"The only remaining tree that stood on these grounds in 1840."

The little log cabin dragged from Arlington and long buried in a tangle of forest undergrowth dropped to pieces over twenty years ago. Its replica stands as closely as possible in its orignal relation, on a ridge farther to the front, in the open.

In after years the grass in the field of Stratton grew lush and tall. The doorway of the cabin choked with weeds. Across the gaping windows spiders built heir webs. Timid wild things nested in he rotting rafters. And the great mounain of Stratton in majestic loneliness rooded over all.

The old post-road, but a few feet beond, was alive, as of yore, with the assing of pleasure-seekers and traffic. None turned aside. None thought.

None cared. The Webster incident was forgotten.

Then the Stratton Mountain Club, under the leadership of Miss Ethel A. Eddy, its able and charming President, determined to rescue from oblivion the memory of the service that Daniel Webster had rendered their State.

Miss Eddy herself is a loyal Vermonter in whose yeins flows the blood of the men and the women who had so well served their State and country.

She got to work. A movement was started. And on a day of typical Vermont loveliness, August 10, 1915, there was unveiled and dedicated in Stratton Field, with appropriate services, in the presence of nearly a thousand persons, a boulder marker with bronze tablet testifying that on that spot Daniel Webster once had spoken.

Great forest trees are growing on the

523

place where Daniel Webster actually stood, so the site chosen for the marker is in a clearing to one side, in exact relation to the replica log cabin as to the original, facing south toward the highway, where all who pass may see.

The marker is a rude boulder of the common brown rock found on the premises. The tablet is of bronze, seventeen by eighteen inches, and on it in raised letters is the inscription:

THIS ROCK

MARKS THE SPOT WHERE

DANIEL WEBSTER

SPOKE

TO ABOUT 15,000 PEOPLE

AT

WHIG CONVENTION JULY 7 & 8, 1840

ERECTED BY STRATTON MT. CLUB AUGUST 10, A.D. 1915

HE ferry-boat left the Barge Office clumsily, and soon the line of New York sky-scrapers, each topped by curling wisp of white smoke, dimmed n the haze that usually hangs over ower New York. I barely looked at his, one of the most striking views, for ny thoughts were disturbed and the uit-case at my feet kept them concenrated on the coming adventure. At last was going really to submerge myself n the world of the immigrant, get a chance to creep close to the heart of that pathetic and perpetual problem of American life.

The opportunity had come quite unexpectedly. In a factory in one of the arge New Jersey towns several Slavonic mmigrant girls had disappeared and were later found in New York in the hands of white-slavers. Public opinion was roused, accusations were flung against the factory for harboring men who prey on ignorant girls, investigations started up everywhere-soon an anti-vice crusade was on the way. Those must have been strenuous times for the underworld. Meanwhile a small group of less spectacular but more earnest people was quietly working to get to the bottom of the situation, and when their plans were completed I was invited to undertake the investigation. "We want to know more about the life of our immigrants," said the representative of this group in offering me the task; "we want to know how those girls live and spend their time; we want to know what their needs are that we may better meet them. If there is organized white slavery, we will get rid of it. But we would like you to go to live among our Slavs to interpret them to us."

It was a crusade to me. I accepted with alacrity and my plans were soon complete. I decided to go through Ellis

BY NATALIE DE BOGORY

Island directly to some family in that New Jersey town. The address of a random family was obtained and discreetly looked up, to make certain that my existence would not be unnecessarily difficult. Knowing well the psychology of the immigrant, I knew that I could easily explain my sudden arrival among them-it would only be necessary to say that I had lost the address of a cousin in America and was deeply worried, and that I had met somebody-no need to know the name even-who had given me their address. Ellis Island is the immigrant's Inquisition and America the paradise, so all means are good to evade the cruel authorities. A lie is not a lie when told to an immigration inspector, and the natural indifference of the immigrant vanishes when the problem is to evade American immigration laws. I knew this and risked my entire investigation on this knowledge.

The New York sky-line was far behind; we were already approaching Ellis Island, with its solid mass of low redbrick buildings surrounded by green lawns. A dingy wooden ferry-boat stood close to the administrative building, crowded with kerchiefed women and furcapped men, all laden with heavy bun⚫dles.

