{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6105/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6105","id":"gutenberg_6105","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6105","summary":null,"tags":["Bestsellers, American, 1895-1923","Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Fiction","Love stories"],"text":"Produced by Julie Barkley, Charles Franks and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: In the glowing heart of the fire she saw her home warm\nwith holy love.]\n\nTHEIR YESTERDAYS\n\n\nBy: HAROLD BELL WRIGHT\n\n\nAuthor of \"The Winning Of Barbara Worth\" etc., etc.\n\n\n\n\n\nWith illustrations by F. GRAHAM COOTES\n\n\n\n\n\nTo Mrs. Elsbery W. Reynolds\n\nIn admiration of the splendid motherhood that, in her sons, has\ncontributed such wealth of manhood to the race. And, in her daughter,\nhas given to human-kind such riches of womanhood. With kindest\nregards, I inscribe this book.\n\nH. B. W.\n\n\"Relay Heights\" June 8, 1912\n\n\n\n\n\n\n_Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, Pleased with a rattle,\ntickled with a straw; Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,\nA little louder, but as empty quite; Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his\nriper stage, And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age; Pleased\nwith this bauble still, as that before; Till tired he sleeps, and\nlife's poor play is o'er._\n\n\"AN ESSAY ON MAN\"--_Pope._\n\n\n\n\n\nPROEM\n\nThere was a man.\n\nAnd it happened--as such things often so happen--that this man went\nback into his days that were gone. Again and again and again he went\nback. Even as every man, even as you and I, so this man went back into\nhis Yesterdays.\n\nThen--why then there was a woman.\n\nAnd it happened--as such things sometimes so happen--that this woman\nalso went back into her days that were gone. Again and again and again\nshe went back. Even as every woman, even as you and I, so this woman\nwent back into her Yesterdays.\n\nSo it happened--as such things do happen--that the Yesterdays of this\nman and the Yesterdays of this woman became Their Yesterdays, and that\nthey went back, then, no more alone but always together.\n\nEven as one, they, forever after, went back.\n\n\n\n\n\nWhat They Found in Their Yesterdays\n\nAnd the man and the woman who went back into Their Yesterdays found\nthere the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life. Just as they found\nthese things in their grown up days, even unto the end, so they found\nthem in Their Yesterdays.\n\nThirteen Truly Great Things of Life there are. No life can have less.\nNo life can have more. All of life is in them. No life is without them\nall.\n\nDreams, Occupation, Knowledge, Ignorance, Religion, Tradition,\nTemptation, Life, Death, Failure, Success, Love, Memories: these are\nthe Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life--found by the man and the\nwoman in their grown up days--found by them in Their Yesterdays--and\nthey found no others.\n\nIt does not matter where this man and this woman lived, nor who they\nwere, nor what they did. It does not matter when or how many times\nthey went back into Their Yesterdays. These things are all that they\nfound. And they found these things even as every man and woman finds\nthem, even as you and I find them, in our days that are and in our\ndays that were--in our grown up days and in our Yesterdays.\n\nAnd it is so that in all of these Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life\nthere is a man and there is a woman.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE THIRTEEN TRULY GREAT THINGS OF LIFE\n\nDREAMS\n\nOCCUPATION\n\nKNOWLEDGE\n\nIGNORANCE\n\nRELIGION\n\nTRADITION\n\nTEMPTATION\n\nLIFE\n\nDEATH\n\nFAILURE\n\nSUCCESS\n\nLOVE\n\nMEMORIES\n\n\n\n\n\nTHEIR YESTERDAYS\n\n\n\n\nDREAMS\n\nThe man, for the first time, stood face to face with Life and, for the\nfirst time, knew that he was a man.\n\nFor a long time he had known that some day he would be a man. But he\nhad always thought of his manhood as a matter of years. He had said to\nhimself: \"when I am twenty-one, I will be a man.\" He did not know,\nthen, that twenty-one years--that indeed three times twenty-one\nyears--cannot make a man. He did not know, then, that men are made of\nother things than years.\n\nI cannot tell you the man's name, nor the names of his parents, nor\nhis exact age, nor just where he lived, nor any of those things. For\nmy story, such things are of no importance whatever. But this is of\nthe greatest importance: as the man, for the first time, stood face to\nface with Life and, for the first time, realized his manhood, his\nmanhood life began in Dreams.\n\nIt is the dreams of life that, at the beginning of life, matter. Of\nthe Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life, Dreams are first.