great-grandmother, who was then sixtythree years old. She told me this story, in her thick, thick early-nineteenthcentury brogue, which I will not try to reproduce here: "There was a pretty girl, young and happy-looking, that lived up the road with her father, a poor weak rag of a man with a backbone like a piece of string, and with her stepmother, a hard woman, her heart made of a flintstone. And when they found out the girl was in trouble, and her sweetheart that was the cause of it off up in the North Country for the winter to work as a lumberjack, didn't they turn the poor girl out-yes, out like a dog. And old Mrs. Canfield-that was some kin to you, I forget what-where I was working, she went right out and brought her in, and kept her there safe and sound all winter, treating her as nice as anybody, letting her sew to pay for her keep, and helping her make the baby clothes. She'd go with her to church every Sunday, the girl right on her arm, and nobody daring to say a word, for fear of old Mrs. Canfield's tongue. 'For,' she used to say, 'let 'em say a word if they dare, and I'll tell a few things I know about some folks in this town who had to be married in a hurry, and whose babies came into the world ahead of time.' You see, she was so old she knew everything that had happened from the beginning almost. She'd say, "There's lots worse things done every day in this town,' she'd say, and nobody to answer her back a word.

"But behind her back everybody was thinking it very certain that the man would never come back, and if he did, he'd never own the child, nor have anything to do with Margaret, poor girl! You see, in those days there weren't any mails that were carried 'way back off in the woods, and she neither had any word of him nor he of her. Well, old Mrs. Canfield knew what they were saying all right-she knew what everybody was saying-and I could see that she was troubled in her mind, though she never lowered her high head by an inch. Margaret's time drew near, and no sign from John Dawson, that was away. But Margaret never lost her faith in him a minute. 'When John is back,' she'd say, just as sure of him as though they'd been married by the priest; but I could see old Mrs. Canfield look queer when she'd hear Margaret talking that way.

"And then one morning, in April 'twas, and we'd all the doors and windows open for the first time, Margaret had gone down the walk to look at the lilac bush to see if there were any buds on it, and around the corner came John Dawson!

"Her back was to him and he hadn't any idea she was there, so when she turned round, they stared at each other for just a minute, as if they'd never seen . each other. Margaret stood there, just frozen, now the moment had come, just waiting like a little scared, helpless-I had the half of me hanging out the kitchen window to see what would hap

pen, and I'll never forget it-nevernever-never-the look on his face, the astounded look on his face, so full of pity and love, so strong with pity and love. 'Margie! Margie!' he said in a loud voice, and threw his sack off his back and his gun from his hand, and ran, ran to take her in his arms, so gentle, so strong.

"Well, when I could see again, I went off to tell old Mrs. Canfield, and there was the old lady in her own bedroom, standing bolt upright in the middle of the floor, and crying at the top of her voice. Her wrinkled old face was just a-sop with tears. Faith, but it was the grand cry she was having! And the good it did her! When she came to, she says to me, 'Well,' says she, 'folks aren't SO cussed as they seem, are they?'

"And then we went downstairs to get out the fruit-cake and the brandied peaches; for the minister married them in our parlor that afternoon."

Ο

NE day old Mr. Morgan, the onearmed Civil War veteran, took me along with him, to get out of the buckboard and open gates, on the back road along the river. He was going up to a hill pasture to salt his sheep. It took forever to get there, because his horse was so slow, and he had time to tell me a great many stories. This was one of them: "When I was a boy at school, I worked at Aunt Almera Canfield's doing chores night and morning. I remember how she used to loosen herself up in the morning. She was terribly rheumaticky, but she wouldn't give in to it. Every morning she'd be all stiffened up so she couldn't stand up straight, nor hardly move her legs at all; but she'd get herself dressed, somehow, and then two of her sons came in to help her get started.. She'd make them take hold of her, one on each side, and walk her around the room. It was awful to hear how she'd yell out-yell as though they were killing her! And then they'd stop, the sweat on their faces to see how it hurt her, and then she'd yell at them to go on, go on, she hadn't asked them to stop! They were over sixty, both of them, with grandchildren themselves, but they didn't dare not do what she said, and they'd walk her round again. She'd kick her poor legs out in front of her hard, to get the joints limbered up, and holler with the pain, and kick them out again, till by and by she'd get so she could go by herself, and she'd be all right for the day. I tell you, I often think of that. Yes, lots of times, it comes back to me."

