{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6009/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6009","id":"gutenberg_6009","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6009","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Category: Romance","Religious fiction, American","Short stories, American"],"text":"Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE VALLEY OF VISION\n\nA Book Of Romance\n\nAnd Some Half-Told Tales\n\n\nBy Henry Van Dyke\n\n\n   _\u201cYour old men shall dream dreams,\n    Your young men shall see visions.\u201d_\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO MY CHILDREN\n\nAND CHILDREN'S CHILDREN\n\nWHO MAY REMEMBER THESE TROUBLOUS TIMES WHEN WE ARE GONE ON NEW ADVENTURE\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\n\u201cWhy do you choose such a title as _The Valley of Vision_ for\nyour book,\u201d said my friend; \u201cdo you mean that one can see farther\nfrom the valley than from the mountain-top?\u201d\n\nThis question set me thinking, as every honest question ought to\ndo. Here is the result of my thoughts, which you will take for what\nit is worth, if you care to read the book.\n\nThe mountain-top is the place of outlook over the earth and the sea.\nBut it is in the valley of suffering, endurance, and self-sacrifice\nthat the deepest visions of the meaning of life come to us.\n\nI take the outcome of this Twentieth Century War as a victory over\nthe mad illusion of  world-dominion which the Germans saw from\nthe peak of their military power in 1914. The united force of the\nAllies has grown, through valley-visions of right and justice and\nhuman kindness, into an irresistible might before which the German\n\u201cwill to power\u201d has gone down in ruin.\n\nThere are some Half-Told Tales in the volume--fables, fantasies--mere\nsketches, grave and gay, on the margin of the book of life,\n\n\n    \u201cWhere more is meant than meets the ear.\u201d\n\n\nDreams have a part in most of the longer stories.  That is because\nI believe dreams have a part in real life. Some of them we remember\nas vividly as any actual experience. These belong to the imperfect\nsleep. But others we do not remember, because they are given to\nus in that perfect sleep in which the soul is liberated, and goes\nvisiting. Yet sometimes we get a trace of them, by a happy chance,\nand often their influence remains with us in that spiritual refreshment\nwith which we awake from profound slumber. This is the meaning of\nthat verse in the old psalm: \u201cHe giveth to His beloved in sleep.\u201d\n\nThe final story in the book was written before the War of 1914\nbegan, and it has to do with the Light of the World, leading us\nthrough conflict and suffering towards Peace.\n\nAVALON, November 24, 1918.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n     A Remembered Dream\n     Antwerp Road\n     A City of Refuge\n     A Sanctuary of Trees\n     The King's High Way\n     HALF-TOLD TALES\n         The Traitor in the House\n         Justice of the Elements\n         Ashes of Vengeance\n     The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France\n     The Hearing Ear\n     Sketches of Quebec\n     A Classic Instance\n     HALF-TOLD TALES\n         The New Era and Carry On\n         The Primitive and His Sandals\n         Diana and the Lions\n     The Hero and Tin Soldiers\n     Salvage Point\n     The Boy of Nazareth Dreams\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\nThe sails and smoke-stacks of great shift were visible, all passing\nout to sea\n\nThe cathedral spire... was swaying and rocking in the air like the\nmast of a ship at sea\n\nAll were fugitives, anxious to be gone... and making no more speed\nthan a creeping snail's pace of unutterable fatigue\n\n\u201cI will ask you to choose between your old home and your new home\nnow\u201d\n\n\u201cI'm going to carry you in, 'spite of hell\u201d\n\n\u201cI was a lumberjack\u201d\n\n\u201cI am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, a\nprimitive\u201d\n\nThe Finding of Christ in the Temple\n\n\n\n\n\nA REMEMBERED DREAM\n\n\nThis is the story of a dream that came to me some five-and-twenty\nyears ago. It is as vivid in memory as anything that I have ever\nseen in the outward world, as distinct as any experience through\nwhich I have ever passed. Not all dreams are thus remembered. But\nsome are. In the records of the mind, where the inner chronicle of\nlife is written, they are intensely clear and veridical. I shall\ntry to tell the story of this dream with an absolute faithfulness,\nadding nothing and leaving nothing out, but writing the narrative\njust as if the thing were real.\n\nPerhaps it was. Who can say?\n\nIn the course of a journey, of the beginning and end of which\nI know nothing, I had come to a great city, whose name, if it was\never told me, I cannot recall.\n\nIt was evidently a very ancient place. The dwelling-houses and\nlarger buildings were gray and beautiful with age, and the streets\nwound in and out among them wonderfully, like a maze.\n\nThis city lay beside a river or estuary--though that was something\nthat I did not find out until later, as you will see--and the newer\npart of the town extended mainly on a wide, bare street running\nalong a kind of low cliff or embankment, where the basements of\nthe small houses on the water-side  went down, below the level of\nthe street, to the shore. But the older part of the town was closely\nand intricately built, with gabled roofs and heavy carved facades\nhanging over the narrow stone-paved  ways, which here and there\nled out suddenly into open squares.\n\nIt was in what appeared to be the largest and most important of\nthese squares that I was standing,  a little before midnight. I\nhad left my wife and our little girl in the lodging which we had\nfound, and walked out alone to visit the sleeping town.\n\nThe night sky was clear, save for a few filmy clouds, which floated\nover the face of the full moon, obscuring it for an instant, but\nnever completely hiding it--like veils in a shadow dance. The spire\nof the great cathedral was silver filigree on the moonlit side, and\non the other side, black lace.  The square was empty. But on the\nbroad, shallow steps in front of the main entrance of the cathedral\ntwo heroic figures were seated. At first I thought they were statues.\nThen I perceived they were alive, and talking earnestly together.\n\nThey were like Greek gods, very strong and beautiful, and naked\nbut for some slight drapery that fell snow-white around them. They\nglistened in the moonlight. I could not hear what they were saying;\nyet I could see that they were in a dispute which went to the very\nroots of life.\n\nThey resembled each other strangely in form and feature--like twin\nbrothers. But the face of one was noble, lofty, calm, full of a vast\nregret and compassion. The face of the other was proud, resentful,\ndrawn with passion. He appeared to be accusing and renouncing his\ncompanion, breaking away from an ancient friendship in a swift,\nimplacable  hatred. But the companion seemed to plead with him,\nand lean toward him, and try to draw him closer.\n\nA strange fear and sorrow shook my heart. I felt that this\nmysterious contest was something of immense importance; a secret,\nominous strife; a menace to the world.\n\nThen the two figures stood up, marvellously alike in strength and\nbeauty, yet absolutely different in  expression and bearing, the\none serene and benignant,  the other fierce and threatening. The\nquiet one was still pleading, with a hand laid upon the other's\nshoulder. But he shook it off, and thrust his companion away with\na proud, impatient gesture.\n\nAt last I heard him speak.\n\n\u201cI have done with you,\u201d he cried. \u201cI do not believe in you. I have\nno more need of you. I renounce  you. I will live without you. Away\nforever  out of my life!\u201d\n\nAt this a look of ineffable sorrow and pity came upon the great\ncompanion's face.\n\n\u201cYou are free,\u201d he answered. \u201cI have only besought  you, never\nconstrained you. Since you will have it so, I must leave you, now,\nto yourself.\u201d\n\nHe rose into the air, still looking downward with wise eyes full\nof grief and warning, until he vanished  in silence beyond the thin\nclouds.\n\nThe other did not look up, but lifting his head with a defiant\nlaugh, shook his shoulders as if they were free of a burden. He\nstrode swiftly around the corner of the cathedral and disappeared\namong the deep shadows.\n\nA sense of intolerable calamity fell upon me. I said to myself:\n\n\u201cThat was Man! And the other was God!  And they have parted!\u201d\n\nThen the multitude of bells hidden in the lace-work of the high\ntower began to sound. It was not the aerial fluttering music of\nthe carillon that I remembered hearing long ago from the belfries\nof the Low Countries. This was a confused and strident  ringing,\njangled and broken, full of sudden tumults and discords, as if the\ntower were shaken and the bells gave out their notes at hazard, in\nsurprise  and trepidation.\n\nIt stopped as suddenly as it began. The great bell of the hours\nstruck twelve. The windows of the cathedral glowed faintly with a\nlight from within.\n\n\u201cIt is New Year's Eve,\u201d I thought--although I knew perfectly well\nthat the time was late summer. I had seen that though the leaves\non the trees of the square were no longer fresh, they had not yet\nfallen.\n\nI was certain that I must go into the cathedral.  The western\nentrance was shut. I hurried to the south side. The dark, low door\nof the transept was open. I went in. The building was dimly lighted\nby huge candles which flickered and smoked like torches. I noticed\nthat one of them, fastened against a pillar, was burning crooked,\nand the tallow  ran down its side in thick white tears.\n\nThe nave of the church was packed with a vast throng of people,\nall standing, closely crowded together,  like the undergrowth in\na forest. The rood-screen  was open, or broken down, I could not\ntell which. The choir was bare, like a clearing in the woods, and\nfilled with blazing light.\n\nOn the high steps, with his back to the altar, stood Man, his face\ngleaming with pride.\n\n\u201cI am the Lord!\u201d he cried. \u201cThere is none above me! No law, no God!\nMan is power.  Man is the highest of all!\u201d\n\nA tremor of wonder and dismay, of excitement and division, shivered\nthrough the crowd. Some  covered their faces. Others stretched\nout their hands. Others shook their fists in the air. A tumult  of\nvoices broke from the multitude--voices  of exultation, and anger,\nand horror, and strife.\n\nThe floor of the cathedral was moved and lifted by a mysterious\nground-swell. The pillars trembled and wavered. The candles flared\nand went out.  The crowd, stricken dumb with a panic fear, rushed\nto the doors, burst open the main entrance, and struggling in furious\nsilence poured out of the building.  I was swept along with them,\nstriving to keep on my feet.\n\nOne thought possessed me. I must get to my wife and child, save\nthem, bring them out of this accursed city.\n\nAs I hurried across the square I looked up at the cathedral spire.\nIt was swaying and rocking in the air like the mast of a ship\nat sea. The lace-work fell from it in blocks of stone. The people\nrushed screaming through the rain of death. Many were struck down,\nand lay where they fell.\n\nI ran as fast as I could. But it was impossible to run far. Every\nstreet and alley vomited men--all struggling together, fighting,\nshouting, or shrieking,  striking one another down, trampling over\nthe fallen--a hideous melee. There was an incessant rattling noise\nin the air, and heavier peals as of thunder shook the houses. Here\na wide rent yawned in a wall--there a roof caved in--the windows\nfell into the street in showers of broken glass.\n\nHow I got through this inferno I do not know.  Buffeted and blinded,\nstumbling and scrambling to my feet again, turning this way or\nthat way to avoid the thickest centres of the strife, oppressed and\nparalyzed by a feeling of impotence that put an iron band around\nmy heart, driven always by the intense longing to reach my wife and\nchild, somehow I had a sense of struggling on. Then I came into a\nquieter quarter of the town, and ran until I reached the lodging\nwhere I had left them.\n\nThey were waiting just inside the door, anxious and trembling. But\nI was amazed to find them so little panic-stricken. The little girl\nhad her doll in her arms.\n\n[Illustration with caption: The cathedral spire... was swaying and\nrocking in the air like the mast of a ship at sea.]   \u201cWhat is it?\u201d\n asked my wife. \u201cWhat must we do?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d I cried. \u201cSomething frightful has happened  here. I can't\nexplain now. We must get away at once. Come, quickly.\u201d\n\nThen I took a hand of each and we hastened through the streets,\nvaguely steering away from the centre of the city.\n\nPresently we came into that wide new street of mean houses, of\nwhich I have already spoken.  There were a few people in it, but\nthey moved heavily  and feebly, as if some mortal illness lay upon\nthem. Their faces were pale and haggard with a helpless anxiety to\nescape more quickly. The houses seemed half deserted. The shades\nwere drawn, the doors closed.\n\nBut since it was all so quiet, I thought that we might find some\ntemporary shelter there. So I knocked at the door of a house where\nthere was a dim light behind the drawn shade in one of the windows.\n\nAfter a while the door was opened by a woman who held the end of\nher shawl across her mouth.  All that I could see was the black\nsorrow of her eyes.\n\n\u201cGo away,\u201d she said slowly; \u201cthe plague is here.  My children are\ndying of it. You must not come in! Go away.\u201d\n\nSo we hurried on through that plague-smitten street, burdened\nwith a new fear. Soon we saw a house on the riverside which looked\nabsolutely empty. The shades were up, the windows open, the door\nstood ajar. I hesitated; plucked up courage;  resolved that we\nmust get to the waterside in some way in order to escape from the\nnet of death which encircled us.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d I said, \u201clet us try to go down through this house. But\ncover your mouths.\u201d\n\nWe groped through the empty passageway, and down the basement-stair.\nThe thick cobwebs swept my face. I noted them with joy, for I thought\nthey proved that the house had been deserted for some time, and so\nperhaps it might not be infected.\n\nWe descended into a room which seemed to have been the kitchen.\nThere was a stove dimly visible at one side, and an old broken\nkettle on the floor, over which we stumbled. The back door was\nlocked.  But it swung outward as I broke it open. We stood upon a\nnarrow, dingy beach, where the small waves were lapping.\n\nBy this time the \u201clittle day\u201d had begun to whiten the eastern sky;\na pallid light was diffused; I could see westward down to the main\nharbor, beside the heart of the city. The sails and smoke-stacks\nof great ships were visible, all passing out to sea. I wished that\nwe were there.\n\nHere in front of us the water seemed shallower.  It was probably only\na tributary or backwater of the main stream. But it was sprinkled\nwith smaller vessels--sloops, and yawls, and luggers--all filled\nwith people and slowly creeping seaward.\n\nThere was one little boat, quite near to us, which seemed to be\nwaiting for some one. There were some people on it, but it was not\ncrowded.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d I said, \u201cthis is for us. We must wade out to it.\u201d\n\nSo I took my wife by the hand, and the child in the other arm,\nand we went into the water.  Soon it came up to our knees, to our\nwaists.\n\n\u201cHurry,\u201d shouted the old man at the tiller.  \u201cNo time to spare!\u201d\n\n\u201cJust a minute more,\u201d I answered, \u201conly one minute!\u201d\n\nThat minute seemed like a year. The sail of the boat was shaking\nin the wind. When it filled she must move away. We waded on, and\nat last I grasped the gunwale of the boat. I lifted the child in\nand helped my wife to climb over the side.  They clung to me. The\nlittle vessel began to move gently away.\n\n\u201cGet in,\u201d cried the old man sharply; \u201cget in quick.\u201d\n\nBut I felt that I could not, I dared not. I let go of the boat. I\ncried \u201cGood-by,\u201d and turned to wade ashore.\n\nI was compelled to go back to the doomed city.  I must know what\nwould come of the parting of Man from God!\n\nThe tide was running out more swiftly. The water swirled around my\nknees. I awoke.\n\nBut the dream remained with me, just as I have told it to you.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nANTWERP ROAD\n\n\n[OCTOBER, 1914]\n\nAlong the straight, glistening road, through a dim arcade of drooping\ntrees, a tunnel of faded green and gold, dripping with the misty\nrain of a late October afternoon, a human tide was flowing, not\nswiftly, but slowly, with the patient, pathetic slowness of weary\nfeet, and numb brains, and heavy hearts.\n\nYet they were in haste, all of these old men and women, fathers\nand mothers, and little children; they were flying as fast as\nthey could; either away from something that they feared, or toward\nsomething  that they desired.\n\nThat was the strange thing--the tide on the road flowed in two\ndirections.\n\nSome fled away from ruined homes to escape the perils of war. Some\nfled back to ruined homes to escape the desolation of exile. But\nall were fugitives,  anxious to be gone, striving along the road\none way or the other, and making no more speed than a creeping\nsnail's pace of unutterable fatigue.  I saw many separate things\nin the tide, and  remembered them without noting.\n\nA boy straining to push a wheelbarrow with his pale mother in it,\nand his two little sisters trudging at his side. A peasant with his\ntwo girls driving their lean, dejected cows back to some unknown\npasture. A bony horse tugging at a wagon heaped high with bedding\nand household gear, on top of which sat the wrinkled grandmother\nwith the tiniest  baby in her arms, while the rest of the family\nstumbled alongside--and the cat was curled up on the softest coverlet\nin the wagon. Two panting dogs, with red tongues hanging out, and\nsplayed feet clawing the road, tugging a heavy-laden cart while the\nmaster pushed behind and the woman pulled in the shafts. Strange,\nantique vehicles crammed with passengers. Couples and groups and\nsometimes larger companies of foot-travellers.  Now and then a\nsolitary man or woman, old and shabby, bundle on back, eyes on the\nroad, plodding through the mud and the mist, under the high archway\nof yellowing leaves.\n\n[Illustration: All were fugitives, anxious to be gone, ... and\nmaking no more speed than a creeping snail's pace of unutterable\nfatigue.]\n\nAll these distinct pictures I saw, yet it was all one vision--a\nvision of humanity with its dumb companions in flight--infinitely\nslow, painful,  pitiful flight!\n\nI saw no tears, I heard no cries of complaint.  But beneath the\nnumb and patient haste on all those dazed faces I saw a question.\n\n_\u201cWhat have we done? Why has this thing come upon us and our\nchildren?\u201d_\n\nSomewhere I heard a trumpet blown. The brazen spikes on the helmets\nof a little troop of German soldiers flashed for an instant, far\ndown the sloppy road. Through the humid dusk came the dull, distant\nbooming of the unseen guns of conquest in Flanders.\n\nThat was the only answer.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA CITY OF REFUGE\n\n\nIn the dark autumn of 1914 the City sprang up almost in a night,\nas if by enchantment.\n\nIt was white magic that called it into being--the deep, quiet,\nstrong impulse of compassion and  protection that moved the motherly\nheart of Holland when she saw the hundreds of thousands of Belgian\nfugitives pouring out of their bleeding, ravaged land, and running,\nstumbling, creeping on hands and knees, blindly, instinctively\nturning to her for safety and help.\n\n\u201cCome to me,\u201d she said, like a good woman who holds out her arms and\nspreads her knees to make a lap for tired and frightened children,\n\u201ccome to me.  I will take care of you. You shall be safe with me.\u201d\n\nAll doors were open. The little brick farmhouses  and cottages with\ntheir gayly painted window-shutters;  the long rows of city houses\nwith their steep gables; the prim and placid country mansions set\namong their high trees and formal flower-gardens--all kinds of\ndwellings, from the poorest to the richest, welcomed these guests\nof sorrow and distress. Many a humble family drained its savings-bank\nreservoir to keep the stream of its hospitality flowing. Unused\nfactories were turned into barracks. Deserted summer hotels were\nfilled up. Even empty greenhouses were adapted to the need of human\nhorticulture. All Holland was enrolled, formally or informally, in\na big _Comite voor Belgische Slachtoffers._\n\nBut soon it was evident that the impromptu methods of generosity\ncould not meet the demands of the case. Private resources were\nexhausted.  Poor people could no longer feed and clothe their\npoorer guests. Families were unhappily divided.  In the huge flock\nof exiles driven out by the cruel German Terror there were goats as\nwell as sheep, and some of them bewildered and shocked the orderly\nDutch homes where they were sheltered, by their nocturnal habits\nand negligible morals.  Something had to be done to bring order and\nsystem into the chaos of brotherly love. Otherwise the neat Dutch\nmind which is so close to the Dutch heart could not rest in its bed.\nThis vast trouble which the evil of German militarism had thrust\nupon a helpless folk must be helped out by a wise touch of military\norganization, which is a good thing even for the most peaceful\npeople.\n\nSo it was that the City of Refuge (and others like it) grew up\nswiftly in the wilderness.\n\nIt stands in the heathland that slopes and rolls from the wooded\nhills of Gelderland to the southern shore of the Zuider Zee--a sandy\ncountry overgrown with scrub-oaks and pines and heather--yet very\nhealthy and well drained, and not unfertile under cultivation. You\nmay see that in the little  neighbor-village, where the trees arch\nover the streets, and the kitchen-gardens prosper, and the shrubs\nand flowers bloom abundantly.\n\nThe small houses and hotels of this tiny summer resort are of brick.\nIt has an old, well-established look; a place of relaxation with\nrestraint, not of ungirdled frivolity. The plain Dutch people love\ntheir holidays, but they take them serenely and by rule: long walks\nand bicycle-rides, placid and nourishing picnics in the woods or\nby the sea, afternoon tea-parties in sheltered arbors. One of their\nfavorite names for a country-place is _Wel Teweden,_ \u201cperfectly\ncontented.\u201d\n\nThe commandant of the City of Refuge lives in one of the little\nbrick houses of the village. He is a portly, rosy old bachelor,\nwith a curly brown beard and a military bearing; a man of fine\neducation and wide experience, seasoned in colonial diplomacy.\nThe ruling idea in his mind is discipline, authority. His official\nspeech is abrupt and final, the manner of a martinet covering a\nheart full of kindness and generous impulses.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d he says, after a good breakfast, \u201cI want you to see my\ncamp. It is not as fine and fancy as the later ones. But we built\nit in a hurry and we had it ready on time.\u201d\n\nA short ride over a sandy road brings you to the city gate--an\nopening in the wire enclosure of perhaps two or three square miles\namong the dwarf pines and oaks. The guard-house is kept by a squad\nof Dutch soldiers. But it is in no sense a prison-camp, for people\nare coming and going freely all the time, and the only rules within\nare those of decency and good order.\n\n\u201cCapacity, ten thousand,\u201d says the commandant, sweeping his hand\naround the open circle, \u201cquite a city, _niet waar?_ I will\nshow you the  various arrangements.\u201d\n\nAll the buildings are of wood, a mushroom city, but constructed with\nintelligence to meet the needs of the sudden, helpless population.\nYou visit the big kitchen with its ever-simmering kettles; the\ndining-halls with their long tables and benches; the schoolhouses\nfull of lively, irrepressible children; the wash-house where always\ntalkative and jocose laundresses are scrubbing and wringing the\nclothes; the sewing-rooms where hundreds of women and girls are\nbusy with garments and gossip; the chapel where religious services\nare held by the devoted pastors; the recreation-room which is the\nsocial centre of the city; the clothing storerooms where you find\nseveral American girls working for love.\n\nThen you go through the long family barracks where each family has\na separate cubicle, more or less neat and comfortable, sometimes\nprettily decorated, according to the family taste and habit; the\nbarracks for the single men; the barracks for the single women;\nthe two hospitals, one general, the other for infectious diseases;\nand last of all, the house where the half-dozen disorderly women are\nconfined, surrounded by a double fence of barbed wire and guarded\nby a sentry.\n\nPoor, wretched creatures! You are sorry for them. Why not put the\ndisorderly men into a house of confinement, too?\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d says the commandant bluntly, \u201cwe find it easier and better\nto send the disorderly men to jail or hospital in some near town.\nWe are easier with the women. I pity them. But they are full of\npoison. We can't let them go loose in the camp for fear of infection.\u201d\n\nHow many of the roots of human nature are uncovered in a place like\nthis! The branches and the foliage and the blossoms, too, are seen\nmore clearly in this air where all things are necessarily open and\nin common.\n\nThe men are generally less industrious than the women. But they\nwork willingly at the grading of roads and paths, the laying out\nand planting of flower-beds, the construction of ornamental designs,\nof doubtful taste but unquestionable sincerity.\n\nYou read the names which they have given to the different streets\nand barracks, and the passageways between the cubicles, and you\nunderstand the strong, instinctive love which binds them to their\nnative Belgium. \u201cAntwerp Avenue,\u201d \u201cLouvain Avenue,\u201d \u201cMalines Street,\u201d\n \u201cLiege Street,\u201d and streets bearing the names of many ruined towns\nand villages of which you have never heard, but which are forever\ndear to the hearts of these exiles.  The names of the hero-king,\nAlbert, and of his brave consort, Queen Elizabeth, are honored by\ninscriptions, and their pictures, cut from, newspapers,  decorate\nthe schoolrooms and the little family cubicles.\n\nThe brutal power which reigns at Berlin may drive the Belgians out\nof Belgium by terror and oppression. But it cannot drive Belgium\nout of the hearts of the Belgians. While they live their country\nlives, and Albert is still their King.\n\nBut think of the unnatural conditions into which these thousands\nof human beings--yes, and hundreds  of thousands like them, torn\nfrom their homes, uprooted, dispersed, impoverished--are forced by\nthis bitter, cruel war. Think of the cold and ruined hearthstones,\nthe scattered families, the shelterless children, the desolate and\nbroken hearts. This is what Germany has inflicted upon mankind in\norder to  realize her robber-dream!\n\nYet the City of Refuge, being human, has its bright spots and its\nbits of compensation. Here is one, out of many.\n\nThe chief nurse, a young Dutch lady of charming face  and manners,\nserving as a volunteer under the sacred  sign of the Red Cross,\ncomes in, one morning, to make her report to the commandant.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he says, disguising in his big voice of command the warm\nadmiration which he feels for the lady, \u201cwhat is the trouble to-day?\nSpeak up.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing, sir,\u201d she answers calmly. \u201cEverything  is going on pretty\nwell. No new cases of measles--those in hospital improving. The\nonly thing that bothers me is the continual complaint about that\nMrs. Van Orley--you remember her, a thin, dark little person. She\nis melancholy and morose, quarrels all the time, says some one has\nstolen her children. The people near her in the barracks complain\nthat she disturbs them at night, moans and talks aloud in her sleep,\njumps up and runs down the corridor laughing or crying: 'Here they\nare!' They don't believe she ever had any children. They think\nshe is crazy and want her put out. But I don't agree with that. I\nthink she has had children, and now she has dreams.\u201d\n\n\u201cSend her away,\u201d growls the commandant; \u201csend her to a sanatorium!\nThis camp is not a lunatic asylum.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d interposes the nurse in her most discreet  voice, \u201cshe is\nreally a very nice woman. If you would allow me to take her on as\na housemaid in the general hospital, I think I could make  something\nout of her; at least I should like to try.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave your own way,\u201d says the commandant, relenting; \u201cyou always\ndo. Now tell me the next trouble. You have something more up your\nsleeve, I'm sure.\u201d\n\n\u201cBabies,\u201d she replies demurely; \u201ctwo babies from Amsterdam. Lost,\nsomehow or other, in the flight. No trace of their people. A family\nin Zaandam has been taking care of them, but can't afford it any\nlonger. So the Amsterdam committee has sent them here.\u201d\n\nThe commandant has listened, his cheeks growing  redder and redder,\nhis eyes rounder and more prominent. He springs up and paces the\nfloor  in wrath.\n\n\u201cBabies!\u201d he cries stormily. \u201cBy all the gods, da--those Amsterdammers!\nExcuse me, but this is too much. Do they think this is a foundling\nasylum? or a nursing home? Babies! What in Heaven's name am I to\ndo with them? Babies!  Where are those babies?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust outside, and very nice babies indeed,\u201d says the nurse, opening\nthe hall door and giving a soft call.\n\nEnter a slim black-haired boy of about three and a half years and\na plump golden-haired girl about a year younger. They toddle to\nthe nurse and snuggle against her blue dress and white apron.\n\nSmiling she guides them toward the commandant and  says: \u201cHere they\nare, sir. How do you like them?\u201d\n\nThat terrific personage has been suddenly  transformed from haircloth\ninto silk. He beams, and pulling out his fat gold watch, coos like\na hoarse dove: \u201cLook here, _kinderen_, come and hear the bells\nin my tick-tock!\u201d\n\nPresently he has one of them leaning against the inside of each\nknee, listening ardently to the watch.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think of that!\u201d he says. \u201cWhat is your name, youngster?\u201d\n\n\u201cHendrik,\u201d answers the boy, looking up.\n\n\u201cHendrik _what?_ You have another name, haven't you?\u201d\n\nThe boy shakes his head and looks puzzled, as if the thought of\ntwo names were too much for him.  _\u201cHendrik,\u201d_ he repeats more\nclearly and firmly.\n\n\u201cAnd what is her name?\u201d asks the commandant, patting the little\ngirl.\n\n_\u201cSooss,\u201d_ answers the boy. \u201cMama say _'ickle angel.'_\nHendrik say _Sooss.\u201d_\n\nAll effort to get any more information from the children was fruitless.\nThey were too small to  remember much, and what they did remember\nwas of their own size--only very little things, of no  importance\nexcept to themselves. The commandant looks at the nurse quizzically.\n\n\u201cNow, miss, you have unloaded these vague babies on me. What do\nyou propose that I should do with them? Adopt them?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot yet, anyhow,\u201d she answers, smiling broadly.  \u201cLet us take them\nup to the camp. I'll bet we can find some one there to look after\nthem. What do you say, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d he sighs, \u201chave your own way as usual! Just ring that\nbell for the automobile,  _als't-Ublieft.\u201d_\n\nIn the busy sewing-room the two children are standing up on one\nof the tables. The commandant has an arm around each of them, for\nthey are a little frightened by so much noise and so many eyes\nlooking at them. The chatter dies down, as he speaks in his gruff\nauthoritative voice, but with a twinkle in his eyes, rather like\na middle-aged  Santa Claus.\n\n\u201cLook here! I've got two fine babies.\u201d\n\nA titter runs through the room.\n\n_\u201cJa, Men'eer,\u201d_ says one of the women, \u201ccongratulations!\nThey are _lievelingen_--darlings!\u201d\n\n\u201cSilence!\u201d growls the commandant amiably.  \u201cNone of your impudence,\nyou women. Look here!  These two children--I want somebody to adopt\nthem, or at least to take care of them. I will pay for them. Their\nnames are Hendrik and--\u201d\n\nA commotion at the lower end of the room. A thin, dark little\nwoman is standing up, waving her piece of sewing like a flag, her\nbig eyes flaming  with excitement.\n\n\u201cStop!\u201d she cries, hurrying and stumbling forward  through the\ncrowd of women and girls. \u201cOh, stop a minute! They are mine--I lost\nthem--mine, I tell you--lost--mine!\u201d\n\nShe reaches the head of the table and flings her arms around the\nboy, crying: \u201cMy Hendrik!\u201d\n\nThe boy hesitates a second, startled by the sudden  wildness of\nher caress. Then he presses his hot little face in her neck.\n\n_\u201cLieve moeder!\u201d_ he murmurs. \u201cWhere was you? I looked.\u201d\n\nBut the thin, dark little woman has fainted  dead away.\n\nThe rest we will leave, as the wise commandant does, to the chief\nnurse.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA SANCTUARY OF TREES\n\n\nThe Baron d'Azan was old--older even than his seventy years. His\nage showed by contrast as he walked among his trees. They were\nfresh and  flourishing, full of sap and vigor, though many of them\nhad been born long before him.\n\nThe tracts of forest which still belonged to his diminished estate\nwere crowded with the growths native to the foot-hills of the\nArdennes. In the park around the small chateau, built in a Belgian\nversion of the First Empire style, trees from many lands had been\nassembled by his father and grandfather: drooping spruces from\nNorway, dark-pillared  cypresses from Italy, spreading cedars from\nLebanon, trees of heaven from China, fern-leaved gingkos from Japan,\nlofty tulip-trees and liquidambars  from America, and fantastic\nsylvan forms from islands of the Southern Ocean. But the royal\navenue of beeches! Well, I must tell you more about that, else you\ncan never feel the meaning of this story.\n\nThe love of trees was hereditary in the family and antedated their\nother nobility. The founder of the house had begun life as the son\nof a forester in Luxemburg. His name was Pol Staar. His fortune  and\ntitle were the fruit of contracts for horses and provisions which\nhe made with the commissariat  of Napoleon I. in the days when the\nNetherlands  were a French province. But though Pol Staar's hands\nwere callous and his manners plain, his tastes were aristocratic.\nThey had been formed young in the company of great trees.\n\nTherefore when he bought his estate of Azan (and took his title\nfrom it) he built his chateau in a style which he considered\ncomplimentary to his imperial patron, but he was careful also to\ninclude within his domain large woodlands in which he could renew\nthe allegiance of his youth. These woodlands he cherished and\nimproved, cutting with discretion, planting with liberality, and\nrejoicing in the thought that trees like those which had  befriended\nhis boyhood would give their friendly  protection to his heirs.\nThese are traits of an  aristocrat--attachment to the past, and\ncareful provision for posterity. It was in this spirit that Pol\nStaar, first Baron d'Azan, planted in 1809 the broad avenue of\nbeeches, leading from the chateau straight across the park to the\nhighroad. But he never saw their glory,  for he died when they were\nonly twenty years old.\n\nHis son and successor was of a different timber and grain; less\naristocratic, more bourgeois--a rover, a gambler, a man of fashion.\nHe migrated from the gaming-tables at Spa to the Bourse at Paris,\nperching at many clubs between and beyond, and making seasonal\nnests in several places. This left him little time for the Chdteau\nd'Azan. But he came there every spring and autumn, and showed the\nfamily fondness for trees in his own fashion.  He loved the forests\nso much that he ate them. He cut with liberality and planted without\ndiscretion.  But for the great avenue of beeches he had a saving\nadmiration. Not even to support the gaming-table would he have\nallowed them to be felled.\n\nWhen he turned the corner of his thirty-first year he had a sharp\nillness, a temporary reformation,  and brought home as his wife a\nvery young lovely actress from the ducal theatre at Saxe-Meiningen.\nShe was a good girl, deeply in love with her handsome husband, to\nwhom she bore a son and heir in the first year of their marriage.\nNot many moons thereafter the pleased but restless father slid back\ninto his old rounds again. The forest waned and the debts waxed.\nRumors of wild doings came from Spa and Aix, from Homburg  and\nBaden, from Trouville and Ostend. After four years of this the young\nmother died, of no namable disease, unless you call it heart-failure,\nand the boy was left to his grandmother's care and company among\nthe trees.