Parks, and assisted us last winter in the fight to preserve the Yellowstone Park from commercialism, so we asked their President, Mrs. Alice Winter, to lay before their Board an invitation to suggest a name of some great American woman (not now living) for one of the fine falls. The invitation was accepted, and the name of Susan B. Anthony, selected officially, will be presented. I am sure we will have an "Anthony Falls" that will be a splendid monument in a beautiful place to a grand woman.

Mr. Lorimer has emphasized the appropriateness of Indian names. I do not find Indian traditions connected with the park. The region was too infernal to be liked by superstitious Indians. They seldom went there, unless they used it as a temporary refuge in time of tribal wars.

The Shoshone and Crow tribes lived near, and the name of the former is attached to the second largest lake in the park.

I am sure that suggestions from readers of The Outlook would be appreciated.

Dr. Henry van Dyke gave me "Silver Scarf Cascade" as his way of adopting one of our nameless beauties.

I don't want to suggest a naming contest. I would take to my bed if an avalanche of "Rainbow Falls" and "Bridal Falls" came in. Yet any one fired with the spark of suggestion may deeply satisfy unnumbered multitudes of park pilgrims by just the right name now, and, remember, the Geographic Board "will get you if you don't watch out."

Two or three of the pictures shown here were named by the topographical map maker, who evidently found them in 1884. Two are inappropriate. Personally, I should like to see names selected for all at the present time.

Space does not permit the showing of photographs of ten more cascades and falls; they are all beautiful, and may deserve any name suggested for those we are showing.

M

ANY friends know of the report I made last year that the topographical map (made in 1884) was in error in several places, including the marks indicating a large swamp of several thousand acres in the southwest corner.

The promoters of the irrigation project made the most of this feature of the Government map to get their plan through Congress, deceiving many of their own Idaho supporters.

Colonel C. H. Birdseye, Chief of the Topographical Department, went into that region this summer at the same time Mr. J. E. Haynes and I did. His report just made to the Interior Department on the "Swamp" is interesting:

The old topographic map erroneously represents the drainage in the basin below the mouth of the Bechler Canyon. In fact, the map of this region is so poor that revision is impracticable and the area should be entirely resurveyed. The swamp symbol appearing on the map is entirely misleading. This area is cov

(C) Haynes, St. Paul

I am naming this in memory of one of our friends who aided us last year, A. G. Batchelder, formerly Executive Secretary of the American Automobile Asso

ciation. (Note figure at base.)

ered with large open meadows on which grows an abundance of good grass, which I am told used to be cut in large quantities for winter cattle forage. These meadows are dotted with irregular patches of timber, but by far the larger percentage of the area is in grass. A number of small sloughs traverse the meadows, but otherwise the basin is dry and firm, so that one can ride almost anywhere on horseback. A fair wagon road traverses the meadows from the

Bechler ranger station to a point within two miles of the mouth of Bechler Canyon.

Colonel Birdseye also confirmed the statements made by several of us last year, that there are dam sites just outside this section of the park for use in storing water for Idaho irrigation.

Commercialism in park invasions seems to follow the maxim of a certain class of lawyers: "Anything to win the case."

The history of the misrepresentation of facts in the southwest corner of Yellowstone Park and the final publicity of the truth demonstrates the advisability of going slow in such matters and insisting on full investigation before a single step is taken against the parks of the people.

I am sure that the people of Idaho will indorse this, and that their Congressman who aided the proposed invasion was himself deceived.

We own nineteen National Parks. It has recently been proved that their best guardians are the many National socie ties who are loosely federated together in park defense. This federation ob viates duplication and gets prompt and Nation-wide action when dangers really threaten our park possessions.

I give below a list of these federated societies:

American Association for the Advancement of Science.

American Association of Museums.

American Automobile Association.

American Bison Society.

American Civic Association.

American Defense Society.

American Forestry Association.

American Game Protective Associa

American Museum of Natural His

American Scenic and Historic Preservation Society.

American Society of Landscape

Associated Mountaineering Clubs.

California Academy of Sciences.

Camp Fire Club of America.

Ecological Society of America.

Field Museum of Chicago.

League of American Penwomen..

General Federation of Women's Clubs.

National Arts Club of New York

Association of Audubon

National Automobile Chamber of Commerce (manufacturers).

National Federation of Business and Professional Women.

National Geographic Society.
National Parks Association.
New York Zoological Society.
Sierra Club.

If you are not already a member of one of them join now. More associations will be welcomed by our General Chairman, Mr. George Bird Grinnell, 238 East Fifteenth Street, New York City. Mr. Grinnell will also be glad to put the reader in touch with any of the societies already federated in park defense.

Ο

NE pitcher, one bowl, one towel, one mug, and one tooth-brush. The pitcher inside the bowl, the tooth-brush in the mug, the towel hanging limply from a sagging rack; such was the equipment held by the washstand at the foot of the narrow bed along the wall. Beyond was a small bureau. Beside the window stood a large table and a chair, and against the wall a trunk. A Turkey-red curtain concealed a row of hooks for clothing. On the wall hung a calendar, presented by a plow manufacturer, which represented a young lady in blue about to throw a very pink soap-bubble at a harvest moon which was winking at her. Such were the articles of furnishing, excepting the trunk and toothbrush, provided by the thrifty Mrs. Bender for the sum of $5.50 per week.

In short as you have guessed long before this-a hall bedroom.

