in the name of war.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Our chaplain was a devout man, but prudent to a fault. He never
+visited us in the trenches; therefore our burial parties proceeded
+without the rites of the church. This arrangement was highly
+satisfactory to Tommy. He liked to "get the planting done" with the
+least possible delay or fuss. His whispered conversations, while the
+graves were being scooped, were, to say the least, quite out of the
+spirit of the occasion. Once we were burying two boys with whom we had
+been having a supper a few hours before. There was an artillery duel
+in progress, the shells whistling high over our heads and bursting in
+great splotches of white fire, far in rear of the opposing lines of
+trenches. The grave-making went speedily on while the diggers argued
+in whispers as to the calibre of the guns. Some said they were
+six-inch, while others thought nine-inch. Discussion was momentarily
+suspended when trench-rockets went soaring up from the enemy's line.
+We crouched motionless until the welcome darkness spread again. And
+then, in loud whispers&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"'Ere! If they was nine-inch they would 'ave more screech."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And one of different opinion would reply:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Don't talk so bloomin' silly! Ain't I a-tellin' you you can't always
+size 'em by the screech?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not a prayer. Not a word either of censure or praise for the boys who
+had gone. Not an expression of opinion as to the meaning of the great
+change which had come to them and which might come as suddenly to any
+or all of us. And yet I knew that every man was thinking of these
+things.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There were days when the front was really quiet. The thin trickle of
+rifle-fire only accentuated the stillness of an early summer morning.
+Far down the line many a Tommy could be heard singing to himself as he
+sat in the door of his dug-out, cleaning his rifle. There would be the
+pleasant crackle of burning pine sticks, the sizzle of frying bacon,
+the lazy buzzing of swarms of bluebottle flies. Occasionally, across a
+pool of noonday silence, we heard the birds singing; for they didn't
+desert us. When we gave them a hearing, they did their cheery little
+best to assure us that everything would come right in the end. Once we
+heard a skylark, an English skylark, and for a while it made the world
+beautiful again. It was a fine thing to watch the faces of those
+English lads as they listened. I was deeply touched when one of them
+said, "Ain't 'e a plucky little chap, singin' right in front of
+Fritzie's trenches fer us English blokes?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a sincere and beautiful tribute.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="professor">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Professor</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Calista Halsey Patchin</i><a name="patchin">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+The professor had been dead two months. He had left the world very
+quietly, at that precise hour of the early evening when he was
+accustomed to say that his "spirit friends" came to him. The hospital
+nurse had noticed that there was always a time at twilight when the
+patient had a good hour; when pain and restlessness seemed to be
+charmed away, and he did not mind being left alone, and did not care
+whether or not there was a light in the room. Then it was that those
+who had gone came back to him with quiet, friendly ways and loving
+touch. He said nothing of this to the nurse. It was an old friend who
+told me that this had been his belief and solace for years.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the professor had first come to town he had spoken of the wife
+who would follow him shortly, from the East. He did not display her
+picture, he did not talk about her enough so that the town, though it
+made an honest effort, ever really visualized her. She would
+come&mdash;without a doubt she would come&mdash;but not just yet. It was only
+that the East still held her. Gradually, he spoke of her less and less
+often, with a dignified reserve that brooked no inquiry, and finally
+not at all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The town forgot. It was only when his illness became so serious that
+all felt someone should be written to, that it was discovered there
+was no one. The professor, when he was appealed to, said so. Then
+also, the hospital nurse noticed that at the twilight hour, when he
+talked quietly to his unseen friends, there was always One who stayed
+longer than the rest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But he had been dead two months now, and the undertaker was pressing
+his bill, and there were other expenses which had been cheerfully
+borne by friends at the time, and indeed if there had been no other
+reason, it remains that something must become of the personal
+possessions of a man who leaves neither will nor known heirs. So the
+professor's effects were appraised, and a brief local appeared in the
+daily paper until it had made a dent in the memory of the public,
+apprising them that his personal property would be offered at public
+auction at two p.m. of a Thursday, in his rooms on the third floor of
+the Eureka Block.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was the merest thread of curiosity that drew me to this sale. I did
+not want to buy anything. It was a sort of posthumous curiosity, and
+it concerned itself solely with the individuality of the dead man. Not
+having had the opportunity of knowing him well in life, and never
+having known until I read his obituary what I had missed, I took this
+last chance of trying to evolve the man from his belongings. All I did
+know was that he was a teacher of music of the past generation in a
+Western town which grew so fast that it made a man seem older than he
+was. More than this, he was a composer, a music master, who took crude
+young voices, shrill with the tension of the Western winds and the
+electric air, and tamed and trained them till they fell in love with
+harmony. When he heard a voice he knew it. One of his contraltos is
+singing now in grand opera across the sea. A tenor that he discovered
+has charmed the world with an "upper note."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All the same, the professor had grown old&mdash;a new generation had arisen
+which knew not Joseph; he failed to advertise, and every young girl
+who "gave lessons" crowded him closer to the wall. Now and then there
+would appear in the daily paper&mdash;not the next morning, but a few days
+after the presentation of some opera&mdash;a column of musical criticism,
+keen, delicate, reminiscent&mdash;fragrant with the rosemary that is for
+remembrance. When "Elijah" was given by home talent with soloists
+imported from Chicago, it was the professor who kindly wrote,
+beforehand this time, luminous articles full of sympathetic
+interpretation of the great masters. And at rare intervals there would
+appear a communication from him on the beauty of the woods and the
+fields, the suburbs of the town and the country, as though he were
+some simple prophet of nature who stood by the wayside. And this was
+no affectation. Long, solitary walks were his recreation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a good deal of a rookery, up the flights of narrow, dirty
+stairs to the third floor of the Eureka Block. And here the professor
+had lived and taught. Two rooms were made from one by the sort of
+partition which does not reach to the ceiling&mdash;a ceiling which for
+some inexplicable reason was higher in some places than in others.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The voice of the auctioneer came down that winding way in professional
+cadences. There were in the room about as many people as might come to
+a funeral where only friends of the family are invited. It was very
+still. The auctioneer took an easy conversational tone. There was a
+silent, forlorn sort of dignity about the five pianos standing in a
+row that put professional banter and cheap little jokes out of the
+question. The pianos went without much trouble&mdash;a big one of the best
+make, an old-fashioned cottage piano, a piano with an iron frame. One
+of the appraisers, himself a musician, became an assistant auctioneer,
+and kindly played a little&mdash;judiciously very little&mdash;on each
+instrument in turn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then came the bric-a-brac of personal effects&mdash;all the flotsam and
+jetsam that had floated into these rooms for years. The walls were
+pockmarked with pictures, big and little. There was no attempt at high
+art; the professor had bought a picture as a child might buy
+one&mdash;because he thought it was pretty. It was a curious showing of how
+one artistic faculty may be dormant while another is cultivated to its
+highest point. But no matter how cheap the picture, it was always
+conscientiously framed. And this was a great help to the auctioneer.
+Indeed, it was difficult to see how he could have cried the pictures
+at all without the frames.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+By this time the rooms were fuller of people. There were ladies who
+had come in quietly, just to get some little thing for a remembrance
+of their old friend and teacher. These mostly went directly over to
+the corner where the music lay and began looking for something of
+"his." If it were manuscript music so much the better. But there was
+little of this. It appeared that with the professor, as with most of
+us, early and middle manhood had been his most productive time, and
+that was long enough ago for everything to have been duly published in
+sheet and book form&mdash;long enough, indeed, for the books themselves to
+have gone out of date.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There they were&mdash;long, green notebooks, bearing the familiar names of
+well known publishers, and with such a hydra-head of title as "The
+Celestina, or New Sacred Minstrel; a Repository of Music adapted to
+every variety of taste and grade of capacity, from the million to the
+amateur or professor."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There were four or five of these. There was sheet music by the pile.
+There was an opera, "Joseph," the production of which had been a
+musical event.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently the auctioneer came that way. He had just sold a large
+oleograph, framed, one of those gorgeous historical pictures which are
+an apotheosis of good clothes. He approached an engraving of an
+old-fashioned lady in voluminous muslin draperies, with her hair
+looped away from her face in a "Book of Beauty" style.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"<i>He</i> liked that," murmured a lady.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What do I hear!" cries the auctioneer, softly. "Oh, such a little bid
+as that&mdash;I can't see it at all in this dark corner. Suppose we throw
+these peaches in&mdash;awfully pretty thing for dining room&mdash;and this
+flower piece&mdash;shall we group these three?&mdash;now, how much for all? Ah,
+there they go!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a gold-headed cane which was presented
+to the deceased by his admiring friends. It is pure gold&mdash;you
+<i>know</i> they would not give him anything else. How much for this?
+How much? No&mdash;his name is <i>not</i> engraved on it&mdash;so much the
+better&mdash;what do I hear?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Look at this telescope, gentlemen&mdash;a good one&mdash;you know the professor
+was quite an astronomer in his way&mdash;and this telescope is all
+right&mdash;sound and in good condition"&mdash;the auctioneer had officiated at
+a stock sale the day before. "You can look right into futurity through
+this tube. Five dollars' worth of futurity? Five&mdash;five and a half?
+Case and all complete."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a pocketful of odds and ends; gold pens, lead pencils, some
+odd pocket knives; these inconsiderable trifles brought more in
+proportion than articles of greater intrinsic value. Evidently this
+was an auction of memories, of emotion, of sentiment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a bit of the beam of the barn that was burned down when the
+cow kicked over the historic lamp that inaugurated the Chicago
+fire&mdash;no less than three persons were ready to testify to their belief
+in the genuineness of the relic, had anyone been disposed to question
+it. But no one was. Nearly all the people in the room were the dead
+music teacher's personal friends; they had heard the story of all
+these things; they knew who had sent him the stuffed brown prairie
+chicken that perched like a raven above the door&mdash;the little
+old-fashioned decanter and wine glasses of gilded glass&mdash;the
+artificial begonias&mdash;that clever imitation that goes far toward making
+one forswear begonias forevermore. There were lamps of various shapes
+and sizes, there was a kit of burglarious looking tools for piano
+tuning, there was a little globe&mdash;"Who wants the earth?" said the
+auctioneer. "You all want it."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a metronome, which, set to go, began to count time in a
+metallic whisper for some invisible pupil. Over in the corner just
+beyond the music were the professor's books. Now we shall find him
+out, for what a man reads he is, or wishes to be. There was a good
+deal of spiritualistic literature of the better sort. There was a
+"History of Christianity and Paganism by the Roman Emperor Julian," a
+copy of "She," a long shelf full of <i>North American Reviews</i>, a
+dozen or so of almanacs, a copy of Bluebeard. There were none of the
+"popular" magazines, and if there had been newspapers&mdash;those vagrants
+of literature&mdash;they had gone their way. There was a manuscript play
+for parlor presentation, with each part written out in legible script,
+entitled, "The Winning Card."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All these and many more things which only the patient appraisers can
+fully know were sold or set aside as unsalable, until all was done.
+And then those who had known and loved him and those who had not known
+or cared for him came down the stairs together.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fate stood on the landing. As always, Fate ran true to form. She was a
+woman; a little tired, as a woman might well be who had come a
+thousand miles; a little out of breath from the two flights of stairs.
+Her old-fashioned draperies clung about her; her hair was looped away
+from her face in a "Book of Beauty" style. The man who stood aside to
+let her pass was talking. "Of course," he was saying, "he was a
+side-tracked man. But I believe he stands the biggest chance of being
+remembered of any man in Iowa."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Swift protest at his first words clouded her face; sheer gratitude for
+his last words illumined it. She bent forward a little and went on up
+the stairs alone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She faltered in the doorway, her hand fumbling at her throat. One of
+the men who had been talking below hastened to her side.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It's all over," he said, then added, at the dumb misery that grayed
+her face: "&mdash;the auction."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I&mdash;I&mdash;didn't come for that," the apathy in her voice holding it
+steady. "I&mdash;I am his wife. His last letter&mdash;he sent for me." A sob
+broke her speech. "It came last week&mdash;two months too late."
+</p>
+<br>
+<div class="figcenter"><a name="windin"><img src="images/009.jpg" alt="Drawing of a boy sitting in a field of corn" width="368" height="500"></a></div>
+<p class="caption">What the Iowa Boy Hears in the Wind in the Corn
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="my">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">My Baby's Horse</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Emilie Blackmore Stapp</i><a name="stapp">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>My baby's horse is Daddy's knee;</p>
+<p>When nighttime comes he rides away</p>
+<p>To Sleepytown by Dreamland Sea;</p>
+<p>I love to hear their laughter gay.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Ride, baby, ride, the Sandman bold</p>
+<p>Is following close behind you, dear,</p>
+<p>But Daddy's arms will you enfold</p>
+<p>And so for you I have no fear.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Your prancing steed is slowing down;</p>
+<p>The Sandman's riding very fast.</p>
+<p>Oh, here you are at Sleepytown;</p>
+<p>The Sandman's caught you, dear, at last.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>He'll tie your steed by Dreamland Sea,</p>
+<p>And on its shores all night you'll play,</p>
+<p>Then you'll come riding home to me</p>
+<p>To make life sweet another day.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="call">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">The Call of the Race</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Elizabeth Cooper</i><a name="cooper">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+It was the last day of September, the maple trees were turning to red
+and gold, the mist of purple haze was in the air, and all Japan was
+going to the parks and woods to revel in the colors they loved so
+well.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Three men came out of the American Embassy, and looked for a moment
+over the roofs below them, half conscious of the beauty of this autumn
+time. They chatted for a few moments, then one of them motioned to a
+servant to put his mail bag in the jinrickshaw and slowly stepping
+into the tiny carriage he was whirled away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The other men watched him for a few moments in silence, then as they
+turned to go to the English club, the elder shook his head slowly as
+he rather viciously bit the end from his cigar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Freeman's made a big fool of himself," he said. "Nice man, too."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The younger man looked after the fast disappearing jinrickshaw and
+asked after a moment's hesitation:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"He's married a Jap, hasn't he? I'm new here but I have heard
+something about him that's queer."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes," the Ambassador replied. "Married her, preacher, ring, the whole
+thing."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"How did it happen? Why did he <i>marry</i> her?" the younger man
+asked with a laugh.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"We all talked to him. I talked to him like a father, but he wouldn't
+listen to reason. Saw her at the mission school, fell head and heels
+in love with her and wouldn't take anyone's advice. Even the
+missionary was against it. Told him that mixed marriages never came
+out right; that the girl always reverted to type," said the Ambassador
+a little bitterly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, has it turned out as they predicted?" inquired the secretary
+interestedly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, no," admitted the Ambassador. "It's been two years, and
+everything seems to be all right so far. No one ever sees much of
+either of them. You meet her with him once in a while in some garden
+admiring the wistaria, or the lotus. She's a beauty&mdash;a real
+beauty&mdash;and belongs to one of the old Samurai families up north
+somewhere."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"How did the mission get her? I thought they went in more for the
+lower classes," asked the secretary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Well, it seems that some missionary up north saw her and was
+attracted by her cleverness and her pretty face, and she persuaded the
+girl's parents to send her to school here. They're as poor as Job's
+turkey; but they live in a great old palace and observe all the old
+time Jap customs. Haven't changed a bit for centuries. The real thing
+in old-time aristocracy. But the missionary got past them some way and
+the girl came down&mdash;when was it?&mdash;six years ago, I think. Missionary
+says she's clever, has become a Christian, and evidently forgotten
+that she's a Jap."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It'll perhaps be the exception that proves that all mixed marriages
+are not failures," said the optimistic secretary.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No," said the older man, "I know Japan and the Japanese. There's
+something in them that never changes&mdash;the call of the blood or
+whatever it is. No matter how much education they have, change of
+religion, life in foreign countries&mdash;anything&mdash;they're Japanese, and
+in a crisis they go back to their gods and the instincts of their
+race. We all told Freeman this&mdash;the missionary, myself, everybody took
+a hit at him when we found he really meant business, but he only
+laughed. He said Yuki was as European as he was. Never thought of the
+gods, hardly remembered her people, and all that rot. He ought to know
+better: this is his second post in Japan. Was out here twelve years
+ago and got in some kind of trouble. I was surprised when the
+government sent him back; but I suppose they thought it had all blown
+over, and I presume it has, although the Japs don't forget."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Ambassador was quiet for a few moments, then he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No, I don't believe at all in intermarriage between the Oriental and
+the Occidental. Their traditions, customs, everything is different.
+They have no common meeting ground, and that racial instinct, that
+inherent something is stronger in the Oriental than in the Westerner.
+A woman here in this country, for example, is taught from babyhood
+that she must obey her parents, her clan, <i>absolutely</i>. Her
+family is first, and she must sacrifice her life if necessary for
+them, and they will go to any lengths in this obedience. I told this
+to Freeman, everyone did, but he just gave his happy laugh, and said
+that his wife-to-be was no more Japanese in feeling and sentiment than
+he was&mdash;that she had outgrown the old religion, the old beliefs. He
+laughed at the idea that her family would have any influence over her
+after she was his wife. Yet&mdash;I know these people&mdash;and have always been
+a little worried&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two men chatted until they entered the doors of the English club.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Morris Freeman with his fast runner was drawn swiftly through the
+modern streets of new Japan, then more slowly through the little
+alleys, where the shops were purely native. Finally he drew up at an
+entrance and stopped under the tiny roof of a gateway. He had been
+expected, evidently, because no sooner had he stopped than the great
+gate was swung open and a smiling servant stood in the entrance.
+Freeman handed him the mail bag and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Tell the Ok San that I will be back in about an hour," and was taken
+swiftly up the street. The coolie at the gate was still watching the
+disappearing jinrickshaw when a Japanese approached, and bowing to the
+servant asked: "Is your mistress within?" The servant answered in the
+affirmative, looking at him interestedly, as he was different from the
+average man one sees in Tokio. He was dressed in an old-time costume
+that immediately told the city-bred servant that the man was from some
+distant province.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The visitor went to the veranda, dropped his clogs, and entered the
+doorway. A young girl was kneeling before a koto lightly strumming its
+strings and did not hear the entrance of the man. He stood for a
+moment looking around the room; then he saw Yuki and walking over to
+her sat down facing her. Yuki stared at him first in astonishment;
+then a look of fear came into her black eyes. He was silent for many
+minutes, then he coolly remarked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You do not speak to your uncle. You do not care to make me welcome in
+this your home." He looked down at her contemptuously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She saluted him, touching her head to her folded hands upon the floor.
+After a few polite phrases she rose, went to the hibachi, fanned the
+flame a moment, poured water from the kettle into the teapot, and
+brought a tiny tray on which was a cup and the pot of tea. She poured
+out the tea, and, taking the cup in both hands, slid it across the
+floor to him; when he took it, she again touched her head to the
+floor, and inquired:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I trust my honorable Uncle is in the enjoyment of good health?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man sipped the tea slowly, gazing around the room, taking in all
+its details. His eyes especially rested upon the shrine in the corner.
+Then he regarded her long and intently.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I see you have brought your family shrine to the house of the
+foreigner with whom you live&mdash;the man who has made you forget your
+people. Have you opened it; do you offer the daily incense; or is it
+simply an article of furniture for your foreign husband to admire?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki said nothing; she could not explain to this old man that the
+shrine had meant nothing to her, but having come from her old home she
+had kept it simply as a remembrance of the past.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not receiving an answer the man continued:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"The foreigner is kind to you?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki smiled and said softly to herself: "Kind&mdash;kind&mdash;my Dana San."
+Then seeing her uncle expected an answer, she said in a quiet tone:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Most kind, my honorable Uncle."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"You wonder why I come to you to-night?" he inquired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki took the tea-things and put them behind her, then remarked:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"My humble house is honored by your presence."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Honored, yes," sneered the uncle. "But still you wonder. I will tell
+you why I came to you to-night. Once upon a time there was a family in
+Japan&mdash;happy, honored&mdash;proud of their title, of their history&mdash;and,
+more than all, proud of their overlord. He was impetuous, and like
+many of the older Japanese, resentful of the foreigner's intrusion.
+Here, one day on a visit to his capital, he met a stranger, one of
+that hated race who spoke slightingly of his country, of his gods.
+There was the quick retort, the blow, and he our lord went to the Land
+of Shadows. The evil gods of the foreigner protected the man who gave
+the blow. His name was never discovered&mdash;it was claimed he did the
+cowardly act in self-defense and he got safely away."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki leaned forward eagerly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Oh, it is of my honorable father you speak?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes, it is of your father I speak," said the man in a low, bitter
+voice. "Since his death the gods have not favored our house; we have
+lost position, money, everything. But at last&mdash;at last our prayers to
+the gods have been answered. The enemy of our house is delivered into
+our hands&mdash;into <i>your</i> hands."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki looked bewildered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"<i>My</i> hands? What do you mean, my honorable Uncle?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yuki San, we have learned the name of the man who struck your
+father!" he exclaimed in a low, tense voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki looked at the tragic face before her a moment, then she said: "At
+last, at last you know?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes," replied her uncle. "At last, after all these years of patience,
+revenge is in our hands. Oh, Yuki San, the foreigner, your husband, is
+the man who killed your father."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki drew back, her face pallid, her body trembling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Morris, my Dana San?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes, your Dana San."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki sat for a moment in bewilderment, then the color came back to her
+face and she leaned forward eagerly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But, my lord, my lord, he could not have done it! He is so kind, so
+good, he never hurt a thing in all his life."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man leaned forward, gazing intently into her eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Has this stranger made you forget your father? Have you forgotten
+your oath, <i>your</i> oath? Have you forgotten why your father is now
+in the Land of Shadows?" He pointed to the shrine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Look, there is his tablet within that shrine. But the doors are
+closed. In our home, in our family temple are tablets. The doors of
+the shrines have never been opened. His spirit has not had the incense
+to help him on the way. The morning offering has not been his. He has
+been compelled to travel alone on the way to the gods, because we, his
+family&mdash;you and I&mdash;have not avenged his death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"No, do not speak," he continued, as Yuki was about to interrupt. "He
+was murdered, and until the man who sent him on his way joins him in
+his journey, his spirit can have no peace. And you, his daughter, dare
+not, for fear of the gods, open the shrine to make the offering that
+the poorest peasant makes to his dead! But to-night I bring you the
+final word of the clan. To give you the honor of doing the deed that
+will wash the stain from our name. You know that a servant must avenge
+the death of his master, a son that of his father, a Samurai the death
+of his overlord, and I come to give you&mdash;a girl, an inheritance that
+will make you envied of men."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I do not understand&mdash;my lord, you mean&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yuki San, he killed your father, the head of our house, and he must
+die to-night."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki rose and went to the man. Taking him by the arms she looked up
+into his face piteously, with wide, frightened eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"My lord, my lord, you can not mean it&mdash;that he shall die&mdash;Morris
+die!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The old man looked down into the pale face, the searching, pitiful
+eyes; but there shone no mercy in the hard eyes that met the ones
+raised pleadingly to his.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes, and you, the only child of the man he killed, shall fulfill the
+sacred oath, and bring peace to your father's honorable soul."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki was utterly bewildered and said falteringly: "I do not
+understand&mdash;I do not understand."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With the monotonous voice of the fatalist the uncle continued:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"It would have been better if a man-child had been born to our lord,
+as his arm would not falter; but you will take as sure a way, if not
+as honorable as the sword. Here is the means." He drew a little bottle
+from the sleeve of his kimono. "A little of this and he sleeps
+instantly and well."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki held out her hands to the man sitting like fate before her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"My lord, how can I? We have been so happy! My Dana San has never
+given me an unkind look, never caused me a moment's sorrow. I love
+him, Uncle, not as a Japanese woman loves her lord, but as a foreign
+woman from over the seas loves the man whom she has chosen from all
+the world. For two years we have been in this little house, for two
+years he has been my every breath. My first thought in the morning was
+for Morris, my Dana San, my last thought at night was joy in the
+thought that I was his and that he loved me. Sometimes I waken and
+look at him, and wonder how such a great man can care for such a
+simple Japanese girl as I am. And now you ask me to hurt him?" She
+drew her head up proudly. "I can not and I will not. He is my husband,
+and no matter what he has done I will protect him&mdash;even from you."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man rose, and striding to her, grasped her roughly by the arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Woman, you will do as we say. You are a Japanese and you know even
+unto death you must obey. I have no fear. It will be done&mdash;and by
+you&mdash;to-night."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He released her arm, and she, looking down upon the tatami, moved her
+foot silently to and fro, absorbed with this tragedy that had come
+into her happy life. Then she had a thought that brought hope to her,
+and she looked up eagerly. "Perhaps it is not true&mdash;perhaps it was not
+really Morris&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Listen," said the man roughly. "It was he. We <i>know</i>. But
+you&mdash;if you do not believe&mdash;make him confess to-night. If it was not
+he, then you are free. If it is, you will know what to do&mdash;and it will
+be done to-night&mdash;remember."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki looked into the hard black eyes staring at her, fascinating her,
+taking all the life from her, and she said slowly as if under a spell:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Yes&mdash;if he confesses&mdash;if it was he&mdash;I know it will be done. But&mdash;if
+the gods take him, they will also take me."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The uncle shook her roughly by the arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"<i>No!</i> Listen to me. Your work is not yet done. You must live. It
+would be too much happiness to have your spirit travel with him the
+lonely road. He must walk the path alone, without love to guide him.
+You will return to me to-night, return to your home and family who
+await you. Our vengeance would be only half complete if we allowed you
+to journey to the Land of Shadows with him. Come to me&mdash;" and he drew
+her to him. "Look at me. I will await you at the Willow Tea House."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took her face in his hands and gazed steadily into her eyes, saying
+in a low, tense voice:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I do not fear&mdash;you will obey. Are you not a Japanese? I
+expect&mdash;you&mdash;to&mdash;come&mdash;to&mdash;me&mdash;after your work is done&mdash;and the gods
+will be with you. Sayonara."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He put on his clogs at the entrance and went away, his form scarcely
+distinguishable in the gloom as he went down the pathway. Yuki looked
+after him, then threw herself on her face on the floor with a little
+moan, beating her hands in the manner of an Eastern woman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was absolutely quiet in the room, no noise coming from the street
+outside, except from a far distance a woman's voice chanting in a tone
+of singular sweetness words that sounded in their minor key like the
+soft tones of a flute: "<i>Amma Konitchi Wahyak Mo</i>," then between
+these sweet calls a plaintive whistle&mdash;one long-drawn note, then two
+shorter ones&mdash;the cry of the blind massage woman, making her rounds
+for her evening's toil.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The cry died away, and only the low moan was heard within the little
+room. Morris opened the gate and came lightly up the pathway,
+whistling a few bars of the latest popular song. He came inside the
+room, and, hardly able to distinguish the objects, looked about
+wonderingly, then seeing Yuki lying where she had thrown herself, he
+went over to her and picked her up.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"My sweetheart, what is it? What has happened?" He sat down upon the
+long chair and held her against him. "Tell me, dear one, tell me."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Morris went over to the lamp after a few moments and lighted it, then
+came back and showed Yuki a little gift he had brought her. She took
+it and looked at it with eyes filled with tragic grief; then, pressing
+it against her face, put her head on his shoulder and began sobbing in
+a heart-broken way that amazed Morris.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She lay with her face hidden, he softly caressing her hair. Finally
+she said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Morris, we have been here two years. Tell me&mdash;have I made you happy?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Morris threw back his head and laughed happily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Happy, Yuki, happy? Dear heart, I had a long time ago put aside the
+thought that love meant happiness and happiness meant love. Now you
+have taught me that one cannot exist without the other. I love you, I
+live with you, you are mine. That tells everything. When you came into
+my life, into my heart, I was soured and embittered. Life meant only
+work and duties done; after that, comfort and a cigar&mdash;that was all.
+But now, I love my work as well, I do it as thoroughly, but there is
+something more. I know when I shut the office-door, I can come here
+where no one can enter. I can be alone with the woman I love and who
+loves me. There is no question of society or dinners, but just us two
+alone, you and me&mdash;and," turning up her face, "you are happy with me,
+my Yuki San? You love me?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki did not reply at once. Then in a low, sweet voice she replied:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Morris, we Japanese women never speak of love. It is to us a subject
+left to singing girls and geishas. Without it we marry, and without it
+we live, and it is, unless by chance, a closed book to us. I do not
+know if I love you as the women of your race love their Dana Sans&mdash;I
+know I think of you by day, and I dream of you by night. I live only
+for you&mdash;to be what you wish me to be&mdash;and when you take me in your
+arms and say, 'My Yuki San, my sweetheart,' it seems to me that my
+heart with its happiness will break! I do not know if that is
+love&mdash;but if it be&mdash;I love you, my Dana San, I love you."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She lay quietly, and he rested his face against her hair, caressing it
+from time to time. After a silence, he inquired lightly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"What about supper, Yuki?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki drew him to her again, for he moved as if he would rise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Wait, dear, let us talk a little. Tell me, when you to Tokio
+came&mdash;the first time&mdash;&mdash;"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Twelve years ago, when O Yuki San was a little girl."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Twelve years ago&mdash;there was much trouble then between foreigners and
+Japanese. You and your friends&mdash;had&mdash;had trouble."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Morris looked at her quickly and his eyes darkened.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Where did you hear that?" he asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki, carelessly: "Oh, they gossip in the market-place."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Morris rose and walked up and down the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I don't know what you have heard, but I might as well tell you the
+whole story. I did have trouble here in Japan. One night some of us
+got in a mix-up&mdash;a sort of quarrel with a Japanese, and I don't know
+how it happened&mdash;I never have known&mdash;but I struck and killed him. It
+was in the dark, and I could hardly see him."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After a silence Yuki stammered: "You&mdash;killed him?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"In self-defense, O Yuki San," Morris defended eagerly; "it was in
+self-defense. But afterwards, what a time it was! Shall I ever forget
+that night getting back to my ship?" He passed his hand over his face,
+and then came back to his place beside her on the couch. "Don't speak
+of it any more; I don't want to think of it."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yuki slipped down to the floor and sat there with her head against his
+knee. She sat very quietly, then finally put her hand up to the flower
+in her dress and slowly took it out and let it fall to the floor,
+petal by petal, watching the leaves as they fell. Then, after a long
+silence, she rose and started towards the tea table, hesitated, went a
+little way, and then came back to him. She knelt by the couch and
+said, in a low voice:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Morris, no matter what happens, what you learn, what the gods may
+teach you soon&mdash;remember, I love you with all the love of my life.
+That I would give that life for you&mdash;oh, so willingly, if I only
+could! That through whatever you pass, I would gladly be with you; but
+I will come to you soon. I will not send you where I may not follow. I
+will come. I am yours, and the gods cannot let you go alone. You need
+me, and I would not be afraid. I love you&mdash;I want to go with you&mdash;but
+I am a Japanese&mdash;and I understand."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She let her face fall upon her hands and knelt there quietly. Morris
+looked at her blankly, thinking she was worried about something.
+Finally he lifted her face and kissed her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Never mind, dear one. I don't know what is troubling you, but of
+course you shall go with me wherever I go. I need you, and could not
+be without my Yuki San."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He started to read the papers; she rose and stood by the couch a
+moment, then taking a step toward the tea-things:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Would my Dana San&mdash;like&mdash;a cup of tea?"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Morris, absorbed in his papers, assented. "Why, yes, I don't mind if I
+do."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She turned and walked slowly to the hibachi, knelt beside it, fanned
+the fire a moment, then poured the water from the iron kettle into the
+tiny teapot, let it stand a moment, looking over towards Morris. Then
+she took the bottle from her sleeve and poured a few drops into the
+cup, filling it with tea. She rose slowly and walked over to the long
+chair. She looked down at him as he lay half-reclining, hesitated,
+then handed him the cup. He took it, and looking up at her half
+laughing, exclaimed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"To you, sweetheart!" and drank.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He fell back on the chair; the cup dropped from his hands. Yuki looked
+down at him in silence; then she bent over him, and lovingly crossed
+his hands upon his breast, touched his face caressingly with her
+fingers; then bent down and kissed him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She turned slowly, and, in turning, her eyes fell upon the shrine. She
+looked at it intently, slowly crossed the room and knelt in front of
+it, bowed her head to the floor; then opened the doors, and bowed her
+head again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She took out two candlesticks, two little jars of incense, a small
+bowl for rice, and another for water. She lighted the candles, lighted
+the incense, poured water in one bowl and rice in the other. Then she
+again touched her head to the floor, once&mdash;twice&mdash;thrice&mdash;rose, and
+walked backward to the open shojii.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stood a moment looking around the room that she had loved so well;
+then turned her face to her lover lying so quietly in the chair. She
+knelt down facing him, touched her head to the floor and rising in the
+kneeling position, said, stretching out her arms towards Morris:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Sayonara, my Dana San, good-bye, good-bye."
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="wreath">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">One Wreath of Rue</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Cynthia Westover Alden</i><a name="alden">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The brawny lad in khaki clad,</p>
+<p class="i2">We rightly cheer. Alas,</p>
+<p>My eyes grow dim! I weigh with him,</p>
+<p class="i2">The boy</p>
+<p class="i6">Who failed</p>
+<p class="i10">To pass.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>A heart more brave no man could have,</p>
+<p class="i2">His soul as clear as glass.</p>
+<p>He faced with zest the doctor-test&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">The boy</p>
+<p class="i6">Who failed</p>
+<p class="i10">To pass.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>And now the blow is hurting so,</p>
+<p class="i2">He sees the legions mass.</p>
+<p>They go to war. Be sorry for</p>
+<p class="i2">The boy</p>
+<p class="i6">Who failed</p>
+<p class="i10">To pass.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>The future grim is flouting him</p>
+<p class="i2">As in the weakling class.</p>
+<p>Though fine and true, his years are few&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i2">The boy</p>
+<p class="i6">Who failed</p>
+<p class="i10">To pass.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>For warriors proud blow bugles loud,</p>
+<p class="i2">Of silver or of brass;</p>
+<p>One wreath of rue is due unto</p>
+<p class="i2">The boy</p>
+<p class="i6">Who failed</p>
+<p class="i10">To pass.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="woodrow">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Woodrow Wilson and Wells, War's Great Authors</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>An Interview with Honor&eacute; Willsie</i><a name="willsie">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+"The war has thus far produced two great pieces of literature. One of
+these is H. G. Wells' 'Mr. Britling Sees It Through.' The other is
+President Wilson's War Message. I was curiously moved by 'Mr. Britling
+Sees It Through.' The effect of that novel on me was to move me away
+from the war, to let me get a picture of the war as a great procession
+against the horizon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Every code that I had&mdash;in government, in religion, in ethics&mdash;had
+been obliterated by the events of the last three years. But this novel
+showed me that there could be a code&mdash;that something coherent and true
+must come out of the chaos. Reading as many manuscripts as I do, I
+grow stale on ideas. I want to read out-and-out trash or else
+something that will give me a new philosophy of life. And Wells, at
+any rate, showed me that there could be a new philosophy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"The great task before our writers to-day is to do for the individual
+what President Wilson's Declaration of War did for the nations of the
+world. This is the most important thing a writer can do&mdash;to make a new
+code for mankind. I can't think of any American writer able to do it.
+But did any of us expect Wells to write such a book as 'Mr. Britling
+Sees It Through'?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"One significant thing about President Wilson's message is that its
+author is absolutely sure of the hereafter. He is convinced that God
+is Eternal Goodness. All his utterances are the utterances of a man
+with a deep faith that never has been disturbed. And that sort of man
+is essentially the man for statesmanship.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Religious fervor was the driving force of the fathers of our country.
+For an agnostic like myself to witness an exhibition of this force is
+to look wistfully at a power that cannot be understood. It is the
+spirit of the little red schoolhouse, of the meeting-house, of the
+town meeting&mdash;the spirit of American statesmanship and of American
+democracy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Human beings aren't big enough to get along without religion. Somehow
+or other we moderns have got to have some faith&mdash;as Lincoln had it,
+and Adams, and Washington&mdash;as Wilson has it. We need a new religion.
+For Wilson won't happen again very often.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"President Wilson's message formulates a new philosophy of government.
+His message came on Europe like a flash of light in the darkness of
+battle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"President Wilson seems to have started his message with a definite
+conviction as to the existence of God. Mr. Wells must have started his
+novel with the hope of finding God through it. I size Wells up as a
+modern with the modern craving for God. Wells does not lead you to
+God, but he gives you the idea that God exists, and is just over
+beyond.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"But then religion is a favorite theme of the novelist. Winston
+Churchill's 'The Inside of the Cup' indicated that social service
+would take the place of religion. Well, maybe it would for some
+people. But nowadays most people need a religion that says that there
+is a hereafter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I think that I am the only human being in captivity who has read all
+of Holt's book on the cosmic relations. And what I got out of it was
+not a belief in spiritualism, but a realization of the fact that every
+one, high and low, rich and poor, educated and illiterate, has a
+craving for knowledge of life after death, has a craving for belief in
+life after death. And the war has raised this feeling to the nth
+power. We feel that we shall go mad if there is no hereafter. Mr.
+Wells leads us to believe that he will find that there is a hereafter.
+President Wilson shows us that he is sure there is one.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"This craving for conviction of the hereafter, increased by the war,
+inevitably makes our literature more spiritual. So we are seeing the
+last for awhile of the sex novel and of sordid realism. We no longer
+find people who believe that since you are an artist you should
+describe the contents of a garbage can. The soul of man as well as the
+body of man is coming into its own as the theme of the novelist.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"And the war is responsible. You can't stick out your tongue and make
+a face at God when a shell may momentarily hurl you from the earth.
+And who cares to read a sex novel now? What do the little bedroom
+scandals of the flimsy novels matter when the womanhood of Belgium has
+been despoiled?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I am asked if our writers have deteriorated of late years. I think
+that the rank and file of our serial writers are way below those of
+forty or fifty years ago. Then our novelists were fewer and better.
+Look at the files of the old magazines and you will find that the
+novels that appeared serially in those days were much better than
+those that are appearing to-day. But one or two of our best novelists
+are just as fine as any of our writers of a bygone
+generation&mdash;Margaret Deland and Gertrude Atherton, for instance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"And in other branches of literature I think we have improved on our
+forefathers. American poets have never before done such exquisite
+things as they are doing to-day, and one or two short story writers
+are doing better things than were ever done before in this country. If
+you compare the short stories in old issues of the magazines with
+those in the current issues you will find that the old short stories
+are as much inferior to the new short stories as the old novels&mdash;the
+serialized novels&mdash;are superior to the new ones."
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="field">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">A Field</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Minnie Stichter</i><a name="stichter">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Sometime I expect to turn a sharp corner and come face to face with
+myself, according to the ancient maxim, "extremes meet." For, did I
+not vow to the Four Great Walls that had imprisoned me for nine
+months, that I would fly to the uttermost parts of the earth so soon
+as vacation should open the doors? And did I not spend almost my
+entire summer within sight of my home, and in a field of a few acres
+dimension?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I caught sight of some flowers, just inside the barbed wire fencing
+the track, that were fairer than any I had yet gathered for my vases.
+As the old song has it, "O, brighter the flowers on the other side
+seem!" No one saw me get under that six-stranded barbed-wire fence,
+and I am not going to tell how I did it. But when I got through I felt
+as well guarded as though attended by a retinue of soldiers. And I
+found myself in another world&mdash;a dream-world!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a large field rosy with red clover and waving with tall
+timothy. A single tree glistened and rustled invitingly. In its shade
+I rested, refreshing myself with the field sights and sounds and
+fragrances. It was delightful to be the center of so much beauty as
+circled round about me. Then I had only to rest on the rosy
+clover-carpet at the foot of the tree, and the tall grass eclipsed all
+things earthly save the tree, and the sky overhead, and the round mat
+of clover under the tree which the grass ringed about. I had often
+wished for Siegfried's magic cloak. Well, here was something quite as
+good, which, if it did not render me invisible to the world, made the
+world invisible to me. Who of you would not be glad to have the old
+world with its "everyday endeavors and desires," its folly, its pride
+and its tears, drop out of sight for a while, leaving you in a flowery
+zone of perfect quiet and beauty, hedged in by a wall of grass!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There were many "afterwards." And the marvel of it all was that, for
+all I could do, the field retained its virgin splendor and kept the
+secret of my goings-in and comings-out most completely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the daisies, there came a season of black-eyed Susans. That was
+when the grasses were tallest and the feeling of mystery did most
+abound. I know I had been there many days before I discovered the
+myriads of wild roses near the crabtree thicket&mdash;those fairies'
+flowers so exquisite in their pink frailty that mortal breath is rude.
+Only when I reached the hedge, bounding the remote side of the field,
+did I enter into my full inheritance. Along a barbed-wire fence had
+grown up sumac, elderberry, crabtrees and nameless brambles, while
+over all trailed the wild grapevine, bearing the most perfect
+miniature clusters, fit to be sculptured by Trentanove into immortal
+beauty. And this hedge was the source of ever increasing wonder the
+whole summer long. I depended on it alone for sensational denouements
+after the grass was cut for hay. When the field lay shorn, like other
+fields about it far and wide, I could not have been lured hitherward
+but for the hedge. There the hard green berries of a peculiar bramble
+ripened into wax-white pellet-sized drops clustered together on a
+woody stem by the most coral-pink pedicles ever designed by
+sea-sprites.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In its time came the elderberry bloom, and its purple fruit; the
+garnet fruit of the sumach and its flaming foliage; the lengths of
+vines and their purple clusters&mdash;all these and more also ministered to
+my delight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+About goldenrod time, the school-bell rang me in from the field, but I
+managed to take recesses long enough to behold the kaleidoscopic views
+brought before me by the turning of nature's hand. The smooth velvety
+green of the field with its border of gold and lavender&mdash;great widths
+of thistle and goldenrod following the line of fence&mdash;was like the
+broidered mantle of some celestial Sir Walter Raleigh, spread for the
+queens of earth. I was no queen; but I did not envy royalty, since I
+doubted if it had any such cherished possessions as my field in its
+various phases.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the November days, the brightness of the fields seemed to be
+inverted and to be seen in the opalescent tints of the sky. Then, the
+clearness of the atmosphere, the wider horizon, the less hidden homes
+and doings of men, had this message for the children of men: "If there
+is any secret in your life, leave it out."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When it is December and the fields are too snowy and wind-swept for
+pleasure-grounds, where the only bits of brightness are the
+embroideries of the scarlet pips of the wild-rose, it is good to
+nestle by the cozy fireside and conjure it all up again, and nourish a
+feeling of expectancy for the spring and summer that shall come.
+Again, the flowers and waving grass and drowsy warmth of the summer
+day; again, the songs of flitting birds, the scented sweets of the
+new-mown hay. Again the work of the fields goes on before me like a
+play in pantomime! Again, with my eyes, I follow home the boys with
+their cows, to the purple rim of the hill beyond which only my fancy
+has ever gone. Again I quit work with the tired laborer. Again I dream
+of the open, free, unfettered song that life might be if it were lived
+more simply, with less of artificiality. And again, for the sake of
+one patient toiler in the town, whose life-task admits of no holiday,
+I have the grace to return thither and begin where I left off&mdash;the
+life common to you and to me, the life ordained for us from the
+beginning.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="lad">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Your Lad, and My Lad</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Randall Parrish</i><a name="parrish">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Down toward the deep blue water, marching to the throb of drum,</p>
+<p>From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come;</p>
+<p>The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal,</p>
+<p>While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel.</p>
+<p>With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance;</p>
+<p>And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,</p>
+<p>Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;</p>
+<p>The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle call,</p>
+<p>With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.</p>
+<p>Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance;</p>
+<p>For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,</p>
+<p>Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;</p>
+<p>The same old Flag, the same old Faith&mdash;the Freedom of the World&mdash;</p>
+<p>Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.</p>
+<p>Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance,</p>
+<p>As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="peace">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Peace and Then&mdash;?</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Detlev Fredrik Tillisch</i><a name="tillisch">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="blockquote">
+<p class="ctr">
+<i>Suburb of London. Three months after declaration of peace.
+Time: Noon.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p class="ctr">
+CAST
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+Mrs. Claire Hamilton&mdash;about 35 years of age&mdash;portly&mdash;simply
+dressed.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+Master Hal Hamilton&mdash;her son&mdash;about 10 years
+of age&mdash;full of life&mdash;dressed in Boy Scout
+uniform.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+Mr. John Hamilton&mdash;soldier&mdash;botanist&mdash;about 39
+years of age&mdash;tall&mdash;well built.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+Sergeant, soldiers and pedestrians.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+Claire Hamilton is seen fixing her corner flower stand and endeavoring
+to sell her plants to passers-by, but after three futile attempts she
+becomes tired of standing and takes seat on wooden bench in front of
+her stand. Takes letter from pocket&mdash;sighs and begins to read
+letter aloud.
+</p></div>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton (reading).</i> "Dearest Love and Hal Boy&mdash;We are
+still in the bowels of hell&mdash;but even this would be nothing if I but
+knew my loved ones were well and happy. (<i>She wipes away a tear and
+continues reading.</i>) Nothing but a miracle can end this terrible
+war. Give my own dear Hallie boy a kiss from his longing papa."
+(<i>She lays letter on her lap and meditates.</i>) Peace (<i>shakes
+her head&mdash;looks at date of letter.</i>) February 16th&mdash;six months past
+and now it's all over&mdash;three months ago&mdash;Oh, God, bring him back to me
+and my boy. (<i>She goes back of flower stand and brings out box of
+mignonettes. Hal comes running in with bundle of newspapers and very
+much excited&mdash;his sleeve is torn. He stands still and looks at mother
+rather proudly and defiantly.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Hal Boy&mdash;what's the trouble?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> I licked Fritz.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> What for?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> He said it took the whole world to lick the Germans.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> But, Hal, my boy&mdash;the war is over&mdash;you mustn't
+be hateful&mdash;be kind and forgiving.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> Make them bring back my daddy then.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> You still have your mother&mdash;(<i>Hal runs to
+mother and embraces her tenderly.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Whose birthday is it to-day? (<i>He
+thinks&mdash;pause.</i>) This is the 20th of August&mdash;now think hard.
+(<i>She awaits answer&mdash;silence&mdash;then takes box of mignonettes.</i>)
+Whose favorite flower is the mignonette?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> Papa's! Papa's! (<i>Claps his hands boyishly.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Yes, Hal&mdash;it's papa's birthday and mother is
+remembering the day by decorating our little stand with the flowers
+your papa has grown. (<i>He caresses the mignonettes tenderly.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> Dear daddy&mdash;dear flowers&mdash;aren't they lovely, mother?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Yes, Hal. (<i>She wipes away a tear, trying to
+conceal her emotions from her son.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> Maybe some day I'll be a famous botanist like papa and
+then you'll have two boxes. (<i>Mother is silent trying to keep back
+the tears and Hal notices it.</i>) Papa is coming home soon, isn't he,
+mother? (<i>She just shakes her head.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> We must be brave.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> When I get big I'm going to be a soldier and be brave like
+daddy.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> That won't be necessary any more&mdash;it isn't the
+people who want to fight.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> But daddy did and you bet if anybody makes me sore I'll
+fight too.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> No, my boy&mdash;daddy didn't want to fight&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> Then why did he go?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Hal, you're a little boy and wouldn't
+understand&mdash;but just remember what your mother tells you: Don't be
+selfish&mdash;be tolerant, honest and charitable to all the peoples of the
+world, the big and the small alike. (<i>Enter passer-by who stops to
+look over plants. After Mrs. Hamilton has shown several and given him
+prices, he picks up the box of mignonettes.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Man.</i> I'll take this box.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton (confused, not knowing whether to tell stranger about
+that particular box of flowers or sell it, as she sorely needs money.
+Then she picks up another plant to show it.)</i> Here's a very sturdy
+plant, sir.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Man.</i> But I want this one. (<i>Pointing to box of
+mignonettes.</i>) How much is it? I'm in a hurry.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal (goes to stranger and takes box from his hands).</i> You can't
+have them&mdash;they're daddy's.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Man (pushing him to one side).</i> Get away from here, you little
+ruffian.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> That's my son, sir&mdash;he's not a ruffian. His
+father has not returned from the front and that&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Man (interrupting).</i> Oh, yes&mdash;yes&mdash;we hear those stories every
+day now on every corner&mdash;it's the beggar's capital. (<i>He walks away
+hurriedly, but Hal starts after with clenched fist.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Hal! Hal! What did mother tell you a few moments
+ago?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal (coming back).</i> But he made me sore.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> What's the news&mdash;(<i>Hal hands her a paper,
+kisses her and starts up street.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> Paper&mdash;extra&mdash;paper! (<i>He disappears.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton (is attracted by headlines in paper and begins to
+read aloud).</i> "Fifty men return to-day from the front to be placed
+in the asylum." (<i>She buries her face in her hands.</i>) Better that
+he were dead. (<i>Sound of footsteps is heard. Enter detachment of ten
+men in uniform in charge of a sergeant. They swing corner of flower
+stand and Mrs. Hamilton watches every man and there is a tense
+silence. Suddenly Mrs. Hamilton rushes toward them.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> John! John! My boy! (<i>They halt. Mrs. Hamilton
+swoons. Sergeant goes to her and assists her to bench in front of
+stand. She becomes calm and goes toward husband with out-stretched
+arms.</i>) Don't you know me? Claire, your wife! (<i>He stares at her,
+but shows no signs of recognition.</i>) You remember Hal&mdash;Hal, your
+own boy&mdash;our little boy&mdash;John! (<i>He just looks at her and smiles
+foolishly. Sergeant takes her gently by the arm to lead her away,
+thinking her hysterically mistaken as many others have been.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Sergeant.</i> Are you quite sure, madam, that he is your husband?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Yes&mdash;John Hamilton&mdash;have you no record&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Sergeant.</i> Not yet. But time will clear away any doubts&mdash;&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Time&mdash;time! I've waited long enough on time.
+He's mine and I want him. (<i>Turns toward husband.</i>) You want to
+stay here with me and our boy&mdash;don't you, John? (<i>Pause.</i>)
+Sergeant, let me have him.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Sergeant (trying to hide his emotion).</i> You're quite sure,
+madam&mdash;(<i>Mrs. Hamilton nods and sergeant takes John from ranks. John
+just stares. Mrs. Hamilton leads him tenderly to seat. Sergeant starts
+others to march.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Sergeant.</i> I'll return for him after delivering these men.
+(<i>Mrs. Hamilton takes no notice of his remarks and they march
+off.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton (kissing his hands tenderly and giving him all signs
+of love and affection).</i> Doesn't it seem good to be with us again?
+(<i>He smiles foolishly.</i>) And our boy Hal&mdash;He is so large
+now&mdash;You'll see him soon. Think of it&mdash;he's ten years old. (<i>Hal
+enters and without noticing father rushes toward his mother, holding a
+package in his hand. His father sees him and notices his
+uniform&mdash;rises quickly and rushes toward him but mother grabs his arm
+and holds him back. Hal remains standing.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> That's Hal&mdash;your own boy. Hal&mdash;your son.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mr. Hamilton (looks at Hal fiercely).</i> Attention! (<i>Hal looks
+perplexed.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> This is your own papa&mdash;my boy. (<i>Hal runs
+toward him but stops.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mr. Hamilton.</i> Attention! (<i>His hands grab his pocket for
+revolver but finds none.</i>) You scullion&mdash;this is my girl! (<i>Turns
+and puts arms around Mrs. Hamilton.</i>) Aren't you, Sissy? (<i>Mrs.
+Hamilton realizes situation and plays her part&mdash;leads him to
+seat&mdash;strokes his hair and caresses him.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> What have you, Hal?
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Hal.</i> I sold all my papers and brought you a little cake for
+daddy's birthday.
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton (smiles and shakes her head. She takes box of
+mignonettes and shows them to Mr. Hamilton.).</i> You surely remember
+these&mdash;your own mignonettes&mdash;your prize? (<i>She is silent. He smells
+flowers&mdash;she anxiously awaits any signs of recognition&mdash;long pause&mdash;a
+slight spark of intelligence comes over him as he fondles the
+flowers&mdash;Mrs. Hamilton very tense but says nothing. Hal remains
+standing as if rooted to the spot. Enter sergeant.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Sergeant.</i> I must deliver him with the others, madam. (<i>No
+reply.</i>) It's my duty. (<i>He goes to take Mr. Hamilton by the arm,
+but Mrs. Hamilton interferes.</i>)
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mrs. Hamilton.</i> Duty! Duty! It has been my duty to slave and
+starve&mdash;my husband has done his duty&mdash;he volunteered his services&mdash;I
+willingly let him go&mdash;for what? For whom? (<i>Pause.</i>) Now it's all
+over. This is the result to me&mdash;to thousands, but now&mdash;(<i>stands
+between Mr. Hamilton and sergeant</i>)&mdash;God has brought him back to me
+and God will keep him with me!
+</p>
+
+<p class="hang">
+<i>Mr. Hamilton (in a whisper).</i> God&mdash;(<i>rubs hands over
+eyes</i>)&mdash;God&mdash;&mdash; (<i>Smells fragrance of the mignonettes. He takes Mrs.
