Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Free Classic E-books

The Defenders of Democracy

Part 4 out of 6

Adobe PDF icon
Download The Defenders of Democracy - Full Text Free Book (Part 4/6) pdf
File size: 0.6 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

The vast plantations of posterity.

["Odes Modernas, by Anthero de Quental, translated by George Young.]

[signed] Lilian E. Elliott.

October 20, 1917.


Williams College, April, 1917

One! two, three, four!
One! two, three, four!
One, two!...
It is hard to keep in time
Marching through
The rutted slime
With no drum to play for you.
One! two, three, four!
And the shuffle of five hundred feet
Till the marching line is neat.

Then the wet New England valley
With the purple hills around
Takes us gently, musically,
With a kindly heart and willing,
Thrilling, filling with the sound
Of our drilling.

Battle fields are far away.
All the world about me seems
The fulfillment of my dreams.
God, how good it is to be
Young and glad to-day!

One! two, three, four!
One, two, three!...

Now, as never before,
From the vastness of the sky,
Falls on me the sense of war.
Now, as never before,
Comes the feeling that to die
Is no duty vain and sore.
Something calls and speaks to me:
Cloud and hill and stream and tree;
Something calls and speaks to me,
From the earth, familiarly.
I will rise and I will go,
As the rivers flow to sea,
As the sap mounts up the tree
That the flowers may blow--
God, my God,
All my soul is out of me!

God, my God,
Your world is much too beautiful! I feel
My senses melt and reel,
And my heart aches as if a sudden steel
Had pierced me through and through.
I cannot bear
This vigorous sweetness in your air;
The sunlight smites me heavy blow on blow,
My soul is black and blue
And blind and dizzy. God, my mortal eyes
Cannot resist the onslaught of your skies!
I am no wind, I cannot rise and go
Tearing in madness to the woods and sea;
I am no tree,
I cannot push the earth and lift and grow;
I am no rock
To stand unmovable against this shock.
Behold me now, a too desirous thing,
Passionate lover of your ardent Spring,
Held in her arms too fast, too fiercely pressed
Against her thundering breast
That leaps and crushes me!

One! two, three, four!
One! two, three, four!
One, two, three!...

So it shall be
In Flanders or in France. After a long
Winter of heavy burdens and loud war,
I will forget, as I do now, all things
Except the perfect beauty of the earth.
Strangely familiar, I will hear a song,
As I do now, above the battle roar,
That will set free my pent imaginings
And quiet all surprise.
My body will seem lighter than the air,
Easier to sway than a green stalk of corn;
Heaven shall bend above me in its mirth
With flutter of blue wings;
And singing, singing, as to-day it sings,
The earth will call to me, will call and rise
And take me to its bosom there to bear
My mortal-feeble being to new birth
Upon a world, this world, like me reborn,
Where I shall be
Alive again and young again and glad and free.

One! two, three, four!
One! two, three, four!
One, two, three!...

All the world about me seems
The fulfillment of my dreams.

[signed] Salomon De La Selva.

The People's Struggle

"Let no free country be alien to the freedom of another country."

"Portugal is going solemnly to affirm on the field of battle her
adhesion to this precept, though uttered by German lips. In defense
of it, Portuguese will fight side by side with Englishmen, as they
fought with them at Aljubarrota, side by side with Frenchmen, who
fought with them at Montes Claros. Were it necessary to appeal
to a motive less disinterested than the noble ideal proclaimed by
Schiller, we have this: the payment of an ancient debt to which
our honor binds us. Let us go forward to defend territories of
those who defended ours, let us maintain the independence of nations
who contributed to the salvation of our own independence.

"But the objective is a higher one, I repeat. This has been made
quite clear within the last few months, through the revolution in
Russia, the participation of the United States, and the solidarity,
more or less effective, of all the democracies. It is the people's
struggle for right, for liberty, for civilization against the dark
forces of despotism and barbarism. Portugal would betray her historic
mission were she now to fold her arms, the arms which discovered
worlds. When the earth was given to man, it was not that it should
be peopled by slaves. The sails of Portuguese ships surrounded
the globe like a diadem of stars, not as a collar of darkness to
strangle it."

Henrique Lopes De Mendonca

of the Academy of Science of Lisbon, speaking at Lisbon in May,

Translation by L. E. Elliott.


Lisbon, 18th August, 1917

I have received your letter of August 2nd, in which you ask me, as
representing Portugal, to send a message to the American people to
be printed in the book "Defenders of Democracy," and state that a
distinguished Portuguese official has been good enough to mention
my name to you as that of "an authoritative writer on Portuguese

I am sensible of the honor done me, but not being a citizen of
Portugal, I dare not presume to speak for that country.

A foreigner however, with friends in both the camps in which
Portuguese society is divided, may perhaps be able to state some
facts unknown to the American public and of interest at the present

And first let me remark that the entry of America into the war,
which is a pledge of victory for the Allies, has been a surprise
and a relief to the Portuguese, who are by nature pessimists. We
Anglo-Saxons are considered to be mainly guided in our conduct by
material considerations--did not Napoleon call the English "a nation
of shopkeepers"?--and the saying "Time is money" is frequently
quoted against us; hence hardly any Portuguese imagined that America
would abandon the neutrality which seemed commercially profitable,
and even after the decision had been taken, few though that the United
States were capable of raising a large army and of transporting it

Now that America and Portugal are fighting side by side, in a
common cause, it is well that they should understand one another.
For all their differences of race, religion and language, their
ideas are similar. The Portuguese being kindly, easy-going folk,
hate militarism and the reign of brute force which is identified
with German "Kultur." As they prize their independence and know
their weakness, both inclination and necessity lead them to the
side of the powers who may be supposed to favor the continuance
of their separate existence and the retention by them of their
colonies; as they have a keen sense of justice, and respect their
engagements, they feel and have shown their sympathy with violated
and outraged Belgium and with the other victims of German aggression.
Why then, it may be asked, did they not support whole-heartedly
the Government of the Republic when it determined to take part in
the war? The answer is simple.

They felt that their first duty was to protect their colonies,
threatened by the enemy, and that in a war where the combatants
are counted by millions, the small contingent that Portugal could
furnish would be of little weight on the battlefields of Europe.
Unless treaty obligations and considerations of honor forced them
to be belligerents, they considered that as Portugal was poor and
had relatively to population almost the heaviest public debt of
any European Country, they ought to remain neutral--that this view
was mistaken is daily becoming clearer to them, thanks in part
to the propaganda of the Catholic paper "Ordem" and the official
Monarchist journal "Diario Nacional," which have insisted as
strongly as the Republican press on the necessity of Portuguese
participation in the war, in accord with her ancient traditions. He
who risks nothing, gains nothing. By her present heavy sacrifices
for a great ideal, Portugal wins a fresh title to universal
consideration, and by helping to vanquish Germany she defends her
oversea patrimony, which the Germans proposed to annex.

I have said that the ideas of the United States and Portugal
are similar. But the pressing needs of Portugal are a competent
administration, public order and social discipline, which Germany
possesses to a remarkable degree, and admiration of these has laid
Portuguese Conservatives open to the charge of being pro-German.
Many of them judge from experience that the desiderata I refer to
cannot be secured in a democracy, while a few of them have gone so
far as to desire a German triumph, because they foolishly thought
that the Kaiser would restore the monarchy. None of them, I
think, sympathize with German methods; but they have suffered from
a century of revolutions, dating from 1820, and attribute these
disasters to the anti-Christian ideas of the French Revolution. In
America that great movement had beneficent results, as I understand,
which only shows that one man's drink is another's poison.

Divergent ideals and other considerations led Portuguese Conservatives
to throw their influence into the scale in favor of neutrality,
but now that their country is at war they have accepted the fact
and can be trusted to do their duty. At the front political and
other differences are forgotten and the soldiers, whatever their
creed, are honoring the warlike traditions of their race and reminding
us of the days when Wellington spoke of Portuguese troops as the
"fighting-cocks" of his army.

By organizing with great efforts and sending a properly trained
and equipped expeditionary force to France, the Government of the
Republic has deserved well of the country and the Allies, and I
believe that it has unconsciously been the agent of Divine Providence.
The men, when they return will bring with them a firmer religious
faith, the foundation of national well-being, and a higher standard
of conduct than prevails here at present; they may well prove the
regenerators of a land which all who know it learn to love, a land,
the past achievements of whose sons in the cause of Christianity and
civilization are inscribed on the ample page of history. Portugal
which produced so many saints and heroes, which founded the sea
road to India and discovered and colonized Brazil, cannot be allowed
longer to vegetate, for this in the case of a country means to die.

[signed] Edgar Prestage


An Interpretation

A Serbian politician, conversing with a traveler from Western Europe,
mentioned the words "a nice national balance;" and when the other,
bored to death with the everlasting wrangle of the turbulent
Balkans, tried to lead the conversation to Shakespeare and the
Musical Glasses, away from Macedonia and Albania and "komitadjis"
and Kotzo-Vlachs, the Serbian remarked with a laugh that the nice
national balance of which he was speaking was not political, but
economic and social.

"You see," he said, "we Serbians are born peasants, born agriculturists,
men of the glebe and the plow. The Roumanian, on the other hand,
is a born financier. Gold comes to his hand like fish to bait.
He comes to Serbia to make money--and he makes it."

"But," said the Western European, "isn't that rather hard on the

"No! Not a bit! For it is the young Serbian who marries the
Roumanian's daughter, and the young Serbian girl who marries the
Roumanian's son. Thus the Serbian money, earned by the Roumanian,
is still kept in the country. You know," he added musingly, "the
Roumanians are a singularly handsome, a singularly engaging people.
I myself married a Roumanian."