\n\nIt was green fruit time. From the cherry tree that grew in the upper\ncorner of the garden next door, close by the hedge that separated the\ntwo places, the blossoms were gone and the tiny cherries were already\nwell formed. The nest, that a pair of little brown birds had made that\nspring in the hedge, was just empty, and, from the green laden\nbranches of the tree, the little brown mother was calling anxious\nadvice and sweet worried counsel to her sons and daughters who were\ntrying their new wings.\n\nIn the cemetery on the hill, beside a grave over which the sod had\nformed thick and firm, there was now another grave--another grave so\nnew that on it no blade of grass had started--so new that the yellow\nearth in the long rounded mound was still moist and the flowers that\ntried with such loving, tender, courage, to hide its nakedness were\nnot yet wilted. Cut in the block of white marble that marked the\ngrass-grown grave were the dearest words in any tongue--Wife and\nMother; while, for the new-made mound that lay so close beside, the\nworkmen were carving on a companion stone the companion words.\n\nThere were two other smaller graves nearby--one of them quite\nsmall--but they did not seem to matter so much to the tall young\nfellow who had said to himself so many times: \"when I am twenty-one, I\nwill be a man.\" It was the two graves marked by the companion words\nthat mattered. And certainly he did not, at that time, feel himself a\nman. As he left the cemetery to go home with an old neighbor and\nfriend of the family, he felt himself rather a very small and lonely\nboy in a very big and empty world.\n\nBut there had been many things to do in those next few days, with no\none but himself to do them. There had been, in the voices of his\nfriends, a note that was new. In the manner of the men who had come to\ntalk with him on matters of business, he had felt a something that he\nhad never felt before. And he had seen the auctioneer--a lifelong\nfriend of his father--standing on the front porch of his boyhood home\nand had heard him cry the low spoken bids and answer the nodding heads\nof the buyers in a voice that was hoarse with something more than long\nspeaking in the open air. And then--and then--at last had come the\nsharp blow of the hammer on the porch railing and from the trembling\nlips of the old auctioneer the word: \"Sold.\"\n\nIt was as though that hammer had fallen on the naked heart of the boy.\nIt was as though the auctioneer had shouted: \"Dead.\"\n\nAnd so the time had come, a week later, when he must go for a last\nlook at the home that was his no longer. Very slowly he had walked\nabout the yard; pausing a little before each tree and bush and plant;\nputting forth his hand, at times, to touch them softly as though he\nwould make sure that they were there for he saw them dimly through a\nmist. The place was strangely hushed and still. The birds and bees and\neven the butterflies seemed to have gone somewhere far away. Very\nslowly he had gone up the steps to open the front door. Very slowly he\nhad passed from room to room in the empty, silent, house. On the\nkitchen porch he had paused again, for a little, because he could not\nsee the steps; then had gone on to the well, the garden, the\nwoodhouse, the shop, the barn, and so out into the orchard that shaded\nthe gently rising slope of the hill beyond the house. At the farther\nside of the orchard, on the brow of the hill, he had climbed the rail\nfence and had seated himself on the ground where he could look out and\naway over the familiar meadows and fields and pastures.\n\nA bobo-link, swinging on a nearby bush, poured forth a tumbling\ntorrent of silvery melody. Behind him, on the fence, a meadow lark\nanswered with liquid music. About him on every side, in the soft\nsunlight, the bluebirds were flitting here and there, twittering\ncheerily the while over their bluebird tasks. And a woodpecker, hard\nat work in the orchard shade, made himself known by the din of his\nindustry.\n\nBut the man, who did not yet quite realize that he was a man, gave no\nheed to these busy companions of his boyhood. To him, it was as though\nthose men with their shovels had heaped that mound of naked, yellow,\nearth upon his heart. The world, for him, was as empty as the old\nhouse down there under the orchard hill. For a long time he sat very\nstill--seeing nothing, hearing nothing, heeding nothing--conscious\nonly of that dull, aching, loneliness--conscious only of that heavy\nweight of pain.