+Hamilton's hand and Hal runs to him and kneels beside him.</i>) My
+mignonette. (<i>Smiles to Mrs. Hamilton and Hal.</i>) My mignonettes.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="semper">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Semper Fidelis</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Addie B. Billington</i><a name="billington">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>When free from earthly toil and thrall of pain,</p>
+<p class="i6">Time's transient guest,</p>
+<p>One large of heart and finely quick of brain</p>
+<p class="i6">Found early rest.</p>
+<p>Kind friends ordained that on his coffin lid,</p>
+<p class="i6">Bedecked with flowers,</p>
+<p>His last Romance should lie, forever hid</p>
+<p class="i6">From sight of ours.</p>
+<p>Th' unfinished page no other hand might press,</p>
+<p class="i6">Where his had wrought,</p>
+<p>Nor Fancy weave strange threads&mdash;to match by guess</p>
+<p class="i6">The strands he sought.</p>
+<p>The motives worthy and the action grand,</p>
+<p class="i6">In faithful trust,</p>
+<p>To bury what they could not understand,</p>
+<p class="i6">With fleeting dust.</p>
+<p>And if within the years there treasured lies,</p>
+<p class="i6">'Neath Memory's trance,</p>
+<p>Wreathed in forget-me-nots, my sacred prize&mdash;</p>
+<p class="i6">A life's Romance&mdash;</p>
+<p>Heav'n grant no ruthless hand the pages turn,</p>
+<p class="i6">When I am gone,</p>
+<p>Striving its inmost meaning to discern;</p>
+<p class="i6">'Tis mine alone.</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="bird">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Our Bird Friends</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Margaret Coulson Walker</i><a name="walker">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p>
+Lovers of birds will doubtless be pleased to know that some of the
+most agreeable and interesting legends of the past were centered about
+these guests of our groves, whose actions formed the basis of
+innumerable fancies and superstitions. An acquaintance with the
+literature as well as with the life history of our feathered friends
+will not only increase our interest in the bird life about us but it
+will broaden our sympathies as well.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Birds exercised a strong influence on prehistoric religion, having
+been worshipped as gods in the earlier days and later looked upon as
+representatives of the higher powers. The Greeks went so far as to
+attribute the origin of the world itself to the egg of some mysterious
+bird. To others, these small creatures flitting about among our trees,
+represented the visible spirits of departed friends. The Aztecs
+believed that the good, as a reward of merit, were metamorphosed at
+the close of life into feathered songsters, and as such were permitted
+to pass a certain term in the beautiful groves of Paradise. To them,
+as to all North American Indians, thunder was the cloud bird flapping
+his mighty wings, while the lightning was the flash of his eye. The
+people of other countries believed that higher powers showed their
+displeasure by transforming wrong-doers into birds and animals as a
+punishment for their crimes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In all lands birds were invested with the power of prophecy. They were
+believed to possess superior intelligence through being twice-born,
+once as an egg, and again as an animal. Because of their wisdom, not
+only they, but their graven images also, were consulted on all
+important affairs of life. Many nations, notably the Japanese, are
+still believers in the direct communication between man and unseen
+beings, through birds and other agents. In their country, birds are
+regarded as sacred, and for this reason the agriculturist gladly
+shares with them the fruit of his toil.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While we of to-day attach no supernatural significance to the presence
+of these feathered songsters, and even though to us they possess no
+powers of prophecy, we can find a great deal of pleasure in observing
+these beings whose boding cries were regarded as omens by the greatest
+of earth&mdash;beings whose actions in Vespasian's time were considered of
+vital national importance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Aside from their historic and literary interest, these multitudinous,
+and often contradictory, legends and superstitions are of interest to
+us as a part of the faith of our fathers, much of which, combined with
+other and higher things, is in us yet. These beliefs of theirs, like
+many of what we are pleased to think are original ideas and opinions
+to-day, were hereditary and largely a matter of geography.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In ancient times the chief birds of portent were the raven or crow,
+the owl and the woodpecker, though there were a number of others on
+the prophetic list.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As an example of interest let us consider our friend the raven and his
+congener the crow, who are so confused in literature, as well as in
+the minds of those not familiar with ornithological classification,
+that it is almost impossible to treat them separately. The raven is a
+larger bird and not quite so widely distributed as the crow, but in
+general appearance and habits they are practically the same.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If tradition is to be credited, we are more indebted to this bird of
+ancient family than to any other feathered creature, for he has played
+an important part in history, sacred and profane, in literature, and
+in art.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the authority of the Koran we know that it was he who first taught
+man to bury his dead. When Cain did not know what disposition to make
+of the body of his slain brother, "God sent a raven, who killed
+another raven in his presence and then dug a pit with his beak and
+claws and buried him therein." It was the raven whom Noah sent forth
+to learn whether the waters had abated&mdash;one of the rare instances
+wherein he ever proved faithless to his trust&mdash;and it was he who gave
+sustenance to the prophet Elijah.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In Norse mythology, Odin, the greatest of all the gods, the raven's
+God, had for his chief advisers two ravens, Hugin and Munin (Mind and
+Memory), who were sent out by him each morning on newsgathering
+journeys, and who returned to him at nightfall to perch on his
+shoulders and whisper into his ears intelligence of the day. When news
+of unusual importance was desired, Odin himself in raven guise went
+forth to seek it, and when the Norse armies went into battle they
+followed the raven standard, a banner under which William the
+Conqueror fought. When bellied by the breezes it betokened success,
+but when it hung limp, only defeat was expected.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Norse navigators took with them a pair of ravens to be liberated and
+followed as guides; if the bird returned it was known that land did
+not lie in that direction; if they did not, they were followed. The
+discoveries of both Iceland and Greenland are attributed to their
+leadership.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To the Romans and Greeks the raven was the chief bird of omen, whose
+effigy was borne on their banners, and whose auguries were followed
+with greatest confidence, while to the German mind he was his satanic
+majesty made manifest in feathers. In some parts of Germany these
+birds are believed to hold the souls of the damned, while in other
+European sections priests only are believed to be so reincarnated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In Sweden the ravens croaking at night in the swamps are said to be
+the ghosts of murdered persons who have been denied Christian burial,
+and whom on this account Charon has refused ferriage across the River
+Styx.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As a companion of saints this bird has had too many experiences to
+mention.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+By some nations he was regarded as the bearer of propitious news from
+the gods&mdash;and sacrosanct, to others he was the precursor of evil and
+an object of dread. With divining power, which enabled him for ages to
+tell the farmer of coming rain, the maiden of the coming of her lover
+and the invalid of the coming of death, he was received with joy or
+sadness, according to the messages he bore.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In England he was looked upon with greater favor; there the mere
+presence of the home of a raven in a tree-top was enough to insure the
+continuance in power of the family owning the estate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The wealth of raven literature bears indubitable testimony to the
+interest people of all times and all localities have felt in this
+remarkable bird&mdash;an interest certain to increase with acquaintance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To one with mind open to rural charm, this picturesque bird, solemnly
+stalking about the fields, or majestically flapping his way to the
+treetops, is as much a part of the landscape as the fields themselves,
+or the trees upon their borders; it possesses an interest different
+from that of any other creature of the feathered race. Though he no
+longer pursues the craft of the augur, his superior intelligence,
+great dignity and general air of mystery inspire confidence in his
+abilities in that line.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What powers were his in the old days! Foolish maidens and ignorant
+sailors might put their faith in the divining powers of the flighty
+wren; others might consult the swallow and the kingfisher; but it was
+to the "many-wintered crow" that kings and the great ones of earth
+applied for advice, and it was he who never failed them. According to
+Pliny, he was the only bird capable of realizing the meaning of his
+portents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the early morning light the worthy successors of the ancient Hugin
+and Munin go forth to-day in quest of news of interest to their clan,
+just as those historic messengers did in the days when the mighty
+Norse gods awaited their return, that they might act on the
+intelligence gathered by them during the daylight hours; and when
+slanting beams call forth the vesper songs of more tuneful birds, they
+return, followed by long lines of other crows, to their usual haunts
+on the borders of the marshes. Singly or in long lines, never in loose
+flocks like blackbirds, they arrive from all directions, till what
+must be the whole tribe is gathered together&mdash;a united family&mdash;for the
+night's repose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As there in the treetops in the early evening, in convention
+assembled, they discuss important affairs, who can doubt that certain
+ones of their number are recognized as leaders, and that they have
+some form of government among themselves? One after another delivers
+himself of a harangue, then the whole assemblage joins in noisy
+applause&mdash;or is it disapproval? At other times sociability seems to be
+the sole object of the gathering.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As one old crow, more meditative than the rest, at the close of the
+conclave always betakes himself to the same perch, the lonely,
+up-thrust shaft of a lightning-shattered tree on the hillside, we
+decide that here is old Munin, who has selected this perch as one
+favorable to meditation&mdash;a place where he may ponder undisturbed over
+the occurrences of the day.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Others among the group have habits as fixed and noticeable. Even
+though approaching his perch from the opposite direction, one will be
+seen to circle and draw near it from the accustomed side; some of the
+more decided ones will invariably remain just where they alight;
+others will turn around and arrange themselves on their perches
+indefinitely. In the fields it will be noticed that some are socially
+inclined and forage in groups, while others, either from personal
+choice or that of their neighbors, are more solitary. Like members of
+the human family, each has his own individual characteristic.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While the chief charm of the crow is his intelligence, his dignity
+also claims our attention. Who ever saw one of his tribe do anything
+foolish or unbecoming to the funeral director he has been ever since
+the birth of time, and that he must ever be while time endures? The
+ancients believed him to be able to scent a funeral several days
+before death occurred, so sensitive was he to mortuary influences, and
+there is little doubt he still possesses the power to discern
+approaching death in many creatures smaller than himself&mdash;and to whom
+he expects to extend the rite of sepulchre. Inside and out he is
+clothed in deepest black; even his tongue and the inside of his mouth
+are in mourning. Seeming to think it incumbent on him to live up to
+his funeral garb and occupation, faithful to his trust, with clerical
+solemnity he goes about his everyday duties.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gazing on them from his watchtower in the tree tops, what does this
+grave creature think of the gayer birds that dwell in the meadows and
+groves round about? What thinks he of the clownish bobolink, in motley
+nuptial livery, pouring out his silly soul in gurgling, rollicking
+song, in his efforts to please a possible mate, then quarreling with
+both her and his rivals, who also have donned cap and bell to win her
+favor? What of the unpretentious home&mdash;a mere hollow in the
+ground&mdash;where the care-free pair go to housekeeping? What of the
+redwings building their nests among the reeds in the midst of the
+marsh&mdash;so low as almost to touch the water? Of the fitful wren,
+incessantly singing of love to his mate, yet who fails to assist her
+in nest-building, and who proves but an indifferent provider for his
+young family? Of the lonely phoebe, calling in plaintive, mysterious
+tones to a mate unresponsive to his sorrowful beseechings? Of the
+robin, who makes of the grove a sanctuary? He doubtless has his
+opinions concerning every one of them, for he views them all with
+interest. Hearing all the other birds singing their love and seeing
+them winning favor with their brilliant colors, does he envy them?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the theory of compensation, his sterling qualities render
+accomplishments and decorative raiment unnecessary. With no song in
+which to tell his story, and no garments gay to captivate the eye, the
+crow must needs live his love&mdash;and he does&mdash;to the end. Seriously he
+wins the mate to whom he remains true forever. To him the marital bond
+is not the mere tie of a season, but one that holds through life. He
+assists the dusky bride of his choice in establishing a commodious
+home in the most commanding situation available&mdash;the top of the
+tallest tree in the edge of the wood, and which may have been planted
+by one of his ancestors. He assists her in giving warmth to their eggs
+in the nest. He carries food to her while she broods over them. He
+braves every danger in protecting both her and them against predatory
+hawks and owls and frolicking squirrels, to whom he is known as the
+"warrior crow." With tenderest solicitude he relieves his mate as far
+as he can in ministering to their nestlings.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And what of the young crows in the nest? When their elders are away on
+commissary tours, the young ones, bewailing the absence of parents
+almost constantly, are always found, on the return, in attitudes of
+expectancy. To them the approach of older crows, even though it be
+from the left, is never ominous of anything but good. And when after
+many excursions baby appetites have been satisfied, in their lofty
+cradles in the tree tops, the infant crows are rocked by the breezes,
+and though the tuneless throats of the parents yield no songs they are
+not without music, for soft &aelig;olian lullabies soothe them to sleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On hearing farmers talk, one would think that the diet of the crow is
+entirely granivorous, while no bird has a more adaptable appetite;
+everything eatable is perfectly acceptable&mdash;harmful grubs, beetles,
+worms, young rats, mice, snakes and moles, as well as mollusks,
+acorns, nuts, wild fruit and berries are among his staple articles of
+diet. And, though it is no longer believed that "he shakes contagion
+from his ominous wing," he occasions a lamentable amount of infant
+mortality among rabbits, and squirrels, and even among weak-limbed
+lambs, depriving them of health, strength and happiness&mdash;but not
+through magic. These last he attacks in the eye, as the most
+vulnerable point. In the old days he is reputed to have met with great
+success as an oculist; in these his patients never recover.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In winter, when cereal stores and acorns which supply the season's
+want lie buried in the snow, and when such animals as in youth were
+ready prey have grown to a more formidable majority, crows frequently
+suffer and perish from hunger, and when snows lie long on the ground
+many of them are found dead beneath their roosting places.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The voice of the crow when heard distinctly has in it something of the
+winter's harshness and seems to harmonize best with winter
+sounds&mdash;creaking boughs and shrieking winds&mdash;but when modulated by
+distance it is not unmusical. In the twilight, when calling to his
+belated brethren across the marshes, his uncanny call might well be
+taken for the cry of a lost soul craving Christian burial. Yet this
+might depend on one's mood. To each he seems to speak a different
+language. To St. Athanasius he said: "Cras, cras!" (To-morrow,
+to-morrow). To the sympathetic Tennyson he always called, in tenderest
+accents, the name "Maud."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Though this bird is said to have no tongue for expressing the happier
+emotions, the voice of the mother crow when soothing her nestlings,
+with gurgling notes of endearment, is tender as the robin's; and the
+head of the family, though croaking savagely when his mate is
+molested, and though able to send an exultant "caw" after a retreating
+enemy, never lowers himself by scolding as the jay does.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Whatever his faults may be&mdash;and they are many&mdash;to anyone taking the
+trouble to study the crow, either in captivity or in his native
+environment, he will prove the most interesting example of his race,
+an agreeable companion, an ideal home-maker, a thrifty being, a
+liberal provider, an able defender of his family, a destroyer of
+harmful insect and animal life, a burier of the dead, a creature of
+dignity, a keen observer, and the intellectual marvel of the bird
+world.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="load">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">A Load of Hay</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By James B. Weaver</i><a name="weaver">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Hard paved streets and hurrying feet,</p>
+<p>Where it's oft but a nod when old friends meet,</p>
+<p>Rattle of cart and shriek of horn,</p>
+<p>Laughing Youth and Age forlorn,</p>
+<p>Bound for the office I speed away,</p>
+<p>When my auto brushes&mdash;a load of hay!</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,</p>
+<p>For things I loved as a boy seem near:</p>
+<p>Scent of meadows at early morn,</p>
+<p>Miles of waving fields of corn,</p>
+<p>Lowing cattle and colts at play&mdash;</p>
+<p>Far have I drifted another way!</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!</p>
+<p>Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!</p>
+<p>Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,</p>
+<p>Rattle of corn in the old feed-box,</p>
+<p>Answering nicker at toss of hay&mdash;</p>
+<p>Old sweet sounds of a far-off day.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>There, my driver stops with a jerk;</p>
+<p>Then far aloft to the scene of my work;</p>
+<p>But all day long midst the city's roar</p>
+<p>My heart is the heart of a boy once more,</p>
+<p>My feet in old-time fields astray,</p>
+<p>Lured&mdash;by the scent from a load of hay!</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<a name="iowa">&nbsp;</a>
+<p class="chapter">Iowa as a Literary Field</p>
+
+<p class="head">
+<i>By Johnson Brigham</i><a href="#note1" name="noteref1">
+<small>[1]</small></a><a name="brigham">&nbsp;</a>
+</p>
+
+
+<p class="subhead">
+<span class="sc">Literary Iowa in the Nineteenth Century</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Late in the last century readers of books awoke to the fact that the
+world-including, world-inviting prairies of the Mississippi Valley
+were no longer inarticulate; that in this great "Heart of the World's
+Heart," among the millions who have been drawn to these prairie
+states, there are lives as rich&mdash;in all that really enriches&mdash;as those
+immortalized in the literature of New England, or of the Pacific
+slope. It was not to be expected that the westward-moving impulse to
+create would cease on reaching the Mississippi River.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In Iowa's pioneer days but little original matter found its way into
+print except contributions to the rough and ready journalism of the
+period. A few pioneer writers, possessed of the historiographer's
+instinct, performed a rare service to the young commonwealth by
+passing on to future generations their first-hand knowledge of the
+prominent men and events of the first half of the century. Chief among
+these are Theodore S. Parvin, William Salter, Alexander R. Fulton,
+Samuel S. Howe and Charles Aldrich. The two last named published
+several series of "The Annals of Iowa" which remain unfailing
+reservoirs of information to later historians and students of Iowa
+history. Iowa Masonry is specially indebted to Professor Parvin for
+his invaluable contributions to the history of the order in Iowa. Dr.
+Salter wrote the first notable Iowa biography, that of James W.
+Grimes, published in 1876. Fulton's "Red Men of Iowa" is as valuable
+as it is rare, for, though written as late as 1882, it is the first
+exhaustive attempt to describe the tribes originally inhabiting Iowa.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The war period&mdash;1861-5&mdash;developed "Iowa in War Times," by S. H. M.
+Byers, and "Iowa Colonels and Regiments," by A. A. Stuart, also many
+valuable personal sketches and regimental histories.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Long before the close of the century, the name of Samuel Hawkins
+Marshall Byers had grown familiar to the people of Iowa, because of
+the popularity of his song entitled "Sherman's March to the Sea," and
+because contemporary historians, attracted by its suggestive title,
+adapted it as especially appropriate for the most dramatic event in
+the history of the war for the Union.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Major Byers' most lasting contribution to literature is his poem "The
+March to the Sea," epic in character and interspersed with lyrics of
+the war. Reading this, one can hear the thrilling bugle call, and "see
+once again the bivouacs in the wood."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Looking again, one can see the army in motion&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"A sight it was! that sea of army blue,</p>
+<p>The sloping guns of the swift tramping host,</p>
+<p class="i2">Winding its way the fields and forests through,</p>
+<p>As winds some river slowly to the coast.</p>
+<p class="i2">The snow-white trains, the batteries grim, and then</p>
+<p class="i2">The steady tramp of sixty thousand men."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+Passing over pages filled with stories of the camp and march, and with
+moving pictures of the dusky throng of camp-followers who saw in the
+coming of Sherman's men "God's new exodus," we come to the dramatic
+climax:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"But on a day, while tired and sore they went,</p>
+<p>Across some hills wherefrom the view was free,</p>
+<p class="i2">A sudden shouting down the lines was sent;</p>
+<p>They looked and cried, 'This is the sea! the sea!'</p>
+<p class="i2">And all at once a thousand cheers were heard</p>
+<p class="i2">And all the army shout the glorious word.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"Bronzed soldiers stood and shook each other's hands;</p>
+<p>Some wept for joy, as for a brother found;</p>
+<p class="i2">And down the slopes, and from the far-off sands,</p>
+<p>They thought they heard already the glad sound</p>
+<p class="i2">Of the old ocean welcoming them on</p>
+<p class="i2">To that great goal they had so fairly won."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+I would not be unmindful of our Iowa poet's other contributions.
+Before the century's close, Mr. Byers had written "Switzerland and the
+Swiss," and "What I saw in Dixie," also a book of verse entitled
+"Happy Isles and Other Poems," besides much occasional verse in
+celebration of events in Iowa history. So many and excellent are Major
+Byers' contributions to such occasions that their author has fitly
+been styled the "uncrowned poet laureate of Iowa." The title is
+strengthened by two distinctively Iowa songs, one, "The Wild Rose of
+Iowa," a tribute to our State Flower; the other entitled "Iowa," sung
+to the air of "My Maryland."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of Iowa's pioneer poets was signally honored by public insistence
+that his "swan song" was the song of another and greater. In July,
+1863, John L. McCreery, of Delhi, Iowa, published in <i>Arthur's Home
+Magazine</i> a poem entitled "There Is No Death." The poem went the
+round of the press attributed to Bulwer Lytton. A newspaper
+controversy followed, the result of which was that the Iowa poet was
+generally awarded the palm of authorship. But error sometimes seems to
+possess more vitality than truth! Every few years thereafter, the
+McCreery poem would make another round of the press with Bulwer
+Lytton's name attached! Finally, in response to urgent request, the
+modest author published his story of the poem.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is interesting to note the circumstances under which the first and
+best stanza was conceived. The author was riding over the prairie on
+horseback when night overtook him. Orion was "riding in triumph down
+the western sky." The "subdued and tranquil radiance of the heavenly
+host" imparted a hopeful tinge to his somber meditations on life and
+death, and under the inspiration of the scene he composed the lines:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"There is no death; the stars go down</p>
+<p class="i2">To rise upon some other shore;</p>
+<p>And bright in heaven's jeweled crown</p>
+<p class="i2">They shine forever more."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+The next morning he wrote other stanzas, the last of which reads:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"And ever near us, though unseen,</p>
+<p class="i2">The dear, immortal spirits tread;</p>
+<p>For all the boundless universe</p>
+<p class="i2">Is life&mdash;there are no dead."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+One of the curiosities of literature is the fact that the substitution
+of Bulwer's name for that of the author arose from the inclusion of
+McCreery's poem (without credit) in an article on "Immortality" signed
+by one "E. Bulmer." An exchange copied the poem with the name Bulmer
+"corrected" to Bulwer&mdash;and thus it started on its rounds. As late as
+1870, Harper's "Fifth Reader" credited the poem to Lord Lytton! The
+Granger "Index to Poetry" (1904) duly credits it to the Iowa author.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is interesting to recall, in passing, the fact that nowhere in or
+out of the state is there to be found a copy of McCreery's little
+volume of "Songs of Toil and Triumph," published by Putnam's Sons in
+1883, the unsold copies of which the author says he bought, "thus
+acquiring a library of several hundred volumes."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seems to have been the fate of Iowa's pioneer poets to find their
+verse attributed to others. So it was with Belle E. Smith's well-known
+poem, "If I Should Die To-night." Under the reflex action of Ben
+King's clever parody, it has been the habit of newspaper critics to
+smile at Miss Smith's poem. But when we recall the fact that several
+poets thought well enough of it to stake their reputation on it; and
+that, in the course of its odyssey to all parts of the English-reading
+world, it was variously attributed to Henry Ward Beecher, F. K.
+Crosby, Robert C. V. Myers, Lucy Hooper, Letitia E. Landon, and
+others, and that Rider Haggard used it, in a mutilated form, in
+"Jess," leaving the reader to infer that it was part of his own
+literary creation, may we not conclude that the verse is a real poem
+worthy of its place in the anthologies? In the Granger Index (1904) it
+is credited to Robert C. V. Myers,&mdash;the credit followed by the words:
+"Attributed to Arabella E. Smith"!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If support of Miss Smith's unasserted but now indisputable claim to
+the poem be desired, it can be found in Professor W. W. Gist's
+contribution on the subject entitled "Is It Unconscious
+Assimilation?"<a href="#note2" name="noteref2">
+<small>[2]</small></a> Miss Smith&mdash;long a resident of Newton, Iowa, and
+later a sojourner in California until her recent death&mdash;was of a
+singularly retiring nature. She lived much within herself and thought
+profoundly, as her poetical contributions to the <i>Midland
+Monthly</i> reveal. In none of her other poems did she reveal herself
+quite as clearly as in the poem under consideration. It is in four
+stanzas. In the first is this fine line referring to her own face,
+calm in death: "And deem that death had left it almost fair."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poem concludes with the pathetic word to the living:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"Oh! friends, I pray to-night,</p>
+<p>Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow&mdash;</p>
+<p>The way is lonely, let me feel them now.</p>
+<p>Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;</p>
+<p>My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.</p>
+<p>Forgive, O hearts estranged; forgive, I plead!</p>
+<p>When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need</p>
+<p>The tenderness for which I long to-night!"</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+I like to think of the veteran Tacitus Hussey, of Des Moines, as that
+octogenarian with the heart of youth. This genial poet and quaint
+philosopher made a substantial contribution to the century's output of
+literature, a collection of poems of humor and sentiment entitled "The
+River Bend and Other Poems." This author has contributed the words of
+a song which is reasonably sure of immortality. I refer to "Iowa,
+Beautiful Land," set to music by Congressman H. M. Towner. It fairly
+sings itself into the melody.
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"The corn-fields of billowy gold,</p>
+<p class="i2">In Iowa, 'Beautiful Land,'</p>
+<p>Are smiling with treasure untold,</p>
+<p class="i2">In Iowa,'Beautiful Land.'"</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+The next stanza, though including one prosaic line, has taken on a new
+poetic significance since the war-stricken nations of the old world
+are turning to America for food. The stanza concludes:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"The food hope of nations is she&mdash;</p>
+<p>With love overflowing and free</p>
+<p>And her rivers which run to the sea,</p>
+<p class="i4">In Iowa, 'Beautiful Land.'"</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+Among Iowans in middle-life and older, the name of Robert J. Burdette,
+or "Bob" Burdette as he was familiarly called, brings vividly to mind
+a genial, sunny little man from Burlington, who went about doing good,
+making people forget their woes by accepting his philosophy&mdash;a simple
+philosophy, that of looking upon the sunny side of life. The "Chimes
+from a Jester's Bells" still ring in our ears, though the jester has
+passed on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Reference has been made to the pioneer magazine of Iowa, the
+<i>Midland Monthly</i>, of Des Moines. As its eleven volumes include
+the first contributions of a considerable number of Iowa authors who
+have since become famous, this publication may be said to have
+inaugurated an era of intellectual activity in Iowa. Its first number
+contained an original story, "The Canada Thistle," by "Octave Thanet"
+(Miss French), a group of poems by Hamlin Garland from advance proofs
+of his "Prairie Songs," an original story by S. H. M. Byers, and other
+inviting contributions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Looking back over the Iowa field from the viewpoint of 1894, when the
+<i>Iowa Magazine</i> entered upon its short-lived career (1894-99), I
+find, in addition to the authors and works already mentioned, a
+nationally interesting episode of the John Brown raid, by Governor B.
+F. Gue. Maud Meredith (Mrs. Dwight Smith), Calista Halsey Patchin and
+Alice Ilgenfritz Jones, the three pioneer novelists of Iowa, were
+among the magazine's contributors. In 1879, the Lippincotts published
+"High-water Mark" by Mrs. Jones. In 1881 appeared Maud Meredith's
+"Rivulet and Clover Blossoms," and two years later her "St. Julien's
+Daughter." Mrs. Patchin's "Two of Us" appeared at about the same time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Alice French, "Octave Thanet" to the literary world, has been a
+known quantity since 1887, when her fine group of short stories,
+"Knitters in the Sun," put Iowa on the literary map. "Expiation," "We
+All," a book for boys, "Stories of a Western Town" and "An Adventure
+in Photography" followed. Miss French has continued to write novels
+and short stories well on into the new century. In fact some of her
+strongest creations bear the twentieth century stamp.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Hamlin Garland was also known and read by many as early as the
+eighties. His, too, was the short-story route to fame, and Iowa was
+his field. From his literary vantage ground in Boston, the young
+author wrote in the guise of fiction his vivid memories of boy life
+and the life of youth in northeastern Iowa and southwestern Wisconsin.
+His "Main Traveled Roads," the first of many editions appearing in
+1891, made him famous. Though the stories contained flashes of humor,
+the dominant note was serious, as befitted the West in the Seventies
+in which the author as boy and man struggled with adverse conditions.
+But the joy of youth would rise superior to circumstance, as is
+evidenced in the charming sketch of "Boy Life in the West."<a href="#note3" name="noteref3">
+<small>[3]</small></a> I like
+to recall the prose-poem with which it concludes:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I wonder if, far out in Iowa, the boys are still playing 'Hi Spy'
+around the straw-piles&hellip;. That runic chant, with its endless
+repetitions, doubtless is heard on any moonlight night in far-off
+Iowa. I wish I might join once more in the game&mdash;I fear I could not
+enjoy 'Hi Spy' even were I invited to join. But I sigh with a curious
+longing for something that was mine in those days on the snowy Iowa
+plains. What was it? Was it sparkle of winter days? Was it stately
+march of moon? Was it the presence of dear friends? Yes; all these and
+more&mdash;it was Youth!"
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before the century closed, this transplanted Iowan had also written
+"Jason Edwards," a story of Iowa politics, "Wayside Courtships,"
+"Prairie Folks," "Spirit of Sweetwater," "Trail of the Gold-seekers,"
+and scores of short stories first published in the magazines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Garland's twentieth century output has been prolific of popular
+novels and short stories. His latest book, "A Son of the Middle
+Border," is pronounced by William Dean Howells a unique achievement
+and ranking well up with the world's best autobiographies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A new name associated with Iowa at the close of the last century was
+that of Emerson Hough. "The Story of the Cowboy" (1897) can hardly be
+classed as fiction, and yet it "reads like a romance." Mr. Hough, long
+a roving correspondent of <i>Forest and Stream</i>, first tried "his
+'prentice han'" as a story-writer in "Belle's Roses," a tense story of
+army life on the plains.<a href="#note4" name="noteref4">
+<small>[4]</small></a> This was followed by several promising
+short stories and, in 1902, by "The Mississippi Bubble," a historical
+romance of quality founded upon the adventurous career of John Law,
+pioneer in the fields of frenzied finance. Three years later came his
+"Heart's Desire," a beautiful love story of the Southwest. In 1907
+appeared his "Way of a Man" and "Story of the Outlaw." Several other
+novels have come from his facile pen. The most severely criticized and
+best seller of the series is his "54-40 or Fight," a historical novel
+based on the diplomatic controversy over Oregon in 1845-6. Mr. Hough
+is the most successful alumnus of Iowa State University in the
+difficult field of fiction.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lingering over the index to the eleven volumes of Iowa's pioneer
+magazine, I am tempted to mention in passing several other names that
+stand out prominently in the memory of <i>Midland</i> readers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Virginia H. Reichard contributed an interesting paper, "A Glimpse
+of Arcadia." Mrs. Caroline M. Hawley gave a valuable illustrated paper
+on "American Pottery." Mrs. Addie B. Billington, Mrs. Virginia K.
+Berryhill, Mrs. Clara Adele Neidig, and other Iowans contributed to
+the poetry in the magazine's columns. Hon. Jonathan P. Dolliver, Hon.
+William B. Allison, Gen. James B. Weaver, and many other men prominent
+in the public life of Iowa contributed articles of permanent value.
+Mrs. Cora Bussey Hillis was the author of "Madame Deser&eacute;e's Spirit
+Rival." Editor Ingham, of the <i>Register</i>, then of Algona, Editor
+Moorhead, then of Keokuk, now a Des Moines journalist, Minnie Stichter
+(Mrs. C. J. Fulton of Fairfield), Mrs. Harriet C. Towner, of Corning,
+Charles Eugene Banks, born in Clinton County, now a prominent
+journalist and <i>litterateur</i> in Seattle, Dr. J. Foster Bain, then
+assistant state geologist, now a resident of London, and one of the
+world's most famous consulting geologists, Barthinius L. Wick, of
+Cedar Rapids, a voluminous historiographer, are among the many who,
+during the last five years of the old century, did their bit toward
+putting Iowa on the literary map.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Irving Berdine Richman, of Muscatine, had already written "Appenzell,"
+a study of the Swiss, with whom, as consul-general, he had lived for
+several years. His <i>Midland</i> sketch, "The Battle of the Stoss,"
+was followed by a little volume, "John Brown Among the Quakers, and
+Other Sketches." But the two great historical works to which he gave
+years of enthusiastic research were not published until well on in the
+twentieth century. The first of these, "Rhode Island; a Study of
+Separation," was honored with an introduction by John Bryce. It was so
+well received that the "study" was amplified into a two-volume work,
+"Rhode Island; Its Making and Meaning." The second, a work compelling
+years of research in old Mexico and Spain, is entitled "California
+Under Spain and Mexico." These alone give the Iowa historian an
+enviable world-reputation.
+</p>
+
+<br>
+<p class="ctr">
+<span class="sc">Literary Iowa in the Twentieth Century</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Our study of the high places in Iowa literature has already been
+somewhat extended into the new century. The transfer of the Iowa
+magazine to St. Louis, in 1898, and its speedy suspension thereafter
+did not deter many Iowans from continuing to write. Difficult as it
+was for our unknowns to find a market for their wares in Eastern
+magazines and publishing houses, the persistent few, who knew they had
+what the public should want, "knocked" again and again "at the golden
+gates of the morning," and in due time the gates were opened unto
+them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edwin Legrange Sabin's first essay in <i>Midland</i> fiction was "A
+Ghostly Carouse,"&mdash;full of promise. His first book, "The Magic Mashie
+and other Golfish Stories," in common with all his other works, throbs
+with the heart of youth. His magazine verse, mainly humorous, has the
+same quality. Latterly he has been illuminating history, and
+especially the fast-dissolving wild life of the West, with stories
+closely adhering to fact and yet rampant with adventure&mdash;the kind of
+books our outdoor boys take to bed with them! To his readers Kit
+Carson, Fremont, Buffalo Bill, are as much alive as are the heroes of
+the stadium, the tennis court and the links. But underneath this
+delightfully light literature there is well-nigh concealed a poet of
+the Swinburne type, as witness this bit of verse:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Upon the purple hillside, vintage-stained,</p>
+<p class="i2">In drowsy langour brown October lies,</p>
+<p>Like one who has the banquet goblet drained,</p>
+<p class="i2">And looks abroad with dream enchanted eyes."<a href="#note5" name="noteref5">
+<small>[5]</small></a></p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Bertha M. Shambaugh's <i>Midland</i> sketch of "Amana Colony; a
+Glimpse of the Community of True Inspiration,"<a href="#note6" name="noteref6">
+<small>[6]</small></a> suggested something
+more than "a glimpse," and in 1908 appeared an exhaustive study of
+that "peculiar people," entitled "Amana, the Community of True
+Inspiration," a valuable contribution to Iowa history.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Professor Selden L. Whitcomb, of Grinnell, had previously published
+several outlines for the study of literature, but his first volume of
+"Lyrical Verse" appeared in 1898. Two other books of poems followed,
+one in 1912, the other in 1914. His verse is marked by delicacy of
+poetical suggestion and perfection of rhyme and rhythm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+George Meason Whicher, of New York, whose name is now often seen in
+<i>The Continent</i> of Chicago, is the author of "From Muscatine and
+Other Poems" and of recent prose with Italian and Latin background.
+Mr. Whicher is the author of four poems in the <i>Midland</i>, all
+harking back to the poet's boyhood days in Muscatine, Iowa.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dr. Frank Irving Herriott, dean of sociology at Drake University, a
+voluminous writer on historical and sociological themes, has a long
+list of works to his credit, all bearing twentieth century dates
+except one published by the American Academy which appeared in 1892.
+He wrote for the <i>Midland</i> a strong plea for public libraries, a
+plea which, doubtless, had its influence in inaugurating the library
+movement in Iowa beginning with the new century.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Another scholar in the sociological field who has made his impression
+upon thousands of students and adult readers is Dr. Frank L. McVey,
+president of the University of North Dakota. His historical sketch in
+the <i>Midland</i>, "The Contest in the Maumee Valley," was followed
+by other published papers and these by several books on sociological
+themes, among them "Modern Industrialism" and "The Making of a Town."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There are few more scholarly literary critics than Welker Given, of
+Clinton, Iowa. His Shakespearean and classical studies have won for
+him an enviable place among students of the classics.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Anna Howell Clarkson, of New York, wife of Hon. J. S. Clarkson,
+long prominent in Iowa journalism and in national politics, followed
+up her <i>Midland</i> article on "The Evolution of Iowa Politics" with
+a book entitled "A Beautiful Life and Its Associations," a tribute of
+loving regard to a former teacher and friend, Mrs. Drusilla Alden
+Stoddard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A <i>critique</i> on "Our Later Literature and Robert Browning" in the
+Iowa magazine in April, 1897, may, or may not, have turned the current
+of Lewis Worthington Smith's whole life; but its critical power made
+friends for the Nebraska professor and warmed the welcome given him
+when, in 1902, he took up his work in the English department of Drake
+University of Des Moines. While Professor Smith has published several
+works on language and literature and an acting drama entitled "The Art
+of Life," his literary reputation rests mainly upon his poetry. Since
+the opening of the new century, volume has followed volume; first
+"God's Sunlight," then "In the Furrow," and, in 1916, "The English
+Tongue," and "Ships in Port." Many of the poems in the two last named
+evince the impact of the World War upon a soul of strong
+sensibilities. Tempted to quote whole poems, as showing the wide range
+of this poet's vision, I will limit myself to the first stanza of "The
+English Tongue":
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>On to where Indus and Ganges pour down to the tide.</p>
+<p>Words that have lived, that have felt, that have gathered and grown.</p>
+<p>Words! Is it nothing that no other people have known</p>
+<p>Speech of such myriad voices, so full and so free,</p>
+<p>Song by the fireside and crash of the thunders at sea?"</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+Jessie Welborn Smith, wife of Professor Smith, is a frequent
+contributor of short stories and sketches to popular magazines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The late Henry Wallace, though for many years an agricultural editor
+in Iowa, modestly began his contribution to general literature in the
+<i>Midland</i> with a pen-picture of the Scotch-Irish in America.
+Subsequently he wrote his "Uncle Henry's Letters to a Farm Boy," which
+has run through many editions; also "Trusts and How to Deal With Them"
+and "Letters to the Farm-Folk."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Eugene Secor, of Forest City, published poems in the <i>Midland</i>
+which were followed by "Verses for Little Folk and Others," "A Glimpse
+of Elysium" and "Voices of the Trees."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Helen Hoyt Sherman's modest "Village Romance" led to a long list of
+popular books, published since her marriage and under her married
+name, Helen Sherman Griffiths. Born in Des Moines, her present home is
+in Cincinnati.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Herbert Bashford, born in Sioux City, now living in Washington and
+California, contributed to the <i>Midland</i> a half-dozen poems of
+much promise. Mr. Bashford is now literary editor of the <i>San
+Francisco Bulletin</i> and has several books of poems and several
+popular dramas to his credit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Ella Hamilton Durley, of Los Angeles, formerly of Des Moines, a
+pioneer president of our Press and Authors' Club, and a prolific
+writer for the press, followed her journal and magazine successes with
+two novels, "My Soldier Lady" and "Standpatter," a novel of Southern
+California love and politics.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Caroline M. Sheldon, Professor of Romance Languages in Grinnell
+College, has followed up her <i>Midland</i> study of American poetry
+with "Princess and Pilgrim in England," and a translation and study of
+Echegary's play, "The Great Galeoto."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Many still recall with interest the realistic serial which ran in the
+<i>Midland</i>, entitled "The Young Homesteaders," also a number of
+short sketches and stories of pioneer life in the West, by Frank
+Welles Calkins, then of Spencer, Iowa, now a Minnesotan. Mr. Calkins
+has since become a frequent contributor to magazines, and a writer of
+books of outdoor life and adventure. His latest novel, "The Wooing of
+Takala," appeared in 1907.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of the marked successes in the world of books and periodicals is
+Julia Ellen Rogers, long a teacher of science in Iowa high schools.
+While a resident of Des Moines she contributed to the <i>Midland</i> a
+descriptive article, "Camping and Climbing in the Big Horn," which
+evinced her love of "all outdoors" and her ability to describe what
+she saw. Her editorial connection with <i>Country Life in America</i>
+and her popular series of nature studies, "Among Green Trees," "Trees
+Every Child Should Know," "Earth and Sky," "Wild Animals Every Child
+Should Know," have given their author and her books a warm welcome
+from Maine to California.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of the bright particular stars in our firmament, remaining almost
+undiscovered until near the close of the century's first decade, is
+Arthur Davison Ficke, of Davenport. Circumstances&mdash;his father's
+eminence at the bar&mdash;conspired to make the young poet a lawyer; but he
+could not&mdash;long at a time&mdash;close his ears to the wooing of the muse,
+and off he went, at frequent intervals, in hot pursuit of the elusive
+Euterpe. Though still a lawyer of record, the inward call of the soul
+must soon become too strong to be resisted. <i>Poeta nascitur.</i> I
+can see the young lawyer-poet in his own "Dream Harbor," and can feel
+his glad response to the call from the dream-world:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Winds of the South from the sunny beaches</p>
+<p class="i2">Under the headland call to me;</p>
+<p>And I am sick for the purple reaches,</p>
+<p class="i2">Olive-fringed, by an idle sea.</p></div>
+
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"Where low waves of the South are calling</p>
+<p class="i2">Out of the silent sapphire bay,</p>
+<p>And slow tides are rising, falling,</p>
+<p class="i2">Under the cliffs where the ripples play."</p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+It was natural that the sons of the late Henry Sabin should write
+acceptably. Though slightly older in years, Elbridge H. Sabin is
+younger in literature than his brother "Ed." The first decade of the
+new century was well advanced before Elbridge turned his attention
+from law to literature. The brief touch of life in the open given him
+while soldiering during the Spanish-American war may have suggested
+the change in his career. His first essay in authorship was "Early
+American History for Young Americans" (1904). He then turned his gaze
+skyward and in 1907 appeared "Stella's Adventures in Starland."
+Fairyland next invited him and in 1910 appeared "The Magical Man of
+Mirth," soon followed by "The Queen of the City of Mirth." In 1913
+appeared his "Prince Trixie."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+James B. Weaver, son of General Weaver, another lawyer with the poet
+soul, but with a somewhat firmer hold on "the things that are," has
+written much prose which only requires the touch of the <i>vers
+libre</i> editor to turn it into poetry. His appreciation of Kipling
+and other poets and his fine character-sketches, as for example that
+of Martin Burke, pioneer stage-driver and farmer, are remembered with
+delight. Just once, many years ago, when, a happy father, he looked
+for the first time upon his "Baby Boy," the poet in his nature
+obtained the upper hand of the lawyer and he wrote:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p>"O golden head! O sunny heart!</p>
+<p>Forever joyous be thy part</p>
+<p>In this fair world; and may no care</p>
+<p>Cut short thy youth, and may no snare</p>
+<p>Entrap thy feet! I pray thee, God,</p>
+<p>For smoother paths than I have trod."<a href="#note7" name="noteref7">
+<small>[7]</small></a></p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Weaver was president of the Iowa Press and Authors Club in 1914-15
+and the success of the famous Iowa Authors' Homecoming in October,
+1914, was in large measure due to his untiring efforts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In that Great American Desert of "free verse," the Chicago magazine,
+<i>Poetry</i>, the persistent seeker can find here and there an oasis
+that will well repay his search. One of these surprises is a poem
+entitled "The Wife,"<a href="#note8" name="noteref8">
+<small>[8]</small></a> by Mrs. Helen Cowles LeCron, of Des Moines. It
+is the plea of a longing soul for relief from the "sullen silence,"
+and the "great gaunt shadows" of the "shaggy mountains," and for a
+return to "the gentle land," and to "the careless hours when life was
+very sweet." Mrs. LeCron is a prolific writer of clever and timely
+verse for the press, and is a poet of many possibilities.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Honor&eacute; Willsie (whose maiden name is Dunbar) was born in Ottumwa,
+Iowa, is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin, and is a resident
+of New York City. To her able editorship may be attributed the new
+literary quality of <i>The Delineator</i>. It was Mrs. Willsie's
+varied successes as a writer of papers on social problems, sketches,
+short stories and serials which won for her the literary editorship of
+that popular periodical. Her success as a novelist mainly rests upon
+"Heart of the Desert," "Still Jim," and "Lydia of the Pines," all
+published within the last four years, and each stronger than its
+predecessor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A successful art publisher and an enthusiastic traveler, Thomas D.
+Murphy, a native Iowan, long a resident of Red Oak, is the author of a
+group of well-written and profusely illustrated books of travel, all
+written within the last decade, as follows: "British Highways and
+Byways"; "In Unfamiliar England"; "Three Wonderlands of the American
+West"; "On Old-World Highways"; and "On Sunset Highways."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Allan Updegraff is a born Iowan whose fame has come early in life. His
+"Second Youth" (1917) is winning praise from the critics as "an
+agreeable contrast with the stuffy bedroom atmosphere" of many books
+of the period, as refreshingly "modest humor," and as having "touches
+of characterization and serious feeling" which keep up the interest to
+the close.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Among the native Iowans who have distinguished themselves in
+literature is Willis George Emerson, of Denver, born near Blakesburg,
+Iowa. Mr. Emerson is author of "Buell Hampton," and a half-dozen other
+novels, the latest, "The Treasure of Hidden Mountain," also a hundred
+or more sketches and stories of travel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of the well-known authors who, during the impressionable years of
+their youth resided for a time in Iowa, the most famous is "Mark
+Twain" (Samuel L. Clemens) who, after his <i>wanderjahr</i>, in the
+late summer of 1854, took the "Keokuk Packet" and landed in Muscatine,
+Iowa, and there became the guest of his brother, Orrin, and his
+sister, Jane. Early in the spring of '55, his brother meantime having
+married and removed to Keokuk, Iowa, he paid his brother another
+visit. Orrin offered him five dollars a week and board to remain and
+help him in his printing office. The offer was promptly accepted. The
+Keokuk episode extended over a period of nearly two years, "two vital
+years, no doubt, if all the bearings could be known." Here he made his
+first after-dinner speech, which delighted his audience. Here he made
+a record in a debating society. Unable to pay his brother his wages,
+Orrin took him in as a partner! A lucky find of a fifty-dollar bill
+enabled Twain to start on his travels. Meanwhile he contracted to
+write travel sketches for the Keokuk <i>Saturday Post</i>. His first
+letter was dated "Cincinnati, November 14, 1856." "It was written in
+the exaggerated dialect then considered humorous. The genius that a
+little more than ten years later would delight the world flickered
+feebly enough at twenty-one."<a href="#note9" name="noteref9">
+<small>[9]</small></a> A second letter concluded the series!
+Years later, just before he joined the Holy Land excursion out of
+which grew his "Innocents Abroad," he visited Keokuk and delivered a
+lecture. He came again after his return from the trip, on his
+triumphal lecture tour across the continent. Years later he and Cable
+gave readings in Keokuk, and while there he arranged a permanent
+residence for his mother. In 1886, with his wife and daughter, he paid
+his mother a visit, renewing old acquaintances and making new friends.
+In August, 1890, he was called to Keokuk by the last illness of his
+mother. It will thus be seen that, next to his home in Elmira, New
+York, his "heart's home" was Keokuk.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nixon Waterman, author, journalist and lecturer, born in Newark,
+Illinois, and long a resident of Boston, was for several years an
+attach&eacute; of a small daily paper in Creston, Iowa. Among his published
+works is a comedy entitled "Io, from Iowa." In his several books of
+verse are many poems evidently inspired by memories of old times on
+the prairies of southwestern Iowa. Here is an echo from the poet's
+lost youth:
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">"Strange how Memory will fling her</p>
+<p class="i2">Arms about some scenes we bring her,</p>
+<p>And the fleeting years but make them fonder grow;</p>
+<p class="i2">Though I wander far and sadly</p>
+<p class="i2">From that dear old home, how gladly</p>
+<p>I recall the cherished scenes of long ago!"<a href="#note10" name="noteref10">
+<small>[10]</small></a></p></div></div>
+
+<p>
+William Otis Lillibridge, of Sioux Falls, whose brilliant career as a
+novelist was closed by death in 1909, was graduated from the College
+of Dentistry, State University of Iowa, in 1898. His "Ben Blair" and
+"Where the Trail Divides," gave abundant promise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Randall Parish, though born in Illinois, was admitted to the bar in
+Iowa, and for a time was engaged in newspaper work in Sioux City.
+Since 1904, when he leaped into fame by his historical novel, "When
+Wilderness Was King," volume after volume has come from the press and
+every one has met with quick response from the public.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is hard to account for Herbert Quick. Born on a farm in Grundy
+County, Iowa, a teacher in Mason City and elsewhere in Iowa, a lawyer
+in Sioux City, mayor of Sioux City for three terms, a telephone
+manager, editor of <i>La Follette's Weekly</i>, editor of <i>Farm and
+Fireside</i>, democratic politician, at present an active member of
+the Federal Farm Loan Board&mdash;with all this record of service, Mr.
+Quick has somehow found time, since 1904, to make for himself a name
+and fame as a magazine contributor, and, too, as a novelist who writes
+novels so novel that they find thousands of readers! Among his best
+known books are "Aladdin &amp; Co," "Virginia of the Air Lanes," and "On
+Board the Good Ship Earth." Mr. Quick is preeminently a twentieth
+century man of affairs. Immersed as he now is in farm loans, it would
+not surprise his friends at any time if he were to issue another
+compelling novel!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Rupert Hughes, eminently successful as a novelist and dramatist,
+though Missouri-born, was for years a resident of Keokuk, Iowa, and
+his Iowa associations were so strong that he dropped everything to
+come halfway across the continent that he might participate in the
+reunion of Iowa authors in 1914. Mr. Hughes' books are among the
+best-selling and his plays among the best-drawing. This popular author
+has turned soldier. He was an officer of the New York National Guards
+in Mexico and again when war against Germany was declared he was among
+the first to respond to the call for troops.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dr. Edward A. Steiner, of Grinnell, Iowa, a sociologist with a vision,
+has done more than any other man to bring together in friendly working
+relationship our native-born and foreign-born Americans. He has not
+only gone up and down the earth preaching an applied Christianity, but
+he has also written into nearly a dozen books, all of which have had
+many readers, his own experiences in the old world and the new, and
+his valuable observations&mdash;those of a trained sociologist bent upon
+righting the wrongs of ignorance and selfishness as he has found them
+embedded in customs and laws. The World War has opened a large field
+of usefulness for the Grinnell preacher of national and international
+righteousness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Newell Dwight Hillis, the popular Brooklyn preacher, lecturer and
+author, was born in Maquoketa, Iowa, but has spent most of his life
+outside the state.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A new name in fictional literature is that of Ethel Powelson Hueston.
+Mrs. Hueston was reared in a family of eleven children, and her
+popular first book, "Prudence of the Parsonage," written on a claim in
+Idaho while caring for her invalid husband&mdash;who died in 1915&mdash;is the
+story of her own experience in a parsonage in Mt. Pleasant, Iowa.
+"Prudence Says So" is a continuation of the story. Mrs. Hueston was
+recently married to Lieutenant Edward J. Best, at Golden, Colorado.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Margaret Coulson Walker and Ida M. Huntington, both of Des Moines,
+have added to the information and delight of children by a number of
+illustrated books. Miss Walker's "Bird Legends and Life," and "Lady
+Hollyhock and Her Friends," and Miss Huntington's "Garden of Heart's
+Delight," and "Peter Pumpkin in Wonderland" are favorites with many.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Miss Emilie Blackmore Stapp, literary editor of the <i>Des Moines
+Capital</i>, has written a number of popular stories for children. Her
+"Squaw Lady," "Uncle Peter Heathen," and "The Trail of the Go-Hawks"
+have found many readers. She has done more than write stories. She has
+organized a national club called the "Go-Hawks Happy Tribe," and the
+Tribe has undertaken to raise a million pennies to help buy food for
+starving children in France and Belgium. The grand total of pennies
+reported September, 1917, was 255,000!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edna Ferber, of "Emma McChesney" fame, and the author of a half-dozen
+clever novels, the latest of which is "Fanny Herself," was born in
+Wisconsin, but spent much of her youth in Ottumwa, Iowa, where her
+father was a successful merchant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Oney Fred Sweet, born in Hampton, Iowa, and sometime a journalist in
+Des Moines, has made a national reputation as a feature writer on the
+<i>Chicago Tribune</i> and as a contributor of verse and sketches to
+the magazines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Laura L. Hinckley, of Mount Vernon, Iowa, is a frequent contributor to
+the leading magazines. Recent stories in the <i>Saturday Evening
+Post</i> and in the <i>Woman's Home Companion</i> attest her ability
+in a difficult field.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A promising young claimant for literary honors is (Lotta) Allen
+Meachem, of New York, born in Washington County, Iowa. Following
+several good stories in the magazines, comes her "Belle Jones&mdash;A Story
+of Fulfilment," published by Dutton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd, born in Iowa City, now a resident of New York,
+was in early life a teacher, but since 1898 has been on the staff of
+the <i>New York Sun</i>. Her "Misdemeanors of Nancy," in 1892, was the
+beginning of a successful career in authorship. Her "Nancy," "Bettina"
+and "Belinda" are better known to many than are their own next door
+neighbors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Men who have not learned to deny the eternal boy in their nature find
+as much enjoyment as boys themselves in reading "Widow O'Callahan's
+Boys," and everybody enjoys "Maggie McLanehan," both creations of
+Gulielma Zollinger, of Newton, Iowa. Three other books, not so well
+known, are added to the list of Miss Zollinger's achievements in
+literature.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Elizabeth (Eslick) Cooper, born in Homer, Iowa, has spent most of
+her adult life in the Orient and is an authority on the status of
+women in Oriental lands. She is the author of "Sayonara," a play
+produced by Maxine Elliot, of many magazine articles, and of a half
+dozen books, all published since 1910. Her books are vivid pictures of
+life in China, Egypt, Turkey and Japan.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Among the most prominent magazine writers and journalists of the
+period is Judson Welliver. He several years ago graduated from Iowa
+journalism to the larger field, the national capital, and has latterly
+become one of the regular contributors to <i>Munsey's</i>, and a
+frequent contributor to other periodicals.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Another prominent magazine writer is Joe Mitchell Chapple, early in
+life editor of a La Porte, Iowa, weekly. Mr. Chapple is the founder,
+publisher and editor of the <i>National Magazine</i>, Boston, and the
+author of "Boss Bart," a novel, and editor of a popular collection of
+verse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One of the youngest magazine writers forging to the front is Horace M.
+Towner, Jr., of Corning, Iowa, son of Congressman Towner. A long list
+might be made of his recent contributions to the leading magazines.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A group of new writers, some of them Iowans, have happily been given a
+medium for reaching the public through the new <i>Midland</i>, of Iowa
+City. Mr. Frederick, the editor, has in the main evinced excellent
+judgment in the selection of stories, sketches and verse, and has won
+commendation from our severest Eastern critics. The new <i>Midland</i>
+has, doubtless, started not a few middle-western authors on their way
+to the front in the field of literature.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The World War has already added the names of several Iowans to the
+literature of the great struggle. The best known is James Norman Hall,
+of Colfax, Iowa, whose "Kitchener's Mob" and articles in the
+<i>Atlantic</i> have added greatly to popular knowledge of conditions
+at the front. Already twice wounded, the first time in the trenches;
+the latest&mdash;may it be the last!&mdash;in the air, this brave young American
+can well say with Virgil, "all of which I saw and part of which I
+was." After his discharge from the English army, Mr. Hall went abroad
+commissioned to do literary work for Houghton, Mifflin &amp; Company; but
+his zeal for the cause of the Allies, combined possibly with a young
+man's love of adventure, led him to re-enter the service, this time in
+the Aviation Corps. He is now (in September, 1917) slowly recovering
+from a shot which penetrated his left lung.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Gleasons, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Gleason, of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and
+of New York City, have both won honors in the Red Cross work in
+Belgium and incidentally have made valuable contributions to the
+"human interest" story of the World War. Mrs. Helen Hayes Gleason was
+the first American woman knighted by King Albert for meritorious
+service at the front. Mr. Gleason in his "Young Hilda at the Wars"
+begins his charming story of Hilda with this tribute to the state in
+which his wife first saw the light:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"She was an American girl from the very prosperous State of Iowa,
+which if not as yet the mother of presidents, is at least the parent
+of many exuberant and useful persons. Will power is grown out yonder
+as one of the crops."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Golden Lads," by Mr. and Mrs. Gleason, is a vivid recital of
+experiences with the Hector Munro Ambulance Corps at the front in
+Belgium.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Though the evaluations in this review are confined chiefly to
+<i>belles lettres</i>, it would not be fair to the reader to omit the
+state's large indebtedness to Dr. B. F. Shambaugh and his scholarly
+associates of the State Historical Society, of Iowa City, for their
+many valuable contributions to the general, social and economic
+history of Iowa; to Dr. Jesse Macy, of Grinnell, for his valuable
+studies in the science of government; to the late Samuel Calvin, also
+to Dr. Thomas H. McBride, of the State University, Dr. Louis H.
+Pammel, of the State College, and Dr. Charles Keyes, of Des Moines,
+for their contributions to science; to Dr. Charles H. Weller, of the
+State University, for his "Athens and Its Monuments," and other works
+throwing light upon an ancient civilization; to George E. Roberts, of
+New York, a native Iowan, for his clear elucidation of national and
+world problems; to the late Judges Kinne, Deemer and MacLean, and
+other jurists for standard works on jurisprudence; to Carl Snyder,
+Woods Hutchinson and a host of other Iowans who are contributing to
+the current literature of our time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This review, incomplete at best, would be unfair to the president of
+the Iowa Press and Authors Club were it to conclude without mention of
+the inspiration of her leadership. Mrs. Alice Wilson Weitz began life
+as a journalist at the Iowa State Capital. In the course of her busy
+and successful later career as wife, mother and public-spirited
+citizen, she has somehow found time to write on literary and timely
+themes. Her latest contribution to the state of her birth is a
+scenario entitled "The Wild Rose of Iowa" which was to have been
+produced on the screen in all the cities of the state; but,
+unfortunately, the film, prepared with great labor and expense, and
+with the aid of some of the best dramatic talent in Iowa, was
+destroyed or lost on the way from Chicago to Des Moines. It is to be
+hoped that this may soon be reproduced, for Mrs. Weitz' scenario
+admirably presented in symbol the whole story of Iowa's wonderful
+development from savagery to twentieth-century civilization.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A list of Iowa State University publications&mdash;a pamphlet of forty-one
+pages&mdash;includes hundreds of monographs, dissertations, etc., covering
+a wide range of original research.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It must have become evident from this incomplete review that Iowa is
+literarily, to say the least, no longer inarticulate. It is equally
+apparent, to those who really know their Iowa, that, far from being a
+dead level of uninteresting prosperity, our state is rich in
+suggestive literary material, ready and waiting for the authors of the
+future. Topographically, Iowa abounds in surprises. In the midst of
+her empire of rich rolling prairie are lakes and rivers, rugged cliffs
+and wooded hills, villages and cities set upon hills overlooking
+beautiful valleys through which streams wind their way seaward, her
+east and west borders defended by castellated rocks overlooking our
+two great rivers. Ethnologically, within these borders are communities
+of blanket Indians still living in wigwams, surrounded by communities
+in which are practiced all the arts of an advanced civilization.
+Sociologically, side by side with her native-born and native-bred
+citizens, are communities of Christian Socialists, also remnants of a
+French experiment in Communism, Quakers, Mennonites, anti-polygamous
+Mormons, and whole regions in which emigrants from Holland, Germany
+and Scandinavia are slowly and surely acquiring American habits of
+thought and life. Historically speaking, we have the early and late
+pioneer period with its rapid adjustment to new conditions, with its
+multiform perils developing latent heroism, its opportunities for
+character-building and for public service. Later the heroic period,
+during which a peace-loving people quit the plow, the workshop, the
+country store, the office and even the pulpit, to rally to the defence
+of the Union. Then, the reconstruction and the new-construction
+period, in which Iowa prospered under the leadership of
+<i>men</i>&mdash;men who knew their duties as well as their rights, men who
+recognized, and insisted upon recognition of, that "sovereign law, the
+state's collected will." And now, an epoch of reviving patriotism
+coupled with a world-embracing passion for democracy, in which the
+youths and young men of the state are consecrating their strength,
+their talents and their lives to a great cause.
+</p>
+
+<hr align="left" noshade size="2" width="40%">
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note1">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref1">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[1]</small></a> Editor of the "Midland Monthly" and author of "Life of
+James Harlan," "Iowa&mdash;Its History and Its Foremost Citizens," "An Old
+Man's Idyl," etc.
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note2">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref2">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[2]</small></a> Midland Monthly, March, 1894.
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note3">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref3">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[3]</small></a> Midland Monthly, February, 1894.
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note4">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref4">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[4]</small></a> Midland Monthly, June-July, 1895.
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note5">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref5">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[5]</small></a> Country Life in America, October, 1902.
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note6">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref6">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[6]</small></a> In the Midland Monthly, v. 6, p. 27.
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note7">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref7">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[7]</small></a> Midland Monthly, March, 1897.
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note8">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref8">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[8]</small></a> Poetry, Chicago, June, 1913.
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note9">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref9">&nbsp;&nbsp;<small>[9]</small></a> Paine&mdash;Life of "Mark Twain."
+</p>
+
+<p class="foot">
+<a name="note10">&nbsp;</a>
+<a href="#noteref10"><small>[10]</small></a> "Memories" from "A Book of Verses," by Nixon Waterman,
+1900.
+</p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prairie Gold, by Various
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+</body>
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Prairie Gold, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Prairie Gold
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Johnson Brigham
+        Lewis Worthington Smith
+        Helen Cowles LeCron
+
+Release Date: June 10, 2012 [EBook #39957]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRAIRIE GOLD ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Dianna Adair and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images generously made available by The
+Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Prairie Gold
+
+[Illustration: Rotating the Crops--Corn Isn't Iowa's Only Product]
+
+
+
+
+  Prairie Gold
+
+
+  By Iowa Authors and Artists
+
+
+  _Jacket and Frontispiece by_ J. N. Darling
+
+  _Decorations by_ Harriet Macy and Louise Orwig
+
+
+  The Reilly & Britton Co.
+  Chicago
+
+  Copyright, 1917
+  By
+  The Reilly & Britton Co.
+
+
+
+
+To those whose tender, cooling fingers bind up the bleeding wounds of
+men who go forth to war:
+
+To those who comfort and sustain the widows and the orphans:
+
+To all those swiftly flying carriers of warmth and love and cheer who
+constitute the workers in that greatest of all humanitarian
+organizations:
+
+The American Red Cross
+
+
+
+
+Preface
+
+
+This volume, from the land of the singing corn, is offered to the
+public by the Iowa Press and Authors' Club as the first bit of
+co-operative work done by Iowa writers. The anticipated needs of the
+brave men who have given themselves as a human sacrifice to the
+establishment of a world-wide democracy, make a strong heart appeal,
+and the members have come together in spirit to do their bit toward the
+relief of suffering.
+
+Many members of the club could not be reached during the short time the
+book was in the making; others doing work every day on schedule time
+had no opportunity to prepare manuscript for this publication, while
+still others preferred helping in ways other than with their pens.
+
+The whole is a work of love and representative of the comradeship, the
+spirit of human sympathy, and the pride of state, existent in the
+hearts of Iowa authors, artists, playwrights, poets, editors and
+journalists.
+
+
+_Officers of the club for 1917-18:_
+
+  Hamlin Garland, Honorary President.
+  Alice C. Weitz, President.
+  J. Edward Kirbye, First Vice President.
+  Nellie Gregg Tomlinson, Second Vice President.
+  Esse V. Hathaway, Secretary.
+  Reuben F. Place, Treasurer.
+  _Editorial Board:_
+  Johnson Brigham.
+  Lewis Worthington Smith.
+  Helen Cowles LeCron.