Up in the sheep pasture, as we sat to rest the horse, he told me this: "I always thought Aunt Almera knew all about the John Brown raid before most folks did-maybe she sent some money to help him. She wasn't a bit surprised, anyhow, when she heard of it, and all through the whole business she never thought of another thing, nor let anybody else. He was caught-any of us

that lived in that house those days will never forget a one of those dates-and put in jail on the 9th of October, and his trial lasted until the 31st. Aunt Almera made us get together in the evenings, me and the hired girl and one of her grandsons and her daughter, all the family, and she'd read aloud to us out of the "Tribune' about what had happened that day at his trial. I never saw her so worked up about anything— just like ashes her old face was, and her voice like cold steel. We got as excited about it as she did, all of us, especially her grandson, that was about my age, and when we knew he was going to be hanged-and the day of his execution— December 2d, it was-Aunt Almera came at dawn to wake me up. 'Put on your clothes,' says she, and go over to the church and begin to toll the bell.' I didn't need to ask her what for, either. I'll never forget how awful she looked to me.

"Well, we tolled the bell all day long, one or the other of the family, never stopped a minute. You never heard anything so like death. All day long that slow, deep clang-and then a stillness-and then clang! again. I could hear it in my head for days afterwards. Folks came in from all around to find out what it meant, and Aunt Almera called them all into her parlor-she sat there all day and never ate a mouthful of food-and told them what it meant, so they couldn't ever get the sound of her voice out of their ears. Between times she'd read to whoever was there out of the Bible, in a loud voice, 'Avenge thou thy cause, O Lord God of battles,' and 'It is time for thee, O Lord, to lay to thy hand, for they have destroyed thy law,' and 'Let there be no man to pity them; nor to have compassion of their fatherless children.' It was the darndest thing to hear her!

"You'd better believe when the first call for men came from Washington there wasn't a boy of military age in our town that didn't enlist!"

A

N old, old cousin had just died, and as we sat downstairs talking with the doctor, he said to my aunt, who had been taking care of the sick woman: "She took it hard! She took it hard!"

They both frowned, and my aunt looked rather sick. Then the doctor said, "Not much like your grandmother, do you remember?" "Oh, yes, I remember," said my aunt, her face quivering, her eyes misty, her lips smiling. The doctor explained to me: "Your greatgrandmother was an old, old woman before she ever was really sick at all, except for rheumatism. And then she had a stroke of paralysis that left her right side dead. She lived four days that way-the only days she'd spent in bed in years, since she was a young woman, I suppose. Her mind wasn't very clear, she couldn't talk so that we could understand her, and I don't think she rightly knew anybody after her stroke. I guess she went back, 'way back, for we saw

from what she did that she thought she had a little baby with her. I suppose she thought she was a young mother again, and that was why she was in bed. She'd spread out her arm, very gentle and slow, the only arm she could move, so's to make a hollow place for a little head, and then she'd lie there, so satisfied and peaceful, her face just shining as if she felt a little warm, breathing baby there. And sometimes she'd half

I

wake up and stretch out her hand and seem to stroke the baby's head or snuggle it up closer to her, and then she'd give a long sigh of comfort to find it there, and drop off to sleep again, smiling. And she'd always remember, even in her sleep, to keep her arm curved around so there'd be room for the baby; and even in her sleep her face had that shining love on it-that old wrinkled face, with that look on it! I've seen

NOON

At noon I watched

lots of death-beds, but I never-" he stopped for a moment.

"Why, at the very last-do, you remember?"-he went on to my aunt, "I thought she was asleep, but as I moved a chair she opened her eyes quickly, looked down as if to see whether I had wakened the baby, and looked at me, to warn me to be quiet, her finger at her lips, 'Sh!' she whispered.

"And that was the way she died."

MET "Old Chinook" from away out

West the other day, right here on the streets of Washington. Somehow I vaguely sensed his presence before he appeared, as I used to do out West. There he would come softly whistling or humming an air from one of the great operas, learned he would never tell where. I think he must have been whistling. along the street the day I met him. We called him "Chinook" because, like that famous wind, he used to arrive so unexpectedly, and the frost lost its grip on everything at his coming. His jubilant greeting the other day drove the chill from the air, and spring seemed to be here in full tide.

"Well, Parson," he exclaimed, "where on earth did you come from, and how came you here?"

We were soon up to our ears in question and answer as to what had befallen each since the day our trails parted out there in Wyoming. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Still preachin', or workin' for Uncle Sam?"

"Preaching," I answered. "That's my work; and I could hardly do anything else, if I would; and wouldn't, if I could." "I s'pose so," he replied. "But don't you get awfully tired of it sometimes?" "Why should I?" I questioned in turn. "Oh, I w's just thinkin'." Then, with a sudden turn, he seemed to be off on another tack. "By the way," he said, "how many railways run out to that town where you're preachin'?".