I would soon be among them. I remembered the old Russian revolutionists, who used to "go among the people" to preach their revolutionary ideas. I remembered the stories of the peasants' eternal suspicion, and again my mind was disturbed. True, my clothing was real. I had bought it from a Russian girl, just arrived from Ellis Island. With what delight she had given me her dress, coat, and shoes in exchange for the dollars that would buy her American clothes. The rest of my clothing I had bought on push-carts on

GATE

the East Side, in the heart of the immigrant world.

I was soon in the office of the Commissioner, where a room was assigned to me to change my clothes. My own clothing was packed and taken back to New York.

Cotton stockings, a voluminous petticoat, then came the pathetic pale-green cotton dress with ruffles around the bottom that the little Russian girl had made herself for the glorious trip to America. Her shoes were good for either foot, but, as they were very big and the leather was soft, I was comfortable. A very heavy and thick padded coat of faded greenish-black material and a blue kerchief completed my costume. I tied a few extra worldly possessions in a cloth of red and black design. My money, together with the address of the family, written on a dirty scrap of paper, went into a large purse, and I was ready for my trip to another world.

One of the trusted inspectors had been detailed to slip me into the inexorable machinery of Ellis Island. He was knocking at the door.

"Ready?" he asked, coming in. "Spell me your name once more." "Maria Baranova, from Russia," I answered.

"Maria Baranova," he repeated, memorizing the name. "Well, I'll say goodby to you here-and good luck to you."

We shook hands and I walked out of the door-an immigrant-a timid and ignorant girl with whom the inspector could not talk, being an American.

Within an hour I was already in the railway room, where immigrants buy tickets for points beyond New York. Polyglot inspectors speaking a curious. jargon of Slavonic words directed me to the right ticket office. A telegram about

my arrival was sent automatically to the family to which I was going. I pictured the excitement that wire would rouse coming from Ellis Island and from a newcomer from the old country.

Just as automatically I was propelled to the restaurant room, and, as it was late afternoon, I bought a box of food that would serve me as dinner. Large signs in all languages announced the price of the food boxes and their contents. I wondered how many of the immigrants read those signs, and whether their most valuable effect was not on the American caterers, who might hesitate to overcharge in the face of such explicit information.

Benches and benches, crowded with immigrant families and lowly men and women like myself. Everybody was eating. Children lay around on the dirty bundles of baggage, nursing mothers baring themselves quite indifferently each time the baby cried; stolid, indifferent people chewing or wildly gesticulating; two men arguing about something, undoubtedly the trains, of which neither knew anything. And the smell-that curious pungent odor that is a combination of age-long filth and steerage and oranges; for everybody was eating oranges, and throwing the skins on the floor. The clean white tiled floor of the room looked like a garbage heap within half an hour after the arrival of the first group of immigrants; sausage rind, banana skins, tops of bottles-everything went on the floor. And together with that an utter indifference-an apparent inability to react to surrounding happenings, the stolidity of ignorance and perhaps timidity. In the midst of these peasants I felt more lonely than in a subway crowd, where there is a certain responsiveness, a smile, a courtesy; but here the unconscious greed of the peasant who for centuries has battled for an extra bit of land. But when I thought of the terrible journey they had undertaken I did not wonder at their indifference-steerage is not calculated to breed genial manners.

Each of us had been tagged with a number, and from time to time an official would raise some number on a big placard, shouting in a jargon that all might understand that those bearing that number must come forward. What a commotion! Women, children, and bundles, half-eaten food boxes hastily closed, everybody comparing the number on their chests with the one shown. I realized the utter helplessness of these people, most of whom had never before left the confines of their villages, and I saw the need for that implacable machinery of Ellis Island. This was still in the days when peasants were coming to this country; not the sophisticated town folk and worldly wise soldiers who flock here at the present time.

It seemed hours before my number was shown, and, bereft of all initiative and will power, I was led to the ferry, which took us over to an immigrant waiting-room of the Pennsylvania sta

THE AUTHOR IN GREENHORN GUISE

tion. More hours of waiting. I had some acquaintances by this time; but what could we talk about once the subject of the journey and of future plans had been exhausted?