+
+
+
+
+Index
+
+
+American Wake, An                                            217
+    _Rose A. Crow_
+
+At Kamakura: 1917                                             44
+    _Arthur Davison Ficke_
+
+Ballad of the Corn, A                                        234
+    _S. H. M. Byers_
+
+Box From Home, A                                             138
+    _Helen Cowles LeCron_
+
+Bread                                                         37
+    _Ellis Parker Butler_
+
+But Once a Year                                               51
+    _R. O'Grady_
+
+Call of the Race, The                                        260
+    _Elizabeth Cooper_
+
+Captured Dream, The                                           84
+    _Octave Thanet_
+
+Children's Blessing, The                                     236
+    _Virginia Roderick_
+
+Dog                                                          116
+    _Edwin L. Sabin_
+
+Field, A                                                     285
+    _Minnie Stichter_
+
+First Laugh, The                                             131
+    _Reuben F. Place_
+
+Freighter's Dream, The                                       133
+    _Ida M. Huntington_
+
+God's Back Yard                                              223
+    _Jessie Welborn Smith_
+
+Graven Image, The                                             19
+    _Hamlin Garland_
+
+Happiest Man in I-O-Way, The                                  83
+    _Rupert Hughes_
+
+Iowa as a Literary Field                                     316
+    _Johnson Brigham_
+
+Kings of Saranazett, The                                     177
+    _Lewis Worthington Smith_
+
+Kitchener's Mob                                              241
+    _James Norman Hall_
+
+Load of Hay, A                                               314
+    _James B. Weaver_
+
+Masterpieces                                                  36
+    _Ethel Hueston_
+
+My Baby's Horse                                              259
+    _Emilie Blackmore Stapp_
+
+"Old Bill"                                                    67
+    _Henry C. Wallace_
+
+Old Cane Mill, The                                           195
+    _Nellie Gregg Tomlinson_
+
+One Wreath of Rue                                            278
+    _Cynthia Westover Alden_
+
+Our Bird Friends                                             302
+    _Margaret Coulson Walker_
+
+Peace and Then--?                                            292
+    _Detlev Fredrik Tillisch_
+
+Poet of the Future, The                                      169
+    _Tacitus Hussey_
+
+Professor, The                                               248
+    _Calista Halsey Patchin_
+
+Putting the Stars with the Bars                              173
+    _Verne Marshall_
+
+Queer Little Thing, The                                      199
+    _Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd_
+
+Recruit's Story, The                                          77
+    _Frank Luther Mott_
+
+Reminder, The                                                 63
+    _Allan Updegraff_
+
+Rochester, Minn.                                             221
+    _Marie G. Stapp_
+
+Semper Fidelis                                               300
+    _Addie B. Billington_
+
+September                                                    166
+    _Esse V. Hathaway_
+
+Some Magic and a Moral                                       101
+    _Virginia H. Reichard_
+
+Sonny's Wish                                                 114
+    _Bertha M. Shambaugh_
+
+Spirit of Spring, The                                        140
+    _Laura L. Hinkley_
+
+That Iowa Town                                                45
+    _Oney Fred Sweet_
+
+Tinkling Cymbals                                             126
+    _Helen Sherman Griffith_
+
+Truth                                                         97
+    _Carrie Moss Hawley_
+
+Unredeemed, The                                              121
+    _Emerson Hough_
+
+Wild Crab Apple, The                                         231
+    _Julia Ellen Rogers_
+
+Wind in the Corn, The                                         17
+    _Alice C. Weitz_
+
+Woodrow Wilson and Wells, War's Great Authors                280
+    _Honore Willsie_
+
+Work                                                         100
+    _Irving N. Brant_
+
+Work Is a Blessing                                           161
+    _Lafayette Young_
+
+Your Lad, and My Lad                                         290
+    _Randall Parrish_
+
+
+
+
+List of Authors
+
+
+Alden, Cynthia Westover                                      278
+
+Billington, Addie B.                                         300
+
+Brainerd, Eleanor Hoyt                                       199
+
+Brant, Irving N.                                             100
+
+Brigham, Johnson                                             316
+
+Butler, Ellis Parker                                          37
+
+Byers, S. H. M.                                              234
+
+Cooper, Elizabeth                                            260
+
+Crow, Rose A.                                                217
+
+Ficke, Arthur Davison                                         44
+
+Garland, Hamlin                                               19
+
+Griffith, Helen Sherman                                      126
+
+Hall, James Norman                                           241
+
+Hathaway, Esse V.                                            166
+
+Hawley, Carrie Moss                                           97
+
+Hinkley, Laura L.                                            140
+
+Hough, Emerson                                               121
+
+Hueston, Ethel                                                36
+
+Hughes, Rupert                                                83
+
+Huntington, Ida M.                                           133
+
+Hussey, Tacitus                                              169
+
+LeCron, Helen Cowles                                         138
+
+Marshall, Verne                                              173
+
+Mott, Frank Luther                                            77
+
+O'Grady, R.                                                   51
+
+Parrish, Randall                                             290
+
+Patchin, Calista Halsey                                      248
+
+Place, Reuben F.                                             131
+
+Reichard, Virginia H.                                        101
+
+Roderick, Virginia                                           236
+
+Rogers, Julia Ellen                                          231
+
+Sabin, Edwin L.                                              116
+
+Shambaugh, Bertha M. H.                                      114
+
+Smith, Jessie Wellborn                                       223
+
+Smith, Lewis Worthington                                     177
+
+Stapp, Emilie Blackmore                                      259
+
+Stapp, Marie G.                                              221
+
+Stichter, Minnie                                             285
+
+Sweet, Oney Fred                                              45
+
+Thanet, Octave                                                84
+
+Tillisch, Detlev Fredrik                                     292
+
+Tomlinson, Nellie Gregg                                      195
+
+Updegraff, Allan                                              63
+
+Walker, Margaret Coulson                                     302
+
+Wallace, Henry C.                                             67
+
+Weaver, James B.                                             314
+
+Weitz, Alice C.                                               17
+
+Willsie, Honore                                              280
+
+Young, Lafayette                                             161
+
+
+
+
+
+List of Illustrations
+
+
+Rotating the Crops                             _Frontispiece_
+    _J. N. Darling_
+
+"Ding"                                            _Page_  97
+    _Frank Wing_
+
+Host and Houseguest                               _Page_ 169
+    _Orson Lowell_
+
+The Wind in the Corn                              _Page_ 259
+    _C. L. Bartholomew_
+
+
+
+
+The Creed of Iowa--
+
+
+I believe in Iowa, land of limitless prairies, with rolling hills and
+fertile valleys, with winding and widening streams, with bounteous
+crops and fruit-laden trees, yielding to man their wealth and health.
+
+I believe in Iowa, land of golden grains, whose harvests fill the
+granaries of the nation, making it opulent with the power of earth's
+fruitfulness.
+
+I believe in Iowa, rich in her men and women of power and might. I
+believe in her authors and educators, her statesmen and ministers,
+whose intellectual and moral contribution is one of the mainstays of
+the republic--true in the hour of danger and steadfast in the hour of
+triumph.
+
+I believe in Iowa, magnet and meeting place of all nations, fused into
+a noble unity, Americans all, blended into a free people. I believe in
+her stalwart sons, her winsome women, in her colleges and churches, in
+her institutions of philanthropy and mercy, in her press, the voice and
+instructor of her common mind and will, in her leadership and destiny,
+in the magnificence of her opportunity and in the fine responsiveness
+of her citizens to the call of every higher obligation.
+
+I believe in our commonwealth, yet young, and in the process of making,
+palpitant with energy and faring forth with high hope and swift step;
+and I covenant with the God of my fathers to give myself in service,
+mind and money, hand and heart, to explore and develop her physical,
+intellectual and moral resources, to sing her praises truthfully, to
+keep her politics pure, her ideals high, and to make better and better
+her schools and churches, her lands and homes, and to make her in fact
+what she is by divine right, the queen of all the commonwealths.
+
+--_J. Edward Kirbye._
+
+
+
+
+The Wind in the Corn
+
+_By Alice C. Weitz_
+
+
+There stands recorded in the Book of Time a fascinating legend of the
+Sun, whose golden throne allured but for the day; and when the day was
+ended in great glee he hurried forth beyond the broad horizon toward a
+secret trysting place. All his impassioned love, it is said, he poured
+upon the idol of his heart, the boundless plains. Long years were they
+alone, the Rolling Prairie and the Golden Sun, until at last they found
+themselves spied upon by curious Man, who, captivated by the beauty of
+the two, remained and blessed the tryst thereby.
+
+Here Sun and Soil and Man wrought out a work of art; and here Dame
+Nature smiled as was her wont, and brought rich gifts and blessings
+manifold. In sweet content Man's children toiled and wrought until upon
+the bosom of the sunlit plains there nestled close great fields and
+prosperous abodes.
+
+And since that time a ceaseless music steals throughout the land in
+wooing cadences, now crying out in weird and wandering tones, now
+softly soothing in sweet rhythmic chant.
+
+'Tis the music of the wind within the corn--Iowa's Prairie Gold.
+
+It sang itself into the lonely heart of the pioneer with its promise of
+golden harvest; it became the cradle song of restless souls that even
+in their youth longed but to free themselves in verse and song; and
+down through all the prosperous years it steals like a sweet sustaining
+accompaniment to the countless activities which have builded a great
+commonwealth.
+
+He who has stood upon the hilltops in his youthful days and listened to
+the soft, alluring rustle of the wind-swayed leaves retains the music
+ever in his soul. It draws upon the heart-strings of the absent one,
+and like the constant singing of the sea insistent calls upon him to
+return.
+
+Today in spirit come we all to Time's sweet trysting place with story
+song and jest, to add sweet comfort to the braver ones whose paths lie
+wide before them, and whose return lies not within our willing. God
+grant that even in their pains their troubled souls may yet to music be
+attuned, may know again the solace of that sweetly floating song, the
+rustle of the wind within the corn.
+
+
+
+
+The Graven Image
+
+_By Hamlin Garland_
+
+
+Roger Barnes, son of an elder in the little Iowa Society of Friends and
+himself "a man of weight," found his faith sorely tried by the death of
+his young wife, and as the weeks passed without a perceptible
+lightening of his face, the Meeting came at last to consider his deep
+grief unseemly and rebellious. He remained deaf to all words of comfort
+and occupied his Sabbath seat in moody silence, his heart closed to the
+Spirit, his thought bitter toward life and forgetful of God's grace.
+
+The admonition of the elders at last roused him to defense. "Why should
+I not ache?" he demanded. "I have been smitten of the rod." And when
+old Nicholas Asche again reproved him before the assembly, he arose,
+went out, refusing to return, and several of his friends were greatly
+troubled, for it was known that for a long time he had been
+increasingly impatient of the "Discipline" and on terms of undue
+intimacy with Orrin Bailey, one of "the world's people."
+
+As the spring came on his passionate grief calmed, but a new
+consideration came, one which troubled him more and more, until at last
+he opened his heart to his friend.
+
+"Thee knew my wife, friend Bailey. Thee knew her loveliness? Well, now
+she is gone, and does thee know I am utterly disconsolate, for I have
+no portrait of her. No image, no shadow of her, exists and I fear I
+shall lose the memory of her sweet face. Already it is growing dim in
+my mind. What can I do?"
+
+This was in the days when even daguerreotypes were rare, and Bailey,
+who had never seen a painted portrait and could not conceive of an
+artist skillful enough to depict an object he had never known, was not
+able to advise, and the grieving man's fear remained unassuaged till,
+some months later, on a trip to Decorah, he came by accident past the
+gate of a newly established stone-cutter's yard, and there, for the
+first time in his life, he saw human figures cut enduringly in marble.
+Cunning cherubs and angels with calm faces and graceful, half-furled
+wings surrounded granite soldiers standing stiff and straight.
+
+Roger was amazed. The sculptor's magic was an astonishment to him. He
+had never seen the like, and as he looked upon these figures there came
+into his sad eyes the light of a startling purpose.
+
+"I will have this workman cut for me an image of my dear Rachel," he
+resolved and, following this impulse, approached the stone-cutter.
+"Friend," he said abruptly, "I would have thee chisel for me the form
+of my dead wife."
+
+Although an aspiring and self-confident artist, Conrad Heffnew was,
+nevertheless, a little shaken as he drew from his visitor the
+conditions of this commission. "The lack of even a small drawing or
+portrait of the subject is discouraging," he said. "If she had a
+sister, now," he added slowly, "someone about her build, to wear her
+clothes, I might be able to do the figure."
+
+"She has a sister, Ruth," Roger eagerly answered. "She is slimmer than
+Rachel was, but her cast of features is much the same. I am sure she
+will help thee, for she loved Rachel. I will bring her down to see
+thee."
+
+"Very well," replied Conrad. "If she will sit for me I will see what I
+can do for you."
+
+Resting upon this arrangement Roger drove away to his prairie home
+lighter of heart than he had been for many weeks. "Truly an artist is
+of use in the world after all--one to be honored," he thought.
+
+To Ruth he told the story and expressed his wish, but enjoined secrecy.
+"Thee knows how some of our elders would pother about this," he added.
+"Let us conspire together, therefore, so that thee may make the trip to
+the city without exciting undue comment."
+
+Ruth was quite willing to adventure, for the town far down on the
+shining river was a lure to her; but the road was long and after a
+great deal of thought Roger decided to ask the young stone-cutter to
+come first to Hesper, which he could do without arousing suspicion. "We
+will contrive to see him afterward in his shop if necessary," he ended
+decisively, for he could not bring himself to lead Ruth into the
+society of the world's people to serve as a model, an act which might
+be mistaken as a wrong-doing.
+
+The sculptor, anticipating a goodly fee (as well as an increase in
+orders for grave-stones), readily enough consented to visit Hesper, but
+only to study his problem. He immediately insisted on Ruth's coming to
+his studio. "I can't do all the work here--I want to make this my best
+piece," he remarked in explanation. "It is hard to remember the details
+of face and form. It may require several sittings."
+
+Thereafter, as often as he dared, Roger called at his father-in-law's
+house for Ruth and drove her down to the sculptor's shop, and although
+there were many smiling comments on these trips, no one knew their real
+purpose.
+
+Slowly the figure grew from a harsh marble block into an ever more
+appealing female figure, and Roger loved to stand beside the artist
+while he chipped the stone, for Conrad was in very truth a sculptor, a
+stalwart fist at the chisel, not a weak modeller in clay. He often
+hummed a tune as he swung his mall; and so, to the lively beat of
+worldly melodies, the fair form of the Quaker maid emerged from its
+flinty covering.
+
+One day in early autumn, conditions favoring, Ruth went to town with
+Roger for the fifth time and ventured timidly into the stone-cutter's
+yard to gaze with awe upon the nearly-finished snow-white image, and to
+the artist's skill gave breathless words of praise. "Truly thee is a
+magician," she said. "Thee has made a beautiful bonnet out of marble
+and likewise slippers," she added, looking down to where one small foot
+in its square-toed shoe peeped from the plain skirt. "Thee does right
+to make it lovely, for my sister was most comely," she ended with a
+touch of pride.
+
+"My model was also comely," replied Conrad with a glance which made her
+flush with pleasure.
+
+During all these months Roger had maintained such careful logic in his
+comings and goings that only Bailey and one or two of his most intimate
+friends had even a suspicion of what was happening, though many
+predicted that he and Ruth would wed; for it was known that she had
+taken his little son to her father's house and was caring for him.
+Nevertheless Roger well knew that a struggle was preparing for him, and
+that some of the elders would be shocked by the audacity of his plan,
+but no fear of man or church could avail against the force of his
+resolution.
+
+On this final visit, even as they both stood beside him, Conrad threw
+down his mallet saying: "I can do no more. It is finished," and turning
+to Ruth, "What do you think of it?" he demanded.
+
+She, gazing upon the finished statue and seeing only her sister in it,
+said: "I think it beautiful."
+
+And Roger, deeply wrapt in worship of the sculptured face, said: "Thee
+has done wonders. The sweet smile of my beloved is fixed in marble
+forever, and my heart is filled with gratitude to thee." All his
+training was against the graven art, but he gave his hand to the
+sculptor. "Friend Conrad, I thank thee; thee has made me very happy.
+Truly thee has caused this cold marble to assume the very image of my
+Rachel."
+
+As Roger turned again to gaze upon the statue Conrad touched Ruth upon
+the arm and drew her aside, leaving the bereaved man alone with his
+memories.
+
+It was all so wonderful, so moving to Roger that he remained before it
+a long time, absorbed, marveling, exultant. Safe against the years he
+seemed now, and yet, as he gazed, his pleasure grew into a pain, so
+vividly did the chiseled stone bring back the grace he had known. Close
+upon the exultant thought: "Now she can never fade from my memory,"
+came the reflection that his little son would never know how like to
+his mother this image was. "He will know only the cold marble--his
+mother will not even be a memory."
+
+One sixth day morning in the eighth month word was brought to Nicholas
+Asche, leader of the Meeting, that Roger Barnes was about to erect a
+graven image among the low headstones of the burial grounds, and in
+amazement and indignation the old man hastened that way.
+
+He found his two sons and several others of the congregation already
+gathered, gazing with surprise and a touch of awe upon the statue which
+Conrad and young Bailey had already securely based beneath a graceful
+young oak in the very centre of his family plot. Gleaming, life-size,
+it rose above the modest records of the other graves.
+
+As the stern old elder rode up, the throng of onlookers meekly gave way
+for him. He halted only when he had come so near the offending monument
+that he could touch it. For a full minute he regarded it with eyes
+whose anger lit the shadow of his broad-brim, glaring with
+ever-increasing resentment as he came fully to realize what it meant to
+have a tall statue thus set up to dwarf the lowly records of its
+neighbors. It seemed at once impious and rebellious.
+
+Harshly he broke forth: "What has come to thee, Roger Barnes, that thee
+has broken all the rules of the Discipline relative to burial? Thee
+well knows our laws. No one could convey a greater insult to the
+elders, to the dead beneath these other stones, than thee has done by
+this act. Lay that impious object low or I will fetch thee before the
+Meeting."
+
+"I will not," replied the young man. "I was even thinking of exalting
+it still more by putting beneath it another foot of granite block."
+
+"Thee knows full well that by regulation no gravestone can be more than
+three hands high," Nicholas stormed.
+
+"I know that well, but this is not a gravestone," Roger retorted. "It
+is a work of art. It is at once a portrait and a thing of beauty."
+
+"That is but paltering. Thee knows well it is at once a forbidden thing
+and a monument beyond the regulation in height, and therefore doubly
+offensive to the Meeting. We will not tolerate such folly. I say to
+thee again, take the unholy thing down. Will thee urge disrespect to
+the whole Society? Thee knows it is in opposition to all our teaching.
+What devil's spirit has seized upon thee?"
+
+"Thee may storm," stoutly answered Roger, "but I am not to be
+frightened. This plot of ground is mine. This figure is also mine. It
+is a blessed comfort, a sign of love and not a thing of evil--and I
+will not take it away from here for thee nor for all the elders."
+
+Nicholas, perceiving that Roger was not to be coerced at the moment,
+ceased argument, but his wrath did not cool.
+
+"Thee shall come before the Meeting forthwith."
+
+The following day a summons was issued calling a council, and a
+messenger came to Roger calling him before his elders in judgment.
+
+Thereupon a sharp division was set up among the neighbors and the
+discussion spread among the Friends. The question of "Free Will in
+Burial Stones" was hotly debated wherever two or three of the members
+met, so that the mind of each was firmly made up by the time the
+Meeting came together to try the question publicly. "I see no wrong in
+it," said some. "It is disgraceful," others heatedly charged.
+
+Roger's act was denounced by his own family as treason to the Meeting,
+as well as heretical to the faith, and his father, old Nathan Barnes,
+rising with solemn and mournful dignity, admitted this.
+
+"I know not what I have done that a son of mine should bring such shame
+and sorrow to my old age. It is the influence of the world's people
+whose licentious teachings corrupt even the most steadfast of our
+youth. We came here--to this lonely place--to get away from the world's
+people. They thicken about us now, these worldlings; hence I favor
+another journey into a far wilderness where we can live at peace, shut
+away from the contamination of these greedy and blasphemous idolators."
+
+All realized that he spoke in anger as well as in sorrow, and the more
+candid and cool-headed of the Friends deplored his words, for they had
+long since determined that the world's forces must be met and endured;
+but Jacob Farnum was quick to declare himself.
+
+"The welfare of our Society demands the punishment of Roger Barnes. I
+move that a committee be appointed to proceed to the burial ground and
+throw down and break in pieces this graven image."
+
+Here something unexpectedly hot and fierce filled Roger's heart to the
+exclusion of his peaceful teaching and his lifelong awe of his elders.
+Rising to his feet he violently exclaimed: "By what right will thee so
+act? Is it more wicked to have a marble portrait than an ambrotype? It
+is true that I learned the secrets of sculpture from one of the world's
+people; it is true that an outsider has cut the stone, but I believe
+his trade to be worthy and his work justifiable. I believe in such
+portraits." He addressed himself to Nicholas Asche: "Had thee permitted
+Rachel to have had a daguerreotype, it would not have been necessary
+for me to treat with this carver of stone, who is, notwithstanding, a
+man of probity. I will not have him traduced by anyone present," he
+ended with a threat in his eyes; "he is my friend."
+
+Thereupon Nicholas Asche curtly answered: "There also thee is gravely
+at fault. Thee has brought my daughter Ruth under the baleful influence
+of this worldling; and she is even now filled with admiration for him.
+She too needs be admonished of the elders for too much thinking upon
+light affairs. Thee is a traitor to thy sister-in-law, Roger Barnes, as
+thee is a traitor to the Meeting. To permit thee to go thy present ways
+would be to open our gates to vanity and envy and all imaginable folly.
+If thee does not at once remove this graven image from our burial
+grounds, we will ourselves proceed against it and break it and throw it
+into the highway."
+
+Then again young Roger rose in his seat and with his strong hands
+doubled into weapons cried out: "Thee will do well to take this matter
+guardedly and my words to heart, for I tell thee that whosoever goes
+near to lay rude hands on that fair form will himself be thrown down. I
+will break him like a staff across my knee."
+
+He stood thus for a moment like a proud young athlete, meeting the eye
+of his opponent, then, as no one spoke, turned and strode out, resolute
+to be first on the ground, ready to defend with his whole strength the
+marble embodiment of his vanished wife.
+
+And yet, even as he walked away from the church, hot and blinded with
+anger, he began to ache with an indefinable, increasing sorrow. He had
+expected opposition, but not such fury as this. He had noted the
+downcast eyes of his friends. It seemed as if something very precious
+had gone out of his life--as though the whole world had suddenly become
+inimical.
+
+"They were ashamed of me," he said and his heart sank, for
+notwithstanding his resentment he loved the Meeting and its ways. For
+the most part the faces of the congregation were dear to him and the
+pain that sprang from a knowledge that he had cut himself off from
+those he respected soon softened his indignation. Nevertheless he
+hurried on to the burying ground.
+
+It was a glorious September day and all through the fields the crickets
+were softly singing as if in celebration of the gathered ample harvest.
+They spoke from the green grass above the graves with the same
+insistent cheer as from the sere stubble, but Roger heard them not, for
+his ears still rang with the elder's stern voice and his eyes were
+darkened by the lowering brows of his father's moody face. Only when
+the statue rose before him white and still and fair in the misty
+sunlight did his mood lighten.
+
+"How beautiful it is," he exclaimed. "How can they desire to destroy
+it?"
+
+Nevertheless he was smitten with a kind of dismay as he looked around
+upon the low, drab headstones and perceived with what singular
+significance the marble rose above them. "In truth I have dared much in
+doing this thing." It was as if he had been led by some inner spirit
+braver than himself.
+
+And then--even as he raised a first glance to the statue--a pang of
+keen surprise shot through his heart. The face was changed. Something
+new had come into it. It was not his Rachel! With hand pressed upon his
+chilling heart he studied it with new understanding. He had known that
+it somewhat resembled Ruth, for Ruth indeed resembled Rachel--but that
+it was verily in every line and shadow a portrait of the living and not
+of the dead he now realized for the first time.
+
+"The sculptor has deceived me!" he cried. "He loves Ruth and with the
+craft of a lover has wrought out his design deliberately and with
+cunning. He has carved the cold stone to the form of his own desire.
+How blind I have been."
+
+In complete comprehension he addressed the statue: "Thee is but a
+symbol of this artist's love for another after all. Nicholas Asche was
+right. This sculptor under cover of my love--in pretending to work out
+my ideal--has betrayed me and bewitched Ruth."
+
+Ruth, his constant sunny companion, the keeper, the almost second
+mother of his child, had been snared by the fowler! He no longer
+doubted it. He recalled the gladness with which she always accompanied
+him to the sculptor's studio and her silence and preoccupation on the
+homeward drive. She loved the artist. She was about to be taken away.
+
+Something fierce and wild clutched at his throat and with a groan he
+fell upon the ground beneath the figure: "Oh, Ruth, Ruth! Am I to lose
+thee too?"
+
+At this moment he forgot all else but the sweet girl who had become so
+necessary to his life. Truly, to lose all hope of her was to be doubly
+bereaved. "I am now most surely solitary," he mourned. "What will
+become of me hereafter? Who will care for my little son?"
+
+While still he lay there, dark with despair and lax with weakness, Ruth
+and the sculptor came up the walk to the gate and saw his prostrate
+form. Ruth checked the sculptor's advance. "Let me go up to him alone,"
+she said, and approached where Roger lay. She did not know the true
+cause of his grief, but she pitied him: "Do not grieve, Roger; they
+will not dare to touch the figure."
+
+He looked up at her with a glance which was at once old and strange,
+but uttered no word of reply, only steadfastly regarded her; then his
+head dropped upon his arm and his body shook only with sobbing.
+
+She spoke again: "Thee must not despair. There are quite as many for
+thee as there are against thee. All the young people are on thy side.
+No one will dare to harm the statue."
+
+As they stood thus Conrad approached and said: "What does it matter?
+Come out from among these narrow folk. Ruth is to come out and be my
+wife. Why do you stay to be worried by the elders who----"
+
+He spoke no further, for Roger waved his hand in dismissal of them and
+cried out in most lamentable voice: "Leave me. Leave me," and again hid
+his face in his hands.
+
+In troubled wonder the young people moved away slowly, Ruth with
+tear-filled eyes, Conrad very grave. Together they took their stand at
+the gate to guard against the approach of others less sympathetic. "His
+grief is profound," said Ruth, "but the statue will comfort him."
+
+Roger, overwhelmed now by another emotion--a sense of shame, of deep
+contrition--was face to face with a clear conception of his disloyalty
+to the dead. Aye, the statue was Ruth. Its youth, its tender, timid
+smile, its arch brow, all were hers, and as he remembered how Conrad
+had taken the small unresisting hand in his, he knew himself to be
+baser than Nicholas Asche had dared imagine. "I loved thee," he
+confessed; "not as I loved Rachel--but in a most human way. My life has
+closed round thee. I have unconsciously thought of thee as the guardian
+of my child. Thy shining figure I have placed in the glow of my fire."
+
+This was true. Ruth had not displaced the love he still bore for his
+sweet wife--but she had made it an echo of passion, a dim song, a
+tender and haunting memory of his youth.
+
+The sun sank and dusk came on while still he lay at the statue's feet
+in remorseful agony of soul, and those who came near enough to speak
+with him respected his wish and left him undisturbed.
+
+Softly the darkness rose and a warm and mellow night covered the
+mourner, clothing the marble maid with mystery.
+
+The crickets singing innumerably all about him came at last to express
+in some subtle way the futility of his own purpose, the smallness of
+his own affairs, and as he listened he lost the sharpness of his grief.
+His despair lightened. He ceased to accuse; his desire of battle died.
+"How could Conrad know that I had grown disloyal? And how was Ruth to
+perceive my change of heart? The treachery is mine, all mine, dear
+angel, but I will atone. I will atone. Forgive me. Come to me and
+forgive me! Comfort me."
+
+Within his heart the spirit of resentment gave way to one of
+humbleness, of submission. The contest for a place among these gray old
+monuments no longer seemed worthy--or rather he felt himself no longer
+worthy to wage it. His disloyalty to his dead disqualified him as a
+base act disqualified the knights of old. "My cause is lost because my
+heart was false!" he said.
+
+So during the long hours of the night he kept remorseful vigil. The
+moon set, the darkness deepened, cool, odorous, musical with lulling
+songs of insects; and still he lingered, imploring solace, seeking
+relief from self-reproach. At last, just before dawn, the spirit of his
+dead Rachel stepped from the shadow. She approached him and bending
+above him softly said:
+
+"Dear heart, it is true I am not within the graven image. You have no
+need of it. Go home. There I am, always near thee and the child. I am
+not for others; I am thine. Return. Make thy peace with the elders.
+Thee must not live solitary and sad. Our son waits for thee, and when
+thee sits beside his bed, I will be there."
+
+He woke chilled and wet with the midnight damp, but in his heart a
+new-found sense of peace had come. His interest in the statue was at an
+end. He now knew that it was neither the monument he had desired nor
+the image of his love. "How gross I have been," he said, addressing
+himself to the unseen presence, "to think that the beauty of my dead
+could be embodied in stone! Ruth shall go her ways to happiness with my
+blessing."
+
+In this mood he rose and went to his home, deeply resolved to put aside
+his idolatry of Ruth even as he had put behind him the gleaming,
+beautiful figure beneath the shadow of the oak.
+
+
+
+
+Masterpieces
+
+_By Ethel Hueston_
+
+
+      Give me my pen,
+    For I would write fine thoughts, pure thoughts,
+    To touch men's hearts with tenderness,
+    To fire with zeal for service grim,
+    To cheer with mirth when skies are dull;
+      Give me my pen,
+    For I would write a masterpiece.
+
+      Yet stay a while,
+    For I must put away these toys,
+    And wash this chubby, grimy face,
+    And kiss this little hurting bruise,
+    And hum a bedtime lullaby--
+      Take back the pen:
+    This is a woman's masterpiece.
+
+
+
+
+Bread
+
+_By Ellis Parker Butler_
+
+
+They came to Iowa in a prairie schooner with a rounded canvas top and
+where the canvas was brought together at the rear of the wagon it left
+a little window above the tailboard. On the floor of the wagon was a
+heap of hay and an old quilt out of which the matted cotton protruded,
+and on this Martha and Eben used to sit, looking out of the window.
+Martha was a little over two years old and Eben was four.
+
+They crossed the Mississippi at Muscatine on the ferry. It was about
+noon and old Hodges, the crew of the ferry, who was as crooked as the
+branches of an English oak because the huge branch of an English oak
+had fallen on him when he was young, took his dinner from his tin pail.
+He looked up and saw the two eager little faces.
+
+"Want a bite to eat?" he asked, and he peeled apart two thick slices of
+bread, thickly buttered, and handed them up to the two youngsters.
+This, a slice of Mrs. Hodges' good wheat bread, was Martha's welcome to
+Iowa. The butter was as fragrant as a flower and the bread was moist
+and succulent, delicious to the touch and the taste. Martha ate it all,
+even to the last crumb of crust, and, although she did not know it, the
+gift, the acceptance and the eating was a sacrament--the welcome of
+bountiful Iowa.
+
+As the prairie schooner rolled its slow way inward into the state there
+were more slices of bread. The father stopped the weary horses at many
+houses, shacks and dugouts; and always there was a woman to come to the
+wagon with a slice of bread for Martha, and one for Eben, for that was
+the Iowa way. Sometimes the bread was buttered, sometimes it was spread
+with jelly, sometimes it was bread alone. It was all good bread.
+
+There were days at a time, after they reached the new home, when there
+was nothing to eat but bread, but there was always that. The neighbors
+did not wait to be asked to lend; they brought flour unasked and
+Martha's mother kneaded it and set it to rise and baked it. Then the
+harvests began to come in uninterrupted succession of wealth, and the
+dugout became a house, and barns arose, and a school was built, and
+Martha and Eben went along the dusty, unfenced road, barefooted, happy,
+well fed, or in winter leaped through the snowdrifts. In their
+well-filled lunch pail there was always plenty and always bread.
+
+In time Martha taught school, now in one district and now in another;
+and everywhere, wherever she boarded, there was good wheat bread and
+plenty of it. She remembered the boarding places by their bread. Some
+had bread as good as her mother's; some had bread not as good. During
+her first vacation her mother taught her to make bread. Her very first
+baking was a success. John Cartwright, coming to the kitchen door just
+as she was drawing the black bread-pan from the oven on that hot July
+day, saw her eyes sparkle with triumph as she saw the rich brown
+loaves.
+
+"Isn't it beautiful? It is my first bread, John," she said, as she
+stood, flushed and triumphant.
+
+"It smells like mother's," he said, "but she don't seem to get her'n so
+nice and brown."
+
+"I guess Martha is a natural bread-maker," said her mother proudly.
+"Some is and some ain't."
+
+Always good bread and plenty of it! That was Iowa. And it was of
+Martha's bread they partook around the kitchen table the next
+year--Eben and John, Martha and her father and mother--just before the
+two young men drove to the county seat to enlist.
+
+"I guess we won't get bread like this in the army," John said, and he
+was right.
+
+"When I'm chawing this sow-belly and hard tack," Eben wrote, "I wish I
+had some of that bread of yours, Marth. I guess this war won't last
+long and the minute it is over you'll see me skedaddling home for some
+of your bread. Tell ma I'm well and----"
+
+They brought his body home because he was not killed outright but lived
+almost two weeks in the hospital at St. Louis after he was wounded.
+Martha scraped the dough from her fingers to go to the door when her
+father drove up with the precious, lifeless form. That day her bread
+was not as good as usual.
+
+Martha and John were married the month he came back from the war, and
+the bread that was eaten at the wedding dinner was Martha's own baking.
+The bread that was eaten by those who came to prepare her mother for
+the grave and by those who came, a year later, to lay away her father,
+was Martha's. Once, twice, three times, four times Martha did a double
+baking, to "last over," so that there might be bread in the house while
+the babies were being born. Every week, except those four weeks, she
+baked bread.
+
+In succession the small boys and girls of her own began coming to the
+kitchen door pleading, "Ma, may I have a piece of bread an' butter?"
+Always they might. There was always plenty of bread; it was Iowa.
+
+In time Martha became something of a fanatic about flour. One kind was
+the best flour in the world; she would have no other. Once, when John
+brought back another brand, she sent him back to town with it. Her
+bread was so well known that the flour dealer in town was wont to say,
+"This is the kind Mis' Cartwright uses; I guess I can't say no more'n
+that." Eight times in twenty years she won the blue ribbon at the
+county fair for her loaves; the twelve other times John swore the
+judges were prejudiced. "It ain't the flour; that I do know!" Martha
+would answer.
+
+Presently there were children of her children coming on Sunday to spend
+the day with the "old folks," and there was always enough bread for
+all. Sometime in the afternoon the big loaf would be taken out of the
+discarded tin boiler that served as a bread-box and the children would
+have a "piece"--huge slices of bread, limber in the hand, spread with
+brown sugar, or jelly, or honey, or dripping with jam. Then, one
+Sunday, young John's wife brought a loaf of her own bread to show
+Martha. They battled pleasantly for two hours over the merits of two
+brands of flour, comparing the bread, but Martha would no more have
+given up her own brand than she would have deserted the Methodist
+Church to become a Mahometan!
+
+Then came a time when John had difficulty in holding his pipe in his
+mouth because his "pipe tooth" was gone. He no longer ate the crusts of
+Martha's bread except when he dipped them in his coffee. There was a
+strong, young girl to do the housework but Martha still made the bread,
+just such beautiful, richly browned, fragrant bread as she had made in
+her younger days. There had never been a week without the good bread,
+for this was Iowa.
+
+One day, as she was kneading the dough, she stopped suddenly and put
+her hand to her side, under her heart. She had to wait several minutes
+before she could go on with the kneading. Then she shaped the bread
+into loaves and put it in the pan and put the pan in the oven. She went
+out on the porch, where John was sitting, and talked about the weather,
+and then of a grandson, Horace, who was the first to enlist for the
+great war that was wracking the world. She mentioned the poor Belgians.
+
+"And us so comfortable here, and all!" she said. "When I think of them
+not having bread enough to eat----"
+
+"I warrant they never did have bread like yours to eat, ma," said John.
+
+She rocked slowly, happy and proud that her man thought that, and then
+she went in to take the fresh loaves from the oven. They were crisp and
+golden brown as always, great, plump, nourishing loaves of good wheat
+bread. She carried the pan to the table.
+
+"Bertha," she said, "I'll let you put the bread away. I guess I'll go
+up and lie down awhile; I don't feel right well."
+
+She stopped at the foot of the stairs to tell John she was going up;
+that she did not feel very well.
+
+"If I don't come down to supper," she said, "you can have Bertha cut a
+loaf of the fresh bread, but you'd better not eat too much of it, John;
+it don't always agree with you. There's plenty of the other loaf left."
+
+She did not come down again, not Martha herself. She did not mourn
+because she could not come down again. She had lived her life and it
+had been a good life, happy, well-nourished, satisfying as her own
+bread had been. And so, when they came back from leaving Martha beside
+the brother who had died so many years before, the last loaf of her
+last baking was cut and eaten around the kitchen table--the youngsters
+biting eagerly into the thick slices, the elders tasting with thoughts
+not on the bread at all, and old John crumbling the bread in his
+fingers and thinking of long past years.
+
+
+
+
+At Kamakura: 1917
+
+_By Arthur Davison Ficke_
+
+
+    The world shakes with the terrible tramp of war
+    And the foe's menace swirls through every sea.
+    But here the Buddha still broods ceaselessly
+    In hush more real than our strange tumults are.
+
+    Here where the fighting hosts of long ago
+    Once clashed and fell, here where the armored hordes
+    Razed the great city with their flashing swords,
+    Now only waves flash, only breezes blow.
+
+
+
+
+That Iowa Town
+
+_By Oney Fred Sweet_
+
+
+According to the popular songs, we are apt to get the impression that
+the only section of the country where there is moonlight and a waiting
+sweetheart and a home worth longing for is down in Dixie. Judging from
+the movies, a plot to appeal must have a mountain or a desert setting
+of the West. Fictionists, so many of them, seem to think they must
+locate their heroines on Fifth Avenue and their heroes at sea. But
+could I write songs or direct cinema dramas or pen novels I'd get my
+inspiration from that Iowa town.
+
+Did you ever drive in from an Iowa farm to a Fourth of July
+celebration? A few years back the land wasn't worth quite so much an
+acre; the sloughs hadn't been tiled yet and the country hadn't
+discovered what a limited section of real good corn land there was
+after all. But she was Iowa then! Remember how the hot sun dawned early
+to shimmer across the knee-high fields and blaze against the side of
+the big red barn, how the shadows of the willow windbreak shortened and
+the fan on top of the tall windmill faintly creaked? The hired man had
+decorated his buggy-whip with a tiny ribbon of red, white and blue.
+Buggy-whip--sound queer now? Well, there were only three automobiles in
+the county then and they were the feature of the morning parade.
+Remember how the two blocks of Main Street were draped with bunting and
+flags, and the courthouse lawn was dotted with white dresses? Well,
+anyhow you remember the girls with parasols who represented the states,
+and the float bearing the Goddess of Liberty. And then the storm came
+in the middle of the afternoon. The lightning and the thunder, and the
+bunting with the red, white and blue somewhat streaked together but
+still fluttering. And just before sunset, you remember, it brightened
+up again, and out past the low-roofed depot and the tall grain elevator
+you could see the streak of blue and the play of the departing sun
+against the spent clouds. Nowhere else, above no other town, could
+clouds pile just like that.
+
+You remember that morning, once a year, when the lilacs had just turned
+purple out by the front gate, and the dew was still wet on the green
+grass, the faint strains of band-music drifting out above the maples of
+the town, and flags hanging out on the porches--Decoration Day! How we
+used to hunt through the freshly awakened woods north of town for the
+rarest wildflowers! Tender petaled bloodroots there were in plenty, and
+cowslips down by the spring, and honeysuckles on the creek bank those
+late May days, but the lady's slippers and the jack in the pulpits--one
+had to know the hidden recesses where they grew. Withered they became
+before the hot sun sank, sending rays from the west that made the
+tombstones gleam like gold. Somehow, on those days, the sky seemed a
+bluer blue when the words of the speaker at the "Monument of the
+Unknown Dead" were carried off by the faint breeze that muffled, too,
+the song of the quartet and the music of the band. But close in your
+ears were the chirps of the insects in the bluegrass and the robins
+that hopped about in the branches of the evergreens.
+
+We had our quota of civil war veterans in that Iowa town. We had our
+company that went down to Chickamauga in '98. And now--well, you know
+what to expect from the youth of that sort of a community. Prosperity
+can't rob a place like that of its pioneer virtues. That Iowa town is
+an American town and it simply wouldn't fit into the German system at
+all. There's nothing old world about it. The present generation may
+have it easier than their fathers did; they may ride in automobiles
+instead of lumber wagons; they may wear pinch back coats and long beak
+caps instead of overalls and straw hats, but they've inherited
+something beside material wealth. We who owned none of its surrounding
+acres when they were cheap and find them now so out of reach, are yet
+rich, fabulously rich in inheritance. The last I heard from that Iowa
+town its youth was donning khaki for the purpose of helping to keep the
+Kaiser on the other side of the sea.
+
+But it was of the town we used to know that I was speaking. Changed? We
+must realize that. It was the sort that improves rather than grows. But
+we remember the place as it was before the blacksmith shop was turned
+into a garage and before the harness shop was given an electric lighted
+front and transformed into a movie. I guess the new generation has long
+since passed up the old opera house above the drug store for the
+rejuvenated harness shop and the actors that come by express in canned
+celluloid. But at county fair time, you remember, the Cora Warner
+Comedy Company used to come for a week's engagement, Cora Warner,
+noticeably wrinkled as she walked through the park from the hotel,
+donning a blonde wig that enabled her to play soubrette parts of the
+old school. And then there were the Beach and Bowers minstrels with
+their band that swung breezily up Main Street to form a circle on the
+bank corner and lift the whole center of the town out of the
+commonplace by the blare of trombones and the tenderness of clarinets.
+You remember how we Boy Scouts, who didn't know we were Boy Scouts,
+used to clamor for the front row of kitchen chairs after peddling bills
+for "The Octoroon" or "Nevada, and the Lost Mine"?
+
+Oh, well, we're uninteresting old-timers now. And it used to be that I
+knew everyone in town--even the transient baker whose family had no
+garden and chickens but lived up over the furniture store, and the
+temporary telephone man who sat out in front of the hotel evenings with
+the pale-faced traveling man. That hotel--haunted with an atmosphere
+that was brought in from the outside world! Remember how you used to
+walk past it with awe, the hot sun on the plank sidewalk burning your
+bare feet, and your eyes wistful as you heard the bus man on the steps
+call a train? And the time came when we took the train ourselves. And
+when we came back--
+
+When we came back, the town was still there, but the wondrous age when
+all life is roseate belonged to us no longer.
+
+And yet that town, to me, will always be as it was in those days when
+the world was giving me its first pink-tinted impressions. And when my
+tussle with the world as it really is comes to a close, I want to go
+back there and take my last long sleep beneath one of those evergreens
+on the hillside where I know the robins hop along the branches. I know
+how each season's change comes there--the white drifts, the dew on the
+bluegrass, the rustling of crimsoned leaves. I'll know that off on the
+prairies beyond, the cornfields will still wave green in summer, and
+that from back across the creek, over in the school yard, there will
+float the old hushed echo of youth at play.
+
+
+
+
+But Once a Year
+
+_By R. O'Grady_
+
+
+A shabby little woman detached herself from the steadily marching
+throng on the avenue and paused before a shop window, from which solid
+rows of electric bulbs flashed brilliantly into the December twilight.
+The ever-increasing current of Christmas shoppers flowed on. Now and
+then it rolled up, like the waters of the Jordan, while a lady with
+rich warm furs about her shoulders made safe passage from her car to
+the tropic atmosphere of the great department store.
+
+Warmth, and the savory smells from a bakery kitchen wafted up through
+the grating of a near-by pavement, modifying the nipping air. The
+shabby little woman, only half conscious of such gratuitous comfort,
+adjusted her blinking gaze to the brightness and looked hungrily at the
+costumes shimmering under the lights. Wax figures draped with
+rainbow-tinted, filmy evening gowns caught her passing admiration, but
+she lingered over the street costumes, the silk-lined coats and soft,
+warm furs. Elbowed by others who like herself were eager to look, even
+though they could not buy, she held her ground until she had made her
+choice.
+
+With her wistful gaze still fixed upon her favorite, she had begun to
+edge her way through the crowd at the window, when she felt, rather
+than saw, someone different from the rest, close at her side. At the
+same instant, she caught the scent of fresh-cut flowers and looked up
+into the eyes of a tall young girl in a white-plumed velvet hat, with a
+bunch of English violets in her brown mink fur.
+
+As their glances met, the shabby little woman checked a start, and
+half-defensively dropped her lids. The smile that shone evanescently
+from the girl's cordial eyes had aroused in her a feeling of something
+unwonted, and strangely intimate. There had flashed over the mobile
+face beneath the velvet hat a look of personal interest--an
+unmistakable impulse to speak.
+
+The thrill of response that set the woman's pulses throbbing died
+suddenly. The red that mottled her grayish cheeks was the red of shame.
+Through the window, in a mirrored panel cruelly ablaze with light, she
+saw herself: her made-over turban, her short, pigeon-tailed jacket of a
+style long past, and her old otter cape with its queer caudal
+decorations and its yellowed cracks grinning through the plucked and
+ragged fur.
+
+One glance at her own image was enough. The little woman pushed
+determinedly into the slow-moving crush, and headed toward the nearest
+elevated station, to be carried on irresistibly by the army of
+pedestrians.
+
+She caught a last glimpse of the tall young girl, coming in her
+direction, still watching her with that same eager look. But what of
+that? She knew why women stared curiously at her. By the time her
+station was reached, the occurrence had assumed in her mind a painful
+significance which emphasized the sordidness of her evening's routine.
+She made her way along a narrow, dimly lighted street, walking with the
+aimless gait of one who neither expects nor is expected.
+
+But, loiter as she might, she soon reached a neighborhood where rows of
+narrow brick tenements brooded over dingy, cluttered basement shops.
+Here she found it necessary to accelerate her pace to make way for
+romping children and bareheaded women hurrying from the shops with
+their suppers in paper bags.
+
+In spite of the wintry chill, the section had an air of activity all
+its own. Neither did it lack occasional evidences of Christmas cheer.
+In the window of a little news and fruit shop, against the smeared and
+partly frosted glass, a holly wreath was hanging, and within stood a
+rack of gaudy, tinseled Christmas cards. The woman hesitated, as if
+about to enter the shop, then abruptly passed on. She ascended one of
+the stoops that were all alike. Standing in a blur of reddish light
+that filtered through the broken glass above the door, she looked back
+the way she had come.
+
+For an instant her pulses quickened again as they had done on the
+avenue down-town. At the corner, a tall girl with a white-plumed velvet
+hat was smilingly picking her way through the swarming element so
+foreign, apparently, to one of her class. As the white plume came
+nearer and nearer, the tremulous little woman regained her
+self-control. It was but one of the coincidences of the city, she told
+herself, turning resolutely away. The door slammed shut behind her.
+
+Odd, she thought, as she groped her way through the dimly lighted lower
+hall, and the complete darkness of the upper, that such a girl should
+be living in such a neighborhood. Then, with an effort, she dismissed
+the matter from her mind.
+
+To find a match and light the sputtering gas required but very few
+steps in her tiny box of a room. When that was accomplished, she could
+think of nothing more to do. Her little taste of excitement had spoiled
+her zest for any of the homy rites which at other times formed the
+biggest events of her day. As she sank down upon the cot without
+removing her wraps, she was greeted by the usual creaking of rusty
+springs; her table with its meager array of dishes, its coffee pot and
+little alcohol burner, sat as ever in its corner, inviting the
+preparation of her evening meal. But to-night she did not want to eat.
+She had not visited the bake-shop on her way home. She had not even
+bought her daily paper at the corner stand where the postcards
+were--those gay Christmas cards that bring you greetings from friends.
+
+As she slowly removed her turban, her jacket and fur cape and, without
+getting up, tossed them across a chair against the opposite wall, the
+dull ache of dissatisfaction in her heart grew slowly to a sharp pain
+of desire. She wanted to do something, to have something happen that
+might break the sordid routine of her existence.
+
+Still, habit and environment would continue to force at least a part of
+this routine upon her. She glanced at her fingers, stained to an oily,
+bluish grime by the cheap dye of the garments that furnished her daily
+work. Mechanically she rose to wash.
+
+While her hands were immersed in the lather of rankly perfumed toilet
+soap, there came a gentle knock at the door.
+
+"Come in," invited the woman, expecting some famine-pressed neighbor
+for a spoonful of coffee or a drawing of tea.
+
+The door opened slowly, a tentative aperture.
+
+"May I come in?" asked a voice that was sweeter than the breath of
+violets that preceded the caller into the room.
+
+With the towel clutched in her dripping hands, the woman flung wide
+open the door, then hastened to unload the chair which held her
+wraps--her only chair.
+
+"Thank you; don't bother," urged the visitor. "I shall like sitting on
+the couch."
+
+There was a melody of enthusiasm in this remark, which the complaining
+of the cot, as the girl dropped easily upon it, could not wholly drown.
+
+The woman, having absently hung her towel on the doorknob, stared
+dazedly at the visitant. She could hardly credit her eyes. It was--it
+was indeed the girl with the white ostrich plume and the bouquet of
+violets in her brown mink fur.
+
+"I feel like an intruder," began the girl, "and, do you know--" her
+appraising glance directed to the old fur collar on the chair, was
+guiltily withdrawn as she spoke--"do you know, I've such a silly excuse
+for coming." She laughed, and the laugh brought added music to her
+voice.
+
+The woman, now at last recalled from her abstraction, smiled, and the
+weariness passed from her face. She seated herself at the extreme end
+of the humpy, complaining cot.
+
+"I'm sure you'll understand," resumed the girl. "At least, I hope
+you'll not be offended.... I heard ... that is, I noticed you had a
+rare fur-piece--" her vivid glance returned to the pile of wraps on
+the chair--"and I want to ask a very great favor of you. I--now
+_please_ don't be shocked--I've been ransacking the city for something
+like it, and--" with a determined air of taking the plunge--"I should
+like to buy it of you!"
+
+"Buy it!" scorned the woman, with a sudden dull red staining her sallow
+cheeks. "I can't see why anyone would want to pay money for such a
+thing as that."
+
+"It--it's a rare pattern, you know," groped the girl, her sweet tones
+assuming an eloquent, persuasive quiver, "and--and you don't know how
+glad I'd be to have it."
+
+The indignant color faded out of the woman's face. "If you really want
+the thing--" abruptly she put her bizarre possession into her strange
+visitor's lap--"If you really want it--but I don't see--" yearning
+crept into her work-dimmed eyes, a yearning that seemed to struggle
+with disillusionment. "Tell me," she broke off, "is that all you came
+here for?"
+
+Apparently oblivious to the question, the young woman rose to her feet.
+"You'll sell it to me then!" she triumphed, opening her gold-bound
+purse.
+
+"But, see here," demurred the woman, "I can't--it ain't worth----"
+
+The girl's gloved hands went fumbling into her purse, while the old fur
+cape hung limply across one velvet arm.
+
+"You leave it to me," she commanded, and smiled, a radiant, winning
+smile.
+
+Impulsively the woman drew close to her guest. "Excuse me," she
+faltered, "but, do you know--you look ever-so-much like a little niece
+of mine back--home?"
+
+"Do I? That's nice." The visitor looked at her watch. A note of
+abstraction had crept into her beautiful voice, but it still held the
+caress that invited the woman's confidence.
+
+"Yes, my little niece--excuse me--I haven't seen her for twelve
+years--most fifteen years, I guess. She'd be growed up, but I
+thought--when I saw you down-town----"
+
+"Oh, you remember me, then! Forgive me for following--" The girl seized
+the woman's soap-reddened hands in a sudden fervent clasp. "I
+understand," she breathed. "You must be lonely.... I'll try to see you
+again--I surely will.... Good-bye...."
+
+The girl was gone and all at once the room seemed colder and dingier
+than it ever had before. But the woman was not cold. As she sat huddled
+on the cot, warmth and vitality glowed within her, kindled by the
+memory of a recent kindly human touch.
+
+The following evening, after working hours, the shabby woman, wearing a
+faded scarf about her neck to replace the old fur collar, diffidently
+accosted a saleslady at the Sixth Avenue department store. She wanted
+to buy a brown mink collar, just like one worn by a figure in green in
+the window.
+
+It was unusual to sell expensive furs to such a customer. But people
+might send what freaks of servants they pleased to do their Christmas
+shopping, provided they sent the money, too. In this case, the shabby
+little woman was prepared. She produced three crisp ten-dollar
+bills--the fabulous sum which the girl had left in her hand at
+parting--and two dollars more from the savings in her worn little
+purse. Then, hugging the big flat box against the tight-fitting bosom
+of her jacket, she triumphantly left the store.
+
+In a sort of tender ecstasy she dallied along until she came to a
+florist's window. As she paused to gaze at great bunches of carnations
+and roses, tied with broad and streaming ribbons, the anxious look that
+attends the doubtful shopper returned to her face. Would it be of any
+use to go in? Since she must either keep moving or be carried along by
+the crowd, she edged through the revolving door.
+
+"English violets?--Fifty cents for the small bunches," clipped off the
+red-cheeked salesgirl, in reply to the woman's groping inquiry.
+
+The perturbed shopper turned reluctantly away, hesitated, and then
+asked:
+
+"But the roses? A single, half-blown rose--?"
+
+"Twenty-five apiece," replied the girl in the same mechanical tones,
+while she busied herself in rearranging a basket of flowers.
+
+"I--I'll take the rose."
+
+At the express office, where scores were waiting before her, the woman
+had ample time to untie her box and slip the rosebud beneath the tissue
+paper of the inner wrapping. Then, having retied it securely and stuck
+a "Do-not-open-until-Christmas" tag in a conspicuous place, she took
+her stand in line. When it finally came her turn at the desk, a stout
+clerk, who worked like an automaton and breathed like an ox, tore the
+package from her lingering grasp and dashed across the wrapper the
+address she gave.
+
+She paid the charges, wadded the receipt into her purse and turned
+briskly away.
+
+Fresh crullers she took to her room from the bake-shop, having bought
+them from a dark, greasy woman, whom she wished a "Merry Christmas" in
+a voice that almost sang. At dusk she had coffee in her room. It was
+Christmas Eve and she must begin early to get her full share of the
+season's peculiar indulgences. After she had read her paper for an hour
+or so by the recklessly flaming gas jet, she bustled about to brew
+another cup of coffee, and feasted upon crullers for the second time.
+At last she filled a water-bottle with tepid water from a faucet in the
+hall, and prepared for bed.
+
+The chill of the bedclothes, upon which the tepid water-bottle had
+little effect, could not touch the cozy warmth about the woman's heart.
+Neither were the happy memories of her strange and lovely visitor
+disturbed by knowledge of an incident that was taking place at that
+very hour. As she bounced into her cot, humming a little tune, she did
+not know that at a down-town theater a popular young actress was just
+responding to an insistent curtain call. Nor could she have recognized
+the graceful young girl, issuing from the wings in a new character
+part--an extreme type of eccentric maidenhood--except for the plucked
+and ragged fur-piece which formed the keynote of the performer's quaint
+attire.
+
+No knowledge of this episode disturbed the half-drowsy, half-blissful
+state which supplanted the woman's sleep that night. The incident cast
+no cloud upon her eager awakening, nor retarded her active leap from
+bed when the voice of her landlady aroused her with a start on
+Christmas morning.
+
+"_Eggs_-press, _eggs_-press ... a package for Miss Law-lor-r-r!"
+
+Full-chested and lingering, the call reverberated up three flights of
+naked stairs, and by the time the woman had donned her skirt and
+sweater and had emerged into the twilight of the upper hall, frowsy,
+curious heads protruded from every door.
+
+She carried the bulky Christmas package to her own room, moving
+deliberately, in shy, half-guilty triumph, and placed it on the cot.
+Behind her closed door she untied it, removed the cover and smilingly
+bent down to draw an eager inhalation from the tissue paper folds.
+Then, with careful fingers, she parted the crisp inner wrappings and
+unearthed a wilting, half-blown rose from its nest in the brown mink
+fur.
+
+
+
+
+The Reminder
+
+_By Allan Updegraff_
+
+
+    A little Belgian and an old violin--
+    A short, dumpy, melancholy little Belgian
+    And a very fine old violin....
+
+    An inconsequential small Belgian
+    Wearing a discouraged bit of mustache,
+    American "store" clothes that didn't fit,
+    Cheap American shoes, shined but shapeless....
+    (And yet he had often played in high honor
+    Before great audiences in Belgium;
+    But that was before Hell's lid was lifted
+    Somewhere in the North of Germany--
+    May it be clamped down, hard, before long!)
+
+    So this shabby, fat, discouraged oldish Belgian
+    (Too old and fat for military service),
+    And his very old beautiful violin,
+    (Borrowed--he'd lost his better one to his conquerors),
+    Appeared before a dubious tag-end of an audience
+    In a music hall built in the woods
+    Near an American summer resort,
+    And played a dozen selections for forty-five dollars.
+
+    Then we learned why he had often played in high honor
+    Before great audiences in Belgium;
+    And why his king and his country
+    Had given him the honors he still wore,
+    The riches recently taken away
+    By his conquerors.
+
+    Then we saw what manner of man he was,
+    How that his soul was finely clad, upright,
+    Nobly statured, crowned with Apollo's bays.
+    Then we knew, when he played Tartini's sonata for violin,
+    That Belgium would own once more
+    Its little place in the sun.
+
+    For the old Italian master might have written that sonata
+    With the devastated Belgium of these days in mind.
+    First, streaming from beneath the Belgian's sentient bow,
+    The music told of peace and common things,
+    With some bickering, some trivialities,
+    But much melody and deep harmony underneath.
+    The third movement, _affetuoso_, awoke to ruin--
+    To ruin too sudden and complete.
+
+    Too bloody and bestial and cruel
+    And thorough and filthy and Prussian
+    To be more than wailed over softly.
+
+    There was a stabbed child
+    Lying in the mud beneath a half-burned house,
+    Beside the naked corpse of its mother,
+    The mutilated bodies of its old grandfather,
+    And young sister;
+    And the child cried faintly, and moaned,
+    And cried again....
+    And then was silent.
+
+    A while after, from far away,
+    Rose dull outcries, trampling feet,
+    Voices indomitable--
+    Retreating, returning, joined by others, dying, reviving,
+    Always indomitable.