"A rich Roumanian's daughter, I suppose?"

"Heavens, no! A poor girl."

And he added with superb lack of logic:

"Who wouldn't marry a Roumanian--be she rich--OR poor!"


The secret of the Balkans is contained in that simple rhetoric

For, clear away from the days when the Slavs made their first
appearance in Southern Europe and, crossing the Danube, came to
settle on the great, green, rolling plain between the river and
the jagged frowning Balkan Mountains, the proceeded southwards and
formed colonies among the Thraco-Illyrians, the Roumanians, and
the Greeks, to the days of Michael the Brave who drove the Turks
to the spiked gates of Adrianople and freed half the peninsula for
a span of years; from the days when gallant King Mirtsched went
down to glorious defeat amongst the Osmanli yataghans to the final
day when the Russian Slav liberated the Roumanian Latin from the
Turkish yoke, the Roumanian has held high the torch of civilization
and culture.

Latin civilization!

Latin culture!

Latin ideals!

Straight through, he has been the Western leaven in an Eastern

Geographically, the Fates were unkind to him.

For he stood in the path of the most gigantic racial movements
of the world. His land was the scene of savage racial struggles.
His rivers ran red with the blood of Hun and Slav, of Greek and
Albanian, of Osmanli and Seljuk. His fields and pastures became
the dumping-ground of residual shreds of a dozen and one nations
surviving from great defeats or Pyrrhic victories and nursing
irreconcilable mutual racial hatreds.

But the old Latin spirit proved stronger than Fate, stronger than
numbers, stronger than brute force. It proved strong enough to
assimilate the foreign barbarians, instead of becoming assimilated
by them. It was strong enough to wipe out every trace of Asian and
Slavic taint. It was strong enough to keep intact the Latin idea
against the steely shock of Asian hordes, the immense, crushing
weight of Slave fatalism, the subtleties of Greek influence.

The Roumanian is a Roman.

His cultural ideal was, and is, of the West, of Rome of France--AND
of Himself; and he has kept it inviolate through military and
political disaster, through slavery itself.

Roumania has remained a window of Europe looking toward Asia as
surely and as steadily as Petrograd was a window of Asia looking
toward Europe.

The Roumanian is proud of his Latin descent; and he shows his ancestry
not only in his literature, his art, and his every day life, but
also, perhaps chiefly, in his government which is practically a
safe and sane oligarchy, modeled on that of ancient Florence, and,
be it said, fully as successful as that of the Florentine Republic.

Latin, too, is his diplomacy. It is clean--AND clever. It is the
big stick held in a velvet glove. It is supremely able. He seeks
a great advantage with a modest air, in contrast to the Greek who
seeks a modest advantage with a grandiloquent air.

He seeks no "réclame," but goes ahead serenely, unfalteringly,
sure in his knowledge that he is the torch-bearer of ancient Rome
in the savage Balkans.

[signed] Achmed Abdullah

The Soul of Russia

There is a strange saying in Russia that no matter what happens to
a man, good results to him thereby. No matter what hair-breadth
escapes he has, what calamities he faces, what hardships he undergoes,
he emerges more powerful, more experienced from the ordeal. Danger
and privation are more beneficial in the long run than peace and
joy. A nation of some fifty different races gradually melting into
one, a country covering a territory of one-sixth of the surface
of the earth and a population of 185,000,000, the Russians have
remained to the outside world the apaches of Europe, wild tribes
of the steppes. In the imagination of an average American or
Englishman, Russia was something Asiatic, something connected with
the barbaric East, a country beyond the horizon. It was considered
as lacking in culture and civilization, and as a menace to the
West. "Nichevo, sudiba!"--(It doesn't matter, everything is fate)
replies a Russian, crossing himself. The whole psychology of the
Slavic race is crystallized in these two impressionistic words.

What John Ruskin said in his famous historic essay applies to
Russia: "I found that all the great nations learned their truth of
word and strength of thought in war." Every great Russian reform
has taken place suddenly as a consequence of some nation-wide calamity.
The Tartar invasion united Russia into one powerful nation; the
Crimean War abolished the feudal system; the Russo-Turkish War
gave the judicial reforms and abolished capital punishment; the
Russo-Japanese War gave the preliminary form of Constitutional
government in the Duma; the present war is opening the soul of Russia
to the world by giving an absolute democratic form of government
to the united Slavic race. The present war will reveal that Russia
the known has been the very opposite extreme of Russia the unknown.

The outside world is wondering how the Russian character will fit
in with the aspirations of democracy. They cannot reconcile the
Russia of pogroms and Serbia with the Russia of wonderful municipal
theaters, great artists, writers, musicians and lovers of humanity.
The world has known the tyrants like Plehve, Trepoff, Orloff and
Stolypin, or others like Rasputin, Protopopoff and forgets that
Russia has also produced geniuses like Dostoyewsky, Turgenieff,
Tchaikowsky, Tolstoy, Moussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Mendeleyeff
and Metchnikoff. The world has looked at Russia as a land of
uncultivated steppes, of frozen ground, hungry bears and desperate
Cossacks, and forgets that in actuality this is the Russia of
the past very extreme surface and next to it is a Russia of great
civilization and the highest art, unknown yet to the West generally.

One of the strangest peculiarities of Russian life is that you
will find the greatest contrasts everywhere. Here you will see the
most luxurious castles, cathedrals, convents, villas and estates;
there you will find the most desolate huts of the moujiks and lonely
hermit caves in the wilds of Siberia. Here you will meet the most
selfish chinovnik, the most fanatic desperado or reckless bureaucrat;
there you face the noblest men and women, supermen, physically
and mentally. You will find that all Russian life is full of such
mental and physical contrasts.

This is the dualism that confronts like a sphinx the foreigners.
In the same way you will find that the Russian homes are full of
contrasting colors, bright red and yellow, white and blue. The
Russian music is the most dramatic phonetic art ever created; it
reaches the deepest sorrow and the gayest hilarity and joy. Dreamy,
romantic, imaginary, simple, hospitable and childlike as an average
moujik, is the soul of the people. Nowhere is there a hint of
those qualities which are thrown up as dark shadows on the canvas
of his horizon. While with one hand Russia has been conquering the
world, with the other she has been creating the most magnificent
masterpieces of humanity. In the same generation she produces a
Plehve and a Tolstoy, both in a way, true to national type.

In the popular American imagination, which invariably seizes upon
a single point, three things stand out as representative of Russia:
the moujiks, the Cossacks and the Siberian penal system. The vast
unknown spaces between these three have been filled in with the
dark colors of poverty and oppression, so that a Russian is looked
upon as an outcast of evolution, an exile of the ages.

the Russia of the dark powers is past; thus soon will pass the
Russian chinovnik, the Russian spy and the Russian gloom, who have
been a shadow of the Slavic race. From now all the world will
listen to the majestic masterpieces of the Russian composers, see
the infinite beauty of the Russian life and feel the greatness
of the Russian soul. Not only has Russia her peculiar racial
civilization, her unique art and literature, and national traditions,
but she has riches of which the outside world knows little, riches
that are still buried. The Russian stage, art galleries, archives,
monastery treasuries and romantic traits of life remain still a
sealed book to the outsiders. Take for instance, Russian music, the
operas of Rimsky-Korsakoff, the plays of Ostrowsky and the symphonies
of Reinhold Gliere or Spendiarov and you will have eloquent chapters
of a modern living Bible. No music of another country is such a
true mirror of a nation's racial character, life, passion, blood,
struggle, despair and agony, as the Russian. One can almost see
in its turbulent-lugubrious or buoyant-hilarious chords the rich
colors of the Byzantine style, the half Oriental atmosphere that
surrounds everything with a romantic halo.

The fundamental purpose of the pathfinders of Russian art, music,
literature and poetry was to create beauties that emanated, not
from a certain class or school, but directly from the souls of the
people. Their ideal was to create life from life. Though profound
melancholy seems to be the dominant note in Russian music and art,
yet along with the dramatic gloom go also reckless hilarity and
boisterous humor, which often whirl one off one's feet. This is
explained by the fact that the average Russian is extremely emotional
and consequently dramatic in his artistic expressions. Late Leo
Tolstoy said to me on one occasion: "In our folksong and folk
art is evidently yearning without end, without hope, also power
invisible, the fateful stamp of destiny, and the fate in preordination,
one of the fundamental principles of our race, which explains much
that in Russian life seems incomprehensible for the foreigners."

Thus the Russian art and soul in their very foundations are already
democratic, simple, direct and true to the ethnographic traits of
the race. In the same way you will find the Russian home life,
the peasant communities, the zemstvoe institutions, offsprings of
an extremely democratic tendency, perhaps far more than any such
institution of the West. Instead of the rich or noblemen absorbing
the land of the peasants, we find in Russia the peasant commune
succeeding tot he property of the baron. An average Russian
peasant is by far more democratic and educated, irrespective of
his illiteracy than an average farmer of the New World. He has
the culture of the ages in his traditions, religion and national
folk-arts. Russia has more than a thousand municipal theaters,
more than a hundred grand operas, more than a hundred colleges and
universities or musical conservatories. Russia has a well-organized
system of cooperative banks and stores and a marvelous artelsystem of
the working professional classes which in its democratic principles
surpasses by far the labor union systems of the West. Herr von
Bruggen, the eminent German historian writes of the Russian tendency
as follows: "Wherever the Russian finds a native population in
a low state of civilization, he knows how to settle down with it
without driving it out or crushing it; he is hailed by the natives
as the bringer of order, as a civilizing power."

