T

HERE is a heavy feeling comes on me this night-and midsummer here. For what with the harrying and fighting, the burning and thieving and setting of neighbor against neighbor, the fairies are lost

BY RUTH SAWYER

a charm on mute things that had no life or reason to them the way they would follow his fancy wherever it might lead. All this I had from Seumas Dubh.

ow there were, and are still, in an

with men from Derry and Fermanagh, Tyrone and Donegal, and not one among them has been hearing the sound of fairy pipes from the hills for these seven years; no, nor catching the rushing of strong wind on a darksome night when the fairy host would be abroad.

It sets one wondering where the Gentle People have gone, and what tales there will be to tell in another hundred years. A few will cling like ivy to an old wall; but where will there be new growth to come after?

Here is a tale-how old I cannot be telling. I had it from Seumas Dubh, the blind piper; and it was old when he had it from his grandda. It happened long back when fairies were plentiful over Ireland, before the great famine and the plague-which gives more than a hundred years to it, if it is time you care anything about.

It is told that much of the music in Ireland came at one time or another from the fairies. This much I know from Seumas Dubh-that many a soft, lilting air we sing to-day was heard first by some lad who slept a night through by chance with his ear to a fairy rath and woke in the morning with the music ringing in his head. It is the way the song of the brogues came first to Conal of a Thousand Songs and was passed on-down to the blind piper, and from his lips to mine. And Conal lived back in that pleasant time before war, famine, or plague.

There are many tales told about this lad-how he could be getting music out of anything. He could cut a reed at the lough and make a pipe that would carry sweeter than the lark singing his matins. He could whittle

a sally wand into a whistle with more notes to it than a blackbird. He could stretch dried sinews over a crack in the wall when the wind was blowing and make a caoining as wild and heartbreaking as the wail of the banshee. He could play the pipes and the harp and the fiddle; but of them all it was the fiddle he liked best. But that is not all about Conal. He slept not once, but often and often with his ear to a fairy rath until he had his thousand songs by heart, and with those the music of enchantment.

He could pull his bow this way till he had laughter on every lip; he could draw it that way till he had tears instead of laughter. And he could put

Donegal two bits of places-like this and like that. They lie two sides of the Gap, with a town between. One place had the manor house, with the Marquis living there and rich landowners all about; the other place was as poor as that was rich, with the people as simple and plentiful as the creatures. They called this place in those days Ballyweel; and here the Marquis pastured his cattle with Thady as cowherd, and his sheep with Manus as shepherd. And in cabins near to them lived Padraic, the weaver, with wee Katie, his one child; and old Shawn, who cut peat on the bogs; and Granny Dagh, who made creels to hold anything at all. These, with a twoscore more, made a contented place; for all they were so poor that, barring the shepherd, they owned not a pair of brogues each to his name.

Now brogues are the queer things. If you think about them at all, you will know that there is more pride that goes into the wearing of new brogues than of any other thing man or child can put on himself. At the time that Conal was still much of a lad a great happening took place, the like of which might not be happening again for a hundred years--or ever. Love had come to Bridget, the shepherd's daughter, and Duirmuid, the Marquis's son; a love so wonderful that even the Marquis could not put a stop to it, although he had been thinking of ways for a year and a day. He had given in to it at the last, and the Bishop was coming from Dublin to marry the two in the chapel that stood half-way between the manor house and Ballyweel. It was the chapel, the store, the barracks, the tailor's, the public-house, and Tomais, the cobbler's, that, put together, made the town; and over this bit of road Conal liked best to be tramping. For the lad had neither kin nor cabin of his own. Any one was like to find him on that stretch of road lying between any two places that had a feis to-day and a wedding to-morrow. And there was never a cabin over all the countryside but had a welcome and more for him.

It was midsummer that Bridget was to marry Duirmuid; but weeks ahead there was great fashing and talking of the Bishop's coming. For a bishop was a strange creature in those parts, and not a soul in Ballyweel had ever

laid eyes on one, or was ever like to if aught happened to keep this one out of reach. It came to a fortnight be fore the wedding, when Hughey O'Brian, the Marquis's agent, gave out the general invitations for the coun tryside. Every man, woman, and child would be welcome; and there would be room for all in the chapel who could decent-with coats to their backs and brogues to their feet.