Finally we were herded out to the platform, where belated commuters looked at us curiously. I was given a seat opposite two Hungarians, young men with bristling black mustaches and fur caps stuck jauntily on the sides of their heads.

At our station, one of the large towns in New Jersey, the conductor saw to it that we got out safely. I marveled at the accuracy with which the machine worked. I had seen no slip in the system; it seemed perfect.

It was midnight, and the platform was deserted. Alone with the two Hungarians, I realized that I was at last free of the system, and I was helpless. There was nobody to meet me.

The two Hungarians held a consultation, and finally turned me over to a policeman. I decided to go through with my adventure; I had come to study the lot of the immigrant girl. This was a good beginning.

The policeman grasped me firmly by the arm and said:

I was a greenhorn. He started excitedly in voluble and bad Polish. I answered in slightly better Polish, for I do not speak it well; but I told my story, and as I told it it was translated to the interested policeman.

"She's from Russia-a dressmakerhad trouble with her family-ran away -has a cousin here," he poured out.

The story was told and retold. The old wife, wearing an ugly black wig, according to the custom of orthodox Jews, made me sit down, and between them they made me feel as though I was a long lost relative whom they had found.

A greenhorn. There is magic in that word. For were they not greenhorns too, many years ago?

The old woman touched my coat almost reverently.

"Straight from the old country," she said. There was a longing in the voice. The policeman, however, was practi cal. He had been watching the car line, and it was time for me to go.

"When you're settled come around to see us," were the parting words of my new friends. .

But I never saw them again, for I could never find the store and the kind people whose graciousness had helped me at a moment when my courage was at a very low ebb.

The policeman stopped the car and beckoned to the conductor.

"This girl's a greenhorn," he said, "just off the train. Got to get off at Berry Street. Now you see that she gets off and show her where her number isit will be on that side."

"I'll take care of her," said the conductor, reassuringly.

The policeman turned sharply and walked away briskly. I had been unable to thank him.

The conductor approached me for the fare, of course. Even an immigrant would know that. I took out my purse and, true to my part, stretched it out open to him. There were gold pieces mixed up with silver money and nickels. He looked carefully at the collection and picked out a nickel.

"Close it," he said in a hurried whis per, making a closing motion with his hand. He looked uneasily at the only other passenger in the car.

I was so tired that I fell into a doze, from which I was wakened by the conductor. He stopped the car.

"Here's Berry Street," he said, though i he knew that I could not understand it; "your number is down there," a wide wave of the arm, "good-night-down there," another wave.

He had helped me off the car, and now he jumped on again and, waving his arm down the street, disappeared in the darkness. Alone, and a dark, ill-lit street, well after midnight. I tried to read the numbers on the small houses lining both sides of the street, but it was too dark.

For the first time fatigue combined with my helplessness almost overcame me. Suppose those people should refuse

"Gee-ee, a greenhorn," chorus, and they lined up before me. But they had understood my gesture, and, taking the paper, they led the way to a lamp-post. Not a remark, not a laugh at my clothing-and they were just three street urchins, prowling around after midnight!

"Looks like 269," was the verdict, and the three started off on a run to look for the house. I was left to follow at my will.

moved in the windows, women's voices could be heard talking, then steps. The door opened, and two women stood in the doorway, one of them holding a lamp.

"Here you are at last," said the older, genially, as though I was a welcome guest; "but where are they?"

"Who?" I asked.

"My husband and son-in-law. They went to the station to meet you when we received the wire. You must 've missed each other. Come in, you must be tired; come in."

And she led the way to her kitchen, where a fire was still burning. She put the lamp down, and then both women crowded on me.

"Here it is," said one of the boys, and he other two rushed up and they piled pell-mell into the small front yard. But hey had been serious too long, and it was in a spirit of mischief that they bulled the bell and raced off, without nother look at me.

rapidity, they all started settling my future for me. It was decided I was to live with them until a better place could be found, and I was to work in the cigar factory, to which Anna could take me.