I have always preached and continue to do so in the future, that
Russia and the United States should join hands, know and love each
other, the sooner the better. Russia needs the active spirit,
the practical grasp of the things, which the people of the United
States possess. Nothing will help and inspire an average Russian
more than the sincere democratic hand of an American. A dose
of American optimism and active spirit is the best toxin for free
Russia. On the other hand, the American needs just as much Russian
emotionalism, aesthetic culture and mystic romanticism, as he can
give of his racial qualities.

The old system having gone, Russia is free to open her national,
spiritual and physical treasures. For some time to come neither
Germany nor other European countries, will be able to go to Russia,
for even if the war does not last long, its havoc will take years
to repair. Endless readjustments will have to take place in each
country affected by the war. Russia, being more an agricultural,
intellectual-aristocratical country, will fell least of all
the after effects of the past horrors, therefore has the greatest
potentialities. There is not only a great work, adventure
and romance that waits an American pioneer in Russia, but a great
mission which will ultimately benefit both nations. It should be
understood that the Russian democracy will not be based upon the
economic-industrial, but aesthetic-intellectual principles of life.
It is not the money, the financial power that will play the dominant
role in free Russia, but the ideal, the dramatic, the romantic
or mystic tendency. Money will never have that meaning in Russia
which it has in the West. It will be the individual, the emotional,
the great symbol of the mystic beyond, that will speak from future
democratic Russia only in a different and more dynamic form, as it
has been speaking in the past.

As Lincoln is the living voice of the American people, thus Tolstoy
is and remains the glorified Russian peasant uttering his heart to
the world. The voice of this man alone is sufficient to tell the
outside world that the Russian democracy is a creation not of form
and economics but of spirit and aesthetics.

[signed]Ivan Narodny

Author of "Echoes of Myself," "The Dance," "The Art of Music," X
Volume, etc.

The American Bride

Petka had been for years a village tailor but he had never been
able to save enough money to open a grocery-store. He hated his
profession and hated to think that he could never get anything higher
in the social rank of the place than what he was. While the name
of a tailor sounded to him so cheap, that of a merchant flattered
his ambition immensely. But there was no chance to earn the five
hundred rubles, which, he thought, was necessary to change the

"If I marry a poor peasant girl like Tina or Vera, I'll never get
anywhere," soliloquized Petka and made plans for his future.

Petka knew a girl with two hundred ruble-dowry, but she was awfully
homely and deaf; and he knew a widow with three hundred rubles, but
she was twenty years older than himself. It was a critical situation.

One day Petka heard that the daughter of an old peddler had a
dowry of five hundred rubles, exactly the amount he needed. After
careful planning of the undertaking he hired a horse and drove
to the lonely cottage of the rag peddler to whom he explained as
clearly as he could, the purpose of his visit.

"My Liz ain't at home," the old man replied. "She is in that
distant country called America. Good Lord, Liza is a lady of some
distinction. If you should see her on the street you would never
take her for my daughter. She wears patent-leather shoes, kid-gloves,
corsets and such finery. Why, I suppose she has a proposal for
every finger, if not more. She is some girl, I tell you."

Petka listened with throbbing heart to the thrilling story of the
old man, scratched his head and said:

"I suppose that she is employed in some high class establishment
or something like that?"

"Of course, she is," grunted the peddler proudly. "She might be
employed or she might not. She has written to me that she is a
lady all right."

"What is her special occupation?"

"She is employed as the waitress in a lunch-room on the so called
Second Avenue corner at New York. And her salary reaches often
thirty dollars a month, which represents a value in our money of
something over sixty rubles. Now that is not a joke. She has all
the food and lodging free. Why, it's a real gold-mine."

"Has she saved already much?"

"She has five hundred dollars in the savings bank, and she has all
the hats and shoes, and gloves and such stuff that would make our
women faint. So you see she is the real thing."

The happy father pulled the daughter's letter from the bottom of
his bed and reached it over to the visitor. Petka read and reread
the letter with breathless curiosity. In the letter which was
also a small snap-shot picture of the girl. Petka looked at the
picture and did not know what to say. To judge from her photograph,
she was a frail spinster, with high cheekbones, a long neck and a
nose like a frozen potato. But the trimming of her hair, her city
hat with flowers, and her whole American bearing made her interesting
enough to the ambitious tailor. For a long time he was gazing at
the picture and thinking.

"Do you think that Liza would marry a man like me? I am a well
known tailor. But I have now a chance to become a merchant in our
village. I need some money to make up the difference, and why not
try the luck? Liza might be a well known waitress in New York,
but to be a merchant's wife is a different thing. Don't you think
she might consider my proposal seriously?"

The old peddler puffed at his pipe, walked to the window and back
as if measuring the matter most seriously.

"It all depends--you know Liza is a queer girl--it all depends on
how you strike her with a strong letter. You could not go to New
York and make the proposal personally. It has to be done by mail.
It all depends how well the letter is written, how everything is
explained and how the idea of being a merchant's wife strikes her.
She is a queer girl, like all the American women are."

"Can your Liza read and write letters?"

"Of course, she can. Liza is a lady of some standing. She can
write and read like our priest. She is a highly educated girl."

"So you think a strong letter will fix her up?"

"Exactly. And tell her everything you plan to do."

Petka took Liza's address, drank a glass of vodka to the success
of the plan and left the old peddler still harping on his daughter.
All the way home and many days afterwards Petka could think of nothing
else. It seemed to him the greatest opportunity in the world to
marry a girl from America. But now and then he got skeptical of
his ability to get such a prize. However, he decided to try. He
admitted that the whole success lay in the shaping of a strong and
convincing letter and sending it to her properly. Petka knew how
to write letters, but the question was would his style be impressive
enough to influence a girl in America to come to Russia and marry
a man whom she had never seen? However, Petka knew Platon, the
village saloon-keeper, as the most gifted man for that purpose.
But in a case like this he hated to take anybody into his confidence.

After arriving home Petka began to practice, writing a love letter
every day. But nothing came of it. One letter was too mild, the
other too extravagant. Finally he gave it up, and whispered his
secret to the inn-keeper, saying:

"Now, old man, do me the great favor and I'll fix you up when I get
her dowry. I want the letter to be strong and tender at the same

The inn-keeper consented. But Petka had to tell all the details
and the specifications. Evan Platon admitted that it required some
skill to write the letter. When he had thought the matter over
carefully, made some notes and discussed the subject with Petka
from every angle, he took a long sheet of paper, glued a rose in
the corner and wrote as follows:

"Highly respected Mademoiselle Liza:--You have never been in our
village, but it is a peach. I am the cream of the place. I have
here all the girls I need. I have a house and my business. But
the point is I want to open a store and need a wife with experience.
We have all the money. But I need some capital to begin. As you
have all that and besides, I have fallen in love with you, I lay
the offer before your tender feet. Your beautiful image has haunted
me day and night, and your wonderful eyes follow me in my dreams,
oh, you lovely rose! If you are ready to marry a merchant like
myself, do not waste any time, but come over and let's have a marriage
ceremony as the world has never seen here. However, before you do
come, send me an early reply with a rosy yes. Most affectionately
and respectfully, Petka Petroff."

"It's bully, it's superb," praised the tailor. "But it lacks the
tender touch. It lacks that style which the city women like."

"I put in the punch, but you can add a love poem from some school-book
if you like," protested the inn-keeper. "The city girls are funny
creatures. Sometimes they like the finger, other times the fist.
Who knows the taste of your Liza! The waitresses of big cities
are usually broad-minded and highly educated."

After the poem was added and another rose glued on the corner of
the letter, it was mailed, registered, with a note "highly urgent,"
and Petka breathed freely, like one who had survived a great ordeal.

Two months of heavy waiting passed and still no reply from Liza.
Petka was like one on thorns. His strange romance was already
known to his neighbors and now everybody was expecting the letter
from America to furnish the most sensational news in all the world.

One afternoon as the tailor was sewing a pair of trousers the
alderman of the village brought him a registered letter from America.
Nearly half the village population had gathered outside, curious
to hear the content of the letter. Petka took tremblingly and
greatly excited the letter and rushed to Platon, the inn-keeper,
all the time followed by the crowd. All the audience gathered in
the inn and Platon was instructed to read it aloud to the gathering.
As it was a ceremonial event of rare occasion, the inn-keeper stood
up, and began in a solemn voice:

"My dear Petka: I am most happy to reply to your valued letter
of the fifteenth of July, that I am glad to accept your proposal.
But everything must be all right. I can marry only a man of the
merchant class. I know the business and I can supply you with the
capital you need. But you must remember that I do not like to be
fooled and marry a man beneath me. No peasant or tailor for me.
I stand here very high and cannot ruin my name. You have not told
me your age, but I suppose you are not an old fogey. I will follow
this letter next month, so you fix the wedding ceremony, secure all
the musicians and manage the meals, drinks and such necessities.
If this is not agreeable cable me. Your Liza."

While Platon was reading the letter Petka gazed dreamily out of
the window and built, not an air castle, but a large grocery store,
with showy windows. It seemed as if he saw his store already
opened, the people going and coming, the shelves filled with cans
and packages. The sign "Merchant Petka" hung in his eyes.

The letter was like a bomb in the idyllic village. Plans were made
of the wedding date and elaborate ceremony. The village Luga had
never witnessed yet a marriage ceremony of this magnitude. The
American bride was like a fairy princess of some ancient times.
Petka was like one in a trance. But Vasska, the blacksmith, opposed
to the idea of such a strange marriage, pounded his hand against
the bar, exclaiming:

"Liza may be all right, but Petka should not marry her. What do
we know about an American woman? What do we know about her habits?
I've been told funny stories about such strange women. I've heard
that nearly every American woman paints her cheeks, dyes her hair,
wears false teeth, puts up bluffs and does everything to deceive a
man. Spit at her capital. Besides, this American Liza is a woman
whom nobody here knows."