Brogues! I am wondering can you feel the heartbreak in that one word for the people of Ballyweel. New coats for the men, with Padraic to weave the homespun, print dresses and aprons for the women and children; these could be managed. But who could be turning out brogues but Tomais, the cobbler? And he was as tight-fisted and mean a dispositioned man as had ever been born into County Donegal-by the grace of God. Sour as a green gooseberry he was, with a mouth always full of whinings over poverty and a starving old age, while every one was knowing there was more gold put by in his chimney corner than would keep food in a dozen mouths, and more. To get the gift or the loan of a pair of brogues out of Tomais short of the three shillings sixpence ha'penny that he asked for the poorest of them was as impossible a trick as to move the Causeway down to the Bay of Cork.

"Faith, I'd like to be murdtherin' that old spotted cow and sewing up every foot in the place with strips of her hide," Thady shouted out his anger at last to the wife. "That cow's but an old bag of leather, anyways, with little to her inside or out. Sure, death would be a grand comfort to her."

And he was all for taking an ax and clouting her. But the wife put sense into him, reminding him that, young or old, the cow belonged to the Marquis; and, if murder was done her, like as not he would be getting the Bishop to curse him good the instant he was through blessing the bride. But staying Thady's hand was not staying his tongue; and he and the neighbors filled the days and nights with bitterness. The night before the day of the wedding a fine wet rain began; and the children, urged on by wee Katie, took their last hope and tramped down the hill to the town to see could they coax Tomais into some kind of good-heartedness. With Katie as spokesman, they ventured as much as their heads in the door of his shop and cried out:

"Tomais, agradh! Ye are the grandest cobbler in Donegal. Lend us the loan of your wee brogues till the Bishop has gone the morrow, and like

W

ITH the coming of dusk a terrible gloom settled on every cabin but e shepherd's. There Bridget was rigging the last bit of wedding hery. New brogues and coats and ich-like were spread everywhere for er family to go decent; and, not owing the trouble that had come to e neighbors, she was singing as gay a throstle. Tea had been drunk in allyweel and the turf stacked fresh the fires when over the crest of the ghest hill came Conal of the Thouand Songs, one foot before another.

set of pipes was slung over his oulder and a fiddle was under his m, for he was to be making much husic on the morrow. The first cabin de came to was Thady's.

""Tis a fine soft evenin', glory be God!" he called in at the door. "Aye, 'tis a grand bit of weather, lory be! Will ye come in?" was the aswer. But when Thady brought his ice to the door to follow his welcome onal could see it was as black as a eat bog.

He shook his head by way of saying e would not be stopping the night. What ails ye, man? 'Tis glower looks e have. Has a murrain taken the OWS?"

"It has not, worst luck. If it had aken one cow, just, maybe the black orrow would not be so heavy this ight on Ballyweel." And with that e went on to explain the matter of rogues and the morrow.

Aye, and it was the black sorrow Conal found in every cabin he passed. Outside the door of the weaver's he ound wee Katie with her back to the ain and her face to the wall, making is much softness as the weather. Conal laid a gentle hand on her curls, 'And what is breaking your heart this night, cailin astore?"

"The same that is breaking them all -an' that but the wantin' of a pair f brogues," the words came in a high, hin wail. "To be thinkin' of Bridget, bride-in a dress fetched from Dubin by the Marquis his own self, and Bishop thrown in! All that to be nissin'! Faith, I wish I was the whole sky to weep proper!"

""Tis a terrible shame," Conal agreed. "But now ye hearken to me. If ye soak up all the wet this night, what kind of a wee lass will ye be the morrow for the weddin' should a pair of wee brogues happen by? And are ye forgettin' entirely what night o'

the year this might be? Sure, afore ye sleep this night mind ye put a bowl o'stirabout an' a sup o' fresh milk by the door for the Good People. Anything at all at all could be happenin' on Midsummer Eve."

Easing the weight of his pipes to his shoulder, he went on from cabin to cabin, leaving behind a trail of hope for the morrow. Then down the hill to the town he went, a queer bit of a smile on his lips and his eyes full of a hundred fancies. Straight as the crow flies he made for the window of the cobbler's shop, and there he stood looking in. On the shelf were neat rows of brogues: big brogues, soft brogues, stout brogues, wee brogues— stitched and pegged and ready for any one who had three shilling sixpence ha'penny and upwards to pay for them.

"There's a fine lot of brogues, all waitin' for feet to put life in them," said Conal low, to himself. "But what's the good of empty brogues? Tell me that," and he broke into a laugh as he lifted the latch of the door and went in.