"And I'll take you to a big store tomorrow morning," said the mother of the family, "and we'll buy you some real clothes-American clothes. You know, you couldn't go about in these here." She said the last gently, not to hurt my feelings.

In their excitement they had not noticed my utter fatigue, but finally even this became too apparent.

"Well, if this isn't terrible of us, and you so tired!" suddenly burst from the older woman. "You'd better go to bed at once."

In half an hour I was asleep on a couch in the room with the two Koslowskis and their three children. Nobody undressed. But even that did not matter to me. I slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

My white slave investigation? I did not find any organized traffic; there seldom is, but just foolish women and vicious men.

T

HIS is a story of how a desert has been made to blossom like the rose by pumping water up-hill.

n the southeast corner of Texas, right n the Rio Grande River, there is a ract of about five hundred thousand cres which now contains a population f about thirty thousand people and sevral thriving towns, of which Mission, Tarlingen, and Brownsville are the most mportant.

This tract was a desert twenty years go. The land was known to be rich, ut nothing would grow there except actus and mesquite because there was ittle or no rain. There was plenty of ater in the river, but it could not be ade available for irrigation by the sual method of building a dam, imounding it, and letting it run downill, because the Rio Grande is an interational boundary over which both lexico and the United States have jurisiction, and an agreement that would ermit of damming it for the benefit of he people on either side was a diploatic impossibility. Then, too, the tream was navigable at least up to Brownsville, which was something of a iver port in the days before our Civil Var, and a dam might have made it too hallow for the stern-wheel steamers hat used to navigate it before the railways were built.

And so the region seemed likely to remain a desert, until about ten years ago some engineer (I have not been able to ascertain his name) came along who asserted that it was possible to pump the water up out of the river into canals, through which it would flow by gravity to irrigate the fields at a cost that would not be prohibitive.

Strange to say, capital enough to try the experiment was found. It proved successful. More pumps were installed and more canals were built, and now the region reminds one of Holland, being traversed by about two hundred and fifty miles of main-line canals that are big enough to accommodate good-sized motor boats. The water in these canals has been lifted from twenty-eight to eightyfour feet, and from them it flows through of about twenty-five hundred miles smaller canals to irrigate what some one has called "the kitchen garden of the Southwest" but is better known as the "Valley of the Lower Rio Grande."

When I was in Texas last May, I was persuaded to pay a brief visit to this section, of which little is known in the North and West, and because the results achieved are so remarkable and the problems solved appear to have been so difficult I have been moved to write this brief description of what I saw.

The peculiarity of the project,

as

already stated, is that the water is thrice lifted by great centrifugal pumps to three successive plateaus, or "benches," as they are called. Through each of these plateaus a network of canals runs, and by this method at least a part of the water taken from the river is made to do double or triple duty. There may be other irrigation developments where this plan is followed. I do not know of them.

A crude idea of the scheme may be had from the diagram printed on the following page.

But this diagram will not enable the reader to form a conception of the engineering detail involved in carrying out the plan. Every five-foot contour in each plateau had to be plotted out so that the canals would always run down-hill from the point at which the water was pumped into them, which had to be the highest elevation in the level served.

This made it necessary to run the canals by very tortuous routes, and in one of the most effectively developed tracts in the region, which contains about 30,000 acres, there are 30 miles of main-line canals which connect with 300 miles of branch line sub-canals, and through this 30,000 acres there run, in addition, 205 miles of well-built roads under which the canals are carried by inverted siphons. These roads are necessary not only for the service and

If those who live in the great cities of the North and East and are accustomed to the comforts and conveniences of urban life will ask themselves whether they could be induced to go to South 'Texas and develop an undeveloped farm, they will realize the boldness of the capitalists who have put millions into building canals in the Rio Grande Valley upon the theory that the land could be sold when irrigation was provided. is the apparent hazard of such a venture that has made State or Federal aid necessary in the development of most irrigation projects.

large tracts, and the thrifty farmers who have been brought in told me that it was possible to make a comfortable liv. ing on as little as five acres if they were planted in early vegetables in winter and staple crops after the vegetables were gathered.

