causes desertions by depriving the army of a type of men who in the past constituted a splendid class of non-commissioned officers and who were in every respect excellent, reliable, and "sticking" soldiers.

Discontent causes desertion in practically all cases in some form or another, and much of this arises from outside the service and comes from conditions which cannot be remedied by the military authorities; and there is no more fertile source of this discontent than the viewpoint of the civilian toward the soldier. The mere fact that a man is in the United States uniform is an indication to the public that he is of an inferior class; a hireling, of bad character and worse habits, a mark for contempt, and a man to be shunned in public and vilified in private, and one who has sacrificed his self-respect and independence by enlisting. There are no lack of incidents of soldiers being forbidden public amusement places while in uniform, or plainly shown that their presence is not desired, nor any dearth of incidents where they have been subject to insults 'and jeers on the streets, either as individuals or as organizations. The army is looked upon generally as a place where tough boys can be disciplined, or perhaps as a "reform school" upon a grand

scale.

It is true that soldiers have caused disturbances, and have by disorderly conduct and drunkenness perhaps given rise to a small extent of this form of public opinion. But, it is still more true that in public they are infinitely better behaved than the average men of their age and class in civil life, and their uniform courtesy to women in street cars, where they cheerfully give up their seats, is in marked contrast to the conduct of the civilian. In one of the larger cities, in which an army post is located, a streetcar conductor who had worked for years on the car line next to the post remarked that "never once had he been troubled by the conduct of the soldiers." They were, he said, "invariably neater, cleaner, and better behaved than his civilian passengers."

Naturally, a soldier soon learns of these conditions, and his discontent is

fostered by this unfavorable opinion concerning his vocation, and he will find his amusements in places where he is received cordially; and it is no great matter of pride to the American citizen to learn that the saloon and the "Dive" are the class of amusement houses which extend an open and a friendly hand.

With these conditions facing the soldier, is it any great matter of surprise that desertions are many, and re-enlistments few? Where, then, can come the pride of profession so essential to contentment and efficient work in every branch of life, when the soldier learns of this public contempt for his trade? The seed of discontent finds fertile ground in the young man who rightly expects that his oath of enlistment opened to him an honorable profession.

There are other influences to which the soldier is subject besides the vicious element met in public places, only they act by direct material encouragement. In localities where there is a great de mand for labor many soldiers have been enticed from the colors by flattering offers of good pay and practical immunity from arrest; in fact, this is common enough, and cases are known where agents have frequented the vicinity of army posts, treated the men well, and so induced them to desert.

Public sentiment directly assists the soldier who deserts to break his contract by affording a practical immunity from detection and arrest. A deserter is not treated as the criminal which his act, both morally and legally, makes him, he suffers no loss of public esteem by so doing; on the contrary, he may gain by it. He can return to his former mode of life without question, and with reasonable grounds for expectation not to suffer for his crime.

Nowhere, then, does the soldier find a kindly and helpful hand stretched out to him by his fellow-citizens; everywhere are the sinister influences encouraging him to commit a crime for which the penalties leave him nothing but a criminal, and involve a forfeiture of his American citizenship.

Charity no soldier needs or wants, neither does he appreciate the mistaken grounds of the missionary work fre

quently attempted. He would be met. man to man, not otherwise.

It has never been demonstrated that any soldier ever deserted for the single reason of harsh or ill-treatment on the part of his officers, and this cannot be considered as one of the potent causes for desertions. Within the army, there are undoubtedly reasons why men become dissatisfied, and the amount of pay received when compared to the standard of civil life is small, and under present conditions inadequate. Double the pay, and desertions would probably drop off, simply because a higher grade of men would be attracted to the service; treble it, and they would cease entirely. That, however, cannot be expected under present conditions.

The old soldier, of years of service, is the best judge of causes and effects within the army; and ask any one of them what is the greatest single cause for desertions, and he will answer, without question, the abolition of the canteen, the loss of the soldier's club. With the canteen there was a center of amusement for the soldier to pass his time in leisure hours. It never was a drinking establishment, pure and simple, as has so often been published. There was combined the feature of light drinks, harmless amusements, such as cardgames without gambling, pool, billiards, a lunch-room, and a reading-room well stocked with newspapers and periodicals.