+    And still others joined those beaten but unconquered ones,
+    And the end came in one long, high,
+    Indomitable cry.
+    Then we knew, and bowed our heads,
+    And were ashamed of our poor part,
+    And prayed God we might bear a nobler part,
+    In the reply to that most cold-planned,
+    Murderously carried out,
+    Unexpurgable horror over there.
+
+
+
+
+"Old Bill"
+
+_By Henry C. Wallace_
+
+
+We buried Old Bill to-day. As we came back to the house it seemed
+almost as if we had laid away a member of the family. All afternoon I
+have been thinking of him, and this evening I want to tell you the
+story.
+
+Old Bill was a horse, and he was owned by four generations of our
+family. He was forty-one years old when he died, so you will understand
+that for many years he was what some might call a "dead-beat boarder."
+But long ago he had paid in advance for his board as long as he might
+stay with us. In winter a warm corner of the stable was his as a matter
+of right, and not a day went by but a lump of sugar, an apple, or some
+other tidbit found its way to him from the hands of those who loved
+him. Old Bill was never in the slightest danger of meeting the sad fate
+of many a faithful old horse in the hands of the huckster or trader.
+
+My grandfather liked a good horse. He loved to draw the lines over a
+team that trotted up into the bits as if they enjoyed it. He had such a
+team in a span of eleven-hundred pound mares, full sisters, and well
+matched both as to appearance and disposition. The old gentleman said
+they were Morgan bred. Whether they were or not, they had a lot of warm
+blood in them. He raised several colts from these mares by light
+horses, but none of them had either the spirit or the quality of their
+dams. One year a neighbor brought in a Percheron horse, a rangy fellow
+weighing about seventeen hundred and fifty pounds, clean of limb, and
+with plenty of life, as were most of the earlier horses of that breed,
+and grandfather bred these mares to him. The colts foaled the next
+spring, developed into a fine span, weighing about twelve hundred and
+fifty each, sound as nuts, willing workers and free movers. Grandfather
+gave this team to my father the spring he started to farm for himself.
+They were then three years old, and one of them was Old Bill.
+
+In those days the young farmer's capital was not very large: a team of
+horses, a cow, two or three pigs, and a few farm implements, the horses
+being by far the most important part of it. I shall not try to tell of
+the part these horses played in helping father win out. They were never
+sick; they were always ready for work. And well do I remember father's
+grief when Bill's mate slipped on the ice in the barnyard one cold
+winter day and had to be shot. It was that evening that my father
+talked of the important part a good horse plays in the life of a
+farmer, and gave us a little lecture on the treatment of horses and
+other animals. I was but a lad of ten at that time, but something
+father said, or the way he said it, made a deep impression on me, and
+from that time forward I looked upon horses as my friends and treated
+them as such. What a fine thing it would be if all parents would teach
+the youngsters at an early age the right way to treat our dumb animals.
+
+Bill was already "Old Bill" when he became mine. He was four years
+older than I when we started courting together, and my success must
+have been due in large part to his age and experience. We had but a
+mile and a half to go, and of a summer evening Bill would trot this off
+at a pace equal to a much younger horse. When the girl of my affection
+was snugly seated in the buggy, he would move off briskly for half a
+mile, after which he dropped to a dignified walk, understanding full
+well the importance of the business in hand. He knew where it was safe
+to leave the beaten track and walk quietly along the turf at the side,
+and he had a positive genius for finding nice shady places where he
+could browse the overhanging branches, looking back once in a while to
+see that everything was going along as it should be. I suppose I am
+old-fashioned, but I don't see how a really first-class job of courting
+can be done without such a horse as Old Bill. He seemed to take just
+about as much interest in the matter as I did. One night Jennie brought
+out a couple of lumps of sugar for him (a hopeful sign to me, by the
+way), and after that there was no time lost in getting to her house,
+where Bill very promptly announced our arrival by two or three nickers.
+
+One time I jokingly said to my wife that evidently she married Bill as
+much as she did me. That remark was a mistake. She admitted it more
+cheerfully than seemed necessary, and on sundry occasions afterward
+made free to remind me of it. Sometimes she drew comparisons to my
+discredit, and if Old Bill could have understood them, he would have
+enjoyed a real horse laugh. Jennie always said Bill knew more than some
+real folks.
+
+After the wedding, Old Bill took us on our honeymoon trip--not a very
+long one, you may be sure--and the three of us settled down to the
+steady grind of farm life. We asked nothing hard of Old Bill, but he
+helped chore around, and took Jennie safely where she wanted to go. I
+felt perfectly at ease when she was driving him. I wish I had a picture
+of the three of them when she brought out the boy to show to Old Bill.
+I can close my eyes and see her standing in front of the old horse,
+with the boy cuddled up in a blanket in her arms. I can see the proud
+light in her eyes, and I can see Old Bill's sensitive upper lip
+nuzzling at the blanket. He evidently understood Jennie perfectly, and
+seemed just as proud as she was.
+
+The youngster learned to ride Old Bill at the age most children are
+riding broomsticks. Jennie used to put him on Old Bill's back and lead
+him around, but Old Bill seemed so careful that before a great while
+she would trust him alone with the boy in the front yard, she sitting
+on the porch. I remember a scare I had one summer evening. Old Bill did
+not have much hair left on his withers, but he had a long mane lock
+just in front of the collar mark, and the youngster held onto this. I
+was walking up toward the house, where Bill was marching the youngster
+around in front, Jennie sitting on the porch. Evidently a botfly was
+bothering Bill's front legs, for he threw his head down quickly,
+whereupon the youngster, holding tightly to this mane lock, slid down
+his neck and flopped to the ground. You may be sure I got there in a
+hurry, almost as quickly as Jennie, who was but a few steps away,
+calling as I ran: "Did he step on him?" You should have seen the look
+of scorn Jennie gave me. Such an insult to Old Bill deserved no answer.
+The old horse seemed as much concerned as we were and Jennie promptly
+replaced the boy on his back and the ride was resumed, with me
+relegated to the corner of the porch in disgrace. As if Old Bill would
+hurt her boy!
+
+Old Bill's later years were full of contentment and happiness, if I
+know what constitutes horse happiness. In the winter he had the best
+corner in the stable. In the summer he was the autocrat of the small
+pasture where we kept the colts. He taught the boy to ride properly and
+with due respect for his steed. He would give him a gallop now and
+then, but as a rule he insisted upon a dignified walk, and if the
+youngster armed himself with a switch and tried to have his way about
+it, the old fellow would quickly show who was boss by nipping his
+little legs just hard enough to serve as a warning of what he could do.
+
+Bill had a lot of fun with the mares and colts. We never allowed the
+colts to follow the mares in the fields, but kept them in the five-acre
+pasture with Bill for company. At noon, we would lead the mares in
+after they had cooled off, and let the colts suck, and at night we
+turned the mares into the pasture with them. Bill had a keen sense of
+humor. He would fool around until the colts had finished, and then
+gallop off with all the colts in full tilt after him. Naturally the
+mares resented this. They followed around in great indignation, but it
+did them no good. We used to walk over to the pasture fence and watch
+this little byplay, and I think Bill enjoyed having us there, for he
+kept up the fun as long as we would watch. He surely was not popular
+with the mares. They regarded him about as the proud mother regards
+grandfather when he entices away her darling boy and teaches him tricks
+of which she does not approve.
+
+Although Bill took delight in teaching the colts mean little tricks
+during their days of irresponsibility, when they reached the proper age
+he enjoyed the part he had to play in their training with a grim
+satisfaction. For more than twenty-five years he was our main reliance
+in breaking the colts to work. It was amusing to watch a colt the first
+time he was harnessed and hooked up to the wagon alongside Bill, his
+halter strap being tied back to the hames on Bill's collar.
+
+Our colts were always handled more or less from infancy, and we had
+little trouble in harnessing them. When led out to the wagon with Bill,
+the colt invariably assumed he was out for a good time. But the Bill he
+found now was not the Bill he had known in the pasture, and he very
+quickly learned that he was in for real business.
+
+Bill was a very strict disciplinarian; he tolerated no familiarities;
+with his teeth he promptly suppressed any undue exuberance of spirit;
+he was kind but firm. As he grew older, he would lose patience now and
+then with the colts that persisted in their unruly ways. When they
+lunged forward, he settled back against their plunges with a bored air,
+as much as to say: "Take it easy, my young friend; you surely don't
+think you can run away with Old Bill!" When they sulked, he pulled them
+along for a bit. But if they continued obstreperous he turned upon them
+with his teeth in an almost savage manner, and the way he would bring
+them out of the sulky spell was a joy to see.
+
+Finally, when the tired and bewildered colt had settled down to an
+orderly walk, and had learned to respond to the guiding reins, Bill
+would reward him with a caress on the neck and other evidences of his
+esteem.
+
+Old Bill knew the game thoroughly, and was invaluable in this work of
+training the young ones. But after the first round at the wagon with
+him, the colts always seemed to feel as if they had lost a boon
+companion; they kept their friendship for him, but they maintained a
+very respectful attitude, and never after took liberties unless assured
+by his manner that they would be tolerated.
+
+I got a collie dog for the youngster when he was about three years old.
+When he was riding Old Bill, Jack would rush back and forth, in front
+and behind, barking joyously. Old Bill disliked such frivolity. To him
+it was a serious occasion. I think he never forgot the time the boy
+fell off, for nothing could tempt him out of a steady walk until the
+youngster got to an age when his seat was reasonably secure. When the
+ride was over, Old Bill would lay back his ears and go after Jack so
+viciously that the collie would seek refuge under the porch. Except
+when the boy was about, however, Old Bill and Jack were good friends,
+and in very cold weather Jack would beg a place in Bill's stall,
+curling up between his legs, to the apparent satisfaction of both.
+There was a very real friendship between them, but just as real
+jealousy for the favors of the little fellow. They were much like human
+beings in this respect.
+
+Until the last year of his life Bill was a most useful member of the
+family. Jennie liked a good garden and used to say before we were
+married that when we had our own home, she would have a garden that was
+a garden, and that she did not propose to wear herself out with a hoe
+as her mother had done. She laid out her garden in a long, narrow strip
+of ground between the pasture and the windbreak, just back of the
+house, and with Bill's help she had the garden she talked about. Bill
+plowed the ground and cultivated it, and the care with which he walked
+the long narrow rows was astonishing. This was another place where he
+did not want to be bothered with Jack. He was willing Jack should sit
+at one end and watch the proceedings, but he must keep out of the way.
+
+During the school season Bill's regular job was to take the children to
+school, a mile away. They rode him, turning him loose to come home
+alone. He learned to go back for them in the afternoon, and he
+delivered them at the porch with an air as much as to say: "There are
+your little folks, safe and sound, thanks to Old Bill." Jennie always
+met him with an apple or a lump of sugar. She and Old Bill seemed to be
+in partnership in about everything he could have a part in. They
+understood each other perfectly, and I don't mind confessing now that
+once in a great while I felt rather jealous of Old Bill.
+
+Well, as I said in the beginning, we buried Old Bill to-day. He died
+peacefully, and, as we say of some esteemed citizen, "full of honors."
+He was buried on the farm he helped pay for; and, foolish as it may
+seem to some folks, before long a modest stone will mark his last
+resting place. And sometimes, of a summer afternoon, if I find Jennie
+sitting with her needlework in the shade of the big oak tree under
+which Old Bill rests, I will know that tender memories of a faithful
+servant are being woven into her neat stitches.
+
+
+
+
+The Recruit's Story
+
+_By Frank Luther Mott_
+
+
+Last Sunday afternoon I wandered into Smith Park and sat down on a
+bench near the fountain. It was a fine day. The sun shone warmly and I
+was one of many men who lounged on those benches and luxuriated in the
+grateful warmth of the early spring sunshine.
+
+Men of many kinds were there. There were a few old men, but many were
+young, or middle-aged. Unless I am a very poor observer, not a few of
+them were drifters.
+
+As I sat there I watched the play of the water falling in the fountain.
+I observed the bronze figures of women sitting in the center, musing
+over who knows what great world problem; and I saw, surmounting all,
+the towering figure of a soldier of the Civil War. There he stood in
+his quiet power--apotheosis of the common soldier in the war for the
+Union. He wore the great-coat and military cape of the old uniform. He
+stood at ease, his left foot advanced, and the butt of his gun resting
+on the ground in front of him, while he held the gun-barrel with his
+left hand and rested his forearm on the muzzle. He gazed a little past
+me, steadfastly, toward a corner of the park. On his face was the look
+of the man who is ready--the man undaunted by any emergency--the man
+unafraid in the quiet strength of soul and body.
+
+"He it was," I reflected, "who leaped to the colors when Father Abraham
+called, and by the might of his loyalty and sacrifice saved his country
+in the hour of her greatest need."
+
+Glancing across the park, I saw a poster glaring from the great window
+of a salesroom. I could make out three words, printed in giant type:
+
+MEN WANTED NOW!
+
+Again I looked about me at the men lounging, as I was lounging, there
+on the benches in the sunlight, some of them asleep. I too felt the
+soporific influence of the May sun, and might soon have lapsed into
+unconsciousness myself had it not been for a strange thing that
+happened just then.
+
+I saw the Union soldier turn his head a little and look directly at me.
+
+I am not given to illusions, being generally considered a
+matter-of-fact young man. But, as I live, I saw that Union soldier turn
+his head! And more than that, I knew just why he did it.
+
+I had read the papers, and knew my country's need. I had read the
+flaming posters calling for men to enlist in her armies. I had read
+President Wilson's classic-to-be concerning America's purpose in our
+greatest war for liberty. I had not meant to be a slacker; but, some
+way, I had not been strongly moved. I was letting the other fellow fill
+up the ranks, intending hazily to rally to the colors myself when the
+need seemed greater. Even now, I was inclined to argue the matter.
+
+I leaned back in my seat and said, in a conversational tone:
+
+"Now look here, Mr. Union Soldier, the need was greater when you joined
+the colors. The Union was threatened; the very existence of the nation
+was at hazard. I too will answer the call if worse comes to worst in
+this war."
+
+"Young man," replied the soldier, his eyes fixed on mine and his voice
+deep and calm, "young man, your country's call is your country's call.
+This time it is no question of union; thank God, the states stand
+indivisible forever. But this time the crisis is even greater, the need
+of vision and sacrifice even more vital. This time the liberty, not of
+the black man alone, but of the world, is in the balance. Are you deaf
+to the call?"
+
+"But listen," I answered. "This is not our war. Nobody has crossed the
+sea to strike us."
+
+"Have they not?" he countered. "By spies, by intrigue, by a treacherous
+diplomacy, by an unscrupulous policy of world subjugation, the enemy
+has invaded our shores. Yet it is not that alone. As I have stood here,
+I have heard the cries of the people of ravished Belgium; I have heard
+the despairing screams of men and women sinking in watery graves; the
+wails of perishing Armenia assail my ears. Do you say it is not our
+war? It is! Just as the fate of the black man touched the hearts of us
+Northerners, just as the misfortune of the traveler to Jericho touched
+the heart of the Samaritan, just as the suffering Christ on the cross
+has touched the heart of the world--just so must the woeful cry of a
+world perishing to-day touch the heart of America.... And yet I look
+about me here! These men drowsing in the sunshine! Are these Americans?
+From the field I rushed when Lincoln called, scarcely pausing to bid my
+mother good-bye; and I braved cold, and heat, and sickness, and
+privation, and terrors by day and night, and rain of shot and shell,
+and wounds and suffering and death--all because my country called!"
+
+As he spoke his voice rose to a commanding resonance. He raised his
+right arm from the muzzle of the gun where it had rested--raised it
+high in impassioned appeal. At last I was moved; tears ran down my
+cheeks.
+
+I started--awoke. I had been asleep, and the water from the fountain
+was blowing in my face. But was it the spray from the fountain alone
+that made my cheeks wet?
+
+I looked up at the bronze figure surmounting the fountain. There the
+soldier stood at rest, left foot advanced, arm resting on his gun. His
+eyes looked steadfastly toward the corner of the park. But did I not
+see a glow of passion on that bronze face--a passion for the Liberty of
+the World?
+
+I turned to my neighbor on the bench at my left. His eyes were half
+shut, drowsily.
+
+"Pardon me, brother," I said. "Can you tell me where the nearest
+recruiting station is located?"
+
+
+
+
+The Happiest Man in I-o-way
+
+_By Rupert Hughes_
+
+
+    Jes' down the road a piece, 'ith the dust so deep
+      It teched the bay mare's fetlocks; an' the sun
+    So b'ilin' hot, the pewees dassn't peep;
+      Seemed like midsummer 'fore the spring's begun!
+    An' me plumb beat an' good-fer-nothin'-like
+      An' awful lonedsome fer a sight o' you ...
+    I come to that big locus' by the pike,
+      An' she was all in bloom, an' trembly, too,
+    With breezes like drug-store perfumery.
+      I stood up in my stirrups, with my head
+    So deep in flowers they almost smothered me.
+      I kind o' liked to think that I was dead ...
+    An' if I hed 'a' died like that to-day,
+      I'd 'a' be'n the happiest man in I-o-way.
+
+    For whut's the us't o' goin' on like this?
+      Your pa not 'lowin me around the place ...
+    Well, fust I knowed, I'd give them blooms a kiss;
+      They tasted like Good-Night on your white face.
+    I reached my arms out wide, an' hugged 'em--say,
+      I dreamp' your little heart was hammerin' me!
+
+    I broke this branch off for a love-bo'quet;
+      'F I'd be'n a giant, I'd 'a' plucked the tree!
+    The blooms is kind o' dusty from the road,
+      But you won't mind. And, as the feller said,
+    "When this you see remember me"--I knowed
+      Another poem; but I've lost my head
+    From seein' you! 'Bout all that I kin say
+      Is--"I'm the happiest man in I-o-way."
+
+    Well, comin' 'long the road I seen your ma
+      Drive by to town--she didn't speak to me!
+    An' in the farthest field I seen your pa
+      At his spring-plowin', like I'd ought to be.
+    But, knowin' you'd be here all by yourself,
+        I hed to come--for now's our livin' chance.
+    Take off yer apern, leave things on the shelf--
+      Our preacher needs what th' feller calls "romance."
+    Ain't got no red-wheeled buggy; but the mare
+      Will carry double, like we've trained her to.
+    Jes' put a locus'-blossom in your hair
+      An' let's ride straight to heaven--me an' you!
+    I'll build y' a little house, an' folks'll say:
+      "There lives the happiest pair in I-o-way."
+
+
+
+
+The Captured Dream
+
+_By Octave Thanet_
+
+
+Somers rode slowly over the low Iowa hills, fitting an air in his mind
+to Andrew Lang's dainty verses. Presently, being quite alone on the
+country road, he began to sing:
+
+    "In dreams doth he behold her,
+        Still fair and kind and young."
+
+The gentle strain of melancholy and baffled desire faded into silence,
+but the young man's thoughts pursued it. A memory of his own that
+sometimes stung him, sometimes plaintively caressed him, stirred in his
+heart. "I am afraid you hit it, Andy," he muttered, "and I should have
+found it only a dream had I won."
+
+At thirty Somers imagined himself mighty cynical. He consorted with
+daring critics, and believed the worst both of art and letters. He was
+making campaign cartoons for a daily journal instead of painting the
+picture of the future; the panic of '93 had stripped him of his little
+fortune, and his sweetheart had refused to marry him. Therefore he said
+incessantly in the language of Job, "I do well to be angry."
+
+The rubber tires revolved more slowly as his eyes turned from the
+wayside to the smiling hills. The corn ears were sheathed in silvery
+yellow, but the afternoon sun jewelled the green pastures, fresh as in
+May, for rain had fallen in the morning, and maples, oaks and elms
+blended exquisite gradations of color and shade here and there among
+the open fields. Long rows of poplars recalled France to Somers and he
+sighed. "These houses are all comfortable and all ugly," thought the
+artist. "I never saw anything less picturesque. The life hasn't even
+the dismal interest of poverty and revolt, for they are all beastly
+prosperous; and one of the farmers has offered me a hundred dollars and
+my expenses to come here and make a pastel of his wife. And I have
+taken the offer because I want to pay my board bill and buy a
+second-hand bicycle. The chances are he is after something like a
+colored photograph, something slick and smooth, and every hair
+painted--Oh, Lord! But I have to have the money; and I won't sign the
+cursed thing. What does he want it for though? I wonder, did he ever
+know love's dream? Dream? It's all a dream--a mirage of the senses or
+the fancy. Confound it, why need I be harking back to it? I must be
+near his house. House near the corner, they said, where the roads
+cross. Ugh! How it jumps at the eyes."
+
+The house before him was yellow with pea-green blinds; the great barns
+were Indian red; the yard a riot of color from blooming flowers.
+
+Somers wheeled up to the gate and asked of the old man who was leaning
+upon the fence where Mr. Gates lived.
+
+"Here," said the old man, not removing his elbows from the fence bar.
+
+"And, may I ask, are you Mr. Gates?" said Somers.
+
+"Yes, sir. But if you're the young man was round selling 'Mother, Home
+and Heaven,' and going to call again to see if we liked it, we don't
+want it. My wife can't read and we're taking a Chicago paper now, and
+ain't got any time."
+
+Somers smiled. "I'm not selling anything but pictures," said he, "and I
+believe you want me to make one for you."
+
+"Are you Mr. Somers, F. J. S.?" cried the farmer, his face lighting in
+a surprising manner. "Well, I'm glad to see you, sir. My wife said
+you'd come this afternoon and I wouldn't believe her. I'm always caught
+when I don't believe my wife. Come right in. Oh, did you bring your
+tools with you?"
+
+He guided Somers into the house and into a room so dark that he
+stumbled.
+
+"There's the sofy; set down," said Gates, who seemed full of hospitable
+cheer. "I'll get a blind open. Girl's gone to the fair and Mother's
+setting out on the back piazza, listening to the noises on the road.
+She's all ready. Make yourself to home. Pastel like them pictures on
+the wall's what I want. My daughter done them." His tone changed on the
+last sentence, but Somers did not notice it; he was drinking in the
+details of the room to describe them afterwards to his sympathizing
+friends in Chicago.
+
+"What a chamber of horrors," he thought, "and one can see he is proud
+of it." The carpet was soft to the foot, covered with a jungle of
+flowers and green leaves--the pattern of carpet which fashion leaves
+behind for disappointed salesmen to mark lower and lower until it shall
+be pushed into the ranks of shopworn bargains. The cheap paper on the
+wall was delicately tinted, but this boon came plainly from the
+designers, and not the taste of the buyer, since there was a simply
+terrible chair that swung by machinery, and had four brilliant hues of
+plush to vex the eye, besides a paroxysm of embroidery and lace to
+which was still attached the red ticket of the county fair. More
+embroidery figured on the cabinet organ and two tables, and another red
+ticket peeped coyly from under the ornate frame of a pastel landscape
+displaying every natural beauty--forest, mountain, sunlit lake, and
+meadow--at their bluest and greenest. There were three other pictures
+in the room, two very large colored photographs of a lad of twelve and
+of a pretty girl who might be sixteen, in a white gown with a roll of
+parchment in her hand tied with a blue ribbon; and the photograph of a
+cross of flowers.
+
+The girl's dark, wistful, timid eyes seemed to follow the young artist
+as he walked about the room. They appealed to him. "Poor little girl,"
+he thought, "to have to live here." Then he heard a dragging footfall,
+and there entered the mistress of the house. She was a tall woman who
+stooped. Her hair was gray and scanty, and so ill-arranged on the top
+of her head that the mournful tonsure of age showed under the false
+gray braid. She was thin with the gaunt thinness of years and toil, not
+the poetic, appealing slenderness of youth. She had attired herself for
+the picture in a black silken gown, sparkling with jet that tinkled as
+she moved; the harsh, black, bristling line at the neck defined her
+withered throat brutally. Yet Somer's sneer was transient. He was
+struck by two things--the woman was blind, and she had once worn a face
+like that of the pretty girl. With a sensation of pity he recalled
+Andrew Lang's verses; inaudibly, while she greeted him he was repeating:
+
+    "Who watches day by day
+      The dust of time that stains her,
+    The griefs that leave her gray,
+      The flesh that still enchains her,
+    Whose grace has passed away."
+
+Her eyes were closed but she came straight toward him, holding out her
+hand. It was her left hand that was extended; her right closed over the
+top of a cane, and this added to the impression of decrepitude conveyed
+by her whole presence. She spoke in a gentle, monotonous, pleasant
+voice. "I guess this is Mr. Somers, the artist. I feel--we feel very
+glad to have the honor of meeting you, sir."
+
+No one had ever felt honored to meet Somers before. He thought how much
+refinement and sadness were in a blind woman's face. In his most
+deferential manner he proffered her a chair. "I presume I am to paint
+you, madam?" he said.
+
+She blushed faintly. "Ain't it rediculous?" she apologized. "But Mr.
+Gates will have it. He has been at me to have somebody paint a picture
+of me ever since I had my photograph taken. It was a big picture and
+most folks said it was real good, though not flattering; but he
+wouldn't hang it. He took it off and I don't know what he did do to it.
+'I want a real artist to paint you, Mother,' he said. I guess if Kitty
+had lived she'd have suited him, though she was all for landscape;
+never did much figures. You noticed her work in this room, ain't
+you--on the table and chair and organ--art needlework? Kitty could do
+anything. She took six prizes at the county fair; two of 'em come in
+after she was in her last sickness. She was so pleased that she had the
+picture--that's the picture right above the sofy; it's a pastel--and
+the tidy, I mean the art needle work--put on her bed, and she looked at
+them the longest while. Her paw would never let the tickets be took
+off." She reached forth her hand to the chair near her and felt the
+ticket, stroking it absently, her chin quivering a little, while her
+lips smiled. "Mr. Gates was thinking," she said, "that maybe you'd
+paint a head of me--pastel like that landscape--that's why he likes
+pastel so. And he was thinking if--if maybe--my eyes was jest like
+Kitty's when we were married--if you would put in eyes, he would be
+awful much obliged and be willing to pay extra if necessary. Would it
+be hard?"
+
+Somers dissembled a great dismay. "Certainly not," said he, rather
+dryly; and he was ashamed of himself at the sensitive flutter in the
+old features.
+
+"Of course I know," she said, in a different tone than she had used
+before, "I understand how comical it must seem to a young man to have
+to draw an old woman's picture; but it ain't comical to my husband. He
+wants it very much. He's the kindest man that ever lived, to me, caring
+for me all the time. He's got me that organ--me that can't play a note,
+and never could--just because I love to hear music, and sometimes if we
+have an instrument, the neighbors will come in, especially Hattie
+Knight, who used to know Kittie, and is a splendid performer; she comes
+and plays and sings. It is a comfort to me. And though I guess you
+young folks can't understand it, it will be a comfort to him to have a
+picture of me. I mistrusted you'd be thinking it comical, and I hurried
+to come in and speak to you, lest, not meaning anything, you might,
+just by chance, let fall something might hurt his feelings--like you
+thought it queer or some sech thing. And he thinks so much of you, and
+having you here, that I couldn't bear there'd be any mistake."
+
+"Surely it is the most natural thing in the world that he should want a
+portrait of you," Somers hastily interrupted.
+
+"Yes, it is," she answered in her mild, even tones, "but it mightn't
+seem so to young folks. Young folks think they know all there is about
+loving. And it is very sweet and nice to enjoy things together; and you
+don't hardly seem to be in the world at all when you're courting, your
+feet and your head and your heart feel so light. But they don't know
+what it is to need each other? It's when folks suffer together that
+they find out what loving is. I never knew what I felt towards my
+husband till I lost my first baby; and I'd wake up in the night and
+there'd be no cradle there--and he'd comfort me. Do you see that
+picture under the photograph of the cross?"
+
+"He's a pretty boy," said Somers.
+
+"Yes, sir. He was drownded in the river. A lot of boys in playing, and
+one got too far, and Eddy, he swum out to help him. And he clumb up on
+Eddy and the man on shore didn't get there in time. He was a real good
+boy and liked to play home with me 'most as well as with the boys.
+Father was proud as he could be of him, though he wouldn't let on. That
+cross was what his schoolmates sent; and teacher she cried when she
+told me how hard Eddy was trying to win the prize to please his pa.
+Father and I went through that together. And we had to change all the
+things we used to talk of together, because Eddy was always in them;
+and we had to try not to let each other see how our hearts were
+breaking, and not shadder Kitty's life by letting her see how we missed
+him. Only once father broke down; it was when he give Kitty Eddy's
+colt." She stopped, for she could not go on.
+
+"Don't--don't distress yourself," Somers begged lamely. His cheeks were
+very hot.
+
+"It don't distress me," she answered, "only for the minnit; I'm always
+thinking of Eddy and Kitty too. Sometimes I think it was harder for
+father when his girl went than anything else. And then my blindness and
+my rheumatism come; and it seemed he was trying to make up to me for
+the daughter and the son I'd lost, and be all to once to me. He has
+been, too. And do you think that two old people that have grown old
+together, like us, and have been through losses like that--do you think
+they ain't drawed closer and kinder and tenderer to each other, like
+the Lord to his church? Why, I'm plain, and old and blind and
+crooked--but he don't know it. Now, do you understand?"
+
+"Yes," said Somers, "I understand."
+
+"And you'll please excuse me for speaking so free; it was only so
+father's feelings shouldn't get hurt by noticing maybe a look like you
+wanted to laugh."
+
+"God knows I don't want to laugh," Somers burst in. "But I'm glad you
+spoke. It--it will be a better picture. Now may I ask you something? I
+want you to let me dress you--I mean put something about your neck,
+soft and white; and then I want to make two sketches of you--one, as
+Mr. Gates wishes, the head alone; the other of you sitting in the
+rustic chair outside."
+
+"But--" she looked troubled--"it will be so expensive; and I know it
+will be foolish. If you'd just the same----"
+
+"But I shouldn't; I want to do it. And it will not cost you anything. A
+hundred dollars will repay me well enough. I wish--I truly wish I could
+afford to do it all for nothing."
+
+She gasped. "A hundred dollars! Oh, it ain't right. That was why he
+wouldn't buy the new buggy. And jest for a picture of me." But suddenly
+she flushed like a girl and smiled.
+
+At this instant the old man, immaculate in his heavy black suit and
+glossy white shirt, appeared in the doorway bearing a tray.
+
+"Father," said the old wife, "do you mean to tell me you are going to
+pay a hundred dollars jest for a picture of me?"
+
+"Well, Mother, you know there's no fool like an old fool," he replied,
+jocosely; but when the old wife turned her sightless face toward the
+old husband's voice and he looked at her, Somers bowed his head.
+
+He spent the afternoon over his sketches. Riding away in the twilight,
+he knew he had done better work than he had ever done before in his
+life, slight as its form might be; nevertheless he was not thinking of
+himself at all. He was trying to shape his own vague perception that
+the show of dainty thinking and the pomp of refinement are in truth
+amiable and lovely things, yet are they no more than the husks of life;
+not only under them, but under ungracious and sordid conditions, may be
+the human semblance of that "beauty most ancient, beauty most new,"
+that the old saint found too late. He felt the elusive presence of
+something in love higher than his youthful dream; stronger than
+passion, fairer than delight. To this commonplace man and woman had
+come the deepest gift of life.
+
+"A dream?" he murmured. "Yes, perhaps he has captured it."
+
+[Illustration: "DING" BY WING]
+
+
+
+
+Truth
+
+_By Carrie Moss Hawley_
+
+
+The archives of history contain wonderful revelations of the growth and
+physical development of man. Going back to the beginning of time, when
+creation donned its immortal robe of life and nature gave utterance to
+the thought that nothing perishes, we follow down the aisle of
+centuries until we find ourselves to-day where we realize that thought
+has become the most powerful factor in advancement. Gradations are
+everywhere, yet mental processes and volitions take control of the
+wheel of progress and guide everything with majestic power.
+
+The mind, as we commonly think of it, is not a safe guide unless
+directed by wisdom. So we appeal for light to give direction to the
+ideas or conceptions that filter through the brain from the all-holding
+universal thought. How to distinguish true from false conceptions is
+the labor of philosophy.
+
+Truth may be tested by one infallible rule: its power to construct. You
+may see it forming what may terminate in evil, and doing unmistakable
+harm. Then you say: How can this be truth if it creates disaster? But
+all that is created does not act one way. There is the gross and the
+refined, the blemished and the perfect. All is good in the sense that
+it comes from a perfect law. It is the direction creation takes that
+determines the outcome.
+
+The next step is how to direct truth that it may produce only the end
+desired. There are millions of beings on this sphere, each of whom has
+the same access to truth. Many of these do not even know of their power
+in production, and, with sensualized vision which has not been
+renovated, they keep on bringing forth that which another class,
+further advanced, is endeavoring to exterminate. This will continue
+indefinitely, for there will always be growing souls that have to
+learn. Since what appears as evil must exist, when it has become
+abhorrent to you in all its forms, your privilege and power is to
+convert all that comes within your radius into what you desire it to
+be. Minimize your fear of all effects in the negative, and take firm
+hold of the actual forces and mold them into whatever _you desire_.
+
+Were you a sculptor and had a piece of marble before you, you would not
+feel obliged to chisel out of it a cat, because a cat chanced to be
+rubbing her head against your leg in a friendly way. While you would be
+conscious of the cat she would be something outside the realm of your
+perceptions when you struck your first blow upon the marble. You would
+build from your perceptions that have been brought to the foreground by
+your conceptions of the valuable.
+
+Man must reach a certain plane in his development before he realizes
+there are things worthless and things of worth, and that he may possess
+which he will. But when the moral milestone is passed he sees the dawn
+of a new day that will bring him his hopes realized.
+
+Thus, the way to attain truth is first to see it from the vantage-point
+that comes through illumination; then realize that the cosmic world
+possesses all the material you need for its development. What surrounds
+you that does not appeal to you, merely touches and draws attention to
+its existence, need come into your creation no more than the cat came
+into the artist's production.
+
+
+
+
+Work
+
+_By Irving N. Brant_
+
+
+    Let me once more in Druid forest wander,
+    To gain its legacy of ancient lore;
+    Make me its prophet, as I dreamed of yore,
+    A priest, on holy mysteries to ponder.
+    Lead me to realms of quiet, or the fonder
+    Scenes of the rising sea's unruly roar.
+    Or turn my gaze upon the vistaed floor
+    Of quiet valleys, and the blue haze yonder
+    On the opposing hills. Let me traverse
+    The shadows of man's immemorial mind,
+    The haunt of fear, joy, sorrow and despair,
+    God-given wonder and the primal curse.
+    Within the throbbing heart of humankind
+    Give me my work, or let me perish there.
+
+
+
+
+Some Magic and a Moral
+
+_By Virginia H. Reichard_
+
+
+Along in the early nineties as I was traveling in the West, selling
+shoes, I left the train at the little junction of Skywaw and surveyed
+the town. I found that the proverbial hotel, blacksmith shop, general
+store and a handful of houses, beside the depot, comprised the town.
+
+After supper at the hotel, where I was waited upon by the landlord's
+pretty daughter, I asked about the storekeeper across the way and found
+to my surprise that he carried about a ten or twelve thousand dollar
+general stock which included everything from a sheepskin to a paper of
+needles. The farming country being so good, it was no wonder that this
+man did almost as big a business as many others in much larger towns,
+so the daughter told me, while the landlord himself chipped in with a
+question: "Why, don't you know this is just the richest spot in Wahoo
+County? In fact the ground is too rich. Just think of it--too rich to
+grow pumpkins."
+
+"Why," I asked, "can't you grow pumpkins?"
+
+With a smile of confidence that his joke was entirely new he replied:
+"The vines grow so fast it drags them over the ground and wears them
+out. Go up and see the storekeeper and if you sell him you get your
+money for the goods sure thing, for he sells for cash only."
+
+I picked up my grips and started to see my man at once; found him
+standing in the door chewing a quid and spitting out into the street at
+any stray chicken or dog that chanced to wander by. As he stood there
+indifferent, expressionless, he looked the typical Westerner, with an
+air of "do as you darn please" about him; pants tucked into a pair of
+boots that were run over and worn off at the toe in a peculiar way that
+would indicate to a shoeologist that he was a sharp, keen trader, very
+suspicious of strangers, hard to strike a trade with unless he could
+see a hundred per cent in it for himself. In early days he had been a
+horse trader and a dealer in buffalo hides, and had never seen the time
+when he couldn't tell what o'clock it was better by the sun than by a
+watch; a hard man to approach on the shoe subject as his mind didn't
+seem to hover around shoes.
+
+There must have been a depression in his skull where his bump of order
+was supposed to be, as from the general appearance it looked as if the
+devil had held an auction there the day before. I began my little
+"spiel" by telling my business--who I was, where I was from--and asked
+if my conversation would interest him at all if I talked about shoes
+for awhile, remarking incidentally: "You'll have some business now
+sure. Trade will get good right away, as I never opened up my samples
+in a man's store in my life but what customers came dropping in."
+
+"Well, then, for God's sake open them up. I need the business all right
+enough," quoth he.
+
+Then strange to say, as if to cinch what I had said, up rode six
+country boys on horseback, and in a minute the big strapping fellows
+came tramping in. You know the kind that work on a farm all day, ride
+to town to buy one pound of sugar for family use and ten pounds of
+chewing tobacco for their own use, and other articles in like
+proportion while they are having a good time.
+
+Taking seats on the counter opposite, they began a lot of loud talking.
+
+One picked up a turnip and began peeling it, poising it on the tip of
+his knife-blade, taking large bites, and never for a minute losing
+sight of what we were doing in the shoe line.
+
+It took a lot of persuading to get the proprietor to look at my
+samples, but I soon noticed the shrewd gleam of his eyes that told that
+he had had hold of good leather before and was a much better judge of
+my line than I expected to find in such a place. But talk about
+exhorting! How I worked with that fellow. And after keeping it up for
+two whole hours--from seven until nine, I finally landed him, selling
+him a little over five hundred dollars' worth of shoes. As I was
+getting a straight eight per cent commission at that time, the sale
+made me a little over forty dollars for two hours' work, and I was
+feeling mighty good. Even my cold-blooded customer had warmed up some
+from the effects of the deal on which he saw he was bound to make a
+good thing.
+
+While I was packing up my samples he said, sort of edging around: "Say,
+can't you sing us a song or dance us a jig or do something to entertain
+us all? You travelin' fellers allus know somethin' new, and are up to
+whatever is goin' on over the country, ain't ye?"
+
+I replied: "I can't sing; I am out of voice; but if you can furnish the
+music I can dance a jig or clog. Oh, by the way, did you ever see any
+sleight of hand or legerdemain tricks?"
+
+None of them ever had; didn't even know what they were, and solemnly
+assured me they were something new in that burg.
+
+As I had been practicing coin tricks and other feats of sleight of hand
+for the last ten years and could do many of the former, making the
+coins appear and disappear at will in a mysterious manner, I decided to
+try this form of amusement, thinking I had an easy bunch to work on. So
+I showed them a silver dollar, giving it to one of them to examine,
+passing it on to each one of them in succession, just to show them that
+it was a genuine, everyday piece. Then taking it in my hand, I
+proceeded to manipulate the coin by picking it out from underneath one
+fellow's foot as he sat on the counter dangling his long legs; taking
+it from another fellow's chin; picking it out from the pocket of the
+jumper one of them had on; finding it in the next man's ear; and
+finally, coming to the proprietor, I told him to hold his thumb and
+finger together, pointing up; then took the coin from between his own
+thumb and finger without his realizing how it got there or how it got
+away. I caught his startled look--the fellows jumped down off the
+counter and crowded close together--wonder and amazement written all
+over them. This was the first time in their lives they had ever seen a
+sleight of hand trick, where the motion of the hand is so quick the
+sight cannot follow it.
+
+But presto, chango, begono, magico, came near being too much for them.
+They were absolutely horror stricken. Some of them were unable to
+speak; some were afraid to; others couldn't speak above a whisper; and
+one of these desired to know when I would be back in that country
+again. He wanted Brother Bill to see it; in fact he would like to bring
+the whole family in.
+
+The proprietor's face was a study. Doubt, surprise and suspicion passed
+over his face in succession, but gave way to fresh curiosity when I
+asked him to bring me two hats and I would do Hermann's parlor trick
+with two hats and four balls. The method of doing this is to place the
+four balls in a square about three feet apart on a counter or a table,
+then place the hats over two of the balls; the object being to find all
+four balls under one hat, without, of course, anybody seeing how they
+got there. This I accomplished successfully, and this performance
+seemed to bring them close to the limit. They had been craning their
+necks to see, but when it was over they all straightened up, took a
+step backward in line and looked at one another. Then one of them said
+solemnly:
+
+"Folks is gettin' geniuser and geniuser every day, boys. Ain't it so?"
+And Pete nudged Jim to make sure it was no dream, then spat excitedly
+on the rusty stove.
+
+The proprietor had been eyeing me with suspicion for a good while. I
+noticed whenever I would pass in front of him he would step back and
+plant his hands tight on his pockets where he kept his money, as if he
+thought I might somehow coax it to jump out unless he held it in by
+main force. Legerdemain had scared him some and made him both
+suspicious and wary.
+
+Pretty soon I began to realize I had done a little too much; in fact, I
+had given them a little more than they had been able to digest. But
+like many another fool who has overstepped, I tried to make up by
+giving them something in another line.
+
+The proprietor looked up with a distrustful glance. "Is that all you
+can do?"
+
+"That's all in the trick line, gentlemen. But I have something that I
+can do that is out of the line of tricks. It's a gift--mind-reading.
+Only about one in six millions has it. I do the same as Brown, Johnson
+or Bishop--those big guns you have heard about--in finding any given
+object. And if you, sir (to the proprietor), will place your mind on
+any one of the ten thousand articles in this store, concentrating your
+mind on it, I will get the object you are thinking about and hand it to
+you."
+
+"You can't do that; it ain't possible," he said.
+
+One of the boys spoke up: "Aw, let him try, Dan. Gosh! Let him try."
+
+After looking around the store and meditating a little he said: "Durn
+it all, then, go ahead. I've picked out the thing I want you to get and
+by jigger I'll keep my mind on it all right."
+
+Taking his hand, placing it upon my forehead, and holding it there with
+one of mine, I started down the store, the other six rubbering after us
+with all their might. After going about thirty feet with an occasional
+kick or bump at a basket or barrel that happened to be in the way, I
+turned to the left; stopping at the show-case, and sliding back the
+doors, I reached in, picked up a razor--his own razor--that lay in the
+case and handed it to him.
+
+"Great Scott," he yelled. "The very razor I shave myself with--when I
+shave; and that's the very thing I had my mind on too, by thunder." The
+sweat stood out in great drops on his forehead and for a few minutes
+his emotion seemed to be too much for him. So I said:
+
+"Well, boys, this concludes the evening's performance; meeting's out,
+boys."
+
+Dazed with wonder, the six riders looked blankly at each other, turned
+to me grinning foolishly, then filed out, jumped on their horses and
+galloped away, whooping like Comanche Indians.
+
+Bidding the proprietor good night I started for the door.
+
+"Hold on a minute!" he cried. "I want to see you, young feller." He
+strode up to within about two feet of me, hands thrust deep in his
+pockets, looking as if he would like to fight. Then he burst out with:
+
+"Say, you're about the slickest thing I ever saw in my life, ain't you?
+You're durned slick. You're smooth--a little too smooth; and you hear
+me, you needn't send them goods I bought to-night. I won't take 'em."
+
+"What!" I cried.
+
+"You hear me; you needn't send 'em. I won't take the goods," he said in
+a tone there was no mistaking.
+
+I commenced to argue. But no. "You've done killed yourself with me,"
+was all I could get out of him, and nothing I could say or do would
+make any difference. But I was bound not to lose the forty dollars
+without a struggle and brought all the arts, arguments and persuasions
+to bear that I could think of; but without avail. He seemed to be
+convinced that if I wasn't the devil himself, at least I was a near
+relation, and he would have none of me.
+
+Then I did what I never had done before: took the dollar and carefully
+showed him just how I had done the trick, explaining that sight was
+really slower than motion sometimes and that the whole thing was
+intended to be harmless and amusing.
+
+"If that's the way you did with the money, how about the four-ball
+trick?" he asked gruffly.
+
+Still bent upon making the proposition stick, I explained the ball
+trick too, by going over it and explaining how the eye could be
+deceived. You see, I was growing more and more anxious all the time to
+cinch my commission, and felt that my efforts were worth while. When
+suddenly, dubious and still unconvinced, he turned to me and asked:
+
+"Well, how in time did you find the razor?"
+
+"I was very particular to tell you," I said, "before I went after that
+razor that it wasn't a trick. It's a gift I can't explain; nobody can;
+nobody ever did. I can't do it; I don't know how or why. Some call it
+mind-reading and some people have been kept guessing to give it a name.
+I am one of the few who can do it, that's all. When I went after the
+article you had in mind, I didn't know it was a razor; I didn't know
+what it was; but when I came in contact with what you had in mind I
+picked it up and handed it to you. This is my explanation--the only one
+I can give. I call it 'mind-reading,' that's all."
+
+After some more talk I left him mystified and distrustful, in spite of
+all I had said and done, still refusing to reinstate the order. I left
+my grips in the store as it was near the station, and went to the hotel
+to spend a restless night, kicking myself for a fool meanwhile, since
+my attempts to amuse had lost me the neat little sum of forty dollars.
+
+I slept a couple of hours when I was awakened by the most horrible
+noise it was ever my fortune to hear: Two car-loads of calves, just a
+day away from their mothers, were being shipped and their bawling was
+intolerable. Talk about your quiet country towns for rest and sleep! No
+more for me that night, I thought. So I dressed, took a smoke, and
+decided to tackle my man again in the morning and to try to change his
+mind.
+
+A little after daylight I saw him sweeping the sidewalk in front of the
+door, handling the broom as a man does a flail on the barn floor. I
+went over and said: "Good morning." As he looked up I saw that his
+glance was as surly and suspicious as it had been the night before, but
+thought I would make a good start by approaching him upon some of his
+hobbies the landlord had told me about. In his capacity as horse trader
+he prided himself on his ability to judge a good horse. So I opened up
+by telling him about a horse I owned, and asked if he had anything to
+trade for him. This seemed to bring the right twinkle into his eye, and
+he began to brace up and take notice a little. So I talked on until I
+saw the smoke of the approaching train away down the valley seven or
+eight miles along the old Kantopey trail. Then I made a last attempt.
+
+"Now see here, Mister," I said, "I came into your store last night and
+showed you my samples, showed you the names of some of the best
+merchants who have bought big bills of me and I sold you a bill of
+goods in good faith. Then you proposed that I entertain you as you had
+very little amusement in a place like this. I told you I couldn't sing
+but would do what I could with such sleight of hand tricks as I knew,
+and I did exactly what I said I would. It seemed to meet with plenty of
+approval all around until the mind-reading came up, when you turned me
+down for no reason whatever. Now, I ask you a question: Is that a
+square deal to a man on a business proposition?"
+
+He looked at the floor and was silent, though apparently a little
+uneasy. He shook his head doubtfully, which made me feel that he was
+perhaps not so unfriendly after all, and might possibly do the right
+thing yet. Hearing the distant whistle, I said:
+
+"Train's coming; have to go. Wish you good luck, just the same as if
+you'd treated me square. Wish you good crops and plenty of water for
+your stock. As long as you live don't turn another fellow down like you
+have me, just because he's done his best to give you a good time." And
+I made a rush for the depot to check my baggage.
+
+The train came in; there was the usual hurry and noise. The old fellow
+stood there, leaning against the weather-boarding of the depot like a
+picture of Uncle Sam--a queer, awkward figure with his hay-colored
+whiskers, pipe in the corner of his mouth, and hands still planted
+firmly in his pockets, his eyes riveted on every move I made.
+
+I boarded the train, said "Howdy" to a friend, and looking back saw old
+Dan standing where I had left him as if glued to the spot. The engine
+puffed and snorted; the wheels began to go around. "Good-bye," I
+shouted from the platform as if answering his steady gaze.
+
+All of a sudden the long, gaunt figure limbered up, like a corpse that
+had been touched by a galvanic battery. He came chasing down the track
+after the train, waving his arms like a windmill and yelling like
+Bedlam let loose: "Hey! Say there, you young feller; hey there! I'll
+take them goods; send 'em along. I'll take them goods. D'ye hear?"
+
+And I called back to him with great gusto: "All right," as the train
+rounded a curve.
+
+_Moral_: When you have sold your goods make your get-away.
+
+
+
+
+Sonny's Wish
+
+_By Bertha M. H. Shambaugh_
+
+
+    Sometimes before I go to bed
+      I 'member things that Grandpa said
+    When I sat close beside his knee
+      And Grandpa laid his hand on me.
+
+    I 'member how he'd smile and say,
+      "Well, what did Sonny do to-day?"
+    'Cause Grandpa always liked to know
+      (I s'pose that's why I miss him so).
+
+    I never had to coax and plead
+      For things I really didn't need:
+    I'd 'splain it in an off-hand way
+      And Grandpa brought it home next day.
+
+    When I grow up I'd like to be
+      A grandpa with a boy like me
+    To live with and to bring things to:
+      That's what I'd like the _most_ to do.
+
+    I'd rummage 'round and hunt about
+      For things the boy could do without,
+    Because you see of course I'd know
+      That's why the boy would like them so.
+
+    And when I'd bring some brand new toy
+      And someone said, "You'll spoil that boy!"
+    I'd only shake my head and say,
+      "A _good boy_ isn't spoiled that way."
+
+    When Sonny said he'd like to get
+      A nice wee doggie for a pet,
+    And when the grown-ups one and all
+      Said, "Oh, no, Son! You're much too small,"
+
+    I'd whisper, "Come, don't look so blue
+      'Cause Grandpa bought a dog for you,
+    A birthday present! Schh! Don't cry!
+      He's black and just about _so_ high."
+
+    Oh, yes! I'm sure I'd like to be
+      A grandpa with a boy like me
+    To live with and to bring things to:
+      That's what I'd like the _most_ to do.
+
+
+
+
+Dog
+
+_By Edwin L. Sabin_
+
+
+The dog we have always with us; if not active in the garden or passive
+on the best bed, then gracing or disgracing himself in other domestic
+capacities. For the dog is a curious combination, wherein heredity
+constantly opposes culture; and therefore though your dog be a woolly
+dog or a smooth dog, a large dog or a small dog, a house-dog, yard-dog,
+hunting-dog or farm-dog, he will be ever a delight and a scandal
+according as he reveals the complexities of his character. Just as soon
+as you have decided that he is almost human, he will straightway
+unmistakably indicate that he is still very much dog.
+
+As example, select, if you please, the most pampered and carefully
+nurtured dog in dog tribe: some lady's dog--beribboned King Charles,
+bejeweled poodle, befatted pug--and give him the luxury of a half-hour
+in the nearest genuine alley. Do you think that he turns up his
+delicate nose at the luscious smells there encountered? Do you think
+that because of his repeated scented baths he sedulously keeps to the
+middle of the narrow way? Do you venture to assert that he whose jaded
+palate has recently declined the breast of chicken is now nauseated by
+the prodigal waste encountered amidst the garbage cans?
+
+Fie on him, the ingrate! Why, the little rascal fairly revels in the
+riot of debris, and ten to one he will even proudly return lugging the
+most unsavoury of bones filched from a particularly odorous repository!
+His lapse into atavism has been prompt and certain. I agree with Robert
+Louis Stevenson that every dog is a vagabond at heart; in adapting
+himself to the companionship of man and woman, and the comforts of
+board and lodging, he leads a double life.
+
+In this respect the dog is far more servile than the cat, his
+contemporary. Generations of attempted coercion have little influenced
+the cat. She (it seems a proper distinction to speak of the cat as
+"she") steadfastly maintains the distance that shall divide cat life
+from man life. Without duress, and in spite of duress, she accepts the
+material favors of civilization and domesticity only to an extent that
+will not inconvenience her; she has no notion of responsibilities or
+indebtedness. Having achieved her demands for a warm nap or a full
+stomach, she then makes no false motions in following her own
+inclinations entirely. But the dog, occupying a limbo between his
+natural instincts and his acquired conscience, must always be a master
+of duplicity.
+
+The dog (as again points out the admirable Stevenson) has become an
+accomplished actor. Observe his ceremonious approach to other dogs.
+Mark the mutual dignity, the stiff-leggedness, the self-conscious
+strut, the rivalrous emulation, all of which plainly says: "I am
+_Mister_ So-and-So; who in the deuce are you?" No dog so small,
+and only a few faint-hearts so squalid, that they do not carry a chip
+on their shoulder. Compare with their progenitors, the wolves in a city
+park. Here encounters are quick and decisive. The one wolf stands, the
+other cringes. Rank and character are recognized at once. The pretences
+of human society have not perverted wolf ethics.
+
+Take a dog at his tricks: not the game of seeking and fetching, which
+he enjoys when in good humor, but parlor tricks. He has learned through
+fear of punishment and hope of reward. Having performed, either
+sheepishly or promptly, with what wrigglings and prancings and
+waggings, or else with what proud self-appreciation does he court
+approval. He knows very well that he is assuming not to be a dog, and
+trusts that you will admit he is smarter than mere dog. On the
+contrary, the cat tribe, jumping through a hoop, does it with a
+negligent, spontaneous grace that makes the act a condescension. The
+cat does not aspire to be human; she is fully content with being cat.
+
+Elevate a dog to a seat in an automobile (any automobile), or even to
+the box of a rattle-trap farm-wagon. How it affects him, this promotion
+from walking to riding! It metamorphoses the meekest, humblest of
+so-called curs into a grandee aristocrat, who by supercilious look and
+offensive words insults every other dog that he passes. He calls upon
+the world about to witness that he is of man-kind, not of dog-kind. A
+dog riding abroad is to me the epitome of satisfied assumption.
+
+It would be interesting to know how much, if any, the dog's brain has
+been increased by constant efforts to be humanized. The Boston bull is,
+I should judge, (and of course!) faster in his intellectual activities
+than is the ordinary English bull. And then I might refer to the truly
+marvelous feats of the sheep-dog, who will, when told, cut out any one
+sheep in a thousand; and I might refer to the finely bred setter, or
+pointer, and his almost human field work; and I can refer to my own
+dog, whose smartness, both natural and acquired, generally is
+extraordinary--although at times woefully askew, as when he buries
+pancakes in the fall expecting, if we may believe that he expects, to
+dig them up during the winter.
+
+And there are dogs with great souls and dogs with small souls. We are
+told of dogs noble enough to sit by and let a needy dog gobble the meal
+from the platter--but I suspect that such dogs are complacent because
+comfortably fixed. We hear of dogs making valiant defenses of life and
+property--which perhaps is the development of the animal instinct to
+guard anything which the animal considers its own. And dogs sometimes
+effect heroic rescues, by orders or voluntarily--although one may query
+whether they consider all the consequences.
+
+The dog's brain must be an oddly struggling mass of fact and fancy. We
+have done our best for him, and as a rule he creditably responds. I
+love my dog; he appears to love me; and by efforts of me and mine he
+has been humanized into a very adaptable personage. But I am certain
+that first principles remain the same with him as when he was a
+wolf-dog of cave age. He might grab me by the collar and swim ashore
+with me, but if on the desert island there was only one piece of meat
+between us and starvation, and he had it, I'd hate to have to risk
+getting my share without fighting for it.
+
+
+
+
+The Unredeemed
+
+THE BALLAD OF THE LUSITANIA BABES
+
+_By Emerson Hough_
+
+
+    THE HOLY THREE BEHOLD
+
+    God the Father leaned out from Heaven,
+    His white beard swept His knee;
+    His eye was sad as He looked far out,
+    Full on the face of the sea.
+    Saith God the Father, "In My Kingdom
+    Never was thing like this;
+    For yonder are sinless unredeemed,
+    And they may not enter Our bliss."
+
+    And Mary the Mother, She stood near by,
+    Her eyes full sad and grieved.
+    Saith Mary the Mother, "Alas! Alas!
+    That they may not be received.
+    Now never since Heaven began," saith She,
+    "Hath sight like this meseemed,
+    That there be sinless dead below
+    Who may not be redeemed!"
+
+    And Jesu, the Saviour, He stood also,
+    And aye! His eyes were wet.
+    Saith Jesu the Saviour, "Since Time began,
+    Never was this thing yet!
+    For these be the Children, the Little Ones,
+    Afloat on the icy sea.
+    They are doomed, they are dead, they are perished,
+    And they may not come unto Me!"
+
+
+    THE CHILDREN CRY OUT
+
+    They float, forever unburied,
+    Their faces turned to the sky;
+    With their little hands uplifted,
+    And their lips forever cry:
+
+    "Oh, we are the helpless murdered ones,
+    Blown far on the icy tide!
+    No sin was ours, but through all the days,
+    On the northern seas we ride.
+    No cerements ever enshroud us,
+    We know no roof of the sod;
+    We float forever unburied,
+    With our faces turned to God.
+
+    "So foul the deed that undid us,
+    So damned in its dull disgrace,
+    That even the sea refused us,
+    And would not give us place.
+    Nor ever a place in the sky--
+    We are lost, we are dead, we are perished,
+    Ah, Jesu, tell us why!"
+
+                 *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Now the Three who heard They wept as one,
+    But Their tears they might not cease.
+    Saith God the Father, "While unavenged
+    These may not know Our peace!
+    When the sons of men are men again,
+    And have smitten full with the sword,
+    At last these sinless but unredeemed
+    Shall enter unto their Lord.
+
+    "But deed like this is a common debt;
+    It lies on the earth-race whole.
+    Till these be avenged they be unredeemed--
+    Each piteous infant soul.
+    We must weep, We must weep, till the debt be paid,
+    Te debt of the sons of men--
+    But well avenged, they are aye redeemed;
+    Ah, how shall We welcome them then!"
+
+
+    THE SONS OF MEN HEARKEN
+
+    Are ye worth the kiss of a woman?
+    Were ye worth the roof of a womb?
+    Are ye worth the price of your grave-clothes?
+    Are ye worth the name on a tomb?
+
+    Nay! None of these is your earning,
+    And none of these be your meed,
+    If the deathless wail of their yearning
+    Shall add to your pulse no speed.
+
+    Never by hand of a warrior,
+    Never by act of a man,
+    Have the Little Ones thus perished,
+    Since ever that Heaven began.
+    Such deed and the beings who wrought it--
+    Ah! deep must the cutting go
+    To cure the world of the memory
+    Of the Little Ones in woe.
