that blows that whistle thinks the time is. When the whistle blows, I set my watch to sir, and then I know I'm all right." "I see," murmured the Happy Eremite. "Then, I suppose, I can expect you to start plowing at eight o'clock ?”

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Accordin' to your time. Yeh. Yeh. I guess so. Ef the weather stays good an' the ground ain't too wet. An' ef the durned lumbago don't come back an' curl me all up. I guess perhaps ef nuthin' happens, an' the town don't want me to haul gravel, au', as I say, the weather holds, I guess maybe I'll be able to get round all right."

The Happy Eremite knew Neighbor Bulkley, and grinned. "You come!" he commanded, with outstretched finger.

"All right," drawled Mr. Bulkley. "Ef I get round to it." The Happy Eremite threw up his hands and walked slowly back up the hill, between his own long sloping meadow and Mr. Bulkley's ledge-riven fields. Ebenezer Bulkley was a typical Yankee, weak in the knees at sixty from a lifetime of underdone biscuits. He would not set his watch ahead.

The Happy Eremite stopped and turned to look at the view. Beyond the line of tall basswoods that. fronted the road at the foot of his own hill he could see the smoke rising from the shanty of Andrew the Pole. Andrew set his watch ahead. In the hollow on the other side of the road, opposite Mr. Bulkley's weather-beaten old house, lived John the Hungarian. John also set his watch ahead. On the hill north of Mr. Bulkley was the Happy Eremite's dwelling-place. The Happy Eremite also set his watch ahead. East of Mr. Bulkley was a picturesque tract of land that several city folk were after. Whoever bought it would, it was safe to assume, also set his watch ahead.

Somehow, the outlook for Mr. Bulkley's type of conservatism did not look promising.

The Happy Eremite climbed slowly up his hill, musing on the matter; and as he mused, it occurred to him with increasing force that for the Mr. Bulkleys of Mohican County the future held very little besides disillusionment, the cutting one by one of old ties, the tearing down, one by one, of old landmarks, lonely old age, and a slow dying amid strangers. For in Mohican County two vigorous and essentially progressive forces were fighting over his head for the mastery of the countryside. The great manufacturing town near by, boiling and seething

in the fires of war, was spilling on the hills roundabout Poles and Italians, Slovaks, and Hungarians. Here they captured a hollow, there they captured a hill. Deserted and desolate farms blossomed under their hands. Wherever they went, gardens grew, peach trees and apple trees bloomed on bare hillsides, grape arbors appeared; and in the late summer, stacks on stacks of hay, clustered together, guarded their hovels from the

storms.

The Mr. Bulkleys of Mohican County could only grumble and growl at "Polacks" in general, as one by one the ancient New England acres on which they had run as boys descended to the unwelcome "furriners."

That was one force, stretching out its hands after a lovely land. From the great metropolis to the westward came the other. Lawyers and bankers and literary folk perched themselves on a hill-top here and a hill-top there, building their modern, attractive houses, luring electricity far out into the hills, building barns where cows were coddled like babies, talking strange nonsense about scientific farming and co-operative societies. Under their hands marshes, became meadows and rocky fields were cleared and given to the plow. Roads were widened and graded and smoothed and made gorgeous along their sides with dogwood and copper beech.

The Mr. Bulkleys of Mohican County could only sniff at the unheard of ignorance of city farmers as one by one the pleasant slopes that long association had made half their own sank away into the remote grandeur of "gentlemen's country places.'

The "furriners" from the one side, the city folks" from the other, two vigorous and creative forces, struggling each for the possession of the land! And between them the poor, wizened, backward-looking, dyspeptic Mr. Bulkleys, having no part in the battle for their own native hills, except the unhappy and despised part of the neutral who looks on, finding anæmie comfort in contempt for both combatants.

The upper and the nether millstone," murmured the Happy Eremite, turning as he reached the top of the slope and looking out across the woods and hills to the blue line of the Sound, three miles away. “I am sorry for all the Mr. Bulkleys who won't set their watches ahead."