"Only one," I informed him, "and that is all the traffic would sustain." "Why don't you have half a dozen?" he asked.

"Why should we," I asked, "when one barely pays?"

"Well, you see," he answered, "there are so many ways of building and running railways that every community, it

BY PEARSE PINCH

seems, ought to have the advantage of them all."

"Why, man, what do you mean?" I asked. "What are you driving at, anyway?"

I knew he had something up his sleeve which he was taking a roundabout way, not uncommon with him, to produce.

He went on: "You see, there are the several kinds of power. Some like the old way, of running cars by steam. They think it more reliable, like other old things. Others like the trolley, because the cars can run oftener, and accommodate passengers any hour of the day. You know that road of ours out West? Well, they are burning oil on that branch, and nothing else. I met an old fellow up the river who is always recalling the time when the engines had nothing but wood, and he thought it more homelike than any of these newfangled ways."

"But," I said, "all of that would be no reason for building a half-dozen roads out to our place."

"There are other things to consider," he persisted. "There are different styles in building cars. There are different kinds of platforms to get in on. There's no end of variety in choice of routes. One road could follow the hills, and another the valleys. Some folks are never happy unless they can be riding somewhere within sight of bodies of water." I thought I began to see the direction of Chinook's parable, but to further call him out I began a protest against the whole idea.

"You know perfectly well, Chinook," I said, "that you are talking nonsense. As it is, our road is well patronized. The cars are well filled, and often crowded. A whole neighborhood of commuters ride together, and it makes a big

neighborhood sociable between our town and Washington morning and night, as cheerful and friendly a crowd as you ever saw. The road, I understand, is fairly prosperous. But if we had five or six roads, they would divide the crowd into sorry little handfuls, some becoming partisans of one road, and some of another. It would all tend to breed neighborhood dissension. As a business policy it would be suicidal, and every road would be bankrupt. I can't imagine anything more senseless."

"I know something more senseless," Chinook replied.

"In the name of all that's foolish, what is it?" I asked.

"The policy of the churches; for they are doing worse than the thing you describe as so disastrous in railroading. That's why I wondered if you don't get awfully tired of preachin'."

I

Chinook's parable had me tight. confessed that the policy of our churches is a grievous trial to any man who wants to be a preacher and still be a man.

"And yet," I protested, "things will never become any better if those of us who want another policy abandon the field and leave it to the partisans who want nothing but division. I try to make my church broad enough to inIclude all who want a larger type of Christian life."

"No chance, Parson," replied Chinook. "Folks seem to like narrow and partisan ways in everything. I don't know that they are any worse in religion than in other things; but somehow it looks smaller and more contemptible in religion; and they are smaller and more contemptible when they are narrow and partisan in a thing so big as religion. You may as well give it up, Parson, and come back with me into God's great big churchless outdoors."

(C) Paul Thompson

T

HE years when Conan Doyle was not as yet my hero are faint in the mists of childhood. At first he was Sherlock Holmes, tall and slender, stooped, with keen features and nervous hands (like William Gillette's, I which I was not to see on the stage for two decades). From my fellow-cowboys I used to hear tales of Buffalo Bill, who had been their associate and who fitted into our life, for he was indeed part of it. But Sherlock Holmes was equally real to me, though he belonged to the strange world of hansom cabs and street lamps seen hazily through a drizzling rain, which, somehow, I imagined could not at all resemble the drizzle that soaked me to the skin as I rode herd. To me Sherlock Holmes was a vivid, resilient figure moving through a blurred, unreal London-unreal so far as concerned St. Paul's or the Tower, though I could always see a cameo face at the window of the one substantial house of a gossamer city, No. 221 Baker Street.

It was Sherlock Holmes' that was real; his pen-name was Conan Doyle.

Sherlock Holmes was my hero because he was not handsome and muscular and stupid like the knights of the mediæval romances that were then coming into fashion. In him the body was incidental to the mind. He fought with a weapon keener than steel, the one weapon (as I then thought) of the future. At that and in my next stage of development I saw no excitement (but great anthropological interest) in a football game-a pageant, I conceived it, of

our caveman ancestry. My thrills were in debate and in chess. The reign of brute force was over and the intellect had come to rule. That idea did not leave my head till 1914. I am not fully over it yet, for I sometimes think brains may have had something to do with winning the war.

While still a college student I worked my way over to Europe. Had I been able to cross two years earlier, I should probably have made a pilgrimage to many literary shrines, among them Stratford and "The Abbey." When I did get across, I had a notion to visit the Doone country, but the only shrine I actually searched for was 221 Baker Street. Of course it was not there. The absence of the house made the tenant more real, through relief from a suspense not acknowledged. One feels so much better about the gods if they are in the sky and not perched on a hill like Olympus. They are so much safer in the sky.