+
+    The Three watch high in Their Heaven,
+    And aye! the Three be grieved;
+    The sword is the key of Their Heaven,
+    If the babes shall be received.
+
+    Rise then, men of our banner--
+    Speak in our ancient tone--
+    Each of you for his mother,
+    Each of you for his own!
+    Smite full and fell and fearless,
+    Till that these be set free--
+    These, slain of the foulest slaying
+    That ever made red the sea.
+
+    The sword of the Great Avenger
+    Is now for the sons of men;
+    It must redden in errand holy
+    Till the babes be cradled again.
+
+  _Copyrighted, 1917, by Emerson Hough_
+
+
+
+
+Tinkling Cymbals
+
+_By Helen Sherman Griffith_
+
+
+It was in the spring of 1915 that Margaret Durant came back to her home
+in Greenfield, Iowa, from a visit to friends in the East, and brought
+with her a clear, shining flame of patriotism, with which she proceeded
+to fire the town. Margaret had always been a leader, the foremost in
+civic betterment, in government reform, and in the activities of her
+church and woman's club. She was a born orator, and loved nothing
+better than haranguing--and swaying--a crowd.
+
+A fund was started for the purchase of an ambulance, which, Margaret
+insisted, must be driven by a Greenfield man. And she expressed sorrow
+on every occasion--particularly in the hearing of the mothers of young
+men--that she had no son to offer. The Red Cross rooms became the
+centre of Greenfield social activity, and the young people never
+dreamed of giving an entertainment for any purpose save to benefit the
+Red Cross, the British Relief or the Lafayette Fund. This last became
+presently the object of Margaret's special activities, since her
+husband, Paul, some four generations previously, had come of French
+blood. "So that it is almost like working for my own country," Margaret
+said proudly. And she glowed with gratification whenever the French
+were praised.
+
+So complete and self-sacrificing was her enthusiasm that she announced,
+as the spring advanced, her intention of taking no summer vacation, but
+to dedicate the money thus saved to the Lafayette Fund, and to work for
+that organization during the entire summer.
+
+Her friends were thrilled with admiration at Margaret's attitude, and
+some of them emulated her heroic example. To be sure, staying at home
+that summer was a popular form of self-denial, since a good many
+families, even in Greenfield, Iowa, were beginning to feel the pinch
+of war.
+
+One summer afternoon, Margaret strolled home from an animated meeting
+of the Lafayette Fund, exalted and tingling with emotion. She had
+addressed the meeting, and her speech had been declared the epitome of
+all that was splendid and noble. She had moved even herself to tears
+by her appeal for patriotism. She entered the house, still mentally
+enshrouded by intoxicating murmurs of "Isn't she wonderful!" "Doesn't
+she make you wish you were a man, to go yourself!" and so forth.
+
+Softly humming the Marseillaise, she mounted the steps to her own room,
+to remove her hat. She stopped short on the threshhold with a sudden
+startled cry. Her husband was there, walking up and down the room, and
+also humming the Marseillaise. It was half an hour before his usual
+home-coming time, but that was not why Margaret cried out.
+
+Paul was dressed in khaki! He was walking up and down in front of the
+cheval glass, taking in the effect from different angles. He looked
+around foolishly when he heard his wife.
+
+"Just trying it on," he said lightly. "How do you like me?"
+
+"But Paul--what--what does it _mean?_"
+
+"Just what you have guessed. I've signed up. I'm to drive the
+Greenfield ambulance," he added with justifiable pride.
+
+Margaret stared, gasped, tottered. She would have fallen if she had not
+sat down suddenly. Paul stared, too, astonished.
+
+"Why, old girl, I thought it was what you wanted! I--you said----"
+
+"Paul, Paul! You! It can't be! Why--why, you are all I have!"
+
+"That is one reason the more for my going--we have no son to send."
+
+"But Paul--it--I--the war is so far away! It isn't as if--as if we were
+at war."
+
+"Almost--'France is the land of my ancestors'--your very words,
+Margaret."
+
+"I know, but----"
+
+"'And the cause is so just.'"
+
+"But, Paul, I did not mean----"
+
+"Did not mean what!" Paul turned and faced her sternly. "Margaret, your
+eloquence has sent a good many young men to the front. I wonder--" He
+paused, and a new expression dawned in his eyes; an expression that
+Margaret could not bear: an accusation, a suspicion.
+
+Margaret cowered in her chair and hid her face.
+
+"Oh, Paul, not that, not that! Leave me a moment, please. I--I want
+time to--to grasp it."
+
+When she was alone she sat upright and faced the look she had seen in
+Paul's eyes.
+
+"I am a canting hypocrite. I see it now, plainly. I read it in Paul's
+eyes. But I will show him he's mistaken. God! is hypocrisy always so
+cruelly punished? Merciful God, have pity upon me!"
+
+Rising to her feet, Margaret staggered to the door and called. The
+enthusiasm, the exaltation, had faded from her face, leaving it pinched
+and gray. But in her eyes a new expression had been born, which lent a
+soft radiance to her features, the light of complete self-denial. Paul
+entered, gave one look, then knelt at his wife's feet.
+
+"Forgive me, my love, for misunderstanding you. The fault was mine.
+You've been afraid I would not make good, and were testing me. Ah, my
+love."
+
+For one terrible moment Margaret hesitated. Then she whispered:
+
+"No, Paul, you were right at first; but love has conquered. Not _our_
+love, but a greater, nobler sentiment: love of Right and Justice. Do
+you remember the verse: 'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of
+angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling
+cymbal.' I--I am _not_ a tinkling cymbal, Paul. I--Oh, Paul, take
+me with you! I can be of some use over there. We will go together."
+
+Paul rose and embraced her.
+
+"My precious one! How Greenfield will honor you!"
+
+Margaret winced and hid her face in his breast.
+
+"No, Paul, no, no. Don't let them know! Let us go away quietly, in the
+night. Please, please, Paul. I--I could not bear any other way!"
+
+Durant kissed her and said no more. And if he understood, he never let
+her know that he did.
+
+
+
+
+The First Laugh
+
+_By Reuben F. Place_
+
+
+In the life of every baby there is a continuous succession of first
+impressions and adventures. The first tooth, the first crawl, the first
+step, the first word, each mark a milestone in the child's career. But
+more interesting than any of these is the first laugh--the first
+genuine, sustained, prolonged, whole-hearted laugh. If it is a
+tinkling, bubbling, echoing laugh, it sends its merry waves in all
+directions--the kind that brings smiles to sober faces.
+
+What hope springs up in the parents' breasts at the sound of that first
+laugh! How thoroughly it denotes the future!
+
+A hearty laugh or no laugh in later years may mean the difference
+between fame and obscurity, fortune and poverty, friends and enemies.
+
+"How much lies in laughter: the cipher key, wherewith we decipher the
+whole man!" wrote Carlyle.
+
+A good laugh is a charming, invaluable attribute. It saves the day,
+maintains the health, makes friends, soothes injured feelings, and
+saves big situations.
+
+Laughter is a distinguishing mark between man and beast. It is the sign
+of character and the mirror in which is reflected disposition.
+
+To laugh is to live.
+
+The babe's first laugh is a precious family memory. A load of
+responsibility goes with it. It should be guarded and guided and
+cultivated until it becomes "Laughter that opens the lips and heart,
+that shows at the same time pearls and the soul."
+
+
+
+
+The Freighter's Dream
+
+_By Ida M. Huntington_
+
+
+"Squeak! Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!" The shrill, monotonous sound rent the
+hot noontide air like a wail of complaint.
+
+"Thar she goes ag'in, a-cussin' of her driver!" grumbled old Hi, as he
+walked at the head of his lead oxen, Poly and Bony, with Buck and Berry
+panting behind them. "Jest listen at her! An' 'twas only day afore
+yistiddy that I put in a hull half hour a-greasin of her. Wal, she'll
+hev to fuss till mornin'. We ain't got no time to stop a minute in this
+hot place. If we make the springs afore the beasteses gin out 'twill be
+more'n I look fer!"
+
+Old Hi anxiously gazed ahead, trying to see through the shimmering haze
+of the desert the far-distant little spot of ground where bubbled up
+the precious spring by which they might halt for rest and refreshment.
+"G'lang, Poly! That's right, Bony! Keep it up, ol' fellers!" Hi strove
+to encourage the patient oxen as they plodded wearily along through the
+fearful heat and the suffocating clouds of fine alkali dust.
+
+For weeks the long train of covered wagons had moved steadily westward
+over the dim trails. Starting away back in Ohio, loaded with
+necessities for the prospectors in the far West, they had crossed the
+fertile prairies, stuck in the muddy sloughs, forded the swollen
+rivers, rumbled over the plains and wound in and out the mountain
+passes. Now they were crawling over the desert, man and beast almost
+exhausted, even the seasoned wagons seeming to protest against the
+strain put upon them.
+
+All that afternoon Hi walked with his oxen, talking and whistling, as
+much to keep up his own courage as to quicken their pace. For a few
+moments at a time they would rest, and then onward again towards the
+springs indicated on the map by which they traveled.
+
+Half blind and dizzy from the dust and heat, sometimes Hi stumbled and
+staggered and nearly fell. He dared not turn to see how it fared with
+the men and teams behind him. Wrecks of wagons and bones of oxen by the
+side of the trail told an all-too-plain story. Some there were in every
+train who dropped by the way; men who raved in fever and died calling
+for water; faithful oxen who were shot to put them out of misery.
+Wagons were abandoned with their valuable freight when the teams could
+no longer pull them.
+
+All afternoon they crept forward; the reiterating "Squeak! Squ-e-a-k!
+Scr-e-e-ch!" of the wagon sounded like a maddened human voice to poor
+Hi, fevered and half delirious.
+
+At last the sun sank like a ball of fire in the haze. A cool breath of
+air sighed across the plain. The prairie dogs barked from their
+burrows. The coyotes yapped in the distance. But not yet could the long
+train stop, for rest without water meant death.
+
+Far into the night the white-topped wagons crept on like specters. No
+sound was heard except that of the plodding feet of the oxen, the
+rumble of the heavy wagons and the "Squeak! Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!"
+that had troubled Hi since noon. Suddenly the oxen lifted their heads,
+sniffed the air eagerly, and without urging quickened their pace.
+
+"What is it, ol' fellers?" asked Hi, as hope revived. "Is it the water
+ye are smellin'? Stiddy, thar! Stiddy!"
+
+A few moments more, and Hi gave a shout of joy that was taken up and
+sounded down the line. "The spring! The spring!"
+
+A halt was made. Every drop of the precious water was carefully
+portioned out so that each might have his share. Preparations were made
+for the night. The wagons were pulled up in a circle. The oxen were
+carefully secured that they might not wander away. Here and there a
+flickering little fire was seen as the scanty "grub" was cooked. After
+Hi had bolted his share he wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down
+near his wagon. The large white top loomed dimly before him in the
+darkness.
+
+A little while he stretched and twisted and turned uneasily until his
+tired muscles relaxed. In his ears yet seemed to sound the "Squeak!
+Squ-e-a-k! Scr-e-e-ch!" of the complaining wagon as it had bothered him
+all afternoon. "Darn ye! Won't ye ever shet up?" he muttered as he
+drifted off to sleep.
+
+"Won't I ever shet up? I won't till I git good and ready!" The sharp,
+shrill voice made Hi open his eyes with a start. Above him leaned the
+huge form of an old woman in a white cap drawn close about her
+wrinkled, seamed face, only partly distinguishable in the darkness. As
+he lay blinking, trying to see her more plainly, the high falsetto
+voice continued its plaint.
+
+"Won't I ever shet up? A nice way thet is to talk to me, Hi Smith! Do I
+iver grumble and snarl when ye treat me right? Hain't I been faithful
+to ye through thick an' thin? Hain't I made a home fer ye all this hull
+endurin' trip? Hain't I looked after yer grub and yer blankets and done
+ever'thin' I could to make ye comfortable? Hain't I kep' the rain offen
+ye at night? An' thet time the Injuns was after ye, didn't I stand
+atween ye an' the redskins and pertect ye? Didn't I keep ye from
+gittin' drownded when ye crossed thet river whar the current swep' the
+beasteses offen their feet? Didn't I watch over ye and shield ye from
+the sun when ye lay sick of the fever and hadn't nary wife to look
+after ye? Hain't I follered after them dumb beasteses through mud and
+water and over gravel and through clouds of alkali dust thick enough to
+choke a person, and niver said a word? An' now, jest bekase I'm fair
+swizzled up with the heat and ye fergit to give me some grease to rub
+on my achin' j'ints, ye cuss me! Yis, I heerd ye! Ye needn't deny it!
+A-cussin' of me who has taken the place of home an' mother to ye fer
+years! I heerd ye! I he-e-rd ye! What d'ye mean, I say!" And the tirade
+ended in a perfect screech of anger.
+
+Thoroughly aroused, Hi rolled over and jumped hastily to his feet. He
+looked all around. The old woman had mysteriously vanished. A coyotte
+sneaked past him. Day was breaking in the east. The first gleam of
+light fell on the white-topped wagon drawn up beside him.
+
+He rubbed his eyes. "Wal, I swan!" he muttered, as he gazed
+bewilderedly at the close-drawn white top looming above him. "Glad I
+woke up airly! I'll hev time ter grease that thar wagon afore we
+start!"
+
+
+
+
+A Box From Home
+
+_By Helen Cowles LeCron_
+
+
+    I'll send to you in France, my dear,
+      A box with treasures in it:
+    The patch of sky that meets our hill
+      And changes every minute,
+    The grape-vine that you taught to grow--
+      My pansies young with dew,
+    The plum-tree by the kitchen door--
+      These things I'll send to you.
+
+    I'll pack with care our fragile dawn--
+      The dawn we laughed to greet;
+    I'll send the comfort of the grass
+      That once caressed your feet.
+    No yearning love of mine I'll send
+      To tear your heart in two--
+    Just earth-peace--home-peace--still and strong--
+      These things I'll send to you.
+
+    For you must tire of flags, and guns,
+      And courage high, and pain,
+    And long to rest your heart upon
+      The common things again,
+    And so I'll send no prayers, no tears,
+      No longings--only dew
+    And garden-rows, and goldenrod
+      And country roads to you!
+
+    Since life has given you to know
+      The gentle tenderness
+    Of growing things, I cannot think
+      That death would give you less!
+    Hold fast, hold fast within your heart
+      The earth-sweet hours we knew,
+    And keep, my dear, where'er you are
+      These things I send to you.
+
+
+
+
+The Spirit of Spring
+
+_By Laura L. Hinkley_
+
+
+Margaret Hazeltine sat on her porch with the spring wind blowing over
+her elusive wafts of fragrance--plum-blossom, apple-blossom, young
+grass, budding wood scents, pure, growing earth-smells.
+
+"It is like breathing poetry," Margaret thought.
+
+She was sewing, but now and then her hands fell in her lap while she
+lifted her head, catching in some wandering sweetness with a sharp
+breath, like a sigh.
+
+It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Sunshine mellowed the new
+greenness of short, tender grass on the lawns. It shone upon all the
+bare, budded branches up and down the street, seeking, caressing,
+stimulating. It lay kindly, genially, on the mid-road dust.
+
+Margaret's father was pottering about the garden. He was a very old
+man, with stooping shoulders, but tall and slender like his daughter.
+He came up to the porch and stood leaning on his hoe. The wind
+fluttered his shabby garden-coat and thin, white beard. He rested his
+wrinkled old hands on the top of his hoe handle, and cast up his faded,
+sunken eyes to the intense young blue of the sky with its fleecy clouds
+floating.
+
+Mr. Hazeltine addressed his daughter in the strain of conversational
+piety habitual with him, and in a voice which age and earnestness made
+tremulous:
+
+"Seems like every spring I get more certain of my eternal home up
+yonder!"
+
+Margaret smiled acquiescently. Long since she had silently drifted
+outside the zone of her father's simple, rigid creed; but to-day its
+bald egoism did not repel her. It seemed at one with the sweet will to
+live all about them.
+
+Mr. Hazeltine went back to the garden. A girl appeared on the porch of
+the house opposite. The Hazeltine house was small and old and not
+lately painted. The house opposite was large, fresh, trim, and
+commodious in every visible detail. White cement walks enclosed and
+divided its neatly kept lawns and parking. Its fruit-trees breathed out
+of the unfolding whiteness of their bosoms the sweetest of those
+perfumes that drifted across to Margaret. The girl on the porch pushed
+the wicker chairs about for a moment, then, disdaining them all, sat
+down on the cement steps and rested her chin in her palm.
+
+After a quick look and smile Margaret sewed busily, affecting not to
+see the other. She felt a little sympathetic flutter of pleasure and
+suspense. "Jean is waiting for Frank," she said to herself.
+
+A piano began to play in a house up the street. Through the open
+windows rang joyous, vibrant music. White moths fluttered across the
+street and the lawn and parking opposite, veering vaguely over
+scattered yellow dandelion heads. Around the house opposite on the
+cement walk strutted a very young kitten on soft paws, its short tail
+sticking straight up, its gray coat still rough from its mother's
+tongue.
+
+"Me-ow!" said the kitten plaintively, appalled at its own daring.
+
+Jean sprang up, laughing, snatched up the kitten and carried it back to
+her seat, cuddling it under her chin.
+
+Down the street came a young girl wheeling a baby's cab. The girl was
+but just past childhood, and she had been a homely child. But of late
+she had bloomed as mysteriously and almost as quickly as the
+plum-trees. She wore a light summer dress with a leaf-brown design upon
+it, in which her girlish form still half-confessed the child. Her
+complexion was clear and bright, the cheeks flushed; and the
+strongly-marked features seemed ready to melt and fuse to a softer
+mould. Her brown eyes had grown wistful and winning.
+
+As they advanced, Margaret ran down the rickety wooden walk.
+
+"Oh, is that the new baby?" she cried delightedly. "May I look?"
+
+The girl smiled assent.
+
+Softly Margaret drew back the woolly carriage robe and gazed adoringly.
+The baby was about six weeks old. Its tiny face was translucent, pinky
+white, the closed eyelids with their fringe of fine lashes
+inconceivably delicate. Its wee hands cuddled about its head; the
+curled, pink fingers, each tipped with its infinitesimal, dainty nail,
+were perfection in miniature. The formless mouth, pinker than the rest
+of the face, moved in sleep, betraying the one dream the baby knew.
+
+Margaret drew a long, still breath of rapture, hanging over the little
+pink pearl of humanity.
+
+"Will he wake if I kiss him?" she pleaded.
+
+The girl smiled doubtfully. "Maybe," she said.
+
+She was equally indifferent to the baby and to Margaret. Her wistful
+eyes wandered eagerly down the street, watching each sidewalk, and the
+glow in her cheeks and eyes seemed to kindle and waver momently.
+
+Margaret did not kiss the baby. She only bent her head close over his,
+close enough to feel his warm, quick breathing, to catch the rhythm of
+his palpitating little life.
+
+When she came back to her porch, after the girl had gone on, Margaret
+saw that Jean's caller had come.
+
+The young man sat beside Jean. His head was bare, his black hair
+brushed stiffly up from his forehead pompadour-fashion, his new spring
+suit palpably in its original creases. He and Jean talked eagerly,
+sometimes with shouts of young laughter, at which Margaret smiled
+sympathetically; sometimes with swift, earnest interchange; sometimes
+with lazy, contented intervals of silence. Occasionally he put out his
+hand to pat or tease the kitten which lay in Jean's lap. She defended
+it. Whenever their fingers chanced to touch they started consciously
+apart--covertly to tempt the chance again.
+
+Two little girls came skipping down the street, their white dresses
+tossed about their knees. Their loose hair, of the dusky fairness of
+brunette children, tossed about their shoulders and an immense white
+ribbon bow quivered on the top of each little bare head. Their dress
+and their dancing run gave them the look and the wavering allure of
+butterflies.
+
+They were on Jean's side of the street. They fluttered past the house
+unnoticed by the two on the porch, who were in the midst of an
+especially interesting quarrel about the kitten. The little girls
+passed over the crossing with traces of conscientious care for their
+white slippers, and came up on Margaret's side. Opposite her they
+paused in consultation.
+
+"Won't you come in," she called to them, "and talk to me a minute?"
+
+The two advanced hesitatingly and stood before her at a little distance
+on the young grass in attitudes clearly tentative. They were shy little
+misses, and had not lived long on that street.
+
+"Someone told me," said Margaret, "that your names were Enid and
+Elaine. Which is which?"
+
+The taller one pointed first to her embroidered bosom, then to her
+sister.
+
+"I'm Enid; she's Elaine."
+
+"I've read about you in a book of poetry," observed Margaret--"it must
+have been you! I suppose if you had a little sister her name would be
+Guinevere?"
+
+The large dark eyes of the two exchanged glances of denial. The small
+Elaine shook her head decidedly.
+
+"We _got_ a little sister!" announced Enid, "but her name ain't that;
+it's Katherine."
+
+They were both pretty with the adorable prettiness of small girls, half
+baby's beauty, and half woman's. But Enid's good looks would always
+depend more or less upon happy accident--her time of life, her flow of
+spirits, her fortune in costume. Her face was rather long, with chin
+and forehead a trifle too pronounced. But the little Elaine was
+nature's darling. Her softly rounded person and countenance were
+instinct with charm. Even her little brown hands had delicacy and
+character. Her white-stockinged legs, from the fine ankles to the
+rounded knees at her skirt's edge, were turned to a sculptor's desire.
+Beside them, Enid's merely serviceable legs looked like sticks. The
+white bows in their hair shared the ensemble effect of each: Enid's
+perched precisely in the middle, its loops and ends vibrantly and
+decisively erect; Elaine's drooped a little at one side, its crispness
+at once confessing and defying evanescence and fragility.
+
+Margaret thrilled with the child's loveliness, but for some subtle
+reason she smiled chiefly on Enid.
+
+That little lady concluded she must be a person worthy of confidence.
+
+"My doll's name is Clara," she imparted. "An' hers is Isabel, only she
+calls it 'Ithabel'!"
+
+The color deepened in Elaine's dainty cheek. She was stung to protest;
+which she did with all the grace in the world, hanging her head at one
+side and speaking low.
+
+"I don't either!" she murmured. "I thay Ithabel!"
+
+"Either way is very nice," Margaret hastened to say.
+
+"We've been to Miss Eaton's Sunday school children's party," Enid
+informed her. "These are our best dresses, and our white kid slippers.
+Don't you think they're pretty? Mine tie with ribbons, but hers only
+button like a baby's."
+
+Elaine looked down grievingly at the offensively infantile slippers,
+turning her exquisite little foot.
+
+"I'm going to speak a piece for Easter," Enid pursued, "all alone by
+myself; and she's going to speak one in concert with a class."
+
+"Oh, I hope you will come and speak them for me some time," Margaret
+invited; "and bring Clara and Isabel."
+
+"Maybe we will," answered Enid. "We must go now. Come on, Elaine."
+
+Margaret watched them until they stopped beside a flowerbed along the
+sidewalk where the first tulips of the season were unfolding. Elaine
+bent over to examine them. Margaret reproached herself that, though
+Elaine had spoken but once, it was her image that lingered uppermost.
+Why should she add even the weight of her preference to that child in
+whose favor the dice were already so heavily loaded? For in Margaret's
+eyes, beauty was always the chief gift of the gods.
+
+As she resumed her sewing, a sudden, fantastic fear shot across her
+thoughts--the fear that Elaine would die. She recognized it, in a
+moment, for the heart's old, sad prevision of impermanence in beauty,
+its rooted unbelief in fortune's constancy.
+
+A quick glance up the street showed Elaine still stooping over the
+tulip bed, her stiff little skirts sticking out straight behind her.
+The grotesqueness was somehow reassuring. Margaret smiled, half at the
+absurd little figure, half at her own absurdly tragic fancy.
+
+On the other porch Frank was taking his leave--a process of some
+duration. First he stood on the lower steps talking at length with Jean
+who stood on the top step. Then he raised his cap and started away,
+only to remember something before he reached the corner and to run back
+across the lawn. There he stood talking while Jean sat on the porch
+railing, suggesting a faint Romeo and Juliet effect. The next time,
+Jean called him back. They met halfway down the cement walk and
+conversed earnestly and lengthily.
+
+With an exquisite sympathy Margaret watched these maneuvers from under
+discreet eyelids. She was glad for them both, with a clear-souled,
+generous joy. And yet she felt a sensitive pleasure that walked on the
+edge of pain. In the young man especially she took a quick delight--in
+his supple length of limb, the spread of his shoulders, his
+close-cropped black hair, his new clothes, the way he thrust his hands
+deep in his trousers' pockets while he swung on the balls of his feet,
+the attentive bend of his head toward Jean; she reveled in all his
+elastic, masculine youth which she knew for the garb of a straight,
+strong, kindly, honorable soul. But out of the revel grew a trouble, as
+if some strange spirit prisoned in her own struggled to tear itself
+free, to fling itself, wailing, in the dust.
+
+"Egotism!" said Margaret to herself, curling her lip, sewing very fast.
+The fluttering spirit lay tombed and still.
+
+When Frank was finally gone, Jean sauntered across the street to
+Margaret's porch. She perched on the rail and pulled at the leafless
+vine-stems beside her, talking idly and desultorily of things she was
+not interested in.
+
+She was an attractive girl, more wholesome than beautiful. Her
+bronze-brown hair coiled stylishly about her head, gleamed in the late
+sun. There were some tiny freckles across her nose. She wore a pale
+blue summer-dress with short sleeves out of which her young arms
+emerged, fresh and tender from their winter seclusion.
+
+The two maidens circled warily about the topic they were both longing
+to talk of. Margaret noted in Jean a new aloofness. Every time she
+threw Frank's name temptingly into the open Jean purposely let it lie.
+
+At last, with a little gasp of laughter, looking straight before her,
+Jean exclaimed: "I guess I'm sort of scared!"
+
+"What I like about Frank," said Margaret, "is that he's so true and
+reliable. He's a fellow you can trust!"
+
+"Yes," assented Jean. "Don't you think he looks--nice in that new
+suit?"
+
+"Splendid! Frank's a handsome boy."
+
+"Isn't he?" sighed Jean.
+
+"He'll always be constant to anyone he cares for. And, I think--he does
+care for someone."
+
+"What makes _you_ think so?" demanded Jean, her blue eyes suddenly
+intent on Margaret.
+
+"What makes you think so?" Margaret parried.
+
+Jean sat up instantly very straight and stiff.
+
+"Who said I thought anything?"
+
+"Oh, no, no!" Margaret disclaimed hastily. "I didn't mean that. I meant
+anyone would think so!"
+
+Jean lapsed into a placated limpness, resting her lithe young figure in
+its summer blue against the dingy house-wall.
+
+"Isn't it funny," she mused, "how you can resolve you won't think, and
+keep yourself from thinking, and really not think, because you've made
+up your mind you wouldn't--and all the time you _know_!"
+
+Margaret was searching in her mind for some tenderest phrase of warning
+when Jean anticipated her.
+
+"Well, it's a good thing I don't care!--I thought at first I didn't
+like his hair that way, but I do now--better than the other way. He was
+telling about college."
+
+"He finishes this year, doesn't he?"
+
+"Yes. He's going in with his father next year--unless he makes up his
+mind to go to Yale. But he doesn't think he will. His father wants him
+here; and he's about decided that's best."
+
+"Marg'ret," called a thin, querulous, broken voice from within the
+house; "ain't it time you was gettin' supper?"
+
+Margaret opened the door to call back in a loud, clear voice: "Not yet,
+Mother."
+
+Jean slipped off the railing. "I must go."
+
+"It really isn't time yet. Mother gets nervous, sitting all day. And
+she doesn't care to read any more. Stay a little longer."
+
+These snatches of Jean's confidence were delicious to her.
+
+"Oh, I've got to go."
+
+Jean suddenly put both arms around Margaret's waist and clasped her in
+a swift embrace.
+
+"I wish," she said, "some awfully nice old widower or bachelor would
+come along and marry you!"
+
+As Jean crossed the street with the lowering sun making a nimbus in her
+chestnut-golden hair, she began to sing. The words sprang joyous and
+clear as a bobolink's note--
+
+    "What's this dull town to me?
+        Robin's not here!"
+
+But a sudden waft of consciousness smote them to a vague humming that
+passed swiftly into--
+
+    "My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
+    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."
+
+In the scented dark of the spring evening, Margaret came to the porch
+again. A little curved moon sailed the sky--less a light-giver than a
+shining ornament on the breast of night. A while before children's
+laughter and skurrying footfalls had echoed down the sidewalks. Boys
+had played ball in the middle of the street, with running and violent
+contortions, and shouts and calls rejoicing in the release of their
+animal energies. But these sounds had ceded to silence as the soft
+darkness fell. Then young strollers, two and two, had passed; but these
+also were gone. A gentle wind rustled very softly in the dead
+vine-stalks. The world was alone with the fragrant wind and the
+dreaming dusk and the little silver scimitar of moon.
+
+The house opposite was all dark, except for a line of lamplight beside
+the drawn blind of a side window. Earlier, Jean had turned on the porch
+lights and sat under them in the most graceful of the wicker chairs,
+reading, or affecting to read, and Frank, coming down the street, had
+seen her in all that glow. Then they had turned off the lights and gone
+away together, and the house had sunk into shadowy repose. Vague lines
+of wanness betrayed the place of the cement walks. The fruit-trees were
+dim, withdrawn, half-hinted shapes of whiteness, but their perfume,
+grown bolder in darkness, wandered the winds with poignant, sweet
+desire.
+
+Margaret leaned against the weather-worn corner-post of the porch; her
+hand passed over its cracked, paint-blistered surface with, a soft,
+absent touch. She felt to her finger-tips the wooing lure of the night.
+In the spring of her pulses she was aware of Frank and Jean somewhere
+together in the dusky, fragrant, crescent-clasped folds of it. She
+seemed to draw in with her breath and gather subtly through the pores
+of her flesh all the shy, sweet, youthful yearning of the world--and,
+behind that, wordlessly she knew the driven sap, the life-call, the
+procreant urge. She sighed and stirred restlessly. The strand of pain
+that runs in the pleasure of such moods began to ache gently like an
+old wound touched with foreknowledge of evil weather. She shared the
+pang that lies at the heart of spring.
+
+Words of poetry pressed into her mind, voices of the great
+interpreters. She was not a cultivated woman, hardly to be called
+educated; her horizon, even of books, was chance-formed and narrow; but
+what circumstance had given her she remembered well. The groping, vain
+longing that stirred in her fell on speech, and moved among the haunted
+echoes of the world.
+
+    "Bloomy the world, yet a blank all the same--
+    Framework that waits for a picture to frame."
+
+And then, sudden as a cry:
+
+    "Never the time and the place,
+    And the loved one all together!"
+
+She drew a long, shivering sigh, and deliberately thrust the lines out
+of her mind. Best not to remember them--on such a night! Their edges
+cut like young grass drawn through careless fingers.
+
+The little new moon was rising higher in the deep, soft blue-darkness
+of the sky. Margaret looked up at its gleaming curve, and other words
+of poetry came to her, words she had read once in an old
+magazine--translated from the Persian:
+
+    "Quaffing Hadji-Kivam's wine-cup, there I saw by grace of him,
+    On the green sea of the night, the new moon's silver shallop
+      swim!"
+
+They swung on, like a familiar, wistful, passionate tune:
+
+    "Oh, my heart is like a tulip, closing up in time of cold!
+    When, at length, shy Bird of Fortune, shall my snare thy
+      wings enfold?"
+
+Footsteps sounded along the walk, the linked steps of two, lingering,
+yet with the springing fall of youth; then a murmur of voices, girl's
+and boy's interchanging, lingering, too, and low, weighted, like the
+footsteps, with the burden of their hour. Margaret drew back a little
+behind the sapless vine-stems. She knew that she could not be seen in
+the shadow of the porch, even by a passer far less absorbed than the
+two who drifted by. She had recognized Frank and Jean at once, and
+thrilled intimately at the quality of their voices. Both were changed
+from the careless tones of every day, Frank's husky and strained,
+Jean's vibrant and tremulous. What they said was quite inaudible--only
+that betraying _timbre_, conscious and unconscious, hung on the
+scented air. A single word in the girl's thrilled voice--a sharpened,
+quivering note of life at high tension--pierced the shadows of the
+porch:
+
+"---- you ----"
+
+"'You!'" Margaret leaned forward among her shadows, thrusting her
+clenched hands downward, then pressed them tight upon her heart. "You!"
+That little key unlocked the flood-gates. The barriers went down, and
+the tide of passionate loneliness swept her soul.
+
+"You!" she whispered to the fragrant, shimmering, vitalizing night; and
+the word mocked her, and returned unto her void. She leaned her bosom
+against the angled surface of the porch-post; she pressed her face
+among the dry, unbudded vines. The cry went out from her into the empty
+spaces of the world--a voiceless, hopeless call: "You! you! you! Oh,
+you who never came to me!"
+
+Her soul was ravaged by that mocking bitterness of loss which comes
+only to those who have not possessed. She, crying for a lover in the
+night, she who had never been sought! If ever her shy and homely
+girlhood might have attracted a youth, poor Margaret's love of poetry
+would have frightened him away. If the burdened poverty of her maturity
+might have admitted a suitor, her acquaintance numbered no man who
+would not have shunned an earnest-minded old maid. And she knew this
+utterly. A thousand old aches were in the sudden rush of anguish, and
+shame fought among them. She was shocked and startled at the drip of
+salt tears down her cheeks, at the heaving of her shaken breast.
+
+She struggled to rebuild her old barriers against the woe--pride, and
+dignity, and the decent acceptance of one's lot. But those were for the
+eyes of men and women; and here were no eyes, only night, and the risen
+sap and the wild heart in her breast. Duty? She had never swerved in
+doing it, but she thrust the thought by with passionate rebellion at
+the waste of her in dull service to the outworn lives which neither
+asked nor could take from her anything but the daily drudgery. She
+groped for the old humble consolations, tender appreciations, generous
+friendships, the joy in others' joy. But there the wall had broken
+through. "I am nothing to them!" thought Margaret bitterly. "Jean will
+not care to talk to me after to-night. And I can't always kiss other
+people's babies! I want one of my own!"
+
+The gauzy veil of dream that wrapped her often had fallen from before
+her eyes. Rent by the piercing beauty of the night, and soaked in her
+tears, that fragile fabric of vision served no more. Imagined blisses
+had betrayed her, naked and tender, to the unpitying lash of truth. The
+remote, the universal, mocked her sore longing for something near and
+real, of earth and flesh--oh, as welcome in sorrow as in joy!--to be
+imperiously her own! The river of life dashed by and would not fill her
+empty cup. The love she loved so had passed her by.
+
+She faced the hollowest desolation known to humanity. She had committed
+no sin; she had been true and tender and faithful; she had not failed
+in the least and humblest dues of love: yet, now she stood wrapped in
+torment, and saw, across a great gulf fixed, the joys of love's elect.
+She stood utterly frustrate and alone--a shared frustration were
+happiness! Her mental life had been so intensely uncompanioned that she
+was tortured with doubts of her own reality. What warrant of Being had
+that soul which could not touch in all the blank, black spaces of the
+void another soul to give it assurance of itself? What if the aching
+throat and riven breast were but the phantom anguish of a dream Thing,
+unpurposed, unjustified, a Thing of ashes and emptiness!
+
+There remained God--perhaps! Was God a dream too? Was there any _You_
+in all the empty worlds?
+
+She stood quite still, questing the universe for God. She thought of
+her father's God--the savage Hebrew deity he thought he worshiped, the
+harsh Puritan formalist who ruled his creed, the hysterical, illogical
+sentimentalist who swayed his heart. She dropped them all out of her
+mind. God was not, for her, in the ancient earthquake or fire or
+whirlwind. But--perhaps--somewhere!
+
+She sank to her knees in the darkness, and, laying her head upon her
+arms on the railing, sought in her soul for God.
+
+"You are Love," she said. "They say it, but they do not believe it;
+but _I_ believe it. You are Love that creates, and makes glad--and
+wounds. You are Love that rises in all creatures in spring, and would
+make all things beautiful and kind. You are Love that gives--and gives
+itself. You made me to love love and love's uses, and nothing else in
+the world! You made my life loveless. Why?"
+
+She waited a moment, then, with a sobbing breath of remembrance, "Oh,
+one spring they nailed you on a cross because you loved too much!"
+
+After that she was very still, her head bent upon her arms, her heart
+quiet, waiting for the still, small voice, the answer of God.
+
+It came presently, and she knew it was the answer. She accepted it with
+comfort, and sad pride, and submission, and a slow, strange, white
+happiness of consecration. The answer came without any words. If there
+had been words, they might have been, perhaps, like these:
+
+"Bear the pain patiently, my daughter, for life is wrought in pain, and
+there is no child born without sharp pangs. I have not shut thee out
+from my festival of spring. Thy part is thy pang. I have given thee a
+coronal of pain and made thee rich with loss and desire. I have made
+thee one of my vestals who guard perpetually the hearth-fire which
+shall not be lit for them. I have denied thee love that love shall be
+manifest in thee. Wherever love fails in my world, there shalt thou
+re-create it in beauty and kindness. The vision thou hast, and the
+passion, are of me, and I charge thee find some fair and sweet way that
+they perish not in thee. All ways are mine. Be thou in peace."
+
+Margaret rose at length. The moon was gone from the sky, but out of its
+deep, tender darkness shone the far, dim light of stars. A cool wind
+touched her cheek, bearing a faint, ethereal odor of blossoms as from a
+great distance. And upon her face, if one might have seen for the
+darkness, shone a fine, ethereal beauty far-brought from that great
+distance which is nearer than hands and feet.
+
+Against the shadowy front of the house opposite, two figures were
+vaguely discernible, the taller a little darker than the encompassing
+space, the other a little lighter. As Margaret looked, they melted
+together, and were no longer two but one.
+
+She smiled in the darkness, very sweetly, and, holding her head high,
+turned and went quietly into the dark little house.
+
+
+
+
+Work Is a Blessing
+
+_By Lafayette Young_
+
+
+Work is a blessing to the human race.
+
+If this had remained a workless world, it would have been a homeless
+world. The progress of the human race began when work began. When work
+began, men began to wear clothes; thus progress commenced.
+
+Industry and happiness go hand in hand.
+
+Men who feel that they are doomed to daily toil, and that there is no
+so-called emancipation from the daily routine, imagine that happiness
+would be theirs if they did not have to work. The man whose employment
+compels him to get up at six o'clock in the morning imagines if he
+could just get out of that slavery he would ask for no greater
+happiness. But if he ever does reach that condition he will find out
+what true misery is.
+
+Some years ago the warden of the Iowa penitentiary told me that he had
+a prisoner serving a long term, who begged a day off. He wanted to stop
+the regular routine. He wanted to be set free in the courtyard for one
+day. He wanted to look straight up at the sky, and to breathe the air
+of the outdoors. I was at the penitentiary the day the prisoner's
+request was granted, and at ten o'clock the prisoner had grown tired of
+idleness. The sky had lost its attraction. There was something missing.
+And he got word to the warden that he wished to be returned to labor.
+
+There are millions of men toiling in factories and in mines, laying
+brick on tall buildings, swinging cranes in the great iron mills,
+tending the machines in cotton or woolen mills, who think that they
+would be perfectly happy if they were once perfectly idle. But their
+experience would be like that of the prisoner's.
+
+What a wretched world this would be without work! How many things we
+have which are indispensable, that we would not have but for somebody's
+work. Work has built every great bridge, every great cathedral, every
+home, large or small. It has made every invention. Work found man in a
+cave, and put him into a good home. Work has made man decent and
+self-respecting.
+
+The great nations are the working nations; the great peoples are the
+working peoples. Nations, like individuals, date their prosperity and
+happiness from the beginning of work. The start was made when man gave
+attention to the primal curse of the race recorded in the book of
+Genesis: "By the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, until thou
+return to the ground." This mandate has never been repealed. Lazy men
+in all parts of the world have undertaken to nullify it. The ambition
+for idleness fills jails and penitentiaries. It causes man to commit
+forgeries and murders. Every man slugged in a dark alley is put out of
+the way by some other man desiring money without working for it.
+
+There has been a foolish notion in many countries in regard to labor.
+They do not consider it dignified. In some countries, missionary
+families learn that they cannot cook their own victuals without losing
+caste. In other countries a certain number of servants must be kept if
+the family would be respected. In our own country there is a false
+pride in regard to labor. Young men avoid the learning of trades
+because they do not wish to soil their hands. Laboring men themselves
+have been guilty of not sufficiently estimating their own callings.
+They demand the rights of their class, but fail to respect it
+themselves. This causes many young men to seek some employment which
+will not soil their hands. Many thousands of young men make the mistake
+of not having some regular calling, some work which they can do better
+than anybody else. The man who has a regular trade is never found
+walking the streets looking for a job. Even when he is called old, he
+can secure employment.
+
+Industry is indispensable to happiness. Idleness destroys the souls of
+more young men, and leads to more forms of dissipation, than any other
+influence.
+
+The experienced mechanic knows how rapidly and joyfully time passes
+when he is interested in his work. He never watches the clock; to him
+quitting time comes all too soon.
+
+Labor can be made a joy if man wills it so.
+
+An appreciation of what a man earns and the thought that he can do
+something with his money, ought to be a part of the happiness of labor.
+Work develops the man. It develops his appreciation of others. He is
+likely to be unhappy if he works solely for himself. The Indian hunter,
+returning from the chase, lays the evidence of his prowess at the feet
+of his squaw. He is glad that he has accomplished something, and in her
+eyes he is a hero.
+
+Once I was driving in the Allegheny Mountains in the early summer.
+Unexpectedly I came to a little cottage almost covered with flowers and
+vines. A brown-faced woman with pruning shears was at her work. Around
+her bees were humming, and birds were twittering. I sought to buy some
+flowers. She said she never had sold a flower in her life. I asked her
+what induced her to work early and late, cultivating, planting and
+pruning. She said, "I do this work because I enjoy it, and because my
+husband and two sons will enjoy these flowers when they come home at
+night." This woman had the whole philosophy of human happiness. If
+there are women in heaven she will be there.
+
+Work came as a blessing. It remains as a blessing. It makes us tired so
+that we can enjoy sleep. We awaken in the morning refreshed for a new
+day. When kings and queens shall be no more, when autocracy shall end,
+when the voices of intelligent men and women shall govern, then if work
+shall be universal, thus satisfying the energy, and giving direction to
+the ambitions of men, there will be no more wars.
+
+To make work enjoyable, men and women must be proud of it; must not
+pretend that they are above it; must not apologize for it. Once I was
+in Holland. I saw women with a peculiar headdress as if they belonged
+to some lodge. They wore smiling faces. I inquired what their regalia
+meant, and was told that they were working women of the peasant or some
+other humble class. They were proud of their position. They were
+content, with plenty to do. They enjoyed the society of their families
+and friends. But their happiness consisted in being proud of, and
+satisfied with, the things they were doing. Who can say that they have
+not chosen the better part?
+
+
+
+
+September
+
+_By Esse V. Hathaway_
+
+
+      Blaze on blaze of scarlet sumach,
+    Roadsides lined with radiant gold,
+      Purple ironweed, regal, slender,
+    Rasping locust, shrill and bold.
+
+      Dusty smell in field and upland,
+    Sky of copper mixed with blue,
+      Life intense as is the weather--
+    Let's away, just me and you!
+
+[Illustration: HOST AND HOUSEGUEST
+
+               "I say, old top, I wish you wouldn't be continually
+               kissing the wife. I think once when you come and once
+               when you go quite sufficient."
+
+               "But, my dear man, I can't wear myself out coming and
+               going all the time just to please you."
+
+               _--From "Judge." Copyright by Leslie-Judge Co._]
+
+
+
+
+The Poet of the Future
+
+_By Tacitus Hussey_
+
+
+    Oh, the poet of the future. Will he come to us as comes
+    The beauty of the bugle's voice above the roar of drums--
+    The beauty of the bugle's voice above the roar and din
+    Of battle drums that pulse the time the victor marches in?
+
+    --_James Whitcomb Riley._
+
+    "Oh, the poet of the future!" Can anybody guess
+    Whether he'll sound his bugle, or she'll wear them on her
+      dress;
+    An' will they kinder get their themes from nature, second
+      hand,
+    An' dish 'em up in language that plain folks can't
+      understand?
+
+    There's a sight of this 'ere po'try stuff, each year, that
+      goes to waste,
+    Jest a-waitin' fer a poet who has the time and taste
+    To tackle it just as it is, an' weave it into rhyme,
+    With warp and woof of hope and love, in life's swift loom
+      of time.
+
+    An' mebbe the future poet, if he understands the thing,
+    Won't start the summer katydids to singin' in the spring,
+    Jest like the croakin' frog; but let the critter wait at
+      most,
+    To announce to timid farmers that "it's jest six weeks till
+      frost."
+
+    The katydid and goldenrod are partners in this way:
+    They sing and bloom where'er there's room, along life's
+      sunny way;
+    So I warn you, future poet, jest let 'em bloom an' lilt
+    Together--don't divorce 'em. That's jest the way they're
+      built.
+
+    In order to be perfect, the future poet should
+    Know every sound of nature, of river, lake an' wood,
+    Should know each whispered note and every answerin' call--
+    He should never set cock-pheasants to drummin' in the fall.
+
+    "Under the golden maples!" Not havin' voice to sing
+    They flap their love out on a log quite early in the spring;
+    For burnin' love will allus find expression in some way--
+    That's the style that _they've_ adopted--don't change
+      their natures, pray.
+
+    I cannot guess just what the future poet's themes may be;
+    Reckon they'll be pretty lofty, fer, as anyone can see,
+    The world of poetry's lookin' up an' poets climbin' higher;
+    With divine afflatus boostin' them, of course they must
+      aspire.
+
+    The poets of the good old times were cruder with the pen;
+    Their idees weren't the same as ours--these good
+      old-fashioned men--
+    Bet old Homer never writ, even in his palmiest day,
+    Such a soul-upliftin' poem as "Hosses Chawin' Hay."
+
+    "Hosses" don't know any better out in the Hawkeye State--
+    Down to Boston now, I reckon, they jest simply masticate.
+    The poet of the future'll blow a bugle, like as not--
+    Most all us modern poets had to blow fer what we've got.
+
+    To keep the pot a-b'ilin' we all have to raise a din
+    To make the public look our way--an' pass the shekels in.
+    The scarcity of bugles seems now the greatest lack
+    Though some of us keep blowin' 'thout a bugle to our back.
+
+    The poet of the future! When once he takes his theme
+    His pen will slip as smoothly as a canoe glides down stream.
+    He'll sing from overflowin' heart--his music will be free--
+    Would you take up a subscription fer a robin in a tree?
+
+    He'll never try to drive the Muse, if he doesn't want to go,
+    But will promptly take the harness off--er drive keerfully
+      an' slow--
+    When po'try's forced, like winter pinks, the people's apt to
+      know it
+    An' labor with it jest about as hard as did the poet.
+
+
+
+
+Putting the Stars with the Bars
+
+_By Verne Marshall_
+
+
+Midnight beneath a low-hanging strip of amber-hued moon. Smoke in one's
+eyes and sulphur in his nostrils; the pounding of cannon in his ears
+and a hatred of war and its sponsors in his soul. A supply wagon piled
+high with dead men on one side of the road and a little ambulance
+waiting for its bruised load to emerge from the mouth of the
+communicating trench near by. Sharp tongues of fire darting into the
+night on every side as the guns of the French barked their challenge at
+the Crown Prince on the other bank of the Meuse. A lurid glare over
+there to the left where the smoke hung thickest under drifting yellow
+illuminating bombs and red and blue signal bombs that added their touch
+to the weird fantasy that wasn't a fantasy at all, but a hill in whose
+spelling men had changed one letter and turned it into hell.
+
+It was Dead Man's Hill at Verdun--Le Cote Mort Homme. And Dead Man's
+Hill it truly was, for among the barbed wire entanglements and in some
+of the shell craters in No Man's Land there still lay the skeletons of
+Frenchmen and Germans who had been killed there months before and whose
+bodies it had been impossible to recover because the trenches had not
+changed positions and to venture out between them was to shake hands
+with Death.
+
+Dead Man's Hill at Verdun--where ten thousand men have fought for a few
+feet of blood-soaked ground in vain effort to satiate the battle-thirst
+of a monarch and his son! The countryside for miles around is laid
+waste. Villages lie in tumbled masses, trees are uprooted or broken
+off, demolished wagons and motors litter the roads and fields, and dead
+horses, legs stiff in the air, dot the jagged landscape. Not a moving
+object is seen there by day except the crows that flutter above the
+uptorn ground and the aeroplanes that soar thousands of feet above.
+But, with the coming of night, long columns of men wind along the
+treacherous roads on their way to or from the trenches, hundreds of
+supply wagons lumber across the shell holes to the stations near the
+line, ammunition trains travel up to the lines and back and the
+ambulances ply their routes to dressing stations. Everything must be
+done under night's partially protecting cloak, for the German gunners
+seldom miss when daylight aids their vision.
+
+A tiny American ambulance--a jitney--threads its way down from the Dead
+Man to ----, carrying a boy through whose breast a dum-dum bullet had
+torn its beastly way. Three hours before, the driver of that ambulance
+had talked with the boy who now lay behind him on a stretcher. Then the
+young Frenchman had been looking forward to the wondrous day when the
+war would end. He had planned to come to America to live, just as soon
+as he could get back to Paris and say good-bye to the mother from whom
+he had received a letter that very day.
+
+"I will be lucky!" he had exclaimed to the American. "I will not be
+killed. I will not even be wounded. Ah, but won't I be glad when the
+war is over!"
+
+But his life was slipping away, faster than the Red Cross car could
+carry him to aid. The checking station reached, two orderlies pulled
+the stretcher from the ambulance. There was a choking sound in the
+wounded soldier's throat and the driver, thinking to ease his
+breathing, lifted his head. The closed eyes fluttered open, the
+indescribable smile of the dying lighted his face and with his last
+faint breath he murmured those words that always still war
+momentarily--
+
+"Ah, _mere_! _Ma mere!_"
+
+"Oh, mother! My mother!"--and he was dead.
+
+Just one little incident of war, just a single glimpse at the
+accomplishments of monarchial militarism.
+
+That French boy has not come to America, but America has gone to him.
+He died for a flag that is red, white and blue--for the tricolor of
+France. And we have gone across the sea to place the stars of our flag
+with the bars of his. His fight was our fight and our fight is his.
+Together we fight against those who menace civilization in both old
+world and new. We fight against the army that outraged Belgium and
+devastated France, against the militaristic clique that sanctioned the
+slaughtering and crippling of little children, the maiming of women,
+against that order of militarists who decorated the commander of the
+submarine that sank the Lusitania with her babies and their mothers.
+
+We are at war and we are Americans.... Enough.
+
+    Verne Marshall was the driver of that ambulance. Three months of
+    his service were spent at Verdun.
+
+
+
+
+The Kings of Saranazett
+
+_By Lewis Worthington Smith_
+
+A SCENE FROM THE FIRST ACT
+
+
+      A drama of the awakening of the nearer Orient. In this scene
+      Nasrulla appears as the royal lover of the fig merchant's
+      daughter, Nourmahal. She has learned something of the ways of
+      the West, where even kings have but one acknowledged consort,
+      and she is not willing to be merely one of a number of queens.
+
+    Before the wall and gate enclosing Nourmahal's Garden. It is early
+    morning, just before dawn. Above the gleaming white of the wall's
+    sun-baked clay there is the deep green of the trees--the plane,
+    the poplar, the acacia, and, beyond the garden, mountains are
+    visible through the purple mist of the hour that waits for dawn,
+    slowly turning to rose as the rising sun warms their snowy
+    heights. At the left the wall extends out of sight behind a clump
+    of trees, but at the right it ends in a tower topped by a turret
+    with a rounded dome passing into a point. The space under the dome
+    is open, except for a railing, and is large enough for one or more
+    persons. It may be entered from the broad top of the wall through
+    a break in the railing. At the left, out from the trees and in
+    front of the wall, there is a well marked out with roughly piled
+    stones.
+
+    At the right, out of sight behind the trees that come almost to
+    the tower at the corner of the wall, a man's voice is heard
+    singing Shelley's "Indian Serenade."
+
+    "I arise from dreams of thee
+      In the first sweet sleep of night,
+    When the winds are breathing low,
+      And the stars are shining bright;
+    I arise from dreams of thee,
+      And a something in my feet
+    Hath led me--who knows how?
+      To thy chamber window, Sweet!
+
+    "The wandering airs they faint
+      On the dark, the silent stream--
+    The Champak odors fail
+      Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+    The nightingale's complaint,
+      It dies upon her heart;--
+    As I must die on thine,
+      O! beloved as thou art!
+
+    "Oh lift me from the grass!
+      I die! I faint! I fail!
+    Let thy love in kisses rain
+      On my lips and eyelids pale.
+    My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+      My heart beats loud and fast;--
+    Oh! press it to thine own again,
+      Where it will break at last."
+
+    During the singing Nourmahal has come slowly out from the left,
+    walking along the broad top of the wall until, coming to the tower,
+    she drops down on the floor by the railing of the turret and
+    listens, her veil falling from before her face. When the song has
+    ended, Nasrulla comes forward and approaches the little tower. He
+    leads a horse, a white horse with its tail dyed red in the Persian
+    fashion.
+
+_Nourmahal._ You turn the gray of the poplars in the darkness into the
+silver of running water.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The dawn is waiting under your veil. I see now only
+the morning star.
+
+_Nourmahal._ I am but the moon, and I must not be seen when My Lord
+the Sun comes.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The Lord of the Sky rises to look on the gardens
+where the nightingales have been singing.
+
+_Nourmahal._ But when he finds that the nightingales are silent, he
+passes to other gardens.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Following the song, as I follow the lisp of spring in
+your voice, the flutter of the wings of birds in the branches when
+buds are swelling.
+
+_Nourmahal._ It is the flutter of wings and the song that you care
+for; it is not the bird.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It is the song of the bird that tells me where I
+shall find the bird herself. It is the oasis lifted up into the sky
+that guides the thirsty traveler across the desert.
+
+_Nourmahal (rising in agitation)._ When I am your queen, will you
+follow the voices of other nightingales?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ You will be my first queen.
+
+_Nourmahal._ I must be your only queen.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Always my first queen, and in your garden the
+fountains shall murmur day and night with a fuller flow of water than
+any others. The flowers there shall be more beautiful than anywhere
+else in all the world, and a hundred maidens shall serve you.
+
+_Nourmahal._ And I shall not be your only queen?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It is not the way of the world.
+
+_Nourmahal._ I have heard stories of places where the king has only
+one queen.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It has never been so in Saranazett.
+
+_Nourmahal._ It has not been so in Saranazett, but does nothing
+change?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I must be king in the way of my ancestors.
+
+_Nourmahal (dropping down by the railing again)._ And we must live in
+the way of our ancestors, over and over again, sunrise and noon-glare
+and star-shine, as it was before our stars rose in the heavens, as it
+always will be?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Our ancestors have taught us that a king should not
+live too meanly.
+
+_Nourmahal._ We cannot appeal to our ancestors. We cannot appeal to
+anything, and nothing can be undone. As the Persian poet says, "The
+moving finger writes," and what is written must be.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ And if what is written is beautiful, and if you are
+to be a king's throne-mate, if all the treasures of all the world are
+to be sought out for you----
+
+_Nourmahal._ It is nothing, nothing, if you must have another wife, if
+you must have two other wives, three.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ My prime minister will choose the others. I choose
+you.
+
+_Nourmahal (passionately)._ But what shall we ever choose again--and
+get what we choose? Have not the hours been counted out for us from
+the beginning of the world? Can we stop the grains of sand in the
+hour-glass?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Each one will make a new pleasure as it falls.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Yes, but it falls. We do not gather it up. It falls out
+of the heavens as the rain comes. We cannot make it rain.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ But the drops are always pleasant.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Yes, like a cup of water to a prisoner who dies of thirst
+and cannot know when his jailer comes. If we could bring the clouds up
+over the sun when the hot dust is flying, it would be really pleasant,
+but
+
+      "That inverted Bowl we call the Sky,
+    Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
+      Lift not your hands to _It_ for help--for It
+    As impotently moves as you or I."
+
+You are my sky, and the old poet is right, if you must have four wives
+because your father had four wives, and his father.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ They are but symbols of kingliness, and they
+shall bow in the dust before you, whom my heart chooses, as weeds by
+the roadside bow when you pass in your tahktiravan and the air follows
+its flying curtains.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Why should anyone bow to me? Why should I care for
+bowing? It would make me a slave to the custom of bowing. Are you a
+king and must you be a slave too? Impotence is the name of such
+kingship, and why should I care to be a queen when my king cannot make
+me queenly?
+
+_King Nasrulla (advancing to the tower and leaving his horse
+standing)._ Come! The stars are paling, and there is only the light
+of your eyes to lift me out of the dust. Come!
+
+    In the side of the wall by the tower a sloping series of stout pegs
+    has been driven, descending to the ground at short intervals.
+    Nourmahal comes out of the tower, puts her foot on the highest of
+    these pegs, takes Nasrulla's hand, and, with his help, comes slowly
+    down the pegs, as if they were a flight of stairs, to the ground.
+
+_Nourmahal._ How I love a horse! It is Samarcand and Delhi and Bokhara
+and Paris, even Paris.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Paris! What is Paris?
+
+_Nourmahal (standing in front of the horse and caressing its head)._ I
+don't know. I have never been there, but a horse makes me think of
+Paris. I don't know London, but a horse makes me think of London too.
+A horse could take me there. I could ride and ride, and every day
+there would be something new and something wonderful. There are cities
+beyond the water, too, marvelous cities, full of things more than we
+dream of here. A horse is swift, and the tapping of his feet on the
+stones is distance. When he lifts his head, when he curves his neck,
+already in his heart he is going on and on.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ And these are the stories that you have heard,
+stories about Paris and London and the cities across the water?
+
+_Nourmahal._ Stories? Perhaps not stories. Dreams, I think, imaginings
+dropped from the wings of falcons flying out of the west.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ You shall sit on the horse, and you can seem to be
+riding. Then as your dreams come true, you can tell them to me. Let
+the horse be Paris in my fancies too, and London and the cities across
+the water.