The blacksmith's arguments were taken seriously by the others and
a gloom came over the gathered gossips. But the inn-keeper, who
was always optimistic, replied:

"American Liza must be a refined girl, and she has the money. That's
what Petka wants, and that's what he will get. So we better let
the wedding take place and see what will happen. I've heard that
an American woman looks at the marriage as a business proposition,
so we let her do what she pleases."

"Business or no business, but we take the marriage seriously. If
a man makes up his mind that he likes a woman, he must marry her,
and once he has married her, no ax or pike shall separate them. No
monkeying with married men or women thereafter," argued the serious

Petka turned the conversation to the subject of the wedding meals
and music. The whole program of the ceremony was analyzed and
discussed in detail, some maintaining that the American custom
was to eat with forks and knives from the plates, others that only
uncooked meat was eaten and frogs served as delicacies. Finally
the entertainment was arranged and the blacksmith remarked:

"All city women like fun and don't care about serious affairs.
They have the theaters and operas for amusements, so we better get
a real amusement for American Liza. The best fun would be a huge
hurdy-gurdy or something of that kind, an instrument with sensation.
Our village violins and harps are too mild for women like that

After discussing the matter at length, the inn-keeper agreed to take
care of the entertainment. A short cable was composed and sent to
Liza and the wedding date clearly explained. All the village got
alive with the news that Petka was to marry an American girl by

The three weeks of preparation for the wedding festival passed like
a dream. The Sunday, that was to be the final date, began bright
and cheerful. Petka was hustling to and fro in his newly rented
house, the front of which was to be arranged for the grocery store,
strutted like a big rooster preparing the affairs of his flock. At
the entrance of the house was hung a big flag. Long tables were
arranged in all the rooms, covered with meats, drinks and delicacies,
all prepared in the village. Women were still busy baking other
foods, frying meats and boiling water for tea or drinks. Everybody
was busy and everything looked most solemn and impressive. The
host was dressed in a picturesque new suit of clothes with a silk
scarf around his neck.

While the groom was busy with preparing his heart for joy, the
inn-keeper was solving the problem of the entertainment. He had
constructed, what he thought to be distinctly American, a huge
music-box, which was to produce the most wonderful tones ever
heard. This instrument had the appearance of a big wine-cask and
yet a street-organ at the same time, and was an invention of the
ingenious inn-keeper. It was practically a barrel, covered with
illustrations of old Sunday newspapers and county-fair posters.
To its side was fastened an improvised lever, made from a broken
cart-wheel. Under this barrel, concealed so that no one could see
within, were placed three most prominent musicians of the village,
Ivan with his violin, Semen with his concertina and Nicholas with
his drum. As soon as the conductor outside pulled a string, the
lever began to turn around and the musicians in the barrel had to
start to play. In the corner of the house this strange instrument
looked like a mysterious engine, one knew not whether to expect it
to develop into a flying or moving picture machine.

At last everything was ready. The guests began to arrive and the
carriage was sent to the town to bring the bride. Everybody was
in festival attire and all tuned to expect the utmost excitements
the village had ever had. One could see the people in groups of
three or four, discussing in a high pitch of voice the wonders of
the wedding festival or venturing various guesses about the American
bride. The village girls, who were not a little jealous, nudged
each other and exchanged meaning glances, that Petka was to get
in a fix he had never been before. All were anxious to see the
arrival of the two thousand-ruble bride. The blacksmith and the
inn-keeper were discussing something excitedly.

"Say what you want, but this kind of matrimonial affair is the
limit," argued the blacksmith, pushing back his hat. "I can't see
how a woman comes such a distance and so many weeks to marry Petka,
whom she has never seen, and how Petka gets the crazy thought
to marry a city woman whom he does not know. Something is wrong
somewhere. This is going to bust sooner or later."

"My dear Vasska, it's the education, the refinement and all that
which I and you can do without," grunted the inn-keeper.

Vasska rubbed his fists and spat vigorously. The inn-keeper tried
to mollify him by saying that he should not take the matter so

Suddenly the dogs began to bark and the boys shouted:

"The American bride! Here comes the lady from abroad!"

All the guests rushed out to see her. And there she was, in a
big flower-trimmed hat, with a silk parasol, and all the wonderful
fineries. She looked so elegant, so superior that the village women,
accustomed to their rural simplicity, felt overawed. The groom
hurrying with throbbing heart to open the gates of the front-yard
bowed almost to the ground to the dazzling reality of his romantic
dreams. He was so confused by this apparition that he did not know
whether to shout or cry.

"My gracious, how she is made up!" whispered the women.

"What a wonderful dress!" whispered the girls.

"Ain't you Petka? You deary!" exclaimed the bride, affecting a
foreign accent.

"Yes, mademoiselle, gracious yes," stammered the groom nervously,
wiping the tears of joy from his eyes.

"Gee, Petka, you are a nice boy!" gushed the bride, trying to show
the quality of her refinement.

She took his both hands and whispered that he should kiss them
gracefully in the American manner. Then she leaned her head on
his shoulder and sighed. These American manners so embarrassed
the groom that he blushed and dropped his eyes. But after all, was
she not a highly educated American lady? And of course, she knew
what was proper.

Though Liza looked ten years older than Petka, yet she had all the
city air, the American manners and style, and most important of
all, she had the capital. The first question Liza asked was whether
they had a manicure, hair-dresser and boot-black in the village.
No one had ever heard that such functionaries existed, so the groom
explained excitedly that he would take her after the wedding to
the town where she could get what she wanted. Petka carried the
trunk and the five suit-cases into he house, implements which on
one had ever seen. All the novelties and sensations were so great
that the guests and the groom felt dazed for a moment.

"Have you got here champagne?" asked the bride, entering the house.

"We do not have such American drinks. We have kvas, beer, vodka
and all the home-made cordials," stammered the groom.

"But you must have some high-balls or cocktails at least," went on
the bride with an affected gesture.

"My gracious, there we are!" groaned the groom, and shrugged
denyingly his shoulders. "We've never handled those things here,
so you must forgive us."

"Mademoiselle Liza, I beg your pardon," interrupted the inn-keeper
seriously. "We can arrange the balls and the tails, but you see
we are simply country people and keep our bowels in order. City
amusements put our stomachs in a bad fix and don't agree with us."

The groom felt embarrassed and did not know what to do. He bowed
apologetically before his bride and tried to please her in every
possible way. He imitated her gestures and manners, her shrugs
and voice. He even kept his hands on his breast, as was Liza's
manner. Finally the bride asked whether there was any entertainment
prepared as she had asked. The groom gave the inn-keeper a hint
and the latter said that he would do his best. The three musicians
were already concealed with their instruments in a big barrel and
the imposing organist began his function. Strains of an unique
music issued from the decorated music-box. Everybody at once rushed
into the room. All stared amazed at the strange contrivance which
played at one and the same time concertina, violin and drum. It
was like a miracle, gripping and inspiring.

"I bet you this would interest your American audiences," remarked
the inn-keeper to the bride.

"It beats the Coney Island noise," stammered Liza, and took up the
conversation with a village woman.

All the house now was jollity. The room was bursting of the powerful
music, the laughter and the loud conversation of the guests. How
it happened no one knows, but one of the women had placed a bowl
with hot punch on the music box. Whether through an accident, or
the excitement of the organist, the vessel broke, and the punch
leaked through the cracks and holes into the instrument. Suddenly
the music stopped, although the conductor was still industriously
turning the lever. Then were heard mysterious voices and sounds
as if of muffled exclamations. Everybody looked at the music-box,
which began to quake and tremble as if a ghost were within. Then
arose fierce yells and agonizing cries, mixed with loud curses.
Before anybody could realize what had happened, three angry musicians
leaped from the music instrument, the steaming punch dropping from
their heads.

"Good Lord, what's this?" gasped the men while the women shrieked
and fled. One of the musicians put his fist under the frightened
organist and shouted:

"I'll pay for this joke, you scoundrel!"

"Semen, don't be a fool. I didn't do it. By Jove, I didn't do
it," exclaimed apologetically the organist, trembling.

"Damn, who did it?" asked the groom excited.

No one replied. And when the people realized what had happened,
everybody roared. No one who glanced at the overturned music
instrument and at the musicians, with their punch-dropping heads
could restrain their laughter. Even the pompous bride found it so
funny that she laughed with the rest.

When the excitement was over and the dessert was ready the wedding
guests once more took their seats at the table. The inn-keeper,
thinking that this was the moment to settle the matter of dowry,
before the actual marriage act could be performed by the priest,
knocked on the table for quiet. Then he arose, wiped his beard
and began:

"Friends, this is a very unusual ceremony, our best known citizen
and friend Petka, marrying a girl from America. Petka loves Liza,
it is all right. But I know and so all our guests know, that Petka
expected the bride to bring a fat dowry. Now we all would like to
see the bride place her dowry upon the table before she is declared
the wife of our friend, Petka. We think that in justice to the
guests she ought to do that, because it was understood that she
bring the money and we give her the husband. Don't you think,
friends and guests, that I am right?"

Everybody shouted "Bravo, inn-keeper," only the groom and the bride
sat silent with downcast eyes. Finally the bride glanced at Petka,
pulled a bag from her dress, opened it and laid a bunch of green
bills on the table. All eyes stared in awe at the money, and the
guests were so silent that one could hear the beating of their
hearts. Only the purring of the cats, looking curiously down from
the big stove, was to be heard.

"Here is the dowry, right here. It is in American money, one
thousand dollars, which is equal to two thousand rubles in your
money. It's all in cash," exclaimed the bride proudly.