\n\nEvery day when it was fair the old lady and the little lad took\ntheir afternoon walk together in the beech-tree avenue, where the\ntips of the branches now reached the road. At other times he roamed\nthe outlying woods and learned to know the birds and the little\nwild animals. When he was twelve his grandmother died. After that\nhe was left mainly to the housekeeper, his tutors, and the few\nfriends he could make among the children of the neighborhood.\n\nWhen he had finished his third year at the University  of Louvain\nand attained his majority, his father returned express-haste from\nsomewhere in Bohemia, to attend the coronation of Leopold II,\nthat remarkable King of Belgium and the Bourse.  But by this time\nthe gay Baron d'Azan had become stout, the pillar of his neck seemed\nshorter because it was thicker, and the rose in his bold cheek had\nthe purplish tint of a crimson rambler. So he died of an apoplexy\nduring the festivities, and his son brought him back to the Chateau\nd'Azan, and buried him there with due honor, and mourned for him\nas was fitting. Thus Albert, third Baron d'Azan, entered  upon his\ninheritance.\n\nIt seemed, at first, to consist mainly of debts.  These were paid by\nthe sale of the deforested lands and of certain detached woodlands.\nBy the same method, much as he disliked it, he made a modest\nprovision of money for continuing his education and beginning his\ntravels. He knew that he had much to learn of the world, and he\nwas especially desirous of pursuing his favorite study of botany,\nwhich a wise old priest at Louvain had taught him to love. So he\nengaged an intelligent and faithful forester to care for the trees\nand the estate, closed the house, and set forth on his journeys.\n\nThey led him far and wide. In the course of them no doubt he\nstudied other things than botany.  It may be that he sowed some of\nthe wild oats with which youth is endowed; but not in the gardens\nof others; nor with that cold self-indulgence which transforms\npassionate impulse into sensual habit.  He had a permanent and\nregulative devotion to botanical research; and that is a study which\nseems to promote modesty, tranquillity, and steadiness of mind in\nits devotees, of whom the great Linnaeus is the shining exemplar.\nYoung Albert d'Azan sat at the feet of the best masters in Europe\nand America. He crossed the western continent to observe the oldest\nof living things, the giant Sequoias of California. He went to\nAustralasia and the Dutch East Indies and South America in search\nof new ferns and orchids. He investigated the effect of ocean\ncurrents and of tribal migrations in the distribution  of trees.\nHis botanical monographs brought him renown among those who know,\nand he was elected a corresponding member of many scientific\nsocieties. After twenty years of voyaging he  returned to port at\nAzan, richly laden with observation  and learning, and settled down\namong his trees to pursue his studies and write his books.\n\nThe estate, under the forester's care, had improved  a little and\npromised a modest income. The house, though somewhat dilapidated,\nwas easily made livable. But the one thing that was full of glory\nand splendor, triumphantly prosperous, was the great avenue of\nbeeches. Their long, low aisle of broad arches was complete. They\nshimmered with a pearly mist of buds in early spring and later\nwith luminous green of tender leafage. In mid-summer they formed a\nwide, still stream of dark, unruffled verdure; in autumn they were\ntransmuted  through glowing yellow into russet gold; in winter\ntheir massy trunks were pillars of gray marble and the fan-tracery\nof their rounded branches was delicately etched against the sky.\n\n\u201cLook at them,\u201d the baron would say to the guests whom the fame of\nhis learning and the charm of his wide-ranging conversation often\nbrought to his house. \u201cThose beeches were planted by my grandfather\nafter the battle of Wagram, when  Napoleon whipped the Austrians.\nAfter that came the Beresina and Leipsic and Waterloo and how many\nbattles and wars of furious, perishable men. Yet the trees live\non peaceably, they unfold their strength in beauty, they have not\nyet reached the summit of their grandeur. We are all _parvenus_\nbeside them.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you had to choose,\u201d asked the great sculptor Constantin Meunier\none day, \u201cwould you have your house or one of these trees struck\nby lightning?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe house,\u201d answered the botanist promptly, \u201cfor I could rebuild\nit in a year; but to restore the tree would take three-quarters of\na century.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlso,\u201d said the sculptor, with a smile, \u201cyou might change the\nstyle of your house with advantage,  but the style of these trees\nyou could never improve.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut tell me,\u201d he continued, \u201cis it true, as they say, that lightning\nnever strikes a beech?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not entirely true,\u201d replied the botanist, smiling in his\nturn, \u201cyet, like many ancient beliefs, it has some truth in it.\nThere is something in the texture of the beech that seems to resist\nelectricity better than other trees. It may be the fatness of the\nwood. Whatever it is, I am glad of it, for it gives my trees a\nbetter chance.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon't be too secure,\u201d said the sculptor, shaking his head. \u201cThere\nare other tempests besides those in the clouds. When the next war\ncomes in western Europe Belgium will be the battle-field. Beech-wood\nis very good to burn.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod forbid,\u201d said the baron devoutly. \u201cWe have had peace for a\nquarter of a century. Why should it not last?\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk the wise men of the East,\u201d replied the sculptor grimly.\n\nWhen he was a little past fifty the baron married, with steadfast\nchoice and deep affection, the orphan daughter of a noble family\nof Hainault.  She was about half his age; of a tranquil, cheerful\ntemper and a charm that depended less on feature than on expression;\na lover of music, books, and a quiet life. She brought him a small\ndowry by which the chateau was restored to comfort, and bore him\ntwo children, a boy and a girl, by whom it was  enlivened with\nnatural gayety. The next twenty years were the happiest that Albert\nd'Azan and his wife ever saw. The grand avenue of beeches became\nto them the unconscious symbol of something settled and serene,\naugust, protective, sacred.\n\nOn a brilliant morning of early April, 1914, they had stepped out\ntogether to drink the air. The beeches were in misty, silver bloom\nabove them.  All around was peace and gladness.\n\n\u201cI want to tell you a dream I had last night,\u201d he said, \u201ca strange\ndream about our beeches.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it was sad,\u201d she answered, \u201cdo not let the shadow of it fall\non the morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it was not sad. It seemed rather to bring light and comfort.\nI dreamed that I was dead  and you had buried me at the foot of\nthe largest  of the trees.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you call that not sad?\u201d she interrupted reproachfully.\n\n\u201cIt did not seem so. Wait a moment and you  shall hear the way of\nit. At first I felt only a deep quietness and repose, like one who\nhas been in pain and is very tired and lies down in the shade to\nsleep. Then I was waking again and something was drawing me gently\nupward. I cannot exactly explain it, but it was as if I were passing\nthrough the roots and the trunk and the boughs of the beech-tree\ntoward the upper air. There I saw the light again and heard the\nbirds singing and the wind rustling among the leaves. How I saw\nand heard I cannot tell you, for there was no remembrance of a body\nin my dream. Then suddenly my soul--I suppose it was that--stood\nbefore God and He was asking me: 'How did you come hither?'\nI answered,  'By Christ's way, by the way of a tree.' And He said\nit was well, and that my work in heaven should be the care of the\ntrees growing by the river of life, and that sometimes I could go\nback to visit my trees on earth, if I wished. That made me very\nglad, for I knew that so I should see you and our children under\nthe beeches. And while I was wondering  whether you would ever\nknow that I was there, the dream dissolved, and I saw the morning\nlight on the tree-tops. What do you think of my dream? Childish,\nwasn't it?\u201d\n\nShe thought a little before she answered.\n\n\u201cIt was natural enough, though vague. Of course we could not be\nburied at the foot of the beech-tree unless Cardinal Mercier would\npermit a plot of ground to be consecrated there. But come, it is\ntime to go in to breakfast.\u201d\n\nShe seemed to dismiss the matter from her mind.  Yet, as women so\noften do, she kept all these sayings and pondered them in her heart.\n\nThe promise of spring passed into the sultry heat of summer. The\nstorm-cloud of the twentieth century  blackened over Europe. The\nwise men of Berlin made mad by pride, devoted the world not to\nthe Prince of Peace but to the lords of war. In the first week of\nAugust the fury of the German  invasion broke on Belgium. No one had\ndared to dream the terrors of that tempest. It was like a return\nof the Dark Ages. Every home trembled. The  pillars of the tranquil\nhouse of Azan were shaken.\n\nThe daughter was away at school in England, and that was an unmixed\nblessing. The son was a lieutenant in the Belgian army; and that\nwas right and glorious, but it was also a dreadful anxiety.  The\nfather and mother were divided in mind, Whether to stay or take\nflight with their friends.  At last the father decided the hard\nquestion.\n\n\u201cIt is our duty to stay. We cannot fight for our country, but we\ncan suffer with her. Our daughter is in safety; our son's danger we\ncannot and would not prevent. How could we really live away from\nhere, our home, our trees? I went to consult the cardinal. He stays,\nand he advises us to do so. He says that will be the best way to\nshow our devotion. As Christians we must endure the evil that we\ncannot prevent; but as Belgians our hearts will never consent to\nit.\u201d\n\nThat was their attitude as the tide of blood and tears drew nearer\nto them, surrounded them, swept beyond them, engulfed the whole\nland. The brutal massacres at Andenne and Dinant were so near that\nthe news arrived before the spilt blood was dry. The exceeding great\nand bitter cry of anguish came to them from a score of neighboring\nvillages, from a hundred lonely farmhouses. The old botanist\nwithered and faded daily; his wife grew pale and gray. Yet they\nwalked their _via crucis_ together, and kept their chosen\ncourse.\n\nThey fed the hungry and clothed the naked,  helped the fugitives and\nconsoled the broken-hearted.  They counselled their poor neighbors\nto good order, and dissuaded the ignorant from the folly and peril\nof violence. Toward the invading soldiery their conduct was beyond\nreproach. With no false professions  of friendship, they fulfilled\nthe hard services which  were required of them. Their servants had\nbeen helped away at the beginning of the trouble--all except the\nold forester and his wife, who refused  to leave. With their aid\nthe house was kept open and many of the conquerors lodged there\nand in the outbuildings. So good were the quarters that a departing\nSaxon chalked on the gate-post the dubious inscription: _\u201cGute\nLeute-nicht auspliin-dern.\u201d_  Thus the captives at the Chateau\nd'Azan had a good name even among their enemies. The baron received\na military pass which enabled him to move quite freely about the\ndistrict on his errands of necessity and mercy, and the chateau\nbecame a favorite billet for high-born officers.\n\nIn the second year of the war an evil chance brought two uninvited\nguests of very high standing indeed--that is to say in the social\nring of Potsdam.  Their names are well known. Let us call them\nPrince Barenberg and Count Ludra. The first was a major, the second\na captain. Their value as  warriors in the field had not proved\nequal to their prominence as noblemen, so they were given duty in\nthe rear.\n\nThey were vicious coxcombs of the first order.  Their uniforms\nincased them tightly. Like wasps they bent only at the waist. Their\nflat-topped caps were worn with an aggressive slant, their swords\njingled menacingly, their hay-colored mustaches spoke arrogance in\nevery upturned hair.  When they bowed it was a mockery; when they\nsmiled it was a sneer. For the comfortable quarters  of the Chateau\nd'Azan they had a gross appreciation,  for the enforced hospitality\nof its owners an insolent condescension. They took it as their due,\nand resented the silent protest underneath it.\n\n\u201cExcellent wine, Herr Baron,\u201d said the prince, who, like his comrade,\ndrank profusely of the best in the cellar. \u201cYour Rudesheimer Berg\n'94 is _kolossal._ Very friendly of you to save it for us.\nWe Germans know good wine. What?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have that reputation,\u201d answered the baron.\n\n\u201cAnd say,\u201d added the count, \u201clet us have a couple of bottles more,\ndear landlord. You can put it in the bill.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall do so,\u201d said the baron gravely. \u201cIt shall be put in the\nbill with other things.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why,\u201d drawled the prince, \u201cdoes _la Baronne_ never favor\nus with her company? Still very attractive--musical probably--here\nis a piano--want good German music--console homesickness.\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame is indisposed,\u201d answered the baron quietly, \u201cbut you may\nbe sure she regrets your absence from home.\u201d\n\nThe officers looked at each other with half-tipsy, half-angry eyes.\nThey suspected a jest at their expense, but could not quite catch\nit.\n\n\u201cImpudence,\u201d muttered the count, who was the sharper of the two\nwhen sober.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the prince, \u201cit is only stupidity.  These Walloons have\nno wit.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d he added, turning to the baron, \u201cwe sing you a good song of\nfatherland--show how _gemuthlich_ we Germans are. You Belgians\nhave no word for that. What?\u201d\n\nHe sat down to the piano and pounded out _\u201cDeutschland ueber\nAlles,\u201d_ singing the air in a raucous voice, while Ludra added\na rumbling bass.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think of that? All Germans can sing. _Gemuthlich._\nWhat?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right,\u201d said the baron, with downcast eyes. \u201cWe Belgians\nhave no word for that. It is inexpressible--except in German. I\nbid you good night.\u201d\n\nFor nearly a fortnight this condition of affairs continued. The\nbaron endured it as best he could, obeying scrupulously the military\nregulations which necessity laid upon him, and taking his revenge\nonly in long thoughts and words of polite sarcasm which he knew would\nnot be understood. The baroness worked hard at the housekeeping,\noften cooking and cleaning with her own hands, and rejoicing secretly\nwith her husband over the rare news that came from their daughter\nin England, from their boy at the front in West Flanders. Sometimes,\nwhen the coast was clear, husband and wife walked together under the\nbeech-trees and talked in low tones of the time when the ravenous\nbeast should no more go up on the land.\n\nThe two noble officers performed their routine duties, found such\namusement as they could in neighboring villages and towns, drank\ndeep at night, and taxed their ingenuity to invent small ways of\nannoying their hosts, for whom they felt the  contemptuous dislike\nof the injurer for the injured.  They were careful, however, to\nkeep their malice within certain bounds, for they knew that the\nbaron was in favor with the commandant of the district.\n\nOne morning the baron and his wife, looking from their window in\na wing of the house, saw with  surprise and horror a score or more\nof German soldiers assembled beside the beech-avenue, with axes\nand saws, preparing to begin work.\n\n\u201cWhat are they going to do there?\u201d cried he in dismay, and hurried\ndown to the dining-room, where the officers sat at breakfast, giving\norders to an attentive corporal.\n\n\u201cA thousand pardons, Highness,\u201d interrupted the baron; \u201cforgive\nmy haste. But surely you are not going to cut down my avenue of\nbeeches?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d said the prince, swinging around in his chair. \u201cThey\nare good wood.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, sir,\u201d stammered the baron, trembling with excitement, \u201cthose\ntrees--they are an ancient  heritage of the house--planted by my\ngrandfather a century ago--an old possession--spare them for their\nage.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou exaggerate,\u201d sneered the prince. \u201cThey are not old. I have on\nmy hunting estate in  Thuringia oaks five hundred years old. These\ntrees of yours are mere upstarts. Why shouldn't they be cut? What?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut they are very dear to us,\u201d pleaded the baron earnestly. \u201cWe\nall love them, my wife and children  and I. To us they are sacred.\nIt would be harsh to take them from us.\u201d\n\n\u201cBaron,\u201d said the prince, with suave malice, \u201cyou miss the point.\nWe Germans are never harsh.  But we are practical. My soldiers need\nexercise.  The camps need wood. Do you see? What?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d answered the poor baron, humbling himself in his\ndevotion to his trees. \u201cYour  Highness makes the point perfectly\nclear--the  need of exercise and wood. But there is plenty  of good\ntimber in the forest and the park--much  easier to cut. Cannot your\nmen get their wood  and their exercise there, and spare my dearest\ntrees?\u201d\n\nLudra laughed unpleasantly.\n\n\u201cYou do not yet understand us, dear landlord.  We Germans are\na hard-working people, not like the lazy Belgians. The harder the\nwork the better we like it. The soldiers will have a fine time\nchopping down your tough beeches.\u201d\n\nThe slender old man drew himself up, his eyes flashed, he was driven\nto bay.\n\n\u201cYou shall not do this,\u201d he cried. \u201cIt is an outrage, a sacrilege.\nI shall appeal to the  commandant. He will protect my rights.\u201d\n\nThe officers looked at each other. Deaf to pity, they had keen ears\nfor danger. A reproof, perhaps a punishment from their superior\nwould be most unpleasant. They hesitated to face it. But they were\ntoo obstinate to give up their malicious design altogether with a\ngood grace.\n\n\u201cMilitary necessity,\u201d growled the prince, \u201cknows no private rights.\nI advise you, baron, not to  appeal to the commandant. It will be\nuseless,  perhaps harmful.\u201d\n\n\u201cHere, you,\u201d he said gruffly, turning to the  corporal, \u201ccarry out\nmy orders. Cut the two marked beeches by the gate. Then take your\nmen into the park and cut the biggest trees there. Report for\nfurther orders to-morrow morning.\u201d\n\nThe wooden-faced giant saluted, swung on his heels, and marched\nstiffly out. The baron followed him quickly.\n\nHe knew that entreaties would be wasted on the corporal. How to get\nto the commandant, that was the question? He would not be allowed\nto use the telephone which was in the dining-room, nor the automobile\nwhich belonged to the officers; nor one of their horses which were\nin his stable. The only other beast left there was a small and very\nantique donkey which the children used to drive. In a dilapidated\ngo-cart, drawn by this pattering nag, the baron made such haste\nas he could along twelve miles of stony road to the district\nheadquarters. There he told his story simply to the commandant and\nbegged protection for his beloved trees.\n\nThe old general was of a different type from the fire-eating dandies\nwho played the master at Azan.  He listened courteously and gravely.\nThere was a picture in his mind of the old timbered house in the\nHohe Venn, where he had spent four years in retirement before the\nwar called him back to the colors. He thought of the tall lindens\nand the spreading chestnuts around it and imagined how he should\nfeel if he saw them falling under the axe.\n\nThen he said to his petitioner:\n\n\u201cYou have acted quite correctly, _Monsieur le Baron,_ in\nbringing this matter quietly to my  attention. There is no military\nnecessity for the  destruction of your fine trees. I shall put a\nstop  to it at once.\u201d\n\nHe called his aide-de-camp and gave some instructions  in a low tone\nof voice. When the aide came back from the telephone and reported,\nthe general frowned.\n\n\u201cIt is unheard of,\u201d he muttered, half to himself, \u201cthe  way those\ntitled young fools go beyond their orders.\u201d\n\nThen he turned to his visitor.\n\n\u201cI am very sorry, _Monsieur le Baron,_ but two of your beeches\nhave already fallen. It cannot be helped now. But there shall be no\nmore of it, I promise you. Those young officers are--they are--let\nus call them overzealous. I will transfer them to another post\nto-morrow. The German command  appreciates the correct conduct of\nyou and _Madame la Baronne._ Is there anything more that I\ncan do for you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI thank your Excellency sincerely,\u201d replied the baron. Then he\nhesitated a moment, as if to weigh his words. \u201cNo, _Herr General,_\nI believe there is nothing more--in which you can help me.\u201d\n\nThe old soldier's eyelids flickered for an instant.  \u201cThen I bid\nyou a very good day,\u201d he said, bowing.\n\nThe baron hurried home, to share the big good news with his wife.\nThe little bad news she knew already. Together they grieved over\nthe two fallen trees and rejoiced under the golden shadow of their\nuntouched companions. The officers had called for wine, and more\nwine, and yet more wine, and were drinking deep and singing loud\nin the dining-room.\n\nIn the morning came an orderly with a despatch from headquarters,\nordering the prince and the count to duty in a dirty village of\nthe coal region.  Their baggage was packed into the automobile,\nand they mounted their horses and went away in a rage.\n\n\u201cYou will be sorry for this, dumbhead,\u201d growled the prince, scowling\nfiercely. \u201cYes,\u201d added Ludra, with a hateful grin, \u201cwe shall meet\nagain, dear landlord, and you will be sorry.\u201d\n\nTheir host bowed and said nothing.\n\nSome weeks later the princely automobile came to the door of the\nchateau. The forester brought up word that the Prince Barenberg\nand the Count Ludra were below with a message from headquarters;\nthe commandant wished the baron to come there immediately; the\nautomobile was sent to bring him.  He made ready to go. His wife\nand his servant tried hard to dissuade him: it was late, almost\ndark, and very cold--not likely the commandant had sent for him--it\nmight be all a trick of those officers--they were hateful men--they\nwould play some cruel prank for revenge. But the old man was\nobstinate in his resolve; he must do what was required of him, he\nmust not even run the risk of slighting the commandant's wishes;\nafter all, no great harm could come to him.\n\nWhen he reached the steps he saw the count in the front seat, beside\nthe chauffeur, grinning; and the prince's harsh voice, made soft\nas possible, called from the shadowy interior of the car:\n\n\u201cCome in, baron. The general has sent for you in a hurry. We will\ntake you like lightning. How fine your beeches look against the\nsky. What?\u201d\n\nThe old man stepped into the dusky car. It rolled down the long\naisle, between the smooth gray columns, beneath the fan-tracery of\nthe low arches, out on to the stony highway. Thus the tree-lover\nwas taken from his sanctuary.\n\nHe did not return the next day, nor the day after.  His wife, tortured\nby anxiety, went to the district headquarters. The commandant was\naway. The aide could not enlighten her. There had been no message\nsent to the baron--that was certain. Major Barenberg and Captain\nLudra had been transferred to another command. Unfortunately,\nnothing could be done except to report the case.\n\nThe brave woman was not broken by her anguish, but raised to the\nheight of heroic devotion. She dedicated herself to the search for\nher husband.  The faithful forester, convinced that his master had\nbeen killed, was like a slow, sure bloodhound on the track of the\nmurderers. He got a trace of them in a neighboring village, where\ntheir car had been seen to pass at dusk on the fatal day. The\nofficers were in it, but not the baron. The forester got a stronger\nscent of them in a wine-house, where their chauffeur had babbled\nmysteriously on the following  day. The old woodsman followed the\ntrail with inexhaustible patience.\n\n\u201cI shall bring the master's body home,\u201d he said to his  mistress,\n\u201cand God will use me to avenge his murder.\u201d\n\nA few weeks later he found his master's corpse hidden in a hollow\non the edge of the forest, half-covered with broken branches,\nrotting leaves, and melting snow. There were three bullets in the\nbody. They had been fired at close range.\n\nThe widow's heart, passing from the torture of uncertainty to the\ncalm of settled grief, had still a sacred duty to live for. She had\nnot forgotten her husband's dream. She went to the cardinal-archbishop\nto beg the consecration of a little burial-plot at the foot of the\ngreatest of the beeches of Azan.  That wise and brave prince of\nthe church consented with words of tender consolation, and promised\nhis aid in the pursuit of the criminals.\n\n\u201cEminence,\u201d she said, weeping, \u201cyou are very good to me. God will\nreward you. He is just.  He will repay. But my heart's desire is\nto follow my husband's dream.\u201d\n\nSo the body of the old botanist was brought back to the shadow of\nthe great beech-trees, and was buried there, like the bones of a\nmartyr, within  the sanctuary.\n\nIs this the end of the story?\n\nWho can say?\n\nIt is written also, among the records of Belgium, that the faithful\nforester disappeared mysteriously a few weeks later. His body was\nfound in the forest and laid near his master.\n\nAnother record tells of the trial of Prince Barenberg  and Count\nLudra before a court martial, The count was sentenced to ten years\nof labor _on his own estate._ The death-sentence of the prince\nwas  commuted to imprisonment _in some unnamed place._ So far\nthe story of German justice.\n\nBut of the other kind of justice--the poetic, the Divine--the record\nis not yet complete.\n\nI know only that there is a fatherless girl working and praying in\na hospital in England, and a fatherless  boy fighting and praying\nin the muddy trenches near Ypres, and a lonely woman walking and\npraying  under certain great beech-trees at the Chateau d'Azan. The\nburden of their prayer is the same.  Night and day it rises to Him\nwho will judge the world in righteousness and before whose eyes\nthe wicked shall not stand.\n\nSeptember, 1918.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING'S HIGH WAY\n\n\nIn the last remnant of Belgium, a corner yet  unconquered by\nthe German horde, I saw a tall young man walking among the dunes,\nbetween the sodden lowland and the tumbling sea.\n\nThe hills where he trod were of sand heaped high by the western winds;\nand the growth over them was wire-grass and thistles, bayberry and\ngolden broom and stunted pine, with many humble wild flowers--things\nof no use, yet beautiful.\n\nThe sky above was gray; the northern sea was gray; the southern\nfields were hazy gray over green; the smoke of shells bursting\nin the air was gray.  Gray was the skeleton of the ruined city in\nthe  distance; gray were the shattered spires and walls of a dozen\nhamlets on the horizon; gray, the eyes of the young man who walked\nin faded blue uniform, in the remnant of Belgium. But there was an\nindomitable  light in his eyes, by which I knew that he was a King.\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d I said, \u201cI am sure that you are his Majesty, the King of\nBelgium.\u201d\n\nHe bowed, and a pleasant smile relaxed his  tired face.\n\n\u201cPardon, monsieur,\u201d he answered, \u201cbut you make the usual mistake in\nmy title. If I were only 'the King of Belgium,' you see, I should\nhave but a poor kingdom now--only this narrow strip of earth, perhaps\nfour hundred square miles of debris, just a _'pou sto,'_ a\nplace to stand, enough to fight on, and if need be to die in.\u201d\n\nHis hand swept around the half-circle of dull landscape visible\nsouthward from the top of the loftiest dune, the _Hooge Blikker._\nIt was a land of slow-winding streams and straight canals and flat\nfields, with here and there a clump of woods or a slight rise of\nground, but for the most part level and monotonous, a checker-board\nlandscape--stretching away until the eyes rested on the low hills\nbeyond Ypres. Now all the placid charm of Flemish fertility as gone\nfrom the land--it was scarred and marred and pitted. The shells\nand mines had torn holes in it; the trenches and barbed-wire\nentanglements spread over it like a network of scars and welts; the\ntrees were smashed into kindling-wood; the farmhouses were heaps\nof charred bricks; the shattered villages were like mouths full\nof broken teeth. As the King looked round at all this, his face\ndarkened and the slight droop of his shoulders grew more marked.\n\n\u201cBut, no,\u201d he said, turning to me again, \u201cthat is not my kingdom.\nMy real title, monsieur, is _King of the Belgians._ It was for\ntheir honor, for their liberty, that I was willing to lose my land\nand risk my crown. While they live and hold true, I stand fast.\u201d\n\nThen ran swiftly through me the thought, of how the little Belgian\narmy had fought, how the Belgian  people had suffered, rather than\nsurrender the independence of their country to the barbarians.  The\nGerman cannonade was roaring along the Yser a few miles away; the\nair trembled with the overload  of sound; but between the peals of\nthunder I could hear the brave song of the skylark climbing his\nsilver stairway of music, undismayed, hopeful, unconquerable. I\nremembered how the word of this quiet man beside whom I stood had\nbeen the inspiration and encouragement of his people through the\nfierce conflict, the long agony: _\u201cI have faith in our destiny;\na nation which defends itself does not perish; God will be with us\nin that just cause.\u201d_\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d I said, \u201cyou have a glorious kingdom which shall never be\ntaken away. But as for your land, the fates have been against you.\nHow will you ever get back to it? The Germans are strong as iron\nand they bar the way. Will you make a peace with them and take what\nthey have so often offered you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever,\u201d he answered calmly; \u201cthat is not the way home, it is the\nway to dishonor. When God brings me back, my army and my Queen are\ngoing with me to liberate our people. There is only one way that\nleads there--the King's high way. Look, _monsieur,_ you can\nsee the beginning of it down there. I hope you wish me well on that\nroad, for I shall never take another.\u201d\n\nSo he bade me good afternoon very courteously and walked away among\nthe dunes to his little  cottage at La Panne.\n\nLooking down through the light haze of evening I saw a strip of\nthe straight white road leading  eastward across the level land. At\nthe beginning of it there was a broken bridge; in places it seemed\ntorn up by shells; it disappeared in the violet dusk.  But as I\nlooked a vision came.\n\nThe bridge is restored, the road mended and built up, and on that\nhighway rides the King in his faded uniform with the Queen in white\nbeside him.  At their approach ruined villages rejoice aloud and\nancient towns break forth into singing.\n\nIn Bruges the royal comrades stand beside the  gigantic monument\nin the centre of the Great Market, and above the shouting of the\nmultitude the music of the old belfry floats unheard. Ghent and\nAntwerp have put on their glad raiment, and in their crooked streets\nand crowded squares joy flows like a river surging as it goes. Into\nBrussels I see this man and woman ride through a welcome that rises\naround them like the voice of many waters--the welcome of those\nwho have waited and suffered, the welcome of those to whom liberty\nand honor were more dear than life. In the _Grande Place,_\nthe antique, carven, gabled houses are gay with fluttering banners;\nthe  people delivered from the cruel invader sing lustily  the\n_Marseillaise_ and the old songs of Belgium.\n\nIn the midst, Albert and Elizabeth sit quietly upon their horses.\nThey have come home. Not by the low road of cowardly surrender; not\nby the crooked road of compromise and falsehood; not by the soft\nroad of ease and self-indulgence; but by the straight road of faith\nand courage and self-sacrifice--the King's High Way.\n\n\n\n\n\nHALF-TOLD TALES\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAITOR IN THE HOUSE\n\n\nThe Guest, who came from beyond the lake, had lived in the house\nfor years and had the freedom of it, so that he had become quite\nlike a member of the family. He was friendly treated and well lodged.\nIndeed, some thought he had the best room of all, for though it\nwas in the wing, it was spacious and well warmed, and had a side\ndoor, so that he could go in and out freely by day or night.\n\nIt must be said that he had earned his living on the place, being\nindustrious and useful, a very handy man about the house; and the\nchildren had a liking for him because he sang merry songs and told\nbeautiful fairy-tales.\n\nSo he was all the more surprised and aggrieved when the Master of\nthe house said to him one night, as they sat late by the fire:\n\n\u201cI suspect you.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut of what?\u201d cried the Guest.\n\n\u201cOf caring more for the house that you came from than for the house\nthat you live in.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you know I was at home there once,\u201d said the Guest, \u201cwould\nyou have me forget that? Surely you will not deny me the freedom\nof my thoughts and memories and fond feelings. Would you make me\nless than a man?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the Master, \u201cbut I will ask you to choose between your\nold home and your new home now. The house in which you lived formerly\nis become our enemy--a nest of brigands and bloody men. They have\nkilled a child of ours on the  highway. They threaten us to-night\nwith an attack in force. Tell me plainly where you stand.\u201d\n\nThe Guest looked down his nose toward the smouldering  embers of the\nfire. He knocked out the dottle of his  pipe on one of the andirons.\nTwo fat tears rolled down  his cheeks; he was very sentimental.\n\n\u201cI am with you,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cGood,\u201d said the Master, \u201cnow let us make the house fast!\u201d\n [Illustration with caption: 'I will ask you to choose between your\nold home and your new home now.']\n\nSo they closed and barred the shutters and locked and bolted the\nfront door.\n\nThen they lighted their bedroom candles and bade each other good\nnight.\n\nBut as the Guest went along his dim corridor, the Master turned\nand followed him very softly on tiptoe, watching.\n\nOutside the house, in the darkness, there was a sound of many\nshuffling feet and whispering voices.\n\nWhen the Guest came to the side door he tried the latch, to see\nthat it was working freely. He moved the bolt, not forward into\nits socket, but backward so that it should be no hindrance. In\nthe window beside the doorway he set his candle.  So the house was\nready for late-comers.\n\nThen the Guest sighed a little. \u201cThey are my old friends,\u201d he\nmurmured, \u201cmy dear old friends!  I could not leave them out in the\ncold. I am not responsible for what they do. Only I must my old\naffection prove.\u201d So he sighed again and turned softly to his bed.\n\nBut as he turned the Master stood before him and took him by the\nthroat.\n\n\u201cTraitor!\u201d he cried. \u201cYou would betray the innocent. Already your\nsoul is stained with my sleeping children's blood.\u201d And with his\nhands he choked the false Guest to death.\n\nThen he shot the bolt of the side door, and barred the window, and\ncalled the servants, and made ready to defend the house.\n\nGreat was the fighting that night. In the morning,  when the robbers\nwere driven off, the false Guest  was buried, outside the garden,\nin an unmarked grave.\n\nFebruary 2, 1918.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nJUSTICE OF THE ELEMENTS\n\n\nSo the Criminal with a Crown came to the end of his resources. He\nhad told his last lie, but not even his servants would believe it.\nHe had made his last threat, but no living soul feared it. He had\nput forth his last stroke of violence and cruelty, but it fell\nshort.\n\nWhen he saw his own image reflected in the eyes of men, and knew\nwhat he had done to the world and what had come of his evil design,\nhe was afraid, and cried, \u201cLet the Earth swallow me!\u201d And the Earth\nopened, and swallowed him.\n\nBut so great was the harm that he had wrought upon the Earth, and\nso deeply had he drenched it with blood, that it could not contain\nhim. So the Earth opened again, and spewed him forth.