\n\nA mile or more away, beyond the fields, a moving column of smoke from\na locomotive lifted itself into the sky above the tree tops and\nstreamed back a long, dark, banner. As the column of smoke moved\nsteadily on toward the distant horizon, the young man on the hilltop\nwatched it listlessly. Then, as his mind outran the train to the\ncities that lay beyond the line of the sky, his eyes cleared, his\ncountenance brightened, his thoughts went outward toward the great\nworld where great men toil mightily; and the long, dark, banner of\nsmoke that hung above the moving train became to him as a flag of\nbattle leading swiftly toward the front. Eagerly now he\nwatched--watched until, far away, the streaming column of smoke passed\nfrom sight around a wooded hill and faint and clear through the still\nair--a bugle call to his ears--came the long challenging whistle.\n\nThen it was that he realized his manhood--knew that he was a man--and\nunderstood that manhood is not a matter of only twenty-one years. And\nthen it was--as he sat there alone on the brow of the little hill with\nhis boyhood years dead behind him and the years of his manhood\nbefore--that his manhood life began, even as the manhood life of every\nman really begins, with his Dreams.\n\nIndeed it is true that all life really begins in dreams. Surely the\nlover dreams of his mistress--the maiden of her mate. Surely mothers\ndream of the little ones that sleep under their hearts and fathers\nplan for their children before they hold them in their arms. Every\nwork of man is first conceived in the worker's soul and wrought out\nfirst in his dreams. And the wondrous world itself, with its myriad\nforms of life, with its grandeur, its beauty and its loveliness; the\nstars and the heavenly bodies of light that crown the universe; the\nmarching of the days from the Infinite to the Infinite; the procession\nof the years from Eternity to Eternity; all this, indeed, is but God's\ngood dream. And the hope of immortality--of that better life that lies\nbeyond the horizon of our years--what a vision is that--what a\nwondrous dream--given us by God to inspire, to guide, to comfort, to\nhold us true!\n\nWith wide eyes the man looked out upon a wide world somewhat as a\nconquering emperor, confident in his armed strength, might from a\nhilltop look out over the scene of a coming battle. He did not see the\ngrinding hardships, the desperate struggles, the disastrous losses,\nthe pitiful suffering. The dreadful dangers did not grip his heart.\nThe horrid fear of defeat did not strike his soul. He did not know the\ndragging weight of responsibility nor the dead weariness of a losing\nfight. He saw only the deeds of mighty valor, the glorious exhibitions\nof courage, of heroism, of strength. He felt only the thrill of\nvictories, the pride of honors and renown. He knew only the\ninspiration of a high purpose. He heard only the call to greatness.\nAnd it was well that in his Dreams there were only these.\n\nThe splendid strength of young manhood stirred mightily in his limbs.\nThe rich, red, blood of youth moved swiftly in his veins. His eager\nspirit shouted aloud in exultation of the deeds that he would do. And,\nsurely, it was no shame to him that at this moment, when for the first\ntime he realized his manhood, this man, in his secret heart, felt\nhimself to be a leader of men, a conqueror of men, a savior of men. It\nwas no shame to him that he felt the salvation of the world depending\nupon him.\n\nAnd he was right. Upon him and upon such as he the salvation of the\nworld _does_ depend. But it is well, indeed, that these\nunrecognized, dreaming, saviors of the world do not know, as they\ndream, that their crosses, even then, are being prepared for them. It\nis their salvation that they do not know. It is the salvation of the\nworld that they do not know.\n\nAnd then, as one from the deck of a ship bound for a foreign land\nlooks back upon his native shore when the vessel puts out from the\nharbor, this man turned from his years that were to come to his years\nthat were past and from dreaming of his future slipped back into the\ndreams of his Yesterdays. Perhaps it was the song of the bobo-link\nthat did it; or it may have been the music of the meadow lark; or\nperhaps it was the bluebird's cheerful notes, or the woodpecker's loud\ntattoo--whatever it was that brought it about, the man dreamed again\nthe dreams of his boyhood--dreamed them even as he dreamed the dreams\nof his manhood.\n\nAnd there was no one to tell him that, in dreaming, his boyhood and\nhis manhood were the same.\n\nOnce again a boy, on a drowsy summer afternoon, he lay in the shade of\nthe orchard trees or, in the big barn, sought the mow of new mown hay,\nand, with half closed eyes, slipped away from the world that droned\nand hummed and buzzed so lazily about him into another and better\nworld of stirring adventure and brave deeds. Once again, when the sun\nwas hidden under heavy skies and a steady pouring rain shut him in,\nthrough the dusk of the attic he escaped from the narrow restrictions\nof the house, and, from his gloomy prison, went out into a fairyland\nof romance, of knighthood, and of chivalry. Again it was winter time\nand the world was buried deep under white drifts, with all its\nbrightness and beauty of meadow and forest hidden by the cold mantle,\nand all its music of running brooks and singing birds hushed by an icy\nhand, when, snug and warm under blankets and comforters, after an\nevening of stories, he slipped away into the wonderland of dreams--not\nthe irresponsible, sleeping, dreams--those do not count--but the\ndreams that come between waking and sleeping, wherein a boy dare do\nall the great deeds he ever read about and can be all the things that\never were put in books for boys to wish they were.