+
+    The horse is still standing where he stopped when Nasrulla led him
+    out from behind the trees with him. He faces toward the left, and
+    Nasrulla is back of him. Nourmahal puts her foot into Nasrulla's
+    hand, and he lifts her into the saddle. When she is comfortably
+    seated, he stands beside her and in front of her, back of the
+    horse, leaning against the horse's neck and caressing his shoulder.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Now we are on the road, and all the world is moving
+across the horizon. If it is all a dream, let me be in the dream.
+
+_Nourmahal (looking out and away from him and pausing a moment)._
+Stories! Dreams!--What I have heard is only a whisper, but it seems so
+true and so beautiful. Somewhere a man loves one woman always and no
+other. Somewhere a king is not a manikin stalking through ceremonies.
+Somewhere he lives humanly as other men. Somewhere to-day is not like
+yesterday, and man has learned to break the cycle of what has been
+forever, of what seems dead and yet out of death comes back again and
+again. I have not seen it, but I know it. Somewhere you and I could be
+happy without being king or queen. Somewhere a woman thinks her own
+thoughts, and not the thoughts of her lord only. Somewhere men are not
+bound to a king, and somewhere kings are not bound to the words of
+their fathers' fathers.
+
+_King Nasrulla (slowly, after a pause)._ It is the way of the world,
+Nourmahal. What the world is, it is, and that is forever and ever,
+unless it should be the will of God to make a new world.
+
+_Nourmahal._ A new world! (_She pauses dreamily._) Yes, that is what I
+want, a new world. That is what men are making somewhere, I know it.
+That is what is in my heart, and the same thing must be in the hearts
+of other men and women. A new world! What would it be to wake up every
+morning with a fresh wonder, not knowing what the day would bring?
+What would it be every morning to take the saddle and follow a new
+road ahead of the sun?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ If I could go with you----
+
+_Nourmahal._ You have horses.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It is not so decreed. My place is here.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Your place is here, and it is your place to have three or
+four queens as your ministers decide for you. One queen is to keep
+peace with the King of the South, another is to keep peace with the
+King of the West, and the third is to keep peace with the King of the
+East. The fourth queen you may choose for yourself from your own
+people--if you choose before some other king offers a daughter. You
+may make slaves of your queens so that your neighbor kings may make a
+slave of you.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Yes, if I would be king--and you would be queen.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Queen!--in a world where the flowers that bloom to-day
+died centuries ago! Queen--in a world where queens may look out of
+grated windows and never walk the streets! Queen--in a world where My
+Lord the King may not come to my door too often lest the daughter of
+the King of the South put poison in the nectar that her slaves offer
+him to-morrow!
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The world is the world, and its enduring is forever
+and ever. We are but shadows that change and break on the surface of
+running water. We may stand for a moment in the sun, but we cannot
+stop the rain that fills the stream. We cannot fix our images for a
+moment on the drops that are rushing out to the sea.
+
+_Nourmahal (looking away from him dreamily)._ "Ah Love! could you and
+I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things Entire, Would
+we not shatter it to bits--and then Remould it nearer to the Heart's
+desire?"
+
+    He looks at her steadily, but she does not turn her head, and,
+    while they are so silent a woman comes from the left with a water
+    jar, fills it from the well, puts it on her head, and passes off
+    again. The sun is now warming the tops of the mountains to a soft
+    pink.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ We must find the water where it flows--or go thirsty.
+
+_Nourmahal (more passionately)._ But somewhere the women do not carry
+water. The poet only thought of doing what somewhere men have done.
+Here a thousand years are but as yesterday and ten thousand as a watch
+in the night. I am not I, but an echo of the mad desires of dead men
+whose dust has been blown across the desert for countless centuries.
+Why should I not think of my own desires before my dust, too, flies
+forgotten before the passing caravans?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ But you are to be my queen. Nothing more can anyone
+give you in Saranazett.
+
+_Nourmahal._ And to-morrow or next week your ambassador to the King of
+the East comes back with letters and pledges of friendship. Perhaps he
+brings with him the King's daughter.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ But she is only the official seal of a bond, only a
+hostage. She is not the rose that I pin over my heart. She is not the
+nightingale that I love to hear singing in my garden. She is not the
+face behind the lattice that draws my eager feet. She is not the
+fountain that will make me drink and drink again.
+
+_Nourmahal._ But I shall not ride with you into the distance and leave
+the kings' daughters behind?
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The King of the East----
+
+_Nourmahal._ I know. The King of the East has a great army. I must
+stay in my garden, or I shall have to spend my life talking about the
+things he likes or dislikes, his angers and his fondnesses, with the
+women of his harem.
+
+    She puts her foot out for his hand, ready to be taken down from
+    the horse.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Nourmahal!
+
+_Nourmahal._ Yes, I must keep my veil before my face and stay within
+my garden.
+
+    He helps her down, and she turns the horse's head back to the right
+    in the direction from which they came.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I shall take you, Nourmahal, and make you queen.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Take me! Take the others and let them be queens. They
+will be happy enough, after the way of their mothers, but you cannot
+take the wind.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Being your lover is not ceasing to be king. May
+not the king ask of his subjects what he will? What is it to be king?
+
+_Nourmahal (turning as she is passing toward the gate)._ Sometimes
+it is making a fresher and happier world for those who come to kneel
+before the throne. Kings are not often so wise.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ And when they are not so wise they think of their
+own happiness. They let love come into the palace, and the favorite
+queen has the riches of the earth heaped in jewels before her. The
+tenderness of the moon shines in the clasp of her girdle, and the
+splendor of the sun glitters in a circlet for her forehead.
+
+_Nourmahal._ And sometimes, seeking their own pleasure, kings make
+the killing of those who are not kings their joy. They teach all men to
+be soldiers and all soldiers to be ruthless. Their women learn to
+delight in the echoes of battle, and the man who is not scarred by the
+marks of many fights they pity and despise. So women forget to be
+gentle, and the lords and masters of earth no longer watch over them
+and care for them, no longer shelter the weak and the defenseless, no
+longer think of right and justice, because they carry in their hands
+the javelins of might and they have learned to fling them far.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ But I shall watch over you as the cloud watches
+over the garden where the roses are waiting for the rain.
+
+_Nourmahal._ No, I shall not have a king to watch over me.
+Somewhere they have no kings. A queen dies daily with loneliness, or
+lives hourly in the burning hate of all her sister queens. To breathe
+the air where there are no queens would be an ecstasy. I will not be a
+king's first queen or his last queen or his concubine or any other
+creature whom he may cast aside for a new fancy whenever the fancy
+comes.
+
+    A messenger enters from the right, preceded by two attendants
+    carrying each one of the long, melon-shaped lanterns that accompany
+    royalty. The messenger bows before Nasrulla, dropping on one knee.
+
+_Messenger._ Your Royal Highness, I am sent to beg that you will hear
+me.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ It is my pleasure to listen to your message. Speak!
+
+_Messenger._ It is not I speaking, Your Majesty, but your minister,
+Huseyn.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I listen to the words of Huseyn.
+
+_Messenger._ Know, O Mighty Lord of the Great Center of Earth--the
+ambassador to the King of the East is reported returning by the long
+highway.
+
+    Nourmahal's father, Mehrab, comes out from the gate in the wall and
+    stands listening.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Say to Huseyn that I will see him and make
+arrangements for his reception before nightfall.
+
+_Messenger._ He brings very important tidings, Your Majesty. Pardon
+me, O Lord of the Lives of Your Servants. I speak but the words of
+Huseyn.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I hear the words of Huseyn.
+
+_Messenger._ The ambassador should be received a early as may be, is
+the word of Huseyn. He knows the will of the King of the East, and the
+King of the East would know your will, O Mightiest of the Mighty.
+
+_Nourmahal (bowing to her knees before him)._ Let me beg of you also,
+King Nasrulla, that you give audience at once to the ambassador who
+comes with word from the King of the East.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ I listen to the words of Nourmahal with the words of
+Huseyn.
+
+_Messenger._ And I shall say to the Prime Minister Huseyn that His
+Majesty, the Lord of Everlasting Effulgence, will graciously consent
+to speak with him before the sun looks in at his image in the water
+jars.
+
+_Nourmahal._ O King Nasrulla, for the sake of the rule that is thine
+from thy fathers, for the maintaining of peace in all thy borders, for
+the security of thy people, who harvest their hopes in fear, permit
+the approach of the ambassador who returns from the King of the East.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ The wish of Nourmahal is a command. I go to make
+ready for the ambassador who comes with word from the King of the
+East.
+
+_Nourmahal._ And for the daughter of the King of the East, give
+thanks, O King Nasrulla. It is said that she is very beautiful, and
+many wooers have sought her vainly. She has been kept for the joy and
+the splendor and the growing greatness of My Lord the King.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ Announce my coming to my Prime Minister, Huseyn.
+
+_Messenger (rising)._ Your Noble Majesty is most gracious. I fly with
+your words to Huseyn.
+
+_King Nasrulla._ As a king I go, but my thoughts are not a king's
+thoughts, and they stay here. It may be I shall look for them again,
+as one looks for love in his friend's heart at the home-returning.
+Farewell!
+
+_Nourmahal._ I shall keep your thoughts forever, My Lord Nasrulla, but
+for the King and the ways of the King--farewell!
+
+    The two lantern carriers who have come with the messenger turn to
+    the right to light the way for the King, and, as they pass off, he
+    follows them. Nourmahal watches them until they are gone, while
+    Mehrab, Nourmahal's father, comes forward slowly.
+
+_Mehrab._ He threatened you, did he?
+
+_Nourmahal._ Threaten! No, father, he did not threaten me.
+
+_Mehrab._ Does he not mean to make you queen whether you wish to be or
+not?
+
+_Nourmahal._ He will not dare.
+
+_Mehrab._ I am only a merchant, only a dealer in figs and olives. I am
+not to be feared or considered by him or by those that are about him.
+It is the way of his kind to think that you are to be taken as he
+would take a pomegranate from the garden of one of his satraps.
+
+_Nourmahal._ He will not take me.
+
+_Mehrab._ They despise me because I go with the caravans, but I have
+learned something. I know the world. My camels have tracked the sands
+hundreds of miles from Saranazett, and there are places where the
+words of Nasrulla the King mean less than the words of Mehrab the
+merchant.
+
+_Nourmahal._ They will have horses to follow us. Horses are swifter
+than camels.
+
+_Mehrab._ We shall have horses too, and ours shall be the fleetest.
+The riders of the King's horses will put out their palms for my
+silver. They will know how to make their whips fall lightly.
+
+_Nourmahal (eagerly)._ Let us go to-morrow. Let us go before the
+daughter of the King of the East is carried in her palanquin to the
+palace. I want to see all the places where you have been. I want to
+know something of the strange things that you have seen.
+
+_Mehrab._ The women of Saranazett have never traveled.
+
+_Nourmahal._ But I will not be a woman of Saranazett. There are other
+worlds and other ways for me than the ways of Saranazett.
+
+_Mehrab._ You shall not be queen one day and someone else queen in
+your place the next. I was not born to live in the world's high
+places, but also I was not born to bend the knee. You shall not suffer
+because you are not a king's daughter, and because those that are
+kings' daughters smile at you behind their curtains.
+
+_Nourmahal (more dreamily reluctant)._ If we could make Saranazett
+over into a new world.
+
+_Mehrab._ A new world somewhere else, Nourmahal. The packs are being
+made ready for the camels. Have your women tie up your clothes as if
+they were bundles of figs. Day after to-morrow or the next day or the
+next, we shall take horse and follow. We shall go to a world that is
+an old, old world, wiser than our world, a world where men's thoughts
+are free and their women's eyes look wherever they will.
+
+_Nourmahal (passing to the gate)._ The women shall make ready.
+
+_Mehrab._ At once, and tell Zuleika she goes with you.
+
+_Nourmahal._ Zuleika shall make ready.
+
+    She passes out through the gate into the garden. Mehrab turns and
+    sees the spikes driven into the wall by the tower. For a moment he
+    looks at them in astonishment, observing that they pass down to the
+    ground slopingly, and then, one by one, he pulls them out and
+    flings them down on the ground violently.
+
+
+
+
+The Old Cane Mill
+
+_By Nellie Gregg Tomlinson_
+
+
+    "What's sorghum?" Don't you know sorghum?
+    My gran'son nigh sixteen,
+    Don't boys know nothin' nowadays?
+    Beats all I ever seen.
+    Why sorghum's the bulliest stuff
+    Wuz ever made ter eat.
+    You spread it thick on homemade bread;
+    It's most oncommon sweet.
+
+    "Come from?" Wall yer jist better bet
+    It don't come from no can.
+    Jus' b'iled down juice from sorghum cane,
+    Straight I'way 'lasses bran'.
+    "What's cane?" It's some like corn, yer know,
+    An' topped with plumes o' seed.
+    Grows straight an' tall on yaller clay
+    That wouldn't grow a weed.
+
+    Long in September when 'twuz ripe,
+    The cane-patch battle field
+    Wuz charged by boys with wooden swords,
+    Good temper wuz their shield.
+    They stripped the stalks of all their leaves,
+    Then men, with steel knives keen
+    Slashed off the heads and cut the stalks
+    An' piled them straight an' clean.
+
+    The tops wuz saved ter feed the hens,
+    Likewise fer nex' year's seed.
+    The farmer allus has ter save
+    Against the futur's need.
+    The neighbors cum from miles erbout
+    An' fetched the cane ter mill.
+    They stacked it high betwixt two trees,
+    At Gran'dads, on the hill.
+
+    An' ol' hoss turned the cane mill sweep,
+    He led hisself erroun.
+    The stalks wuz fed inter the press,
+    From them the sap wuz groun'.
+    This juice run through a little trough
+    Ter pans beneath a shed;
+    There it wuz b'iled an' skimmed and b'iled,
+    Till it wuz thick an' red.
+
+    Then it wuz cooled an' put in bar'ls
+    An' toted off to town
+    While us kids got ter lick the pan,
+    Which job wuz dun up brown.
+    Gee whiz! but we did hev good times
+    At taffy pullin' bees.
+    We woun' the taffy roun' girls' necks--
+    Bob wuz the biggest tease.
+
+    Inside the furnace, on live coals,
+    We het cane stalks red hot,
+    Then hit 'em hard out on the groun'--
+    Yer oughter hear 'em pop!
+    Sometimes a barefoot boy would step
+    Inter the skimmin's hole,
+    Er pinch his fingers in the mill,
+    Er fall off from the pole.
+
+    When winter winds went whis'lin' through
+    The door an' winder cracks,
+    An' piled up snow wuz driftin'
+    Till yer couldn't see yer tracks,
+    Then we all drawed roun' the table
+    An' passed the buckwheat cakes,
+    Er mebbe it wuz good corn bread.
+    "What's sorghum?" Good lan' sakes.
+
+    Wall, son, yer hev my symperthy;
+    Yer've missed a lot, I swan.
+    Oh, sure yer dance an' joy-ride
+    Frum ev'nin' untel dawn,
+    Yer've football, skates an' golf ter he'p
+    The passin' time ter kill,
+    But give me mem'ry's boyhood days,
+    Erroun' the ol' cane mill.
+
+
+
+
+The Queer Little Thing
+
+_By Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd_
+
+
+Bonita Allen was a queer little thing. Everyone in the school, from
+Miss Ryder down to the chambermaid, had made remarks to that effect
+before the child had spent forty-eight hours in the house, yet no one
+seemed able to give a convincing reason for the general impression.
+
+The new pupil was quiet, docile, moderately well dressed, fairly good
+looking. She did nothing extraordinary. In fact, she effaced herself
+as far as possible; yet from the first she caused a ripple in the
+placid current of the school, and her personality was distinctly felt.
+
+"I think it's her eyes," hazarded Belinda, as she and Miss Barnes
+discussed the new-comer in the Youngest Teacher's room. "They aren't
+girl eyes at all."
+
+"Fine eyes," asserted the teacher of mathematics with her usual
+curtness.
+
+Belinda nodded emphatic assent. "Yes, of course; beautiful, but so big
+and pathetic and dumb. I feel ridiculously apologetic every time the
+child looks at me, and as for punishing her--I'd as soon shoot a deer
+at six paces. It's all wrong. A twelve-year-old girl hasn't any right
+to eyes like those. If the youngster is unhappy she ought to cry
+twenty-five handkerchiefs full of tears, as Evangeline Marie did when
+she came, and then get over it. And if she's happy she ought to smile
+with her eyes as well as with her lips. I can't stand self-repression
+in children."
+
+"She'll be all right when she has been here longer and begins to feel
+at home," said Miss Barnes. But Belinda shook her head doubtfully as
+she went down to superintend study hour.
+
+Seated at her desk in the big schoolroom she looked idly along the
+rows of girlish heads until she came to one bent stoically over a
+book. The new pupil was not fidgeting like her comrades. Apparently
+her every thought was concentrated upon the book before her. Her
+elbows were on her desk, and one lean little brown hand supported the
+head, whose masses of straight black hair were parted in an unerring
+white line and fell in two heavy braids. The face framed in the smooth
+shining hair was lean as the hand, yet held no suggestion of
+ill-health. It was clean cut, almost to sharpness, brown with the
+brownness that comes from wind and sun, oddly firm about chin and
+lips, high of cheekbones, straight of nose.
+
+As Belinda looked two dark eyes were raised from the book and met her
+own--sombre eyes with a hurt in them--and an uncomfortable lump rose
+in the Youngest Teacher's throat. She smiled at the sad little face,
+but the smile was not a merry one. In some unaccountable way it spoke
+of the sympathetic lump in her throat, and the Queer Little Thing
+seemed to read the message, for the ghost of an answering smile
+flickered in the brown depths before the lids dropped over them.
+
+When study hour was over the Youngest Teacher moved hastily to the
+door, with some vague idea of following up the successful smile, and
+establishing diplomatic relations with the new girl; but she was not
+quick enough. Bonita had slipped into the hall and hurried up the
+stair toward the shelter of her own room.
+
+Shrugging her shoulders, Belinda turned toward the door of Miss
+Ryder's study and knocked.
+
+"Come in."
+
+The voice was not encouraging. Miss Lucilla objected to interruptions
+in the late evening hours, when she relaxed from immaculately fitted
+black silk to the undignified folds of a violet dressing gown.
+
+When she recognized the intruder she thawed perceptibly.
+
+"Oh, Miss Carewe! Come in. Nothing wrong, is there?"
+
+Belinda dropped into a chair with a whimsical sigh.
+
+"Nothing wrong except my curiosity. Miss Ryder, do tell me something
+about that Allen child."
+
+Miss Lucilla eyed her subordinate questioningly.
+
+"What has she been doing?"
+
+"Nothing at all. I wish she would do something. It's what she doesn't
+do, and looks capable of doing, that bothers me. There's simply no
+getting at her. She's from Texas, isn't she?"
+
+The principal regarded attentively one of the grapes she was eating,
+and there was an interval of silence.
+
+"She is a queer little thing," Miss Lucilla admitted at last. "Yes,
+she's from Texas, but that's no reason why she should be odd. We've
+had a number of young ladies from Texas, and they were quite like
+other school girls only more so. Just between you and me, Miss Carewe,
+I think it must be the child's Indian blood that makes her seem
+different."
+
+"Indian?" Belinda sat up, sniffing romance in the air.
+
+"Yes, her father mentioned the strain quite casually when he wrote.
+It's rather far back in the family, but he seemed to think it might
+account for the girl's intense love for nature and dislike of
+conventions. Mrs. Allen died when the baby was born, and the father
+has brought the child up on a ranch. He's completely wrapped up in
+her, but he finally realized that she needed to be with women. He's
+worth several millions and he wants to educate her so that she'll
+enjoy the money--'be a fine lady,' as he puts it. I confess his
+description of the girl disturbed me at first, but he was so liberal
+in regard to terms that----"
+
+Miss Lucilla left the sentence in the air and meditatively ate another
+bunch of grapes.
+
+"Did her father come up with her?" Belinda asked.
+
+"No, he sent her with friends who happened to be coming--highly
+respectable couple, but breezy, very breezy. They told me that Bonita
+could ride any broncho on the ranch and could shoot a jack-rabbit on
+the run. They seemed to think she would be a great addition to our
+school circle on that account. Personally I'm much relieved to find
+her so tractable and quiet, but I've noticed something--well--unusual
+about her."
+
+As Belinda went up to bed she met a slim little figure in a barbaric
+red and yellow dressing gown crossing the hall. There was a shy
+challenge in the serious child face, although the little feet, clad in
+soft beaded moccasins, quickened their steps; and Belinda answered the
+furtive friendliness by slipping an arm around the girl's waist and
+drawing her into the tiny hall bedroom.
+
+"You haven't been to see me. It's one of the rules that every girl
+shall have a cup of cocoa with me before she has been here three
+evenings," she said laughingly.
+
+The Queer Little Thing accepted the overture soberly and, curled up in
+the one big chair, watched the teacher in silence.
+
+The cocoa was soon under way. Then the hostess turned and smiled
+frankly at her guest. Belinda's smile is a reassuring thing.
+
+"Homesick business, isn't it?" she said abruptly, with a warm note of
+comradeship in her voice.
+
+The tense little figure in the big chair leaned forward with sudden,
+swift confidence.
+
+"I'm going home," announced Bonita in a tone that made no
+reservations.
+
+Belinda received the news without the quiver of an eyelash or a sign
+of incredulity.
+
+"When?" she asked with interest warm enough to invite confession and
+not emphatic enough to rouse distrust.
+
+"I don't know just when, but I have to go. I can't stand it and I've
+written to Daddy. He'll understand. Nobody here knows. They're all
+used to it. They've always lived in houses like this, with little back
+yards that have high walls around them, and sidewalks and streets
+right outside the front windows, and crowds of strange people going by
+all the time, and just rules, rules, rules, everywhere. Everybody has
+so many manners, and they talk about things I don't know anything
+about, and nobody would understand if I talked about the real things."
+
+"Perhaps I'll understand a little bit," murmured Belinda. The Queer
+Little Thing put out one hand and touched the Youngest Teacher's knee
+gently in a shy, caressing fashion.
+
+"No, you wouldn't understand, because you don't know; but you could
+learn. The others couldn't. The prairie wouldn't talk to them and
+they'd be lonesome--the way I am here. Dick says you have got to learn
+the language when you are little, or else have a gift for such
+languages, but that when you've once learned it you don't care to hear
+any other."
+
+"Who's Dick?" Belinda asked.
+
+"Dick? Oh he's just Dick. He taught me to ride and to shoot, and he
+used to read poetry to me, and he told me stories about everything. He
+used to go to a big school called Harvard, but he was lonesome
+there--the way I am here."
+
+"The way I am here" dropped into the talk like a persistent refrain,
+and there was heartache in it.
+
+"I want to go home," the child went on. Now that the dam of silence
+was down the pent-up feeling rushed out tumultuously. "I want to see
+Daddy and the boys and the horses and the cattle, and I want to watch
+the sun go down over the edge of the world, not just tumble down among
+the dirty houses, and I want to gallop over the prairie where there
+aren't any roads, and smell the grass and watch the birds and the sky.
+You ought to see the sky down there at night, Miss Carewe. It's so big
+and black and soft and full of bright stars, and you can see clear to
+where it touches the ground all around you, and there's a night breeze
+that's cool as cool, and the boys all play their banjos and guitars
+and sing, and Daddy and I sit over on our veranda and listen. There's
+only a little narrow strip of sky with two or three stars in it out of
+my window here, and it's so noisy and cluttered out in the back
+yards--and I hate walking in a procession on the ugly old streets, and
+doing things when bells ring. I hate it. I hate it."
+
+Her voice hadn't risen at all, had only grown more and more vibrant
+with passionate rebellion. The sharp little face was drawn and pale,
+but there were no tears in the big tragic eyes.
+
+Belinda had consoled many homesick little girls, but this was a
+different problem.
+
+"I'm sorry," she said softly. "Don't you think It will be easier after
+a while?"
+
+The small girl with the old face shook her head.
+
+"No, it won't. It isn't in me to like all this. I'm so sorry, because
+Daddy wants me to be a lady. He said it was as hard for him to send me
+as it was for me to come, but that I couldn't learn to be a lady with
+lots of money to spend down there with only boys and him. There wasn't
+any lady there on the ranch at all, except Mammy Lou, the cook, and
+she didn't have lots of money to spend, so she wasn't the kind he
+meant. I thought I'd come and try, but I didn't know it would be like
+this. I don't want to be a lady, Miss Carewe. I don't believe they can
+be very happy. I've seen them in carriages and they don't look very
+happy. You're nice. I like you, and I'm most sure Daddy and Dick and
+the boys would like you, but then you haven't got lots of money, have
+you? And you were born up here and you don't know any better anyway.
+I'm going home."
+
+The burst of confidence ended where it had begun. She was going home,
+and she was so firm in the faith that Belinda, listening, believed
+her.
+
+"But if your father says no?"
+
+The dark little face was quiet again, all but the great eyes.
+
+"I'll have to go," the Queer Little Thing slowly said.
+
+Four days later Miss Lucilla Ryder called the Youngest Teacher into
+the study.
+
+"Miss Carewe, I'm puzzled about this little Miss Allen. I had a letter
+from her father this morning. He says that she has written that she is
+very homesick and unhappy and doesn't want to stay. He feels badly
+about it, of course, but he very wisely leaves the matter in our
+hands--says he realizes she'll have to be homesick and he'll have to
+be lonesome if she's to be a lady. But he wants us to do all we can to
+make her contented. He very generously sends a check for five hundred
+dollars, which we are to use for any extra expense incurred in
+entertaining her and making her happy. Now, I thought you might take
+her to the theater and the art museum, and the--a--the aquarium, and
+introduce her to the pleasures and advantages of city life. She'll
+soon be all right."
+
+With sinking heart Belinda went in search of the girl. She found her
+practicing five-finger exercises drearily in one of the music-rooms.
+As Belinda entered the child looked up and met the friendly,
+sympathetic eyes. A mute appeal sprang into her own eyes, and Belinda
+understood. The thing was too bad to be talked about, and the Youngest
+Teacher said no word about the homesickness or the expected letter. In
+this way she clinched her friendship with the Queer Little Thing.
+
+But, following the principal's orders, she endeavored to demonstrate
+to Bonita the joy and blessedness of life in New York. The child went,
+quietly wherever she was taken--a mute, pathetic little figure to whom
+the aquarium fish and the Old Masters and the latest matinee idol were
+all one--and unimportant. The other girls envied her her privileges
+and her pocket-money, but they did not understand. No one understood
+save Belinda, and she did her cheerful best to blot out old loves with
+new impressions; but from the first she felt in her heart that she was
+elected to failure. The child was fond of her, always respectful,
+always docile, always grave. Nothing brought a light into her eyes or
+a spontaneous smile to her lips. Anyone save Belinda would have grown
+impatient, angry. She only grew more tender--and more troubled. Day by
+day she watched the sad little face grow thinner. It was pale now,
+instead of brown, and the high cheek bones were strikingly prominent.
+The lips pressed closely together drooped plaintively at the corners
+and the big eyes were more full of shadow than ever; but the child
+made no protest or plea, and by tacit consent she and Belinda ignored
+their first conversation and never mentioned Texas.
+
+Often Belinda made up her mind to put aside the restraint and talk
+freely as she would to any other girl, but there was something about
+the little Texan that forbade liberties, warned off intruders, and the
+Youngest Teacher feared losing what little ground she had gained.
+
+Finally she went in despair to Miss Ryder.
+
+"The Indian character is too much for me," she confessed with a groan
+half humorous, half earnest. "I give it up."
+
+"What's the matter?" asked Miss Ryder.
+
+"Well, I've dragged poor Bonita Allen all over the borough of
+Manhattan and the Bronx and spent many ducats in the process. She has
+been very polite about it, but just as sad over Sherry's tea hour as
+over Grant's tomb, and just as cheerful over the Cesnola collection as
+over the monkey cages at the Zoo. The poor little thing is so unhappy
+and miserable that she looks like a wild animal in a trap, and I think
+the best we can do with her is to send her home.
+
+"Nonsense," said Miss Lucilla. "Her father is paying eighteen hundred
+dollars a year."
+
+Belinda was defiant.
+
+"I don't care. He ought to take her home."
+
+"Miss Carewe, you are sentimentalizing. One would think you had never
+seen a homesick girl before."
+
+"She's different from other girls."
+
+"I'll talk with her myself," said Miss Lucilla sternly.
+
+She did, but the situation remained unchanged, and when she next
+mentioned the Texan problem to Belinda, Miss Lucilla was less positive
+in her views.
+
+"She's a very strange child, but we must do what we can to carry out
+her father's wishes."
+
+"I'd send her home," said Belinda.
+
+It was shortly after this that Katherine Holland, who sat beside
+Bonita at the table, confided to Belinda that that funny little Allen
+girl didn't eat a thing. The waitress came to Belinda with the same
+tale, and the Youngest Teacher sought out Bonita and reasoned with
+her.
+
+"You really must eat, my dear," she urged.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"You'll be ill if you don't."
+
+"How soon?"
+
+Belinda looked dazed.
+
+"I'm afraid I don't understand."
+
+"How soon will I be sick?"
+
+"Very soon, I'm afraid," the puzzled teacher answered.
+
+"That's good. I don't feel as if I could wait much longer."
+
+Belinda gasped.
+
+"Do you mean to say you want to be ill?"
+
+"If I get very sick Daddy will come for me."
+
+The teacher looked helplessly at the quiet, great-eyed child, then
+launched into expostulation, argument, entreaty.
+
+Bonita listened politely and was profoundly unimpressed.
+
+"It's wicked, dear child. It would make your father wretchedly
+unhappy."
+
+"He'd be awfully unhappy if he understood, anyway. He thinks I'm not
+really unhappy and that it's his duty to keep me here and make a lady
+of me, no matter how lonely he is without me. He wrote me so--but I
+know he'd be terribly glad if he had a real excuse for taking me
+home."
+
+Belinda exhausted her own resources and appealed to Miss Lucilla, who
+stared incredulously over her nose-glasses and sent for Bonita.
+
+After the interview she called for the Youngest Teacher, and the two
+failures looked at each other helplessly.
+
+"It's an extraordinary thing," said Miss Lucilla in her most
+magisterial tone--"a most extraordinary thing. In all my experience
+I've seen nothing like it. Nothing seems to make the slightest
+impression upon the child. She's positively crazy."
+
+"You will tell her father to send for her, won't you?"
+
+Miss Lucilla shook her head stubbornly.
+
+"Not at all. It would be the ruination of the child to give in to her
+whims and bad temper now. If she won't listen to reason she must be
+allowed to pay for her foolishness. When she gets hungry enough she
+will eat. It's a shame to talk about a child of twelve having the
+stoicism to starve herself into an illness just because she is
+homesick at boarding-school."
+
+Belinda came back to her thread-worn argument.
+
+"But Bonita is different, Miss Ryder."
+
+"She's a very stubborn, selfish child," said Miss Ryder resentfully,
+and turning to her desk she changed the conversation.
+
+Despite discipline, despite pleadings, despite cajolery, Bonita stood
+firm. Eat she would not, and when, on her way to class one morning the
+scrap of humanity with the set lips and the purple shadows round her
+eyes fainted quietly, Belinda felt that a masterly inactivity had
+ceased to be a virtue.
+
+James, the house man, carried the girl upstairs, and the Youngest
+Teacher put her to bed, where she opened her eyes to look unseeingly
+at Belinda and then closed them wearily and lay quite still, a limp
+little creature whose pale face looked pitifully thin and lifeless
+against the white pillow. The Queer Little Thing's wish had been
+fulfilled and illness had come without long delay.
+
+For a moment Belinda looked down at the girl. Then she turned and went
+swiftly to Miss Ryder's study, her eyes blazing, her mouth so stern
+that Amelia Bowers, who met her on the stairs, hurried to spread the
+news that Miss Carewe "was perfectly hopping mad about something."
+
+Once in the presence of the August One the little teacher lost no time
+in parley.
+
+"Miss Ryder," she said crisply--and at the tone her employer looked up
+in amazement--"I've told you about Bonita Allen. I've been to you
+again and again about her. You knew that she was fretting her heart
+out and half sick, and then you knew that for several days she hasn't
+been eating a thing. I tried to make you understand that the matter
+was serious and that something radical needed to be done, but you
+insisted that the child would come around all right and that we
+mustn't give in to her. I begged you to send for her father and you
+said it wasn't necessary. I'm here to take your orders, Miss Ryder,
+but I can't stand this sort of thing. I know the girl better than any
+of the rest of you do, and I know it isn't badness that makes her act
+so. Now she is ill--really ill. I've just put her to bed, and
+honestly, Miss Ryder, if we don't send for her father we'll have a
+tragedy on our hands. It sounds foolish, but it is true. If nobody
+else telegraphs to Mr. Allen I am going to do it."
+
+                 *       *       *       *       *
+
+When the doctor came there were bright red spots on the Queer Little
+Thing's cheeks, and she was babbling incoherently about prairie
+flowers and horses and Dick and Daddy.
+
+Meanwhile a telegram had gone to Daddy and the messenger who delivered
+it heard a volume of picturesque comment that was startling even on a
+Texas ranch.
+
+"Am coming," ran the answering dispatch received by Miss Ryder that
+night; but it was not until morning that Bonita was able to understand
+the news.
+
+"He's scared, but I know he's glad," she said and she swallowed
+without a murmur the broth against which even in her delirium she had
+fought.
+
+One evening, three days later, a hansom dashed up to the school and
+out jumped a tall, square-shouldered man in a wide-brimmed hat, and
+clothes that bore only a family resemblance to the clothing of the New
+York millionaires, though they were good clothes in their own
+free-and-easy way.
+
+A loud, hearty voice inquiring for "My baby" made itself heard even in
+the sickroom, and a sudden light flashed into the little patient's
+eyes--a light that was an illumination and a revelation.
+
+"Daddy," she said wearily, and the word was a heart-throb.
+
+Mr. Allen wasted no time in a polite interview with Miss Ryder.
+Hypnotized by his masterfulness, the servant led him directly up to
+the sick-room and opened the door.
+
+The man filled the room; a high breeze seemed to come with him, and
+vitality flowed from him in tangible waves. Belinda smiled, but there
+were tears in her eyes, for the big man's heart was in his face.
+
+"Baby!"
+
+"Daddy!"
+
+Belinda remembered an errand downstairs.
+
+When she returned the big Texan was sitting on the side of the bed
+with both the lean little hands in one of his big brawny ones, while
+his other hand awkwardly smoothed the straight black hair.
+
+"When will you take me home, Daddy?" said the child with the shining
+eyes.
+
+"As soon as you're strong enough, Honey. The boys wanted me to let
+them charge New York in a bunch and get you. It's been mighty lonesome
+on that ranch. I wish to heaven I'd never been fool enough to let you
+come away."
+
+He turned to Belinda with a quizzical smile sitting oddly on his
+anxious face.
+
+"I reckon she might as well go, miss. I sent her to a finishing
+school, and by thunder, she's just about finished."
+
+There was a certain hint of pride in his voice as he added
+reflectively:
+
+"I might have known if she said she'd have to come home she meant it.
+Harder to change her mind than to bust any broncho I ever tackled.
+Queer Little Thing, Baby is."
+
+  Copyrighted by Doubleday, Page & Co.
+
+
+
+
+An American Wake
+
+_By Rose A. Crow_
+
+
+This was the last night in the old home, which had sheltered the
+family for five generations. The day had been full of excitement, as
+by a merciful ordinance last days usually are. The final packing had
+been done, the chests and boxes securely fastened and carefully
+labeled. This was all looked after by Margaret, herself, amidst
+interruptions by her brood of young children. Visits from friends and
+relatives, living at a distance, occupied much of the day; attending
+to countless minor things kept them all busy until nightfall. Even
+then there was no time allowed to visit the shrine.
+
+Margaret had a fairy shrine, to which she carried the cares of the day
+and the hopes of the morrow. This charmed place was a stile over the
+ivy-clad walls of the garden. There she brought her childish joys and
+sorrows, and in the quiet received consolation. She had fought the
+fiercest battles of her womanhood with her head resting against the
+ivy-covered pillar. To-night, when she was parting from her country
+and friends, there was no time to commune with her silent friend.
+
+Shortly after dusk, in accordance with local etiquette, very stringent
+on such momentous occasions, the relatives, friends and neighbors of a
+lifetime began to drop in by twos and threes until every inch of wall
+space was filled.
+
+Who of all this gathering was more welcome than "John, the Fiddler"?
+He was a great favorite with young and old. The sight of him carrying
+his fiddle caused a feeling of emotion in the hearts of the older
+people. It recalled the tragic story of John's father who years before
+left for America intending to send for his wife and crippled son. A
+fever contracted on shipboard deprived them of a husband and father.
+It was then that John Doyle became "John, the Fiddler."
+
+John was beckoned into the "room," where with Father O'Connell and a
+few trusty friends, he was treated to a small measure of potheen. Dan
+Monahan had donated a very small jug for this special occasion. To be
+given the first shot from Dan's still was no small favor, as those
+present knew. Before taking his seat at the end of the room, John
+drank Margaret's health, wishing herself and family a safe voyage
+across the water, and a happy home on the prairies of Iowa.
+
+Each guest realized the strain of parting and generously made an
+effort to conceal the gloom with a brave semblance of mirth. There was
+dancing, singing of songs, and elaborate drinking of healths. With
+persistent calls for Margaret's brother James, the dancing stopped.
+The floor was cleared, and he was borne in on the shoulders of the
+leaders, who had found him leaning against the ivy-covered wall,
+gazing at the moon, floating over his old home which, alas! he would
+never see again.
+
+James MacNevin was a magnificent specimen of Irish manhood and a
+charming singer. He was about twenty-three years old, tall and
+broad-shouldered, with a fine head of curly auburn hair. His clear
+blue eyes reflected the sadness of the group around him, while his
+white teeth flashed a smile. In one hand he crushed his handkerchief,
+while with the other he nervously twirled a sprig of ivy. A few
+measures of "Good Night and Joy Be with You All" came from the violin.
+For an instant he wavered, then throwing back his head he sang the
+song, not with full volume, but with intense feeling, emphasis and a
+clear ringing tone. The song seemed to voice his own feelings as his
+chest rose and fell. He was no longer just James MacNevin, but a
+pilgrim traveling to a strange country. His whole soul was filled with
+the sentiment, and there was such pathos in its heart-throb that the
+whole company was moved to tears. The last verse ended, he stood a
+moment with gaze transfixed--then rousing himself, bowed, smiled and
+with one hand in his sister Margaret's, the other clutching the sprig
+of ivy, he passed out of the home forever.
+
+
+
+
+Rochester, Minn.
+
+(With apologies to the Mayos)
+
+_By Marie G. Stapp_
+
+
+    Mr. Smith had gallstones,
+    Mr. Jones had gout,
+    Bad appendices had the Browns
+    But now they've been cut out.
+    Rachel had a goitre,
+    Susan a queer spleen,
+    A tumor worried Mrs. Wright
+    Though it could not be seen.
+    Robert had large tonsils
+    And Dick had adenoids, too,
+    Bill Green had never had an ear,
+    He did when _they_ got through.
+    Peggy had a leaky heart,
+    Her father had no hair,
+    Both heart and head are now fixed up
+    And what a happy pair!
+    And I--well I have nothing wrong--
+    That's why I don't feel right;
+    I'll pay my bill at this hotel
+    And go back home to-night.
+
+
+
+
+God's Back Yard
+
+_By Jessie Welborn Smith_
+
+AN EPISODE FROM ACT THREE
+
+
+    _Place, Tim Murphy's saloon.      Time, evening._
+
+    Men are crowding about the bar, drinking and laughing coarsely.
+    The wives are huddled together on a long bench at one side of the
+    room. The children keep close to their mothers, but stretch their
+    little necks to watch the dancing in the back of the room, where a
+    group of painted women are tangoing to the wheezy accompaniment of
+    an old accordion. Over in the corner a man sprawls drunkenly
+    across a broken-down faro table.
+
+_Dick Long (hammering the bar with his mug and singing)._ Oh, I'm
+goin' to hell, and I don't give a damn. I'm goin' to hell. I'm goin'
+to--hell.
+
+_Murphy (knocking a board from the crate that holds the new
+nickel-in-the-slot gramaphone)._ You're going a damn sight faster than
+that, Dickie Bird, but you'll have to speed up a bit to get in on the
+concert. The program begins at eight o'clock sharp, like it says on
+the card in the window, and everybody gets an invite, but Caruso don't
+sing this time.
+
+_First Painted Lady (stopping the dance and coming down beside
+Murphy)._ Let 'er go, Murph. Give us "Too Much Mustard." The piano
+player down at the Gulch plays that just fine, and a piece about a
+girl that didn't want to love him, but he made her do it. That machine
+was long on personal history, Murph. I heard them all through three
+times. Let 'er go. We're all here.
+
+_First Wife (leaning over and speaking eagerly)._ Mrs. Long won't be
+able to come, Murphy, and Old Moll is settin' up with her to-night. I
+met Doc as I came across. The young-un died. I don't see no use in
+waitin' when we're all here.
+
+_Rosie Phelan (reaching over and pulling Long's sleeve)._ Did you hear
+that, Dick? Your kid is dead. Your kid is--d-e-a-d. Do you get me?
+
+_Man at the Bar._ Aw, break it to him gentle. He don't know he is a
+father yet. Have a heart.
+
+_Rosie Phelan (disgustedly)._ "Have a heart." Well, what do you think
+of that? For a man who guzzles all day you are mighty strong on the
+heart-throb slush. "Speak kindly to the erring." Didn't know you had
+got religion. Was it you got the revivalist to come up from the Gulch?
+
+_Nell (shifting her wad of gum)._ Well, he was sitting over at
+Benton's rather lonesome-like as I came along. I allus follow the
+crowd.
+
+_Murphy (hotly)._ And that is what that preacher will have to do if he
+makes any converts up here at the mine. I reckon that, with that music
+machine, I'm equipped to compete with any preacher that comes larking
+around here until kingdom come. He said he'd save me, if he had to
+chase me to hell and back, did he? Well, that guy should worry. That
+pale chicken-liver chase me to--Pour out the drinks, Bob. It's my
+treat.
+
+    Bob slops a little whiskey into every glass and mug on the bar and
+    passes it round. As it comes to the wives they smile, but shake
+    their heads. Murphy lifts his glass.
+
+_Murphy._ Won't you women drink the minister's health. How about you
+females, Bett? Nell? Rosie? Mollie? You girls never turn down free
+liquor, do you? Ready? To hell with the minister.
+
+_Barkeeper._ To hell with every denatured female that comes round here
+praying for our souls' salvation. I reckon a feller can do what he
+damn pleases with his own soul.
+
+_First Lounger (lazily boastful)._ I told my old woman that if I
+ketched her or the kids hanging round listening to that mollycoddle
+letting off steam, I'd----
+
+_First Wife (spitefully)._ Us women ain't got no call to get religion.
+We're too meek already. My man knows that he'll have a wildcat at his
+head when he comes in with that O'Grady woman, but it don't do no
+good. He ain't afeared o' nothin' short o' the devil. You don't ketch
+me joinin' while my old man is alive. You gotta have some protection.
+Safety first, I say.
+
+_Second Wife (meekly)._ They say the "Blue Ridge Mountains" is a
+mighty tuneful piece. My sister heard it over at Smarty's las'
+Thanksgiving. Can you tell whether your pianoler plays that, Murphy?
+
+_Second Painted Lady (patronizingly)._ How would you expect Murphy to
+know what is stored in that machine? You pays your money and your
+choice is whatever it happens to grind out. If you place your money on
+a "Harem" and draws an "Apple Blossom Time in Normandy," you got to
+take your medicine. What you waiting for, Murph? My gentleman friend
+is coming over from the Pass this evening, and I can't hang around
+here all night.
+
+_Rosie (excitedly, turning from the window that looks upon the
+street)._ The light is out at Benton's. The minister is coming over
+here. Remember and give him hell. Let him turn the other cheek.
+
+_Murphy._ No prayer meeting virgin is going to interfere with my
+business.
+
+    The door opens and the minister steps inside. Murphy goes over and
+    greets him with mock politeness.
+
+_Murphy._ Rosie, you are chief usher to-night. Will you find the
+minister a seat? Sit over, Nell. There's room enough between you and
+Bett for any sky pilot that ever hit the trail. Bob, give the preacher
+a drink. He looks sort of fagged. It's hard work saving sinners in
+God's Back Yard. I hope this little concert ain't going to interfere
+with your meeting, parson.
+
+_Minister (standing at the bar, whiskey glass in hand)._ Not at all,
+friend. What is the bill of fare?
+
+_Rosie (coming forward in her low-cut red gown and swinging her full
+skirts from side to side)._ For Gawd's sake, why didn't you tell me it
+was going to be religious? I'd forgot it was prayer-meetin' night,
+Murph. (_She carefully tucks her handkerchief over her bosom in
+pretense of modesty._) I'd dressed up more, if I'd remembered.
+
+_Nell (holding out a string of glittering beads)._ Here, take these,
+Rosie. These'll cover up some. I ain't takin' an active part, so I
+don't mind.
+
+_Rosie (lifting her arms to fasten the beads)._ Not takin' an active
+part? You don't know what you're sayin'. I heard of a minister once
+who could make hell look so darned nice you wanted to fall for it
+right away. Couldn't such a fellah give the heavenly gates a jar?
+(_She turns to the minister._) Where d'you want to sit? Up there by
+Mollie? Take your choice.
+
+_Old Moll's Daughter (jumping down from her perch at one end of the
+bar and walking over brazenly to drop the first nickel in the slot)._
+Clear the way, can't you? I'm praying for the "Bunny Hug" and the
+minister is backing me. For Gawd's sake, can't you clear the floor? Do
+you want the music to be half done before you find your partners? I'll
+be obliged to you, parson, if you'll save this dance for me. (_She
+pauses a moment, nickel in hand._)
+
+_First Card Player._ I'll stake you ten to one it'll be "The Pullman
+Porters on Parade."
+
+_Second Player (doggedly)._ They always play "A Great Big Blue-Eyed
+Baby."
+
+_Rosie (shaking her head and singing, hands on hips)._ "My harem, my
+harem, my roly, poly harem."
+
+_Nell (with mock sentiment)._ "For it's Apple Blossom Time in
+Normandy, in Normandy, in Normandy."
+
+    The nickel jangles in the slot. The disk begins to revolve. It
+    grates and begins its introductory mechanical clinkety-clinkety
+    clink. A small child wails dismally as the music shivers through
+    the room.
+
+      "Jesus, lover of my soul,
+        Let me to Thy bosom fly.
+      While the nearer waters roll,
+        While the tempest still is high.
+      Hide me, O, my Saviour, hide
+        Till the storm of life is past.
+      Safe into the haven guide,
+        O, receive my soul at last."
+
+    Rosie's hands drop from her hips as the song begins. The dancing
+    impulse passes from her limbs. Even the muscles of her face harden
+    convulsively.
+
+_Rosie (hysterically)._ Oh, I can't stand that, Murphy. For Gawd's
+sake, can't you stop it?
+
+    She starts over toward the machine impulsively. Then something
+    catches her, she pauses and is held a moment while a superstitious
+    awe makes her eyes again the big roundness of childhood's wonder.
+    She draws the back of her hand across her forehead in an endeavor
+    to bring herself out of the daze.
+
+_Rosie (falling sobbing beside the bench)_. "O, receive my soul at
+last." Why did you leave your little Rosie? Mother, Oh, mother. I
+ain't fit to come to you no more, mother--I ain't fit, I ain't fit.
+
+    One of the mothers reaches over and strokes her hair.
+
+_Old Moll's Daughter (opening the door and stepping out into the
+lonely street as she laughs madly)._ Old Murphy in cahoots with the
+minister. Oh, hell!
+
+    The door slams shut. The glasses on the bar jangle harshly. A
+    snatch of song boldly defiant rings in from the street: "Don't
+    tell me that you've lost your dog." Murphy walks over and stands
+    looking at the music box. It is still grinding out the music.
+
+      "Other refuge have I none.
+        Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.
+      Leave, ah, leave me not alone.
+        Still support and comfort me.
+      All my trust on Thee is staid.
+        All my help from Thee I bring.
+      Cover my defenseless head
+        With the shadow of Thy wing."
+
+    The wives are all crying quietly. Rosie and Bett are sobbing with
+    the wild abandon that such natures know. Tears are falling upon
+    the idle hands at the card table. The men at the bar are strangely
+    quiet.
+
+_Man at the Faro Table (lifting himself up on his elbow)._ I ushe
+shing--I ushe shing zhat--I ushe shing Jeshus--Jeshus--I ushe
+shing--(_He drops his head over on the table and weeps drunkenly._)
+
+_Little Child (pulling at her mother's shoulders and whining
+peevishly)._ Who is Jesus, mamma? Do we know Jesus? (_Happily._) Will
+he cover my head with a pretty birdie's wing? (_The mother shakes with
+sobs and the child speaks more caressingly._) Don't cry, mother. I
+like my hat with the posies on it. You can have the feathers, nice,
+good mamma. Don't cry.
+
+_Murphy (absently, looking at the minister)._ They sang that at the
+funeral. Sally didn't have no call to hide anything. She was that
+white and pure. I always felt her slippin'--slippin' away. She worried
+so them last days because of the little kid. "Take him back home,
+Murph," she kept sayin'. "A little child has got to have some raisin'.
+A kid has got to go to Sunday school, Tim, dear, and there ain't never
+no meetin's in God's Back Yard."
+
+_Man at the Bar (dejectedly, going over to the door)._ It's all right
+for the young-uns, but when a man has got a thirst and is down on his
+luck, I don't allow that God is going to help much. You got to get 'em
+young, parson, and keep 'em headed straight. It's hell turning back. I
+tried it, and I couldn't make it go.
+
+_Minister (gently, as if speaking to someone very near)._ Oh, Jesus,
+lover of all these misguided souls, come down to this little room
+to-night, for it is dark here, and, Oh, so cold and dreary. Speak to
+them, Jesus, as you did to me. Let them see the glory of Thy face.
+Will someone pray?
+
+_Murphy (looking across at the loafers and speaking half as an
+invitation, half as a command)._ Are you staying, boys?
+
+_One of the Men (doggedly, as they look at one another sheepishly and
+no one moves to go)._ Ain't we always stayin' till closin' time?
+
+_Murphy (warmly)._ You sure do, boys. (_He buries his head in his
+crossed arms over the music-box._) It's your lead, parson.
+
+
+
+
+The Wild Crab Apple
+
+_By Julia Ellen Rogers_
+
+
+The wild, sweet-scented crab apple! The bare mention of its name is
+enough to make the heart leap up, though spring be months away, and
+barriers of brick hem us in. In the corner of the back pasture stands
+a clump of these trees, huddled together like cattle. Their flat,
+matted tops reach out sidewise until the stubby limbs of neighboring
+trees meet. It would not occur to anyone to call them handsome trees.
+But wait! The twigs silver over with young foliage, then coral buds
+appear, thickly sprinkling the green leaves. Now all their asperity is
+softened, and a great burst of rose-colored bloom overspreads the
+treetops and fills the air with perfume. It is not mere sweetness, but
+an exquisite, spicy, stimulating fragrance that belongs only to wild
+crab-apple flowers. Linnaeus probably never saw more than a dried
+specimen, but he named this tree most worthily, _coronaria_, "fit
+for crowns and garlands."
+
+Break off an armful of these blossoming twigs and take them home. They
+will never be missed. Be thankful that your friends in distant parts
+of the country may share your pleasure, for though this particular
+species does not cover the whole United States, yet there is a wild
+crab apple for each region.
+
+In the fall the tree is covered with hard little yellow apples. They
+have a delightful fragrance, but they are neither sweet nor mellow.
+Take a few home and make them into jelly. Then you will understand why
+the early settlers gathered them for winter use. The jelly has a wild
+tang in it, an indescribable piquancy of flavor as different from
+common apple jelly as the flowers are in their way more charming than
+ordinary appleblossoms. It is the rare gamy taste of a primitive
+apple.
+
+Well-meaning horticulturists have tried what they could do toward
+domesticating this _Malus coronaria_. The effort has not been a
+success. The fruit remains acerb and hard; the tree declines to be
+"ameliorated" for the good of mankind. Isn't it, after all, a
+gratuitous office? Do we not need our wild crab apple just as it is,
+as much as we need more kinds of orchard trees? How spirited and fine
+is its resistance! It seems as if this wayward beauty of our woodside
+thickets considered that the best way to serve mankind was to keep
+inviolate those charms that set it apart from other trees and make its
+remotest haunt the Mecca of eager pilgrims every spring.
+
+The wild crab apple is not a tree to plant by itself in park or
+garden. Plant it in companies on the edge of woods, or in obscure and
+ugly fence corners, where there is a background, or where, at least,
+each tree can lose its individuality in the mass. Now, go away and let
+them alone. They do not need mulching nor pruning. Let them gang their
+ain gait, and in a few years you will have a crab-apple thicket. You
+will also have succeeded in bringing home with these trees something
+of the spirit of the wild woods where you found them.
+
+  --From _The Tree Book_.
+
+
+
+
+A Ballad of the Corn
+
+_By S. H. M. Byers_
+
+
+    Oh, the undulating prairies,
+      And the fields of yellow corn,
+    Like a million soldiers waiting for the fray.
+      Oh, the rustling of the corn leaves
+      Like a distant fairy's horn
+    And the notes the fairy bugles seem to play.
+
+    "We have risen from the bosom
+      Of the beauteous mother earth,
+    Where the farmer plowed his furrow straight and long.
+      There was gladness and rejoicing
+      When the summer gave us birth,
+    In the tumult and the dancing and the song.
+
+    "When the sumach turns to scarlet,
+      And the vines along the lane
+    Are garmented in autumn's golden wine--
+      Then the land shall smile for plenty,
+      And the toiler for his pain,
+    When the soldiers of our army stand in line.
+
+    "With our shining blades before us,
+      And our banners flaming far,
+    Want and hunger shall be slain forevermore.
+      And the cornfield's lord of plenty
+      In his golden-covered car
+    Then shall stop at every happy toiler's door."
+
+    Oh, the sunshine and the beauty
+      On the fields of ripened corn,
+    And the wigwams and the corn-rows where they stand.
+      In the lanes I hear the music
+      Of the faintly blowing horn
+    And the blessed Indian summer's on the land.
+
+
+
+
+The Children's Blessing
+
+_By Virginia Roderick_
+
+
+On the slope of a hill, beneath silvery olives, a group was gathered
+about the young stranger. He had entered the village only that
+morning, seeking the companionship of such Nazarenes as might be
+there. And they had brought him out here in the open to receive his
+message. But though he carried them greetings, and news from the
+distant groups of the Christ's followers, it was plain that he had not
+been sent to them on a mission.
+
+They waited until he should be ready to explain his quest.
+
+"You did not see Him, then?"
+
+Into the young man's eyes there came a great, yearning sadness. "No,"
+he answered. "But you," he asked eagerly, "did none of you see Him?"
+
+They shook their heads, all of them.
+
+"We were too far away," one murmured.
+
+"But I had for spiritual father one who had seen Him," the traveler
+offered, his face lighting. "You know how He blessed a company of
+little children? How He put His hands upon them?" He paused and they
+nodded silently. "My teacher was one of those children," he said, his
+dark eyes aglow with reverent pride.
+
+A quick glance flashed about the group; but no one spoke and the
+traveler went on, the radiance of his face blotted out again in
+sadness. "It is because he is gone that I am a wanderer now. I was
+always with him, and we went about together, preaching the Kingdom. It
+was all so clear to my teacher because he had seen Him. He told me of
+His wonderful look."
+
+They fell silent, brooding and thoughtful.
+
+Then one asked: "What was it like--the blessing He gave your teacher?
+Did he gain goods and store?"
+
+The young traveler's eyes opened in amazement. "Why no! How could that
+be? My teacher was like Him," he explained simply.
+
+Again the quick look passed about the circle. At last one spoke,
+slowly: "There is a man here in the village who was also blessed with
+the children."
+
+The young traveler started up joyously. "Take me to him," he
+entreated. "Let me talk with him; that is what I have come here
+seeking--another teacher."
+
+"Nay, friend--" began one; but another hurriedly whispered: "Let us
+not tell him. Perhaps he can help." And so the first speaker finished:
+"I fear you will not find him like your teacher, but you shall go; it
+is only a step."
+
+And they guided him, all but impatient, to a mean hovel just within
+the town. There they left him.
+
+It was a man with a dark, bitter face that answered his knock. "May I
+speak with Nemuel?" the stranger asked courteously.
+
+"I am Nemuel," growled the man curtly.
+
+"But I mean Nemuel who was one of the children that Jesus blessed,"
+persisted the young traveler, his face softly alight as the name
+passed his lips.
+
+"Come in; I am the man." He straightened proudly. "I was a child seven
+years old when I saw Him----"
+
+He stopped, for the young stranger, pale and gasping, broke in: "You
+saw Him! He touched you! You have seen His face, and yet your
+own--forgive me, friend. But my master was also one of the children
+blessed by the Christ, and he was ... different." He hesitated, still
+looking at the somber face in puzzled distress.
+
+The man caught the young stranger's arm. "You knew another of those He
+blessed? Tell me, did he have great wealth, palaces, honors? Did he
+wait long? Did the blessing tarry so long in the fulfilment as with
+me?"
+
+The young stranger shook his head in deep bewilderment. "I do not
+understand. No, he had no wealth, no palaces, no honors. He followed
+the Christ. He was blessed by His spirit. Why, how could one want
+goods and honors when one had seen His wonderful smile, when His
+arms--" He broke off, gazing at his host in appalled incomprehension.
+
+Nemuel's dark face grew darker, more bitter. "Then there _is_ no
+blessing, after all," he said slowly. "I have waited, believing,
+trusting. I have kept my life clean. I have kept myself holy--away
+from those He had not touched--" The stranger drew a quick breath and
+his eyes softened with pity. "I have never forgotten that I was
+blessed above others. And now there _is_ no blessing." And he covered
+his face with his hands.
+
+There was a silence and then the young stranger spoke very gently:
+"The blessing my master taught me, was for all children--for all
+childlike faith and trust and purity. It was a sanctification of the
+child spirit."
+
+Nemuel had lifted his head and was listening, his eyes fastened
+wonderingly on the stranger's face.
+
+"And it was not a blessing to be wrapped up in a napkin. It was not
+one to bring you good fortune, as if it had been a sorcerer's charm.