\n\nThen he cried, \u201cLet the Sea hide me!\u201d And the waves rolled over\nhis head.\n\nBut the Sea, whereon he had wrought iniquity, and filled the depths\nthereof with the bones of the innocent, could not endure him and\nthrew him up on the shore as refuse.\n\nThen he cried, \u201cLet the Air carry me away!\u201d And the strong winds\nblew, and lifted him up so that he felt exalted.\n\nBut the pure Air, wherein he had let loose the vultures of hate,\ndropping death upon helpless women and harmless babes, found the\nburden and the stench of him intolerable, and let him fall.\n\nAnd as he was falling he cried, \u201cLet the Fire give me a refuge!\u201d\n So the Fire, wherewith he had consumed the homes of men, rejoiced;\nand the flames which he had compelled to do his will in wickedness\nleaped up as he drew near.\n\n\u201cWelcome, old master!\u201d roared the Fire. \u201cBe my slave!\u201d\n\nThen he perceived that there was no hope for him in the justice of\nthe elements. And he said, \u201cI will seek mercy of Him against whom\nI have most offended.\u201d\n\nSo he fled to the foot of the Great White Throne.  And as he kneeled\nthere, broken and abased, the world was silent, waiting for the\nsentence of the Judge of All.\n\nAugust, 1918.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nASHES OF VENGEANCE\n\n\nDun was a hard little city, proud and harsh; but impregnable\nbecause it was built upon a high rock.  The host of the Visigoths\nhad besieged it for months in vain. Then came a fugitive from the\ncity, at midnight,  to the tent of Alaric, the Chief of the besiegers.\n\nThe man was haggard and torn. His eyes were wild, his hands trembling.\nThe Chief held and steadied him with a look.\n\n\u201cWho are you?\u201d he asked. \u201cYour name, the purpose that brings you\nhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy name,\u201d said the man, \u201cis the Avenger.  For thirty years I have\nlived in Dun, and the people have been unjust and cruel to me.\nThey persecuted my family, because they hated me. My wife died of\na broken heart, my children of starvation. I have just escaped from\nthe prison of Dun, and come to tell you how the city may be taken.\nThere is a secret pathway, a hidden entrance. I know it and can\nreveal it to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood,\u201d said the Chief, measuring the man with tranquil eyes, \u201cbut\nwhat is your price?\u201d\n\n\u201cVengeance,\u201d said the man, \u201cI ask only the right  to revenge my\nsufferings upon those who have  inflicted them, when you have taken\nthe city.\u201d\n\nAlaric bent his head and was silent for a moment.  \u201cIt is a fair\nprice,\u201d he said, \u201cand I will pay it. Tell me the way to take the\ncity, and I will leave at your command a troop of soldiers sufficient\nto work your will on it afterward.\u201d\n\nII\n\nThe trumpet sounded the capture of the city in the morning. The\nAvenger, waking late from his troubled sleep, led his soldiers\nthrough the  open gate.\n\nIt was like a city of the dead, and the bodies of those who had been\nkilled in the last defense, lay where they had fallen. Empty and\nsilent were the streets where lie had so often walked in humiliation.\nGone were the familiar faces that had frowned on him and mocked\nhim. The houses at whose doors he had often knocked were vacant.\nHis wrath sank within him, and the arrow of solitude pierced him\nto the heart.\n\nThen he came to the belfry, and there was the bell-ringer, one of\nthe worst of his ancient  persecutors, standing at the entrance of\nthe tower.\n\n\u201cWhy are you here?\u201d said the Avenger.\n\n\u201cBy the orders of King Alaric,\u201d answered the bell-ringer, \u201cto ring\nthe bells when peace comes to the city.\u201d\n\n\u201cRing now,\u201d said the Avenger, \u201cring now!\u201d\n\nThen, at the sound of the bells, the people who had concealed themselves\nat Alaric's command came trooping forth from the cellars and caves\nwhere they had been hiding,--old men and women and children, a\nmotley throng of sufferers.\n\nThe Avenger looked at them and the tears ran down his cheeks,\nbecause he remembered.\n\n\u201cListen,\u201d he said, \u201cdon't be afraid. These soldiers  are going on\nto join their army. You have done me great wrong. But the fire of\nhatred is burnt out, and in the ashes of vengeance we are going to\nplant the seeds of peace.\u201d\n\nDecember, 1918.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE\n\n\n\n\nI. THE MEETING AT THE SPRING\n\n\nAlong the old Roman road that crosses the rolling  hills from the\nupper waters of the Marne to the  Meuse a soldier of France was\npassing in the night.\n\nIn the broader pools of summer moonlight he showed as a hale and\nhusky fellow of about thirty years, with dark hair and eyes and\na handsome, downcast face. His uniform was faded and dusty; not a\ntrace of the horizon blue was left, only a gray shadow. He had no\nknapsack on his back, no gun on his shoulder. Wearily and doggedly\nhe plodded his way, without eyes for the veiled beauty of the sleeping\ncountry. The quick, firm military step was gone. He trudged like\na tramp, choosing always  the darker side of the road.\n\nHe was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.\n\nPresently the road led him into a thick forest of oaks and beeches,\nand so to the crest of a hill  overlooking a long open valley with\nwooded heights  beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some\ntemple or shrine, lying at the edge of the wood, with no houses\nnear it. Farther down he could see a cluster of white houses with\nthe tower of a church in the centre. Other villages were dimly\nvisible up and down the valley on either slope.  The cattle were\nlowing from the barnyards. The cocks crowed for the dawn. Already\nthe moon had sunk behind the western trees. But the valley was\nstill bathed in its misty, vanishing light. Over the eastern ridge\nthe gray glimmer of the little day was rising, faintly tinged with\nrose. It was time for the broken soldier to seek his covert and\nrest till night returned.\n\nSo he stepped aside from the road and found a little dell thick\nwith underwoods, and in it a clear spring gurgling among the ferns\nand mosses. Around the opening grew wild gooseberries and golden\nbroom and a few tall spires of purple foxglove.  He drew off his\ndusty boots and socks and bathed his feet in a small pool, drying\nthem with fern leaves. Then he took a slice of bread and a piece of\ncheese from his pocket and made his breakfast.  Going to the edge\nof the thicket, he parted the branches and peered out over the\nvale.\n\nIts eaves sloped gently to the level floor where the river loitered\nin loops and curves. The sun was just topping the eastern hills;\nthe heads of the trees were dark against a primrose sky.\n\nIn the fields the hay had been cut and gathered.  The aftermath\nwas already greening the moist places. Cattle and sheep sauntered\nout to pasture.  A thin silvery mist floated here and there,\nspreading  in broad sheets over the wet ground and shredding into\nfilmy scarves and ribbons as the breeze caught it among the pollard\nwillows and poplars on the border of the stream. Far away the water\nglittered where the river made a sudden bend or a long smooth reach.\nIt was like the flashing of distant shields. Overhead a few white\nclouds climbed up from the north. The rolling ridges, one after\nanother, enfolded the valley as far as eye could see; dark green\nset in pale green, with here and there an arm of forest running\ndown on a sharp promontory to meet and turn the meandering stream.\n\n\u201cIt must be the valley of the Meuse,\u201d said the soldier. \u201cMy faith,\nbut France is beautiful and tranquil here!\u201d\n\nThe northerly wind was rising. The clouds climbed more swiftly.\nThe poplars shimmered, the willows glistened, the veils of mist\nvanished. From very far away there came a rumbling thunder, heavy,\ninsistent, continuous, punctuated with louder crashes.\n\n\u201cIt is the guns,\u201d muttered the soldier, shivering.  \u201cIt is the guns\naround Verdun! Those damned Boches!\u201d\n\nHe turned back into the thicket and dropped among the ferns beside\nthe spring. Stretching himself  with a gesture of abandon, he\npillowed his face on his crossed arms to sleep.\n\nA rustling in the bushes roused him. He sprang to his feet quickly.\nIt was a priest, clad in a dusty cassock, his long black beard\nstreaked with gray.  He came slowly treading up beside the trickling\nrivulet, carrying a bag on a stick over his shoulder.\n\n\u201cGood morning, my son,\u201d he said. \u201cYou have chosen a pleasant spot\nto rest.\u201d\n\nThe soldier, startled, but not forgetting his manners  learned from\nboyhood, stood up and lifted his hand to take off his cap. It was\nalready lying on the ground. \u201cGood morning, Father,\u201d he answered,\n\u201cI did not choose the place, but stumbled on it by chance. It is\npleasant enough, for I am very tired and have need of sleep.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt,\u201d said the priest. \u201cI can see that you look weary, and\nI beg you to pardon me if I have interrupted your repose. But why\ndo you say you came here 'by chance'? If you are a good Christian\nyou know that nothing is by chance.  All is ordered and designed\nby Providence.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo they told me in church long ago,\u201d said the soldier coldly; \u201cbut\nnow it does not seem so true--at least not with me.\u201d\n\nThe first feeling of friendliness and respect into which he had\nbeen surprised was passing. He had fallen back into the mood of\nhis journey--mistrust, secrecy, resentment.\n\nThe priest caught the tone. His gray eyes under  their bushy brows\nlooked kindly but searchingly at the soldier and smiled a little.\nHe set down his bag and leaned on his stick. \u201cWell,\u201d he said, \u201cI\ncan tell you one thing, my son. At all events it was not chance\nthat brought me here. I came with a purpose.\u201d\n\nThe soldier started a little, stung by suspicion.  \u201cWhat then,\u201d he\ncried, roughly, \u201cwere you looking for me? What do you know of me?\nWhat is this talk of chance and purpose?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, come,\u201d said the priest, his smile spreading  from his eyes\nto his lips, \u201cdo not be angry. I assure you that I know nothing of\nyou whatever, not even your name nor why you are here. When I said\nthat I came with a purpose I meant only that a certain thought, a\nwish, led me to this spot. Let us sit together awhile beside the\nspring and make better acquaintance.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not desire it,\u201d said the soldier, with a frown.\n\n\u201cBut you will not refuse it?\u201d queried the priest gently. \u201cIt is\nnot good to refuse the request of one old enough to be your father.\nLook, I have here some excellent tobacco and cigarette-papers.  Let\nus sit down and smoke together. I will tell you who I am and the\npurpose that brought me here.\u201d\n\nThe soldier yielded grudgingly, not knowing what else to do. They\nsat down on a mossy bank beside the spring, and while the blue\nsmoke of their cigarettes went drifting under the little trees the\npriest began:\n\n\u201cMy name is Antoine Courcy. I am the cure of Darney, a village\namong the Reaping Hook Hills, a few leagues south from here.\nFor twenty-five years I have reaped the harvest of heaven in that\nblessed little field. I am sorry to leave it. But now this war,\nthis great battle for freedom and the life of France, calls me.\nIt is a divine vocation.  France has need of all her sons to-day,\neven the old ones. I cannot keep the love of God in my heart unless\nI follow the love of country in my life. My younger brother, who\nused to be the priest of the next parish to mine, was in the army.\nHe has fallen.  I am going to replace him. I am on my way to join\nthe troops--as a chaplain, if they will; if not, then as a private.\nI must get into the army of France or be left out of the host of\nheaven.\u201d\n\nThe soldier had turned his face away and was plucking the lobes\nfrom a frond of fern. \u201cA brave resolve, Father,\u201d he said, with an\nironic note. \u201cBut you have not yet told me what brings you off your\nroad, to this place.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will tell you,\u201d replied the priest eagerly; \u201cit is the love of\nJeanne d'Arc, the Maid who saved France long ago. You know about\nher?\u201d\n\n\u201cA little,\u201d nodded the soldier. \u201cI have learned in the school. She\nwas a famous saint.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot yet a saint,\u201d said the priest earnestly; \u201cthe Pope has not yet\npronounced her a saint. But it will be done soon. Already he has\ndeclared her among the Blessed Ones. To me she is the most blessed\nof all. She never thought of herself or of a saint's crown. She\ngave her life entire for France.  And this is the place that she\ncame from! Think of that--right here!\u201d\n\n\u201cI did not know that,\u201d said the soldier.\n\n\u201cBut yes,\u201d the priest went on, kindling. \u201cI tell you it was here\nthat the Maid of France received her visions and set out to her work.\nYou see that village below us--look out through the branches--that\nis Domremy, where she was born. That spire just at the edge of\nthe wood--you saw that? It is the basilica they have built to her\nmemory. It is full of pictures of her. It stands where the old\nbeech-tree, 'Fair May,' used to grow. There she heard the voices\nand saw the saints who sent her on her mission. And this is the\nGooseberry Spring, the Well of the Good Fairies. Here she came\nwith the other children, at the festival of the well-dressing, to\nspread their garlands around it, and sing, and cat their supper\non the green. Heavenly voices spoke to her, but the others did not\nhear them.  Often did she drink of this water. It became a fountain\nof life springing up in her heart. I have come to drink at the\nsame source. It will strengthen me as a sacrament. Come, son, let\nus take it together  as we go to our duty in battle!\u201d\n\nFather Courcy stood up and opened his old black bag. He took out\na small metal cup. He filled it carefully at the spring. He made\nthe sign of the cross over it.\n\n\u201cIn the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,\u201d he murmured,\n\u201cblessed and holy is this water.\u201d Then he held the cup toward the\nsoldier.  \u201cCome, let us share it and make our vows together.\u201d\n\nThe bright drops trembled and fell from the bottom of the cup. The\nsoldier sat still, his head in his hands.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he answered heavily, \u201cI cannot take it.  I am not worthy.\nCan a man take a sacrament without confessing his sins?\u201d\n\nFather Courcy looked at him with pitying eyes.  \u201cI see,\u201d he said\nslowly; \u201cI see, my son. You have a burden on your heart. Well, I\nwill stay with you and try to lift it. But first I shall make my\nown vow.\u201d\n\nHe raised the cup toward the sky. A tiny brown wren sang canticles\nof rapture in the thicket. A great light came into the priest's\nface--a sun-ray from the east, far beyond the treetops.\n\n\u201cBlessed Jeanne d'Arc, I drink from thy fountain in  thy name. I vow\nmy life to thy cause. Aid me, aid this my son, to fight valiantly\nfor freedom and for France. In the name of God, Amen.\u201d\n\nThe soldier looked up at him. Wonder, admiration,  and shame were\nstruggling in the look. Father Courcy wiped the empty cup carefully\nand put it back in his bag. Then he sat down beside the soldier,\nlaying a fatherly hand on his shoulder.\n\n\u201cNow, my son, you shall tell me what is on your heart.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nII. THE GREEN CONFESSIONAL\n\n\nFor a long time the soldier remained silent. His head was bowed.\nHis shoulders drooped. His hands trembled between his knees. He\nwas wrestling  with himself.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he cried, at last, \u201cI cannot, I dare not tell you. Unless,\nperhaps\u201d--his voice faltered--\u201cyou could receive it under the seal\nof confession? But no. How could you do that? Here in the green\nwoods? In the open air, beside a spring? Here is no confessional.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d asked Father Courcy. \u201cIt is a good place, a holy place.\nHeaven is over our heads and very near. I will receive your confession\nhere.\u201d\n\nThe soldier knelt among the flowers. The priest pronounced the\nsacred words. The soldier began his confession:\n\n\u201cI, Pierre Duval, a great sinner, confess my fault, my most grievous\nfault, and pray for pardon.\u201d  He stopped for a moment and then\ncontinued, \u201cBut  first I must tell you, Father, just who I am and\nwhere I come from and what brings me here.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on, Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am waiting to hear. Be\nsimple and very frank.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, I am from the parish of Laucourt, in the pleasant\ncountry of the Barrois not far from Bar-sur-Aube. My word, but that\nis a pretty land, full of orchards and berry-gardens! Our old farm\nthere is one of the prettiest and one of the best, though it is\nsmall. It was hard to leave it when the call to the colors came,\ntwo years ago. But I was glad to go. My heart was high and strong\nfor France.  I was in the Nth Infantry, We were in the centre division\nunder General Foch at the battle of the Marne. _Fichtre!_ but\nthat was fierce fighting! And what a general! He did not know how\nto spell 'defeat.'  He wrote it 'victory.' Four times we went across\nthat cursed Marsh of St.-Gond. The dried mud was trampled full of\ndead bodies. The trickling  streams of water ran red. Four times\nwe were thrown back by the boches. You would have thought that was\nenough. But the general did not think so. We went over again on\nthe fifth day, and that time we stayed. The Germans could not stand\nagainst us. They broke and ran. The roads where we chased them\nwere full of empty wine-bottles.  In one village we caught three\nofficers and a dozen men dead drunk. _Bigre!_ what a fine\njoke!\u201d\n\nPierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his\nrecital. His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy\nbent forward with shining eyes.\n\n\u201cContinue,\u201d he cried. \u201cThis is a beautiful confession--no sin yet.\nContinue, Pierre.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, after that we were fighting here and there, on the\nAisne, on the Ailette, everywhere.  Always the same story--Germans\nrolling down on us in flood, green-gray waves. But the foam on\nthem was fire and steel. The shells of the barrage swept us like\nhailstones. We waited, waited in our trenches, till the green-gray\nmob was near enough.  Then the word came. _Sapristi!_ We let\nloose with mitrailleuse, rifle, field-gun, everything that would\nthrow death. It did not seem like fighting with men. It was like\ntrying to stop a monstrous thing, a huge, terrible mass that was\nrushing on to overwhelm  us. The waves tumbled and broke before\nthey reached us. Sometimes they fell flat. Sometimes  they turned\nand rushed the other way. It was wild, wild, like a change of the\nwind and tide in a storm, everything torn and confused. Then perhaps\nthe word came to go over the top and at them. That was furious.\nThat was fighting with men, for sure--bayonet, revolver, rifle-butt,\nknife, anything that would kill. Often I sickened at the blood and\nthe horror of it. But something inside of me shouted: 'Fight on!\nIt is for France. It is for \u201cL'Alouette\u201d thy farm; for thy wife,\nthy little ones. Will you let them be ruined by those beasts of\nGermans? What are they doing here on French soil? Brigands, butchers,\napaches! Drive them out; and if they will not go, kill them so they\ncan do no more shameful deeds. Fight on!' So I killed all I could.\u201d\n\nThe priest nodded his head grimly. \u201cYou were right, Pierre; your\nvoice spoke true. It was a  dreadful duty that you were doing. The\nGospel tells us if we are smitten on one cheek we must turn the\nother. But it does not tell us to turn the cheek of a little child,\nof the woman we love, the country we belong to. No! that would\nbe disgraceful, wicked, un-Christian. It would be to betray the\ninnocent!  Continue, my son.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d Pierre went on, his voice deepening and his face\ngrowing more tense, \u201cthen we were sent to Verdun. That was the\nhottest place of all.  It was at the top of the big German drive.\nThe whole sea rushed and fell on us--big guns, little guns, poison-gas,\nhand-grenades, liquid fire,  bayonets, knives, and trench-clubs.\nFort after fort went down. The whole pack of hell was loose and\nraging. I thought of that crazy, chinless Crown Prince sitting in\nhis safe little cottage hidden in the woods somewhere--they say he\nhad flowers and vines planted around it--drinking stolen champagne\nand sicking on his dogs of death. He was in no danger. I cursed\nhim in my heart, that blood-lord! The shells rained on Verdun. The\nhouses were riddled; the cathedral was pierced in a dozen places;\na hundred fires broke out. The old citadel held good. The outer forts\nto the north and east were taken. Only the last ring was left. We\ncommon soldiers did not know much about what was happening. The big\nbattle was beyond our horizon. But that General Petain, he knew it\nall.  Ah, that is a wise man, I can tell you! He sent us to this\nplace or that place where the defense was most needed. We went\ngladly, without fear or holding back. We were resolute that those\nmad dogs should not get through. _'They shall not pass'!_ And\nthey did not pass!\u201d\n\n\u201cGlorious!\u201d cried the priest, drinking the story in. \u201cAnd you,\nPierre? Where were you, what were you doing?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was at Douaumont, that fort on the highest hill of all. The\nGermans took it. It cost them ten thousand men. The ground around\nit was like a wood-yard piled with logs. The big shell-holes were\nfull of corpses. There were a few of us that got away. Then our\ncompany was sent to hold the third redoubt on the slope in front of\nPort de Vaux. Perhaps you have heard of that redoubt.  That was a\nbitter job. But we held it many days and nights. The boches pounded\nus from Douaumont  and from the village of Vaux. They sent wave\nafter wave up the slope to drive us out. But we stuck to it. That\nravine of La Caillette was a boiling caldron of men. It bubbled\nover with smoke and fire. Once, when their second wave had broken\njust in front of us, we went out to hurry the  fragments down\nthe hill. Then the guns from Douaumont  and the village of Vaux\nhammered us. Our men fell like ninepins. Our lieutenant called to\nus to turn back. Just then a shell tore away his right leg at the\nknee. It hung by the skin and tendons.  He was a brave lad. I could\nnot leave him to die there. So I hoisted him on my back. Three\nshots struck me. They felt just like hard blows from a heavy fist.\nOne of them made my left arm powerless.  I sank my teeth in the\nsleeve of my lieutenant's coat as it hung over my shoulder. I must\nnot let him fall off my back. Somehow--God knows how--I gritted\nthrough to our redoubt. They took my lieutenant from my shoulders.\nAnd then the light went out.\u201d\n\nThe priest leaned forward, his hands stretched out around the\nsoldier. \u201cBut you are a hero,\u201d he cried. \u201cLet me embrace you!\u201d\n\nThe soldier drew back, shaking his head sadly.  \u201cNo,\u201d he said,\nhis voice breaking--\u201cno, my Father, you must not embrace me now.\nI may have been a brave man once. But now I am a coward. Let me\ntell you everything. My wounds were bad, but not desperate. The\n_brancardiers_ carried me down to Verdun, at night I suppose,\nbut I was unconscious; and so to the hospital at Vaudelaincourt.\nThere were days and nights of blankness mixed with pain.  Then I\ncame to my senses and had rest. It was wonderful. I thought that I\nhad died and gone to heaven. Would God it had been so! Then I should\nhave been with my lieutenant. They told me he had passed away in\nthe redoubt. But that hospital was beautiful, so clean and quiet\nand friendly. Those white nurses were angels. They handled me like\na baby. I would have liked to stay there. I had no desire to get\nbetter. But I did. One day several officers visited the hospital.\nThey came to my cot, where I was sitting up. The highest of\nthem brought out a Cross of War and pinned it on the breast of my\nnightshirt. 'There,' he said, 'you are decorated, Pierre Duval! You\nare one of the heroes of France. You are soon going to be perfectly\nwell and to fight again bravely for your country.' I thanked him,\nbut I knew better.  My body might get perfectly well, but something\nin my soul was broken. It was worn out. The thin spring had snapped.\nI could never fight again.  Any loud noise made me shake all over.\nI knew that I could never face a battle--impossible! I should\ncertainly lose my nerve and run away. It is a damned feeling, that\nbroken something inside of one. I can't describe it.\u201d\n\nPierre stopped for a moment and moistened his dry lips with the\ntip of his tongue.\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d said Father Courcy. \u201cI understand perfectly what you want\nto say. It was like being lost and thinking that nothing could save\nyou; a feeling that is piercing and dull at the same time, like a\nheavy weight pressing on you with sharp stabs in it. It was what\nthey call shell-shock, a terrible thing. Sometimes it drives men\ncrazy for a while. But the doctors know what to do for that malady.\nIt passes. You got over it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d answered Pierre, \u201cthe doctors may not have known that I had\nit. At all events, they did not know what to do for it. It did\nnot pass. It grew worse. But I hid it, talking very little, never\ntelling anybody how I felt. They said I was  depressed and needed\ncheering up. All the while there was that black snake coiled around\nmy heart, squeezing tighter and tighter. But my body grew stronger\nevery day. The wounds were all healed.  I was walking around. In\nJuly the doctor-in-chief sent for me to his office. He said: 'You\nare cured, Pierre Duval, but you are not yet fit to fight. You are\nlow in your mind. You need cheering up. You are to have a month's\nfurlough and repose. You shall go home to your farm. How is it that\nyou call it?' I suppose I had been babbling about it in my sleep\nand one of the nurses had told him.  He was always that way, that\nlittle Doctor Roselly, taking an interest in the men, talking\nwith them and acting friendly. I said the farm was called\n_'L'Alouette'_--rather a foolish name. 'Not, at all,' he\nanswered; 'it is a fine name, with the song of a bird in it. Well,\nyou are going back to _\u201cL'Alouette\u201d_ to hear the lark sing for\na month, to kiss your wife and your children, to pick gooseberries\nand currants.  Eh, my boy, what do you think of that?  Then, when\nthe month is over, you will be a new man. You will be ready to fight\nagain at Verdun.  Remember they have not passed and they shall not\npass! Good luck to you, Pierre Duval.' So I went back to the farm\nas fast as I could go.\u201d\n\nHe was silent for a few moments, letting his thoughts wander through\nthe pleasant paths of that little garden of repose. His eyes were\ndreaming, his lips almost smiled.\n\n\u201cIt was sweet at _'L'Alouette,'_ very sweet, Father.  The\nfarm was in pretty good order and the kitchen-garden was all right,\nthough, the flowers had been a little neglected. You see, my wife,\nJosephine, she is a very clever woman. She had kept up the things\nthat were the most necessary. She had hired one of the old neighbors\nand a couple of boys to help her with the ploughing and planting.\nThe harvest she sold as it stood. Our yoke of cream-colored oxen\nand the roan horse were in good condition.  Little Pierrot, who is\nfive, and little Josette, who is  three, were as brown as berries.\nThey hugged me almost to death. But it was Josephine herself who was\nthe best of all. She is only twenty-six, Father, and so beautiful\nstill, with her long chestnut hair and her eyes like stones shining\nunder the waters of a brook. I tell you it was good to get her in\nmy arms again and feel her lips on mine.  And to wake in the early\nmorning, while the birds were singing, and see her face beside me\non the white pillow, sleeping like a child, that was a little bit\nof Paradise. But I do wrong to tell you of all this, Father.\u201d\n\n\u201cProceed, my big boy,\u201d nodded the priest.  \u201cYou are saying nothing\nwrong. I was a man before I was a priest. It is all natural, what\nyou are saying, and all according to God's law--no sin in it.\nProceed. Did your happiness do you good?\u201d Pierre shook his head\ndoubtfully. The look of dejection came back to his face. He frowned\nas if something puzzled and hurt him. \u201cYes and no.  That is the\nstrange thing. It made me thankful--that goes without saying. But\nit did not make me any stronger in my heart. Perhaps it was too\nsweet.  I thought too much of it. I could not bear to think of\nanything else. The idea of the war was hateful, horrible, disgusting.\nThe noise and the dirt of it, the mud in the autumn and the bitter\ncold in the winter, the rats and the lice in the dugouts, And then\nthe fury of the charge, and the everlasting killing, killing, or\nbeing killed! The danger had seemed little or nothing to me when\nI was there.  But at a distance it was frightful, unendurable.  I\nknew that I could never stand up to it again.  Besides, already I\nhad done my share--enough for two or three men. Why must I go back\ninto that hell? It was not fair. Life was too dear to be risking\nit all the time. I could not endure it.  France? France? Of course\nI love France. But my farm and my life with Josephine and the\nchildren mean more to me. The thing that made me a good soldier is\nbroken inside me. It is beyond mending.\u201d\n\nHis voice sank lower and lower. Father Courcy looked at him gravely.\n\n\u201cBut your farm is a part of France. You belong to  France. He that\nsaveth his life shall lose it!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, I know. But my farm is such a small part of France.\nI am only one man. What difference  does one man make, except to\nhimself? Moreover,  I had done my part, that was certain. Twenty\ntimes, really, my life had been lost. Why must I throw it away\nagain? Listen, Father. There is a village in the Vosges, near the\nSwiss border, where a relative of mine lives. If I could get to\nhim he would take me in and give me some other clothes and help me\nover the frontier into Switzerland.  There I could change my name\nand find work until the war is over. That was my plan. So I set\nout on my journey, following the less-travelled roads, tramping by\nnight and sleeping by day. Thus I came to this spring at the same\ntime as you by chance, by pure chance. Do you see?\u201d\n\nFather Courcy looked very stern and seemed about to speak in anger.\nThen he shook his head, and said quietly: \u201cNo, I do not see that\nat all.  It remains to be seen whether it was by chance.  But tell\nme more about your sin. Did you let your wife, Josephine, know\nwhat you were going to do?  Did you tell her good-by, parting for\nSwitzerland?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, no! I did not dare. She would never have forgiven me.\nSo I slipped down to the post-office at Bar-sur-Aube and stole\na telegraph blank.  It was ten days before my furlough was out. I\nwrote a message to myself calling me back to the colors at once.\nI showed it to her. Then I said good-by. I wept. She did not cry\none tear. Her eyes were stars. She embraced me a dozen times.  She\nlifted up each of the children to hug me. Then she cried: 'Go now,\nmy brave man. Fight well.  Drive the damned boches out. It is for\nus and for France. God protect you. _Au revoir!'_ I went down\nthe road silent. I felt like a dog. But I could not help it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you were a dog,\u201d said the priest sternly.  \u201cThat is what you\nwere, and what you remain unless you can learn to help it. You lied\nto your wife. You forged; you tricked her who trusted you. You have\ndone the thing which you yourself  say she would never forgive.\nIf she loves you and prays for you now, you have stolen that love\nand that prayer. You are a thief. A true daughter of France could\nnever love a coward to-day.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know, I know,\u201d sobbed Pierre, burying his face in the weeds.\n\u201cYet I did it partly for her, and I could not do otherwise.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery little for her, and a hundred times for yourself,\u201d said\nthe priest indignantly. \u201cBe honest.  If there was a little bit of\nlove for her, it was the kind of love she did not want. She would\nspit upon it. If you are going to Switzerland now you are leaving\nher forever. You can never go back to Josephine again. You are a\ndeserter. She would cast you out, coward!\u201d\n\nThe broken soldier lay very still, almost as if he were dead. Then\nhe rose slowly to his feet, with a pale, set face. He put his hand\nbehind his back and drew out a revolver. \u201cIt is true,\u201d he said\nslowly, \u201cI am a coward. But not altogether such a coward as you\nthink, Father. It is not merely death that I fear. I could face\nthat, I think.  Here, take this pistol and shoot me now! No one\nwill know. You can say you shot a deserter, or that I attacked you.\nShoot me now, Father, and let me out of this trouble.\u201d\n\nFather Courcy looked at him with amazement.  Then he took the pistol,\nuncocked it cautiously, and dropped it behind him. He turned to\nPierre and regarded him curiously. \u201cGo on with your confession,\nPierre. Tell me about this strange kind of cowardice which can face\ndeath.\u201d\n\nThe soldier dropped on his knees again, and went on in a low,\nshaken voice: \u201cIt is this, Father. By my broken soul, this is the\nvery root of it. I am afraid of fear.\u201d\n\nThe priest thought for an instant. \u201cBut that is not reasonable,\nPierre. It is nonsense. Fear cannot  hurt you. If you fight it you\ncan conquer it.  At least you can disregard it, march through it,\nas if it were not there.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot this fear,\u201d argued the soldier, with a peasant's  obstinacy.\n\u201cThis is something very big and dreadful. It has no shape, but\na dead-white face and red, blazing eyes full of hate and scorn. I\nhave seen it in the dark. It is stronger than I am.  Since something\nis broken inside of me, I know I can never conquer it. No, it would\nwrap its shapeless  arms around me and stab me to the heart with\nits fiery eyes. I should turn and run in the middle of the battle.\nI should trample on my wounded comrades. I should be shot in the\nback and die in disgrace. O my God! my God! who can save me from\nthis? It is horrible. I cannot bear it.\u201d\n\nThe priest laid his hand gently on Pierre's  quivering shoulder.\n\u201cCourage, my son!\u201d\n\n\u201cI have none.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen say to yourself that fear is nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt would be a lie. This fear is real.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen cease to tremble at it; kill it.\u201d\n\n\u201cImpossible. I am afraid of fear.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen carry it as your burden, your cross. Take it back to Verdun\nwith you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI dare not. It would poison the others. It would bring me to\ndishonor.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray to God for help.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe will not answer me. I am a wicked man.  Father, I have made my\nconfession. Will you give me a penance and absolve me?\u201d\n\n\u201cPromise to go back to the army and fight as well as you can.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! that is what I cannot do. My mind is shaken to pieces.\nWhither shall I turn? I can decide nothing. I am broken. I repent\nof my great sin. Father, for the love of God, speak the word of\nabsolution.\u201d\n\nPierre lay on his face, motionless, his arms stretched out. The\npriest rose and went to the spring. He scooped up a few drops in\nthe hollow of his hand. He sprinkled it like holy water upon the\nsoldier's head. A couple of tears fell with it.\n\n\u201cGod have pity on you, my son, and bring you back to yourself.\nThe word of absolution is not for me to speak while you think of\nforsaking France.  Put that thought away from you, do penance for\nit, and you will be absolved from your great sin.\u201d\n\nPierre turned over and lay looking up at the priest's face and at\nthe blue sky with white cloude drifting across it. He sighed. \u201cAh,\nif that could only be! But I have not the strength. It is impossible.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll things are possible to him that believeth.  Strength will\ncome. Perhaps Jeanne d'Arc herself will help you.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe would never speak to a man like me. She is a great saint, very\nhigh in heaven.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe was a farmer's lass, a peasant like yourself.  She would\nspeak to you, gladly and kindly, if you saw her, and in your own\nlanguage, too. Trust her.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I do not know enough about her.