Old Tomais was pegging the last of a sole by the mean light of one tallow dip, and he grumbled Conal a welcome. "Ye can ease your bones on the pile of hides in the corner," says he. "I'll be through in a minute, an' ye can mind the shop whilst I go across yondther an' drink my mug," and he jerked his thumb towards the publichouse.

Conal thanked him for his grand hospitality and gave a rascally wink to the brogues in the window. Then he sat down and laid his cheek to his fiddle, drawing his bow softly over the strings to sweeten them.

"Is that a new song ye are makin'?" mumbled the cobbler with a peg between his teeth.

"It might turn into one," agreed Conal.

"Maybe 'tis a new reel ye might be playin' at the weddin' the mornin'?" Tomais was as sharp-fingered for gossip as he was for gold.

"Aye, an' it might be that, too." "What name would ye be givin' it, then?" asked the cobbler.

Conal laughed. "Faith, I'm thinkin' of callin' it a tune for puttin' enchantment on brogues-any sort of brogues."

Tomais shot him an uneasy look from the tail of his eye. But the last peg was in and the thirst was on him; so, instead of getting at once to the bottom of such foolish talk, he set it back in his mind to see to as soon as he had finished his mug. Throwing his mallet and awl in the corner, he

hurried away with a final word to Conal to mind the shop well.

"Aye, I'll mind it mortial well," the lad whispered after him. As the latch dropped back in its place he was on his

feet, his bow beginning to sweep the strings in a mad, wild way. Slowly he moved over to the window, his head thrown back, his body keeping time to the music of his fiddle and a bewitched look in his eyes. And from under his fingers sprang the music of enchantment like fairy primroses from under spring rains. Never was there a lilt with so much magic to it. By the time he was close to the window and the tidy rows of brogues he was humming the air and fitting words to it. Again he winked-this time at the wee-est pair and he sang straight at them: 0... ho! Hey there an' ho there,

wee brogues, are ye hearin' me?
Tramp along to Ballyweel, for soon, I
am fearin' me,

The masther'll have his poteen drunk
an' be back any minute;
An' to-morrow there's a weddin' an'
there'll be no Katie in it.

With the finishing of the song, what did the wee brogues do but walk themselves off the shelf and make straight for the door! Conal lifted the latch to let them out, and waved them towards the hill road to Ballyweel. If you had been there, you would have seen them splashing through the soft rain.

Fastening the latch after them, Conal came back to the window and winked at the biggest brogues, his fingers holding the music the while. This time he sang:

0... ho! Hey there an' ho there,
big brogues, are ye hearin' me?
Tramp along to Ballyweel, for soon, I
am fearin' me,

The masther'll have his poteen drunk
an' be back any minute;
An' to-morrow there's a weddin' an'
there'll be no Thady in it."

And the big brogues walked off the same as the wee ones, taking the road close behind them; and Conal laughed long and hearty to see them go.

And

so it went. He sang the stoutest pair away to old Shawn and the easiest pair to Padraic, the weaver, and the softest pair to Granny Dagh, till the shelf was as empty as a harvested field and Tomais, the cobbler, had not a pair of brogues left to his name. With the last gone, Conal blew out the candle and latched the door after him. He stopped but a moment before he passed out into the darkness, and that was to look in at the window of the public-house. The cobbler was as drunk as a lord-or a marquis. He was draining his fifth mug to the health of the bride. And again Conal laughed. "Faith, by the time he is. back in his shop again he'll never be knowin' if there's a hundred brogues or none in the window."

as mean as the cobbler, you can guess he would never be letting his, shop empty itself of brogues without poking and prying into where they had gone and laying the blame on every one who might have had a hand in it. With the wedding day come and Tomais sober and the people of Ballyweel tramping down to the chapel-each one of them dandering out in a pair of new brogues-it would have taken no time at all for the cobbler to be swearing them his and running every man, woman, and child off to the barracks and the constable, to get them arrested. So the wedding would have ended in a sorry way, with more souls locked up than the town had ever jailed in all its history; and never one of them seeing the Bishop, after all. All this could have happened, as you have guessed.

others carrying bits of leather; and, last of all, there were some with aprons tied over their coats and mallets in their hands. These were the leprechauns-the fairy cobblers. They pulled themselves up on Tomais's bench, while all around them the others shouted to make haste.