To reach this palatial establishment you might best go down the avenue under the ironwork where the elevated trains thundered all day and all night, turn sharp to the left at the drug-store where the window was filled with corn plasters and cough cure, and walk past eighteen brick houses just alike. Then, if you paused at the nineteenth house, rang the bell, were admitted by the frowsy landlady, climbed three flights of dark and not over-clean stairs, and opened the door at the end of the hall, you would be in the hall bedroom aforementioned.

It was a little box of a room, with one window, half shaded by a not too clean muslin curtain, which had been drawn back so that the amber afternoon light of the day before Thanksgiving filled the room. Just like seventeen thousand four hundred and ninety-two other rooms it was. But the items of furnishing mentioned were by no means all the things in the room. It fairly bulged with disorder-wallowed in it, reveled in it. Boots peeped from under the bed and the red curtain. A row of neckties adorned the gas bracket. A soft hat lay beside a shirt on the trunk. A coat and pair of trousers had been thrown haphazard on the chair. But the table-it had chaos itself looking as orderly as a checker-board! Pins, brushes, pencils, and bottles of colored inks fought for a place on it; and it was littered with sketches and crayon drawings, most of them unfinished. There was one photograph, of a middle-aged, sweet-faced woman. On the walls were thumbtacked other drawings: a girl with smiling eyes, a pair of fire horses taking a curve, and a burlesque of the moon soapbubble calendar in which the moon had spidery legs and arms which he was

BY LEONARD HATCH

stretching out toward the soap-bubble girl. Such was the hall bedroom.

It did not even lack an owner, as disheveled as itself. In the bed lay a young man with the eyes of the woman in the photograph. But Arthur Wade was not looking at his best, for the dark hair was rumpled, his face was flushed, and he needed a shave badly. Even a first-year medical student could have told that Arthur had been having the "flu," and was just swinging into convalescence.

Arthur rolled back the sleeves of his faded pink pajamas, folded his hands under his head, and stared moodily out of the window. The hopeless grunt he gave was not his first. Thought he:

"Just my luck, when I've got so much work to finish!"

There being nothing else to do, he lay and listened to the noises of the city which the breeze brought through his half-open window. The jar of an occasional elevated train mingled with the steady abuse of a distant player-piano. Then he gradually became aware of a regular murmur of words through the wall of the next room. It came in the measured rise and fall of phrases repeated again and again.

Arthur knew well enough the cause of this. It was the girl who was studying to be a public reader-a new boarder and a stranger to him-going over and over one of her exercises. He strained for the words, and finally worked out the first line:

"My heart leaps up when behold."

She made her voice give a little staccato jerk up on the word "leaps" each time. But that was all that Arthur could distinguish, except the words "in the sky." Thus:

"My heart leaps up when I behold [Murmur] in the sky."

...

For a time the puzzle was not uninteresting.

"Her heart leaps up when she beholds something or other in the sky," thought the young man. "Now what the mischief can it be?" For a time he whimsically tried fitting different words to the murmur. "Balloon?" No. "Airplane?" Hardly. "Windmill?" Nothing like it. "Bird?" Worse and worse. Having read little poetry, he could not hit the answer. And after a while the reiteration of the words began to make him nervous. "I wish to thunder her heart would leap down into the subway, or somewhere, and stay down!" he thought. He longed to thump on the wall, but decided that that would hardly be polite even from an invalid.

So he lay and tossed restlessly, and

tried to forget the ache in his bones by watching the windows in the rows of houses across the back yards. Other persons were over there, he pondered, dozens and scores of them, and not a single one knew that he was sick or would have cared if he had known. And the more he thought, the gloomier he became.

His reflections were interrupted by a crisp rap on the door.

"Come in," said Arthur.

Mrs. Bender, his landlady, entered. She was a short, untidy woman; at her best not an exhilarating personage, and just now wheezing from the exertion of three flights-altogether not a tonic to an invalid.

"How do you feel now, Mr. Wade?" "No worse, thank you, Mrs. Bender. I'll be all right in a day or so. But isn't it tough luck to be laid up like this when I've got work to do?"

"Yes, I'm sorry," answered Mrs. Bender, with rather vague and ineffective sympathy, setting down a tray of cold toast and tea. "Here's your lunch," she added.

"Thank you. one remember me." "Well, I'm sure all your friends are sorry you're sick."

It's good to have some

"Friends!" burst out the young man, scornfully. "I've got no friends. Come, now, has any one in the house asked after me? Tell me straight."

"You see, sir, a number of 'em have gone home for over Thanksgiving, so they can't-"

"Well, they wouldn't, anyway," continued Arthur. "Even if there were anybody in the house besides the girl that speaks pieces, they'd be too busy to think of me they'd be going to parties, or theaters, or their hearts would be leaping up, or something."

"Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Bender, baffled and a shade frightened at this odd young

man.

"It's so with everybody in this whole big city. There's not a soul cares about me what I do, whether I'm sick or well, whether I'm alive or dead. They're perfectly heartless, every man, woman, and child in this whole town. They care for no one but themselves, even if it is Thanksgiving time."

"Your tea is getting cold, Mr. Wade," said she, anxious to soothe him and escape.

He understood her feeling, and sank back on the pillow.

"All right," said he. "Much obliged to you for bringing it. That's all." At the door Mrs. Bender turned for an instant.

"I've lived in this town for twenty years," said she, "and I just can't help