The canteen encouraged temperance by forbidding excess; the strongest beverage was beer, but it also contained non-intoxicants, and it furnished amusements and was patronized by the abstainers as well as by the drinking element among the soldiers. The profits went directly back to the soldier in the form of athletic material and prizes for athletic contests, in amusements, and to the organizations for the material betterment of the mess. It was no special tax upon the soldier's pay, for a soldier like any other man will drink, and now that he cannot get his beer in decent surroundings, he finds it at present in the fringe of "dives," that have, since the canteen was abolished, sprung up like malignant mushrooms close around military reservations. There was a place to

go during leisure hours, a center for diversion; but without the attracting element, the present so-called canteens, or post exchanges, are but petty stores with all but the barter and sale element eradicated, and they can do little toward restoring attractions, because much of the soldier's pay goes to outside saloons, and these saloons furnish ample credit to last from pay-day to pay-day. The greatest use of a canteen then was to keep men contented, and to keep them at home; its lack works directly, and most effectively, in the opposite direction.

The soldiers themselves give other reasons for discontent peculiarly pertaining to the military side; and among those worthy of consideration, by the fact that they were repeated very generally, are practice marches with the entire kit, which extend throughout the year and become hard and monotonous. They fail to see the practical benefit to be gained by such an increase of hard work, and are discontented because no additional pay follows.

Many other reasons were advanced, such as non-military work in posts, soldiers enlisting rather to get out of work than expecting to do as much as in civil life at a decreased wage. They noted a change within the organizations themselves, a lack of esprit de corps, caused by the loss of so many experienced soldiers and the influx of inferior recruits. No soldier objected to the military side pure and simple, nor thought that it had been in the past too hard; but the combination of the old with so much that was new, and so perhaps difficult, left them too little time to themselves, and resulted in the chronic condition of being "tired of soldiering."

The old soldier is, as a rule, leaving for the greater allurements of civil life, and leaving his place to be filled by recruits, only, however, in a numerical sense. His shoes remain empty.

The remedy for desertions has been often discussed, but never found, or applied. The evil goes on day by day. Money would end it, as stated before, by being able to attract a much higher grade of recruits, but no petty advance in pay will have this effect. It must be radical.

The regular soldier, first of all, wants a square deal from the citizens whom he has been, and may be again, called upon to defend.

He thinks his past record entitles him to, and demands, honor and respect.

His uniform should be one to be proud of, and not an object of scorn and derision, and not a badge of baseness

T

and servility to be patronized as the lowest of public servants.

And principally because of this public opinion, and lack of honor, soldiers do and will continue to desert; and yet as deserters, and moral cowards, they find aid and comfort where they were not honored as soldiers.

Fort Wayne, Detroit, Mich.

'HE day was hot and sultry; not a breath of wind strirred the surface of the river, and the distant mountains were half hidden by angry black clouds. The men of St. Fidèle looked at the horizon as they sweated at their work. Une grande orage," they

said.

Before twelve o'clock, as was his custom, Thomas MacClarren rode down the village street. The guardian of the forest lands in his tweed norfolk and knickerbockers, his Scotch bonnet perched on his snow-white waving hair was a familiar figure in Monsieur le Ferrière's parish. Few people visited his isolated settlement at Baie des Rochers, but everyone met him as he wandered about the countryside, a pack of fire notices strapped with a fishing-rod to the cantle of his saddle, his faded plaid over his shoulder. Whatever the weather he rode on Saturday mornings to St. Fidèle to make a few purchases at Philippe Coutourière's store, to fetch his mail and to pass an hour with Monsieur le Curé, his dearest friend in lay matters, his bitterest opponent in things religious; for let it be understood that though in the stronghold of catholicism, Thomas. MacClarren clung tenaciously to the Westminster catechism of his forefathers. Honest and irascible, loyal to his friends and contemptuous of his enemies, the guardian of the forest lands, his spirited head erect, his gray eyes youthfully clear, went conscientiously about his daily business. If the meaner element of St. Fidèle took refuge behind their orthodoxy and murmured "heretic," the better class liked and respected him.