\n\nOh, but those were brave dreams--those dreams of his Yesterdays! No\ncruel necessity of life hedged them in. No wall of the practical or\npossible set a limit upon them. No right or wrong decreed the way they\nshould go. In his Yesterdays, there were fairy Godmothers to endow him\nwith unlimited power and to grant all his wishes, even unto mountains\nof golden wealth and vast caverns filled with all manner of precious\ngems. In his Yesterdays, there were wicked giants and horrid dragons\nand evil beasts to kill, with always a good Genii to see that they did\nnot harm him the while he bravely took their baleful lives. In his\nYesterdays, he was a prince in gorgeous raiment; an emperor with\njeweled scepter and golden crown; a knight in armor, with a sword and\nproudly stepping horse of war; he was a soldier leading a forlorn\nhope; or a general, with his plumed staff officers about him,\ndirecting the battle from a mountain top; he was a sailor cast away on\na desert island; or a captain commanding his ship in a storm or,\nclinging to the shrouds in a smother of battle flame and smoke,\nshouting his orders through a trumpet to his gallant crew; he was a\npirate; a robber chief; a red Indian; a hunter; a scout of the\nplains--he could be anything, in those dreams of his Yesterdays,\nanything.\n\nSo, even as the man, the boy had dreamed. But the man did not think of\nit in that way--the dreams of his _manhood_ were too real.\n\nThen in his Yesterdays would come, also, the putting of his dreams\ninto action, for the play of children, even as the works of men, are\nonly dreams in action after all. The quiet orchard became a vast and\npathless forest wherein lurked wild beasts and savage men ready to\npounce upon the daring hunter; or, perhaps, it was an enchanted wood\nwith lords and ladies imprisoned in the trees while in the carriage\nhouse--which was not a carriage house at all but a great castle--a\ncruel giant held captive their beautiful princess. The haymow was a\nrobbers' cave wherein great wealth of booty was stored; the garden, a\ndesert island on which lived the poor castaway. And many a long summer\nhour the bold captain clung to the rigging of his favorite apple tree\nship and gazed out over the waving meadow sea, or the general of the\narmy, on his rail fence war horse, directed the battle from the\nhilltop or led the desperate charge.\n\nBut rarely, in his Yesterdays, could the boy put his dreams into\nsuccessful action alone. Alone he could dream but to realize his\ndreams, he needs must have the help of another. And so _she_ came\nto take her place in his life, to help him play out his dreams--the\nlittle girl who lived next door.\n\nWho was she? Why, she was the beautiful princess held captive by the\ngiant in his carriage house castle until rescued by the brave prince\nwho came to her through the enchanted wood. She was the crew of the\napple tree ship; the robber band; the army following her general in\nhis victorious charge; and the relief expedition that found the\ncastaway on his desert island. Sometimes she was even a cannibal\nchief, or a monster dragon, or a cruel wild beast. And always--though\nthe boy did not know--she was a good fairy weaving many spells for his\nhappiness.\n\nThe man remembered well enough the first time that he met her. A new\nfamily was moving into the house that stood just below the garden and,\nfrom his seat on the gate post, the boy was watching the big wagons,\nloaded with household goods, as they turned into the neighboring yard.\nOn the high seat of one of the wagons was the little girl. A big man\nlifted her down and the boy, watching, saw her run gaily into the\nhouse. For some time he held his place, swinging his bare legs\nimpatiently, but he did not see the little girl come out into the yard\nagain. Then, dropping to the ground, the boy slipped along the garden\nfence under the currant bushes to a small opening in the hedge that\nseparated the two places. Very cautiously, at first, he peered through\nthe branches. Then, upon finding all quiet, he grew bolder, and on\nhands and knees crept part way through the little green tunnel to find\nhimself, all suddenly, face to face with her.\n\nThat was the beginning. The end had come several years later when the\nfamily had moved again.