Ο

UR concert party gave its first concert for the American soldiers in France, under the auspices of the Y. M. C. A., in Bordeaux, October 25 last; it gave the one hundred and thirteenth and last of its tour in the same city April 9. Between these two dates we visited nearly all the American camp centers and also spent ten days with the British. We are now on our way-home to tell our people something about what the Y. M. C. A. is trying to do for our soldiers in France.

Just before we left Paris, homeward bound, I was asked by an American what was the most vivid of the impressions I was taking away with me. I replied, without hesitation, The splendid quality of our boys." My wife and I have seen thousands of them and talked with hundreds; we have never met one that did not appear to be full of pluck, loyalty, and the spirit of self-sacrifice. In the course of a winter that has brought them much discomfort, and often disappointment, we have heard no serious complaints, seen no sign of the white feather. On the contrary, over and over again we have heard expressions of high patriotism and of longing to get into the great fight. The American soldier may not have the faculty for eloquent self-expression that the French poilu has, but the stream of his thoughts and aspirations runs just as strong and pure. He is not a saint, and he makes no pretense of being one. His faults are those that go most easily with sturdy youth and an absence of means for healthy recreation. They are, for the most part, super

ficial; beneath are to be found a real chivalry and great sweetness of nature.

Our Army in France is truly a National Army; its soldiers are recruited from all parts of our country and from all classes. Six months ago I was under the impression that the Pacific Slope was lukewarm in its attitude towards the war; now I am sure that no group of States has sent a more generous representation of its finest young men. North, East, South, and West, all sections have given their sons to the cause. These boys are all proud of their States and love to talk about them, but they are prouder still of their country and of their nationality. The progress of the war will increase this feeling of National unity and create an Army as single in spirit and purpose as is the French army to-day.

With how single an eye our men already regard the real object of the war may be illustrated by two conversations I had last January. In the course of a railway journey to a somewhat remote camp I fell into conversation with a lieutenant of artillery. I discovered that he came from my own native town in eastern Massachusetts, that he was thirty-nine years old, had a wife and three small children and a prosperous contracting business. He had had no military training before our declaration of war, but since then had passed through the training camp at Plattsburg, received his commission, and was now doing his bit in France. I remarked that he might have felt that his

family responsibilities exempted him from military service. “On the contrary," he replied, "it is because of my children I am here. I felt that I owed it to them to do my part towards assuring to them the opportunities I myself have had." A few days later I repeated this conversation to a lieutenant in a regiment of lumber engineers from the Pacific coast. He smiled and said, My situation at home was almost exactly the same as his, and I came to France for exactly the same reason.

It may be said that these officers were of finer quality and superior in education to the average enlisted man, but I believe that their point of view is a common one throughout all ranks in the Army, and that the vast majority of the men who reason at all about their actions have come to fight for the protection of their far-away homes. A young fellow from Rhode Island said to me: "When President Wilson declared war last April, I felt that his call meant me. So here I am." Another private, from Springfield, Massachusetts, over draft age and married, with whom I talked a fortnight ago, enlisted for the same reason. The draft army has not been in France long enough for me to have talked with many of its men, but those that I have met seem just as full of high spirit as the volunteers. As far as my experience goes, the sense of personal responsibility in the war is all but universal.

Our soldiers are fighting for their homes because they love them. Now that they are so far away from them, they love them more than ever before and are grateful for any touch that seems to bring their dear ones nearer to them. The other day a young giant from California waited after a concert till he could slip into my hand his mother's address and whisper: "My mother worries a lot about me. It would mean a great deal to her if you would send a line when you get home to tell her you have seen me and that I am all right." My wife and I have had hundreds of such requests, which, needless to say, we shall fulfill as soon

as we can.