+It was a blessing for you to take and to make--to use it--to give it
+to others. Through you He blessed _all_ children.... And yet--" the
+stranger's voice deepened--"yet there _was_ something special too."
+
+"What was it?" Nemuel breathed.
+
+The stranger bent on him a gaze full of yearning. "Have you not
+remembered His face?" he asked. "His wonderful look--just for you?"
+There was a pleading note of reproach in his voice as he leaned toward
+Nemuel, but his face was all love and tenderness.
+
+Nemuel began to shake his head slowly, still fixing the stranger with
+his gaze.
+
+"No," he confessed. "I haven't been able to remember--not for years.
+At first I did. Afterward I _knew_ His face was wonderful, but I
+could not _see_ it. But now--now I begin to remember----"
+
+The young stranger waited for the halting words, his face lighting
+softly with a holy hope and joy.
+
+"Why, your face--" Nemuel still hesitated, groping, and then suddenly
+his voice rang out in triumph, and memory dawned clearly in his
+eyes--"why, _your face_--is--like--_His_! Oh, I do remember!--and--I
+begin to understand."
+
+
+
+
+Kitchener's Mob
+
+From The Atlantic Monthly
+
+_By James Norman Hall_
+
+
+Trench-mortaring was more to our liking. That is an infantryman's
+game, and while extremely hazardous, the men in the trenches have a
+sporting chance. Everyone forgot breakfast when word was passed down
+the line that we were going to "mortarfy" Fritzie. Our projectiles
+were immense balls of hollow steel, filled with high explosive.
+Eagerly, expectantly, the boys gathered in the first-line trenches to
+watch the fun. First a dull boom from the reserve trench in rear where
+the mortar was operated.
+
+"There she is!" "See 'er?" "Goin' true as a die!" All the boys would
+be shouting at once.
+
+Up it goes, turning over and over, rising to a height of several
+hundred feet. Then, if well aimed, it reaches the end of its upward
+journey directly over the enemy's line, and falls straight into his
+trench. There is a moment of silence, followed by a terrific explosion
+which throws dirt and debris high in the air. By this time, the
+Tommies all along the line are standing on the firing benches, head
+and shoulders above the parapet, forgetting their danger in their
+excitement, and shouting at the top of their voices:
+
+"'Ow's that one, Fritzie boy?"
+
+"Guten morgen, you Proosian sausage wallopers!"
+
+"Tyke a bit o' that there 'ome to yer missus!"
+
+But Fritzie kept up his end of the game, always. He gave us just as
+good as we sent, and often he added something for good measure. His
+surprise packages were sausage-shaped missiles which came wobbling
+toward us, slowly, almost awkwardly; but they dropped with lightning
+speed. The explosion was terrible, and alas for any Tommy who
+misjudged the place of its fall! However, everyone had a chance.
+Trench-mortar projectiles are so large, and they describe so leisurely
+an arc before they fall, that men have time to run.
+
+I've always admired Tommy Atkins for his sense of fair play. He loved
+giving Fritz "a little bit of all right," but he never resented it
+when Fritz had his own fun at our expense. I used to believe, in the
+far-off days of peace, that men had lost their old primal love for
+dangerous sport, their native ignorance of fear. But on those
+trench-mortaring days, when I watched boys playing with death with
+right good zest, heard them shouting and laughing as they tumbled over
+one another in their eagerness to escape being killed, I was convinced
+that I was wrong. Daily I saw men going through the test of fire
+triumphantly, and at the last, what a fearful test it was, and how
+splendidly they met it! During six months, continuously in the firing
+line, I met less than a dozen natural-born cowards; and my experience
+was largely among clerks, barbers, plumbers, shopkeepers, men who had
+no fighting tradition to back them up, to make them heroic in spite of
+themselves.
+
+The better I knew Tommy, the better I liked him. He hasn't a shred of
+sentimentality in his make-up. There is plenty of sentiment, sincere
+feeling, but it is very well concealed. I had been a soldier of the
+King for many months before I realized that the men with whom I was
+living, sharing rations and hardships, were anything other than the
+healthy animals they looked. They seemed to live for their food. They
+talked of it, anticipated it with the zest of men who were
+experiencing for the first time the joy of being genuinely hungry.
+They watched their muscles harden with the satisfaction known to every
+normal man when he is becoming physically fit for the first time. But
+they said nothing about patriotism, or the duty of Englishmen in
+wartime. And if I tried to start a conversation on that line, they
+walked right over me with their boots on.
+
+This was a great disappointment at first. I would never have known,
+from anything that was said, that a man of them was stirred at the
+thought of fighting for old England. England was all right, but, "I
+ain't a-goin' balmy about the old flag and all that stuff." Many of
+them insisted that they were in the army for personal and selfish
+reasons alone. They went out of their way to ridicule any and every
+indication of sentiment.
+
+There was the matter of talk about mothers, for example. I can't
+imagine this being the case in a volunteer army of American boys; but
+never, during sixteen months of British army life, did I hear a
+discussion of mothers. When the weekly parcels post from England
+arrived, and the boys were sharing their cake and chocolate and
+tobacco, one of them would say, "Good old mum. She ain't a bad sort,"
+to be answered with reluctant, mouth-filled grunts, or grudging nods
+of approval. As for fathers, I often thought to myself, "This is
+certainly a tremendous army of posthumous sons!" Months before I
+should have been astonished at this reticence. But I had learned to
+understand Tommy. His silences were as eloquent as any splendid
+outbursts or glowing tributes could have been. It was a matter of
+constant wonder to me that men living in the daily and hourly presence
+of death could so control and conceal their feelings. Their talk was
+of anything but home; and yet I knew that they thought of little else.
+
+One of our boys was killed, and there was a letter to be written to
+his parents. Three Tommies who knew him best were to attempt this.
+They made innumerable beginnings. Each of them was afraid of
+blundering, of causing unnecessary pain by an indelicate revelation of
+the facts. There was a feminine fineness about their concern which was
+beautiful to see. The final draft of the letter was a masterpiece, not
+of English, but of insight; such a letter as any one of us would have
+liked his own parents to receive under similar circumstances. Nothing
+was forgotten which could make the news in the slightest degree more
+endurable. Every trifling personal belonging was carefully saved up
+and packed in a little box to follow the letter. All this was done
+amid much boisterous jesting; and there was hilarious singing to the
+wheezing accompaniment of an old mouth-organ. But of reference to
+home, or mothers, or comradeship, not a word.
+
+Rarely a night passed without its burial parties. "Digging in the
+garden," Tommy calls the grave-making. The bodies, wrapped in blankets
+or water-proof ground-sheets, are lifted over the parados and carried
+back a convenient twenty yards or more. The desolation of that garden
+was indescribable. It was strewn with wreckage, gaping with
+shell-holes, billowing with numberless nameless graves, a waste land
+speechlessly pathetic. The poplars and willow hedges had been blasted
+and splintered by shell-fire. Tommy calls these "Kaiser Bill's
+flowers." Coming from England, he feels more deeply than he would care
+to admit the crimes done to trees in the name of war.
+
+Our chaplain was a devout man, but prudent to a fault. He never
+visited us in the trenches; therefore our burial parties proceeded
+without the rites of the church. This arrangement was highly
+satisfactory to Tommy. He liked to "get the planting done" with the
+least possible delay or fuss. His whispered conversations, while the
+graves were being scooped, were, to say the least, quite out of the
+spirit of the occasion. Once we were burying two boys with whom we had
+been having a supper a few hours before. There was an artillery duel
+in progress, the shells whistling high over our heads and bursting in
+great splotches of white fire, far in rear of the opposing lines of
+trenches. The grave-making went speedily on while the diggers argued
+in whispers as to the calibre of the guns. Some said they were
+six-inch, while others thought nine-inch. Discussion was momentarily
+suspended when trench-rockets went soaring up from the enemy's line.
+We crouched motionless until the welcome darkness spread again. And
+then, in loud whispers--
+
+"'Ere! If they was nine-inch they would 'ave more screech."
+
+And one of different opinion would reply:
+
+"Don't talk so bloomin' silly! Ain't I a-tellin' you you can't always
+size 'em by the screech?"
+
+Not a prayer. Not a word either of censure or praise for the boys who
+had gone. Not an expression of opinion as to the meaning of the great
+change which had come to them and which might come as suddenly to any
+or all of us. And yet I knew that every man was thinking of these
+things.
+
+There were days when the front was really quiet. The thin trickle of
+rifle-fire only accentuated the stillness of an early summer morning.
+Far down the line many a Tommy could be heard singing to himself as he
+sat in the door of his dug-out, cleaning his rifle. There would be the
+pleasant crackle of burning pine sticks, the sizzle of frying bacon,
+the lazy buzzing of swarms of bluebottle flies. Occasionally, across a
+pool of noonday silence, we heard the birds singing; for they didn't
+desert us. When we gave them a hearing, they did their cheery little
+best to assure us that everything would come right in the end. Once we
+heard a skylark, an English skylark, and for a while it made the world
+beautiful again. It was a fine thing to watch the faces of those
+English lads as they listened. I was deeply touched when one of them
+said, "Ain't 'e a plucky little chap, singin' right in front of
+Fritzie's trenches fer us English blokes?"
+
+It was a sincere and beautiful tribute.
+
+
+
+
+The Professor
+
+_By Calista Halsey Patchin_
+
+
+The professor had been dead two months. He had left the world very
+quietly, at that precise hour of the early evening when he was
+accustomed to say that his "spirit friends" came to him. The hospital
+nurse had noticed that there was always a time at twilight when the
+patient had a good hour; when pain and restlessness seemed to be
+charmed away, and he did not mind being left alone, and did not care
+whether or not there was a light in the room. Then it was that those
+who had gone came back to him with quiet, friendly ways and loving
+touch. He said nothing of this to the nurse. It was an old friend who
+told me that this had been his belief and solace for years.
+
+When the professor had first come to town he had spoken of the wife
+who would follow him shortly, from the East. He did not display her
+picture, he did not talk about her enough so that the town, though it
+made an honest effort, ever really visualized her. She would
+come--without a doubt she would come--but not just yet. It was only
+that the East still held her. Gradually, he spoke of her less and less
+often, with a dignified reserve that brooked no inquiry, and finally
+not at all.
+
+The town forgot. It was only when his illness became so serious that
+all felt someone should be written to, that it was discovered there
+was no one. The professor, when he was appealed to, said so. Then
+also, the hospital nurse noticed that at the twilight hour, when he
+talked quietly to his unseen friends, there was always One who stayed
+longer than the rest.
+
+But he had been dead two months now, and the undertaker was pressing
+his bill, and there were other expenses which had been cheerfully
+borne by friends at the time, and indeed if there had been no other
+reason, it remains that something must become of the personal
+possessions of a man who leaves neither will nor known heirs. So the
+professor's effects were appraised, and a brief local appeared in the
+daily paper until it had made a dent in the memory of the public,
+apprising them that his personal property would be offered at public
+auction at two p.m. of a Thursday, in his rooms on the third floor of
+the Eureka Block.
+
+It was the merest thread of curiosity that drew me to this sale. I did
+not want to buy anything. It was a sort of posthumous curiosity, and
+it concerned itself solely with the individuality of the dead man. Not
+having had the opportunity of knowing him well in life, and never
+having known until I read his obituary what I had missed, I took this
+last chance of trying to evolve the man from his belongings. All I did
+know was that he was a teacher of music of the past generation in a
+Western town which grew so fast that it made a man seem older than he
+was. More than this, he was a composer, a music master, who took crude
+young voices, shrill with the tension of the Western winds and the
+electric air, and tamed and trained them till they fell in love with
+harmony. When he heard a voice he knew it. One of his contraltos is
+singing now in grand opera across the sea. A tenor that he discovered
+has charmed the world with an "upper note."
+
+All the same, the professor had grown old--a new generation had arisen
+which knew not Joseph; he failed to advertise, and every young girl
+who "gave lessons" crowded him closer to the wall. Now and then there
+would appear in the daily paper--not the next morning, but a few days
+after the presentation of some opera--a column of musical criticism,
+keen, delicate, reminiscent--fragrant with the rosemary that is for
+remembrance. When "Elijah" was given by home talent with soloists
+imported from Chicago, it was the professor who kindly wrote,
+beforehand this time, luminous articles full of sympathetic
+interpretation of the great masters. And at rare intervals there would
+appear a communication from him on the beauty of the woods and the
+fields, the suburbs of the town and the country, as though he were
+some simple prophet of nature who stood by the wayside. And this was
+no affectation. Long, solitary walks were his recreation.
+
+It was a good deal of a rookery, up the flights of narrow, dirty
+stairs to the third floor of the Eureka Block. And here the professor
+had lived and taught. Two rooms were made from one by the sort of
+partition which does not reach to the ceiling--a ceiling which for
+some inexplicable reason was higher in some places than in others.
+
+The voice of the auctioneer came down that winding way in professional
+cadences. There were in the room about as many people as might come to
+a funeral where only friends of the family are invited. It was very
+still. The auctioneer took an easy conversational tone. There was a
+silent, forlorn sort of dignity about the five pianos standing in a
+row that put professional banter and cheap little jokes out of the
+question. The pianos went without much trouble--a big one of the best
+make, an old-fashioned cottage piano, a piano with an iron frame. One
+of the appraisers, himself a musician, became an assistant auctioneer,
+and kindly played a little--judiciously very little--on each
+instrument in turn.
+
+Then came the bric-a-brac of personal effects--all the flotsam and
+jetsam that had floated into these rooms for years. The walls were
+pockmarked with pictures, big and little. There was no attempt at high
+art; the professor had bought a picture as a child might buy
+one--because he thought it was pretty. It was a curious showing of how
+one artistic faculty may be dormant while another is cultivated to its
+highest point. But no matter how cheap the picture, it was always
+conscientiously framed. And this was a great help to the auctioneer.
+Indeed, it was difficult to see how he could have cried the pictures
+at all without the frames.
+
+By this time the rooms were fuller of people. There were ladies who
+had come in quietly, just to get some little thing for a remembrance
+of their old friend and teacher. These mostly went directly over to
+the corner where the music lay and began looking for something of
+"his." If it were manuscript music so much the better. But there was
+little of this. It appeared that with the professor, as with most of
+us, early and middle manhood had been his most productive time, and
+that was long enough ago for everything to have been duly published in
+sheet and book form--long enough, indeed, for the books themselves to
+have gone out of date.
+
+There they were--long, green notebooks, bearing the familiar names of
+well known publishers, and with such a hydra-head of title as "The
+Celestina, or New Sacred Minstrel; a Repository of Music adapted to
+every variety of taste and grade of capacity, from the million to the
+amateur or professor."
+
+There were four or five of these. There was sheet music by the pile.
+There was an opera, "Joseph," the production of which had been a
+musical event.
+
+Presently the auctioneer came that way. He had just sold a large
+oleograph, framed, one of those gorgeous historical pictures which are
+an apotheosis of good clothes. He approached an engraving of an
+old-fashioned lady in voluminous muslin draperies, with her hair
+looped away from her face in a "Book of Beauty" style.
+
+"_He_ liked that," murmured a lady.
+
+"What do I hear!" cries the auctioneer, softly. "Oh, such a little bid
+as that--I can't see it at all in this dark corner. Suppose we throw
+these peaches in--awfully pretty thing for dining room--and this
+flower piece--shall we group these three?--now, how much for all? Ah,
+there they go!"
+
+"Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a gold-headed cane which was presented
+to the deceased by his admiring friends. It is pure gold--you _know_
+they would not give him anything else. How much for this? How much?
+No--his name is _not_ engraved on it--so much the better--what do
+I hear?"
+
+"Look at this telescope, gentlemen--a good one--you know the professor
+was quite an astronomer in his way--and this telescope is all
+right--sound and in good condition"--the auctioneer had officiated at
+a stock sale the day before. "You can look right into futurity through
+this tube. Five dollars' worth of futurity? Five--five and a half?
+Case and all complete."
+
+There was a pocketful of odds and ends; gold pens, lead pencils, some
+odd pocket knives; these inconsiderable trifles brought more in
+proportion than articles of greater intrinsic value. Evidently this
+was an auction of memories, of emotion, of sentiment.
+
+There was a bit of the beam of the barn that was burned down when the
+cow kicked over the historic lamp that inaugurated the Chicago
+fire--no less than three persons were ready to testify to their belief
+in the genuineness of the relic, had anyone been disposed to question
+it. But no one was. Nearly all the people in the room were the dead
+music teacher's personal friends; they had heard the story of all
+these things; they knew who had sent him the stuffed brown prairie
+chicken that perched like a raven above the door--the little
+old-fashioned decanter and wine glasses of gilded glass--the
+artificial begonias--that clever imitation that goes far toward making
+one forswear begonias forevermore. There were lamps of various shapes
+and sizes, there was a kit of burglarious looking tools for piano
+tuning, there was a little globe--"Who wants the earth?" said the
+auctioneer. "You all want it."
+
+There was a metronome, which, set to go, began to count time in a
+metallic whisper for some invisible pupil. Over in the corner just
+beyond the music were the professor's books. Now we shall find him
+out, for what a man reads he is, or wishes to be. There was a good
+deal of spiritualistic literature of the better sort. There was a
+"History of Christianity and Paganism by the Roman Emperor Julian," a
+copy of "She," a long shelf full of _North American Reviews_, a
+dozen or so of almanacs, a copy of Bluebeard. There were none of the
+"popular" magazines, and if there had been newspapers--those vagrants
+of literature--they had gone their way. There was a manuscript play
+for parlor presentation, with each part written out in legible script,
+entitled, "The Winning Card."
+
+All these and many more things which only the patient appraisers can
+fully know were sold or set aside as unsalable, until all was done.
+And then those who had known and loved him and those who had not known
+or cared for him came down the stairs together.
+
+Fate stood on the landing. As always, Fate ran true to form. She was a
+woman; a little tired, as a woman might well be who had come a
+thousand miles; a little out of breath from the two flights of stairs.
+Her old-fashioned draperies clung about her; her hair was looped away
+from her face in a "Book of Beauty" style. The man who stood aside to
+let her pass was talking. "Of course," he was saying, "he was a
+side-tracked man. But I believe he stands the biggest chance of being
+remembered of any man in Iowa."
+
+Swift protest at his first words clouded her face; sheer gratitude for
+his last words illumined it. She bent forward a little and went on up
+the stairs alone.
+
+She faltered in the doorway, her hand fumbling at her throat. One of
+the men who had been talking below hastened to her side.
+
+"It's all over," he said, then added, at the dumb misery that grayed
+her face: "--the auction."
+
+"I--I--didn't come for that," the apathy in her voice holding it
+steady. "I--I am his wife. His last letter--he sent for me." A sob
+broke her speech. "It came last week--two months too late."
+
+[Illustration: What the Iowa Boy Hears in the Wind in the Corn]
+
+
+
+
+My Baby's Horse
+
+_By Emilie Blackmore Stapp_
+
+
+    My baby's horse is Daddy's knee;
+    When nighttime comes he rides away
+    To Sleepytown by Dreamland Sea;
+    I love to hear their laughter gay.
+
+    Ride, baby, ride, the Sandman bold
+    Is following close behind you, dear,
+    But Daddy's arms will you enfold
+    And so for you I have no fear.
+
+    Your prancing steed is slowing down;
+    The Sandman's riding very fast.
+    Oh, here you are at Sleepytown;
+    The Sandman's caught you, dear, at last.
+
+    He'll tie your steed by Dreamland Sea,
+    And on its shores all night you'll play,
+    Then you'll come riding home to me
+    To make life sweet another day.
+
+
+
+
+The Call of the Race
+
+_By Elizabeth Cooper_
+
+
+It was the last day of September, the maple trees were turning to red
+and gold, the mist of purple haze was in the air, and all Japan was
+going to the parks and woods to revel in the colors they loved so
+well.
+
+Three men came out of the American Embassy, and looked for a moment
+over the roofs below them, half conscious of the beauty of this autumn
+time. They chatted for a few moments, then one of them motioned to a
+servant to put his mail bag in the jinrickshaw and slowly stepping
+into the tiny carriage he was whirled away.
+
+The other men watched him for a few moments in silence, then as they
+turned to go to the English club, the elder shook his head slowly as
+he rather viciously bit the end from his cigar.
+
+"Freeman's made a big fool of himself," he said. "Nice man, too."
+
+The younger man looked after the fast disappearing jinrickshaw and
+asked after a moment's hesitation:
+
+"He's married a Jap, hasn't he? I'm new here but I have heard
+something about him that's queer."
+
+"Yes," the Ambassador replied. "Married her, preacher, ring, the whole
+thing."
+
+"How did it happen? Why did he _marry_ her?" the younger man asked
+with a laugh.
+
+"We all talked to him. I talked to him like a father, but he wouldn't
+listen to reason. Saw her at the mission school, fell head and heels
+in love with her and wouldn't take anyone's advice. Even the
+missionary was against it. Told him that mixed marriages never came
+out right; that the girl always reverted to type," said the Ambassador
+a little bitterly.
+
+"Well, has it turned out as they predicted?" inquired the secretary
+interestedly.
+
+"Well, no," admitted the Ambassador. "It's been two years, and
+everything seems to be all right so far. No one ever sees much of
+either of them. You meet her with him once in a while in some garden
+admiring the wistaria, or the lotus. She's a beauty--a real
+beauty--and belongs to one of the old Samurai families up north
+somewhere."
+
+"How did the mission get her? I thought they went in more for the
+lower classes," asked the secretary.
+
+"Well, it seems that some missionary up north saw her and was
+attracted by her cleverness and her pretty face, and she persuaded the
+girl's parents to send her to school here. They're as poor as Job's
+turkey; but they live in a great old palace and observe all the old
+time Jap customs. Haven't changed a bit for centuries. The real thing
+in old-time aristocracy. But the missionary got past them some way and
+the girl came down--when was it?--six years ago, I think. Missionary
+says she's clever, has become a Christian, and evidently forgotten
+that she's a Jap."
+
+"It'll perhaps be the exception that proves that all mixed marriages
+are not failures," said the optimistic secretary.
+
+"No," said the older man, "I know Japan and the Japanese. There's
+something in them that never changes--the call of the blood or
+whatever it is. No matter how much education they have, change of
+religion, life in foreign countries--anything--they're Japanese, and
+in a crisis they go back to their gods and the instincts of their
+race. We all told Freeman this--the missionary, myself, everybody took
+a hit at him when we found he really meant business, but he only
+laughed. He said Yuki was as European as he was. Never thought of the
+gods, hardly remembered her people, and all that rot. He ought to know
+better: this is his second post in Japan. Was out here twelve years
+ago and got in some kind of trouble. I was surprised when the
+government sent him back; but I suppose they thought it had all blown
+over, and I presume it has, although the Japs don't forget."
+
+The Ambassador was quiet for a few moments, then he said:
+
+"No, I don't believe at all in intermarriage between the Oriental and
+the Occidental. Their traditions, customs, everything is different.
+They have no common meeting ground, and that racial instinct, that
+inherent something is stronger in the Oriental than in the Westerner.
+A woman here in this country, for example, is taught from babyhood
+that she must obey her parents, her clan, _absolutely_. Her family is
+first, and she must sacrifice her life if necessary for them, and they
+will go to any lengths in this obedience. I told this to Freeman,
+everyone did, but he just gave his happy laugh, and said that his
+wife-to-be was no more Japanese in feeling and sentiment than he
+was--that she had outgrown the old religion, the old beliefs. He
+laughed at the idea that her family would have any influence over her
+after she was his wife. Yet--I know these people--and have always been
+a little worried----"
+
+The two men chatted until they entered the doors of the English club.
+
+Morris Freeman with his fast runner was drawn swiftly through the
+modern streets of new Japan, then more slowly through the little
+alleys, where the shops were purely native. Finally he drew up at an
+entrance and stopped under the tiny roof of a gateway. He had been
+expected, evidently, because no sooner had he stopped than the great
+gate was swung open and a smiling servant stood in the entrance.
+Freeman handed him the mail bag and said:
+
+"Tell the Ok San that I will be back in about an hour," and was taken
+swiftly up the street. The coolie at the gate was still watching the
+disappearing jinrickshaw when a Japanese approached, and bowing to the
+servant asked: "Is your mistress within?" The servant answered in the
+affirmative, looking at him interestedly, as he was different from the
+average man one sees in Tokio. He was dressed in an old-time costume
+that immediately told the city-bred servant that the man was from some
+distant province.
+
+The visitor went to the veranda, dropped his clogs, and entered the
+doorway. A young girl was kneeling before a koto lightly strumming its
+strings and did not hear the entrance of the man. He stood for a
+moment looking around the room; then he saw Yuki and walking over to
+her sat down facing her. Yuki stared at him first in astonishment;
+then a look of fear came into her black eyes. He was silent for many
+minutes, then he coolly remarked:
+
+"You do not speak to your uncle. You do not care to make me welcome in
+this your home." He looked down at her contemptuously.
+
+She saluted him, touching her head to her folded hands upon the floor.
+After a few polite phrases she rose, went to the hibachi, fanned the
+flame a moment, poured water from the kettle into the teapot, and
+brought a tiny tray on which was a cup and the pot of tea. She poured
+out the tea, and, taking the cup in both hands, slid it across the
+floor to him; when he took it, she again touched her head to the
+floor, and inquired:
+
+"I trust my honorable Uncle is in the enjoyment of good health?"
+
+The man sipped the tea slowly, gazing around the room, taking in all
+its details. His eyes especially rested upon the shrine in the corner.
+Then he regarded her long and intently.
+
+"I see you have brought your family shrine to the house of the
+foreigner with whom you live--the man who has made you forget your
+people. Have you opened it; do you offer the daily incense; or is it
+simply an article of furniture for your foreign husband to admire?"
+
+Yuki said nothing; she could not explain to this old man that the
+shrine had meant nothing to her, but having come from her old home she
+had kept it simply as a remembrance of the past.
+
+Not receiving an answer the man continued:
+
+"The foreigner is kind to you?"
+
+Yuki smiled and said softly to herself: "Kind--kind--my Dana San."
+Then seeing her uncle expected an answer, she said in a quiet tone:
+
+"Most kind, my honorable Uncle."
+
+"You wonder why I come to you to-night?" he inquired.
+
+Yuki took the tea-things and put them behind her, then remarked:
+
+"My humble house is honored by your presence."
+
+"Honored, yes," sneered the uncle. "But still you wonder. I will tell
+you why I came to you to-night. Once upon a time there was a family in
+Japan--happy, honored--proud of their title, of their history--and,
+more than all, proud of their overlord. He was impetuous, and like
+many of the older Japanese, resentful of the foreigner's intrusion.
+Here, one day on a visit to his capital, he met a stranger, one of
+that hated race who spoke slightingly of his country, of his gods.
+There was the quick retort, the blow, and he our lord went to the Land
+of Shadows. The evil gods of the foreigner protected the man who gave
+the blow. His name was never discovered--it was claimed he did the
+cowardly act in self-defense and he got safely away."
+
+Yuki leaned forward eagerly.
+
+"Oh, it is of my honorable father you speak?"
+
+"Yes, it is of your father I speak," said the man in a low, bitter
+voice. "Since his death the gods have not favored our house; we have
+lost position, money, everything. But at last--at last our prayers to
+the gods have been answered. The enemy of our house is delivered into
+our hands--into _your_ hands."
+
+Yuki looked bewildered.
+
+"_My_ hands? What do you mean, my honorable Uncle?"
+
+"Yuki San, we have learned the name of the man who struck your
+father!" he exclaimed in a low, tense voice.
+
+Yuki looked at the tragic face before her a moment, then she said: "At
+last, at last you know?"
+
+"Yes," replied her uncle. "At last, after all these years of patience,
+revenge is in our hands. Oh, Yuki San, the foreigner, your husband, is
+the man who killed your father."
+
+Yuki drew back, her face pallid, her body trembling.
+
+"Morris, my Dana San?"
+
+"Yes, your Dana San."
+
+Yuki sat for a moment in bewilderment, then the color came back to her
+face and she leaned forward eagerly.
+
+"But, my lord, my lord, he could not have done it! He is so kind, so
+good, he never hurt a thing in all his life."
+
+The man leaned forward, gazing intently into her eyes.
+
+"Has this stranger made you forget your father? Have you forgotten
+your oath, _your_ oath? Have you forgotten why your father is now
+in the Land of Shadows?" He pointed to the shrine.
+
+"Look, there is his tablet within that shrine. But the doors are
+closed. In our home, in our family temple are tablets. The doors of
+the shrines have never been opened. His spirit has not had the incense
+to help him on the way. The morning offering has not been his. He has
+been compelled to travel alone on the way to the gods, because we, his
+family--you and I--have not avenged his death.
+
+"No, do not speak," he continued, as Yuki was about to interrupt. "He
+was murdered, and until the man who sent him on his way joins him in
+his journey, his spirit can have no peace. And you, his daughter, dare
+not, for fear of the gods, open the shrine to make the offering that
+the poorest peasant makes to his dead! But to-night I bring you the
+final word of the clan. To give you the honor of doing the deed that
+will wash the stain from our name. You know that a servant must avenge
+the death of his master, a son that of his father, a Samurai the death
+of his overlord, and I come to give you--a girl, an inheritance that
+will make you envied of men."
+
+"I do not understand--my lord, you mean----"
+
+"Yuki San, he killed your father, the head of our house, and he must
+die to-night."
+
+Yuki rose and went to the man. Taking him by the arms she looked up
+into his face piteously, with wide, frightened eyes.
+
+"My lord, my lord, you can not mean it--that he shall die--Morris
+die!"
+
+The old man looked down into the pale face, the searching, pitiful
+eyes; but there shone no mercy in the hard eyes that met the ones
+raised pleadingly to his.
+
+"Yes, and you, the only child of the man he killed, shall fulfill the
+sacred oath, and bring peace to your father's honorable soul."
+
+Yuki was utterly bewildered and said falteringly: "I do not
+understand--I do not understand."
+
+With the monotonous voice of the fatalist the uncle continued:
+
+"It would have been better if a man-child had been born to our lord,
+as his arm would not falter; but you will take as sure a way, if not
+as honorable as the sword. Here is the means." He drew a little bottle
+from the sleeve of his kimono. "A little of this and he sleeps
+instantly and well."
+
+Yuki held out her hands to the man sitting like fate before her.
+
+"My lord, how can I? We have been so happy! My Dana San has never
+given me an unkind look, never caused me a moment's sorrow. I love
+him, Uncle, not as a Japanese woman loves her lord, but as a foreign
+woman from over the seas loves the man whom she has chosen from all
+the world. For two years we have been in this little house, for two
+years he has been my every breath. My first thought in the morning was
+for Morris, my Dana San, my last thought at night was joy in the
+thought that I was his and that he loved me. Sometimes I waken and
+look at him, and wonder how such a great man can care for such a
+simple Japanese girl as I am. And now you ask me to hurt him?" She
+drew her head up proudly. "I can not and I will not. He is my husband,
+and no matter what he has done I will protect him--even from you."
+
+The man rose, and striding to her, grasped her roughly by the arm.
+
+"Woman, you will do as we say. You are a Japanese and you know even
+unto death you must obey. I have no fear. It will be done--and by
+you--to-night."
+
+He released her arm, and she, looking down upon the tatami, moved her
+foot silently to and fro, absorbed with this tragedy that had come
+into her happy life. Then she had a thought that brought hope to her,
+and she looked up eagerly. "Perhaps it is not true--perhaps it was not
+really Morris----"
+
+"Listen," said the man roughly. "It was he. We _know_. But you--if you
+do not believe--make him confess to-night. If it was not he, then you
+are free. If it is, you will know what to do--and it will be done
+to-night--remember."
+
+Yuki looked into the hard black eyes staring at her, fascinating her,
+taking all the life from her, and she said slowly as if under a spell:
+
+"Yes--if he confesses--if it was he--I know it will be done. But--if
+the gods take him, they will also take me."
+
+The uncle shook her roughly by the arm.
+
+"_No!_ Listen to me. Your work is not yet done. You must live. It
+would be too much happiness to have your spirit travel with him the
+lonely road. He must walk the path alone, without love to guide him.
+You will return to me to-night, return to your home and family who
+await you. Our vengeance would be only half complete if we allowed you
+to journey to the Land of Shadows with him. Come to me--" and he drew
+her to him. "Look at me. I will await you at the Willow Tea House."
+
+He took her face in his hands and gazed steadily into her eyes, saying
+in a low, tense voice:
+
+"I do not fear--you will obey. Are you not a Japanese? I
+expect--you--to--come--to--me--after your work is done--and the gods
+will be with you. Sayonara."
+
+He put on his clogs at the entrance and went away, his form scarcely
+distinguishable in the gloom as he went down the pathway. Yuki looked
+after him, then threw herself on her face on the floor with a little
+moan, beating her hands in the manner of an Eastern woman.
+
+It was absolutely quiet in the room, no noise coming from the street
+outside, except from a far distance a woman's voice chanting in a tone
+of singular sweetness words that sounded in their minor key like the
+soft tones of a flute: "_Amma Konitchi Wahyak Mo_," then between
+these sweet calls a plaintive whistle--one long-drawn note, then two
+shorter ones--the cry of the blind massage woman, making her rounds
+for her evening's toil.
+
+The cry died away, and only the low moan was heard within the little
+room. Morris opened the gate and came lightly up the pathway,
+whistling a few bars of the latest popular song. He came inside the
+room, and, hardly able to distinguish the objects, looked about
+wonderingly, then seeing Yuki lying where she had thrown herself, he
+went over to her and picked her up.
+
+"My sweetheart, what is it? What has happened?" He sat down upon the
+long chair and held her against him. "Tell me, dear one, tell me."
+
+Morris went over to the lamp after a few moments and lighted it, then
+came back and showed Yuki a little gift he had brought her. She took
+it and looked at it with eyes filled with tragic grief; then, pressing
+it against her face, put her head on his shoulder and began sobbing in
+a heart-broken way that amazed Morris.
+
+She lay with her face hidden, he softly caressing her hair. Finally
+she said:
+
+"Morris, we have been here two years. Tell me--have I made you happy?"
+
+Morris threw back his head and laughed happily.
+
+"Happy, Yuki, happy? Dear heart, I had a long time ago put aside the
+thought that love meant happiness and happiness meant love. Now you
+have taught me that one cannot exist without the other. I love you, I
+live with you, you are mine. That tells everything. When you came into
+my life, into my heart, I was soured and embittered. Life meant only
+work and duties done; after that, comfort and a cigar--that was all.
+But now, I love my work as well, I do it as thoroughly, but there is
+something more. I know when I shut the office-door, I can come here
+where no one can enter. I can be alone with the woman I love and who
+loves me. There is no question of society or dinners, but just us two
+alone, you and me--and," turning up her face, "you are happy with me,
+my Yuki San? You love me?"
+
+Yuki did not reply at once. Then in a low, sweet voice she replied:
+
+"Morris, we Japanese women never speak of love. It is to us a subject
+left to singing girls and geishas. Without it we marry, and without it
+we live, and it is, unless by chance, a closed book to us. I do not
+know if I love you as the women of your race love their Dana Sans--I
+know I think of you by day, and I dream of you by night. I live only
+for you--to be what you wish me to be--and when you take me in your
+arms and say, 'My Yuki San, my sweetheart,' it seems to me that my
+heart with its happiness will break! I do not know if that is
+love--but if it be--I love you, my Dana San, I love you."
+
+She lay quietly, and he rested his face against her hair, caressing it
+from time to time. After a silence, he inquired lightly:
+
+"What about supper, Yuki?"
+
+Yuki drew him to her again, for he moved as if he would rise.
+
+"Wait, dear, let us talk a little. Tell me, when you to Tokio
+came--the first time----"
+
+"Twelve years ago, when O Yuki San was a little girl."
+
+"Twelve years ago--there was much trouble then between foreigners and
+Japanese. You and your friends--had--had trouble."
+
+Morris looked at her quickly and his eyes darkened.
+
+"Where did you hear that?" he asked.
+
+Yuki, carelessly: "Oh, they gossip in the market-place."
+
+Morris rose and walked up and down the room.
+
+"I don't know what you have heard, but I might as well tell you the
+whole story. I did have trouble here in Japan. One night some of us
+got in a mix-up--a sort of quarrel with a Japanese, and I don't know
+how it happened--I never have known--but I struck and killed him. It
+was in the dark, and I could hardly see him."
+
+After a silence Yuki stammered: "You--killed him?"
+
+"In self-defense, O Yuki San," Morris defended eagerly; "it was in
+self-defense. But afterwards, what a time it was! Shall I ever forget
+that night getting back to my ship?" He passed his hand over his face,
+and then came back to his place beside her on the couch. "Don't speak
+of it any more; I don't want to think of it."
+
+Yuki slipped down to the floor and sat there with her head against his
+knee. She sat very quietly, then finally put her hand up to the flower
+in her dress and slowly took it out and let it fall to the floor,
+petal by petal, watching the leaves as they fell. Then, after a long
+silence, she rose and started towards the tea table, hesitated, went a
+little way, and then came back to him. She knelt by the couch and
+said, in a low voice:
+
+"Morris, no matter what happens, what you learn, what the gods may
+teach you soon--remember, I love you with all the love of my life.
+That I would give that life for you--oh, so willingly, if I only
+could! That through whatever you pass, I would gladly be with you; but
+I will come to you soon. I will not send you where I may not follow. I
+will come. I am yours, and the gods cannot let you go alone. You need
+me, and I would not be afraid. I love you--I want to go with you--but
+I am a Japanese--and I understand."
+
+She let her face fall upon her hands and knelt there quietly. Morris
+looked at her blankly, thinking she was worried about something.
+Finally he lifted her face and kissed her.
+
+"Never mind, dear one. I don't know what is troubling you, but of
+course you shall go with me wherever I go. I need you, and could not
+be without my Yuki San."
+
+He started to read the papers; she rose and stood by the couch a
+moment, then taking a step toward the tea-things:
+
+"Would my Dana San--like--a cup of tea?"
+
+Morris, absorbed in his papers, assented. "Why, yes, I don't mind if I
+do."
+
+She turned and walked slowly to the hibachi, knelt beside it, fanned
+the fire a moment, then poured the water from the iron kettle into the
+tiny teapot, let it stand a moment, looking over towards Morris. Then
+she took the bottle from her sleeve and poured a few drops into the
+cup, filling it with tea. She rose slowly and walked over to the long
+chair. She looked down at him as he lay half-reclining, hesitated,
+then handed him the cup. He took it, and looking up at her half
+laughing, exclaimed:
+
+"To you, sweetheart!" and drank.
+
+He fell back on the chair; the cup dropped from his hands. Yuki looked
+down at him in silence; then she bent over him, and lovingly crossed
+his hands upon his breast, touched his face caressingly with her
+fingers; then bent down and kissed him.
+
+She turned slowly, and, in turning, her eyes fell upon the shrine. She
+looked at it intently, slowly crossed the room and knelt in front of
+it, bowed her head to the floor; then opened the doors, and bowed her
+head again.
+
+She took out two candlesticks, two little jars of incense, a small
+bowl for rice, and another for water. She lighted the candles, lighted
+the incense, poured water in one bowl and rice in the other. Then she
+again touched her head to the floor, once--twice--thrice--rose, and
+walked backward to the open shojii.
+
+She stood a moment looking around the room that she had loved so well;
+then turned her face to her lover lying so quietly in the chair. She
+knelt down facing him, touched her head to the floor and rising in the
+kneeling position, said, stretching out her arms towards Morris:
+
+"Sayonara, my Dana San, good-bye, good-bye."
+
+
+
+
+One Wreath of Rue
+
+_By Cynthia Westover Alden_
+
+
+    The brawny lad in khaki clad,
+      We rightly cheer. Alas,
+    My eyes grow dim! I weigh with him,
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+    A heart more brave no man could have,
+      His soul as clear as glass.
+    He faced with zest the doctor-test--
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+    And now the blow is hurting so,
+      He sees the legions mass.
+    They go to war. Be sorry for
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+    The future grim is flouting him
+      As in the weakling class.
+    Though fine and true, his years are few--
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+    For warriors proud blow bugles loud,
+      Of silver or of brass;
+    One wreath of rue is due unto
+      The boy
+          Who failed
+              To pass.
+
+
+
+
+Woodrow Wilson and Wells, War's Great Authors
+
+_An Interview with Honore Willsie_
+
+
+"The war has thus far produced two great pieces of literature. One of
+these is H. G. Wells' 'Mr. Britling Sees It Through.' The other is
+President Wilson's War Message. I was curiously moved by 'Mr. Britling
+Sees It Through.' The effect of that novel on me was to move me away
+from the war, to let me get a picture of the war as a great procession
+against the horizon.
+
+"Every code that I had--in government, in religion, in ethics--had
+been obliterated by the events of the last three years. But this novel
+showed me that there could be a code--that something coherent and true
+must come out of the chaos. Reading as many manuscripts as I do, I
+grow stale on ideas. I want to read out-and-out trash or else
+something that will give me a new philosophy of life. And Wells, at
+any rate, showed me that there could be a new philosophy.
+
+"The great task before our writers to-day is to do for the individual
+what President Wilson's Declaration of War did for the nations of the
+world. This is the most important thing a writer can do--to make a new
+code for mankind. I can't think of any American writer able to do it.
+But did any of us expect Wells to write such a book as 'Mr. Britling
+Sees It Through'?
+
+"One significant thing about President Wilson's message is that its
+author is absolutely sure of the hereafter. He is convinced that God
+is Eternal Goodness. All his utterances are the utterances of a man
+with a deep faith that never has been disturbed. And that sort of man
+is essentially the man for statesmanship.
+
+"Religious fervor was the driving force of the fathers of our country.
+For an agnostic like myself to witness an exhibition of this force is
+to look wistfully at a power that cannot be understood. It is the
+spirit of the little red schoolhouse, of the meeting-house, of the
+town meeting--the spirit of American statesmanship and of American
+democracy.
+
+"Human beings aren't big enough to get along without religion. Somehow
+or other we moderns have got to have some faith--as Lincoln had it,
+and Adams, and Washington--as Wilson has it. We need a new religion.
+For Wilson won't happen again very often.
+
+"President Wilson's message formulates a new philosophy of government.
+His message came on Europe like a flash of light in the darkness of
+battle.
+
+"President Wilson seems to have started his message with a definite
+conviction as to the existence of God. Mr. Wells must have started his
+novel with the hope of finding God through it. I size Wells up as a
+modern with the modern craving for God. Wells does not lead you to
+God, but he gives you the idea that God exists, and is just over
+beyond.
+
+"But then religion is a favorite theme of the novelist. Winston
+Churchill's 'The Inside of the Cup' indicated that social service
+would take the place of religion. Well, maybe it would for some
+people. But nowadays most people need a religion that says that there
+is a hereafter.
+
+"I think that I am the only human being in captivity who has read all
+of Holt's book on the cosmic relations. And what I got out of it was
+not a belief in spiritualism, but a realization of the fact that every
+one, high and low, rich and poor, educated and illiterate, has a
+craving for knowledge of life after death, has a craving for belief in
+life after death. And the war has raised this feeling to the nth
+power. We feel that we shall go mad if there is no hereafter. Mr.
+Wells leads us to believe that he will find that there is a hereafter.
+President Wilson shows us that he is sure there is one.
+
+"This craving for conviction of the hereafter, increased by the war,
+inevitably makes our literature more spiritual. So we are seeing the
+last for awhile of the sex novel and of sordid realism. We no longer
+find people who believe that since you are an artist you should
+describe the contents of a garbage can. The soul of man as well as the
+body of man is coming into its own as the theme of the novelist.
+
+"And the war is responsible. You can't stick out your tongue and make
+a face at God when a shell may momentarily hurl you from the earth.
+And who cares to read a sex novel now? What do the little bedroom
+scandals of the flimsy novels matter when the womanhood of Belgium has
+been despoiled?
+
+"I am asked if our writers have deteriorated of late years. I think
+that the rank and file of our serial writers are way below those of
+forty or fifty years ago. Then our novelists were fewer and better.
+Look at the files of the old magazines and you will find that the
+novels that appeared serially in those days were much better than
+those that are appearing to-day. But one or two of our best novelists
+are just as fine as any of our writers of a bygone generation--Margaret
+Deland and Gertrude Atherton, for instance.
+
+"And in other branches of literature I think we have improved on our
+forefathers. American poets have never before done such exquisite
+things as they are doing to-day, and one or two short story writers
+are doing better things than were ever done before in this country. If
+you compare the short stories in old issues of the magazines with
+those in the current issues you will find that the old short stories
+are as much inferior to the new short stories as the old novels--the
+serialized novels--are superior to the new ones."
+
+
+
+
+A Field
+
+_By Minnie Stichter_
+
+
+Sometime I expect to turn a sharp corner and come face to face with
+myself, according to the ancient maxim, "extremes meet." For, did I
+not vow to the Four Great Walls that had imprisoned me for nine
+months, that I would fly to the uttermost parts of the earth so soon
+as vacation should open the doors? And did I not spend almost my
+entire summer within sight of my home, and in a field of a few acres
+dimension?
+
+I caught sight of some flowers, just inside the barbed wire fencing
+the track, that were fairer than any I had yet gathered for my vases.
+As the old song has it, "O, brighter the flowers on the other side
+seem!" No one saw me get under that six-stranded barbed-wire fence,
+and I am not going to tell how I did it. But when I got through I felt
+as well guarded as though attended by a retinue of soldiers. And I
+found myself in another world--a dream-world!
+
+It was a large field rosy with red clover and waving with tall
+timothy. A single tree glistened and rustled invitingly. In its shade
+I rested, refreshing myself with the field sights and sounds and
+fragrances. It was delightful to be the center of so much beauty as
+circled round about me. Then I had only to rest on the rosy
+clover-carpet at the foot of the tree, and the tall grass eclipsed all
+things earthly save the tree, and the sky overhead, and the round mat
+of clover under the tree which the grass ringed about. I had often
+wished for Siegfried's magic cloak. Well, here was something quite as
+good, which, if it did not render me invisible to the world, made the
+world invisible to me. Who of you would not be glad to have the old
+world with its "everyday endeavors and desires," its folly, its pride
+and its tears, drop out of sight for a while, leaving you in a flowery
+zone of perfect quiet and beauty, hedged in by a wall of grass!
+
+There were many "afterwards." And the marvel of it all was that, for
+all I could do, the field retained its virgin splendor and kept the
+secret of my goings-in and comings-out most completely.
+
+After the daisies, there came a season of black-eyed Susans. That was
+when the grasses were tallest and the feeling of mystery did most
+abound. I know I had been there many days before I discovered the
+myriads of wild roses near the crabtree thicket--those fairies'
+flowers so exquisite in their pink frailty that mortal breath is rude.
+Only when I reached the hedge, bounding the remote side of the field,
+did I enter into my full inheritance. Along a barbed-wire fence had
+grown up sumac, elderberry, crabtrees and nameless brambles, while
+over all trailed the wild grapevine, bearing the most perfect
+miniature clusters, fit to be sculptured by Trentanove into immortal
+beauty. And this hedge was the source of ever increasing wonder the
+whole summer long. I depended on it alone for sensational denouements
+after the grass was cut for hay. When the field lay shorn, like other
+fields about it far and wide, I could not have been lured hitherward
+but for the hedge. There the hard green berries of a peculiar bramble
+ripened into wax-white pellet-sized drops clustered together on a
+woody stem by the most coral-pink pedicles ever designed by
+sea-sprites.
+
+In its time came the elderberry bloom, and its purple fruit; the
+garnet fruit of the sumach and its flaming foliage; the lengths of
+vines and their purple clusters--all these and more also ministered to
+my delight.
+
+About goldenrod time, the school-bell rang me in from the field, but I
+managed to take recesses long enough to behold the kaleidoscopic views
+brought before me by the turning of nature's hand. The smooth velvety
+green of the field with its border of gold and lavender--great widths
+of thistle and goldenrod following the line of fence--was like the
+broidered mantle of some celestial Sir Walter Raleigh, spread for the
+queens of earth. I was no queen; but I did not envy royalty, since I
+doubted if it had any such cherished possessions as my field in its
+various phases.
+
+In the November days, the brightness of the fields seemed to be
+inverted and to be seen in the opalescent tints of the sky. Then, the
+clearness of the atmosphere, the wider horizon, the less hidden homes
+and doings of men, had this message for the children of men: "If there
+is any secret in your life, leave it out."
+
+When it is December and the fields are too snowy and wind-swept for
+pleasure-grounds, where the only bits of brightness are the
+embroideries of the scarlet pips of the wild-rose, it is good to
+nestle by the cozy fireside and conjure it all up again, and nourish a
+feeling of expectancy for the spring and summer that shall come.
+Again, the flowers and waving grass and drowsy warmth of the summer
+day; again, the songs of flitting birds, the scented sweets of the
+new-mown hay. Again the work of the fields goes on before me like a
+play in pantomime! Again, with my eyes, I follow home the boys with
+their cows, to the purple rim of the hill beyond which only my fancy
+has ever gone. Again I quit work with the tired laborer. Again I dream
+of the open, free, unfettered song that life might be if it were lived
+more simply, with less of artificiality. And again, for the sake of
+one patient toiler in the town, whose life-task admits of no holiday,
+I have the grace to return thither and begin where I left off--the
+life common to you and to me, the life ordained for us from the
+beginning.
+
+
+
+
+Your Lad, and My Lad
+
+_By Randall Parrish_
+
+
+    Down toward the deep blue water, marching to the throb of drum,
+    From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come;
+    The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal,
+    While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel.
+    With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance;
+    And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.
+
+    A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by,
+    Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie;
+    The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle call,
+    With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall.
+    Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance;
+    For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.
+
+    Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue,
+    Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review;
+    The same old Flag, the same old Faith--the Freedom of the World--
+    Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled.
+    Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance,
+    As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.
+
+
+
+
+Peace and Then--?
+
+_By Detlev Fredrik Tillisch_
+
+
+    _Suburb of London. Three months after declaration of peace.
+    Time: Noon._
+
+    CAST
+
+    Mrs. Claire Hamilton--about 35 years of age--portly--simply
+    dressed.
+
+    Master Hal Hamilton--her son--about 10 years of age--full of
+    life--dressed in Boy Scout uniform.
+
+    Mr. John Hamilton--soldier--botanist--about 39 years of
+    age--tall--well built.
+
+    Sergeant, soldiers and pedestrians.
+
+    Claire Hamilton is seen fixing her corner flower stand and
+    endeavoring to sell her plants to passers-by, but after three
+    futile attempts she becomes tired of standing and takes seat on
+    wooden bench in front of her stand. Takes letter from
+    pocket--sighs and begins to read letter aloud.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (reading)._ "Dearest Love and Hal Boy--We are still in
+the bowels of hell--but even this would be nothing if I but knew my
+loved ones were well and happy. (_She wipes away a tear and continues
+reading._) Nothing but a miracle can end this terrible war. Give my
+own dear Hallie boy a kiss from his longing papa." (_She lays letter
+on her lap and meditates._) Peace (_shakes her head--looks at date of
+letter._) February 16th--six months past and now it's all over--three
+months ago--Oh, God, bring him back to me and my boy. (_She goes back
+of flower stand and brings out box of mignonettes. Hal comes running
+in with bundle of newspapers and very much excited--his sleeve is
+torn. He stands still and looks at mother rather proudly and
+defiantly._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal Boy--what's the trouble?
+
+_Hal._ I licked Fritz.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ What for?
+
+_Hal._ He said it took the whole world to lick the Germans.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ But, Hal, my boy--the war is over--you mustn't be
+hateful--be kind and forgiving.
+
+_Hal._ Make them bring back my daddy then.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ You still have your mother--(_Hal runs to mother and
+embraces her tenderly._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Whose birthday is it to-day? (_He thinks--pause._)
+This is the 20th of August--now think hard. (_She awaits
+answer--silence--then takes box of mignonettes._) Whose favorite
+flower is the mignonette?
+
+_Hal._ Papa's! Papa's! (_Claps his hands boyishly._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes, Hal--it's papa's birthday and mother is
+remembering the day by decorating our little stand with the flowers
+your papa has grown. (_He caresses the mignonettes tenderly._)
+
+_Hal._ Dear daddy--dear flowers--aren't they lovely, mother?
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes, Hal. (_She wipes away a tear, trying to conceal
+her emotions from her son._)
+
+_Hal._ Maybe some day I'll be a famous botanist like papa and then
+you'll have two boxes. (_Mother is silent trying to keep back the
+tears and Hal notices it._) Papa is coming home soon, isn't he,
+mother? (_She just shakes her head._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ We must be brave.
+
+_Hal._ When I get big I'm going to be a soldier and be brave like
+daddy.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ That won't be necessary any more--it isn't the people
+who want to fight.
+
+_Hal._ But daddy did and you bet if anybody makes me sore I'll fight
+too.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ No, my boy--daddy didn't want to fight----
+
+_Hal._ Then why did he go?
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal, you're a little boy and wouldn't understand--but
+just remember what your mother tells you: Don't be selfish--be
+tolerant, honest and charitable to all the peoples of the world, the
+big and the small alike. (_Enter passer-by who stops to look over
+plants. After Mrs. Hamilton has shown several and given him prices, he
+picks up the box of mignonettes._)
+
+_Man._ I'll take this box.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (confused, not knowing whether to tell stranger about
+that particular box of flowers or sell it, as she sorely needs money.
+Then she picks up another plant to show it.)_ Here's a very sturdy
+plant, sir.
+
+_Man._ But I want this one. (_Pointing to box of mignonettes._) How
+much is it? I'm in a hurry.
+
+_Hal (goes to stranger and takes box from his hands)._ You can't have
+them--they're daddy's.
+
+_Man (pushing him to one side)._ Get away from here, you little
+ruffian.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ That's my son, sir--he's not a ruffian. His father
+has not returned from the front and that----
+
+_Man (interrupting)._ Oh, yes--yes--we hear those stories every day
+now on every corner--it's the beggar's capital. (_He walks away
+hurriedly, but Hal starts after with clenched fist._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal! Hal! What did mother tell you a few moments ago?
+
+_Hal (coming back)._ But he made me sore.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ What's the news--(_Hal hands her a paper, kisses her
+and starts up street._)
+
+_Hal._ Paper--extra--paper! (_He disappears._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (is attracted by headlines in paper and begins to read
+aloud)._ "Fifty men return to-day from the front to be placed in the
+asylum." (_She buries her face in her hands._) Better that he were
+dead. (_Sound of footsteps is heard. Enter detachment of ten men in
+uniform in charge of a sergeant. They swing corner of flower stand and
+Mrs. Hamilton watches every man and there is a tense silence. Suddenly
+Mrs. Hamilton rushes toward them._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ John! John! My boy! (_They halt. Mrs. Hamilton
+swoons. Sergeant goes to her and assists her to bench in front of
+stand. She becomes calm and goes toward husband with out-stretched
+arms._) Don't you know me? Claire, your wife! (_He stares at her, but
+shows no signs of recognition._) You remember Hal--Hal, your own
+boy--our little boy--John! (_He just looks at her and smiles
+foolishly. Sergeant takes her gently by the arm to lead her away,
+thinking her hysterically mistaken as many others have been._)
+
+_Sergeant._ Are you quite sure, madam, that he is your husband?
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes--John Hamilton--have you no record----
+
+_Sergeant._ Not yet. But time will clear away any doubts----
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Time--time! I've waited long enough on time. He's
+mine and I want him. (_Turns toward husband._) You want to stay here
+with me and our boy--don't you, John? (_Pause._) Sergeant, let me have
+him.
+
+_Sergeant (trying to hide his emotion)._ You're quite sure,
+madam--(_Mrs. Hamilton nods and sergeant takes John from ranks. John
+just stares. Mrs. Hamilton leads him tenderly to seat. Sergeant starts
+others to march._)
+
+_Sergeant._ I'll return for him after delivering these men. (_Mrs.
+Hamilton takes no notice of his remarks and they march off._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (kissing his hands tenderly and giving him all signs of
+love and affection)._ Doesn't it seem good to be with us again? (_He
+smiles foolishly._) And our boy Hal--He is so large now--You'll see
+him soon. Think of it--he's ten years old. (_Hal enters and without
+noticing father rushes toward his mother, holding a package in his
+hand. His father sees him and notices his uniform--rises quickly and
+rushes toward him but mother grabs his arm and holds him back. Hal
+remains standing._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ That's Hal--your own boy. Hal--your son.
+
+_Mr. Hamilton (looks at Hal fiercely)._ Attention! (_Hal looks
+perplexed._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ This is your own papa--my boy. (_Hal runs toward him
+but stops._)
+
+_Mr. Hamilton._ Attention! (_His hands grab his pocket for revolver
+but finds none._) You scullion--this is my girl! (_Turns and puts arms
+around Mrs. Hamilton._) Aren't you, Sissy? (_Mrs. Hamilton realizes
+situation and plays her part--leads him to seat--strokes his hair and
+caresses him._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ What have you, Hal?
+
+_Hal._ I sold all my papers and brought you a little cake for daddy's
+birthday.
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton (smiles and shakes her head. She takes box of
+mignonettes and shows them to Mr. Hamilton.)._ You surely remember
+these--your own mignonettes--your prize? (_She is silent. He smells
+flowers--she anxiously awaits any signs of recognition--long pause--a
+slight spark of intelligence comes over him as he fondles the
+flowers--Mrs. Hamilton very tense but says nothing. Hal remains
+standing as if rooted to the spot. Enter sergeant._)
+
+_Sergeant._ I must deliver him with the others, madam. (_No reply._)
+It's my duty. (_He goes to take Mr. Hamilton by the arm, but Mrs.
+Hamilton interferes._)
+
+_Mrs. Hamilton._ Duty! Duty! It has been my duty to slave and
+starve--my husband has done his duty--he volunteered his services--I
+willingly let him go--for what? For whom? (_Pause._) Now it's all
+over. This is the result to me--to thousands, but now--(_stands
+between Mr. Hamilton and sergeant_)--God has brought him back to me
+and God will keep him with me!
+
+_Mr. Hamilton (in a whisper)._ God--(_rubs hands over eyes_)--God----
+(_Smells fragrance of the mignonettes. He takes Mrs. Hamilton's hand
+and Hal runs to him and kneels beside him._) My mignonette. (_Smiles
+to Mrs. Hamilton and Hal._) My mignonettes.
+
+
+
+
+Semper Fidelis
+
+_By Addie B. Billington_
+
+
+    When free from earthly toil and thrall of pain,
+          Time's transient guest,
+    One large of heart and finely quick of brain
+          Found early rest.