Among the crops that I saw growing or being harvested I recollect tomatoes, cucumbers, string beans and every other sort of beans, lettuce, cabbage, onions, potatoes, asparagus, eggplant, peppers, celery, carrots, turnips, pumpkins, spinach, parsnips, parsley, okra, sorghum, beets, green corn, Kaffir corn, broom corn, watermelons, honeydew melons, cantaloups, cotton, wheat, oats, clover, "Rhodes grass" brought from Rhodesia, Africa, all sorts of hay, peaches, grapes, strawberries, figs, dates, bananas, pe cans, oranges, lemons, limes, pomegranates, and flowers of every sort. I have forgotten others, for the variety and profusion of the crops are extraordinary. The region reminds one of the Valley of the Nile, and I should think that the Egyptian and "Parique" tobacco, so much in demand at present, would do well there, although I could not find that their cultivation has been attempted.

For this reason great credit is due John H. Shary, a Nebraskan, to whom probably more than any one else the success of this "up-hill" undertaking is due. As a salesman traveling through 'Texas in his youth he had the vision to see the possibilities of the country, and, starting in a small way, he became a successful colonizer, gradually building up an organization which operated its Own sleeping and dining cars and brought train-loads of people to the South from the Northern and Western States, and even from Canada. It is in this way that a very large portion of agricultural Texas and Oklahoma has been settled.

To those who live in the older and more permanently settled sections of the country a brief description of the method followed may be interesting. The "homeseekers," as they are called, are assembled at certain cities by advertising and correspondence. The hope that they may see an opportunity to better themselves and the American willingness to "take a trip" at reduced rates explains their readiness to make the journey.

It is, however, the citrus fruits-grapefruit, oranges, limes, and lemons-that are the most profitable at present and from which the farmers hope to get the largest returns in the future. It is claimed that "Valley" grapefruit and oranges are the most delicious in the world, and, judging from the evidence of my own palate, the claim is justified. I was shown one tree from which the owner said he had gathered in a single season grapefruit that he sold for $122. Most of the citrus orchards now in bearing are comparatively young, but many new trees are being set out and the production will be rapidly increased.

They travel in special trains, become acquainted with each other, and a feeling of communal interest springs up that has sometimes, so I am told, led the entire train-load to settle in one locality. The spirit that led the earlier pioneers of the 40's and 50's to cross the continent in prairie schooners and face the peril of an attack by Indians is the one by which the Pullman pioneers of to-day

Most Northerners who have never been there think that Texas is unbearably hot in summer, but this is not true of the State as a whole, and it is par ticularly untrue of those portions of Texas which, like the Valley of the Lower Rio Grande, lie along the Gulf of Mexico and are refreshed by the "Gulf breeze," which invariably starts about sunset and blows all night. In the daytime the sun is hot, but the air is dry and there is no humidity. I have been in nearly every part of Texas in July and August, and have never felt the heat there as I have in New York, and even in Boston.

It is a region of small farms, for under irrigation in a land of perpetual summer it is practicable to produce two crops a year, and I was told that it was no uncommon experience for a farmer to realize as much as $1,200 an acre for his tomato or melon crop and then plant broom corn or sweet corn or clover on the same acre and harvest a generous yield within the year. Because intensive cultivation and two crops are necessary in order to justify the prices at which the land is selling to defray the cost of irrigation, the companies that have furnished the capital required for the development are opposed to the sale of

In the winter the climate is delightful, and there are many places along the Gulf coast that would no doubt rival the winter resorts in Florida if they were as accessible.

They are not, however, so far off. It takes but fifty-four hours to go from New York to San Antonio, and the trip is, in my judgment, well worth the time to those who are unacquainted with Texas, which, as its inhabitants assert, "occupies all the continent of North America except the small part set aside for the United States, Canada, and Mexico."

I

F we could ever pop open quickly enough the closet door that hides our secret self, most of us would find ourselves eavesdropping upon bubbling chatter. The abrupt intrusion would reveal even the most silent man talking volubly to himself? By no means to #himself, but always to some invisible auditor. Always keep an eye on the person with whom you chat when you are all alone, for in your life he, she, is a very potent person; keep another eye on whichever of your many selves speaks to him, to her, for that self is the self you most enjoy being. In imaginary conversation you always put your best foot foremost, not necessarily the foot that you soberly adjudge best, but the foot that you like best.