The inn-keeper took the bills, looked at them curiously, turned
them over and over and shook his head. The blacksmith took one bill
after the other, and did the same. For several minutes everybody
was quiet. The "organist" who sat next to the inn-keeper, took
the money, looked at it still more closely and then smelled it.
Taking one of the bills in his hand, he rose and showed it to all
the guests and asked:

"Friends, have you ever seen this kind of money?"

"No," was the unanimous reply of the guests.

"Can any one here read American?" asked the blacksmith.

No one replied.

"The money is all right. I rushed to reach the train so I had no
time to exchange it into your rubles," replied the bride.

"It might be all right," replied the inn-keeper, "but what do we
know about the American money and its value? I've been told many
stories of American girls boasting they have money enough to buy
their husband, but heaven knows. It's a country too far away and
a language too complicated for us to understand. We like to have
our stuff on the table before everything is all right."

The bride glanced at the groom. The groom took silently her hand,
assuring her that he cared nothing for what her dowry was worth,
if he had only her as his wife.

"What nonsense! I came on Petka's invitation, and I'll stay with him,
do you let the priest marry us or not. We can go both to America
and marry there, but never here," exclaimed the bride, tossing her
head and snorting her indignation. As she rose, she took Petka by
his hand and gave this parting thrust:

"Do you want or not, but I'll stay with Petka here. We don't care
for your priest. I keep the American law and know what's what."

"Liza, Liza, listen. Don't make a scandal like that here. Let's
better harness our horses and get to the priest as fast as we can,"
shouted the excited guests, all following the couple.

[signed]Ivan Narodny

The Insane Priest

A priest insane went many days without repose or sleep,
"My visions are a shadow world but love is real and deep."
He, like a prophet, staff in hand, sought out a distant shrine.
"As sacred ash are all my dreams, and fateful love is mine."
Long, long he knelt and prayed alone, his tears fell unrestrained.
"My visions are the snow-crowned heights, my love the flood unchained."
A sacrifice he laid upon that altar far away.
"My visions are a dream of dawn, my love the radiant day."
A knife he thrust into his heart, to seal the holy rite.
"My visions all resplendent glow, my love is like the night."
And on the altar falling prone, he then gave up his soul.
"My visions are the lightning's flash, my love the thunder's roll."
Upon the altar poured his blood, it formed a crimson pall.
"As his deliriums are my dreams, as death my love my all."

Sergey Makowsky
Translation by Constance Purdy

Note: To this poem Mr. Reinhold Gliere has composed a magnificent
musical setting with piano and orchestra accompaniment and dedicated
it to a prominent Russian revolutionist.

Without a Country

One thought awakes us early in the morning,
One thought follows us the whole day long,
One thought stabs at night our breast:
Is my father suffering?

One sorrow awakes us at dawn like an executioner,
One sorrow is persecuting us ceaselessly,
One sorrow is swelling our breast the whole night long:
Is my mother alive?

A longing awakes us at daybreak,
A longing is continually hidden in our heart,
A longing is burning at night in our breast;
What of my wife?

A fear awakes us early like a funeral mass,
A fear persecutes us and darkens our eyes,
A fear fills at night our breast with hatred:
Our sisters are threatened with shame.

A pain awakens us in the morning like a trumpet,
With pain is filled every glass we drink
With pain is secretly weeping our breast:
Where are our children?

...Only one way will give an answer:
Through a river of blood and over a bridge of dead!
Woe! you will reach your home where the mother, who died of sorrow,
Does not wait for her son any more.

M. Boich

Note: M. Boich is a young Serbian poet, now about twenty-six
years old, who already has a recognized place in modern Serbian
Literature. The poem "Without a Country" was written after the
well-known Serbian tragedy of 1915, and was published last year
(March 28) in the official Serbian journal "Srpske Novine," which
now appears at Corfu.

Indian Prayer to the Mountain Spirit

Lord of the Mountain,
Reared within the Mountain
Young Man, Chieftain,
Hear a young man's prayer!

Hear a prayer for cleanness.
Keeper of the strong rain,
Drumming on the mountain;
Lord of the small rain
That restores the earth in newness;
Keeper of the clean rain,
Hear a prayer for wholeness.

Young Man, Chieftain.
Hear a prayer for fleetness.
Keeper of the deer's way,
Reared among the eagles,
Clear my feet of slothness.
Keeper of the paths of men,
Hear a prayer for straightness.

Hear a prayer for braveness.
Lord of the thin peaks,
Reared amid the thunders;
Keeper of the headlands
Holding up the harvest,
Keeper of the strong rocks
Hear a prayer for staunchness.

Young Man, Chieftain,
Spirit of the Mountain!

Interpreted by [signed] Mary Austin

To America--4 July, 1776

When England's king put English to the horn[1],
To England thus spake England over sea,
"In peace be friend, in war my enemy";
Then countering pride with pride, and lies with scorn,
Broke with the man[2] whose ancestor had borne
A sharper pain for no more injury.
How otherwise should free men deal and be,
With patience frayed and loyalty outworn?
No act of England's shone more generous gules
Than that which sever'd once for all the strands
Which bound you English. You may search the lands
In vain, and vainly rummage in the schools,
To find a deed more English, or a shame
On England with more honor to her name.

[written] Respectfully submitted to the Defenders of Democracy

[signed] M. Hewlett

(Westluilaruig[illegible, this is a guess], Chichester, England)

[1] To "put to the horn" was to declare an outlawry.
[2] The "man" is George III, his "ancestor," Charles I.

The Need of Force to Win and Maintain Peace

Must, then, gentle and reasonable men and women give over their sons
to the National Government to be trained for the devilish work of
war? Must civilized society continue to fight war with war? Is
not the process a complete failure? Shall we not henceforth contend
against evil-doing by good-doing, against brutality by gentleness,
against vice in others solely by virtue in ourselves?

There are many sound answers to these insistent queries. One is
the policeman, usually a protective and adjusting force, but armed
and trained to hurt and kill in defense of society against criminals
and lunatics. Another is the mother who blazes into violence, with
all her might, in defense of her child. Even the little birds do
that. Another is the instinctive forcible resistance of any natural
man to insult or injury committed or threatened against his mother,
wife, or daughter. The lions and tigers do as much. A moving
answer of a different sort is found in words written by Mme. le
Verrier to the parents of Victor Chapman on her return from his
funeral in the American Church in Paris--"It...has brought home to
me the beauty of heroic death and the meaning of life."

The answer from history is that primitive Governments were despotic,
and in barbarous societies might makes right; but that liberty
under law has been wrung from authority and might by strenuous
resistance, physical as well as moral, and not by yielding
to injustice and practising non-resistance. The Dutch Republic,
the British Commonwealth, the French Republic, the Italian and
Scandinavian constitutional monarchies, and the American republics
have all been developed by generations of men ready to fight and

So long as there are wolves, sheep cannot form a safe community.
The precious liberties which a few more fortunate or more vigorous
nations have won by fighting for them generation after generation,
those nations will have to preserve by keeping ready to fight in
their defense.

The only complete answer to these arguments in favor of using force
in defense of liberty is that liberty is not worth the cost. In
free countries to-day very few persons hold that opinion.

[signed] Charles W. Eliot

Woman and Mercy

Woman and Mercy--to think of one is to think of the other, and yet
the suggestion of ideas is purely Christian. The ancient world knew
of a few great women who transcended the conditions of society in
those days and helped, each one her country, in some extraordinary
way. Thus Deborah helped the people of God in a time of terrible
difficulty. And even the Pagan world was not without its Semiramis
and its Portia. When mercy came into the world with Christianity
the dispensation of it was largely committed to the gentle hands
of women, for since men have believed that God has taken a woman
to be His human mother, the position of every woman has been that
of a mother and of a queen. The wife has become the guardian of
the internal affairs of the home as the husband is of its external

Whenever women have acted up to the noble ideals of womanhood
preached by the Christian religion, they have received honor,
respect, deference and almost worship from the ruder sex.

It gives me great pleasure to think that in our own country so
many women have banded themselves together for such a noble ideal
as that embodied in the very name of "The Militia of Mercy." Here
in her true sphere, as nurse, woman will shed the gentle light
of mercy over the gory battle field and amid the pain and wounds
of the hospital wards; or, if she is not called to such active
participation she will find means to hold up the hands of those
more actively engaged, and in countless ways will she be able to
mitigate the evils of this most terrible of all wars, and not least
of all because of the gift of piety with which Almighty God has so
generously endowed her. Her unceasing prayers will ascend to the
throne of God for those engaged in this terrible struggle, and
mercies and blessings will be drawn down upon multitudes of people
whom she has never seen.

I bid Godspeed to The Militia of Mercy, and I hope that every
American woman who can will take part in this most womanly and most
patriotic work.

[signed] J. Cardinal Gibbons

Joan of Arc--Her Heritage

I saw in Orleans three years ago the celebration of the 487th
Anniversary of the deliverance of the ancient city by Joan of Arc.

The flower of the French army passed before me, the glorious
sunlight touching sword and lance and bayonet tip until they formed
a shimmering fretwork of steel. Then came the City Fathers in
democratic dress--and following them, the dignitaries of the Church,
in purple and crimson and old lace, and a host of choir boys singing
Glory to God in the Highest, and finally in his splendid scarlet
robe, a cardinal symbolical of power and majesty and dominion.

In whose honor was all this gorgeous pageantry? In honor of a simple
peasant girl, who saw or thought she saw visions--it is perfectly
immaterial whether she did or not--and who heard or fancied she
heard--it matters not--voices calling to her out of the silences
of the night to go forth and save France. Soldiers and clergy and
populace, Catholics and Protestants and pagans united in paying
homage to the courage of a woman. And I thought as I watched
the brilliant spectacle in the shadow of the old cathedral, that
thousands of women in the twentieth century in England and America,
and France and Germany and all the Nations are serving in a different
way, it is true, from the way in which Joan of Arc served France,
but none the less effectively. Aye, even more so, as they go forth
clad not in mail, but in Christian love to help mankind. In the
very forefront of this shining host are the trained nurses, following
the standard uplifted by Florence Nightingale.