in

A male visitor with a song or a story makes a welcome break camp routine, but one more man in a United States uniform, no matter how sweet his song or how delightful his story, is not one hundredth part as welcome as an American woman. I was chatting with some soldiers in a dingy camp kitchen in a muddy village waiting for my wife to catch up with me. At the first sound of her voice through the open window, the cook, a scrubby little chap with a look about him of the New York East Side, dropped his work and cried, ecstatically: "Gee! what do you know about that? I haven't heard an American woman's voice in four months!" And this is only one of many instances. Our soldiers see very little of the right kind of Frenchwoman; their association with the wrong kind is, naturally, never founded on respect. The American women in Y uniform whom they see in the Y canteens seem to symbolize to them the feminine ideals of their home upbringing, the standards set by their mothers and sisters. I have yet to hear of a single instance of intentional discourtesy shown by one of our soldiers to an American woman; on the contrary, the camp protects and reverences her, much as Bret Harte's miners used to do homage to their local heroines. Though the old army traditions found no place in camp for a woman, I am of the opinion that the presence of a warm-hearted, dignified woman, ready to play the part of mother and sister to the homesick boys when they need it-and they need it oftenis a potent influence for good. A woman worker told me that sometimes while she did her housework in the hut she would wear a pink-check apron. One day when she was so attired a soldier came to her and said, "Say, ma'am, don't you want me to wash the windows for you?" "Certainly I do; but what makes you offer?" "Oh, I dunno. I guess it's because of that apron you've got on. My mother has one just like it, and when she's got it on and I'm 'round the house she's likely to set me to washing the windows. Say, where's the pail?" I am sure that boy was a better soldier after washing those windows.

The Y. M. C. A. is in France to provide recreation for the American soldiers, to uphold and reinforce their morale. The feminine element is an effective agent towards this end, and the Y is sending women workers across the water as fast as it can find the right kind. As the work requires a strong body and a clear head as well as a warm heart, the supply of such workers does not yet equal the demand.

In our five months and a half in France we have noted great

progress all along the Y. M. C. A. line. Last November the typical hut was scarcely more than a long wooden shed with a few chairs and tables in it. It had no floor; it was lighted by candles standing on the tables in their own dried grease; it was smoked, rather than heated, by two or three small wood-burning stoves. The canteen was a simple counter placed in a corner or at one end of the hut. Sometimes the secretary slept behind it if the roof above was water-tight. The typical hut to-day is at least twice as large as the old ones, and contains two assemblyrooms: one for reading, writing, conversation, and the canteen; the other, with a spacious stage, is reserved for entertainments of all kinds. The canteen fills one end of the former room, and is as well supplied with cigarettes, biscuits, chocolate, etc., as present transport conditions permit. Back of the canteen are a kitchen for the preparation of hot drinks and several small rooms, some for sleeping and some for business purposes. roofs are water-tight, there are stout floors everywhere, plenty of electric lights, and effective stoves. Some of these huts are visited daily by hundreds of men, for whom they supply many creature comforts and at least some of the atmosphere of home. To administer such large and active establishments requires a considerable number of workers, mostly men. As in the case of the women, the supply of men workers does not equal the demand, although several hundred workers are going to France monthly. The qualifications for a successful worker are, I should say, character, a sincere love for one's neighbor, willingness and ability to work hard all day long and longer, and the capacity to meet unexpected and untoward conditions with humor. To men not liable for military service-the Y will accept no others --and for women, too, this service in France offers the best of all opportunities to be of direct help to our boys.

all

The

Though I am only superficially qualified to speak of Army conditions, I will say that, to my eye, they have greatly improved since the beginning of the winter. Families and friends at home may rest assured that their boys are well cared for and that, to appearances, they are finding much to enjoy in the outdoor life and military training. Indeed, what adventure could be higher or more inspiring than the present war? Despite the shadow that inevitably hangs over it, those who are permitted to take an active part in it are to be envied rather than the stay-at-homes.

In February an exchange of concert parties was effected by the British and the American Y. M. C. A.'s, the British sending a party to tour some of the American camps, the Americans sending one to the British. My wife and I were so fortunate as to be included in the latter party, and for ten days made our headquarters in a city of northern France that is the center of a large number of British military, establishments. During our stay we took part in nineteen concerts before as many different audiences, some of them as large as two thousand, the last being given in a city theater under the auspices of both the British and the French military and civil authorities for the benefit of the sufferers in the devastated Somme district. On three of the ten days we gave three concerts a day, one in the afternoon and two in the evening. It was fatiguing, to be sure, but well worth the effort.