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen, Pierre. I have thought for you. I will appoint the first\npart of your penance. You shall take the risk of being recognized\nand caught. You shall go down to the village and visit the places\nthat belong to her--her basilica, her house, her church. Then you\nshall come back here and wait until you know--until you surely know\nwhat you must do. Will you promise this?\u201d\n\nPierre had risen and looked up at the priest with tear-stained\nface. But his eyes were quieter. \u201cYes, Father, I can promise you\nthis much faithfully.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow I must go my way. Farewell, my son.  Peace in war be with\nyou.\u201d He held out his hand.\n\nPierre took it reverently. \u201cAnd with you, Father,\u201d he murmured.\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE ABSOLVING DREAM\n\n\nAntoine Courcy was one of those who are fitted and trained by nature\nfor the cure of souls. If you had spoken to him of psychiatry he\nwould not have understood you. The long word would have been Greek\nto him. But the thing itself he knew well.  The preliminary penance\nwhich he laid upon Pierre Duval was remedial. It belonged to the\ntrue healing  art which works first in the spirit.\n\nWhen the broken soldier went down the hill, in the blaze of the\nmid-morning sunlight, toward Domremy,  there was much misgiving and\nconfusion in his thoughts. He did not comprehend why he was going,\nexcept that he had promised. He was not sure that some one might\nnot know him, or perhaps out of mere curiosity stop him and question\nhim.  It was a reluctant journey.\n\nYet it was in effect an unconscious pilgrimage to the one health-resort\nthat his soul needed. For Domremy and the region round about are\nsaturated with the most beautiful story of France. The life of Jeanne\nd'Arc, simple and mysterious, humble and glorious, most human and\nmost heavenly, flows under that place like a hidden stream, rising\nat every turn in springs and fountains. The poor little village\nlives in and for her memory. Her presence haunts the ridges and\nthe woods, treads the green pastures, follows the white road beside\nthe river, and breathes in the never-resting valley-wind that\nmarries the flowers in June and spreads their seed in August.\n\nAt the small basilica built to her memory on the place where her\nold beech-tree, \u201cFair May,\u201d used to stand, there was an ancient\ncaretaker who explained  to Pierre the pictures from the life of\nthe Maid with which the walls are decorated. They are stiff and\nconventional, but the old man found them wonderful and told with\nzest the story of _La Pucelle_--how she saw her first vision;\nhow she recognized the Dauphin in his palace at Chinon; how she\nbroke the siege of Orleans; how she saw Charles crowned in the\ncathedral at Rheims; how she was burned at the stake in Rouen. But\nthey could not kill her soul. She saved France.\n\nIn the village church there was a priest from the border of Alsace,\nalso a pilgrim like Pierre, but one who knew the shrine better.\nHe showed the difference  between the new and the old parts of the\nbuilding.  Certain things the Maid herself had seen and touched.\n\n\u201cHere is the old holy-water basin, an antique, broken column hollowed\nout on top. Here her fingers must have rested often. Before this\nancient statue of St. Michel she must have often knelt to say her\nprayers. The cure of the parish was a friend of hers and loved to\ntalk with her. She was a good girl, devout and obedient, not learned,\nbut a holy and great soul. She saved France.\u201d\n\nIn the house where she was born and passed her childhood a crippled\nold woman was custodian. It was a humble dwelling of plastered\nstone standing between two tall fir-trees, with ivy growing over\nthe walls, lilies and hollyhocks blooming in the  garden. Pierre\nfound it not half so good a house as _\u201cL'Alouette.\u201d_ But to\nthe custodian it was more precious than a palace. In this upper\nroom with its low mullioned window the Maid began her life.  Here,\nin the larger room below, is the kneeling statue which the Princess\nMarie d'Orleans made of her.  Here, to the right, under the sloping\nroof, with its worm-eaten beams, she slept and prayed and worked.\n\n\u201cSee, here is the bread-board between two timbers  where she cut\nthe bread for the _croute au pot._ From this small window she\nlooked at night and saw the sanctuary light burning in the church.\nHere, also, as well as in the garden and in the woods, her heavenly\nvoices spoke to her and told her what she must do for her king and\nher country. She was not afraid or ashamed, though she lived in\nso small a house. Here in this very room she braided her hair and\nput on her red dress, and set forth on foot for her visit to Robert\nde Baudricourt at Vaucouleurs. He was a rough man and at first he\nreceived her roughly. But at last she convinced him. He gave her\na horse and arms and sent her to the king.  She saved France.\u201d\n\nAt the rustic inn Pierre ate thick slices of dark bread and drank\na stoup of thin red wine at noon.  He sat at a bare table in the\ncorner of the room.  Behind him, at a table covered with a white\ncloth, two captains on furlough had already made their breakfast.\nThey also were pilgrims, drawn to Domremy  by the love of Jeanne\nd'Arc. They talked of nothing else but of her. Yet their points of\nview were absolutely different.\n\nOne of them, the younger, was short and swarthy, a Savoyard, the\nson of an Italian doctor at St. Jean de Maurienne. He was a sceptic;\nhe believed in Jeanne, but not in the legends about her.\n\n\u201cI tell you,\u201d said he eagerly, \u201cshe was one of the greatest among\nwomen. But all that about her 'voices' was illusion. The priests\nsuggested it.  She had hallucinations. Remember her age when they\nbegan--just thirteen. She was clever and strong; doubtless she was\npretty; certainly she was very courageous. She was only a girl.\nBut she had a big, brave idea which possessed her--the liberation\nof her country. Pure? Yes. I am sure she was virtuous. Otherwise\nthe troops would not have followed and obeyed her as they did.\nSoldiers are very quick about those things. They recognize and respect\nan honest woman. Several men were in love with her, I think. But\nshe was _une nature froide._ The only thing that moved her\nwas her big, brave idea--to save France. The Maid was a mother, but\nnot of a mortal child. Her offspring  was the patriotism of France.\u201d\n\nThe other captain was a man of middle age, from Lyons, the son of\nan architect. He was tall and pale and his large brown eyes had\nthe tranquillity of a devout faith in them. He argued with quiet\ntenacity for his convictions.\n\n\u201cYou are right to believe in her,\u201d said he, \u201cbut I think you are\nmistaken to deny her 'voices.' They were as real as anything in\nher life. You credit her when she says that she was born here, that\nshe went to Chinon and saw the king, that delivered Orleans.  Why\nnot credit her when she says she heard God and the saints speaking\nto her? The proof of it was in what she did. Have you read the story\nof her trial? How clear and steady her answers were! The judges\ncould not shake her. Yet at any moment she could have saved her\nlife by denying  the 'voices.' It was because she knew, because\nshe was sure, that she could not deny. Her vision was a part of\nher real life. She was the mother of French patriotism--yes. But\nshe was also the daughter of true faith. That was her power.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the younger man, \u201cshe sacrificed herself  and she\nsaved France. That was the great thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the elder man, stretching his hand across the table\nto clasp the hand of his companion, \u201cthere is nothing greater than\nthat. If we do that, God will forgive us all.\u201d\n\nThey put on their caps to go. Pierre rose and stood at attention.\nThey returned his salute with a friendly smile and passed out.\n\nAfter a few moments he finished his bread and wine, paid his score,\nand followed them. He watched them going down the village street\ntoward the railway station. Then he turned and walked slowly back\nto the spring in the dell.\n\nThe afternoon was hot, in spite of the steady breeze which came out\nof the north. The air felt as if it had passed through a furnace.\nThe low, continuous thunder of the guns rolled up from Verdun,\nwith now and then a sharper clap from St. Mihiel.\n\nPierre was very tired. His head was heavy, his heart troubled. He\nlay down among the ferns, looking idly at the foxglove spires above\nhim and turning over in his mind the things he had heard and seen\nat Domremy. Presently he fell into a  profound sleep.\n\nHow long it was he could not tell, but suddenly he became aware\nof some one near him. He sprang up. A girl was standing beside the\nspring.\n\nShe wore a bright-red dress and her feet were bare. Her black hair\nhung down her back. Her eyes were the color of a topaz. Her form was\ntall and straight. She carried a distaff under her arm and looked\nas if she had just come from following the sheep.\n\n\u201cGood day, shepherdess,\u201d said Pierre. Then a strange thought struck\nhim, and he fell on his knees.  \u201cPardon, lady,\u201d he stammered.\n\u201cForgive my rudeness.  You are of the high society of heaven, a\nsaint.  You are called Jeanne d'Arc?\u201d\n\nShe nodded and smiled. \u201cThat is my name,\u201d said she. \u201cSometimes\nthey call me _La Pucelle_, or the Maid of France. But you were\nright, I am a shepherdess, too. I have kept my father's sheep in\nthe fields down there, and spun from the distaff while I watched\nthem. I know how to sew and spin as well as any girl in the Barrois\nor Lorraine. Will you not stand up and talk with me?\u201d\n\nPierre rose, still abashed and confused. He did not quite understand\nhow to take this strange  experience--too simple for a heavenly\napparition, too real for a common dream. \u201cWell, then,\u201d said he, \u201cif\nyou are a shepherdess, why are you here? There are no sheep here.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut yes. You are one of mine. I have come here to seek you.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know me, then? How can I be one of yours?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause you are a soldier of France and you are in trouble.\u201d\n\nPierre's head drooped. \u201cA broken soldier,\u201d he muttered, \u201cnot fit\nto speak to you. I am running away because I am afraid of fear.\u201d\n\nShe threw back her head and laughed. \u201cYou speak very bad French.\nThere is no such thing as being afraid of fear. For if you are\nafraid of it, you hate it. If you hate it, you will have nothing\nto do with it. And if you have nothing to do with it, it cannot\ntouch you; it is nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut for you, a saint, it is easy to say that. You had no fear when\nyou fought. You knew you would not be killed.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was no more sure of that than the other soldiers.  Besides, when\nthey bound me to the stake at Rouen and kindled the fire around me\nI knew very well that I should be killed. But there was no fear in\nit. Only peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, you were strong, a warrior born. You were not wounded and\nbroken.\u201d\n\n\u201cFour times I was wounded,\u201d she answered gravely. \u201cAt Orleans a\nbolt went through my right shoulder. At Paris a lance tore my thigh.\nI never saw the blood of Frenchmen flow without feeling my heart\nstand still. I was not a warrior born. I knew not how to ride or\nfight. But I did it. What we must needs do that we can do. Soldier,\ndo not look on the ground. Look up.\u201d\n\nThen a strange thing took place before his eyes.  A wondrous\nradiance, a mist of light, enveloped and hid the shepherdess. When\nit melted she was clad in shining armor, sitting on a white horse,\nand lifting a bare sword in her left hand.\n\n\u201cGod commands you,\u201d she cried. \u201cIt is for France. Be of good cheer.\nDo not retreat. The fort will soon be yours!\u201d\n\nHow should Pierre know that this was the cry with which the Maid\nhad rallied her broken men at Orleans when the fort of _Les\nTourelles_ fell? What he did know was that something seemed to\nspring up within him to answer that call. He felt that he would\nrather die than desert such a leader.\n\nThe figure on the horse turned away as if to go.\n\n\u201cDo not leave me,\u201d he cried, stretching out his hands to her. \u201cStay\nwith me. I will obey you joyfully.\u201d\n\nShe turned again and looked at him very earnestly.  Her eyes shone\ndeep into his heart. \u201cHere I cannot stay,\u201d answered a low, sweet,\nwomanly voice. \u201cIt is late, and my other children need me.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut forgiveness? Can you give that to me--a coward?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are no coward. Your only fault was to doubt a brave man.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd my wife? May I go back and tell her?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, surely. Would you make her hear slander of the man she loves?\nBe what she believes you and she will be satisfied.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the absolution, the word of peace? Will you speak that to me?\u201d\n\nHer eyes shone more clearly; the voice sounded sweeter and steadier\nthan ever. \u201cAfter the penance comes the absolution. You will find\npeace only at the lance's point. Son of France, go, go, go!  I will\nhelp you. Go hardily to Verdun.\u201d\n\nPierre sprang forward after the receding figure, tried to clasp\nthe knee, the foot of the Maid. As he fell to the ground something\nsharp pierced his hand. It must be her spur, thought he.\n\nThen he was aware that his eyes were shut. He opened them and looked\nat his hand carefully.  There was only a scratch on it, and a tiny\ndrop of blood. He had torn it on the thorns of the wild gooseberry-bushes.\n\nHis head lay close to the clear pool of the spring.  He buried his\nface in it and drank deep. Then he sprang up, shaking the drops\nfrom his mustache, found his cap and pistol, and hurried up the\nglen toward the old Roman road.\n\n\u201cNo more of that damned foolishness about Switzerland,\u201d he said,\naloud. \u201cI belong to France.  I am going with the other boys to save\nher. I was born for that.\u201d He took off his cap and stood still for\na moment. He spoke as if he were taking an oath. \u201cBy Jeanne d'Arc!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nIV. THE VICTORIOUS PENANCE\n\n\nIt never occurred to Pierre Duval, as he trudged those long kilometres\ntoward the front, that he was doing a penance.\n\nThe joy of a mind made up is a potent cordial.\n\nThe greetings of comrades on the road put gladness  into his heart\nand strength into his legs.\n\nIt was a hot and dusty journey, and a sober one.  But it was not\na sad one. He was going toward that for which he was born. He was\ndoing that which France asked of him, that which God told him to\ndo. Josephine would be glad and proud of him. He would never be\nashamed to meet her eyes.  As he went, alone or in company with\nothers, he whistled and sang a bit. He thought of _\u201cL'Alouette\u201d_\na good deal. But not too much. He thought also of the forts of\nDouaumont and Vaux.\n\n_\u201cDame!\u201d_ he cried to himself. \u201cIf I could help to win them\nback again! That would be fine! How sick that would make those\ncursed boches and their knock-kneed Crown Prince!\u201d\n\nAt the little village of the headquarters behind Verdun he found\nmany old friends and companions.  They greeted him with cheerful\nirony.\n\n\u201cBehold the prodigal! You took your time about coming back, didn't\nyou? Was the hospital to your taste, the nurses pretty? How is the\nwife? Any more children? How goes it, old man?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more children yet,\u201d he answered, grinning; \u201cbut all goes well.\nI have come back from a far country, but I find the pigs are still\ngrunting. What have you done to our old cook?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing at all,\u201d was the joyous reply. \u201cHe tried to swim in his\nown soup and he was drowned.\u201d\n\nWhen Pierre reported to the officer of the day, that busy functionary\nconsulted the record.\n\n\u201cYou are a day ahead of your time, Pierre Duval,\u201d  he said, frowning\nslightly.\n\n\u201cYes, sir,\u201d answered the soldier. \u201cIt costs less to be a day ahead\nthan a day too late.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is well,\u201d said the officer, smiling in his red beard. \u201cYou\nwill report to-morrow to your regiment at the citadel. You have a\nnew colonel, but the regiment is busy in the old way.\u201d\n\nAs Pierre saluted and turned to go out his eye caught the look\nof a general officer who stood near, watching. He was a square,\nalert, vigorous man, his face bronzed by the suns of many African\ncampaigns,  his eyes full of intelligence, humor, and courage. It\nwas Guillaumat, the new commander of the Army of Verdun.\n\n\u201cYou are prompt, my son,\u201d said he pleasantly, \u201cbut you must\nremember not to be in a hurry. You have been in hospital. Are you\nwell again?  Nothing broken?\u201d\n\n\u201cSomething was broken, my General,\u201d responded the soldier gravely,\n\u201cbut it is mended.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood!\u201d said the general. \u201cNow for the front, to beat the Germans\nat their own game. We shall get them. It may be long, but we shall\nget them!\u201d\n\nThat was the autumn of the offensive of 1916, by which the French\nretook, in ten days, what it had cost the Germans many months to\ngain.\n\nPierre was there in that glorious charge at the end of October which\ncarried the heights of  Douaumont and took six thousand prisoners.\nHe was there at the recapture of the Fort de Vaux which the Germans\nevacuated in the first week of November.  In the last rush up the\nslope, where he had fought long ago, a stray shell, an inscrutable\nmessenger of fate, coming from far away, no one knows whence, caught\nhim and ripped him horribly across the body.\n\nIt was a desperate mass of wounds. But the men of his squad loved\ntheir corporal. He still breathed. They saw to it that he was carried\nback to the little transit hospital just behind the Fort de Souville.\n\nIt was a rude hut of logs, covered with sand-bags, on the slope\nof the hill. The ruined woods around it were still falling to the\ncrash of far-thrown shells.  In the close, dim shelter of the inner\nroom Pierre came to himself.\n\nHe looked up into the face of Father Courcy.  A light of recognition\nand gratitude flickered  in his eyes. It was like finding an old\nfriend  in the dark.\n\n\u201cWelcome!--But the fort?\u201d he gasped.\n\n\u201cIt is ours,\u201d said the priest.\n\nSomething like a smile passed over the face of Pierre. He could\nnot speak for a long time. The blood in his throat choked him. At\nlast he whispered:\n\n\u201cTell Josephine--love.\u201d\n\nFather Courcy bowed his head and took Pierre's hand. \u201cSurely,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cBut now, my dear son Pierre, I must prepare you--\u201d\n\nThe struggling voice from the cot broke in,  whispering slowly,\nwith long intervals: \u201cNot  necessary.... I know already.... The\npenance.  ... France.... Jeanned'Arc.... It is done.\u201d\n\nA few drops of blood gushed from the corner of his mouth. The\nlook of peace that often comes to those who die of gunshot wounds\nsettled on his face. His eyes grew still as the priest laid the\nsacred wafer on his lips. The broken soldier was made whole.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEARING EAR\n\n\nThere were three American boys from the region of Philadelphia\nin the dugout, \u201cSomewhere in France\u201d; and they found it a snug\nhabitation, considering the circumstances.\n\nThe central heating system--a round sheet-iron stove, little larger\nthan a \u201ctopper\u201d hat--sent out incredible quantities of acrid smoke\nat such times as the rusty stovepipe refused to draw. But on cold\nnights and frosty mornings the refractory thing was a distinct\nconsolation. The ceiling of the  apartment lacked finish. When\nwet it dropped mud; when dry, dust. But it had the merit of being\ntwenty feet thick--enough to stop any German shell except a \u201cJack\nJohnson\u201d full of high explosive. The beds were elegantly excavated\nin the wall, and by a slight forward inclination of the body\nyou could use them as _fauteuils_. The rats approved of them\nhighly.\n\nThere were two flights of ladder-stairs leading down from the trench\ninto the dugout, and the holes at the top which served as vestibules\nwere three or four yards apart. It was a comfort to think of this\narchitectural design; for if the explosion of a big shell blocked\nup one of the entrances, the other would probably remain open, and\nyou would not be caught in a trap with the other rats.\n\nThe main ornament of the _salon_ was a neat but not gaudy\nbiscuit-box. The top of it was a centre-table, illuminated by a\nsingle, guttering candle; the interior was a \u201ccombination\u201d wardrobe\nand sideboard. Around this simple but satisfying piece of furniture\nthe three transient tenants of the  dugout had just played a game\nof dummy bridge, and now sat smoking and bickering as peacefully\nas if they were in a college club-room in America. The night on\nthe front was what the French call  _\u201crelativement calme.\u201d_\nSporadic explosions  above punctuated but did not interrupt the\ndebate,  which eddied about the high theme of Education--with a\ncapital \u201cE\u201d--and the particular point of dispute was the study of\nlanguages.\n\n\u201cEverything is going to change after the war,\u201d said Phipps-Herrick,\na big Harvard man from Bryn Mawr and a member of the Unsocial\nSocialists' Club. \u201cWe are going to make a new world. Must have a\nnew education. Sweep away all the old stuff--languages, grammar,\nliterature, philosophy, history, and all that. Put in something modern\nand practical. Montessori system for the little kids. Vocational\ntraining for the bigger ones. Teach them to make a living. Then\norganize them politically  and economically. You can do what you\nlike, then, with England, France, and America  together. Germany\nwill be shut out. Why study German? From a practical point of view,\nI ask you, why?\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn't you take it at Harvard?\u201d sarcastically drawled Rosenlaube,\na Princeton man from Rittenhouse  Square. (His grandfather was born\nat Frankfort-on-the-Main, but his mother was a Biddle, and he had\npenetrated about an inch into the American  diplomatic service when\nthe war summoned him to a more serious duty.) \u201cI understood that\nall you Harvard men were strong on modern languages,  especially\nGerman.\u201d\n\nPhipps-Herrick grunted.\n\n\u201cCertainly I took it. It was supposed to be a soft-snap course.\nWhat do you think we go to Harvard  for? But that little beast,\nProfessor von Buch, gave me a cold forty-minus on examination. So\nI dropped it, and thank God I've forgotten the little I ever knew\nof German! It will be absolutely useless in the new world.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight you are,\u201d said Rosenlaube. \u201cMy grandfather  used to speak\nit when he was angry--a sloppy, slushy language, extremely ugly.\nAt Princeton, you know, we stand by the classics, Latin and Greek,\nthe real thing in languages. You ought to hear Dean Andy West talk\nabout that. Of course a fellow forgets his Virgil and his Homer when\nhe gets out in the world. But, then, he's had the benefit of them;\nthey've given him real culture and  literature. There's nothing\noutside of the classics,  except perhaps a few things in French\nand Italian.  Thank God I never studied German!\u201d\n\nThe third man, who had kept silence up to this point, now gently\nbutted in. It was little Phil Mitchell, of Overbrook, a University\nof  Pennsylvania man, who had been stopped in his  junior year by\na financial catastrophe in the  family, and had gone out to Idaho\nto earn his living as third assistant bookkeeper in a big mining\nconcern. He took a few real books with him, besides those that\nhe was to \u201ckeep.\u201d Double entry was his business; reading,  his\nrecreation; thinking, his vocation. From all this the great war\ncalled him as with a trumpet.\n\n\u201cLook here, you fellows,\u201d he said quietly, \u201cin spite of this war\nand all the rest of it, there  are some good things in German.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat,\u201d they cried, \u201cyou, a fire-eater, stand up for the Kaiser\nand his language? Damn him!\u201d\n\n\u201cWith all my heart,\u201d assented Mitchell. \u201cBut the language isn't his.\nIt existed a long while before he was born. It isn't very pretty,\nI'll admit. But there are lots of fine things in it. Kant and Lessing,\nGoethe and Schiller and Heine--they all loved liberty and made it\nshine out in their work. Do you mean to say that I must give them\nup and throw my German overboard because these modern Potsdammers\nhave acted like brutes?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d cried Phipps-Herrick and Rosenlaube, nodding at each other,\n\u201cthat's what we mean, and that's what America means. The German\nlanguage must go!\u201d\n\n\u201cLook here,\u201d said Phipps-Herrick, \u201cyou admit that modern education\nmust be useful? Well, there won't be any more use for German, because\nwe are going to shut Germany out of the international trades-union.\nShe has betrayed the principles of the new era. We are going to\nboycott her.\u201d\n\n\u201cWon't that be rather difficult?\u201d queried Mitchell,  shaking his\nhead. \u201cSeventy or eighty million people--hard to shut them out of\nthe world, eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense, dear Phil,\u201d drawled Rosenlaube; \u201cit will be easy enough.\nBut I don't agree with Phipps-Herrick about the reason or method.\nWe are going to have a new era after the war. But it will not\nbe a utilitarian age. It will be a return to beauty and form and\nculture--not with a 'k.' First of all, we are going to kill a great\nmany  Germans. Then we are going to Berlin to knock down all the\nugly statues in the _Sieges-Allee_ and smash the parvenu German\nEmpire. Then we shall have a new age on classic lines. People will\nstill use French and English and Italian because there is some beauty\nin those languages. But nobody outside of Germany  will speak or\nread German. It is a barbarous tongue--shapeless and hideous--used\nby barbarians who gobble and snort when they talk. Sorry for Kant\nand Goethe and Heine and all that crowd, but their time is up;\nthey've got to go out with their beastly language!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Phipps-Herrick, \u201cout with them, bag and baggage. Think\nwhat the German spies and propagandists have done in America.\nSchools full of pacifist and pro-German teachers; text-books full\nof praise of the German Empire and the  Hohenzollern Highbinders;\nnewspapers full of treason, printed in the German language. Why,\nit's only a piece of self-defense to clean it all out, root and\nbranch. No more German taught or spoken, printed or read, in the\nUnited States. Forget it! Twenty-three for the Hun language!\u201d\n\n\u201cNoble,\u201d gently murmured Mitchell, shaking his head again; \u201cvery\nnoble! But not very easy and perhaps not entirely wise. Why should I\nthrow away something that has been useful to me, and may be again?\nWhy forget the little German that I know and burn my Goethe and\nrefuse to listen to Beethoven's music? I won't do it, that's all.\u201d\n\n\u201cOur little friend is a concealed Kaiserite,\u201d said Rosenlaube. \u201cHe\nwants to Germanize America.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Rosy,\u201d said Mitchell, thoughtfully running his  hand over some\nnicks on the butt of his rifle in the corner; \u201cyou know I'm not a\nKaiserite of any kind. I've got seven scored against him already,\nand I'm going to get some more. But the language question seems to\nme different. Cut out the German newspapers and the German schools\nin America by all means! No more teaching of the primary branches\nin any language but English!  Make it absolutely necessary for\neverybody in the U. S. A. to learn the language of the country the\nfirst thing. Then in the high schools and universities  let German\nbe studied like any other foreign language, by those who want\nit--chemists, and philosophers, and historians, and electrical\nengineers, and so on. We could censor the text-books and keep out\nall complimentary allusions to the  Hohenzollern family.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, shut up, Phil,\u201d growled Phipps-Herrick.  \u201cYou're too soft,\nyou old easy-mark! You don't go half far enough. We may not decide\nto exterminate  the Hun race in Europe. But we have decided to\nexterminate their language in America.\u201d\n\nHis hand was groping inside the biscuit-box.  He pulled out a little\nditty-bag and carefully  extracted a bit of newspaper.\n\n\u201cListen to this, you fellows. This is from the National Obscurity\nSociety. You know a chap with a German name is president of it,\nbut he's a real patriot, hundred per cent, not fifty-fifty, Philly.\n'The following States have abolished the teaching of German:\nMassachusetts, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania,\nMaryland, Virginia,  Georgia, Mississippi, Indiana, Ohio, Illinois,\nNebraska, Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, Arkansas, Arizona,  Colorado,\nMontana, California, and Oregon.' _Abolished_, mind you! What\ndo you think of that?\u201d\n\n\u201cMost excellent Phippick,\u201d nodded Rosenlaube, \u201cI opine, as Horace\nsaid to Cicero, 'That's the stuff,' or words to that effect. What\nsaith the senator from Mitchellville?\u201d\n\n\u201cNoble,\u201d grinned Phil, \u201cunmistakably noble!  Those Obscurity fellows\nare a fiery lot. It reminds me that during the late war with Spain,\nwhen I was a little, tiny boy, but brimful of ferocity, I  refused\nto eat my favorite dessert because it was called _Spanish_\ncream. I felt sure at the time that my heroic conduct was of distinct\nassistance to Dewey in the battle of Manila Bay.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d said Phipps-Herrick, grabbing him by the shoulders\nand shaking him  good-humoredly, \u201cyou murderous little pacifist\nwith seven nicks on your gun, will you give up your  German? Will\nyou forget it?\u201d\n\nMitchell chuckled and shook his head,\n\n\u201cAs far as requisite under military orders. But no further, not by\na--\u201d\n\nA pair of muddy boots was heard and seen descending  one of\nthe ladders, followed by the manly and still rather neat form of\nLieutenant Barker Bunn, a Cornell man from West Philadelphia. The\nthree men sprang to their feet and saluted smartly, for the lieutenant\nwas very stiff about all the  preliminary forms.\n\n\u201cToo loud talking here,\u201d he said gruffly. \u201cI heard you before I\ncame down. Who is here? Oh, I see, Sergeant Phipps-Herrick, Privates\nRosenlaube  and Mitchell. It's your turn to go out on listening\npost to-night, sergeant. Twelve sharp, stay three hours, go as far\nas you can, come back and report, take Mitchell or Rosenlaube with\nyou.  Captain's orders.\u201d\n\nThe sergeant saluted again, and the two men looked at each other.\n\n\u201cWhy not both of us, sir?\u201d said Mitchell.\n\nThe lieutenant regarded him with some surprise.  Listening post is\nnot a detail passionately desired by the men. It is always dirty,\nfrequently  dangerous, generally obscure, and often fatal. Hence\nthere is no keen competition for it.\n\n\u201cTwo is the usual number for a listening post,\u201d said Barker Bunn\nthoughtfully. \u201cBut there is no regulation about it, and the captain\ndid not specify any number. Well, yes, I suppose you can all three\ngo, if you are set on it. In fact, I give the order to that effect.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, sir,\u201d said Rosenlaube and Mitchell.  Phipps-Herrick,\nfeeling that the strict etiquette of the preliminaries had been\nfully observed and the time to be human had come, held out a box\nof \u201cFierce Fairies.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave a cigarette, Bunn, and take a chair, do.  Time for a little\ntalk this quiet night? Tell us what's doing up above.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing particular,\u201d said Barker Bunn, lighting  and relaxing. \u201cBut\nthe old man has a hunch that the Fritzies are grubbing a mine--a\ncorker--to get our goat. Hence this business of ears  forward.\nThe old man thinks the Fritzies have a strong grouch against this\nlittle alley, and since they couldn't take it top side last week\nthey're going to try to bust it out bottom side with a big bang some\nday soon. Maybe so--maybe just greens--but, anyway, you've got to\ngo on the Q. T. with this job--no noise, don't even whisper unless\nyou have to; just listen for all you're worth. P'r'aps you'll hear\nthat little tap-tap-tapping that tells where Fritzie Mole is at\nwork. Then if you come back and tell the old man where it is, he'll\ngive you all the cigarettes you want. But say, do you want me to\ngive you a pointer on the way to go, the method of procedure, as\nthe old man would call it?\u201d\n\nThey agreed that they were thirsting for information  and instruction.\n\n\u201cWell, it's this way,\u201d continued Barker Bunn.  \u201cYou know I had a\nbit of experience in listening post while I was with the Canadians\ndown around 'Wipers'; and I noticed that most of the troubles\ncame from a bad method of procedure. Fellows went out any old way;\nfollowed each other in the dark, and then hunted for each other\nand came to grief; all those kind of silly fumbles. Now, what you\nneed is _formation_--see? Must have some sort of formation\nfor advance. Must keep in touch. For two men a tandem is right. For\nthree men, what you want is a spike-team--middle man crawls ahead,\nother men follow on each side just near enough to touch his left\nheel with right hand and right heel with left hand--a triangle,\nsee?  Keep touching once every thirty seconds. If you miss it,\nleader crawls back, side men crawl in, sure to meet, nobody gets\nlost. Go as far _as_ you can, then spread out like a fan, fold\ntogether _when_ you can, come back _if_ you can--that's\nthe way to cover the most possible ground on a listening post. Do\nyou get me?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe get you,\u201d they nodded. \u201cIt's a wonderful scheme.\u201d And Rosenlaube\nadded in his most  impressive literary manner: \u201cPlato, it _must_\nbe so, thou reasonest well.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut tell me,\u201d said the lieutenant, \u201cwhat were you  fellows chattering\nabout so loud when I came down?\u201d\n\nSo they told him, and, according to the habit of college boys,\nthey skirmished over the ground of debate again, and Barker Bunn\nvigorously supported  the majority opinion, and Mitchell was left\nin a hopeless minority of one, clinging obstinately to his faith\nthat there had been, and still might be, some use for the German\nlanguage.\n\nMidnight came, and with it the return of the lieutenant's official\nmanner. He saw the trio slide over the top, one by one, vanishing\nin the starless dark. \u201cGood luck going and coming,\u201d he whispered;\nand it sounded almost like an unofficial prayer.\n\nIn single file they crept through the prepared opening in the\nbarbed-wire entanglement, and so out into No Man's Land, where they\ntook up their spike-team formation. Phipps-Herrick was the leader,\nthe other men were the wheelers. They had agreed on a code of\nsilent signals: One kick with the heel or one pinch with the hand\nmeant \u201cstop\u201d; two meant \u201cback\u201d; three meant \u201cget together.\u201d They\ncarried no rifles, because the rifle is an awkward tool for a\nnoiseless crawler to lug.  But each man had a big trench-knife and\na pair of automatic pistols, with plenty of ammunition.\n\nThe space between the two front lines of barbed wire in this region\nwas not more than four or five hundred yards. In the murk of that\nunstarred, drizzling night, where every inch must be felt out, it\nseemed like a vast, horrible territory. There was nothing monotonous\nabout it but the blackness of darkness. To the touch it was a\n_paysage accidente_, a landscape full of surprises. Dead bodies\nwere sprinkled over it. It was pockmarked with small shell-holes\nand pitted with large craters, many of them full of water, all slimy\nwith mud. Phipps-Herrick nearly slipped into one of the deepest, but\na lively kick warned his followers of the danger, and they pulled\nhim back by the heels.\n\nNow and then a star-shell looped across the spongy sky, casting a\nlurid illumination over the ghastly field. When the three travellers\ncaught the soft swish of its ascent, they \u201cfroze\u201d--motionless as\na shamming 'possum--mimicking death among the dead.\n\nIt was a long, slow, silent, revolting crawl.  Sounds which did\nnot concern them were plenty--distant cannonade, shells exploding\nhere and there, scattered rifle-shots. All these they unconsciously\neliminated, listening for something else, ears pressed to the ground\nwherever they could find a comparatively  dry spot. From their\npoint of hearing the night was still as the grave--no subterranean\ntapping  and scraping could they hear anywhere under the sea of\nmud.