When I see a trained nurse in her attractive cap and gown I always
feel that a richer memory, a finer intention has been read into
life. Wherever they go they carry healing with them.

To maintain this army of militant good will and helpfulness, and
to increase it as occasion requires is an obligation so imperative
that it cannot be evaded.

Never was it as urgent as it is to-day, that there should be generous
response to the appeal for nurses.

If we are often discouraged in our philanthropic work, it is not
because we consider what we are doing in a detached way, independent
of its world relationships. If we could only realize that we are
part of the mighty army composed of all nationalities and races
and creeds, an army of life, not of death, marching past disease
and suffering and misery and sin, we would be inspired to wage the
conflict with greater vigor, until our vision of the world freed
from suffering, was realized.

When the realization comes, it will not come with shouting and
tumult, but will come quietly and beautifully as the sun makes its
triumphant progress through the heavens, gradually conquering the
night until at last the earth is flooded with glorious warmth and
light and all the formless shapes that loved darkness rather than
light silently steal away and are forgotten.

John Lewis Griffiths

Note: Although the above selection was part of an address delivered in
London in 1911, its truth is more apparent today than ever before.

Things Which Cannot Be Shaken

There are season in life when everything seems to be shaking. Old
landmarks are crumbling. Venerable foundations are upheaved in a
night, and are scattered abroad as dust. Guiding buoys snap their
moorings, and go drifting down the channel. Institutions which
promised to outlast the hills collapse like a stricken tent.
Assumptions in which everybody trusted burst like air-balloons.
Everything seems to lose its base, and trembles in uncertainty and

Such seasons are known in our personal life. One day our
circumstances appear to share the unshaken solidity of the planet,
and our security is complete. And then some undreamed-of antagonism
assaults our life. We speak of it as a bolt from the blue!
Perhaps it is some stunning disaster in business. Or perhaps death
has leaped into our quiet meadows. Or perhaps some presumptuous
sin has suddenly revealed its foul face in the life of one of our
children. And we are "all at sea!" Our little, neat hypotheses
crumple like withered leaves. Our accustomed roads are all broken
up, our conventional ways of thinking and feeling, and the sure
sequences on which we have depended vanish in a night. It is
experiences like these which make the soul cry out with the psalmist,
in bewilderment and fear,--"My foot slippeth!" His customary
foothold had given way. The ground was shaking beneath him. The
foundations trembled.

And such seasons are known in the life of nations. An easy-going
traditionalism can be overturned in a single blast. Conventional
standards, which seemed to have the fixedness of the stars are
blown to the winds. Political and economic safeguards go down like
wooden fences before an angry sea. The customary foundations of
society are shaken. We must surely have had such experiences as
these during the past weeks and months. What was unthinkable has
become a commonplace. The impossible has happened. Our working
assumptions are in ruins. Common securities have vanished. And
on every side men and women are whispering the question,--Where
are we? We are all staggered! And everywhere men and women, in
their own way, are whispering the confession of the psalmist,--"My
foot slippeth!"

Well, where are we? Amid all these violations of our ideals, and
the quenching of our hopes, in this riot of barbarism and unutterable
sorrow, where are we? Where can we find a footing? Where can
we stay our souls? Where can we set our feet as upon solid rock?
Amid the many things which are shaking what things are there which
cannot be shaken?

"Things which cannot be shaken." Let us begin here: THE SUPREMACY
OF SPIRITUAL FORCES CANNOT BE SHAKEN. The obtrusive circumstances
of the hour shriek against that creed. Spiritual forces seem to
be overwhelmed. We are witnessing a perfect carnival of insensate
materialism. The narratives which fill the columns of the daily
press reek with the fierce spectacle of labor and achievement.
And yet, in spite of all this appalling outrage upon the sense, we
must steadily beware of becoming the victims of the apparent and
the transient. Behind the uncharted riot there hides a power whose
invisible energy is the real master of the field. The ocean can
be lashed by the winds into indescribable fury, and the breakers
may rise and fall in crushing weight and disaster; and yet behind
and beneath all the wild phenomena there is a subtle, mystical
force which is exerting its silent mastery even at the very height
of the storm. We must discriminate between the phenomenal and
the spiritual, between the event of the hour and the drift of the
year, between the issue of a battle and the tendency of a campaign.
All of which means that "While we look at the things which are seen,
we are also to look at the things which are not seen." Well, look
at them.

THE POWER OF TRUTH can never be shaken. The force of disloyalty
may have its hour of triumph, and treachery may march for a season
to victory after victory; but all the while truth is secretly
exercising her mastery, and in the long run the labor of falsehood
will crumble into ruin. There is no permanent conquest for a lie.
You can no more keep the truth interred than you could keep the
Lord interred in Joseph's tomb. You cannot bury the truth, you
cannot strangle her, you cannot even shake her! You may burn up
the records of the truth, but you cannot impair the truth itself!
When the records are reduced to ashes truth shall walk abroad as
an indestructible angel and minister of the Lord! "He shall give
His angels charge over thee," and truth is one of His angels, and
she cannot be destroyed.

There was a people in the olden days who sought to find security
in falsehood, and to construct a sovereignty by the aid of broken
covenants. Let me read to you their boasts as it is recorded
by the prophet Isaiah: "We have made a covenant with death, and
with hell are we at agreement: when the overflowing scourge shall
pass through, it shall not come unto us, for we have made lies our
refuge, and under falsehood have we hid ourselves." And so they
banished truth. But banished truth is not vanquished truth. Truth
is never idle; she is ever active and ubiquitous, she is forever
and forever our antagonist or our friend. "Therefore thus saith the
Lord God...your covenant with death shall be disannulled, and your
agreement with hell shall not stand...and the hail shall sweep away
the refuge of lies, and the waters shall overflow the hiding-places."
Thus said the Lord! We may silence a fort, but we cannot paralyze
the truth. Amid all the material convulsions of the day the
supremacy of truth remains unshaken. "The mouth of the Lord hath
spoken it."

"Things which cannot be shaken!" What is there which cannot be
shaken? THE PASSION OF FREEDOM is one of the rarest of spiritual
flames, and it can not be quenched. Make your appeal to history.
Again and again militarism has sought to crush it, but it has
seemed to share the very life of God. Brutal inspirations have
tried to smother it, but it has breathed an indestructible life.
Study its energy in the historical records of the Book or in annals
of a wider field. Study the passion of freedom amid the oppressions
of Egypt, or in the captivity of Babylon, or in the servitude of
Rome. How does the passion express itself? "If I forget thee, O
Jerusalem, may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, and may
my right hand forget her cunning!" Study it in the glowing pages
of the history of this country, that breath of free aspiration which
no power of armament, and no menace of material strength was ever
able to destroy. The mightiest force in all those days was not
the power of threat, and powder, and sword, but that breath of
invincible aspiration which was the very breath of God. And when
we gaze upon stricken Belgium to-day, and look upon her sorrows,
and her smitten fields, and her ruined cities, and her desolate
homes, we can firmly and confidently proclaim that the breath
of that divinely planted aspiration, her passion of freedom, will
prove to be mightier than all the materialistic strength and all
the prodigious armaments which seem to have laid her low. It is
a reality which cannot be shaken.

There are other spiritual forces which we might have named, and which
would have manifested the same incontestable supremacy: there is
the energy of meekness, that spirit of docility which communes with
the Almighty in hallowed and receptive awe: there is the boundless
vitality of love which lives on through midnight after midnight,
unfainting and unspent: there is the inexhaustible energy of faith
which hold on and out amid the massed hostilities of all its foes.
You cannot defeat spirits like these, you cannot crush and destroy
them. You cannot hold them under, for their supremacy shares the
holy sovereignty of the eternal God. "Not by might, nor by power,
but by my Spirit, saith the Lord;" and these spirits, the spirit
of truth, the spirit of freedom, the spirit of meekness and love,
are in fellowship with the divine Spirit, and therefore shall they
remain unshaken.

[signed]J.H. Jowett

Somewhere in France

"Somewhere in France"--the day is tranquil, the sky unvexed, the
green earth without a wound as I write; yet "somewhere in France"
the day is torn with clamors, the sky is soiled with man's mounting
hatred of man, and long, open wounds lie cruelly across the disputed
earth. "Somewhere in France"--my mind goes back to remembered
scenes: the crowd blocking the approach to a depot; white faces
and staring eyes, eyes that alternately fear and hope, and in the
crush a tickling gray line of returning PERMISSIONAIRES. "Somewhere
in France"--on such a perfect day as this I see a little village
street nestled among the trees, and hear the sound of the postman's
reluctant feet tapping over the cobblestones--the postman that comes
with the relentlessness of Fate--and at every house the horror of
the black envelope. "Somewhere in France" the great immemorial
cathedrals and the dotted, cool, moss-covered churches are filled
with supplicating women and the black-framed, golden locks of
children lifting their eyes before the Great Consoler as the sun
breaks through the paling candle-flames. "Somewhere in France"--in
its crowded stations I remember a proud womanhood, gray in
the knowledge of sorrow, speeding its young sons and speaking the
Spartan words. "Somewhere in France," in its thousand hospitals,
the ministering white-clad angels are moving in their long vigils,
calm, smiling, inspired. "Somewhere in France"--I see again
imperishable fragments of remembered emotions; the women working
in the vineyards of Champagne, careless of fate or the passing
shells; the orphan children playing in the ruins of Rheims; a laughing
child in bombarded Arras running out to pick up an exploded shell,
a child in whom daily habits has brought fear into contempt; a
skeleton of a church in far-flung Bethany, that still lives in a
sea of fire, where a black-coated priest of the unflinching faith
was holding his mass among kneeling men before an altar hidden in
the last standing corner from which the shredded ruins had been

"Somewhere in France"--I remember the volcanic earth, the strewn
ruin of all things, the prostrate handiwork of man mingled with
the indignant bowels of the earth, and from a burrowed hole a POILU
laughing out at us in impertinent greeting, with a gaiety which is
more difficult than courage.