66

The British military authorities discovered long ago the value of the Y. M. C. A. in upholding the morale of the soldiers; as a town major put it to me, The Y. M. C. A. is God's own blessing in a camp." After three and a half years of trial they consider it an integral part of the military machine, and supervise, even if they do not actually control, its activities. In every hut there is a civilian director (or secretary, as we call him in our American huts), who administrates it. Over him is a commissioned officer, usually the regimental "padre," or chaplain, who supervises all entertainments and is in authority in matters of discipline. The officers in the camp consider themselves the hosts of the concert parties, and are present in a body at the evening concerts. At the conclusion of the programme the senior officer calls for a vote of thanks from the audience, and then comes behind the scenes to express his sense of personal obligation to the artists and to invite them to tea, dinner, or supper, according to the hour. Before one concert we were entertained at dinner by a group of officers that included a brigadier-general, who had motored over from headquarters for the concert, two colonels, and several majors. This attitude of approbation on

the part of the officers naturally enhances the prestige of the Y with the soldiers.

We had heard that British audiences were slow-witted and unresponsive. It required about two minutes of actual experience to teach us that we had been grossly misinformed. The British soldier goes to concerts to enjoy himself, and does everything in his power to help the show along. He loves a good song and will join lustily in the chorus if you ask him to. He is every whit as quick as his American allies to catch a joke or to shed a sentimental tear. He has a way of talking informally with the performers which is disconcerting at first, but inspiriting when one is used to it. If he thinks they need a little bucking up, he will give them a cheery "Carry on! Carry on!" Indeed, Tommy is a great lad to sing to; I never knew a better.

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We were the first American party to visit these British camps, and were received, I felt, with especial cordiality, as being in a sense symbolic of the great English-speaking alliance. I used to open my part of the programme with a few words of greeting from America to Great Britain. One evening I began "It is a great pleasure to me as an American in American uniform to stand before a British audience- "" And ye're welcome," broke in a hearty voice from the floor, followed by great applause. And, in all modesty be it said, we are welcome in France both to the French and to the British. For many long and weary months they have stemmed successfully the tide of German invasion; now that we have come upon the field they admit frankly their fatigue and count upon our unexhausted supply of men and material to beat the Germans to their knees. Perhaps the most attractive hut that we visited in the British region, or anywhere in France for that matter, was attached to a hospital. The director was a middle-aged man, a painter by profession, and of a most kindly, sympathetic disposition. He had employed his brush to transform the bare walls of his hut into a gallery of charming paintings of typical English scenery, with the idea that it would cheer the wounded Tommies to rest their eyes on landscapes from Blighty, some of which were particularly their own. On the door of his sitting-room one read: "This door is always open to any man that wants to talk with a friend." The whole hut was pervaded by an atmosphere of sweetness and light. Every midday, for ten minutes, all hut activities-games, canteen, conversation-were suspended while the director read a few prayers. Sunday afternoon we were present at a meeting of his " religious discussion club," at which an eminent clergyman from Edinburgh spoke to a gathering of about fifty men on the use of prayer. After the address, a private soldier clad in the blue hospital uniform presided over an intelligent and earnest discussion of the subject of the day. It was interesting to see how the minds of even very young men, when they live constantly under the shadow of death, turn towards the deepest problems of faith. It is the familiarity with death that gives to the British soldier a maturity of bearing that our own soldier still lacks.