\n\nOnce Rosenlaube caught a faint metallic sound, and signalled\nthrough Phipps-Herrick's left leg to Mitchell's left arm, \u201cStop!\u201d\n All three listened tensely. They crawled toward the faint noise.\nIt was made by a loose end of wire swaying in the night-wind and\ntapping on a broken helmet.\n\nThey were getting close to the German barbed wire. The leader had\nswung around to the west, following what he judged to be the line\nof the front trench, perhaps forty yards away. He was determined\nto hear something before he went back.  And he did!\n\nJust as he had made up his mind to call up the other fellows for the\nfinal spreadout in fan  formation, his groping right hand touched\nsomething round and smooth and hard. It seemed to be made fast to\na string or wire, but he pulled it toward him and gave the \u201cstop\u201d\n signal to his followers.\n\nThe thing he had picked up was a telephone receiver.  How it came\nto be there he did not know.  Perhaps a German listening post had\ncarried it out last night, in order to receive directions from the\ntrench; perhaps the mining party--man killed, receiver  dropped,\nwire connection not cut, or tangled up with other wires--who can\ntell? One thing is sure--here is the receiver, faintly buzzing.\nPhipps-Herrick joyfully puts it to his ear. He hears a voice and\nwords, but it is all gibberish to him. With a look of desperation\non his face he gives the \u201cget together\u201d signal.\n\nRosenlaube crawls up first and takes hold of the cylinder, puts it\nto his ear. He hears the sound, but it says absolutely nothing to\nhim. It is like being at the door of the secret of the universe\nand unable to get over the threshold.\n\nThen comes Mitchell, slowly, a little lame, and almost \u201call in.\u201d\n Phipps-Herrick thrusts the receiver  into his hand. As he listens\na beatific expression  spreads over his face. It lasts a long time,\nand then he lays down the cylinder with a sigh.\n\nThe three heads are close together, and Mitchell whispers under\nhis breath:\n\n\u201cGot 'em--got the whole thing--line of mine changed--raiders coming\nout now--twelve men--rough on us, but if we can get back to our\nalley we've got 'em! Crawl home quick.\u201d\n\n[Illustration with caption: \u201cI'm going to carry you in, spite of\nhell\u201d]\n\nThey crawled together in a bunch, formation ignored. Presently\nsteps sounded near them. A swift light swept the hole where they\ncrouched, a volley of rifle-shots crashed into it. The Americans\nanswered with their pistols, and saw three or four of the dark\nforms on the edge of the hole topple over. The rest disappeared.\nBut Rosenlaube had a rifle-ball through his right hip and another\nthrough his shoulder. Mitchell and Phipps-Herrick started to carry\nhim.\n\n\u201cDrop it,\u201d he whispered. \u201cI'm safe here till dawn--you get home,\nquick! Specially Phil. He's the one that counts. Cut away, boys!\u201d\n\nMeantime the American trench had opened fire and the German trench\nanswered. The still night broke into a tempest of noise. A bullet\nor a bit of shell caught Mitchell in the knee and crumpled him up.\nPhipps-Herrick lifted him on his back and stood up.\n\n\u201cCome on,\u201d he said, \u201cyou little cuss. You're the only one that has\nthe stuff we went out after.  I'm going to carry you in, 'spite of\nhell.\u201d\n\nAnd he did it.\n\nMitchell told the full story of the change in the direction of the\nGerman mine and the plan of the next assault, as he had heard it\nthrough that lost receiver. The captain said it was information\nof the highest value. It counted up to a couple of hundred German\nprisoners and three machine-guns  in the next two days.\n\nRosenlaube, still alive, was brought in just before  daybreak by a\nvolunteer rescue-party under the guidance of Phipps-Herrick. All\nthree were cited in the despatches. Phipps-Herrick in due time\nreceived the Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry on the field.\nBut Mitchell had the surplus  satisfaction of the hearing ear.\n\n\u201cLook here, old man,\u201d Rosenlaube said to him as they lay side by\nside in the hospital, \u201c'member our talk in the dugout just before\nour big night?  Well, I allow there was something in what you\nsaid.  There are times when it is a good thing to know a bit of\nthat barbarous German language. And you never can tell when one of\nthose times may hit you.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSKETCHES OF QUEBEC\n\n\nIf you love a certain country, for its natural beauty, or for the\nfriends you have made there, or for the happy days you have passed\nwithin its borders, you are troubled and distressed when that\ncountry comes under criticism, suspicion, and reproach.\n\nIt is just as it would be if a woman who had been very kind\nto you and had done you a great deal of good were accused of some\nunworthiness. You would refuse to believe it. You would insist on\nunderstanding before you pronounced judgment.  Memories would ask\nto be heard.\n\nThat is what I feel in regard to French Canada, the province of\nQuebec, where I have had so many joyful times, and found so many\ntrue comrades among the _voyageurs_, the _habitants_, and\nthe _coureurs de bois._\n\nPeople are saying now that Quebec is not loyal, not brave, not\npatriotic in this war for freedom and humanity.\n\nEven if the accusation were true, of course it would not spoil the\nbig woods, the rushing rivers, the sparkling lakes, the friendly\nmountains of French Canada. But all the same, it hurts me to hear\nsuch a charge against my friends of the forest.\n\nDo you mean to tell me that Francois and Ferdinand  and Louis and\nJean and Eugene and Iside are not true men? Do you mean to tell me\nthat these lumbermen who steer big logs down steep places, these\ntrappers who brave the death-cold grip of Winter, these canoe-men\nwho shout for joy as they run the foaming rapids,--do you mean to\ntell me that they have no courage?\n\nI am not ready to credit that. I want to hear what they have to say\nfor themselves. And in listening for that testimony certain little\nremembrances come to me--not an argument--only a few sketches on\nthe wall. Here they are. Take them for what they are worth.\n\nI\n\nLA GRANDE DECHARGE\n\nSeptember, 1894\n\nIn one of the long stillwaters of the mighty stream that rushes\nfrom _Lac Saint Jean_ to make the  Saguenay--below the _Ile\nMaligne_ and above the cataract of Chicoutimi--two birch-bark\ncanoes are floating quietly, descending with rhythmic strokes of\nthe paddle, through the luminous northern twilight.\n\nThe chief guide, Jean Morel, is a _coureur de bois_ of the old\ntype--broad-shouldered, red-bearded, a fearless canoeman, a good\nhunter and fisherman--simple of speech and deep of heart: a good\nman to trust in the rapids.\n\n\u201cTell me, Jean,\u201d I ask in the comfortable leisure of our voyage\nwhich conduces to pipe-smoking and conversation, \u201ctell me, are you\na Frenchman or an Englishman?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot the one, nor the other,\u201d answers Jean in his  old-fashioned\n_patois._ \u201cM'sieu' knows I am French-Canadian.\u201d\n\nA remarkable answer, when you come to think of it; for it claims\na nationality which has never existed, and is not likely to exist,\nexcept in a dream.\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d I say, following my impulse of psychological curiosity,\nof which Jean is sublimely ignorant, \u201csuppose a war should come\nbetween France and England. On which side would you fight?\u201d\n\nJean knocks the dottle out of his pipe, refills and relights. Then,\nbetween the even strokes of his paddle, he makes this extraordinary\nreply:\n\n_\u201cM'sieu, I suppose my body would march under the flag of England.\nBut my heart would march under the flag of France.\u201d_\n\nGood old Jean Morel! You had no premonition of this glorious war\nin which the Tricolor and the Union Jack would advance together\nagainst the ravening black eagle of Germany, and the Stars and\nStripes would join them.\n\nHow should you know anything about it? Your log cabin was your\ncapitol. Your little family was your council of state. Even the\nrest of us, proud of our university culture, were too blind, in\nthose late Victorian days, to see the looming menace of Prussian\npaganism and the conquer-lust of the Hohenzollerns, which has\nplunged the whole world in war.\n\nII\n\nOXFORD\n\nFebruary, 1917\n\nThe \u201cSchools\u201d building, though modern, is one of the stateliest\non the Main Street. Here, in old peaceful times, the university\nexaminations used to be held. Now it is transformed into a hospital\nfor the wounded men from the fighting front  of freedom.\n\nSir William Osier, Canadian, and world-renowned physician, is my\nguide, an old friend in Baltimore, now Regius Professor of Medicine\nin Oxford.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d he says, \u201cI want you to see an example of the Carrel\ntreatment of wounds.\u201d\n\nThe patient is sitting up in bed--a fine young fellow about twenty\nyears old. A shrapnel-shell, somewhere in France, passed over his\nhead and burst just behind him. His bare back is a mass of scars.\nThe healing fluid is being pumped in through the shattered elbow\nof his right arm, not yet out of danger.\n\n\u201cDoes it hurt,\u201d I ask.\n\n\u201cNot much,\u201d he answers, trying to smile, \u201cat least not too much,\nM'sieu'.\u201d\n\nThe accent of French Canada is unmistakable.  I talk to him in his\nown dialect.\n\n\u201cWhat part of Quebec do you come from?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom _Trois Rivieres,_ M'sieu', or rather from a country back\nof that, the Saint Maurice River.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it well--often hunted there. But what made you go to the\nwar?\u201d\n\n\u201cI heard that England fought to save France from the damned Germans.\nThat was enough, M'sieu', to make me march. Besides, I always liked\nto fight.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you do before you became a soldier?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was a lumberjack.\u201d\n\n(What he really said was, _\u201cJ'allais en chantier,\u201d_ \u201cI went\nin the shanty.\u201d If he had spoken in classic French he would have\nsaid, _\u201cJ'etais bucheron.\u201d_ How it brought back the smell of\nthe big spruce forest to hear that word _chantier_, in Oxford!)\n\n[Illustration: \u201cI was a lumberjack.\u201d]\n\n\u201cWell, then, I suppose you will return to the wood-cutting again,\nwhen this war is over.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut no, M'sieu', how can I, with this good-for-nothing arm? I\nshall never be capable of swinging the axe again.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you could be the cook, perfectly. And you  know the cook gets\nthe best pay in the whole shanty.\u201d\n\nHis face lights up a little.\n\n\u201cTruly,\u201d he replies; \u201cI never thought of that, but it is true. I\nhave seen a bit of cooking at the front and learned some things.\nI might take up that end of the job. _But anyway, Im glad I went\nto the war.\u201d_\n\nSo we say good-by--_\u201cbonne chance!\u201d_\n\nSince that day the good physician who guided me through the hospital\nhas borne without a murmur  the greatest of all sacrifices--the loss\nof his only son, a brave and lovely boy, killed in action against\nthe thievish, brutal German hordes.\n\nIII\n\nSAINTE MARGUERITE August, 1917\n\nThe wild little river _Sainte Marguerite_ runs joyously among\nthe mountains and the green woods, back of the Saguenay, singing\nthe same old song of liberty and obedience to law, as if the world\nhad never been vexed and tortured by the madness of war-lords.\n\nA tired man who has a brief furlough from active service is lucky\nif he can spend it among the big trees and beside a flowing stream.\nThe trees are ministers of peace. The stream is full of courage\nand adventure as it rushes toward the big sea.\n\nWe are coming back to camp from the morning's  fishing, with a\nbrace of good salmon in the canoe.\n\n\u201cTell me, Iside,\u201d I ask of the wiry little bowman, the best hunter\nand fisher on the river, \u201cwhy is it that you are not at the war?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, M'sieu', I am too old. A father of family--almost a\ngrandfather--the war is not for men of that age. Besides, it does\nnot concern us here in Quebec.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not? It concerns the whole world. Who told you that it does\nnot concern you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe priest at our village of _Sacre Coeur,_ M'sieu'.  He says\nthat it is only right and needful for a good Christian to fight\nin defense of his home and his church. Let those Germans attack us\nhere, _chez nous_, and you shall see how the men of _Sacre\nCoeur_ will stand up and fight.\u201d\n\nIt was an amazing revelation of a state of mind, absolutely simple,\nperfectly sincere, and strictly imprisoned by the limitations of\nits only  recognized teacher.\n\n\u201cBut suppose, Iside, that England and France should be beaten down\nby Germany, over there.  What would happen to French Canada? Do\nyou think you could stand alone then, to defend your home and your\nchurch? Are you big enough, you French-Canadians?\u201d\n\n\u201cM'sieu', I have never thought of that. Perhaps  we have more than\na million people--many of them children, for you understand we\nFrench-Canadians have large families--but of course the children\ncould not fight. Still, we should not like to have them subject to\na German Emperor. We would fight against that, if the war came to\nus here on our own soil.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut don't you see that the only way to keep it from coming\nto you on your own soil is to fight against it over there? Hasn't\nthe English Government  given you all your liberties, for home and\nchurch?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, M'sieu', especially since Sir Wilfred Laurier.  Ah, that is\na great man! A true French-Canadian!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, you know that he is against Germany.  You know he\nbelieves the freedom of Canada depends on the defeat of Germany,\nover there, on the other side of the sea. You would not like a\nGerman Canada, would you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all, M'sieu', that would be intolerable.  But I have never\nthought of that.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, think of it now, will you? And tell your priest to think of\nit, too. He is a Christian. The things we are fighting for belong\nto Christianity--justice, liberty, humanity. Tell him that, and tell\nhim also some of the things which the Germans did to the Christian\npeople in Belgium and Northern France. I will narrate them to you\nlater.\u201d\n\n\u201cM'sieu',\u201d says Iside, dipping his paddle deeper as we round the\nsharp corner of a rock, \u201cI shall remember all that you tell me, and\nI shall tell it again to our priest. You know we have few newspapers\nhere. Most of us could not read them, anyway. I am  not well convinced\nthat we yet comprehend, here in  French Canada, the meaning of\nthis war. But we shall endeavor to comprehend it better. And when\nwe comprehend, we shall be ready to do our duty--you can trust\nyourself to the men of _Sacre Coeur_ for that. We love peace--we\nall about here _(nous autres d'icite)--but we can fight like the\ndevil when we know it is for a good cause--liberty, for example._\nMeanwhile would M'sieu' like to stop at the pool _'La Pinette'_\non the way down and try a couple of casts? There was a big salmon\nrising there yesterday.\u201d\n\nThat very evening a runner comes up the river, through the woods,\nto tell Iside and Eugene, who are Selectmen of the community of\n_Sacre Coeur,_ that they must come down to the village for an\nimportant meeting at ten o'clock the next morning.\n\nSo they set off, quite as a matter of course, for their thirty-five\nmile tramp through the forest in the dark. They are good citizens,\nas well as good woodsmen, you understand. On the second day they\nare back again at their work in the canoe.\n\n\u201cWell, Iside,\u201d I ask, \u201chow was it with the meeting  yesterday? All\ncorrect?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll correct, M'sieu'. It was an affair of a new schoolhouse. We are\ngoing to build it. All goes well. We are beginning to comprehend.\nQuebec is a large corner of the world. But it is only a corner,\nafter all, we can see that. And those damned Germans  who do such\nterrible things in France, we do not love them at all, no matter what\nthe priest may say about Christian charity. They are Protestants,\nM'sieu', is it not?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d I answer, hiding a smile with a large puff of smoke, \u201csome\nof them call themselves Protestants  and some call themselves\nCatholics. But it seems to me they are all infidels, heathen--judging\nby what they do. That is the real proof.\u201d\n\n_\u201cC'est b'en vrai, M'sieu',_\u201d says Iside. \u201cIt is the conduct\nthat shows the Christian.\u201d\n\nIV\n\nBELOW CAPE DIAMOND March, 1818\n\nThe famous citadel of Quebec stands on top of the steep hill that\ndominates the junction of the Saint Charles River with the Saint\nLawrence. That is Cape Diamond--a natural stronghold. Indians and\nFrench, and British, and Americans have fought for that coign of\nvantage. For a century and a half the Union Jack has floated there,\nand under its fair protection the Province of Quebec, keeping its\nquaint old language and peasant customs, has become an important\npart of the British Empire.\n\nThe Upper Town, on the high shoulders of Cape Diamond, with\nits government buildings, convents, hospitals, showy new shops,\nand ancient gardens, its archiepiscopal palace, trim theological\nseminary,  huge castle-like hotel, and placid ramparts dominating\nthe _Ile d'Orleans_ with rows of antiquated, harmless cannon\naround which the children  play--the Upper Town belongs distinctly\nto the citadel. The garrison is in evidence here. A regimental band\nplays in the kiosk on Dufferin Terrace on summer evenings. There\nis a good mixture  of khaki in the coloring of the street crowd,\nand many wounded soldiers are seen, invalided home from the front.\nThey are all very proud of the glorious record that Canada has made\nin the battle for freedom. Most of them, it seems to me, are from\nEnglish-speaking families. But by no means all. There are many of\nunmistakable French-Canadian  stock; and they tell me proudly of\nthe notable bravery of a certain regiment which was formed early\nfrom volunteers of their own people--hunters, woodsmen, farmers,\nguides. The war does not seem  very far away, up here in the region\nof the citadel.\n\nThe Lower Town, with its narrow streets, little shops, gray stone\nwarehouses, dingy tenements, and old-fashioned markets, is quite a\ndifferent place.  It belongs to the slow rivers on whose banks it\ndrowses and dreams. The once prosperous lumberyards  are half empty\nnow. The shipping along the wharfs has been dwindling for many\nyears. The northern winter puts a quietus on the waterside.  Troops,\nmunitions, supplies, must go down by rail to an ice-free port. The\nwhite river-boats are all laid up. But a way is kept open across\nthe river to Levis, and the sturdy, snub-nosed little ice-breaking\nferry-boats buffet back and forth almost without  interruption. There\nis a plenty of nothing to do, now, in the Lower Town; pipe-smoking\nand heated discussion of parish politics are incessant; an inconsiderate\nquantity of bad liquor is imbibed, _pour faire passer le temps._\n\nSuddenly--if anything can be said to happen suddenly in Quebec--bad\nnews comes from the Lower Town. A riot has broken out, an insurrection\nof the French-Canadians against the new military  service act, an\narmed resistance to the draft.  Windows have been smashed, shops\nlooted. A mob, not very large perhaps, but extremely noisy, has\nmarched up the steep curve of Mountain Hill Street, into the Upper\nTown. Shots have been exchanged. People have been killed. The\nrevolution  in Quebec has begun.\n\nThat is the disquieting rumor which comes to us, carefully spread and\nmagnified by those agencies which have an interest in preventing, or\nat least obstructing the righteous punishment of the German criminals\nin this war. Can it possibly be true?  Have the French-Canadians gone\ncrazy, as the Irish did in 1916, under the lunatic incantations of\nthe Sinn-Feiners? Are they also people without a country,  playing\nblindly into the hands of the Prussian gang who have set out to\nsubjugate the world?\n\nNo! This riot in the old city is not an expression of the spirit of\nFrench Canada at all. It is only a shrewdly stupid trick in local\npolitics, planned and staged by small-minded and loud-voiced\npoliticians  who are trying to keep their hold upon the province.\nThe so-called revolutionists are either imported loafers and\ntrouble-makers, or else they are drawn from that class of \u201chooligans\u201d\n who have always made a noise around the Quebec hotels at night. They\nshout much: they swear abominably: but they have no real fight in\nthem. They can be hired and used--up to a certain point--but beyond\nthat they are worthless. It is a waste of money to employ them.\nThe trouble below Cape Diamond froths up and goes down as quickly\nas the effervescence  on a bottle of ginger beer. Before you can\nfind out what it is all about, it is all over. It has not even\ntouched the real French-Canadians, the men of the forests and the\nfarms. They are loyal by nature, and slow by temperament. You have\ngot to give them time, and light.\n\nWhat is happening in Quebec now? Just what ought to happen. The\ndraft is going forward smoothly and steadily, without resistance.\nSons of the best French-Canadian families are volunteering  for the\nwar. Recruits from Laval University are coming in, stirred perhaps\nby the knowledge that forty thousand Catholic priests in France\nhave entered the army which fights against the  Prussian paganism.\n\nThe petty politicians who have sought to serve their own ends\nby putting forward the mad notion of secession and an independent\n\u201cRepublic of Quebec\u201d  have gone to cover under a storm of ridicule\nand indignation. M. Bourassa's iridescent dream of French-Canadian\nnationalism has disappeared like a soap-bubble. M. Francoeur's\nmotion in the Quebec legislature, carrying a vague hint that the\nprovince might withdraw from the Dominion if the other provinces\nwere not particularly nice to it, was snowed under by an overwhelming\nvote.  The patriotic and eloquent speech of the provincial Premier,\nM. Gouin, was received with every sign of approval. The political\ncinema has shown its latest film, and the title is evidently\n_\u201cFidelite de Quebec.\u201d_\n\nMeantime a Catholic missioner has been in the province. The visit\nof Archbishop Mathieu of Saskatchewan was probably made on the\ninvitation, certainly with the consent, of the hierarchy of Quebec.\nThat intelligent and fearless preacher brought with him a clear and\nringing gospel, a call to all Christian folk to stand up together\nand \u201cresist  even unto blood, striving against sin\u201d--the sin of\nthe German war-lords who have plunged the world in agony to enforce\ntheir heresy that Might makes Right.\n\nSuch a message, at this time, must be of inestimable  value to\nthe humble and devout people of the province, attached as they are\nto their church, and looking patiently to her for guidance. The\nparish priests, devoted to their lonely tasks in obscure hamlets,\nmay get a new and broader inspiration from it. They may have a vision\nof the ashes of Louvain University, the ruin of Rheims Cathedral,\nwrought by ruthless German hands. Then the church in Quebec will\nmeasure up to the church in Belgium and in France. Then the village\ncure will say to his young men: \u201cGo! Fight! It is for the glory\nof God and the good of the world. It is for the Christian religion\nand the life of  free Canada.\u201d\n\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d says the gentle reader, of a sociological  turn of\nmind, who has followed me thus far, \u201cwhat have you got to say about\nthe big political problem of Quebec? Is a French-speaking province\na safe factor in the Dominion of Canada,  in the British Empire? Why\nwas Quebec so late in  coming into this world war against Germany?\u201d\n\nDear man, I have nothing whatever to say about what you call the\nbig political problem of Quebec.  I told you that at the beginning.\nThat is a question  for Canada and Great Britain to settle. The\nBritish colonial policy has always been one of the greatest liberality\nand fairness, except perhaps in that last quarter of the eighteenth\ncentury, when the madness of a German king and his ministers in\nEngland forced the United States to break away from her, and form\nthe republic which has now become her most powerful friend.\n\nThe perpetuation of a double language within a state, an _enclave_,\nundoubtedly carries with it an element of inconvenience and possibly\nof danger.  Yet Belgium is bilingual and Switzerland is  quadrilingual.\nIf any tongue other than that of the central government is\nto be admitted, what could be better than French--the language of\nculture, which has spoken the large words, _liberte, egalite,\nfraternite?_ The native dialect of French Canada is a quaint\nand delightful thing--an eighteenth-century  vocabulary with pepper\nand salt from the speech of the woodsmen and hunters. I should be\nsorry if it had to fade out. But evidently that is a question for\nCanada to decide. She has been a bilingual country for a long time.\nI see no reason why the  experiment should not be carried on.\n\nQuebec has been rather slow in waking up to the meaning of this war\nfor world-freedom. But she has been very little slower than some\nof the United States, after all.\n\nThe Church? Well, the influence of the Church always has depended\nand always must depend upon the quality of her ministers. In\nFrance, in Belgium, they have not fallen short of their high duty.\nThe Archbishop of Saskatchewan, who came to Quebec, preached a\nclear gospel of self-sacrifice for a  righteous cause.\n\nBut the plain people of Quebec--the _voyageurs_, the\n_habitants_, my old friends in the back districts--that is\nwhat I am thinking about. I am sure they are all right. They are\nvery simple, old-fashioned, childish, if you like; but there is\nno pacifist or  pro-German virus among them. If their parochial\npoliticians  will let them alone, if their priests will speak to\nthem as prophets of the God of Righteousness,  they will show their\nmettle. They will prove their right to be counted among the free\npeoples of the world who are willing to defend peace with arms.\n\nThat is what I expect to find if I ever get back to my canoemen on\nthe _Sainte Marguerite_ again.\n\nSYLVANORA, July 10, 1918.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA CLASSIC INSTANCE\n\n\n\u201cLatin and Greek are dead,\u201d said Hardman, lean, eager, absolute,\na fanatic of modernity. \u201cThey have been a long while dying, and\nthis war has finished  them. We see now that they are useless in\nthe modern world. Nobody is going to waste time in studying them.\nEducation must be direct and scientific. Train men for efficiency\nand prepare them for defense. Otherwise they will have no chance\nof making a living or of keeping what they make. Your classics are\nmusty and rusty and fusty.  _Heraus mit----\u201c_\n\nHe checked himself suddenly, with as near a blush as his sallow\nskin could show.\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d he stammered; \u201cbad habit, contracted  when I was a\nstudent at Kiel--only place where they really understood metallurgy.\u201d\n\nProfessor John De Vries, round, rosy, white-haired, steeped in the\nmellow lore of ancient history,  puffed his cigar and smiled that\nbenignant smile with which he was accustomed joyfully to enter a\nduel of wits. Many such conflicts had enlivened  that low-ceilinged\nbook-room of his at Calvinton.\n\n\u201cYou are excused, my dear Hardman,\u201d he said, \u201cespecially because\nyou have just given us a valuable illustration of the truth that\nlanguage and the study of language have a profound influence upon\nthought.  The tongue which you inadvertently used belongs to the\ncountry that bred the theory of education which you advocate. The\ntheory is as crude and imperfect as the German language itself.\nAnd that is saying a great deal.\u201d\n\nYoung Richard De Vries, the professor's favorite nephew and adopted\nson, whose chief interest was athletics, but who had a very pretty\nside taste for verbal bouts, was sitting with the older men before\na cheerful fire of logs in the chilly spring of 1917.  He tucked\none leg comfortably underneath him and leaned forward in his chair,\nlighting a fresh cigarette. He foresaw a brisk encounter, and was\ndelighted, as one who watches from the side-lines the opening of\na lively game.\n\n\u201cWell played, sir,\u201d he ejaculated; \u201cwell played, indeed. Score one\nfor you, Uncle.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe approbation of the young is the consolation of the aged,\u201d\n murmured the professor sententiously, as if it were a quotation\nfrom Plutarch. \u201cBut let us hear what our friend Hardman has to say\nabout the German language and the Germanic theory of education. It\nis his turn.\u201d\n\n\u201cI throw you in the German language,\u201d answered Hardman, rather\ntartly. \u201cI don't profess to admire  it or defend it. But nobody\ncan deny its utility for the things that are taught in it. You can\nlearn more science from half a dozen recent German books than from\na whole library of Latin and Greek. Besides,  you must admit that\nthe Germans are great classical scholars too.\u201d\n\n\u201cRather neat,\u201d commented Dick; \u201cyou touched him there, Mr. Hardman.\nNow, Uncle!\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not admit,\u201d said the professor firmly, \u201cthat the Germans are\ngreat classical scholars. They are great students, that is all.\nThe difference is immense. Far be it from me to deny the value of\nthe patient and laborious researches of the Germans in the grammar\nand syntax of the ancient languages and in archaeology. They are\npainstaking  to a painful degree. They gather facts as bees gather\npollen, indefatigably. But when it comes to making honey they go\ndry. They cannot interpret, they can only instruct. They do not\ncomprehend, they only classify. Name me one recent German book of\nclassical interpretation to compare in  sweetness and light with\nJowett's 'Dialogues of Plato' or Butcher's 'Some Aspects of the\nGreek Genius' or Croiset's 'Histoire de la Litterature Grecque.'\nYou can't do it,\u201d he ended, with a note of triumph.\n\n\u201cOf course not,\u201d replied Hardman sharply. \u201cI never claimed to know\nanything about classical literature or scholarship. My point at\nthe beginning--you have cleverly led the discussion away from it,\nlike one of your old sophists--the point I made was that Greek and\nLatin are dead languages, and therefore practically worthless in\nthe modern world. Let us go back to that and discuss it fairly and\nleave the Germans out.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut that, my dear fellow, is precisely what you cannot do. It\nis partly because they have insisted on treating Latin and Greek\nas dead that the Germans  have become what they are--spectacled\nbarbarians,  learned Huns, veneered Vandals. In older times it was\nnot so bad. They had some perception  of the everlasting current\nof life in the classics.  When the Latin spirit touched them for a\nwhile, they acquired a sense of form, they produced some literature\nthat was good--Lessing, Herder, Goethe, Schiller. But it was a\nbrief illumination, and the darkness that followed it was deeper\nthan ever.  Who are their foremost writers to-day? The Hauptmanns\nand the Sudermanns, gropers in obscurity, violent sentimentalists,\n'bigots to laxness,' Dr.  Johnson would have called them. Their\nworld is a moral and artistic chaos agitated by spasms of hysteria.\nTheir work is a mass of decay touched with gleams of phosphorescence.\nThe Romans would have called it _immunditia_. What is your new\nAmerican word for that kind of thing, Richard?  I heard you use it\nthe other day.\u201d\n\n\u201cPunk,\u201d responded Dick promptly. \u201cSometimes, if it's very sickening,\nwe call it pink punk.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right,\u201d interrupted Hardman impatiently.  \u201cSay what you like\nabout Hauptmann and Sudermann.  They are no friends of mine. Be as\nferocious with them as you please. But you surely do not mean to\nclaim that the right kind of study and understanding of the classics\ncould have had any practical influence on the German character, or\nany value in saving the German Empire from its horrible blunders.\u201d\n\n\u201cPrecisely that is what I do mean.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how?\u201d\n\n\u201cThrough the mind, _animus_, the intelligent  directing spirit\nwhich guides human conduct in all who have passed beyond the stage\nof mere barbarism.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou exaggerate the part played by what you call the mind. Human\nconduct is mainly a matter of heredity and environment. Most of it\nis  determined by instinct, impulse, and habit.\u201d\n\n\u201cGranted, for the sake of argument. But may there not be a mental\nas well as a physical  inheritance, an environment of thought as\nwell  as of bodily circumstances?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps so. Yes, I suppose that is true to a certain extent.\u201d\n\n\u201cA poor phrase, my dear Hardman; but let it pass. Will you admit\nthat there may be habits of thinking and feeling as well as habits\nof doing and making things?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do you recognize a difference between bad habits and good\nhabits?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you agree that this difference exists both in mental and\nin physical affairs? For example, you would call the foreman of a\nmachine-shop who directed his work in accordance with the natural\nlaws of his material and of his steam or electric power a man of\ngood habits, would you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cUndoubtedly.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you would not deny him this name, but would rather emphasize\nit, if in addition he had the habit of paying regard to the moral\nand social laws which condition the welfare and efficiency of his\nworkmen; for example, self-control, cheerfulness,  honesty, fair\nplay, honor, human kindness, and so on. If he taught these things,\nnot only by word but by deed, you would call him an excellent\nforeman, would you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cWithout a question. That machine-shop would be a great success,\na model.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut suppose your foreman had none of these good mental and moral\nhabits. Suppose he was proud, overbearing, dishonest, unfair, and\ncruel.  Do you not believe he would have a bad influence upon his\nmen? Would not the shop, no matter what kind of work it turned out,\nbecome a nest of evil and a menace to its neighbors?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt surely would.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, then, would you do with the foreman?\u201d\n\n\u201cI would try to teach him better. If that failed, I would discharge\nhim.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn what method and by what means would you endeavor to teach him?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy all the means that I could command. By precept and by example,\nby warning him of his faults and by showing him better ways, by\nwholesome books and good company.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd if he refused to learn; if he remained  obstinate; if he\nmocked you and called you a  hypocrite; if he claimed that his way\nwas the best, in fact the only way, divinely inspired, and therefore\nbeyond all criticism, then you would throw him out?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly, and quickly! I should regard him as morally insane,\nand try my best to put him where he could do no more harm. But tell\nme why this protracted imitation of Socrates? Where are you trying\nto lead me? Do you want me to say that the German Kaiser is a very\nbad foreman of his shop; that he has got it into a horrible mess\nand made it despised and hated by all the other shops; that he ought\nto be put out? If that is your point, I am with you in advance.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight you are!\u201d cried Dick joyously. \u201cCan the Kaiser! We all agree\nto that. And here the bout ends, with honors for both sides, and\na special prize for the Governor.\u201d\n\nThe professor smiled, recognizing in the name more affection than\ndisrespect. He leaned forward in his chair, lighting a fresh cigar\nwith gusto.\n\n\u201cNot yet,\u201d he said, \u201cO too enthusiastic youth!  Our friend here has\nnot yet come to the point at which I was aiming. The application of\nmy remarks  to the Kaiser--whom I regard as a gifted paranoiac--is\naltogether too personal and limited.  I was thinking of something\nlarger and more important.  Do you give me leave to develop the\nidea?\u201d\n\n\u201cFire away, sir,\u201d said Dick.\n\nHardman nodded his assent. \u201cI should like very much  to hear in\nwhat possible way you connect the misconduct  of Germany, which\nI admit, with your idea of the present  value of classical study,\nwhich I question.