"Somewhere in France"--in bombarded Arras, was it not?--I remember
an old woman, a very old woman, leaning on her cane as she peered
from her cellar door within a hundred yards of the smoldering cathedral.
I wonder if she still lives, for Arras will be struggling back to
life now.

"Somewhere in France"--what thronged memories troop at these liberating
words! And yet, through all the passing drama of remembered little
things, what I see always before my eyes is the spiritual rise of
Verdun. Verdun, heroic sister of the Marne; Verdun, the battling
heart of France--whose stained slopes are anointed by the blood
of a million men. Verdun! The very name has the upward fury and
descending shock of an attacking wave dying against an immemorial
shore. To have seen it as I was privileged to see it in that
historic first week of August, 1915, at the turning of the tide,
at the moment of the retaking of Fleury and Thiaumont, was to have
stood between two great spectacles: the written page of a defense
such as history has never seen, and the future, glowing with the
unquenchable fire of undying France. When I think of the flaming
courage of that heroic race, my imagination returns always to the
vision of that defense--not the patient fortitude before famine of
Paris, Sebastopol or Mafeking, but that miracle of patience and
calm in the face of torrential rains of steel which for months
swept the human earth in such a deluge as never before had been
sent in punishment upon the world. This was no adventure such as
that gambling with fate which in all times and in all forms has
stirred the spirit of man. Regiment after regiment marched down into
the maw of hell, into the certainty of death. They went forward,
not to dare, but to die, in that sublimest spirit of exultation
and sacrifice of which humanity is capable, that the children of
France might live free and unafraid, Frenchmen in a French land.
They went in regiment after regiment, division after division--living
armies to replace the ghostly armies that had held until they died.
Days without nights, weeks without a breathing spell--five months
and more. They lie there now, the human wall of France, that no
artillery has ever mastered or ever will, to prove that greater
than all the imagined horror of man's instinct of destruction,
undaunted before the new death that rocks the earth beneath him
and pollutes the fair vision of the sky above, the spirit of man
abides superior. Death is but a material horror; the will to live
free is the immortal thing.

[signed] Owen Johnson

The Associated Press

It is worth while to explain how the world's news is gathered and
furnished in a newspaper issued at one cent a copy. First, as
to the foreign news, which is, of course, the most difficult to
obtain and the most expensive. In normal times there are the four
great agencies which, with many smaller and tributary agencies,
are covering the whole world. These four agencies are, as above
noted, the Reuter Telegram Company, Ltd., of London, which assumes
responsibility for the news of the great British Empire, including
the home land, every colony except Canada, and the Suzerain,
or allied countries, as Egypt, Turkey, and even China and Japan;
and the Agency Havas of Paris, taking care of the Latin countries,
France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Belgium, Switzerland and South
America as well as Northern Africa; and the Wolff Agency of Berlin,
reporting the happening in the Teutonic, Scandinavian, and Slav
nations. These three organizations are allied with The Associated
Press in an exclusive exchange arrangement. Subordinate to these
agencies is a smaller one in almost every nation, having like
exchange agreements with the larger companies.

Thus it happens that there is not a place of moment in the habitable
globe that is not provided for. Moreover, there is scarcely a
reporter on any paper in the world who does not, in a sense, become
a representative of all these four agencies. Not only are there
these alliances, but in every important capital of every country, and
in a great many of the other larger cities abroad there are "A.P."
men, trained by long experience in its offices in this country.
This is done because, first, the organization is naturally anxious
to view every country with American eyes; and, second, because a
number of the agencies spoken of are under the influence of their
Governments and, therefore, not always trustworthy. They are relied
upon for a certain class of news, as for instance, accidents by
flood and field, where there is no reason for any misrepresentation
on their part. But where it is a question which may involve national
pride or interest, or where there is a possibility of partisanship
or untruthfulness, the "A.P." men are trusted.

Now, assume that a fire has broken out in Benares, the sacred
city of the Hindus, on the banks of the Ganges, and a hundred or a
thousand people have lost their lives. Not far away, at Allahabad
or at Calcutta, is a daily paper, having a correspondent at Benares,
who reports the disaster fully. Some one on this paper sends the
story, or as much of it as is of general rather than local interest,
to the agent of the Reuter Company at Calcutta, Bombay, or Madras;
and thence it is cabled to London and Hongkong, and Sydney and
Tokio. At each of these places there are Associated Press men,
one of whom picks it up and forwards it to New York.

The wide world is combed for news, and an incredibly short time
is delivered and printed everywhere. When Pope [Leo] XIII died in
Rome the fact was announced by an Associated Press dispatch in the
columns of a San Francisco paper in nine minutes from the instant
when he breathed his last. And this message was repeated back to
London, Paris, and Rome, and gave those cities the first information
of the event. When Port Arthur was taken by the Japanese in the
war of 1896 it came to us in New York in fifty minutes, although
it passed through twenty-seven relay offices. Few of the operators
transmitting it knew what the dispatch meant. But they understood
the Latin letters, and sent it on from station to station, letter
by letter.

When Peary came back from his great discovery in the Arctic Sea
he reached Winter Harbor, on the coast of Labrador, and from there
sent me a wireless message that he had nailed the Stars and Stripes
to the North Pole. This went to Sydney, on Cape Breton Island,
and was forwarded thence by cable and telegraph to New York.

The organization is cooperative in its character. As a condition
of membership, each one belonging agrees to furnish to his
fellow-members, either directly or through the Association, and
to them exclusively, the news of his vicinage, as gathered by him
for his own paper. This constitutes the large fountain from which
our American news supply is drawn. But, as in the case of the
foreign official agencies, if there be danger that an individual
member is biased, or if the matter be one of high importance, our
own trained and salaried staff men do the reporting. For this
purpose, as well as for administrative work, there is a bureau in
every leading city.

For the collection and interchange of this information we lease
from the various telephone and telegraph companies, and operate with
our own employees, something like fifty thousand miles of wires,
stretching out in every direction through the country and touching
every important center. To reach smaller cities, the telephone
is employed. Everywhere in every land, and every moment of every
day, there is ceaseless vigil for news.

People frequently ask what it costs thus to collect the news of the
world. And we cannot answer. Our annual budget is between three
and four million dollars. But this makes no account of the work
done by the individual papers all over the world in reporting the
matters and handling the news over to the agencies. Neither can
we estimate the number of men and women engaged in this fashion.
It is easy to measure the cost of certain specific events; as, for
instance, we expended twenty-eight thousand dollars to report the
Martinique disaster. And the Russo-Japanese war cost us over three
hundred thousand dollars.

Such is an outline of our activities in what we call normal times.
But these are not normal times. When the great European war broke
on us, eighteen months ago, all of the processes of civilization
seemed to go down in an hour. And we suffered in common with
others. Our international relations for the exchange of news were
instantly dislocated. We had been able to impress the governments
abroad with the value of an impartial and unpurchasable news service,
as opposed to the venal type of journalism, which was too common
on the European continent. And in our behalf they had abolished
their censorships. They had accorded us rules assuring us great
rapidity in the transmission of our messages over their government
telegraph lines. They had opened the doors of their chancelleries
to our correspondents, and told them freely the news as it developed.

All the advantages ceased. The German news agency was prohibited
from holding any intercourse with the English, French, or Russian
organizations. Simultaneously, like commerce was interdicted in
the other countries. The virtue of impartial news-gathering at
once ceased to be quoted at par. Everywhere, in all of the warring
lands the Biblical rule that "he that is not with me is against me,"
became the controlling view. Government telegrams were obviously
very important and there was no time to consider anywhere any of
the promised speed in sending our dispatches. Finally, censorships
were imposed. This was quite proper in principle. Censorships are
always necessary in time of war. But it is desirable, from every
point of view, that they be intelligent, and that is not always
the case.

Nevertheless, we have fared pretty well in the business of reporting
this war. We have made distinct progress in teaching the belligerents
that we hold no brief for any one of them, and, while each would
much rather have us plead his cause, they are coming to see why we
cannot and ought not do so. And our men are everywhere respected
and accorded as large privileges as, perhaps, in the light of the
tension of the hour, could be reasonably asked.

[signed] Melville E. Stone

Pan and the Pot-Hunter

They are not many who are privileged to learn that the forces of the
Wilderness are as gods, distributing benefits, and, from such as
have earned them, taking even handed reprisals. Only the Greeks of
all peoples realized this in its entirety, and them the gods repaid
with the pure joy of creation which is the special prerogative of

But Greenhow had heard nothing of the Greeks save as a symbol of
all unintelligibility, and of the gods not at all. His stock was
out of England by way of the Tennessee mountains, drifting Pacific
coastward after the war of the Rebellion, and he was a Pot Hunter
by occasion and inclination. The occasion he owned to being born
in one of the bays of the southerly Sierras where the plentitude
of wild life reduced pot hunting to the degree of easy murder.