Now that 221 Baker Street had through its absence relieved me of my one (unconscious) misgiving about Sherlock Holmes, I forgot any curiosity I might have had about Conan Doyle. For I could feel the nearness of Holmes (who was Doyle) in every crowded street. Especially in fogs and at night he peered at me out of passing hansoms and stepped aside to let me pass through dark and narrow alleys. Why should I search for a man who brushed against me in every crowd? Busy as he was, why should I bother him? So I went from theater to theater seeking instead

I knew not what. At last I found Bernard Shaw and a statement, if not a solution, of the Irish question in what is still my favorite Shaw play-"John Bull's Other Island.":

It was on my third visit to England that a friend of mine who was a friend of Doyle's took it upon himself to bring us together. I have heard this friend tell that I wanted to meet Doyle because I thought him the greatest man in England. That was not my point of view. I have not thought deeply nor analytically about who may be the greatest man in England. What I felt was that, apart from the friends I knew well enough to need no exchange of words with them to find them good company, there was but one personality I realized in England-Sherlock Holmes, who as yet was Conan Doyle.

But when I first met Conan Doyle he was Dr. Watson. This was a hard trial for Sherlock Holmes. A personality less individual than his would have lost ground. To him it gave added strength. On coming to the top of Olympus I realized that I had always subconsciously known that the gods would not be visible to a casual eye. No real gods would be. Invisibility is an attribute of the godhead, to the disciple a precious sign confirming his belief.

Not merely at first was Conan Doyle Dr. Watson. He still is. But Sherlock Holmes has gradually asserted himself. Dr. Watson's kindness, his unselfish way of refusing to take the center of the stage, his generous interest in friends and mere people and in simple things (even in the weather), at first make him appear as a single personality. But he is really a composite personality, and you presently catch the analytic mind of Holmes peering out at you. The penetration he applies to his problems in crime is focused, and you feel that he reads legible upon the innermost walls of your mind things that even you did not know were there. Still, Sherlock Holmes under these conditions seems to suffer a strange astigmatism, for when he looks at you through the kind eyes of Conan Doyle he sees little but the good. Your weaknesses and wickednesses have to be pretty conspicuous if he sees them at all.

In his home Conan Doyle is not merely a sturdier Watson and a kinder Holmes. He is also a gentler Sir Nigel and a mellow blend of all the host of his nobler characters. Lady Doyle, Den-. is, Malcolm, and wistful little "Billy" are there in appropriate settings as proxies for the fair ladies, sturdy lads, and dainty little maidens of his wholesome books.

But to Sir Arthur this is not his whole family. His son Kingsley fought without serious hurt through more than

2

I'

F Mr. George Wharton Pepper be reelected to the United States Senate, he will refute the emasculated creed that political life is a strong but dirty current, unfit for clean swimmers. This 25 creed, subscribed to for the most part out of sheer apathy, has robbed the Republic of thousands of her ablest sons. They have held back, fearing rough contact and possible contamination. They have considered honor and honesty to be private luxuries which must be safeguarded from the public need.

Mr. Pepper has much to give and little to get in offering his services to his country. A lawyer of distinction, he has achieved success in his profession as the reward of engrossing toil. Since the year 1889, when he was graduated from the Law School of the University of Pennsylvania, class orator, and winner of the Sharswood prize and of the Pemberton Morris prize, his life has been one of strenuous endeavor. In the year of his graduation he published "The Border Land of Federal and State Decisions;" in 1891, "Pleading at Common Law under the Codes;" in 1901, "Digest of the Laws of Pennsylvania." For four years he edited the "American Law Register and Review." He is general counsel for the Penn Mutual Life Insurance Company, the Philadelphia Trust Company, and the Philadelphia National Bank. He possesses that accurate knowledge of code and Constitution which is of inestimable service in public affairs. His examination of witnesses before the Congressional Joint Committee in the Ballinger-Pinchot case was so masterly as to attract general attention. He displayed on this occasion an extraordinary skill and a steady self-control combined with that certainty of information which is particularly comforting to his clients.