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn this way,\u201d said the professor earnestly.  \u201cGermany has been\nliving for fifty years with a closed mind. Oh, I grant you it was an\nactive mind, scientific, laborious, immensely patient. But it was\nan ingrowing mind. Sure of its own superiority, it took no counsel\nwith antiquity and scorned the advice of its neighbors. It was\nintent on producing  something entirely new and all its own--a purely\nGerman _Kultur_, independent of the past, and  irresponsible\nto any laws except those of Germany's interests and needs. Hence\nit fell into bad habits of thought and feeling, got into trouble,\nand brought infinite trouble upon the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do you claim,\u201d interrupted Hardman, \u201cthat this would have been\nprevented by reading the classics? Would that have been the only\nand efficient cure for Germany's disease? Rather a large claim,\nthat!\u201d\n\n\u201cMuch too large,\u201d replied the professor. \u201cI did not make it. In\nthe first place, it may be that Germany's trouble had gone beyond\nany cure but the knife. In the second place, I regard the  intelligent\nreading of the Bible and the vital  apprehension of the real spirit\nof Christianity  as the best of all cures for mental and moral ills.\nAll that I claim for the classics--the works of the  greatest of\nthe Greek and Roman writers--is that  they have in them a certain\nremedial and sanitary  quality. They contain noble thoughts in noble\nforms.  They show the strength of self-restraint. They breathe the\nair of clearness and candor. They set forth ideals of character\nand conduct which are elevating.  They also disclose the weakness\nand the ugliness of things mean and base. They have the broad and\ngenerous spirit of the true _literae humaniores._ They reveal\nthe springs of civilization and lead us--\n\n\n   'To the glory that was Greece,\n    To the grandeur that was Rome.'\n\n\nNow these are precisely the remedies 'indicated,' as the physicians\nsay, for the cure, or at least the mitigation, of the specific bad\nhabits which finally caused the madness of Germany.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease tell us, sir,\u201d asked Dick gravely, \u201chow you mean us to\ntake that. Do you really think it would have done any good to those\nbrutes who ravaged Belgium and outraged France to read Tacitus or\nVirgil or the Greek tragedies? They couldn't have done it, anyhow.\u201d\n\n\u201cProbably not,\u201d answered the professor, while Hardman sat staring\nintently into the fire,  \u201cprobably not. But suppose the leaders\nand guides of Germany (her masters, in effect, who moulded and\n_kultured_ the people to serve their nefarious purpose of\ndominating the world by violence), suppose these masters had really\nknown the meaning and felt the truth of the Greek tragedies, which\nunveil reckless  arrogance--_Hybris_--as the fatal sin,\nhateful to the gods and doomed to an inevitable Nemesis. Might not\nthis truth, filtering through the masters to the people, have led\nthem to the abatement of the ruinous pride which sent Germany out\nto subjugate the other nations in 1914?  The egregious General von\nder Goltz voiced the insane arrogance which made this war when he\nsaid, 'The nineteenth century saw a German Empire,  the twentieth\nshall see a German world.'\n\n\u201cOr suppose the Teutonic teachers and pastors had read with\nunderstanding and taken to heart the passages of Csesar in which he\ncurtly describes the violent and thievish qualities of the ancient\nGermans--how they spread desolation around them to protect their\nborders, and encouraged their young men in brigandage in order to\nkeep them in practice.  Might not these plain lessons have been\nused as a warning to the people of modern Germany to discourage\ntheir predatory propensities and their habits of devastation and to\nhold them back from their relapse into the _Schrecklichkeit_\nof savage  warfare? George Meredith says a good thing in 'Diana\nof the Crossways': 'Before you can civilize a man, you must first\nde-barbarize him.' That is the trouble with the Germans, especially\ntheir leaders and masters.  They have never gotten rid of their\nfundamental barbarism,  the idolatry of might above right.\n\n\n    They have only put on a varnish of civilization.\n    It cracks and peels off in the heat.\n\n\n\u201cTake one more illustration. Suppose these German thought-masters\nand war-lords had really understood and assimilated the true greatness\nof the conception of the old Roman Empire as it is shown, let us\nsay, by Virgil. You remember that splendid passage in the Sixth\nBook of the AEneid where the Romans are called to remember that it\nis their mission 'to crown Peace with Law, to spare the humbled,\nand to subdue and tame the proud.' Might not sucn a noble doctrine\nhave detached the Germans a little from their blind devotion to\nthe Hohenzollern-Hollweg conception of the modern pinchbeck German\nEmpire--a predatory state, greedy to gain new territory but incapable\nof ruling  it when gained, scornful of the rights of smaller peoples,\noppressing them when subjugated, as she has oppressed Poland and\nSchleswig-Holstein and Alsace-Lorraine, a clumsy and exterminating\ntyrant in her own colonies, as she has shown herself in East and\nWest Africa? I tell you that a vital perception of what the Roman\nEmpire really meant in its palmy days might have been good medicine\nfor Germany.  It might have taught her to make herself fit for\npower before seeking to grasp it.\u201d\n\n\u201cGranted, granted,\u201d broke in Hardman, impatiently  poking the fire.\n\u201cYou can't say anything about Germany too severe to suit me. Whatever\nshe needed to keep her from committing the criminal  blunder of\nthis war, it is certain that she did not get it. The blunder was\nmade and the price must be paid. But what I say now, as I said at\nthe beginning, is that Latin and Greek are dead languages. For us,\nfor the future, for the competitions  of the modern industrial and\nsocial era, the classics are no good. For a few ornamental persons\na knowledge of them may be a pleasing accomplishment.  But they are\nluxuries, not necessaries. They belong to a bygone age. They have\nnothing to tell us about the things we most need to know--chemistry\nand physics, engineering and intensive agriculture,  the discovery\nof new forms and applications of power, the organization of labor\nand the distribution  of wealth, the development of mechanical skill\nand the increase of production--these are the things that we must\nstudy. I say they are the only things that will count for success\nin the new democracy.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is what _you_ say,\u201d replied Professor De Vries dryly.\n\u201cBut the wisest men of the world have said something very different.\nNo democracy ever has survived, or ever will survive, without\nan aristocracy at the heart of it. Not an aristocracy of birth\nand privilege, but one of worth and intelligence;  not a band of\nhereditary lords, but a company of well-chosen leaders. Their value\nwill depend not so much upon their technical knowledge and skill\nas upon the breadth of their mind, the clearness  of their thought,\nthe loftiness of their motives, the balance of their judgment, and\nthe strength of their devotion to duty. For the cultivation of these\nthings I say--pardon the apparent contradiction of what _you_\nsaid--I say the study of the classics has been and still is of the\ngreatest value.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did George Washington know about the classics?\u201d Hardman\ninterrupted sharply. \u201cHe was one of your aristocrats of democracy,\nI suppose?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was,\u201d answered the professor blandly, \u201cand he knew more about\nthe classics than, I fear, you do, my dear Hardman. At all events,\nhe understood  what was meant when he was called 'the Cincinnatus\nof the West'--and he lived up to the ideal, otherwise we should\nhave had no  American Republic.\n\n\u201cBut let us not drop to personalities. What I maintain is that\nLatin and Greek are not dead languages, because they still convey\nliving thoughts.  The real success of a democracy--the production\nof a finer manhood--depends less upon mechanics than upon morale.\nFor that the teachings of the classics are excellent. They have a\nbracing and a steadying quality. They instil a sense of order and\nthey inspire a sense of admiration, both of which are needed by\nthe people--especially the plain people--of a sane democracy. The\nclassics are fresher, younger, more vital and encouraging than most\nmodern books. They have lessons for us to-day--believe me--great\nwords for the present crisis and the pressing duty of the hour.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive us an example,\u201d said Dick; \u201csomething classic to fit this\nwar.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have one at hand,\u201d responded the professor promptly. He went to\nthe book-shelves and pulled out a small brown volume with a slip\nof paper in it. He opened the book at the marked place. \u201cIt is from\nthe Eighth Satire of Juvenal, beginning at line 79. I will read\nthe Latin first, and afterward a little version which I made the\nother day.\u201d\n\nThe old man rolled the lines out in his sonorous voice, almost\nchanting:\n\n\n   \u201c'Esto bonus miles, tutor bonus, arbiter idem\n    Integer; ambiguae si quando citabere testis\n    Incertaeque rei, Phalaris licet imperet ut sis\n    Falsus et admoto dictet periuria tauro,\n    _Summum crede nefas, animam praeferre pudori\n    Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.'\u201d_\n\n\u201cPlease to translate, sir,\u201d said Dick, copying exactly the professor's\nclassroom phrase and manner.\n\n\u201cTo gratify my nephew,\u201d said the professor, nodding and winking at\nHardman. \u201cBut, understand,  this is not a real translation. It is\nonly a paraphrase. Here it is:\n\n\n   \u201cBe a good soldier, and a guardian just;\n    Likewise an upright judge. Let no one thrust\n    You in a dubious cause to testify,\n    Through fear of tyrant's vengeance, to a lie.\n    Count it a baseness if your soul prefer\n    Safety above what Honor asks of her:\n    And hold it manly life itself to give,\n    Rather than lose the things for which we live.\n\n\nIt is not half as good as the Latin. But it gives the meaning. How\ndo you like it, Richard?\u201d\n\n\u201cFine!\u201d answered the young man quickly; \u201cespecially the last lines.\nThey are great.\u201d He hesitated slightly, and then went on. \u201cPerhaps\nI ought to tell you now, sir, that I have signed up and got my\npapers for the training-school at Madison Barracks. I hope you will\nnot be angry with me.\u201d\n\nThe old man put both hands on the lad's shoulders  and looked at\nhim with a suspicious moisture in his eyes. He swallowed hard a\ncouple of times.  You could see the big Adam's apple moving up and\ndown in his wrinkled throat.\n\n\u201cAngry!\u201d he cried. \u201cWhy, boy, I love you for it.\u201d\n\nHardman, who was a thoroughly good fellow at heart, held out his\nhand.\n\n\u201cGood for you, Dick! But I must be going now.  I am putting up at\nthe Ivy. Will you walk up with me? I'd like to have a word with\nyou.\u201d\n\nThe two men walked in silence along the shady, moon-flecked streets\nof the tranquil old university town. Then the elder one spoke.\n\n\u201cYou have done the right thing, I am sure. That officers'\ntraining-school is a good place to get a  practical education. When\nyou are through, how would you like to have a post in the Ordnance\nDepartment at  Washington? I have some influence there and believe\nI could get you in without difficulty.\u201d\n\n\u201cThanks, a lot,\u201d answered the lad modestly.  \u201cYou're awfully kind.\nBut, if you don't mind my saying so, I think I'd rather have service\nat the front--that is, if I can qualify for it.\u201d\n\nThere was another long silence before Hardman spoke again, with an\napparent change of subject:\n\n\u201cI wish you would tell me what you really think of your uncle's\nviews on the classics, you and the other fellows of your age in\nthe university.\u201d\n\nDick hesitated a moment before he replied:\n\n\u201cWell, personally, you know, I believe what Uncle says is usually\nabout right. He has the habit of it. But I allow when he gets\non his hobby he rides rather hard. Most of the other fellows have\ngiven up the classics--they like the modern-language course with\nsciences better--perhaps it's softer.  They say not; but I know\nthe classics are hard enough. I flunked out on my Greek exam junior\nyear. So, you see, I'm not a very good judge. But, anyhow, wasn't\nthe bit he read us from Juvenal simply fine? And didn't he read\nit well? I've felt that a hundred times, but never knew how to say\nit.\u201d\n\n\n\nIt was in the early fall of 1918, more than a year later, that\nHardman came once more into the familiar library at Calvinton. He\nhad read the casualty list of the last week of August and came to\ncondole with his friend De Vries.\n\nThe old man sat in the twilight of the tranquil book-lined room,\nleaning back in his armchair, with an open letter on the table\nbefore him. He gave his hand cordially to Hardman and thanked him\nfor his sympathetic words. He talked quietly and naturally about\nDick, and confessed how much he should miss the boy--as it were,\nhis only son.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cI am going to be lonely, but I am not\nforsaken. I shall be sad sometimes, but never sorry--always proud\nof my boy. Would you  like to see this letter? It is the last that\nhe wrote.\u201d\n\nIt was a young, simple letter, full of cheerful joking and personal\ndetails and words of affection which the shy lad would never have\nspoken face to face. At the end he wrote:\n\n\u201cWell, dear Governor, this is a rough life, and some parts are\nnot easy to bear. But I want you to know that I was never happier\nin all my days.  I know that we are fighting for a good cause,\njustice,  and freedom, and a world made clean from this beastly\nGerman militarism. The things that the Germans have done to France\nand Belgium must be stopped, and they must never be done again.\nWe want a decent world to live in, and we are going to have it, no\nmatter what it costs. Of course I should like to live through it\nall, if I can do it with honor. But a man never can tell what is\ngoing to happen. And I certainly would rather give up my life than\nthe things we are fighting for--the things you taught me to believe\nare according to the will of God. So good-night for the present,\nUncle, and sleep well.\n\n\u201cYour loving nephew and son,\n\n\u201cDICK.\u201d\n\nHardman's hand shook a little as he laid the paper on the table.\n\n\u201cIt is a beautiful letter,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d nodded the old professor, putting his hand upon it; \u201cit is\na classic; very clear and simple and high-minded. The German Crown\nPrince says our American soldiers do not know what they are fighting\nfor. But Richard knew. It was to defend 'the things for which we\nlive' that he gladly gave his life.\u201d\n\nSeptember, 1918.\n\n\n\n\n\nHALF-TOLD TALES\n\n\n\n\nTHE NEW ERA AND CARRY ON\n\n\nThe Commandant of the Marine Hospital was at his desk, working\nhard, when the door of the room was flung open and the Officer of\nthe Day rushed in.\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d he exploded, \u201cthe New Era has come.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery likely, Mr. Corker,\u201d answered the Commandant.  \u201cIt has been\ncoming continually since the world began. But is that any reason\nwhy you should enter without knocking, and with your coat covered\nwith bread-crumbs and cigarette-ashes?\u201d\n\nSo the Officer of the Day went outside, brushed his coat, knocked\nat the door, and awaited orders.\n\n\u201cMr. Corker,\u201d said the Commandant, \u201chave the kindness to bring me\nyour report on the condition  of yesterday's cases, and let me know\nwhat operations are indicated for to-day. Good morning.  Orderly,\nmy compliments to the Executive Officer, and I wish to see him at\nonce.\u201d\n\nWhen the Executive Officer arrived, he began:\n\n\u201cSir, the New Era--\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so, Mr. Greel, but you understand this Hospital has to\ncarry on as required in any kind of an era. How many patients did\nwe receive yesterday?  Good. Have we enough bedding and provisions?\nBad. Attend to it immediately, and let me know the result of your\nefforts to remedy a situation which should never have arisen. The\nNavy cannot be run on hot air.\u201d\n\nAs the Executive Officer went out he held the door open for the Head\nNurse to pass in. She was a fine, upstanding creature, tremulous\nwith emotion.\n\n\u201cOh, Doctor,\u201d she cried, \u201cI simply must tell you about the New Era.\nWoman Suffrage is going to save the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope so, Miss Dooby, it certainly needs saving.  Meantime how\nare things in the pneumonia ward?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo deaths last night, sir, three new cases this morning. Oxygen\nis running short: no beef-tea or milk. Five of my nurses have gone\nto attend conventions of woman--\u201d\n\n\u201cSlackers,\u201d interrupted the Commandant. \u201cPut them on report for\nleaving the ship without permission.  I shall attend to their cases.\nFill their places from the volunteer list. Be so good as to send\nthe head steward here immediately.\u201d\n\n\u201cI'm very sorry, Sir,\u201d said the steward, \u201cbut ye see it's just\nthis way. The mess-boys was holdin'  a New Era mass-meetin', and\nthe cook he forgot--\u201d\n\n\u201cMilk and beef-tea!\u201d growled the Commandant as if they were\nswear-words. \u201cWhat the devil is this new influenza that has struck\nthe hospital?  Steward, you will provide what the head nurse requires\nat once. Orderly, my cap, and call Mr.  Greel to accompany me on\ninspection.\u201d\n\nIn the galley the fires were out, the ovens cold, the soup-kettles\nempty, and all the cooks,  dish-washers, and scrubbers were absorbing\nthe eloquence of the third assistant pie-maker, who stood on an\nempty biscuit-box and explained the glories of the one-hour day in\nthe New Era.\n\n'\u201cTen_shun!_\u201d yelled the Orderly, and the force of habit\nbrought the men up, stiff and silent. The Commandant looked around\nthe circle, grinning.\n\n\u201cMy word!\u201d he cried, \u201cwhat a beautiful sight!  What do you think\nthis is--a blooming debating society? Wrong! It's a hospital, with\nnear a thousand sick and wounded to take care of. And it's going\nto be done, see? And you're going to help do it, see? No work--no\npay and no food!  Neglect of orders means extra duty and no\nliberty--perhaps a couple of twenty-four-hour days in the brig. That's the\nrule in all eras, see? Now get busy, all of you. Chow at twelve as\nusual. Carry on, men.\u201d\n\n\u201cAye, aye, sir,\u201d they answered cheerily, for they were weary of\nthe third assistant pie-maker's brand of talk and felt the pangs\nof healthy hunger.\n\nThen came the second engineer, out of breath with running, followed\nby two or three helpers.\n\n\u201cFire, captain,\u201d he gasped, \u201cfire in the fuel-room--awful\nblaze--started in the wood box--cigarette--we were just settin'\nround talkin' over what we were goin' to do in the New Era, an'\nthe first thing we knew it was burnin' like--\u201d\n\n\u201cThe New Era,\u201d snapped the Commandant, \u201cand be damned to it! Sound\nthe fire-call. All hands to quarters. Lead along the hose. Follow\nme,\u201d he cried, hurrying forward through the gathering  smoke, \u201cthis\nship must be saved.\u201d\n\nAnd so it was--strictly in conformity with the old laws that fire\nburns, water quenches, and every man must do his duty promptly. On\nthese ancient principles, and others equally venerable, the hospital\ncarried on its good work. But the Commandant made one  new rule.\nIt cost five dollars to mention the New Era within its walls.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRIMITIVE AND HIS SANDALS\n\n\n\u201cI am sick of all this,\u201d said the Great Author, sweeping his hand\nover the silver-laden dinner-table.  He seemed to include in his\ngesture the whole house and the broad estate surrounding it. \u201cIt\nbores me, and I don't believe it can be right.\u201d\n\nHis wife, at the other end of the table, shining in her low-necked\ndress with diamonds on her breast and in her hair, leaned forward\nanxiously, knowing her husband's temperament.\n\n\u201cBut, Nicholas,\u201d she said, \u201cwhat do you mean?  You have earned all\nthis by your work as a writer.  You are the greatest man in the\ncountry. You are entitled to a fine house and a large estate.\u201d\n\nHe gravely nodded his big head with its flamboyant  locks, and lit\na fresh cigarette.\n\n\u201cQuite right, my dear,\u201d said he, \u201cyou are always right on practical\naffairs. But, you see, this is an artistic affair. My books are\nrealistic and radical.  They teach the doctrine of the universal\nlevel, that no man can be above other men. They have made poverty,\nperhaps not exactly popular, but at least romantic. My villains\nare always rich and my heroes poor. The people like this; but it is\nrather a strain to believe it and keep on believing it. If my work\nis to hold the public it must have illustrations--moving pictures,\nyou know! Something in character! Nobody else can do that as well\nas I can. It will be better than many advertisements.  I am going\nto become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, a primitive.\u201d\n\nHis wife laughed, with a slight nervous tremor in her voice. She\nknew her husband's temperament, to be sure, but she never knew just\nhow far it would carry him.\n\n\u201cI think you must be a little crazy, Nicholas,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cThank you, Alexandra,\u201d he answered, \u201cthank you for the temperate\nflattery. Evidently you have heard the old proverb about genius\nand madness.  But why not make the compliment complete and say\n'absolutely crazy'?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d she replied, \u201cbecause I do not understand  just what you\npropose to do. Are you going to impoverish yourself and the whole\nfamily? Are you thinking of turning over your farms to these stupid\npeasants who will let them go to rack and ruin? Will you give your\nproperty to the village council who will drink it up in a month?\nYou know how much money Peter needs; he is a member of twelve\nfirst-class clubs. And Olga's husband is not earning much. Are you\ngoing to starve your children and grandchildren for the sake of an\nidea of consistency in art?\u201d\n\nThe Great Author was now standing in front of the fireplace, warming\nhimself and filling a pipe.  The flames behind him made an aureole\nin his  extravagant white hair and beard. He smiled and puffed\nslowly at his pipe. At last he answered.\n\n\u201cMy dear, you go too fast and too far. You know I am enthusiastic,\nbut have you ever known me to be silly? It would be wrong to make\nyou and the children suffer. I have no right to do that.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of\nthe soil, a primitive]\n\nShe nodded her head emphatically, and a look of comprehension spread\nover her face.  \u201cSuppose,\u201d he continued, \u201csuppose that I should\nmake over the real estate and farms to you--you are an excellent\nmanager. And suppose that I should put the personal estate, including\ncopyrights, into a trust, the income to be paid to you and the\nchildren. You would take care of me while I became a primitive,\nwouldn't you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI would,\u201d she answered, \u201cyou know I would.  But think how\nuncomfortable it will be for you.  While we are living in luxury,\nyou--\u201d\n\n\u201cDon't worry about that,\u201d he interrupted with a laugh. \u201cI shall\nhave all the luxury I want: flannel shirts, loose around the neck,\ninstead of these infernal  stiff collars; velveteen trousers and\njacket instead of this waiter's uniform; and I shall go barefoot\nwhen the weather is suitable--do you understand? Barefoot  in the\nsummer grass--it will be immense.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut your food,\u201d she asked, \u201chow will you manage that on a primitive\nbasis?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will manage it,\u201d he replied, \u201cyou know I have always preferred\nbeefsteak and onions to any French dish. Champagne does not agree\nwith me.  I'd rather have a glass of the straight stuff,  without\nany gas in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut your sleeping arrangements,\u201d she murmured,  \u201care you going to\nleave the house? Our bedroom is not exactly primitive.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo fear of it,\u201d he answered. \u201cThere is a little room beyond your\nbathroom. Put an iron cot in there, with a soft mattress, linen\nsheets, and light blankets. I'll do my morning wash at the pump in\nthe yard, for the sake of the picture. When I want a bath you'll\nleave the door of the room open if you are not actually in the\ntub.\u201d\n\n\u201cNicholas,\u201d she said, with a Mona Lisa smile, \u201cfor an author you\nhave a very clever way of putting  things. But suppose we have\nguests at the house, you can't come to dinner in dirty clothes and\nwith bare feet.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d he answered. \u201cI shall put on clean flannels, clean\nvelveteens, and sandals.\u201d\n\n\u201cSandals,\u201d she murmured, \u201csandals for dinner are simply wonderful.\nDo you think I could--\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all, my dear,\u201d said the Great Author firmly. \u201cYour present\nstyle of dress becomes you amazingly. I am the only one who has to\ndo  the primitive.\u201d\n\nSo the arrangements were completed. The interviewers  who came\nto the house described the Great Author in his loose flannels and\nvelveteens, with bare feet, returning from labor in the fields.\nThe moving pictures were full of him. But the sandals did not\nappear. There were no flash-lights permitted at the part-primitive\ndinner-table.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDIANA AND THE LIONS\n\n\nIn the darkest hour before the dawn, Diana floated away from her\nGarden Tower and came down between the  Lions on the Library Steps.\n\nAt first, she did not know they were Lions. She thought they were\nCats, and so she was afraid. For she was very lightly clad; and\n(except in Egypt) Cats are terrible to undomesticated goddesses.\nDiana shivered as she strung her bow for defense.  She felt that\nshe was divine, but she knew that she had cold feet.\n\nIn truth, the Library Steps were wet and glistening,  for there had\nbeen a shower after midnight.  But now the gibbous moon was giving\na silent imitation  of an arc-light high in the western heaven.\nHer beams silver-plated the weird architecture of the shrines of\nCommerce which face the great Temple dedicated to the Three Muses\nof New York--Astor, Lenox, and Tilden.\n\nBut on the awful animals guarding the steps the light was florid,\nlike a flush of sunburn discovered by the ablution of a warranted\ncomplexion cream.  They were wonderfully pink, and Diana hastened\nto draw an arrow from her quiver, for it seemed to her as if her\nfeline neighbors were beginning to glow with rage.\n\n\u201cDo not shoot,\u201d said the ruddier one; \u201cwe are not angry, we are\nonly blushing.\u201d And he glanced at her costume.\n\nDiana was astonished to hear a masculine voice utter such a modest\nsentiment. But being a woman, she knew that the first word does\nnot count.\n\n\u201cCats never blush,\u201d she answered boldly, \u201cno matter how big they\nare.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we are not Cats,\u201d they cried, ramping suddenly  like crests\non a millionaire's note-paper. \u201cWe are Lions!\u201d\n\nDiana smiled at this, for now she felt safe,  remembering that when\na male begins to boast he is not dangerous.\n\n\u201cRoar a little for me, please,\u201d she said, laying down her unconcealed\nweapon.\n\n\u201cImpossible,\u201d said the Northern Lion, \u201ca city ordinance forbids\nunnecessary noise.\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense!\u201d interrupted the Southern Lion.  \u201cWho would not break\na law to oblige a lady?\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us compromise,\u201d said the Northern Lion, \u201cand  give her our\nreproduction of an automobile horn.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the Southern Lion, \u201cwe will give her our automatic record\nof a Book-Advertisement; it is louder.\u201d\n\nThen Diana trembled, indeed. But she bravely continued smiling,\nand said: \u201cThank you a thousand  times for doing it once! And now\nplease tell me what kind of Lions you are.\u201d\n\n\u201cLiterary Lions,\u201d was their prompt and  unanimous reply.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d she cried, clapping her hands with a charming gesture, \u201chow\nglad I am to meet you! I have been in New York more than twenty\nyears and never seen any one like you before! Come and sit beside\nme and talk.\u201d\n\nThe Lions looked at each other rather sheepishly, and glanced up\nand down the street, as if fearing the approach of a city ordinance.\nBut there was no one in sight except Diana, so they shook their\nliterary locks into a becoming disorder and sat on the steps with\nher, purring gently.\n\n\u201cNow tell me,\u201d she said, \u201cwho you are.\u201d\n\nIf she had been less beautiful they would have resented this. But,\nas it was, they looked sorry, and asked her if she had never read\n\u201cWho's Who in America\u201d? She shook her head, and admitted that she\nhad not read it all through.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said her neighbor on the south, \u201cthis is rather an offhand\n_soiree,_ and we may as well cut out proper names. But I will\nput you wise to the fact that I am the Magazine Lion. I got away\nfrom Roosevelt in Africa. He called me 'Mucky,' and I made tracks.\nHere he cannot hurt me, for they will never let that man do anything\nin good old New York, not even touch a Tiger.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I,\u201d said her neighbor on the north, \u201cI am the Academic Lion, of\nwhom you must have heard.  My character is noted for its concealed\nsweetness, and my style leaves nothing to be hoped for. I am\nliterally a man of letters, for I have seventeen degrees. Usually\nI look literary-lean and nobly dissatisfied, but yesterday I\nswallowed a British Female Novelist by accident, and that accounts\nfor my inartistic air of cheerfulness. I won my splendid reputation\nby telling other Lions how they ought to have done their little\ntricks. But now, tired of that, I have gone into politics. This is\nmy first public office.\u201d\n\nDiana was somewhat confused and benumbed by these personally conducted\nbiographies, but she was too well-bred not to appear interested.\n\n\u201cHow lovely,\u201d she murmured, \u201cto sit between two such Great\nPersonages! I wonder what brought poor little Me to such an honor.\nAnd, by the way, how do you happen to be just here? What is this\nbeautiful building behind you? Is it your Palace?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a Library,\u201d said the Academic Lion, with a superior tone.\n\n\u201cThe biggest book-heap in America,\u201d said the Magazine Lion in his\nvivid way. \u201cWe have them all beaten to a finish--except the old\njunk-shop down in Washington.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou forget Boston,\u201d said the Academic Lion.\n\n\u201cWho wouldn't?\u201d growled the Magazine Lion.\n\n\u201cDo you mean to tell me,\u201d asked Diana, with her most engaging and\nsprightly air, \u201cthat this splendid place is a Library, all full of\nbooks, and that you are its most prominent figures, its figureheads,\nso to speak? How interesting! I have travelled a great deal--under\nthe name of Pasht or Bast, in Egypt, where the Cats liked me;\nand under the name of Artemis in Greece; and under my own name\nin Italy. Believe me, I have seen all things that the moon shines\nupon. But I do not remember having seen Lions on a Library before.\nHow original!  How appropriate! How suggestive! But what does it\nsuggest? What are you here for?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor educational purposes,\u201d said the Academic Lion.\n\n\u201cTo catch the eye,\u201d said the Magazine Lion, \u201csame as head-lines in\na newspaper.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see,\u201d exclaimed Diana. \u201cYou are here to keep the  people from\ngetting at the books? How modern!\u201d\n\nThis remark made the Academic Lion look like a Sphinx, as if he\nknew something but did not want to tell. But the Magazine Lion was\ndistinctly flattered.\n\n\u201cRight you are,\u201d said he cheerfully, \u201cor next door to it. We don't\npropose to keep the people out, only the authors. Why, when this\nplace was publicly opened there was not a single author in the\nexhibit, except John Bigelow.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy did you not keep him out?\u201d asked Diana.\n\n\u201cWe were not on the spot, then,\u201d said the Lion.  \u201cBesides, there\nare some things that even a Lion does not dare to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I do not understand,\u201d said Diana, \u201cprecisely  why authors\nshould be kept away from a library.\u201d\n\nThe Magazine Lion laughed. \u201cSilly little thing!\u201d he said, with a\nfascinating tone of virile condescension. \u201cAn author's business is\nto write books, not to read them. If he reads, he grows  intelligent\nand thoughtful and careful about his work.  Those old books spoil\nhim for the modern market.  But if he just goes ahead and writes\nwhatever comes into his head, he can do it with a bang, and everybody\nsits up and pays attention. That's the only way to be original.\nSee?\u201d\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d broke in the Academic Lion, \u201cbut you go too far,\nbrother. Authors should be  encouraged to read, but only under\ncritical guidance and professorial direction. Otherwise they will\nnot be able to classify the books, and tabulate their writers, and\nknow which ones to admire and praise.  How can you expect a mere\nauthor to comprehend the faulty method of Shakespeare, or the ethical\ncommonplaceness of Dickens and Thackeray, or the vital Ibsenism of\nBernard Shaw and the other near-Ibsens, without assistance?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the other people,\u201d asked Diana, \u201cwhat is going to happen to\nthem if you let them go in free and browse among the books?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are less important,\u201d answered the Academic  Lion. \u201cBesides we\nexpect soon to establish a cranial, neurological, and psychopathic\nexamination  which will determine the subliminal, temperamental\nneeds of every applicant. Then we classify the readers in groups,\nand the books in lists, and the whole thing works with automatic\nprecision.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I am going to make the book-lists!\u201d said the Magazine Lion,\necstatically wagging his tail, and half-unconsciously putting his\npaw around the lady's waist in a spirit of pure comradeship.\n\nBut she gently slipped away, stood up, and gracefully  covered a\nyawn with her hand.\n\n\u201cI am ever so much obliged to you Literary Lions for not eating\nme,\u201d said she. \u201cProbably I should have disagreed with you even\nmore than your  conversation has with me. I am quite sleepy. And\nthe moon has almost disappeared. I must be going where I can bid\nit good night.\u201d\n\nSo Diana rose, with shining limbs, above the housetops, and\nvanished toward her Garden Tower.  The Lions looked disconcerted.\n\u201cOld-fashioned, Victorian prude!\u201d said one, \u201cBrazen hussy!\u201d said\nthe other. And they climbed back on their Pedestals, resuming their\nsupercilious expression.  There I suppose they will stay, no matter\nwhat Diana may think of them.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE HERO AND TIN SOLDIERS\n\n\nOn December twenty-fifth, 1918, that little white house in the park\nwas certainly the happiest dwelling  in Calvinton. It was simply\nrunning over with Christmas.\n\nYou see, there had come to it a most wonderful present, a surprise\nfull of tears and laughter. Captain  Walter Mayne reached home on\nChristmas Eve.\n\nFor a while they had thought that he would never come back at all.\nNews had been received that he was grievously wounded in France--shot\nto pieces, in effect, leading his men near Chateau-Thierry. His\nlife hung on the ragged edge of those wounds. But his wife Katharine\nalways believed that he would pull through. So he did. But he was\nlacking a leg, his right arm was knocked out of commission for the\npresent, and various other _souvenirs de la grande guerre_\nwere inscribed upon his body.\n\nThen word arrived that he was coming on a transport, with other\nwounded, to be patched up in a hospital on Staten Island. So his\nwife Katharine smiled her way through innumerable entanglements\nof red tape and went to nurse him. Then she set her steady hand to\npull all the wires necessary to get him discharged and sent home.\nChristmas was in her heart and she would not be denied. So it came\nto pass that the one-legged Hero was in his own house on the happy\nday, and joy was  bubbling all around him.