A great many people would always like to know it when they are falling in love, so that they may decide whether to stop or to continue. There is a simple test for finding out. The first symptom is the tendency to confide in the absent one. It is always high time to take notice when a man discovers himself talking to a woman when she isn't there, explaining, informing, protesting, to her unseen ear, especially if he finds himself rattling away in silence to an ear he has actually seen but once. Yet a good many men would thank goodness if they knew that there was only one ear into which they thus poured themselves in secret. It disconcerts them to realize how many women they address in solitude, trundling forth one sympathetic automaton after another with alarming impartiality. Which of his charming invisible harem shall a man dare to put to the test of actual matrimony? Of the six or so of flesh-andblood ladies whom he honors with his unspoken confidences, he hesitates, chivalric though polygamous, to submit any one of these to the ignominy of five rivals. He need not worry. If all six, being real women, are equally seductive as invisible confidantes, then he may choose any one of them with safety, for within six months she will have absorbed all the oths into her own per

BY WINIFRED KIRKLAND

son. The only rival a man need ever be afraid to let his wife have is that one and only woman to whom he has always talked, but who has never existed!

A woman in process of attachment never has this need to choose among many invisible playmates. Women never have more than one man they speak to in silence-that is, not more than one man at a time. There is grave question whether any woman deeply in love with a man ever discourses to him in fancy, for she is too much afraid of him and of love to speak out her secret soul to him even in secret. Yet there was Laura Valentine, whose charming acquaintance I have just made. If ever woman loved a man, Laura loved Justin, but from her earliest little-girl admiration for a big boy she chattered awaywith significant results.

"It was curious to catch her unawares, to see her trotting down a garden path, obviously absorbed in a discussion that required words and laughter and expressive hands, and little quick, questioning upward glances, while she endeavored.to keep step with the big stride of an Invisible.

She was quaintly accustomed, in the first half-hour of reunion, to a sensation of depression, to be chilled, startled, into faint, disloyal protest: 'But-this isn't Justin! I forgot he was like this.' And then she would round indignantly upon herself'Anyhow, I like him this way.''

By no means all of us, however, are as stanch as Laura in readjusting when we discover how much less responsive the actual auditor is than the fancied one. Probably the habit of imaginary conversation before marriage has occasioned more divorces than any other one cause. How on earth is a woman to know what manner of creature her husband's astral intercourse with her has led him to expect? How on earth is a man to know what sort of air-drawn lover his wife called by his name before she took it? Why can we never quite forgive people for not rewarding us openly for that which we said to them

mutely? The real trouble with imaginary conversation is that we always do all the talking, but we never do any listening.

Most of us exercise more imagination than we ever acknowledge. Few of us would dare to come into the open and let any one know what we babble about in secret or to whose ear we babble it. Often we select nost unlikely confidants, some one whom we know so slightly that we may indulge our dearest pose with impunity, secure that he will never put our sincerity nor we his sympathy to the stern testing of everyday intercourse. Many a man and woman would be astounded to discover themselves the favored receptacles of some other man or woman whom they hardly know at all. The instinct to imaginary conversation comes upon some of us as early as the cradle. We have all at some time spied on children who chattered to unseen companions and trod fairy measures with invisible partners. Some of us have ourselves been such children. If so, we know what happens to our antics later on, for we have never really abandoned the joy of secret discourse, we have merely concealed it. The child or the grown-up who sings and prattles and dances when alone rarely sings and dances and prattles in company. Reason: He does not really like the company life makes for him as well as the company he makes for himself. The wee toddler, fancy-fed, is also asserting another prerogative of solitude: With the playmates he conjures up for himself he can be the self he wants to be, whereas flesh-and-blood Dolly Dimples and Buster Browns have an offensive habit of shoving him into corners and beating him in games and shouting him down when he addresses them. As the imaginative child grows older, he mingles more with his fellows, as the best means of disarming their suspicion of his private pastimes, but more and more he depends for real friendship on those comrades whom he buttonholes so volubly within the safe precincts of his own soul. But just here