If you had been listening then with your ear to a crack in the door, you would have heard the soft "tap-taptapping" of their wee hammers on the pegs, sounding like a flock of woodpeckers at a tree. And if you had had the courage to peek through that same crack, you would have seen the wee men handing the leprechauns the bits of leather to turn into brogues as fast as others could put them back on the shelves. So they worked with never a word between them; and in the whisk of an eye the window was full again, with a pair of brogues for every pair Conal had sent tramping up the hill that night.

With their work done, you would have heard the slow running of their laughter, like water running over covered stones, and away they trooped to their rath again-to dance till the moon went down behind the rain.

And here is the strangest part of the tale. Tomais, the cobbler, never found out the difference between the fairy brogues and his own; for a brogue was naught but a brogue to

him-something made of leather to be sold for three shillings sixpence ha'penny and upwards. But every one who came to buy soon found there was something queer about the shop and the brogues in it. For as soon as ever they tried on a pair the fairies had made their toes were pinched so hard they cried out sharp with the pain, and lost no time kicking them off and leaving them well behind them while they went away to find another cobbler in another town. So, for all the brogues on his window shelf, Tomais never sold another pair till the day he died.

A

Why,

ND what of the wedding? Thady and wee Katie and all of them came down to the chapel, made decent enough for the Marquis, in their new brogues and all. They looked as hard at the Bishop as they likeduntil their eyes were full of him and they could tell their children and their grandchildren what manner of creature a bishop was. And Conal played the merriest reels for them all to dance. Never was there a gayer wedding nor a grander feast; and at the last Conal made a song for Bridget, the shepherd's daughter, and Duirmuid, the Marquis's son. It was a song to lay enchantment on their hearts so that love lasted between them till life's end, and afterwards.

N antiquated and rickety street car, propelled, however, by electricity, rattled along the main street of Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria. It stopped before the Turkish mosque with its tall minaret while a peasant got in. He threw down a sack made of homespun and settled down with a few grunts. His leg-of-mutton trousers with the wide part on top were of a heavy wool dyed a warm brown with the juice of walnuts; his homespun cotton shirt carried a gay embroidered edge. A broad brown belt wound many times around and a fur cap completed his costume. We were now four passengers in all.

"Is this No. 27?" he suddenly asked, gazing stolidly before him.

The only other man in the car, a Bulgarian in European clothes, bestirred himself.

"No," he answered, "this is No. 1, the Count Ignatieff Line."

Dead silence for a moment. "Eh-never mind." And, with a clumsy gesture of the left hand, the peasant settled down even more comfortably. After all, the car was decidedly going somewhere.

BY NATALIE DE BOGORY

Five long minutes went by.

"How do I get to the Reparations Commission?" the peasant asked again, turning confidentially towards me and the European-clad man.

"It's a long way, but you can walk there. Get off at the next stop and turn to the left"-then there followed a detailed description of streets and turnings.

"What time is it?" the peasant asked, apparently ignoring the directions, which did not either discourage or surprise the European-clad Bulgarian.

"Five to twelve," he answered, and went on describing.

"I suppose I'll be late-they close at twelve," said the peasant, cheerfully.

But the car had stopped. He got up slowly, unhooked the chain on the wrong side of the car, and got down on the next track, then deliberately turned to the right.

"Wrong," announced the Europeanclad man, almost triumphantly, "hopeless. He's a Schop"-and he tapped his forehead significantly with a forefinger from which hung a chain of beads a playful custom and one of

the last a Bulgarian gives up during the process of civilization. Men walk around everywhere twirling these strings-a habit which reminds me of gum-chewing in the United States; it is done a great deal, but not by the best people.

Whether the peasant was a Schop or not is unimportant, but that is the name given to a special class of peasantry living around Sofia, known for its stubbornness and utter inability to seize upon a new idea.

As I sat watching the brown figure disappear in the totally wrong direction the town clocks struck twelve, and there rose before me Ellis Island with its red-brick buildings, through which thousands and millions of exactly such peasants had gone through. And the much-criticised system appeared marvelous to me, for it managed to handle just such men and women with their fatalistic and indifferent attitude towards place and time and advice.

Sofia is the most European city of the Balkan Peninsula, but the many years of warfare have left an indelible mark on it. The streets that were once good now present a series of ups

and downs which make perilous walking, and one torrential rain turns them into swift-flowing rivers. But, although the roads are primitive, 'great numbers of houses have electricity, and ironing and the making of tea is done in the most approved modern style. There is, however, no gas.