When Mr. Root lamented that "democracies are always, in trouble," he understood the perils of a representative system which depends upon rationality as well as upon liberty, upon wisdom in choosing no less than upon freedom of choice. Some measure of responsibility for his country's well-being rests with every voter. He casts his ballot uncon

BY AGNES REPPLIER

cernedly, as if it didn't matter in the least; but it is

e who wins the reward of his wisdom or who pays the penalty. of his errors. There have been times when the persistent election of incapable legislators has so reduced the level of the Nation's efficiency that the American citizen could only shrug despairing shoulders and say with the British soldier: "It's comfortable feeling as 'ow you're so wet that you can't get no wetter no'ow." There have been timesfew and far between-when the courage and sanity of American lawmakers have arrested the attention of the world. The resources of our manhood are as limitless as the resources of our mines and farm lands; but much. is lost by misdirection. "If citizens will not elect able and honest men as their agents," says ex-Senator Beveridge, "they must suffer the consequences of their indifference to their own welfare."

The influence and authority of the. Senate have increased immeasurably during the last decade. More than one observer has pointed out that, while the House has declined until it is a negligible factor, the Senate waxes stronger every year. The struggle between the legislative bodies and the Executive, the unconcealed hostility which nullifies where it should construct and thwarts where it should amend, is not particularly helpful to the Nation. We are just as tired of war in Washington as of war in Europe. We want peace, and a rational understanding, and mutual concessions, and the triumph of common

sense.

Therefore the Senate being all-powerful-it is well to think soberly before electing a Senator. Therefore a moiety of Pennsylvanians have in mind a man of grave serenity, disciplined intellect, and balanced judgment, who can be trusted-having been already tried-not to go off his head when the first volley of words is fired. A knowledge of law has saved him from grave blunders, a knowledge of the world from the hopeless sentimentalism which alternates with selfish greed. It sometimes seems as though Congress ceases to be illiberal only when it has a chance of becoming

sentimental, and it is hard to say which mood is more injurious to the Nation. Mr. Pepper may be said to represent the type of mind which Mr. Henry Adams (a man not lavish of praise) recognized in his day as characteristically Pennsylvanian and credited with good working qualities: "In practical matters it is the steadiest of all minds; perhaps the most efficient; certainly the safest."

The practicality of a lawyer's mind is touched on every side by abstract considerations. Mr. Pepper's relations to labor illustrate this point. He has more than once represented the contractors in equity suits to restrain secondary boycotts, and the decisions then obtained have been accepted by union workers. On the other hand, he refused a retainer from the Merchant Tailors Association when he believed the union to be within its rights. And he mediated successfully in the Kensington textile strikes when there was ground for common agreement.. One year's hard work he devoted to the Committee on Constitutional Revision, paying his own expenses in Harrisburg and gaining little but the pleasure of accomplishment. In this case, as in others, it might have been said of him, "His service was in the endeavor only, and not in the fruits thereof."

In the direful autumn of 1914, when Americans, aghast and bewildered, were swayed alternately by generous indignation and a demoralizing sense of security, Mr. Pepper refused once and for all to be morally anæsthetized. He advocated a National protest against the violation of Belgium's neutrality, and the severance of diplomatic relations with Germany in the event of the protest being disregarded. This was not a popular stand to take. It ran counter to a long-cherished policy of non-interference, and it threatened vexation and internal discord. "Keep out of trouble," was the prevailing sentiment. The devout talked about peace, the cynical talked about profits; both concurred in denying any responsibility for the assaulted decencies of civilization.

There were men, old and young, to whom acquiescence in evil was an intel

delphia lawyer held fast to Newman's simple words: "The best prudence is to have no fear."

The entrance of the United States into the war imposed new obligations upon all loyal citizens. For two years Mr. Pepper served as Chairman of the Pennsylvania Council of National Defense. Even in his hard-worked life he had never shouldered duties which were, to use his own words, more "back-breaking." His great-great-grandfather, Thomas Wharton, had served in the same capacity-Chairman of the Pennsylvania Council of Safety-during the War of the Revolution. The average voter is apt to look adversely upon any candidate whose ancestors are a known quantity; but there is an aptness in this succession of offices-offices as strenuous as they were unremunerative which should disarm the deep-rooted prejudices of democracy.

Mr. Pepper was appointed to the United States Senate by Governor Sproul in the winter of 1922, to fill the chair vacated by the death of the re doubtable old king-maker, Senator Boies Penrose. He is now a candidate for reelection. Should he win out, his triumph would mark an era in the political history of Pennsylvania. He is in no sense one of the "ordinary men" for whom we have been told officially-but I hope mistakenly-that "America was made." He is rather one of the extraordinary men who are perhaps made for America, who take to duties as a duck takes to water, who face responsibilities and carry burdens all their lives. He has been a force in his own city and State. It remains to be seen whether or not he is desired as a force in the country. Under any circumstances, life holds for him work in plenty, and honor, and esteem, and, the old fighting faith that these things are well worth living for. The traditions of freedom warm his blood, and the stability of common sense steadies and animates his mind.