T

Of men who had faced death a thousand times the most picturesque of all our audiences was composed. They had come to the hut from the station to wait for the train that should take them back to the front, or perhaps to the rear for a few days' rest. They had their packs on their backs and were covered with the stains of war and travel. They had come merely for a cup of tea, a smoke, and a little rest; but how eager they seemed for mental refreshment, and how cordially they welcomed the feminine elements of our programme! Another concert took place in a hut just opened in a carefully camoufléd ammunition dump beside a lazy canal. Ours was the first entertainment the men had had. The carpenters had driven the last nail that afternoon; the piano had preceded our arrival by only an hour. Never in my life have I seen a keener audience-every man in it a "creative listener." Another day I had a hundred Chinese coolies for audience. They gazed at me benignly, giggled a little from time to time, and after each song applauded my efforts in Occidental fashion. What they really thought about the performance I cannot guess. I wonder if they liked my singing any better than I like Chinese singing.

A month after our visit to the British we spent a week in Lorraine, just back of what was then the American fighting line. It was the region of gas-masks, trench helmets, camouflage, and air raids, and we rather expected the atmosphere would be tenser and more solemn than it had been back of the fighting zone; but no, our boys were just as cheerful and spirited as ever. It was a pleasure to find among them many acquaintances of the winter, who now, their preliminary training completed, were accounted responsible fighting men. Our party made its headquarters at Toul, and from there we were able to visit Nancy, Lunéville, Vitrimont, and Gerbeviller, and see something of the splendid relief work being done by the Red Cross and the American Fund for French Wounded—but of this I will not speak here.

Late in March, just as we were preparing to sail for home, began the German offensive on the Somme; a few days later Pershing requested formally of our allies that the American Army be permitted to take part in the great battle. "The trumpet that shall never call retreat" had sounded, and at once our camps were in a ferment of activity awaiting marching orders. The period of quiet preparation was over, the ordeal by battle was at hand.

I have been at sea now for a week, with no news of the progress of the great struggle in France, and cannot guess what tidings will meet us at New York. My heart is full of both pride and sorrow as I meditate on the battle; pride, because I know how splendidly our boys will bear themselves in it: sorrow, because I know how many must give their last full measure of devotion. How fortunate am I to have been with them on the eve of the ordeal; how fortunate our country to have such noble sons to uphold its high traditions of human liberty! FRANCIS ROGERS. Somewhere on the Atlantic, April, 1918.

THIS is a really capital volume, written by the son of the American Ambassador who for the last five years in England has shown himself not only a most loyal and able representative of America, but a stanch champion of the rights of civilized mankind.

Mr. Page very modestly disclaims any attempt to set forth new or original matter. But, as a matter of fact, most new and original matter regarding our diplomatic relations during the last century and a half is necessarily unimportant; most of the important facts are known to scholars, but they are not known to, or else are completely misunderstood by, the average intelligent American citizen. What is needed is to put before this average American a vivid and truthful account of these facts; and this is the need that Mr. Page has met.

1 Dramatic Moments in American Diplomacy. By Ralph W. Page. Doubleday, Page & Co., New York. $1.25.

Mr. Page's book fulfills the two primary requisites of any book which in any important matter is to be helpful to busy men of action: it is both truthful and interesting. Moreover, Mr. Page possesses the great and much-to-be-envied art of avoiding prolixity. His book can be read in a few hours with pleasure, and then can be studied for an indefinite time with profit. He gives in accurate and yet picturesque outline most of the important incidents of our diplomatic history; incidents which, as he says, are part and parcel of our National life, which are the A B C of our history, and yet which will, in all probability, strike most of his readers as not only new but amazing.

The book is peculiarly timely now, when we are slowly awakening to the horror of the German world intrigues and to the need of a close and friendly understanding with the British Empire.

Public Library

A PERSONAL

PORTRAIT

THEODORE H.

"COMMERCE AND FINANCE"

'N the heat of war's furnace many reputations wither. Success is the only test of merit, and, from the general who loses a battle or the administrator who fails to make good, excuses are not accepted. They are retired whether at fault or not, for it is achievement and not explanation that is wanted. It is a hard rule, but none other can be applied when the lives of men and the existence of the Nation are at stake.