But even Sofia with its buffalodrawn wagons and peasantry, sitting and lying around the main streets, can give no real picture of Bulgaria, the country where there is no aristocracy and where education is the best introduction to "society."

It is in Tchirpan, a small town of 13,000 inhabitants, in the south of Bulgaria, that I am reaching nearer to the heart of this people, whom one. cannot help but love once inside the. rough outer shell.

All the streets present the aspect of having broken out in a stone rash: they curl unceasingly in between the low whitewashed houses and rubble fences, to the vast annoyance of the only architect in town.

"No building is ever square," he confided to me, recently, "and the plans are fearfully difficult to make."

The tiny wooden shops present openings with an elevated platform on which sits the merchant, his buyer = remaining in the street. Of course there is progress in Tchirpan, and many merchants own real little shops with a real counter. It is every man's ambition to order such a plan and build a modern building, and then stand behind the counter.

The houses are whitewashed, presenting endless rubble fences to the street and a large wooden gate, the frontier which separates the dusty street from the oasis within.

And what an oasis!

Once inside the gates, it is the home; several small whitewashed houses cluster around, serving as living quarters and summer kitchens. There is always a grape arbor, from which there now hang blue clusters of grapes, often a foot in length. Around the buildings the ground is laid with large flat stones, and beyond is the garden-fig trees, pears, plums, mulberries. But the housewife's great pride is her flower garden. Nasturtiums, tobacco plants, dahlias, grow in the ground, while most of the plants are potted in anything from an old kerosene can to a packing-case. The solid mass of plants can be thus moved from the burning sun in summer and in winter protected from the = extremes of cold.

During a visit I had been admiring one especially lovely garden.

"I can have it because there's a well in my yard; others have to carry their water from the nearest fountain," was my hostess's remark.

And I realized why the housewives are so tender with their plants. It takes a great deal of feeling for a plant to be willing to water it from buckets slung on a pole and brought from a fountain, often many blocks away. The rain rarely falls here through the summer months; even the grass withers into yellow wisps.

"We do the best we can, but life is primitive." Such is the answer one gets most often; self-criticism is the rule and the desire for something better is a national characteristic. I think it is this special mental trait which makes the Bulgarian the most intelligent and most advanced of the Balkan peoples.

I met an old acquaintance whom I had known during my previous visit, and we started discussing the condition of the town.

"Your streets are fearful," I remarked. "I suppose two wars with Stamboulisky on top just about bankrupted you."

"No," was his answer, "I don't think it's a question of money; it's our Bulgarian way. We spend a lot of money fixing up a street, and then we economize by refusing to keep it repaired. It takes Western culture to understand the value of upkeep."

Personally, I think he was exaggerating, but there is no doubt that this is the general attitude of mind, and the educated people are doing their best to fight this Oriental acceptance of things as they are and to introduce the go-ahead spirit of cultured countries. The Bulgarian mother, with no special education, and tied solidly to her household duties by the fact of their complexity due to utter lack of any improvements, worries about her children. She knows that the public schools leave much to be desired, but there is little other choice, and except

for the Samakoff School run by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions along American lines, there are no good schools. As a result the entire weight is laid on the university education, which is preferably given abroad, to pay for which the family at home economizes and often almost starves.

However, life in Tchirpan is almost city life compared to that of the surrounding villages. I went to one of them a few days ago, six kilometers from Tchirpan, to a mill run by several Russian refugees. The villagers all seemed to own sparkling new whitewashed homes with red-tiled roofs and balconies which gave them a chalet-like appearance. From a distance the entire village was a mass of green trees, with just the houses peeping out. The mill stands on the main road leading to the village fields, so before noon, wagons, donkeys, and horses went by, heavily laden with produce, the pick of that morning; corn, beans, melons, watermelons-it was an endless stream.

But not one passed us by; as each neared the mill he stopped, called out, and handed a picked melon.

"A. village custom," explained one of the Russian owners; "they do this every morning-every one of them. Why we get it, we can't decide. Perhaps because we are Russians, for whom there is a great sympathy, or perhaps because they know we have nothing. But in the village those who own land always give to the poor. It is customary for children of poor families to sit beside the road, simply collecting what the peasants give them."