SHAW OLIVER

Chirruping encouragingly to his white pony, MacClarren made his way between the scattered hiproofed houses until he reached the golden mortar and pestle, which crowned the proud roof-tree of Doctor Duchesne. Here he dismounted nimbly, slipped the mare's bridle over a fence post, and lifted the latch of the shop door.

A close smell of drugs pervaded the place. Shelves and counter were crowded with gaudily wrapped bottles, and at the back of the shop, high on the wall, swung a brightly colored picture informing the intruder that "L'enfant pleure por son Castoria." The old Scotchman glanced about impatiently; the shop was empty. Careless of dusty boots, he strode across the spotless oilcloth and pushed open a side door.

Doctor Duchesne, in scrupulously brushed black, sat by the window of his inner sanctum; he jumped to his feet as he caught sight of the old guardian.

"Ah, bon jour, Monsieur MacClarren," he exclaimed, rubbing his short-fingered hands together and smiling genially. "You do me great honor; no one is ill I hope at Baie des Rochers."

MacClarren grunted. He disliked the doctor from the top of his suspiciously black hair to the tips of his pointed boots. boots. "My granddaughter insists her baby is very ill," he admitted ungraciously. He measured off an infinitesimal portion of his little finger with his thumb. "A pain of this size," he continued, “in the stomach of the first born is a serious affair. She would not let me go this morning until I gave my promise to see you,"

The apothecary doctor gasped. MacClaren's brusqueness had passed the limits of eccentricity. He opened the shop door and looked indignantly after the tweed-clad figure on the rough white pony.

Then stepping onto his narrow, unroofed piazza, for there was an admixture of curiosity in his anger, he placed himself where he could get a glimpse of the low-lying presbytère with its hip roof and dormer windows. Within the whitewashed picket fence, in the midst of the flower beds, he saw the soutane of Monsieur le Ferrière.

Old MacClarren rode slowly up the street, his head bowed forward, his shoulders drooping. As he neared the presbytère Duchesne expected to hear a cry, a welcome from the Curé, and to see the white pony brought suddenly to a standstill, but to his amazement the old priest turned his back on the approaching horseman and walked slowly into the house, while MacClarren, flinging back his head and squaring his shoulders, rode on towards the postoffice.

Doctor Duchesne tugged at his beard. For twenty years, as all the village knew, Thomas MacClarren had ridden on Saturday mornings to St. Fidèle; for twenty years he had reined in his horse at the presbytère gate. Had the two friends quarreled? The doctor was keenly interested. Duchesne, in spite of his acknowledged position as "the richest man in the parish" had always felt an envious interest in the intimacy between the Curé and the guardian, an intimacy from which he was tacitly excluded. The two men had not been unfriendly when the doctor had arrived in the village some ten years before, but as the fact became known that the doctor had a contempt for nonpaying patients and an unchange

able faith in mortgages, their sentiments, though they showed it with characteristic difference, underwent a change. Monsieur le Ferrière became each year more coldly courteous, Thomas MacClarren more brusque and impatient. Doctor Duchesne, whose desire to be rich was only equalled by his ambition to be honored, did everything in his power to ingratiate himself with the two men, who were the village's acknowledged aristocracy. He continued to meet their rebuffs with assumed humility and posed in the village as their ardent admirer. Though he was forced to admit that he made little progress, he was patient; the doctor was a man who believed in waiting. Now the wisdom of his faith seemed justified, for in the apparent quarrel between priest and guardian he saw an opportunity to make himself a sympathetic confidant, or if that failed a welcome peacemaker. As the first great rain drops of the coming storm splashed on the dusty road, warning the village people indoors, the doctor, with a self-satisfied smile on his lips was still standing at his shop door. Even when the rain, like a gray curtain, swept down the valley, blotting out mountain, field, and river, he did not move. Thus he happened to get a glimpse of old MacClarren, his plaid wrapped close around his shoulders, his head lowered, doggedly urging his shrinking pony up the village street, forgetful alike of grandchild and "sirop."