+    Kind friends ordained that on his coffin lid,
+          Bedecked with flowers,
+    His last Romance should lie, forever hid
+          From sight of ours.
+    Th' unfinished page no other hand might press,
+          Where his had wrought,
+    Nor Fancy weave strange threads--to match by guess
+          The strands he sought.
+    The motives worthy and the action grand,
+          In faithful trust,
+    To bury what they could not understand,
+          With fleeting dust.
+    And if within the years there treasured lies,
+          'Neath Memory's trance,
+    Wreathed in forget-me-nots, my sacred prize--
+          A life's Romance--
+    Heav'n grant no ruthless hand the pages turn,
+          When I am gone,
+    Striving its inmost meaning to discern;
+          'Tis mine alone.
+
+
+
+
+Our Bird Friends
+
+_By Margaret Coulson Walker_
+
+
+Lovers of birds will doubtless be pleased to know that some of the
+most agreeable and interesting legends of the past were centered about
+these guests of our groves, whose actions formed the basis of
+innumerable fancies and superstitions. An acquaintance with the
+literature as well as with the life history of our feathered friends
+will not only increase our interest in the bird life about us but it
+will broaden our sympathies as well.
+
+Birds exercised a strong influence on prehistoric religion, having
+been worshipped as gods in the earlier days and later looked upon as
+representatives of the higher powers. The Greeks went so far as to
+attribute the origin of the world itself to the egg of some mysterious
+bird. To others, these small creatures flitting about among our trees,
+represented the visible spirits of departed friends. The Aztecs
+believed that the good, as a reward of merit, were metamorphosed at
+the close of life into feathered songsters, and as such were permitted
+to pass a certain term in the beautiful groves of Paradise. To them,
+as to all North American Indians, thunder was the cloud bird flapping
+his mighty wings, while the lightning was the flash of his eye. The
+people of other countries believed that higher powers showed their
+displeasure by transforming wrong-doers into birds and animals as a
+punishment for their crimes.
+
+In all lands birds were invested with the power of prophecy. They were
+believed to possess superior intelligence through being twice-born,
+once as an egg, and again as an animal. Because of their wisdom, not
+only they, but their graven images also, were consulted on all
+important affairs of life. Many nations, notably the Japanese, are
+still believers in the direct communication between man and unseen
+beings, through birds and other agents. In their country, birds are
+regarded as sacred, and for this reason the agriculturist gladly
+shares with them the fruit of his toil.
+
+While we of to-day attach no supernatural significance to the presence
+of these feathered songsters, and even though to us they possess no
+powers of prophecy, we can find a great deal of pleasure in observing
+these beings whose boding cries were regarded as omens by the greatest
+of earth--beings whose actions in Vespasian's time were considered of
+vital national importance.
+
+Aside from their historic and literary interest, these multitudinous,
+and often contradictory, legends and superstitions are of interest to
+us as a part of the faith of our fathers, much of which, combined with
+other and higher things, is in us yet. These beliefs of theirs, like
+many of what we are pleased to think are original ideas and opinions
+to-day, were hereditary and largely a matter of geography.
+
+In ancient times the chief birds of portent were the raven or crow,
+the owl and the woodpecker, though there were a number of others on
+the prophetic list.
+
+As an example of interest let us consider our friend the raven and his
+congener the crow, who are so confused in literature, as well as in
+the minds of those not familiar with ornithological classification,
+that it is almost impossible to treat them separately. The raven is a
+larger bird and not quite so widely distributed as the crow, but in
+general appearance and habits they are practically the same.
+
+If tradition is to be credited, we are more indebted to this bird of
+ancient family than to any other feathered creature, for he has played
+an important part in history, sacred and profane, in literature, and
+in art.
+
+On the authority of the Koran we know that it was he who first taught
+man to bury his dead. When Cain did not know what disposition to make
+of the body of his slain brother, "God sent a raven, who killed
+another raven in his presence and then dug a pit with his beak and
+claws and buried him therein." It was the raven whom Noah sent forth
+to learn whether the waters had abated--one of the rare instances
+wherein he ever proved faithless to his trust--and it was he who gave
+sustenance to the prophet Elijah.
+
+In Norse mythology, Odin, the greatest of all the gods, the raven's
+God, had for his chief advisers two ravens, Hugin and Munin (Mind and
+Memory), who were sent out by him each morning on newsgathering
+journeys, and who returned to him at nightfall to perch on his
+shoulders and whisper into his ears intelligence of the day. When news
+of unusual importance was desired, Odin himself in raven guise went
+forth to seek it, and when the Norse armies went into battle they
+followed the raven standard, a banner under which William the
+Conqueror fought. When bellied by the breezes it betokened success,
+but when it hung limp, only defeat was expected.
+
+Norse navigators took with them a pair of ravens to be liberated and
+followed as guides; if the bird returned it was known that land did
+not lie in that direction; if they did not, they were followed. The
+discoveries of both Iceland and Greenland are attributed to their
+leadership.
+
+To the Romans and Greeks the raven was the chief bird of omen, whose
+effigy was borne on their banners, and whose auguries were followed
+with greatest confidence, while to the German mind he was his satanic
+majesty made manifest in feathers. In some parts of Germany these
+birds are believed to hold the souls of the damned, while in other
+European sections priests only are believed to be so reincarnated.
+
+In Sweden the ravens croaking at night in the swamps are said to be
+the ghosts of murdered persons who have been denied Christian burial,
+and whom on this account Charon has refused ferriage across the River
+Styx.
+
+As a companion of saints this bird has had too many experiences to
+mention.
+
+By some nations he was regarded as the bearer of propitious news from
+the gods--and sacrosanct, to others he was the precursor of evil and
+an object of dread. With divining power, which enabled him for ages to
+tell the farmer of coming rain, the maiden of the coming of her lover
+and the invalid of the coming of death, he was received with joy or
+sadness, according to the messages he bore.
+
+In England he was looked upon with greater favor; there the mere
+presence of the home of a raven in a tree-top was enough to insure the
+continuance in power of the family owning the estate.
+
+The wealth of raven literature bears indubitable testimony to the
+interest people of all times and all localities have felt in this
+remarkable bird--an interest certain to increase with acquaintance.
+
+To one with mind open to rural charm, this picturesque bird, solemnly
+stalking about the fields, or majestically flapping his way to the
+treetops, is as much a part of the landscape as the fields themselves,
+or the trees upon their borders; it possesses an interest different
+from that of any other creature of the feathered race. Though he no
+longer pursues the craft of the augur, his superior intelligence,
+great dignity and general air of mystery inspire confidence in his
+abilities in that line.
+
+What powers were his in the old days! Foolish maidens and ignorant
+sailors might put their faith in the divining powers of the flighty
+wren; others might consult the swallow and the kingfisher; but it was
+to the "many-wintered crow" that kings and the great ones of earth
+applied for advice, and it was he who never failed them. According to
+Pliny, he was the only bird capable of realizing the meaning of his
+portents.
+
+In the early morning light the worthy successors of the ancient Hugin
+and Munin go forth to-day in quest of news of interest to their clan,
+just as those historic messengers did in the days when the mighty
+Norse gods awaited their return, that they might act on the
+intelligence gathered by them during the daylight hours; and when
+slanting beams call forth the vesper songs of more tuneful birds, they
+return, followed by long lines of other crows, to their usual haunts
+on the borders of the marshes. Singly or in long lines, never in loose
+flocks like blackbirds, they arrive from all directions, till what
+must be the whole tribe is gathered together--a united family--for the
+night's repose.
+
+As there in the treetops in the early evening, in convention
+assembled, they discuss important affairs, who can doubt that certain
+ones of their number are recognized as leaders, and that they have
+some form of government among themselves? One after another delivers
+himself of a harangue, then the whole assemblage joins in noisy
+applause--or is it disapproval? At other times sociability seems to be
+the sole object of the gathering.
+
+As one old crow, more meditative than the rest, at the close of the
+conclave always betakes himself to the same perch, the lonely,
+up-thrust shaft of a lightning-shattered tree on the hillside, we
+decide that here is old Munin, who has selected this perch as one
+favorable to meditation--a place where he may ponder undisturbed over
+the occurrences of the day.
+
+Others among the group have habits as fixed and noticeable. Even
+though approaching his perch from the opposite direction, one will be
+seen to circle and draw near it from the accustomed side; some of the
+more decided ones will invariably remain just where they alight;
+others will turn around and arrange themselves on their perches
+indefinitely. In the fields it will be noticed that some are socially
+inclined and forage in groups, while others, either from personal
+choice or that of their neighbors, are more solitary. Like members of
+the human family, each has his own individual characteristic.
+
+While the chief charm of the crow is his intelligence, his dignity
+also claims our attention. Who ever saw one of his tribe do anything
+foolish or unbecoming to the funeral director he has been ever since
+the birth of time, and that he must ever be while time endures? The
+ancients believed him to be able to scent a funeral several days
+before death occurred, so sensitive was he to mortuary influences, and
+there is little doubt he still possesses the power to discern
+approaching death in many creatures smaller than himself--and to whom
+he expects to extend the rite of sepulchre. Inside and out he is
+clothed in deepest black; even his tongue and the inside of his mouth
+are in mourning. Seeming to think it incumbent on him to live up to
+his funeral garb and occupation, faithful to his trust, with clerical
+solemnity he goes about his everyday duties.
+
+Gazing on them from his watchtower in the tree tops, what does this
+grave creature think of the gayer birds that dwell in the meadows and
+groves round about? What thinks he of the clownish bobolink, in motley
+nuptial livery, pouring out his silly soul in gurgling, rollicking
+song, in his efforts to please a possible mate, then quarreling with
+both her and his rivals, who also have donned cap and bell to win her
+favor? What of the unpretentious home--a mere hollow in the
+ground--where the care-free pair go to housekeeping? What of the
+redwings building their nests among the reeds in the midst of the
+marsh--so low as almost to touch the water? Of the fitful wren,
+incessantly singing of love to his mate, yet who fails to assist her
+in nest-building, and who proves but an indifferent provider for his
+young family? Of the lonely phoebe, calling in plaintive, mysterious
+tones to a mate unresponsive to his sorrowful beseechings? Of the
+robin, who makes of the grove a sanctuary? He doubtless has his
+opinions concerning every one of them, for he views them all with
+interest. Hearing all the other birds singing their love and seeing
+them winning favor with their brilliant colors, does he envy them?
+
+On the theory of compensation, his sterling qualities render
+accomplishments and decorative raiment unnecessary. With no song in
+which to tell his story, and no garments gay to captivate the eye, the
+crow must needs live his love--and he does--to the end. Seriously he
+wins the mate to whom he remains true forever. To him the marital bond
+is not the mere tie of a season, but one that holds through life. He
+assists the dusky bride of his choice in establishing a commodious
+home in the most commanding situation available--the top of the
+tallest tree in the edge of the wood, and which may have been planted
+by one of his ancestors. He assists her in giving warmth to their eggs
+in the nest. He carries food to her while she broods over them. He
+braves every danger in protecting both her and them against predatory
+hawks and owls and frolicking squirrels, to whom he is known as the
+"warrior crow." With tenderest solicitude he relieves his mate as far
+as he can in ministering to their nestlings.
+
+And what of the young crows in the nest? When their elders are away on
+commissary tours, the young ones, bewailing the absence of parents
+almost constantly, are always found, on the return, in attitudes of
+expectancy. To them the approach of older crows, even though it be
+from the left, is never ominous of anything but good. And when after
+many excursions baby appetites have been satisfied, in their lofty
+cradles in the tree tops, the infant crows are rocked by the breezes,
+and though the tuneless throats of the parents yield no songs they are
+not without music, for soft aeolian lullabies soothe them to sleep.
+
+On hearing farmers talk, one would think that the diet of the crow is
+entirely granivorous, while no bird has a more adaptable appetite;
+everything eatable is perfectly acceptable--harmful grubs, beetles,
+worms, young rats, mice, snakes and moles, as well as mollusks,
+acorns, nuts, wild fruit and berries are among his staple articles of
+diet. And, though it is no longer believed that "he shakes contagion
+from his ominous wing," he occasions a lamentable amount of infant
+mortality among rabbits, and squirrels, and even among weak-limbed
+lambs, depriving them of health, strength and happiness--but not
+through magic. These last he attacks in the eye, as the most
+vulnerable point. In the old days he is reputed to have met with great
+success as an oculist; in these his patients never recover.
+
+In winter, when cereal stores and acorns which supply the season's
+want lie buried in the snow, and when such animals as in youth were
+ready prey have grown to a more formidable majority, crows frequently
+suffer and perish from hunger, and when snows lie long on the ground
+many of them are found dead beneath their roosting places.
+
+The voice of the crow when heard distinctly has in it something of the
+winter's harshness and seems to harmonize best with winter
+sounds--creaking boughs and shrieking winds--but when modulated by
+distance it is not unmusical. In the twilight, when calling to his
+belated brethren across the marshes, his uncanny call might well be
+taken for the cry of a lost soul craving Christian burial. Yet this
+might depend on one's mood. To each he seems to speak a different
+language. To St. Athanasius he said: "Cras, cras!" (To-morrow,
+to-morrow). To the sympathetic Tennyson he always called, in tenderest
+accents, the name "Maud."
+
+Though this bird is said to have no tongue for expressing the happier
+emotions, the voice of the mother crow when soothing her nestlings,
+with gurgling notes of endearment, is tender as the robin's; and the
+head of the family, though croaking savagely when his mate is
+molested, and though able to send an exultant "caw" after a retreating
+enemy, never lowers himself by scolding as the jay does.
+
+Whatever his faults may be--and they are many--to anyone taking the
+trouble to study the crow, either in captivity or in his native
+environment, he will prove the most interesting example of his race,
+an agreeable companion, an ideal home-maker, a thrifty being, a
+liberal provider, an able defender of his family, a destroyer of
+harmful insect and animal life, a burier of the dead, a creature of
+dignity, a keen observer, and the intellectual marvel of the bird
+world.
+
+
+
+
+A Load of Hay
+
+_By James B. Weaver_
+
+
+    Hard paved streets and hurrying feet,
+    Where it's oft but a nod when old friends meet,
+    Rattle of cart and shriek of horn,
+    Laughing Youth and Age forlorn,
+    Bound for the office I speed away,
+    When my auto brushes--a load of hay!
+
+    Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,
+    For things I loved as a boy seem near:
+    Scent of meadows at early morn,
+    Miles of waving fields of corn,
+    Lowing cattle and colts at play--
+    Far have I drifted another way!
+
+    Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!
+    Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!
+    Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,
+    Rattle of corn in the old feed-box,
+    Answering nicker at toss of hay--
+    Old sweet sounds of a far-off day.
+
+    There, my driver stops with a jerk;
+    Then far aloft to the scene of my work;
+    But all day long midst the city's roar
+    My heart is the heart of a boy once more,
+    My feet in old-time fields astray,
+    Lured--by the scent from a load of hay!
+
+
+
+
+Iowa As a Literary Field
+
+_By Johnson Brigham_[1]
+
+
+LITERARY IOWA IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
+
+Late in the last century readers of books awoke to the fact that the
+world-including, world-inviting prairies of the Mississippi Valley
+were no longer inarticulate; that in this great "Heart of the World's
+Heart," among the millions who have been drawn to these prairie
+states, there are lives as rich--in all that really enriches--as those
+immortalized in the literature of New England, or of the Pacific
+slope. It was not to be expected that the westward-moving impulse to
+create would cease on reaching the Mississippi River.
+
+          [1] Editor of the "Midland Monthly" and author of "Life of
+          James Harlan," "Iowa--Its History and Its Foremost
+          Citizens," "An Old Man's Idyl," etc.
+
+In Iowa's pioneer days but little original matter found its way into
+print except contributions to the rough and ready journalism of the
+period. A few pioneer writers, possessed of the historiographer's
+instinct, performed a rare service to the young commonwealth by
+passing on to future generations their first-hand knowledge of the
+prominent men and events of the first half of the century. Chief among
+these are Theodore S. Parvin, William Salter, Alexander R. Fulton,
+Samuel S. Howe and Charles Aldrich. The two last named published
+several series of "The Annals of Iowa" which remain unfailing
+reservoirs of information to later historians and students of Iowa
+history. Iowa Masonry is specially indebted to Professor Parvin for
+his invaluable contributions to the history of the order in Iowa. Dr.
+Salter wrote the first notable Iowa biography, that of James W.
+Grimes, published in 1876. Fulton's "Red Men of Iowa" is as valuable
+as it is rare, for, though written as late as 1882, it is the first
+exhaustive attempt to describe the tribes originally inhabiting Iowa.
+
+The war period--1861-5--developed "Iowa in War Times," by S. H. M.
+Byers, and "Iowa Colonels and Regiments," by A. A. Stuart, also many
+valuable personal sketches and regimental histories.
+
+Long before the close of the century, the name of Samuel Hawkins
+Marshall Byers had grown familiar to the people of Iowa, because of
+the popularity of his song entitled "Sherman's March to the Sea," and
+because contemporary historians, attracted by its suggestive title,
+adapted it as especially appropriate for the most dramatic event in
+the history of the war for the Union.
+
+Major Byers' most lasting contribution to literature is his poem "The
+March to the Sea," epic in character and interspersed with lyrics of
+the war. Reading this, one can hear the thrilling bugle call, and "see
+once again the bivouacs in the wood."
+
+Looking again, one can see the army in motion--
+
+      "A sight it was! that sea of army blue,
+    The sloping guns of the swift tramping host,
+      Winding its way the fields and forests through,
+    As winds some river slowly to the coast.
+      The snow-white trains, the batteries grim, and then
+      The steady tramp of sixty thousand men."
+
+Passing over pages filled with stories of the camp and march, and with
+moving pictures of the dusky throng of camp-followers who saw in the
+coming of Sherman's men "God's new exodus," we come to the dramatic
+climax:
+
+      "But on a day, while tired and sore they went,
+    Across some hills wherefrom the view was free,
+      A sudden shouting down the lines was sent;
+    They looked and cried, 'This is the sea! the sea!'
+      And all at once a thousand cheers were heard
+      And all the army shout the glorious word.
+
+      "Bronzed soldiers stood and shook each other's hands;
+    Some wept for joy, as for a brother found;
+      And down the slopes, and from the far-off sands,
+    They thought they heard already the glad sound
+      Of the old ocean welcoming them on
+      To that great goal they had so fairly won."
+
+I would not be unmindful of our Iowa poet's other contributions.
+Before the century's close, Mr. Byers had written "Switzerland and the
+Swiss," and "What I saw in Dixie," also a book of verse entitled
+"Happy Isles and Other Poems," besides much occasional verse in
+celebration of events in Iowa history. So many and excellent are Major
+Byers' contributions to such occasions that their author has fitly
+been styled the "uncrowned poet laureate of Iowa." The title is
+strengthened by two distinctively Iowa songs, one, "The Wild Rose of
+Iowa," a tribute to our State Flower; the other entitled "Iowa," sung
+to the air of "My Maryland."
+
+One of Iowa's pioneer poets was signally honored by public insistence
+that his "swan song" was the song of another and greater. In July,
+1863, John L. McCreery, of Delhi, Iowa, published in _Arthur's Home
+Magazine_ a poem entitled "There Is No Death." The poem went the
+round of the press attributed to Bulwer Lytton. A newspaper
+controversy followed, the result of which was that the Iowa poet was
+generally awarded the palm of authorship. But error sometimes seems to
+possess more vitality than truth! Every few years thereafter, the
+McCreery poem would make another round of the press with Bulwer
+Lytton's name attached! Finally, in response to urgent request, the
+modest author published his story of the poem.
+
+It is interesting to note the circumstances under which the first and
+best stanza was conceived. The author was riding over the prairie on
+horseback when night overtook him. Orion was "riding in triumph down
+the western sky." The "subdued and tranquil radiance of the heavenly
+host" imparted a hopeful tinge to his somber meditations on life and
+death, and under the inspiration of the scene he composed the lines:
+
+      "There is no death; the stars go down
+      To rise upon some other shore;
+    And bright in heaven's jeweled crown
+      They shine forever more."
+
+The next morning he wrote other stanzas, the last of which reads:
+
+      "And ever near us, though unseen,
+      The dear, immortal spirits tread;
+    For all the boundless universe
+      Is life--there are no dead."
+
+One of the curiosities of literature is the fact that the substitution
+of Bulwer's name for that of the author arose from the inclusion of
+McCreery's poem (without credit) in an article on "Immortality" signed
+by one "E. Bulmer." An exchange copied the poem with the name Bulmer
+"corrected" to Bulwer--and thus it started on its rounds. As late as
+1870, Harper's "Fifth Reader" credited the poem to Lord Lytton! The
+Granger "Index to Poetry" (1904) duly credits it to the Iowa author.
+
+It is interesting to recall, in passing, the fact that nowhere in or
+out of the state is there to be found a copy of McCreery's little
+volume of "Songs of Toil and Triumph," published by Putnam's Sons in
+1883, the unsold copies of which the author says he bought, "thus
+acquiring a library of several hundred volumes."
+
+It seems to have been the fate of Iowa's pioneer poets to find their
+verse attributed to others. So it was with Belle E. Smith's well-known
+poem, "If I Should Die To-night." Under the reflex action of Ben
+King's clever parody, it has been the habit of newspaper critics to
+smile at Miss Smith's poem. But when we recall the fact that several
+poets thought well enough of it to stake their reputation on it; and
+that, in the course of its odyssey to all parts of the English-reading
+world, it was variously attributed to Henry Ward Beecher, F. K.
+Crosby, Robert C. V. Myers, Lucy Hooper, Letitia E. Landon, and
+others, and that Rider Haggard used it, in a mutilated form, in
+"Jess," leaving the reader to infer that it was part of his own
+literary creation, may we not conclude that the verse is a real poem
+worthy of its place in the anthologies? In the Granger Index (1904) it
+is credited to Robert C. V. Myers,--the credit followed by the words:
+"Attributed to Arabella E. Smith"!
+
+If support of Miss Smith's unasserted but now indisputable claim to
+the poem be desired, it can be found in Professor W. W. Gist's
+contribution on the subject entitled "Is It Unconscious
+Assimilation?"[2] Miss Smith--long a resident of Newton, Iowa, and
+later a sojourner in California until her recent death--was of a
+singularly retiring nature. She lived much within herself and thought
+profoundly, as her poetical contributions to the _Midland Monthly_
+reveal. In none of her other poems did she reveal herself quite as
+clearly as in the poem under consideration. It is in four stanzas. In
+the first is this fine line referring to her own face, calm in death:
+"And deem that death had left it almost fair."
+
+          [2] Midland Monthly, March, 1894.
+
+The poem concludes with the pathetic word to the living:
+
+      "Oh! friends, I pray to-night,
+    Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow--
+    The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
+    Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;
+    My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
+    Forgive, O hearts estranged; forgive, I plead!
+    When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
+    The tenderness for which I long to-night!"
+
+I like to think of the veteran Tacitus Hussey, of Des Moines, as that
+octogenarian with the heart of youth. This genial poet and quaint
+philosopher made a substantial contribution to the century's output of
+literature, a collection of poems of humor and sentiment entitled "The
+River Bend and Other Poems." This author has contributed the words of
+a song which is reasonably sure of immortality. I refer to "Iowa,
+Beautiful Land," set to music by Congressman H. M. Towner. It fairly
+sings itself into the melody.
+
+    "The corn-fields of billowy gold,
+      In Iowa, 'Beautiful Land,'
+    Are smiling with treasure untold,
+      In Iowa,'Beautiful Land.'"
+
+The next stanza, though including one prosaic line, has taken on a new
+poetic significance since the war-stricken nations of the old world
+are turning to America for food. The stanza concludes:
+
+    "The food hope of nations is she--
+    With love overflowing and free
+    And her rivers which run to the sea,
+        In Iowa, 'Beautiful Land.'"
+
+Among Iowans in middle-life and older, the name of Robert J. Burdette,
+or "Bob" Burdette as he was familiarly called, brings vividly to mind
+a genial, sunny little man from Burlington, who went about doing good,
+making people forget their woes by accepting his philosophy--a simple
+philosophy, that of looking upon the sunny side of life. The "Chimes
+from a Jester's Bells" still ring in our ears, though the jester has
+passed on.
+
+Reference has been made to the pioneer magazine of Iowa, the
+_Midland Monthly_, of Des Moines. As its eleven volumes include
+the first contributions of a considerable number of Iowa authors who
+have since become famous, this publication may be said to have
+inaugurated an era of intellectual activity in Iowa. Its first number
+contained an original story, "The Canada Thistle," by "Octave Thanet"
+(Miss French), a group of poems by Hamlin Garland from advance proofs
+of his "Prairie Songs," an original story by S. H. M. Byers, and other
+inviting contributions.
+
+Looking back over the Iowa field from the viewpoint of 1894, when the
+_Iowa Magazine_ entered upon its short-lived career (1894-99), I
+find, in addition to the authors and works already mentioned, a
+nationally interesting episode of the John Brown raid, by Governor B.
+F. Gue. Maud Meredith (Mrs. Dwight Smith), Calista Halsey Patchin and
+Alice Ilgenfritz Jones, the three pioneer novelists of Iowa, were
+among the magazine's contributors. In 1879, the Lippincotts published
+"High-water Mark" by Mrs. Jones. In 1881 appeared Maud Meredith's
+"Rivulet and Clover Blossoms," and two years later her "St. Julien's
+Daughter." Mrs. Patchin's "Two of Us" appeared at about the same time.
+
+Miss Alice French, "Octave Thanet" to the literary world, has been a
+known quantity since 1887, when her fine group of short stories,
+"Knitters in the Sun," put Iowa on the literary map. "Expiation," "We
+All," a book for boys, "Stories of a Western Town" and "An Adventure
+in Photography" followed. Miss French has continued to write novels
+and short stories well on into the new century. In fact some of her
+strongest creations bear the twentieth century stamp.
+
+Hamlin Garland was also known and read by many as early as the
+eighties. His, too, was the short-story route to fame, and Iowa was
+his field. From his literary vantage ground in Boston, the young
+author wrote in the guise of fiction his vivid memories of boy life
+and the life of youth in northeastern Iowa and southwestern Wisconsin.
+His "Main Traveled Roads," the first of many editions appearing in
+1891, made him famous. Though the stories contained flashes of humor,
+the dominant note was serious, as befitted the West in the Seventies
+in which the author as boy and man struggled with adverse conditions.
+But the joy of youth would rise superior to circumstance, as is
+evidenced in the charming sketch of "Boy Life in the West."[3] I like
+to recall the prose-poem with which it concludes:
+
+          [3] Midland Monthly, February, 1894.
+
+"I wonder if, far out in Iowa, the boys are still playing 'Hi Spy'
+around the straw-piles.... That runic chant, with its endless
+repetitions, doubtless is heard on any moonlight night in far-off
+Iowa. I wish I might join once more in the game--I fear I could not
+enjoy 'Hi Spy' even were I invited to join. But I sigh with a curious
+longing for something that was mine in those days on the snowy Iowa
+plains. What was it? Was it sparkle of winter days? Was it stately
+march of moon? Was it the presence of dear friends? Yes; all these and
+more--it was Youth!"
+
+Before the century closed, this transplanted Iowan had also written
+"Jason Edwards," a story of Iowa politics, "Wayside Courtships,"
+"Prairie Folks," "Spirit of Sweetwater," "Trail of the Gold-seekers,"
+and scores of short stories first published in the magazines.
+
+Mr. Garland's twentieth century output has been prolific of popular
+novels and short stories. His latest book, "A Son of the Middle
+Border," is pronounced by William Dean Howells a unique achievement
+and ranking well up with the world's best autobiographies.
+
+A new name associated with Iowa at the close of the last century was
+that of Emerson Hough. "The Story of the Cowboy" (1897) can hardly be
+classed as fiction, and yet it "reads like a romance." Mr. Hough, long
+a roving correspondent of _Forest and Stream_, first tried "his
+'prentice han'" as a story-writer in "Belle's Roses," a tense story of
+army life on the plains.[4] This was followed by several promising
+short stories and, in 1902, by "The Mississippi Bubble," a historical
+romance of quality founded upon the adventurous career of John Law,
+pioneer in the fields of frenzied finance. Three years later came his
+"Heart's Desire," a beautiful love story of the Southwest. In 1907
+appeared his "Way of a Man" and "Story of the Outlaw." Several other
+novels have come from his facile pen. The most severely criticized and
+best seller of the series is his "54-40 or Fight," a historical novel
+based on the diplomatic controversy over Oregon in 1845-6. Mr. Hough
+is the most successful alumnus of Iowa State University in the
+difficult field of fiction.
+
+          [4] Midland Monthly, June-July, 1895.
+
+Lingering over the index to the eleven volumes of Iowa's pioneer
+magazine, I am tempted to mention in passing several other names that
+stand out prominently in the memory of _Midland_ readers.
+
+Mrs. Virginia H. Reichard contributed an interesting paper, "A Glimpse
+of Arcadia." Mrs. Caroline M. Hawley gave a valuable illustrated paper
+on "American Pottery." Mrs. Addie B. Billington, Mrs. Virginia K.
+Berryhill, Mrs. Clara Adele Neidig, and other Iowans contributed to
+the poetry in the magazine's columns. Hon. Jonathan P. Dolliver, Hon.
+William B. Allison, Gen. James B. Weaver, and many other men prominent
+in the public life of Iowa contributed articles of permanent value.
+Mrs. Cora Bussey Hillis was the author of "Madame Deseree's Spirit
+Rival." Editor Ingham, of the _Register_, then of Algona, Editor
+Moorhead, then of Keokuk, now a Des Moines journalist, Minnie Stichter
+(Mrs. C. J. Fulton of Fairfield), Mrs. Harriet C. Towner, of Corning,
+Charles Eugene Banks, born in Clinton County, now a prominent
+journalist and _litterateur_ in Seattle, Dr. J. Foster Bain, then
+assistant state geologist, now a resident of London, and one of the
+world's most famous consulting geologists, Barthinius L. Wick, of
+Cedar Rapids, a voluminous historiographer, are among the many who,
+during the last five years of the old century, did their bit toward
+putting Iowa on the literary map.
+
+Irving Berdine Richman, of Muscatine, had already written "Appenzell,"
+a study of the Swiss, with whom, as consul-general, he had lived for
+several years. His _Midland_ sketch, "The Battle of the Stoss," was
+followed by a little volume, "John Brown Among the Quakers, and Other
+Sketches." But the two great historical works to which he gave years
+of enthusiastic research were not published until well on in the
+twentieth century. The first of these, "Rhode Island; a Study of
+Separation," was honored with an introduction by John Bryce. It was so
+well received that the "study" was amplified into a two-volume work,
+"Rhode Island; Its Making and Meaning." The second, a work compelling
+years of research in old Mexico and Spain, is entitled "California
+Under Spain and Mexico." These alone give the Iowa historian an
+enviable world-reputation.
+
+
+LITERARY IOWA IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY
+
+Our study of the high places in Iowa literature has already been
+somewhat extended into the new century. The transfer of the Iowa
+magazine to St. Louis, in 1898, and its speedy suspension thereafter
+did not deter many Iowans from continuing to write. Difficult as it
+was for our unknowns to find a market for their wares in Eastern
+magazines and publishing houses, the persistent few, who knew they had
+what the public should want, "knocked" again and again "at the golden
+gates of the morning," and in due time the gates were opened unto
+them.
+
+Edwin Legrange Sabin's first essay in _Midland_ fiction was "A
+Ghostly Carouse,"--full of promise. His first book, "The Magic Mashie
+and other Golfish Stories," in common with all his other works, throbs
+with the heart of youth. His magazine verse, mainly humorous, has the
+same quality. Latterly he has been illuminating history, and
+especially the fast-dissolving wild life of the West, with stories
+closely adhering to fact and yet rampant with adventure--the kind of
+books our outdoor boys take to bed with them! To his readers Kit
+Carson, Fremont, Buffalo Bill, are as much alive as are the heroes of
+the stadium, the tennis court and the links. But underneath this
+delightfully light literature there is well-nigh concealed a poet of
+the Swinburne type, as witness this bit of verse:
+
+    "Upon the purple hillside, vintage-stained,
+      In drowsy langour brown October lies,
+    Like one who has the banquet goblet drained,
+      And looks abroad with dream enchanted eyes."[5]
+
+          [5] Country Life in America, October, 1902.
+
+Mrs. Bertha M. Shambaugh's _Midland_ sketch of "Amana Colony; a
+Glimpse of the Community of True Inspiration,"[6] suggested something
+more than "a glimpse," and in 1908 appeared an exhaustive study of
+that "peculiar people," entitled "Amana, the Community of True
+Inspiration," a valuable contribution to Iowa history.
+
+          [6] In the Midland Monthly, v. 6, p. 27.
+
+Professor Selden L. Whitcomb, of Grinnell, had previously published
+several outlines for the study of literature, but his first volume of
+"Lyrical Verse" appeared in 1898. Two other books of poems followed,
+one in 1912, the other in 1914. His verse is marked by delicacy of
+poetical suggestion and perfection of rhyme and rhythm.
+
+George Meason Whicher, of New York, whose name is now often seen in
+_The Continent_ of Chicago, is the author of "From Muscatine and Other
+Poems" and of recent prose with Italian and Latin background. Mr.
+Whicher is the author of four poems in the _Midland_, all harking back
+to the poet's boyhood days in Muscatine, Iowa.
+
+Dr. Frank Irving Herriott, dean of sociology at Drake University, a
+voluminous writer on historical and sociological themes, has a long
+list of works to his credit, all bearing twentieth century dates
+except one published by the American Academy which appeared in 1892.
+He wrote for the _Midland_ a strong plea for public libraries, a
+plea which, doubtless, had its influence in inaugurating the library
+movement in Iowa beginning with the new century.
+
+Another scholar in the sociological field who has made his impression
+upon thousands of students and adult readers is Dr. Frank L. McVey,
+president of the University of North Dakota. His historical sketch in
+the _Midland_, "The Contest in the Maumee Valley," was followed
+by other published papers and these by several books on sociological
+themes, among them "Modern Industrialism" and "The Making of a Town."
+
+There are few more scholarly literary critics than Welker Given, of
+Clinton, Iowa. His Shakespearean and classical studies have won for
+him an enviable place among students of the classics.
+
+Mrs. Anna Howell Clarkson, of New York, wife of Hon. J. S. Clarkson,
+long prominent in Iowa journalism and in national politics, followed
+up her _Midland_ article on "The Evolution of Iowa Politics" with
+a book entitled "A Beautiful Life and Its Associations," a tribute of
+loving regard to a former teacher and friend, Mrs. Drusilla Alden
+Stoddard.
+
+A _critique_ on "Our Later Literature and Robert Browning" in the Iowa
+magazine in April, 1897, may, or may not, have turned the current of
+Lewis Worthington Smith's whole life; but its critical power made
+friends for the Nebraska professor and warmed the welcome given him
+when, in 1902, he took up his work in the English department of Drake
+University of Des Moines. While Professor Smith has published several
+works on language and literature and an acting drama entitled "The Art
+of Life," his literary reputation rests mainly upon his poetry. Since
+the opening of the new century, volume has followed volume; first
+"God's Sunlight," then "In the Furrow," and, in 1916, "The English
+Tongue," and "Ships in Port." Many of the poems in the two last
+named evince the impact of the World War upon a soul of strong
+sensibilities. Tempted to quote whole poems, as showing the wide range
+of this poet's vision, I will limit myself to the first stanza of "The
+English Tongue":
+
+    "Words that have tumbled and tossed from the Avon and Clyde
+    On to where Indus and Ganges pour down to the tide.
+    Words that have lived, that have felt, that have gathered and
+      grown.
+    Words! Is it nothing that no other people have known
+    Speech of such myriad voices, so full and so free,
+    Song by the fireside and crash of the thunders at sea?"
+
+Jessie Welborn Smith, wife of Professor Smith, is a frequent
+contributor of short stories and sketches to popular magazines.
+
+The late Henry Wallace, though for many years an agricultural editor
+in Iowa, modestly began his contribution to general literature in
+the _Midland_ with a pen-picture of the Scotch-Irish in America.
+Subsequently he wrote his "Uncle Henry's Letters to a Farm Boy," which
+has run through many editions; also "Trusts and How to Deal With Them"
+and "Letters to the Farm-Folk."
+
+Eugene Secor, of Forest City, published poems in the _Midland_ which
+were followed by "Verses for Little Folk and Others," "A Glimpse of
+Elysium" and "Voices of the Trees."
+
+Helen Hoyt Sherman's modest "Village Romance" led to a long list of
+popular books, published since her marriage and under her married
+name, Helen Sherman Griffiths. Born in Des Moines, her present home is
+in Cincinnati.
+
+Herbert Bashford, born in Sioux City, now living in Washington and
+California, contributed to the _Midland_ a half-dozen poems of
+much promise. Mr. Bashford is now literary editor of the _San
+Francisco Bulletin_ and has several books of poems and several
+popular dramas to his credit.
+
+Mrs. Ella Hamilton Durley, of Los Angeles, formerly of Des Moines, a
+pioneer president of our Press and Authors' Club, and a prolific
+writer for the press, followed her journal and magazine successes with
+two novels, "My Soldier Lady" and "Standpatter," a novel of Southern
+California love and politics.
+
+Caroline M. Sheldon, Professor of Romance Languages in Grinnell
+College, has followed up her _Midland_ study of American poetry with
+"Princess and Pilgrim in England," and a translation and study of
+Echegary's play, "The Great Galeoto."
+
+Many still recall with interest the realistic serial which ran in the
+_Midland_, entitled "The Young Homesteaders," also a number of short
+sketches and stories of pioneer life in the West, by Frank Welles
+Calkins, then of Spencer, Iowa, now a Minnesotan. Mr. Calkins has
+since become a frequent contributor to magazines, and a writer of
+books of outdoor life and adventure. His latest novel, "The Wooing of
+Takala," appeared in 1907.
+
+One of the marked successes in the world of books and periodicals is
+Julia Ellen Rogers, long a teacher of science in Iowa high schools.
+While a resident of Des Moines she contributed to the _Midland_ a
+descriptive article, "Camping and Climbing in the Big Horn," which
+evinced her love of "all outdoors" and her ability to describe what
+she saw. Her editorial connection with _Country Life in America_ and
+her popular series of nature studies, "Among Green Trees," "Trees
+Every Child Should Know," "Earth and Sky," "Wild Animals Every Child
+Should Know," have given their author and her books a warm welcome
+from Maine to California.
+
+One of the bright particular stars in our firmament, remaining almost
+undiscovered until near the close of the century's first decade, is
+Arthur Davison Ficke, of Davenport. Circumstances--his father's
+eminence at the bar--conspired to make the young poet a lawyer; but he
+could not--long at a time--close his ears to the wooing of the muse,
+and off he went, at frequent intervals, in hot pursuit of the elusive
+Euterpe. Though still a lawyer of record, the inward call of the soul
+must soon become too strong to be resisted. _Poeta nascitur._ I can
+see the young lawyer-poet in his own "Dream Harbor," and can feel his
+glad response to the call from the dream-world:
+
+    "Winds of the South from the sunny beaches
+      Under the headland call to me;
+    And I am sick for the purple reaches,
+      Olive-fringed, by an idle sea.
+
+    "Where low waves of the South are calling
+      Out of the silent sapphire bay,
+    And slow tides are rising, falling,
+      Under the cliffs where the ripples play."
+
+It was natural that the sons of the late Henry Sabin should write
+acceptably. Though slightly older in years, Elbridge H. Sabin is
+younger in literature than his brother "Ed." The first decade of the
+new century was well advanced before Elbridge turned his attention
+from law to literature. The brief touch of life in the open given him
+while soldiering during the Spanish-American war may have suggested
+the change in his career. His first essay in authorship was "Early
+American History for Young Americans" (1904). He then turned his gaze
+skyward and in 1907 appeared "Stella's Adventures in Starland."
+Fairyland next invited him and in 1910 appeared "The Magical Man of
+Mirth," soon followed by "The Queen of the City of Mirth." In 1913
+appeared his "Prince Trixie."
+
+James B. Weaver, son of General Weaver, another lawyer with the poet
+soul, but with a somewhat firmer hold on "the things that are," has
+written much prose which only requires the touch of the _vers
+libre_ editor to turn it into poetry. His appreciation of Kipling
+and other poets and his fine character-sketches, as for example that
+of Martin Burke, pioneer stage-driver and farmer, are remembered with
+delight. Just once, many years ago, when, a happy father, he looked
+for the first time upon his "Baby Boy," the poet in his nature
+obtained the upper hand of the lawyer and he wrote:
+
+    "O golden head! O sunny heart!
+    Forever joyous be thy part
+    In this fair world; and may no care
+    Cut short thy youth, and may no snare
+    Entrap thy feet! I pray thee, God,
+    For smoother paths than I have trod."[7]
+
+          [7] Midland Monthly, March, 1897.
+
+Mr. Weaver was president of the Iowa Press and Authors Club in 1914-15
+and the success of the famous Iowa Authors' Homecoming in October,
+1914, was in large measure due to his untiring efforts.
+
+In that Great American Desert of "free verse," the Chicago magazine,
+_Poetry_, the persistent seeker can find here and there an oasis
+that will well repay his search. One of these surprises is a poem
+entitled "The Wife,"[8] by Mrs. Helen Cowles LeCron, of Des Moines. It
+is the plea of a longing soul for relief from the "sullen silence,"
+and the "great gaunt shadows" of the "shaggy mountains," and for a
+return to "the gentle land," and to "the careless hours when life was
+very sweet." Mrs. LeCron is a prolific writer of clever and timely
+verse for the press, and is a poet of many possibilities.
+
+          [8] Poetry, Chicago, June, 1913.
+
+Honore Willsie (whose maiden name is Dunbar) was born in Ottumwa,
+Iowa, is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin, and is a resident
+of New York City. To her able editorship may be attributed the new
+literary quality of _The Delineator_. It was Mrs. Willsie's
+varied successes as a writer of papers on social problems, sketches,
+short stories and serials which won for her the literary editorship of
+that popular periodical. Her success as a novelist mainly rests upon
+"Heart of the Desert," "Still Jim," and "Lydia of the Pines," all
+published within the last four years, and each stronger than its
+predecessor.
+
+A successful art publisher and an enthusiastic traveler, Thomas D.
+Murphy, a native Iowan, long a resident of Red Oak, is the author of a
+group of well-written and profusely illustrated books of travel, all
+written within the last decade, as follows: "British Highways and
+Byways"; "In Unfamiliar England"; "Three Wonderlands of the American
+West"; "On Old-World Highways"; and "On Sunset Highways."
+
+Allan Updegraff is a born Iowan whose fame has come early in life. His
+"Second Youth" (1917) is winning praise from the critics as "an
+agreeable contrast with the stuffy bedroom atmosphere" of many books
+of the period, as refreshingly "modest humor," and as having "touches
+of characterization and serious feeling" which keep up the interest to
+the close.
+
+Among the native Iowans who have distinguished themselves in
+literature is Willis George Emerson, of Denver, born near Blakesburg,
+Iowa. Mr. Emerson is author of "Buell Hampton," and a half-dozen other
+novels, the latest, "The Treasure of Hidden Mountain," also a hundred
+or more sketches and stories of travel.
+
+Of the well-known authors who, during the impressionable years of
+their youth resided for a time in Iowa, the most famous is "Mark
+Twain" (Samuel L. Clemens) who, after his _wanderjahr_, in the late
+summer of 1854, took the "Keokuk Packet" and landed in Muscatine,
+Iowa, and there became the guest of his brother, Orrin, and his
+sister, Jane. Early in the spring of '55, his brother meantime having
+married and removed to Keokuk, Iowa, he paid his brother another
+visit. Orrin offered him five dollars a week and board to remain and
+help him in his printing office. The offer was promptly accepted. The
+Keokuk episode extended over a period of nearly two years, "two vital
+years, no doubt, if all the bearings could be known." Here he made his
+first after-dinner speech, which delighted his audience. Here he made
+a record in a debating society. Unable to pay his brother his wages,
+Orrin took him in as a partner! A lucky find of a fifty-dollar bill
+enabled Twain to start on his travels. Meanwhile he contracted to
+write travel sketches for the Keokuk _Saturday Post_. His first letter
+was dated "Cincinnati, November 14, 1856." "It was written in the
+exaggerated dialect then considered humorous. The genius that a little
+more than ten years later would delight the world flickered feebly
+enough at twenty-one."[9] A second letter concluded the series! Years
+later, just before he joined the Holy Land excursion out of which grew
+his "Innocents Abroad," he visited Keokuk and delivered a lecture. He
+came again after his return from the trip, on his triumphal lecture
+tour across the continent. Years later he and Cable gave readings in
+Keokuk, and while there he arranged a permanent residence for his
+mother. In 1886, with his wife and daughter, he paid his mother a
+visit, renewing old acquaintances and making new friends. In August,
+1890, he was called to Keokuk by the last illness of his mother. It
+will thus be seen that, next to his home in Elmira, New York, his
+"heart's home" was Keokuk.
+
+          [9] Paine--Life of "Mark Twain."
+
+Nixon Waterman, author, journalist and lecturer, born in Newark,
+Illinois, and long a resident of Boston, was for several years an
+attache of a small daily paper in Creston, Iowa. Among his published
+works is a comedy entitled "Io, from Iowa." In his several books of
+verse are many poems evidently inspired by memories of old times on
+the prairies of southwestern Iowa. Here is an echo from the poet's
+lost youth:
+
+      "Strange how Memory will fling her
+      Arms about some scenes we bring her,
+    And the fleeting years but make them fonder grow;
+      Though I wander far and sadly
+      From that dear old home, how gladly
+    I recall the cherished scenes of long ago!"[10]
+
+          [10] "Memories" from "A Book of Verses," by Nixon Waterman,
+          1900.
+
+William Otis Lillibridge, of Sioux Falls, whose brilliant career as a
+novelist was closed by death in 1909, was graduated from the College
+of Dentistry, State University of Iowa, in 1898. His "Ben Blair" and
+"Where the Trail Divides," gave abundant promise.
+
+Randall Parish, though born in Illinois, was admitted to the bar in
+Iowa, and for a time was engaged in newspaper work in Sioux City.
+Since 1904, when he leaped into fame by his historical novel, "When
+Wilderness Was King," volume after volume has come from the press and
+every one has met with quick response from the public.
+
+It is hard to account for Herbert Quick. Born on a farm in Grundy
+County, Iowa, a teacher in Mason City and elsewhere in Iowa, a lawyer
+in Sioux City, mayor of Sioux City for three terms, a telephone
+manager, editor of _La Follette's Weekly_, editor of _Farm and
+Fireside_, democratic politician, at present an active member of
+the Federal Farm Loan Board--with all this record of service, Mr.
+Quick has somehow found time, since 1904, to make for himself a name
+and fame as a magazine contributor, and, too, as a novelist who writes
+novels so novel that they find thousands of readers! Among his best
+known books are "Aladdin & Co," "Virginia of the Air Lanes," and "On
+Board the Good Ship Earth." Mr. Quick is preeminently a twentieth
+century man of affairs. Immersed as he now is in farm loans, it would
+not surprise his friends at any time if he were to issue another
+compelling novel!
+
+Rupert Hughes, eminently successful as a novelist and dramatist,
+though Missouri-born, was for years a resident of Keokuk, Iowa, and
+his Iowa associations were so strong that he dropped everything to
+come halfway across the continent that he might participate in the
+reunion of Iowa authors in 1914. Mr. Hughes' books are among the
+best-selling and his plays among the best-drawing. This popular author
+has turned soldier. He was an officer of the New York National Guards
+in Mexico and again when war against Germany was declared he was among
+the first to respond to the call for troops.
+
+Dr. Edward A. Steiner, of Grinnell, Iowa, a sociologist with a vision,
+has done more than any other man to bring together in friendly working
+relationship our native-born and foreign-born Americans. He has not
+only gone up and down the earth preaching an applied Christianity, but
+he has also written into nearly a dozen books, all of which have had
+many readers, his own experiences in the old world and the new, and
+his valuable observations--those of a trained sociologist bent upon
+righting the wrongs of ignorance and selfishness as he has found them
+embedded in customs and laws. The World War has opened a large field
+of usefulness for the Grinnell preacher of national and international
+righteousness.
+
+Newell Dwight Hillis, the popular Brooklyn preacher, lecturer and
+author, was born in Maquoketa, Iowa, but has spent most of his life
+outside the state.
+
+A new name in fictional literature is that of Ethel Powelson Hueston.
+Mrs. Hueston was reared in a family of eleven children, and her
+popular first book, "Prudence of the Parsonage," written on a claim in
+Idaho while caring for her invalid husband--who died in 1915--is the
+story of her own experience in a parsonage in Mt. Pleasant, Iowa.
+"Prudence Says So" is a continuation of the story. Mrs. Hueston was
+recently married to Lieutenant Edward J. Best, at Golden, Colorado.
+
+Margaret Coulson Walker and Ida M. Huntington, both of Des Moines,
+have added to the information and delight of children by a number of
+illustrated books. Miss Walker's "Bird Legends and Life," and "Lady
+Hollyhock and Her Friends," and Miss Huntington's "Garden of Heart's
+Delight," and "Peter Pumpkin in Wonderland" are favorites with many.
+
+Miss Emilie Blackmore Stapp, literary editor of the _Des Moines
+Capital_, has written a number of popular stories for children. Her
+"Squaw Lady," "Uncle Peter Heathen," and "The Trail of the Go-Hawks"
+have found many readers. She has done more than write stories. She has
+organized a national club called the "Go-Hawks Happy Tribe," and the
+Tribe has undertaken to raise a million pennies to help buy food for
+starving children in France and Belgium. The grand total of pennies
+reported September, 1917, was 255,000!
+
+Edna Ferber, of "Emma McChesney" fame, and the author of a half-dozen
+clever novels, the latest of which is "Fanny Herself," was born in
+Wisconsin, but spent much of her youth in Ottumwa, Iowa, where her
+father was a successful merchant.
+
+Oney Fred Sweet, born in Hampton, Iowa, and sometime a journalist in
+Des Moines, has made a national reputation as a feature writer on the
+_Chicago Tribune_ and as a contributor of verse and sketches to the
+magazines.
+
+Laura L. Hinckley, of Mount Vernon, Iowa, is a frequent contributor to
+the leading magazines. Recent stories in the _Saturday Evening Post_
+and in the _Woman's Home Companion_ attest her ability in a difficult
+field.
+
+A promising young claimant for literary honors is (Lotta) Allen
+Meachem, of New York, born in Washington County, Iowa. Following
+several good stories in the magazines, comes her "Belle Jones--A Story
+of Fulfilment," published by Dutton.
+
+Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd, born in Iowa City, now a resident of New York,
+was in early life a teacher, but since 1898 has been on the staff of
+the _New York Sun_. Her "Misdemeanors of Nancy," in 1892, was the
+beginning of a successful career in authorship. Her "Nancy," "Bettina"
+and "Belinda" are better known to many than are their own next door
+neighbors.
+
+Men who have not learned to deny the eternal boy in their nature find
+as much enjoyment as boys themselves in reading "Widow O'Callahan's
+Boys," and everybody enjoys "Maggie McLanehan," both creations of
+Gulielma Zollinger, of Newton, Iowa. Three other books, not so well
+known, are added to the list of Miss Zollinger's achievements in
+literature.
+
+Mrs. Elizabeth (Eslick) Cooper, born in Homer, Iowa, has spent most of
+her adult life in the Orient and is an authority on the status of
+women in Oriental lands. She is the author of "Sayonara," a play
+produced by Maxine Elliot, of many magazine articles, and of a half
+dozen books, all published since 1910. Her books are vivid pictures of
+life in China, Egypt, Turkey and Japan.
+
+Among the most prominent magazine writers and journalists of the
+period is Judson Welliver. He several years ago graduated from Iowa
+journalism to the larger field, the national capital, and has latterly
+become one of the regular contributors to _Munsey's_, and a frequent
+contributor to other periodicals.
+
+Another prominent magazine writer is Joe Mitchell Chapple, early in
+life editor of a La Porte, Iowa, weekly. Mr. Chapple is the founder,
+publisher and editor of the _National Magazine_, Boston, and the
+author of "Boss Bart," a novel, and editor of a popular collection of
+verse.
+
+One of the youngest magazine writers forging to the front is Horace M.
+Towner, Jr., of Corning, Iowa, son of Congressman Towner. A long list
+might be made of his recent contributions to the leading magazines.
+
+A group of new writers, some of them Iowans, have happily been given a
+medium for reaching the public through the new _Midland_, of Iowa
+City. Mr. Frederick, the editor, has in the main evinced excellent
+judgment in the selection of stories, sketches and verse, and has won
+commendation from our severest Eastern critics. The new _Midland_ has,
+doubtless, started not a few middle-western authors on their way to
+the front in the field of literature.
+
+The World War has already added the names of several Iowans to the
+literature of the great struggle. The best known is James Norman Hall,
+of Colfax, Iowa, whose "Kitchener's Mob" and articles in the
+_Atlantic_ have added greatly to popular knowledge of conditions
+at the front. Already twice wounded, the first time in the trenches;
+the latest--may it be the last!--in the air, this brave young American
+can well say with Virgil, "all of which I saw and part of which I
+was." After his discharge from the English army, Mr. Hall went abroad
+commissioned to do literary work for Houghton, Mifflin & Company; but
+his zeal for the cause of the Allies, combined possibly with a young
+man's love of adventure, led him to re-enter the service, this time in
+the Aviation Corps. He is now (in September, 1917) slowly recovering
+from a shot which penetrated his left lung.
+
+The Gleasons, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Gleason, of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and
+of New York City, have both won honors in the Red Cross work in
+Belgium and incidentally have made valuable contributions to the
+"human interest" story of the World War. Mrs. Helen Hayes Gleason was
+the first American woman knighted by King Albert for meritorious
+service at the front. Mr. Gleason in his "Young Hilda at the Wars"
+begins his charming story of Hilda with this tribute to the state in
+which his wife first saw the light:
+
+"She was an American girl from the very prosperous State of Iowa,
+which if not as yet the mother of presidents, is at least the parent
+of many exuberant and useful persons. Will power is grown out yonder
+as one of the crops."
+
+"Golden Lads," by Mr. and Mrs. Gleason, is a vivid recital of
+experiences with the Hector Munro Ambulance Corps at the front in
+Belgium.
+
+Though the evaluations in this review are confined chiefly to _belles
+lettres_, it would not be fair to the reader to omit the state's large
+indebtedness to Dr. B. F. Shambaugh and his scholarly associates of
+the State Historical Society, of Iowa City, for their many valuable
+contributions to the general, social and economic history of Iowa; to
+Dr. Jesse Macy, of Grinnell, for his valuable studies in the science
+of government; to the late Samuel Calvin, also to Dr. Thomas H.
+McBride, of the State University, Dr. Louis H. Pammel, of the State
+College, and Dr. Charles Keyes, of Des Moines, for their contributions
+to science; to Dr. Charles H. Weller, of the State University, for his
+"Athens and Its Monuments," and other works throwing light upon an
+ancient civilization; to George E. Roberts, of New York, a native
+Iowan, for his clear elucidation of national and world problems; to
+the late Judges Kinne, Deemer and MacLean, and other jurists for
+standard works on jurisprudence; to Carl Snyder, Woods Hutchinson and
+a host of other Iowans who are contributing to the current literature
+of our time.
+
+This review, incomplete at best, would be unfair to the president of
+the Iowa Press and Authors Club were it to conclude without mention of
+the inspiration of her leadership. Mrs. Alice Wilson Weitz began life
+as a journalist at the Iowa State Capital. In the course of her busy
+and successful later career as wife, mother and public-spirited
+citizen, she has somehow found time to write on literary and timely
+themes. Her latest contribution to the state of her birth is a
+scenario entitled "The Wild Rose of Iowa" which was to have been
+produced on the screen in all the cities of the state; but,
+unfortunately, the film, prepared with great labor and expense, and
+with the aid of some of the best dramatic talent in Iowa, was
+destroyed or lost on the way from Chicago to Des Moines. It is to be
+hoped that this may soon be reproduced, for Mrs. Weitz' scenario
+admirably presented in symbol the whole story of Iowa's wonderful
+development from savagery to twentieth-century civilization.
+
+A list of Iowa State University publications--a pamphlet of forty-one
+pages--includes hundreds of monographs, dissertations, etc., covering
+a wide range of original research.
+
+It must have become evident from this incomplete review that Iowa is
+literarily, to say the least, no longer inarticulate. It is equally
+apparent, to those who really know their Iowa, that, far from being a
+dead level of uninteresting prosperity, our state is rich in
+suggestive literary material, ready and waiting for the authors of the
+future. Topographically, Iowa abounds in surprises. In the midst of
+her empire of rich rolling prairie are lakes and rivers, rugged cliffs
+and wooded hills, villages and cities set upon hills overlooking
+beautiful valleys through which streams wind their way seaward, her
+east and west borders defended by castellated rocks overlooking our
+two great rivers. Ethnologically, within these borders are communities
+of blanket Indians still living in wigwams, surrounded by communities
+in which are practiced all the arts of an advanced civilization.
+Sociologically, side by side with her native-born and native-bred
+citizens, are communities of Christian Socialists, also remnants of a
+French experiment in Communism, Quakers, Mennonites, anti-polygamous
+Mormons, and whole regions in which emigrants from Holland, Germany
+and Scandinavia are slowly and surely acquiring American habits of
+thought and life. Historically speaking, we have the early and late
+pioneer period with its rapid adjustment to new conditions, with its
+multiform perils developing latent heroism, its opportunities for
+character-building and for public service. Later the heroic period,
+during which a peace-loving people quit the plow, the workshop, the
+country store, the office and even the pulpit, to rally to the defence
+of the Union. Then, the reconstruction and the new-construction
+period, in which Iowa prospered under the leadership of _men_--men who
+knew their duties as well as their rights, men who recognized, and
+insisted upon recognition of, that "sovereign law, the state's
+collected will." And now, an epoch of reviving patriotism coupled with
+a world-embracing passion for democracy, in which the youths and young
+men of the state are consecrating their strength, their talents and
+their lives to a great cause.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prairie Gold, by Various
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
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author	Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org>	2025-10-14 20:13:49 -0700
committer	Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org>	2025-10-14 20:13:49 -0700
commit	295582de19e8c10ab95b0378c5da5e7fa541cc00 (patch)
tree	3a2d1d7375aa6d13bab81597801dc1b18d621881