A Pot Hunter, you understand, is a business man. He is out for
what he can get, and regards game laws as an interference with the
healthful interactions of competition. Greenhow potted quail in
the Temblors where by simply rolling out of his blanket he could
bag two score at a shot as they flocked, sleek and stately blue,
down the runways to the drinking places. He took pronghorn at
Castac with a repeating rifle and a lure of his red necktie held
aloft on a cleaning rod, and packed them four to a mule-back down
the Tejon to Summerfield. He shot farrow does and fished out of
season, and had never heard of the sportsmanly obligation to throw
back the fingerlings. Anything that made gunning worth while to
the man who came after you was, by Greenhow's reckoning, a menace
to pot hunting.

There were Indians in those parts who could have told him
better--notable hunters who never shot swimming deer nor does with
fawn nor any game unaware; who prayed permission of the Wuld before
they went to hunt, and left offal for their little brothers of the
Wilderness. Indians know. But Greenhow, being a business man,
opined that Indians were improvident, and not being even good at
his business, fouled the waters where he camped, left man traces
in his trails and neglected to put out his fires properly.

Whole hillsides where the deer had browsed were burnt off bare as
your hand in the wake of the pot hunter. Thus in due course, though
Greenhow laid it to the increasing severity of game laws framed in
the interests of city sportsmen, who preferred working hard for
their venison to buying it comfortably in the open market, pot
hunting grew so little profitable that he determined to leave it
off altogether an become a Settler. Not however until he had earned
the reprisal of the gods, of whom in a dozen years he had not even
become aware.

In the Spring of the year the Tonkawanda irrigation district was
opened, he settled himself on a spur of San Jacinto where it plunges
like a great dolphin in the green swell of the camissal, and throws
up a lacy foam of chaparral along its sides. Below him, dotted
over the flat reach of the mesa, the four square clearings of the
Homesteaders showed along the line of the great canal, keen and
blue as the cutting edge of civilization. There was a deep-soil
level under the nose of San Jacinto--rabbits used to play there
until Greenhow took to potting them for his breakfast--and a stream
bubbled from under the hill to waste in the meadow.

Greenhow built a shack under a live oak there and fancied himself
in the character of a proprietor. He reckoned that in the three
years before his vineyard came into bearing, he could pot-hunt in
the hills behind his clearing for the benefit of the Homesteaders.

It was altogether a lovely habitation. Camise grew flush with the
meadow and the flanks of San Jacinto shivered and sparkled with
the wind that turned the thousand leaves of the chaparral. Under
the wind one caught at times the slow deep chuckle of the water.
Greenhow should have been warned by that. In just such tones the
ancient Greeks had heard the great god Pan laughing in the woods
under Parnassus,--which was Greek indeed to the Pot Hunter.

Greenhow was thirty-four when he took out his preemption papers
and planted his first acre of vines. For reasons best known to
the gods, the deer kept well away from that side of the San Jacinto
that year. Greenhow enlarged the meadow and turned up ground for
a garden; he became acquainted with his neighbors and learned that
they had prejudices in favor of game regulations, also that one of
them had a daughter. She had white, even teeth that flashed when
she laughed; the whole effect of her was as sound and as appetizing
as a piece of ripe fruit. Greenhow told her that the prospect of
having a home of his own was an incentive such as pot-hunting held
out to no man. He looked as he said it, a very brother to Nimrod,
for as yet the Pot had not marked him.

He stood straight; his eyes had the deep, varying blueness of lake
water. Little wisps and burrs, odors of the forest clung about
his clothing; a beard covered his slack, formless mouth. When he
told the Homesteader's daughter how the stars went by on heather
planted headlands and how the bucks belled the does at the bottom
of deep canons in October, she heard in it the call of the trail
and young Adventure. Times when she would see from the level of
her father's quarter section the smoke of the Pot Hunter's cabin
rising blue against the glistening green of the live oak, she thought
that life might have a wilder, sweeter tang there about the roots
of the mountain.

In his second Spring when the camissal foamed all white with bloom
and the welter of yellow violets ran in the grass under it like
fire, Greenhow built a lean-to to his house and made the discovery
that the oak which jutted out from the barranca behind it was of
just the right height from the ground to make a swing for a child,
which caused him a strange pleasant embarrassment.

"Look kind o' nice to see a little feller playin' round," he
admitted to himself, and the same evening went down to call on the
Homesteader's daughter.

That night the watchful guardians of the Wild sent the mule-deer
to Harry the man who had been a pot-hunter. A buck of three years
came down the draw by the watercourse and nibbled the young shoots
of the vines where he could reach them across the rabbit proof
fencing that the settler had drawn about his planted acres. Not
that the wire netting would have stopped him; this was merely the
opening of the game. Three days later he spent the night in the
kitchen garden and cropped the tips of the newly planted orchard.
After that the two of them put in nearly the whole of the growing
season dodging one another through the close twigged manzanita,
lilac, laurel and mahogany that broke upward along the shining
bouldered coasts of San Jacinto. the chaparral at this season took
all the changes of the incoming surf, blue in the shadows, darkling
green about the heads of the gulches, or riffling with the white
under side of wind-lifted leaves. Once its murmurous swell had
closed over them, the mule-deer would have his own way with the
Pot Hunter. Often after laborious hours spent in repairing the
garden, the man would hear his enemy coughing in the gully behind
the house, and take up his rifle to put in the rest of the day
snaking through the breathless fifteen foot cover, only to have
a glimpse of the buck at last dashing back the late light from
glittering antlers as he bounded up inaccessible rocky stairs. This
was the more exasperating since Greenhow had promised the antlers
to the Homesteader's daughter.

When the surface of the camissal had taken on the brown tones
of weed under sea water and the young clusters of the grapes were
set--for this was the year the vineyard was expected to come into
bearing--the mule-deer disappeared altogether from that district,
and Greenhow went back hopefully to rooting the joint grass out
of the garden. But about the time he should have been rubbing the
velvet off his horns among the junipers of the high ridges, the
mule-deer came back with two of his companions and fattened on
the fruit of the vineyard. They went up and down the rows ruining
with selective bites the finest clusters. During the day they
lay up like cattle under the quaking aspens beyond the highest,
wind-whitened spay of the chaparral, and came down to feast day by
day as the sun ripened the swelling amber globules. They slipped
between the barbs of the fine wired fence without so much as changing
a leg or altering their long, loping stride; and what they left
the quail took.

In pattering droves of hundreds they trekked in from the camise
before there was light enough to shoot by, and nipped once and
with precision at the ripest in every bunch. Afterward they dusted
themselves in the chaparral and twitted the proprietor with soft
contented noises. At the end of the October rut the deer came
back plentifully to the Tonkawanda District, and Greenhow gave up
the greater part of the rainy season to auditing his account with
them. He spent whole days scanning the winter colored slope for
the flicker and slide of light on a hairy flank that betrayed his
enemy, or, rifle in hand, stalking a patch of choke cherry and
manzanita within which the mule-deer could snake and crawl for
hours by intricacies of doubling and back tracking that yielded
not a square inch of target and no more than the dust of his final
disappearance. Wood gatherers heard at times above their heads
the discontented whine of deflected bullets. Windy mornings the
quarry would signal from the high barrens by slow stiff legged
bounds that seemed to invite the Pot Hunter's fire, and at the end
of a day's tracking among the punishing stubs of the burnt district,
Greenhow returning would hear the whistling cough of the mule-deer
in the ravine not a rifle shot from the house.

In the meantime rabbits burrowed under the wire netting to bark
his young trees, and an orchardist who held the job of ditch tender
along the Tonkawanda, began to take an interest in the Homesteader's
daughter. Seldom any smoke went up now from the cabin under the
Dolphin's nose. Occasionally there rose a blue thread of it far up
on the thinly forested crest of San Jacinto where the buck, bedded
in the low brush between the bosses of the hills, kept a look out
across the gullies from which Greenhow attempted to ambuscade him.
Day by day the man would vary the method of approach until almost
within rifle range, and then the wind would change or there would
be the click of gravel underfoot, or the scrape of a twig on stiff
overalls, and suddenly the long oval ears would slope forward, the
angular lines flow into grace and motion and the game would begin

Greenhow killed many deer that season and got himself under suspicion
of the game warden, but never THE deer; and a very subtle change
came over him, such a change as marks the point at which a man
leaves off being hunter to become the hunted. He began to sense,
with vague reactions of resentment, the personality of Power.

It was about the end of the rains that the DITCH TENDER who was
also an orchardist, took the Homesteader's daughter to ride on his
unoccupied Sunday afternoon. He had something to say to her which
demanded the wide, uninterrupted space of day. They went up toward
the roots of the mountain between the green dikes of the chaparral,
and he was so occupied with watching the pomegranate color of her
cheeks and the nape of her neck where the sun touched it, that
he failed to observe that it was she who turned the horses into
the trail that led off the main road toward the shack of the Pot
Hunter. The same change that had come over the man had fallen on
his habitation. through the uncurtained window they saw heaps of
unwashed dishes and the rusty stove, and along the eaves of the
lean-to, a row of antlers bleaching.

"There's really no hope for a man," said the ditch tender, "once
he gets THAT habit. It's worse than drink."

"Perhaps," said the Homesteader's daughter, "if he had any one at
home who cared..." She was looking down at the bindweed that had
crept about the roots of a banksia rose she had once given the Pot
Hunter out of her own garden, and she sighed, but the ditch tender
did not notice that either. He was thinking this was so good an
opportunity for what he had to say that he drew the horses toward
the end of the meadow where the stream came in, and explained to
her particularly just what it meant to a man to have somebody at
home who cared.

The Homesteader's daughter leaned against the oak as she listened,
and lifted up her clear eyes with a light in them that was like a
flash out of the deep, luminous eye of day, which caused the ditch

Facebook Google Reddit Twitter Pinterest