This is probably an old Turkish custom which has remained because of its compatibility with the national character; there is a rough kindness.

among the people here. Nobody ever starves. The spirit of giving is much developed, and it is done not as a charity but as a due: those who have naturally give to those who have not. And yet it was in this same village that another Russian refugee was beaten to death for taking a watermelon.

Strange contrasts, difficult for a European or American to seize. Here, where nobody, man or beast, starves, children are beaten and animals are so roughly treated that one's nerves are constantly on edge. Dogs swarm everywhere, and, while there is always a hand to throw them something to eat, the stone often follows just as readily. Bulls, goats, buffaloes, donkeys-all get good food and lots of kicks. A village boy I met, who is studying medicine in Vienna, gave me an interesting side-light on the simple peasant's reaction to our civilization.

"I don't like it," he explained, rather plaintively, "probably because I don't understand it. Your luxury, your manner of living, your love of dogs. I simply feel strange to it all."

Which is undoubtedly true; this man will become an excellent physician because he spends his time studying, and not amusing himself, but he will remain a villager and our culture will make no dent on him.

However, this state of mind is by no means a general one, and most Bulgarian students imbibe a great deal from their university courses not included in the official curricula. But a great deal of impetus for good is wasted when it comes in contact with, to my mind, one of the most retrograde elements in Bulgarian lifepublic opinion. There is no doubt that it is a very necessary thing in society, but there comes a time when it begins to hamper progress, and as I get glimpses of real Bulgaria I feel that it is a handicap. Public opinion is the small-town mentality, the state of mind which fears to do anything new, anything which neighbors might not approve. Women here, for example, are doing nothing to organize the sport activities of their children because they are afraid they might be laughed at, and as a result their boys are brought home with broken arms while playing rough football. But as public opinion does not condemn dirty politics and graft while in office, it is an accepted fact that those in power steal public money; public opinion is like a capricious woman with little logic.

In a village I saw this public opinion in full sway. It was a Sunday afternoon, and on the green were gathered all the young girls of the village. The young men floated around vaguely, dodging dodging behind trees-I caught glimpses of their brown pants

and pale-blue shirts. Before them, as far away as possible, stood three couples, one of which was holding hands.

"The village courtship," a Bulgarian friend explained. "No young man can visit a young woman in her home; he has to court her here, and woe to him who once having made his choice tries to change his mind."

It was a pathetic sight-these couples-but perhaps the publicity was more painful to me than to them. Public opinion had worked out this method of courting and of protecting its young women; and later I was told tales of village life, of peasant cupidity and criminality, and I understood the scene on the green. It is natural that with such strict customs, murders over women are common among men.

But an even stranger thing is the kidnapping sport, practiced by peasants; if a girl pleases a young man either for her beauty or for her money, and his advances have been repulsed, it is not infrequent for half a dozen young men to come together and to kidnap her for their friend. She is taken to a neighboring village and kept there practically prisoner for a few weeks. By that time she is either willing to marry the man or to be more determined than ever not to do so; she sometimes escapes, and there have been cases of murder at the altar. It is a primitive country with primitive people, and there is a great deal of reason for many of the customs which appear so utterly barbaric.

I thought of our immigrant girls, living in numbers in one room in the crowded East Side of New York, and a sense of pity rose for them; unprepared and utterly defenseless, they

land in the United States in the care of questionable relatives, and then are. allowed to shift for themselves. Small wonder that so many sink to the bottom. They are never given even a fighting chance. The wonder is that so many develop into decent and honest women.

In an office in Tchirpan where some of the "intellectuals" often foregather to discuss politics and philosophy I met one afternoon a fair-haired man who eloquently attacked materialism and proved that the world was going through a spiritual awakening. As there were several Russians present, the conversation shifted easily from Bulgarian to Russian and back, and his Russian speech showed that he had lived in Russia.

"You've been in America?" he suddenly asked me during a lull in the discussion.

"Yes-just come from there," I answered.

"Perhaps you would like some books to read?" he said in clearest English.

Needless to say, I was surprised and pleased. He told me he had been in the Middle Western States for ten years, going through high school and working in the telephone company. Then he had gone to Russia, and now he kept a little store in Tchirpan. I admitted that books were what missed most, as I had brought none.

"I have Emerson, Thoreau, Ruskin. Please come and visit my wife and select what you want. I love American writers, who are little known here, and I have many of their writings." He told me that he had not continued his university studies in the United States because he realized they would