\n\nWhen the old Pastor entered, late in the afternoon,  the Christmas-tree\nwas twinkling with lights, the children swarming and buzzing all over\nthe place, so that he was dazed for a moment. There were Walter's\nmother and his aunt and his sisters-in-law, boys and girls of various\nsizes, and a jubilant and entrancing baby. The Pastor took it all\nin, and was glad of it, but his mind was on the Hero.\n\nKatharine, who always understood everything, whispered softly:\n\u201cWalter is waiting to see you, Doctor. He is in his study, just\nacross the hall.\u201d\n\n_Waiting?_ Well, what can a man whose right leg has been cut\noff above the knee, and who has not yet been able to get an artificial\none--what can he do but wait?\n\nThe room was rather dimly lighted; brilliance is not good for the\neyes of the wounded. Walter was in a long chair in the corner; his\nface was bronzed, drawn and lined a little by suffering; but steady\nand cheerful as ever, with the eager look which had made his students\nlisten to him when he talked to them about English literature.\n\n\u201cMy dear Walter,\u201d said the Pastor, \u201cmy dear boy, we are so glad\nto have you home with us again.  We are very proud of you. You are\nour Hero.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you,\u201d said Walter, \u201cit is mighty good to be home again. But\nthere is no hero business about it. I only did what all the other\nAmericans who went over there did--fought my--excuse me, my best,\nagainst the beastly Germans.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut your leg,\u201d said the Pastor impulsively, \u201cit is gone. Aren't\nyou angry about that?\u201d\n\nWalter was silent for a moment. Then he answered.\n\n\u201cNo, I don't think angry is the right word. You remember that story\nabout Nathan Hale in the Revolution--'I only regret that I have\nbut one life to give to my country.' Well, I'm glad that I had two\nlegs to give for my country, and  particularly glad that she only\nneeded one of them.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me a bit about the fighting,\u201d said the Pastor,  \u201cI want to\nknow what it was like--the hero-touch--you understand?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot for me,\u201d said Walter, \u201cand certainly not now. Later on I can\ntell you something, perhaps.  But this is Christmas Day. And war?\nWell, Doctor, believe me, war is a horrible thing, full of grime and\npain, madness, agony, hell--a thing that ought not to be. I have\nfought alongside of the other fellows to put an end to it, and\nnow--\u201d\n\nThe door swung open, and Sammy, the eldest son of the house, pranced\nin.\n\n\u201cLook, Daddy,\u201d he cried, \u201csee what Aunt Emily has  sent me for\nChristmas--a big box of tin soldiers!\u201d\n\nMayne smiled as the little boy carefully laid the box on his knee;\nbut there was a shadow of pain in his eyes, and he closed them\nfor a few seconds, as if his mind were going back, somewhere, far\naway. Then he spoke, tenderly, but with a grave voice.\n\n\u201cThat's fine, sonny--all those tin soldiers. But don't you think\nthey ought to belong to me? You have lots of other toys, you know.\nWould you give the soldiers to me?\u201d\n\nThe child looked up at him, puzzled for a moment; then a flash of\ncomprehension passed over his face, and he nodded valiantly.\n\n\u201cSure, Father,\u201d he said, \u201cYou're the Captain.  Keep the soldiers.\nI'll play with the other toys,\u201d and he skipped out of the room.\n\nMayne's look followed him with love. Then he turned to the old\nPastor and a strange expression came into his face, half whimsical\nand half grim.\n\n\u201cDoctor,\u201d he said, \u201cwill you do me a favor?  Poke up that fire till\nit blazes. That's right. Now lay this box in the hottest part of\nthe flames. That's right. It will soon be gone.\u201d\n\nThe elder man did what was asked, with an air of slight bewilderment,\nas one humors the fancies of an invalid. He wondered whether Mayne's\nfever had quite left him. He watched the fire bulging the lid and\ncatching round the edges of the box.  Then he heard Mayne's voice\nbehind him, speaking very quietly.\n\n\u201cIf ever I find my little boy _playing with tin soldiers,_ I\nshall spank him well. No, that wouldn't be quite fair, would it?\nBut I shall tell him why he must not do it, and _I shall make\nhim understand that it's an impossible thing.\u201d_\n\nThen the old Pastor comprehended. There was no touch of fever. The\none-legged Hero had come home from the wars completely well and\nsound in mind. So the two men sat together in love by the Christmas\nfire, and saw the tin soldiers melt away.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSALVAGE POINT\n\n\nThe Hermanns built their house at the very end of the island, five\nor six miles from the more or less violently rustic \u201csummer-cottages\u201d\n which adorned the hills and bluffs around the native village of\nWinterport.\n\nThere was a long point running out to the southward  at the mouth\nof the great bay, rough and rocky for the most part, with little\nwoods of pointed firs on it, some acres of pasture, and a few\npockets of fertile soil lying between the stony ridges. A yellow\nfarmhouse, with a red barn beside it, had nestled for near a hundred\nyears in one of these hollows, buying shelter from the winter winds\nat the cost of an outlook over sea and shore.\n\nIt was a large price to pay. The view from the summit of the little\nhill a few hundred yards away was superb--a wonder even on that\nwonderful coast of Maine where mountain and sea meet together,\nforest and flood kiss each other.\n\nBut I suppose the old Yankee farmer knew what he wanted when he\npaid the price and snuggled his house in the hollow. I am certain\nthe Hermanns knew what they wanted when they bought the whole\npoint and perched their house on the very top of the hill, where\nall the winds of heaven might visit it as roughly as they pleased,\nbut where nothing could rob the outlook of its ever-changing splendor\nand mystery, its fluent wonder and abiding charm.\n\nYou see, the Hermanns knew what they wanted because they had come\nthrough a lot of trouble. I met them when they were young--no matter\nhow many years ago--when they were in the thick of it.\n\nAlice Mackaye and Will Hermann had the rare luck to fall in love--a\nvery real and great love--when they were in their early twenties.\nYou would think that extraordinary piece of good fortune would have\nbeen enough to set them up for life, wouldn't you? But no. There\nwas an Obstacle. And  that Obstacle came very near wrecking them\nboth.\n\nWill Hermann was an artist and the son of an artist. The love of\nbeauty ran in his blood. Otherwise he was poor. He earned a decent\nliving by his painting, but each year's living depended on each\nyear's work. Hence he was in the proletarian class.\n\nAlice Mackaye, on the other hand, belonged to the capitalist class.\nI say \u201cbelonged,\u201d because that is precisely the word to describe her\nsituation.  Her father was a millionaire sugar-merchant, who lived\nin an ugly palace near Morristown, New Jersey,  and was accustomed\nto have his own way in that and other States. He was the Obstacle.\n\nHe was a florid, handsome old Scotchman, orthodox in  religion,\nshrewd in business, correct in conduct, but with no more sentiment\nthan a hard-shell crab, and obstinate as the devil. His fixed\nidea was that none of his daughters should ever be carried off by\na fortune-hunter. The two older girls apparently escaped this danger\nby making fairly wealthy matches. But Alice--come away!  why should\nshe take up with this impecunious painter? He was good-looking and\nhad the gift of the gab, but what was that worth? If he would come\ninto the sugar-business, where a place was waiting for him, and\nmake good there, it would be all right. Otherwise, the affair must\nbe broken off, absolutely, finally, and forever. From this you can\nsee that the Obstacle was not bad-hearted, but only pig-headed.\n\nWell, for five or six years things drifted rather miserably along\nthis way. Will Hermann was forbidden  the house at Morristown. Alice\nwas practically a  captive; her correspondence was censored.  But\nof course, even before Marconi, wireless  communication in matters\nof this kind has always  been possible.\n\nThe trouble was that the state of affairs between them, while\nconventionally correct, was thoroughly unnatural and full of peril.\nAlice, a very good girl, obedient and tractable, was in danger of\nbecoming a recalcitrant and sour old maid. Will, a healthy and\nnormal young man, with no bad habits, was in danger of being driven\nto them by the  emptiness and exasperation of his mind. The worst\nof it all was that both of the young people were, in accordance\nwith a well-known law of nature, growing  older with what seemed\nto them a frightful and unreasonable rapidity. The years crawled\nlike snails. But the sum of them rose by leaps and bounds to an\nappalling total. Alice found two grey hairs in her red-gold locks.\nWill had to use glasses for reading fine print at night. From\ntheir point of view, decrepitude, senility, dotage stared them in\nthe face, while the bright voyage of life which they were resolved\nto make only together, was threatened  with shipwreck among the\nshoals of interminable delay.\n\nIt was at this juncture of affairs that they came to me, as fine-looking\na young couple as ever I saw.  They were good, as mortals go; they\nwere loyal and upright, they wanted no scandal, no rumpus in the\nfamily, no trouble or pain for anybody else; but they wanted to\nbelong to each other much more than they wanted to belong to any\nclass, artistic, proletarian, or capitalist. And they were desperate\nbecause of the pertinacity of the Obstacle, whom they both respected\nfully as much as he deserved.\n\nWhen they had stated their case, I made my answer.\n\n\u201cSo far as I can see, the salvage of your ship of love depends\nentirely on yourselves. Mr. Hermann  is not after a fortune, he\nonly wants his girl; is that so? [Hermann nodded vigorously.] And\nMiss Mackaye does not care about being supported in the manner of\nliving to which she has been  accustomed; she only wants to live\nwith the man whom she has chosen; is that so? [Alice blushed and\nnodded.] Well, then, why shouldn't you lay your course and sail\nahead together? You are both of age, aren't you?\u201d\n\nThey smiled at each other. \u201cYes, and a little over.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut my father!\u201d said Alice. \u201cYou know I honor him,  and I can\nnever deny his authority over me.\u201d\n\nHere was the turn of the talk, the critical moment,  the point where\nthe chosen counsellor had to fall back upon the ultimate reality\nof his faith.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d I said, \u201cyou are absolutely correct, dear daughter, in\nyour feeling toward your father. He has earned his money and has\na right to dispose of it as he will. But, you know, there is a\nstatute of limitations in regard to the authority of parents over\nthe _lives_ of their children. You have passed the limitation.\nWhat do you want to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be married to Will Hermann,\u201d she said, \u201cfor better for worse,\nfor richer for poorer, I don't care.  But I don't want a family\nquarrel, a runaway match, all that horrid newspaper talk.\u201d Here\nshe was evidently a little excited and on the verge of tears.\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d I hastened to reassure her, \u201cyou can't possibly\nhave a runaway match, because there is nothing for you to run away\nfrom.  There is not a single duty in your father's house which you\nhave not fulfilled, and of which your sisters can not now relieve\nyou. There is no  authority in the world which has the right to\ncommand the sacrifice of your life to another's judgment.  There\nis only one thing that stands in your way, and that is your claim\non a large inheritance. I understand you are quite willing to let\nthat go.  You are not even 'running away' from it--that is not the\nword--you are ready to _jettison_ it.\u201d\n\nShe looked puzzled, and murmured; \u201cI don't exactly understand what\nthat means.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo jettison,\u201d I said, in that learned and dispassionate manner\nwhich is sometimes useful in relieving an emotional situation,\n\u201cis a seafaring phrase. It means throwing overboard a part or the\nwhole of a cargo in order to save the ship. As far as I can see\nthat is the question which is up to you and your best friend at\nthe present moment. Are you prepared to jettison the claim on a\nbig fortune for the sake of making your voyage of life together?\u201d\n\nThey looked at each other and a kind of radiance  spread over their\nfaces. \u201cSurely,\u201d they answered  with one voice. \u201cBut how can the\nmarriage be arranged,\u201d asked Alice, \u201cwithout a row in the family?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery easily,\u201d I answered. \u201cBoth of you are over age, though you\ndon't look it. Our good lawyer friend Harrison will help you to\nget the license.  Fix your day for the wedding, neither secret nor\nnotorious; invite anybody you like, and come to me on the day you\nhave chosen. The arrangements will be made. You shall be married,\nall right.\u201d\n\nSo they came, and I married them, and it was a very good job.\n\nThey had some years of difficulty and uncertainty  during which\nI caught brief glimpses of them now and then, always cheerful and\nhappy together.  In the course of time the Obstacle, being not at\nall bad-hearted but only pig-headed, probably relented a little, and\nfinally was gathered to his fathers,  according to the common lot\nof man. The older sisters  behaved very well about the inheritance,\nand Alice was not left portionless. She brought three fine boys\ninto the world. The house on Salvage Point was built by her and\nWill together.\n\nIt was there that I spent a day with them, in the summer of 1918,\nafter many years during which we had not met. I was on naval duty,\nwith Commander  Kidd, of a certain station on the Maine coast. By\ninvitation we put in with the motorboat  S.P. 297, at Salvage Point.\nSo it was that I met my old friends again, and knew what had become\nof their barque of love which I had helped to save from shipwreck.\n\nThe house on the peak of the hill was just what it ought to be;\nnot aggressively rustic, not  obtrusively classic--white pillars\nin front of  it, and a terrace, but nothing dominating--it had the\nair of a very large and habitable lighthouse.\n\nThe extraordinary thing was the arrangement of the grounds. At\nevery point one came upon some reminder of salvage. On the glorious\nAugust day when I was there, shipwreck seemed impossible: the\nSouthern Way which opened to the Ocean was dancing with gay waves;\nthe blue mountains of Maine were tranquil on the horizon.\n\n\u201cBut you see,\u201d said Will Hermann, \u201cthis is really rather a dangerous\npoint, though it is so beautiful. It is the gateway of the open sea,\nand there are three big ledges across it. A ship that has lost her\nbearings a little, or is driving in through thick weather, easily\ncomes to grief. But there is not often a loss of life, only the\nship goes to pieces.  And we save the pieces.\u201d\n\nIt was true. There was a terrace west of the house, with a balustrade\nmade of the taffrail of a wrecked brigantine. The gateway to the\ngarden was the door of an old wheel-house. There was a pergola\nconstructed from the timbers of a four-masted schooner that had\nbroken up on the third ledge. The bow of the sloop _Christabel,_\nwith the name still painted on it, was just outside the garden-gate.\nEverywhere you saw old anchor-bits, and rudder-posts, and knees,\nall silver-greyed by the weather, and fitted in to the _decor_\nof the place.\n\nThe prettiest thing of all was a crow's-nest from a wrecked\nbrigantine, perched on the highest point of the hill, and looking\nout over the marvellous panorama of sea and shore, island and\nmountain.  Here we sat, after a hearty luncheon with Alice and her\nthree boys and half-a-dozen others who were with them in a kind\nof summer camp-school; and while we smoked our pipes, Will Hermann\ntold this story.\n\n\u201cYou see, Alice and I have a mania for things that have been\nsalvaged. We don't like the idea of the wrecks, of course. But they\nwould happen any way, whether we were here or not. And since that\nis so, we like to live here on the point and help save what we\ncan. Sometimes we get a chance to do something for the crews of\nthe little ships that come ashore--hot supper and dry clothes and\nso forth. But the most interesting salvage case that we ever had\non the point was one in which there was really no wreck at all.\n\n\u201cIt was a bright September afternoon ten years ago--one of those\nsilver-blue days when there is a little quivering haze in the air\neverywhere, but no fog. We were sitting up here and looking out to\nsea. Just beyond the end of Dunker Rock a large motor-boat came in\nsight through the haze. She was about sixty feet long, with a low\ncabin forward,  a cockpit aft, and a raised place for the steersman\namidship--a good-looking craft, and evidently very speedy. She\ncarried no flag or pennant.  She came driving on, full tilt, straight\ntoward us.  We supposed of course she would turn east through the\nnarrow channel to Winterport, or sheer off to the west into the\nSouthern Way and go up the bay. But not a point did she swerve.\nSteady on she came, toward the three big ledges that lie out there\nbeyond that bit of shingly beach at the end of the point.\n\n\u201c'I can't see any helmsman,' said Alice, 'those people must be\nasleep or crazy. Give them a hail through the megaphone. Perhaps\nyou can make them hear.'\n\n\u201cSo I yelled at the top of my lungs, and Alice waved her jersey.\nWe might as well have hailed a comet. That boat ran straight for\nthe ledges as if she meant to hurdle them. She came near doing it,\ntoo. Over the first she scraped, as if her heel had hit it. Over\nthe second she shivered, hanging there for a second till a wave\nlifted her. On the third she bumped hard and checked her way for\na moment, but the engine kept going, and finally she got herself\nover somehow and ran head on to the beach.\n\n\u201cOf course we were excited, and everybody hurried down to see what\nthis crazy performance meant.  There was not a creature on the\nboat, alive or dead.\n\n\u201cEverything was shipshape. The little craft had evidently been\nused for fishing. There were rough men's clothes on board, rubber\nboots and oilskins, fresh water and provisions, blankets in\nthe cabin, fishing-lines and bait in the cockpit, gasolene in the\ntanks--a nice little outfit, all complete, and no one to run it.\n\n\u201cWhere had she come from? There were no names on bow or stern, no\npapers in the cabin. Who had started her on this crazy voyage? How\ndid she get away from them? Had they perhaps abandoned  her and\ncast her adrift for some mysterious reason? Undoubtedly there were\nmen--apparently three--on board when she set out. What had happened\nto them? A drunken quarrel? Or possibly one of the men had fallen\noverboard; the others had jumped in to save him; the engine had\nstarted up and the boat left them all in the lurch. Perhaps one\nor all of them may have had some reason for wanting to 'disappear\nwithout a trace,' so they hit upon the plan of going ashore at\nsome lonely place and turning the boat loose to wreck herself. That\nwould have been a stupid scheme of course, but not too stupid to\nbe human.\n\n\u201cIt was just a little piece of sea mystery to which we had no clew.\nSo we debated it for an hour, and then set about the more important\nwork of salvaging the stranded derelict. Fortunately she went\nashore near the last of the ebb, and now lay comfortably in the\nmud, apparently little damaged except for some long scratches on\nher side, and a broken blade in her propeller. We dug away the mud\nat bow and stern, made fast a tow-line, and when the tide came in\nmy small cruiser pulled her off easily. In the morning the mysterious\nstranger lay at anchor in  the cove round the corner, as quiet as\na China duck.\n\n\u201cOf course we advertised in the coast newspapers, giving a description\nof the boat--'came ashore,' etc.\n\n\u201cThree days later a boy about thirteen years old turned up at\nWinterport. He came from a village at the northeast corner of the\nbay forty miles away.  He guessed the boat was his father's, but\ncouldn't say for sure until he had seen it. So he came down to\nthe point and identified it beyond a doubt. He told his story very\nsimply.\n\n\u201cThe boat belonged to his father, who was a widow-man with only one\nchild. He used the boat for fishing, and sometimes he took Johnny\nwith him, sometimes not. On the trips without the boy he used to\nstay out longer, sometimes a week or ten days. About a week ago\nhe had started out on one of these trips with two other men. They\nhad a dory in tow. They hadn't come back. Johnny had seen the piece\nin the paper. Here was the boat, for sure, but no dory. As for the\nrest of the story--well, that was all that Johnny had to tell us\nabout it--the mystery was as far away as ever.\n\n\u201cHe was a fine, sturdy little chap, with tanned face and clear\nblue eyes. He was rather shaken by his experience, of course, but\nhe wouldn't cry--not for the world. We were glad to take him in\nfor the night, while we verified his story by telegraph.  It seemed\nthe boat was practically his only inheritance,  and the first question\nhe asked, after we had gone over it, was how much we wanted him to\npay for salvage.\n\n\u201c'Just one cent,' said Alice, taking the words out of my mouth, 'and\nwhat is more, we are going to have her repaired for you. She isn't\nmuch hurt.' So the boy stammered out the best kind of a 'thank you'\nthat he could manage, and the look in his eyes made up for the lack\nof words. That was the time that he came nearest to crying. But\nAlice saved him by asking what he was going to do with the boat.\n\n\u201cHe had an idea that he could run her himself, perhaps with another\nman to help him, for fishing in the fall, and for pleasure parties\nin the summer.  He didn't want to cut loose from home altogether\nand sell the boat. Perhaps Dad might come back, some day, or send\na letter. Anyway Johnny wanted to stay by a seafaring life.\n\n\u201cSo we arranged the repairs and all that, and got a man to help\non the homeward trip, and after a few days Johnny sailed off with\nhis patrimony.  That is what Alice and I consider our neatest job\nof salvage.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid it work all right?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cFinely,\u201d said Will Hermann, \u201clike a charm.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd where is the lad now?\u201d\n\n\u201cBo'sun's mate on a certain destroyer somewhere off the coast of\nFrance, fighting in the U. S. Navee.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the father?\u201d I inquired, being one of those old-fashioned\npersons who like all the loose ends of a story to be tied up. \u201cWas\nanything ever heard of him?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d answered my friend, carefully shaking out the ashes of\nhis pipe beyond the crow's-nest rail, \u201cthat belongs in a different\ncompartment of the ship.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOY OF NAZARETH DREAMS\n\n\nThere was a Boy in Nazareth long ago whose after-life was wonderful,\nand whose story is written in the heart of mankind. His birth was\npredicted in dreams foretelling marvellous things of him, and in\nlater years there were many true visions wherein he played a wondrous\npart.\n\nDid he not also dream, in the days of his youth, while he was growing\nin wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man? It would be\nstrange indeed if his boyhood was not often visited and illumined\nby those swift flashes of insight and clear unveilings of hidden\nthings, which we call dreams but which are in truth rays from \u201cthe\nfountain light of all our day.\u201d\n\nThe first journey that he made, his earliest visit to a great city,\nthe three days and nights when he was lost there--surely these\nwere times when visions must have come to him, full of mystery and\nwonder, yet clothed in the simple, real forms of this world, which\nhe was learning to know. So I let my revery follow him on that\nunrecorded path, remembering where it led him, and imagining, in\nthe form of dreams, what may have met him on his way.\n\n\n\n\n\nI. THE JOURNEY TO THE CITY\n\n\nThere was not a lad in the country town of Nazareth, nestled high\non the bosom of the Galilean hills, who did not often look eagerly\nsouthward over the plain toward the dark mountains of Samaria, and\nthink of the great city which lay beyond  them, and long for the\ntime when he would be old enough to go with his family on pilgrimage\nto Jerusalem.\n\nThat journey would carry him out of childhood.  It would mark the\nbeginning of his life as a \u201cson of the commandment,\u201d a member of\nthe Hebrew nation. Moreover it would be an adventure--a very great\nand joyous adventure, which youth loves.\n\nPalestine, in the days when Augustus Caesar was Lord of the World,\nwas an exciting country to travel in. It was full of rovers and\nsoldiers of fortune from many lands. It was troubled by mobs and\ntumults and rebellions, infested with landlopers and brigands.\nJerusalem itself was not only a great city, it was a boisterous and\nboiling city, crowded with visitors from all parts of the world,\nmerchants and travellers, princes and beggars, citizens of Rome\nand children of the Desert. There were strange sights to be seen\nthere, and all kinds of things were sold in the markets. So while\nthe heart of young Nazareth longed for it, the heart of older\nNazareth was not without anxieties and apprehensions  in regard to\nthe first pilgrimage.\n\nThis was doubly true in the home of the Boy of whom I speak. He was\nthe first-born, the darling  of his parents, a lad beloved by all\nwho knew him. His mother hung on him with mystical joy and hope.\nHe was the apple of her eye. Deep in her soul she kept the memory\nof angelic words which had come to her while she carried him under\nher heart--words which made her believe that her son would be\nthe morning-star of Israel and a light unto the Gentiles. So she\ncherished the Boy and watched over him with tender, unfailing care,\nas her most precious possession, her living, breathing,  growing\ntreasure.\n\nWhen he reached the age of twelve, he was old enough to go up to\nthe Temple and take part in the national feast of the Passover. So\nshe clad him in the garments of youth and made him ready for the\nfour days' pilgrimage.\n\nIt was a camping-trip, a wonder-walk, full of variety, with a spice\nof danger and a feast  of delight.\n\nThe Boy was the joy of the journey. His keen interest in all things\nseen and heard was like a  refreshing spring of water to the older\npilgrims. They had so often travelled the same road that they had\nforgotten that it might be new every morning. His unwearying vigor\nand gladness as he ran down the hillsides, or scrambled among the\nrocks far above the path, or roamed through the fields filling his\nhands with flowers, was like a merry song that cheered the long\nmiles of the way. He was glad to be alive, and it made the others\nglad to look at him.\n\nThere were sixty or seventy kinsfolk and neighbors, plain rustic\nmen and women, in the little  company that set out from Nazareth.\nThe men carried arms to protect the caravan from robbers or\nmarauders. As they wound slowly down the steep, stony road to the\nplain of Esdraelon the Boy ran ahead, making short cuts, turning\naside to find a partridge's nest among the bushes, jumping from\nrock to rock like a young gazelle, or poising on the edge of some\ncliff in sheer delight of his own  sure-footedness.\n\nHis body was outlined against the sky; his blue eyes (like those\nof his mother, who was a maid of Bethlehem) sparkled with the joy\nof living; his long hair was lifted and tossed by the wind of April.\nBut his mother's look followed him anxiously, and her heart often\nleaped in her throat.\n\n\u201cMy son,\u201d she said, as they took their noon-meal in the valley at\nthe foot of dark Mount Gilboa,  \u201cyou must be more careful. Your\nfeet might slip.\u201d\n\n\u201cMother,\u201d answered the Boy, \u201cI am truly very careful. I always\nput my feet in the places that God has made for them--on the big,\nstrong rocks that will not roll. It is only because I am so happy\nthat you think I am careless.\u201d\n\nThe tents were pitched, the first night, under the walls of Bethshan,\na fortified city of the Romans.  Set on a knoll above the river\nJordan, the town loomed big and threatening over the little camp\nof the Galilean pilgrims. But they kept aloof from it, because it\nwas a city of the heathen. Its theatres and temples and palaces\nwere accursed. The tents were indifferent to the city, and when\nthe night opened its star-fields above them and the heavenly lights\nrose over the mountains of Moab and Samaria,  the Boy's clear voice\njoined in the slumber-song of the pilgrims:\n\n\n  \u201cI will lift up mine eyes to the hilis,\n  From whence cometh my help;\n  My help cometh from the Lord,\n  Who made heaven and earth.\n  He will not suffer thy foot to stumble,\n  He who keepeth thee will not slumber.\n  Behold, He who guardeth Israel\n  Will neither slumber nor sleep.\u201d\n\n\nThen they drew their woollen cloaks over their heads and rested on\nthe ground in peace.\n\nFor two days their way led through the wide valley of the Jordan,\nalong the level land that stretched from the mountains on either\nside to the rough gulch where the river was raging through its\njungle. They passed through broad fields of ripe barley and ripening\nwheat, where the quail scuttled and piped among the thick-growing\nstalks. There were fruit-orchards and olive-groves on the foothills,\nand clear streams ran murmuring down through glistening oleander\nthickets. Wild flowers sprang in every untilled corner; tall spikes\nof hollyhocks, scarlet and blue anemones, clusters of mignonette,\nrock-roses, and cyclamens, purple iris in the moist places, and\nmany-colored spathes of gladiolus growing  plentifully among the\nwheat.\n\nThe larks sang themselves into the sky in the early morn. Hotter\ngrew the sun and heavier the air in that long trough below the\nlevel of the sea.  The song of birds melted away. Only the hawks\nwheeled on motionless wings above silent fields, watching for the\nyoung quail or the little rabbits, hidden among the grain.\n\nThe pilgrims plodded on in the heat. Companies of soldiers with\nglittering arms, merchants with laden mules jingling their bells,\ngroups of ragged thieves and bold beggars met and jostled the\npeaceful  travellers on the road. Once a little band of robbers,\nriding across the valley to the land of Moab, turned from a distance\ntoward the Nazarenes, circled swiftly around them like hawks,\nwhistling and calling  shrilly to one another. But there was small\nbooty in that country caravan, and the men who guarded it looked\nstrong and tough; so the robbers whirled away as swiftly as they\nhad come.\n\nThe Boy had stood close to his father in this moment of danger,\nlooking on with surprise at the actions of the horsemen.\n\n\u201cWhat did those riders want?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cAll we have,\u201d answered the man.\n\n\u201cBut it is very little,\u201d said the Boy. \u201cNothing but our clothes\nand some food for our journey. If they were hungry, why did they\nnot ask of us?\u201d\n\nThe man laughed. \u201cThese are not the kind that ask,\u201d he said, \u201cthey\nare the kind that take--what they will and when they can.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not like them,\u201d said the Boy. \u201cTheir horses were beautiful,\nbut their faces were hateful--like a jackal that I saw--in the\ngulley behind Nazareth one night. His eyes were burning red as\nfire. Those men had fires inside of them.\u201d\n\nFor the rest of that afternoon he walked more quietly and with\nthoughtful looks, as if he were pondering the case of men who looked\nlike jackals and had flames within them.\n\nAt sunset, when the camp was made outside the gates of the new\ncity of Archelaus, on a hillock among the corn-fields, he came to\nhis mother with his hands full of the long lavender and rose and\npale-blue spathes of the gladiolus-lilies.\n\n\u201cLook, mother,\u201d he cried, \u201care they not fine--like the clothes of\na king?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you know of kings?\u201d she answered, smiling. \u201cThese are\nonly wild lilies of the field.  But a great king, like Solomon,\nhas robes of thick silk, and jewels on his neck and his fingers,\nand a big crown of gold on his head.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut that must be very heavy,\u201d said the Boy, tossing his head\nlightly. \u201cIt must tire him to wear a crown-thing and such thick\nrobes. Besides, I think the lilies are really prettier. They look\njust as if they were glad to grow in the field.\u201d\n\nThe third night they camped among the palm-groves and heavy-odored\ngardens of Jericho, where Herod's splendid palace rose above the\ntrees. The fourth day they climbed the wild, steep, robber-haunted\nroad from the Jordan valley to the highlands  of Judea, and so came\nat sundown to their camp-ground among friends and neighbors on the\nclosely tented slope of the Mount of Olives, over against Jerusalem.\n\nWhat an evening that was for the Boy! His first sight of the holy\ncity, the city of the great king, the city lifted up and exalted\non the sides of the north, beautiful for situation, the joy of the\nwhole earth! He had dreamed of her glory as he listened at his\nmother's knee to the wonder-tales of David and Solomon and the\nbrave adventures of the fighting  Maccabees. He had prayed for the\npeace of Jerusalem every night as he kneeled by his bed and lifted\nhis hands toward the holy place. He had tried a thousand times to\npicture her strength and her splendor, her marvels and mysteries,\nher multitude of houses and her vast bulwarks, as he strayed among\nthe humble cottages of Nazareth or sat in the low doorway of his\nown home.\n\nNow his dream had come true. He looked into the face of Jerusalem,\njust across the deep, narrow valley of the Kidron, where the shadows\nof the evening  were rising among the tombs. The huge battlemented\nwalls, encircling the double mounts of Zion and Moriah--the vast\nhuddle of white houses, covering hill and hollow with their flat\nroofs and standing so close together that the streets were hidden\namong them--the towers, the colonnades, the terraces--the dark bulk\nof the Roman castle--the marble pillars and glittering roof of the\nTemple in its broad court on the hilltop--it was a city of stone\nand ivory and gold, rising clear against the soft saffron and rose\nand violet of the sunset sky.\n\nThe Boy sat with his mother on the hillside while the light waned,\nand the lamps began to twinkle in the city, the stars to glow in\nthe deepening blue.  He questioned her eagerly--what is that black\ntower?--why does the big roof shine so bright?--where was King\nDavid's house?--where are we going to-morrow?\n\n\u201cTo-morrow,\u201d she answered, \u201cyou will see. But now it is the\nsleep-time. Let us sing the psalm that we used to sing at night in\nNazareth--but very softly, not to disturb the others--for you know\nthis psalm is not one of the songs of the pilgrimage.\u201d\n\nSo the mother and her Child sang together with low voices:\n\n\n   \u201cIn peace will I both lay me down and sleep,\n    For thou, Lord, makest me dwell in safety.\u201d\n\n\nThe tune and the words quieted the Boy. It was like a bit of home\nin a far land.\n\n\n\n\nII. THE GILDED TEMPLE\n\n\nThe next day was full of wonder and excitement.  It was the first\nday of the Feast, and the myriad of pilgrims crowded through the\ngates and streets of the city, all straining toward the enclosure\nof the Temple, within whose walls two hundred thousand people could\nbe gathered. On every side the Boy saw new and strange things:\nsoldiers in their armor, and shops full of costly wares; richly\ndressed Sadducees with their servants following; Jews from far-away\ncountries, and curious visitors from all parts of the world; ragged\nchildren of the city, and painted women of the street, and beggars\nand outcasts of the lower quarters, and rich ladies with their\nretinues, and priests in their snowy robes.\n\nThe family from Nazareth passed slowly through the confusion, and\nthe Boy, bewildered by the changing scene, longed to get to the\nTemple. He thought everything must be quiet and holy there.  But\nwhen they came into the immense outer court, with its porticos\nand alcoves, he found the confusion worse than ever. For there the\nmoney-changers and the buyers and sellers of animals for sacrifice\nwere bargaining and haggling; and the thousands of people were\njostling and pushing one another; and the followers of the Pharisees\nand the Sadducees were disputing; and on many faces he saw that\nstrange look which speaks of a fire in the heart, so that it seemed\nlike a meeting-place of robbers.\n\nHis father had bought a lamb for the Passover sacrifice, at one of\nthe stalls in the outer court, and was carrying it on his shoulder.\nHe pressed on through the crowd at the Beautiful Gate, the Boy and\nhis mother following until they came to the Court of the Women.\nHere the mother stayed, for that was the law--a woman must not go\nfarther.  