At the presbytère François la Voie, the bent little man who ordered the Curé's house, after closing every door and window fetched the blessed sapin from its place in the cupboard. He believed firmly in the efficacy of its burning branches, and whenever a branch of the dried aromatic balsam crackled on the stove, thunder and lightning were robbed of their fears. As he hung over the tiny bonfire Monsieur le Ferrière's voice sounded through the house. old servant straightened himself. "What does Monsieur desire ?" he asked, pushing open the study door.

The

The Curé sat by his writing table, loose pages of manuscript scattered about him, but the ink on his pen was dry.

"François," he said nervously, glancing over his spectacles, "has Monsieur MacClarren come yet from the postoffice ?"

"When I closed the front windows, Monsieur," returned the servant, he rode towards home." A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and as the thunder rolled among the hills, the rain swept wildly against the window panes. "Monsieur le Gardien does not seem to mind the weather," he added,

"And he did not stop at the presbytère," murmured the Curé sadly, "he would not take shelter under my roof."

François sniffed, the omission of MacClarren's weekly visit had been balm to his orthodox soul. Can not Monsieur live without the heretic at his elbow," he said irritably.

The Curé took off his spectacles and looked at François, his eyebrows were raised, his mouth compressed. The old servant squirmed under the unspoken reproof.

"I ask Monsieur's pardon," he murmured penitently. Then with an air of great mystery he placed his forefinger on one side of his nose. "Shall I prepare for a little day's fishing?" he suggested. "Trefflé Bergeron says the salmon are running."

The Curé flushed and shook his head. "Tu es bon enfant," he said wearily, "but I have no heart to go."

"Monsieur Duchesne," said François in a trembling voice, when the next day after mass the cunning doctor had wrung the whole story from him," something terrible has arrived, never twenty years has Monsieur lacked the heart to kill a salmon !"

in

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the news became known in the little village that Monsieur MacClarren had omitted his visit to the presbytère. Had Monsieur le Curé and Monsieur le Gardien quarrelled? Women bending over their sewing asked the .question, men toiling in the log jams discussed it. Though the old Scotchman had his admirers, if it came to a choice between the two men St. Fidèle would not waver. Philippe Coutourière, voicing public sentiment, announced from his counter that unless matters were cleared up, Monsieur Mac

Clarren must buy his necessities else where. The week dragged on and the more loyal began to be roused, for Mon sieur le Curé grew each day more unlike himself; he said his masses, he visited the sick, but he never stopped for a friendly chat at the store and his morning greetings to his little flock were cheerless and dull. Trefflé Bergeron in his white farmhouse beside the river watched the fresh run salmon play unmolested in the Curé's pools and helplessly wrung his hands.

Dr. Duchesne held seemingly aloof from the gossip, but no one in the village was so well informed of the Curé's actions and state of health. With adroit and well directed sympathy he won François la Voie's confidence, and the old servant really troubled about his master, and eager for comfort and advice soon fell into the habit of pouring his troubles into Duchesne's sympathetic ear.

"If Monsieur would only come to see Monsieur le Ferrière," implored the old man. "Monsieur is a man of such talent, he would make things better, I am certain of it. Monsieur le Curé is not well. Since his last trip aux bois with that sacré MacClarren it has not been to my taste. I have thought, Monsieur, that the heretic may have bewitched him; they say he practices the black art on all the animals of the woods. Why else should Monsieur le Curé care whether ce vieux MacClarren comes to the presbytère or stays away?"

Duchesne shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He was as ignorant as François of the true nature of the quarrel between curé and guardian, but though he built great hopes on the old priest's evident distress of mind he was too wise to introduce himself at a servant's request.

By the time another Saturday had arrived all the village as well as the scheming doctor was on tiptoe. Each member of the Curé's parish wished, before taking action, to be convinced of the great men's estrangement, but though dinners were burnt while inquisitive housewives lingered upon doorsteps, unrebuked by their equally interested lords and masters, St. Fidèle was doomed to disappointment. The sunlight danced on the rippling river, the fresh green leaves swayed in the cool breeze, but