In every war those who were supposedly able are found wanting and pass into oblivion, while others of whose qualifications little or nothing was known forge to the front. In the shuffle there is, of course, the element of accident or luck, but in the long run the law of the survival of the fittest prevails, and distinction in service is proof of distinctive merit.

It is a little over a year since America entered the struggle, and in the interval not a few men from whom much was expected have departed for obscurity, while others whose appointment to high place was at first criticised have won public confidence by what they have accomplished.

Bernard M. Baruch is in the latter class. In the autumn of 1916 the President made him a member of the Advisory Commission of the Council of National Defense. The appointment was generally regarded as a complimentary one. Baruch had contributed quite largely to the Democratic campaign fund and had worked actively for the President's re-election, and, as the position given him carried no salary and involved more or less expense for him, it was not sought by the professional politicians.

The Council of National Defense was created under an Act of Congress approved August 29, 1916, and is composed of the Secretary of War, the Secretary of the Navy, the Secretary of the Interior, the Secretary of Agriculture, the Secretary of Commerce, and the Secretary of Labor. In the same Act authority was granted for the creation of an Advisory Commission of seven "to act with, under, and by the authority of the Council." The Commission which was selected by the President consisted of Daniel Willard, Chairman; Howard E. Coffin, Julius Rosenwald, Bernard M. Baruch, Dr. Hollis Godfrey, Samuel Gompers, and Dr. Franklin Martin.

We were not at war, and neither the Council nor the Commission had much to do. Under their direction some "preparedness" surveys were made, but they did not attract general attention, and Baruch's activities were almost unnoticed until shortly after April 6, 1917, when we commenced to equip the enlarged Army and Navy then called into being. It immediately became apparent that, as the member of the Advisory Commission charged with supervision over the Government's purchases of "raw materials, minerals, and metals," Baruch occupied a position of great power and responsibility.

It was then that criticism of his appointment began to be heard. He was a member of the New York Stock Exchange.

He came from Wall Street. He was a speculator. He had admitted making money by a decline in stocks caused by some previous rumors of peace. And he was a Jew. In the opinion of his detractors, any one of these things disqualified him for the service of his country, and the propriety of allowing him to retain the place he held was openly challenged. This criticism was, however, disregarded by the President. Baruch ignored it and went about the Government's business. One of the first things he did was to cut the price on the copper bought by the Government to 162 cents a pound. Copper had been selling at from 30 to 32 cents, and most of the copper-producing companies were Wall Street concerns.

This led people to think that it might be possible, after all, for a Wall Street man to be patriotically independent of his former associates; and when at Baruch's solicitation the steel manufac turers reduced the price of steel to $58 a ton to the Government and the public, the criticism of which he had been the object commenced to lose point. From that time on his influence grew and his authority was extended. When it became necessary to co-ordinate the enormous purchasing that was being done for the Allies in this country, he was made a member of the committee formed for that purpose. Then the President appointed him on the War Council, which meets each week at the White House. This Council includes, besides Mr. Baruch:

The Secretary of the Treasury.

The Secretary of the Navy.

The Secretary of War.

Edward N. Hurley, Chairman of the Shipping Board.
Harry A. Garfield, Fuel Administrator.

Herbert Hoover, Food Administrator.

Vance McCormick, Chairman of the War Trade Board. Finally, on March 4 last, the President made Mr. Baruch Chairman of the War Industries Board. In a letter asking him to take this position Mr. Wilson described the functions and organization of this Board as follows:

The functions of the Board should be:

(1) The creation of new facilities and the disclosing, if necessary the opening up, of new or additional sources of supply. (2) The conversion of existing facilities, where necessary, to

new uses.

(3) The studious conservation of resources and facilities by scientific, commercial, and industrial economies.

(4) Advice to the several purchasing agencies of the Government with regard to the prices to be paid.

(5) The determination, wherever necessary, of priorities of production and of delivery, and of the proportions of any given article to be made immediately accessible to the several purchasing agencies when the supply of that article is insufficient, either temporarily or permanently.

(6) The making of purchases for the Allies.

The Board should be constituted as at present, and should

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