But the Boy was now \u201ca son of the Commandment,\u201d and he\nfollowed his father through the Court of Israel to the entrance\nof the Court of the Priests.  There the little lamb was given to a\npriest, who carried it away to the great stone altar in the middle\nof the court.\n\nThe Boy could not see what happened then, for the place was crowded\nand busy. But he heard the blowing of trumpets, and the clashing\nof cymbals, and the chanting of psalms. Black clouds of smoke went\nup from the hidden altar; the floor around was splashed and streaked\nwith red. After a long while, as it seemed, the priest brought back\nthe dead body of the lamb, prepared for the Passover supper.\n\n\u201cIs this our little lamb?\u201d asked the Boy as his father took it\nagain upon his shoulder.\n\nThe father nodded.\n\n\u201cIt was a very pretty one,\u201d said the Boy. \u201cDid it have to die?\u201d\n\nThe father looked down at him curiously.  \u201cSurely,\u201d he said,\n\u201cit had to be offered on the altar, so that we can keep our feast\naccording to the law of Moses to-night.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why,\u201d persisted the Boy, \u201cmust all the lambs be killed in the\nTemple? Does God like that? How many do you suppose were brought\nto the altar to-day?\u201d\n\n\u201cTens of thousands,\u201d answered the father.\n\n\u201cIt is a great many,\u201d said the Boy, sighing. \u201cI wish one was enough.\u201d\n\nHe was silent and thoughtful as they made their way through the\nCourt of the Women and found the mother and went back to the camp\non the hillside.  That night the family ate their Paschal feast,\nwith their loins girded as if they were going on a journey, in\nmemory of the long-ago flight of the Israelites from Egypt. There\nwas the roasted lamb, with bitter herbs, and flat cakes of bread\nmade without yeast. A cup of wine was passed around the table four\ntimes. The Boy asked his father the meaning of all these things,\nand the father repeated the story of the saving of the first-born\nsons of Israel in that far-off night of terror and death when they\ncame out of Egypt. While the supper was going on, hymns were sung,\nand when it was ended they all chanted together:\n\n\n   \u201cOh, give thanks to the Lord, for He is good;\n    For His loving-kindness endureth for ever.\u201d\n\n\nSo the Boy lay down under his striped woollen cloak of blue and\nwhite and drifted toward sleep, glad that he was a son of Israel,\nbut sorry when he thought of the thousands of little lambs and the\naltar floor splashed with red. He wondered if some day God would\nnot give them another way to keep that feast.\n\nThe next day of the festival was a Sabbath, on which no work could\nbe done. But the daily sacrifice of the Temple, and all the services\nand songs and benedictions in its courts, continued as usual, and\nthere was a greater crowd than ever within its walls. As the Boy\nwent thither with his parents they came to a place where a little\nhouse was beginning to burn, set on fire by an overturned lamp.  The\npoor people stood by, wringing their hands and watching the flames.\n\n\u201cWhy do they not try to save their house?\u201d cried the Boy.\n\nThe father shook his head. \u201cThey can do nothing,\u201d he answered. \u201cThey\nfollow the teaching of the Pharisees, who say that it is unlawful\nto put out a fire on the Sabbath, because it is a labor.\u201d\n\nA little later the Boy saw a cripple with a crutch, sitting in the\ndoor of a cottage, looking very sad and lonely.\n\n\u201cWhy does he not go with the others,\u201d asked the Boy, \u201cand hear the\nmusic at the Temple? That would make him happier. Can't he walk?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d answered the father, \u201che can hop along pretty well with his\ncrutch on other days, but not on the Sabbath, for he would have to\ncarry his crutch, and that would be labor.\u201d\n\nAll the time he was in the Temple, watching the procession of priests\nand Levites and listening to the music, the Boy was thinking what\nthe Sabbath meant, and whether it really rested people and made\nthem happier.\n\nThe third day of the festival was the offering of the first-fruits\nof the new year's harvest. That was a joyous day. A sheaf of ripe\nbarley was reaped and carried into the Temple and presented before\nthe high altar with incense and music. The priests blessed the\npeople, and the people shouted and sang for gladness.\n\nThe Boy's heart bounded in his breast as he joined in the song and\nthought of the bright summer begun, and the birds building their\nnests, and the flowers clothing the hills with beautiful colors,\nand the wide fields of golden grain waving in the wind. He was happy\nall day as he walked through the busy streets with his parents,\nbuying some things that were needed for the home in Nazareth; and\nhe was happy at night when he lay down under an olive-tree beside\nthe tent, for the air was warm and gentle, and he fell asleep under\nthe tree, dreaming of what he would see and do to-morrow.\n\n\n\n\nIII. HOW THE BOY WAS LOST\n\n\nNow comes the secret of the way he was lost--a way so simple that\nthe wonder is that no one has ever dreamed of it before.\n\nThe three important days of the Passover were ended, and the time\nhad come when those pilgrims who wished to return to their homes\nmight leave Jerusalem without offense, though it was more commendable\nto remain through the full seven days.  The people from Nazareth\nwere anxious to be gone--they had a long road to travel--their\nharvests were waiting. While the Boy, tired out, was sleeping under\nthe tree, the question of going home was talked out and decided.\nThey would break camp at sunrise, and, joining with others of their\ncountrymen who were tented around them, they would take the road\nfor Galilee.\n\nBut the Boy awoke earlier than any one else the next morning. Before\nthe dawn a linnet in the tree overhead called him with twittering\nsongs.  He was rested by his long sleep. His breath came lightly.\nThe spirit of youth was beating in his limbs, His heart was eager\nfor adventure. He longed for the top of a high hill--for the wide,\nblue sky--for the world at his feet--such a sight as he had often\nfound in his rambles among the heights near Nazareth.  Why not? He\nwould return in time for the next visit to the Temple.\n\nQuietly he stepped among the sleeping-tents in the dark. A footpath\nled through the shadowy olive-grove, up the hillside, into the\nopen. There the light was clearer, and the breeze that runs before\nthe daybreak was dancing through the grass.  The Boy turned to\nthe left, following along one of the sheep-trails that crossed the\nhigh, sloping pastures. Then he bore to the right, breasting the\nlong ridge, and passed the summit, running lightly to the eastward\nuntil he came to a rounded, rocky knoll. There he sat down among\nthe little bushes to wait for sunrise.\n\nFar beyond the wrinkled wilderness of Tekoa, and the Dead Sea, and\nthe mountain-wall of Moab, the rim of the sky was already tinged\nwith silvery gray. The fading of the stars travelled slowly upward,\nand the brightening of the rose of dawn followed it, until all the\neast was softly glowing and the deep blue of the central heaven\nwas transfused with turquoise light. Dark in the gulfs and chasms\nof the furrowed land the night lingered. Bright along the eastern\npeaks and ridges the coming day, still hidden, revealed itself in\na fringe of dazzling gold, like the crest of a long mounting wave.\nShoots and flashes of radiance sprang upward from the glittering\nedge. Streamers of rose-foam and gold-spray floated in the sky.\nThen over the barrier of the hills the sun surged royally-crescent,\nhalf-disk, full-orb--and overlooked the world. The luminous tide\nflooded the gray villages of Bethany and Bethphage, and all the\nemerald hills around Bethlehem were bathed in light.\n\nThe Boy sat entranced, watching the miracle by which God makes His\nsun to shine upon the good and the evil. How strange it was that\nGod should do that--bestow an equal light upon those who obeyed Him\nand those who broke His law!  Yet it was splendid, it was King-like\nto give in that way, with both hands. No, it was Father-like--and\nthat was what the Boy had learned from his mother--that God who made\nand ruled all things was his Father. It was the name she had taught\nhim to use in his prayers. Not in the great prayers he learned\nfrom the book--the name there was Adonai, the Lord, the Almighty.\nBut in the little prayers that he said by himself it was \u201cmy Father!\u201d\n It made the Boy feel strangely happy and strong to say that. The\nwhole world seemed to breathe and glow around him with an invisible\npresence.  For such a Father, for the sake of His love and favor,\nthe Boy felt he could do anything.\n\nMore than that, his mother had told him of something special that\nthe Father had for him to do in the world. In the evenings during\nthe journey and when they were going home together from the Temple,\nshe had repeated to him some of the words that the angel-voices\nhad spoken to her heart, and some of the sayings of wise men from\nthe East who came to visit him when he was a baby. She could not\nunderstand all the mystery of it; she did not see how it was going\nto be brought to pass. He was a child of poverty and lowliness;\nnot rich, nor learned, nor powerful. But with God all things were\npossible. The choosing and calling of the eternal Father were more\nthan everything else.  It was fixed in her heart that somehow her\nBoy was sent to do a great work for Israel. He was the son of God\nset apart to save his people and bring back the glory of Zion.\nHe was to fulfil the promises made in olden time and bring in the\nwonderful reign of the Messiah in the world--perhaps as a forerunner\nand messenger of the great King, or perhaps himself--ah, she did\nnot know! But she believed in her Boy with her whole soul; and she\nwas sure that his Father would show him what to do.\n\nThese sayings, coming amid the excitements of his first journey,\nhis visit to the Temple, his earliest sight of the splendor and\nconfusion and misery of the great city, had sunken all the more\ndeeply into the Boy's mind. Excitement does not blur the impressions\nof youth; it sharpens them, makes them more vivid. Half-covered\nand hardly noticed at the time, they spring up into life when the\nquiet hour comes.\n\nSo the Boy remembered his mother's words while he lay watching the\nsunrise. It would be great to make them come true. To help everybody\nto feel what he felt there on the hilltop--that big, free feeling\nof peace and confidence and not being afraid!  To make those robbers\nin the Jordan valley see how they were breaking the rule of the\nworld and burning out their own hearts! To cleanse the Temple from\nthe things that filled it with confusion and pain, and drive away\nthe brawling buyers and sellers who were spoiling his Father's great\nhouse! To go among those poor and wretched and sorrowful folks who\nswarmed in Jerusalem and teach them that God was their Father too,\nand that they must not sin and quarrel any more! To find a better\nway than the priests' and the Pharisees' of making people good! To\ndo great things for Israel--like Moses, like Joshua, like David--or\nlike Daniel, perhaps, who prayed and was not afraid of the\nlions--or like Elijah and Elisha, who went about speaking to the people\nand healing them--\n\nThe soft tread of bare feet among the bushes behind him roused the\nBoy. He sprang up and saw a man with a stern face and long hair and\nbeard looking at him mysteriously. The man was dressed in white,\nwith a leathern girdle round his waist, into which a towel was\nthrust. A leathern wallet hung from his neck, and he leaned upon\na long staff.\n\n\u201cPeace be with you, Rabbi,\u201d said the Boy, reverently bowing at the\nstranger's feet. But the man looked at him steadily and did not\nspeak.\n\nThe Boy was confused by the silence. The man's eyes troubled him\nwith their secret look, but he was not afraid.\n\n\u201cWho are you, sir,\u201d he asked, \u201cand what is your will with me? Perhaps\nyou are a master of the Pharisees or a scribe? But no--there are\nno broad blue fringes on your garments. Are you a priest, then?\u201d\n\nThe man shook his head, frowning. \u201cI despise the priests,\u201d he\nanswered, \u201cand I abhor their bloody and unclean sacrifices. I am\nEnoch the Essene, a holy one, a perfect keeper of the law. I live\nwith those who have never defiled themselves with the eating of\nmeat, nor with marriage, nor with wine; but we have all things in\ncommon, and we are baptized in pure water every day for the purifying\nof our wretched bodies, and after that we eat the daily feast of\nlove in the kingdom of the Messiah which is at hand. Thou art called\ninto that kingdom, son; come with me, for thou art called.\u201d\n\nThe Boy listened with astonishment. Some of the things that the man\nsaid--for instance, about the sacrifices and about the nearness of\nthe kingdom--were already in his heart. But other things puzzled\nand bewildered him.\n\n\u201cMy mother says that I am called,\u201d he answered, \u201cbut it is to serve\nIsrael and to help the people.  Where do you live, sir, and what\nis it that you do for the people?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe live among the hills of that wilderness,\u201d he answered, pointing\nto the south, \u201cin the oasis of Engedi. There are palm-trees and\nsprings of water, and we keep ourselves pure, bathing before we eat\nand offering our food of bread and dates as a sacrifice to God. We\nall work together, and none of us has anything that he calls his\nown. We do not go up to the Temple nor enter the synagogues. We\nhave forsaken the uncleanness of the world and all the impure ways\nof men. Our only care is to keep ourselves from defilement. If we\ntouch anything that is forbidden we wash our hands and wipe them\nwith this towel that hangs from our girdle.  We alone are serving\nthe kingdom. Come, live with us, for I think thou art chosen.\u201d\n\nThe Boy thought for a while before he answered.  \u201cSome of it is\ngood, my master,\u201d he said, \u201cbut the rest of it is far away from\nmy thoughts. Is there nothing for a man to do in the world but to\nthink of himself--either in feasting and uncleanness as the heathen\ndo, or in fasting and purifying yourself as you do? How can you\nserve the kingdom if you turn away from the people? They do not see\nyou or hear you. You are separate from them--just as if you were\ndead without dying. You can do nothing for them. No, I do not want\nto come with you and live at Engedi. I think my Father will show\nme something better to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour Father!\u201d said Enoch the Essene. \u201cWho is He?\u201d\n\n\u201cSurely,\u201d answered the Boy, \u201cHe is the same as yours. He that made\nus and made all that we see--the great world for us to live in.\u201d\n\n\u201cDust,\u201d said the man, with a darker frown--\u201cdust and ashes! It will\nall perish, and thou with it. Thou art not chosen--not pure!\u201d\n\nWith that he went away down the hill; and the Boy, surprised and\ngrieved at his rude parting, wondered a little over the meaning\nof his words, and then went back as quickly as he could toward the\ntents.\n\nWhen he came to the olive-grove they were gone!  The sun was\nalready high, and his people had departed hours ago. In the hurry\nand bustle of breaking camp each of the parents had supposed that the\nBoy was with the other, or with some of the friends and neighbors,\nor perhaps running along the hillside above them as he used to do.\nSo they went their way cheerfully, not knowing that they had left\ntheir son behind. This is how it came to pass that he was lost.\n\n\n\n\nIV. HOW THE BOY WENT HIS WAY\n\n\nWhen the Boy saw what had happened he was surprised and troubled,\nbut not frightened. He did not know what to do. He might hasten\nafter them, but he could not tell which way to go. He was not even\nsure that they had gone home; for they had talked of paying a visit\nto their relatives in the south before returning to Nazareth; and\nsome of the remaining pilgrims to whom he turned for news of his\npeople said that they had taken the southern road from the Mount\nof Olives, going toward Bethlehem.\n\nThe Boy was at a loss, but he was not disheartened, nor even cast\ndown. He felt that somehow all would be well with him; he would be\ntaken care of. They would come back for him in good time.  Meanwhile\nthere were kind people here who would give him food and shelter.\nThere were boys in the other camps with whom he could play. Best\nof all, he could go again to the city and the Temple.  He could see\nmore of the wonderful things there, and watch the way the people\nlived, and find out why so many of them seemed sad or angry, and a\nfew proud and scornful, and almost all looked unsatisfied. Perhaps\nhe could listen to some of the famous rabbis who taught the people\nin the courts of the Temple and learn from them about the things\nwhich his Father had chosen him to do.\n\nSo he went down the hill and toward the Sheep Gate by which he had\nalways gone into the city.  Outside the gate a few boys about his\nown age, with a group of younger children, were playing games.\n\n\u201cLook there,\u201d they cried--\u201ca stranger! Let us have some fun with\nhim. Halloo, Country, where do you come from?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom Galilee,\u201d answered the Boy.\n\n\u201cGalilee is where all the fools live,\u201d cried the children. \u201cWhere\nis your home? What is your name?\u201d\n\nHe told them pleasantly, but they laughed at his country way of\nspeaking and mimicked his pronunciation.\n\n\u201cYalilean! Yalilean!\u201d they cried. \u201cYou can't task. Can you play?\nCome and play with us.\u201d\n\nSo they played together. First, they had a mimic wedding-procession.\nThen they made believe that the bridegroom was killed by a robber,\nand they had a mock funeral. The Boy took always the lowest part.\nHe was the hired mourner who followed the body, wailing; he was the\nflute-player who made music for the wedding-guests to dance to.\n\nSo readily did he enter into the play that the children at first were\npleased with him. But they were not long contented with anything.\nSome of them would dance no more for the wedding; others would\nlament no more for the funeral. Their caprices made them quarrelsome.\n\n\u201cYalilean fool,\u201d they cried, \u201cyou play it all wrong. You spoil the\ngame. We are tired of it.  Can you run? Can you throw stones?\u201d\n\nSo they ran races; and the Boy, trained among the hills, outran\nthe others. But they said he did not keep to the course. Then they\nthrew stones; and the Boy threw farther and straighter than any of\nthe rest. This made them angry.\n\nWhispering together, they suddenly hurled a shower of stones at\nhim. One struck his shoulder, another made a long cut on his cheek.\nWiping away the blood with his sleeve, he turned silently and ran\nto the Sheep Gate, the other boys chasing him with loud shouts.\n\nHe darted lightly through the crowd of animals and people that\nthronged the gateway, turning and dodging with a sure foot among\nthem and running up the narrow street that led to the sheep-market.\nThe cries of his pursuers grew fainter behind him. Among the stalls\nof the market he wound this way and that way like a hare before\nthe hounds. At last he had left them out of sight and hearing.\n\nThen he ceased running and wandered blindly on through the northern\nquarter of the city. The sloping streets were lined with bazaars and\nnoisy workshops. The Roman soldiers from the castle were sauntering\nto and fro. Women in rich attire, with ear-rings and gold chains,\npassed by with their slaves. Open market-places were still busy,\nthough the afternoon trade was slackening.\n\nBut the Boy was too tired and faint with hunger and heavy at heart\nto take an interest in these things.  He turned back toward the\ngate, and, missing his way a little, came to a great pool of water,\nwalled in wit, white stone, with five porticos around it.  In some\nof these porticos there were a few people lying upon mats. But one\nof the porches was empty, and here the Boy sat down.\n\nHe was worn out. His cheek was bleeding again, and the drops\ntrickled down his neck. He went down the broad steps to the pool\nto wash away the blood. But he could not do it very well. His head\nached too much. So he crept back to the porch, unwound his little\nturban, curled himself in a corner on the hard stones, his head\nupon his arm, and fell sound asleep.\n\nHe was awakened by a voice calling him, a hand laid upon his\nshoulder. He looked up and saw the face of a young woman, dark-eyed,\nred-lipped, only a few years older than himself. She was clad in\nsilk, with a veil of gauze over her head, gold coins in her hair,\nand a phial of alabaster hanging by a gold chain around her neck.\nA sweet perfume like the breath of roses came from it as she moved.\nHer voice was soft and kind.\n\n\u201cPoor boy,\u201d she said, \u201cyou are wounded; some one has hurt you. What\nare you doing here? You look like a little brother that I had long\nago. Come with me. I will take care of you.\u201d\n\nThe Boy rose and tried to go with her. But he was stiff and sore; he\ncould hardly walk; his head was swimming. The young woman beckoned\nto a Nubian slave who followed her. He took the Boy in his big\nblack arms and so carried him to a pleasant house with a garden.\n\nThere were couches and cushions there, in a marble court around\na fountain. There were servants who brought towels and ointments.\nThe young woman bathed the Boy's wound and his feet.  The servants\ncame with food, and she made him eat of the best. His eyes grew\nbright again, and the color came into his cheeks. He talked to her\nof his life in Nazareth, of the adventures of his first journey,\nand of the way he came to be lost.\n\nShe listened to him intently, as if there were some strange charm\nin his simple talk. Her eyes rested upon him with pleasure. A new\nlook swept over her face. She leaned close to him.\n\n\u201cStay with me, boy,\u201d she murmured, \u201cfor I want you. Your people are\ngone. You shall sleep here to-night--you shall live with me and I\nwill be good to you--I will teach you to love me.\u201d\n\nThe Boy moved back a little and looked at her with wide eyes, as\nif she were saying something that he could not understand.\n\n\u201cBut you have already been good to me, sister,\u201d he answered, \u201cand\nI love you already, even as your brother did. Is your husband here?\nWill he come soon, so that we can all say the prayer of thanks-giving\ntogether for the food?\u201d\n\nHer look changed again; her eyes filled with pain and sorrow; she\nshrank back and turned away her face.\n\n\u201cI have no husband,\u201d she said. \u201cAh, boy, innocent boy, you do\nnot understand. I eat the bread of shame and live in the house of\nwickedness. I am a sinner, a sinner of the city. How could I pray?\u201d\n\nWith that she fell a-sobbing, rocking herself to and fro, and the\ntears ran through her fingers like rain. The Boy looked at her,\nastonished and pitiful.  He moved nearer to her, after a moment,\nand spoke softly.\n\n\u201cI am very sorry, sister,\u201d he said; and as he spoke he felt her\ntears falling on his feet. \u201cI am more sorry than I ever was in my\nlife. It must be dreadful to be a sinner. But sinners can pray, for\nGod is our Father, and fathers know how to forgive.  I will stay\nwith you and teach you some of the things my mother has taught me.\u201d\n\nShe looked up and caught his hand and kissed it. She wiped away\nher tears, and rose, pushing back her hair.\n\n\u201cNo, dear little master,\u201d she said, \u201cyou shall not stay in this\nhouse--not an hour. It is not fit for you. My Nubian shall lead you\nback to the gate, and you will return to your friends outside of\nthe city, and you will forget one whom you comforted for a moment.\u201d\n\nThe Boy turned back as he stood in the doorway.  \u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cI\nwill not forget you. I will always remember your love and kindness.\nWill you learn to pray, and give up being a sinner?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will try,\u201d she answered; \u201cyou have made me want to try. Go in\npeace. God knows what will become of me.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod knows, sister,\u201d replied the Boy gravely.  \u201cAbide in peace.\u201d\n\nSo he went out into the dusk with the Nubian and found the camp on\nthe hillside and a shelter in one of the friendly tents, where he\nslept soundly and woke refreshed in the morning.\n\nThis day he would not spend in playing and wandering.  He would go\nstraight to the Temple, to find some of the learned teachers who\ngave instruction there, and learn from them the wisdom that he\nneeded in order to do his work for his Father.\n\nAs he went he thought about the things that had befallen him\nyesterday. Why had the man dressed in white despised him? Why had\nthe city children mocked him and chased him away with stones?  Why\nwas the strange woman who had been so kind to him afterward so\nunhappy and so hopeless?\n\nThere must be something in the world that he did not understand,\nsomething evil and hateful and miserable that he had never felt in\nhimself.  But he felt it in the others, and it made him so sorry, so\ndistressed for them, that it seemed like a heavy weight, a burden\non his own heart. It was like the work of those demons, of whom\nhis mother had told him, who entered into people and lived inside\nof them, like worms eating away a fruit.\n\nOnly these people of whom he was thinking did not seem to have a\ndemon that took hold of them and drove them mad and made them foam\nat the mouth and cut themselves with stones, like a man he once\nsaw in Galilee. This was something larger and more mysterious-like\nthe hot wind that sometimes blew from the south and made people\ngloomy and angry--like the rank weeds that grew in certain fields,\nand if the sheep fed there they dropped and died.\n\nThe Boy felt that he hated this unknown, wicked, unhappy thing more\nthan anything else in the world.  He would like to save people from\nit. He wanted to fight against it, to drive it away. It seemed as\nif there were a spirit in his heart saying to him, \u201cThis is what\nyou must do, you must fight against this evil, you must drive out\nthe darkness, you must be a light, you must save the people--this\nis your Father's work for you to do.\u201d\n\nBut how? He did not know. That was what he wanted to find out. And\nhe went into the Temple hoping that the teachers there would tell\nhim.\n\nHe found the vast Court of the Gentiles, as it had been on his first\nvisit, swarming with people.  Jews and Syrians and foreigners of\nmany nations were streaming into it through the eight open gates,\nmeeting and mingling and eddying round in confused currents,\nbargaining and haggling with the merchants and money-changers,\ncrowding together around some group where argument had risen to a\nviolent dispute, drifting away again in search of some new excitement.\n\nThe morning sacrifice was ended, but the sound of music floated\nout from the enclosed courts in front of the altar, where the more\ndevout worshippers were gathered. The Roman soldiers of the guard\npaced up and down, or leaned tranquilly upoa their spears, looking\nwith indifference or amused contempt upon the turbulent scenes of\nthe holy place where they were set to keep the peace and prevent\nthe worshippers from attacking one another.\n\nThe Boy turned into the long, cool cloisters, their lofty marble\ncolumns and carved roofs, which ran around the inside of the walls.\nHere he found many groups of people, walking in the broad aisles\nbetween the pillars, or seated in the alcoves of Solomon's Porch\naround the teachers who were instructing them. From one to another\nof these open schools he wandered, listening eagerly to the different\nrabbis and doctors of the law.\n\nHere one was reading from the Torah and explaining the laws about\nthe food which a Jew must not eat, and the things which he must not\ndo on the Sabbath. Here another was expounding the doctrine of the\nPharisees about the purifying of the sacred vessels in the Temple;\nwhile another, a Sadducee, was disputing with him scornfully and\nclaiming that the purification of the priests was the only important\nthing. \u201cYou would wash that which needs no washing,\u201d he cried,\n\u201cthe Golden Candlestick, one day in every week! Next you will want\nto wash the sun for fear an unclean ray of light may fall on the\naltar!\u201d\n\nOther teachers were reciting from the six books of the Talmud which\nthe Pharisees were making to expound the law. Others repeated the\nhistories of Israel, recounted the brave deeds of the Maccabees,\nor read from the prophecies of Enoch and Daniel. Others still were\nengaged in political debate: the Zealots talking fiercely of the\nmisdeeds of the house of Herod and the outrages committed by the\nRomans; the Sadducees contemptuously mocking at the hopes of the\nrevolutionists and showing that the dream of freedom for Judea\nwas foolish.  \u201cFreedom,\u201d they said, \u201cbelongs to those who are well\nprotected. We have the Temple and priesthood because Rome takes care\nof us.\u201d To this the Zealots answered angrily: \u201cYes, the priesthood\nbelongs to you unbelieving Sadducees; that is why you are content\nwith it. Look, now, at the place where you let Herod hang an accursed\neagle of gold on the front of Jehovah's House.\u201d\n\nSo from group to group the Boy passed, listening intently, but\nhearing little to his purpose. All day long he listened, now to\none, now to another, completely absorbed by what he heard, yet not\nsatisfied.  Late in the afternoon he came into the quietest part\nof Solomon's Porch, where two large companies were seated around\ntheir respective teachers, separated from each other by a distance\nof four or five columns.\n\nAs he stood on the edge of the first company, whose rabbi was a\nlean, dark-bearded, stern little man, the Boy was spoken to by a\nstranger at his side, who asked him what he sought in the Temple.\n\n\u201cWisdom,\u201d answered the Boy. \u201cI am looking for some one to give a\nlight to my path.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is what I am seeking, too,\u201d said the stranger, smiling. \u201cI\nam a Greek, and I desire wisdom. Let us see if we can get it from\nthis teacher. Listen.\u201d\n\nHe made his way to the centre of the circle and stood before the\nstern little man.\n\n\u201cMaster,\u201d said the Greek, \u201cI am willing to become thy disciple if\nthou wilt teach me the whole law while I stand before thee thus--on\none foot.\u201d\n\nThe rabbi looked at him angrily, and, lifting up his stick, smote\nhim sharply across the leg. \u201cThat is the whole law for mockers,\u201d\n he cried. The stranger limped away amid the laughter of the crowd.\n\n\u201cBut the little man was too angry; he did not see that I was in\nearnest,\u201d said he, as he came back to the Boy. \u201cNow let us go to\nthe next school and see if the master there is any better.\u201d\n\nSo they went to the second company, which was gathered around a\nvery old man, with long, snowy beard and a gentle face. The stranger\ntook his place as before, standing on one foot, and made the same\nrequest. The rabbi's eyes twinkled and his lips were smiling as he\nanswered promptly:\n\n\u201cDo nothing to thy neighbor that thou wouldst not have him do to\nthee, this is the whole law; all the rest follows from this.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the stranger, returning, \u201cwhat think you of this\nteacher and his wisdom? Is it better?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is far better,\u201d replied the Boy eagerly: \u201cit is the best of\nall I have heard to-day. I am coming back to hear him to-morrow.\nDo you know his name?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think it is Hillel,\u201d answered the Greek, \u201cand he is a learned\nman, the master of the Sanhedrim.  You will do well, young Jew, to\nlisten to such a man. Socrates could not have answered me better.\nBut now the sun is near setting. We must go our ways. Farewell.\u201d\n\nIn the tent of his friends the Boy found welcome and a supper, but\nno news of his parents. He told his experiences in the Temple, and\nthe friends heard him, wondering at his discernment. They were in\ndoubt whether to let him go again the next day; but he begged so\nearnestly, arguing that they could tell his parents where he was\nif they should come to the camp seeking him, that finally he won\nconsent.\n\n\n\n\nV. HOW THE BOY WAS FOUND\n\n\nHe was in Solomon's Porch long before the schools had begun to\nassemble. He paced up and down under the triple colonnade, thinking\nwhat questions he should ask the master.\n\nThe company that gathered around Hillel that day was smaller, but\nthere were more scribes and doctors of the law among them, and\nthey were speaking of the kingdom of the Messiah--the thing that\nlay nearest to the Boy's heart. He took his place in the midst of\nthem, and they made room for him, for they liked young disciples\nand encouraged them to ask after knowledge.\n\nIt was the prophecy of Daniel that they were discussing, and the\nquestion was whether these things were written of the First Messiah\nor of the Second Messiah; for many of the doctors held that there\nmust be two, and that the first would die in battle, but the second\nwould put down all his enemies and rule over the world.\n\n\u201cRabbi,\u201d asked the Boy, \u201cif the first was really the Messiah, could\nnot God raise him up again and send him back to rule?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou ask wisely, son,\u201d answered Hillel, \u201cand I think the prophets\ntell us that we must hope for only one Messiah. This book of Daniel\nis full of heavenly words, but it is not counted among the prophets\nwhose writings are gathered in the Scripture. Which of them have\nyou read, and which do you love most, my son?\u201d\n\n\u201cIsaiah,\u201d said the Boy, \u201cbecause he says God will have mercy with\neverlasting-kindness. But I love Daniel, too, because he says they\nthat turn many to righteousness shall shine as the stars for ever\nand ever. But I do not understand what he says about the times\nand a half-time and the days and the seasons before the coming of\nMessiah.\u201d\n\nWith this there rose a dispute among the doctors about the meaning\nof those sayings, and some explained them one way and some another,\nbut Hillel sat silent. At last he said:\n\n\u201cIt is better to hope and to wait patiently for Him than to reckon\nthe day of His coming. For if the reckoning is wrong, and He does\nnot come, then men despair, and no longer make ready for Him.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow does a man make ready for Him, Rabbi?\u201d asked the Boy.\n\n\u201cBy prayer, son, and by study of the law, and by good works, and\nby sacrifices.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut when He comes He will rule over the whole world, and how can\nall the world come to the Temple to sacrifice?\u201d\n\n\u201cA way will be provided,\u201d answered the old man, \u201cthough I do not\nknow how it will be. And there are offerings of the heart as well\nas of the altar. It is written, 'I will have mercy and not sacrifice.'\u201d\n\n\u201cWill His kingdom be for the poor as well as for the rich, and for\nthe ignorant as well as for the wise?\u201d\n\n[Illustration: From a painting by Holman Junt. The Finding of Christ\nin The Temple]\n\n\u201cYes, it will be for the poor and for the rich alike. But it will\nnot be for the ignorant, my son.  For he who does not know the law\ncannot be pious.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Rabbi,\u201d said the Boy eagerly, \u201cwill He not have mercy on them\njust because they are ignorant? Will He not pity them as a shepherd\npities his sheep when they are silly and go astray?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is not only a Shepherd,\u201d answered Hillel firmly, \u201cbut a great\nKing. They must all keep the law, even as it is written and as the\nelders have taught it to us. There is no other way.\u201d\n\nThe Boy was silent for a time, while the others talked of the law,\nand of the Torah, and of the Talmud in which Hillel in those days\nwas writing down the traditions of the elders. When there was an\nopportunity he spoke again.\n\n\u201cRabbi, if most of the people should be both poor and ignorant\nwhen the Messiah came, so ignorant that they did not even know Him,\nwouldn't He save them just because they were poor?\u201d\n\nHillel looked at the Boy with love, and hesitated before he answered.\n\nAt that moment a man and a woman came through the colonnade with\nhurried steps. The man stopped at the edge of the circle, astonished\nat what he saw. But the woman came into the centre and put her arm\naround the Boy.\n\n\u201cMy boy,\u201d she cried, \u201cwhy hast thou done this to us? See how sorrowful\nthou hast made me and thy father, looking everywhere for thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cMother,\u201d he answered, \u201cwhy did you look everywhere for me with\nsorrow? Did you not know that I would be in my Father's house? Must\nI not begin to think of the things my Father wants me to do?\u201d\n\nThus the lost Boy was found again, and went home with, his parents\nto Nazareth. The old rabbi blessed him as he left the Temple.\n\nBut had he really been lost, or was he finding his way?\n\nTHE END","title":"The Valley of Vision : A Book of Romance and Some Half-Told Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":50729}