\n\nThe parting, too, he remembered well enough. A boy and girl parting it\nwas. And the promises--boy and girl promises they were. At first many\npoorly written, awkwardly expressed, laboriously compiled, but warmly\ninteresting letters were exchanged. Then the letters became shorter\nand shorter; the intervals between grew longer and longer; until, even\nas childhood itself goes, she had slipped out of his life. Even as the\nbrave dreams of his boyhood she had gone--even as his Yesterdays.\n\nThe bobo-link had long ago left his swinging bush. The meadow lark had\ngone to find his mate in a distant field. The twittering bluebirds had\nfinished their tasks. The woodpecker had ceased from his labor. The\nsunshine was failing fast. Faint and far away, through the still\ntwilight air, came the long, clear, whistle of another train that was\nfollowing swiftly the iron ways to the world of men.\n\nThe man on the hill came back from his Yesterdays--came back to\nwonder: \"where is the little girl now? Has she changed much? Her eyes\nwould be the same and her hair--only a little darker perhaps. And does\nshe ever go back into the Yesterdays? It is not likely,\" he thought,\n\"no doubt she is far too busy caring for her children and attending to\nher household duties to think of her childhood days and her childhood\nplaymate. And what would her husband be like?\" he wondered.\n\nThere was no woman in the dreams of the man who that afternoon, for\nthe first time, realized his manhood and began his manhood life. He\ndreamed only of the deeds that he would do; of the work he would\naccomplish; of the place he would win; and of the honors he would\nreceive. The little girl lived for him only in his Yesterdays. She did\nnot belong to his manhood years. She had no place in his manhood\ndreams.\n\nSlowly he climbed the rail fence again and, through the orchard, went\ndown the hill toward the house. But he did not again enter the house.\nHe went on past the kitchen porch to the garden gate where he stood,\nfor some minutes, looking toward the hedge that separated the two\nplaces and toward the cherry tree that grew in the corner of the\ngarden next door.\n\nAt the big front gate he paused again and turned lingeringly as one\nreluctant to go. The old home in the twilight seemed so lonely, so\ndeserted by all to whom it had been most kind.\n\nAt last, with a movement suggestive of a determination that could not\nhave belonged to his boyhood, he set his face toward the world. Down\nthe little hill in the dusk of the evening he went, walking quickly;\npast the house where the little girl had lived; across the creek at\nthe foot of the hill; and on up the easy rise beyond. And, as he went,\nthere was on his face the look of a man. There was in his eyes a new\nlight--the light of a man's dream. Nor did he once look back.\n\nTo-morrow he would leave the friends of his boyhood; he would leave\nthe scenes of his Yesterdays; he would go to work out his dreams--even\nas in his Yesterdays, he would play them out--for the works of men are\nas the plays of children but dreams in action, after all.\n\nWould he, _could_ he, play out his manhood dreams alone?\n\nAnd the woman also, for the first time, was face to face with Life\nand, for the first time, knew that she was a woman.\n\nFor a long while she had seen her womanhood approaching. Little by\nlittle, as her skirts had been lengthened, as her dolls had been put\naway, as her hair had been put up, she had seen her womanhood drawing\nnear. But she had always said to herself: \"when I do not play with\ndolls, when I can dress like mother, and fix my hair like mother, I\nwill be a woman.\" She did not know, then, that womanhood is a matter\nof things very different from these. Until that night she did not\nknow. But that night she knew.\n\nI cannot tell you the woman's name, nor where she lived, nor any of\nthose things that are commonly told about women in stories. But, as my\nstory is not that kind of a story, it will not matter that I cannot\ntell. What really matters to my story is this: the woman, that night,\nwhen, for the first time, she knew herself to be a woman, began her\nwoman life in dreams. Because the dreams of life are of the greatest\nimportance--because Dreams are of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of\nLife--this is my story: that the woman life of this woman, when first\nshe knew herself to be a woman, began in dreams.\n\nIt was the time of the first roses. For a week or more she had been\nvery busy with a loving, tender, joyous, occupation that left her no\ntime to think of herself. Her dearest friend--her girlhood's most\nintimate companion, and, save for herself, the last of their little\ncircle--was to be married and she was to be bridesmaid.\n\nThey had been glad days--those days of preparation--for she rejoiced\ngreatly in the happiness of her friend and had shared, as fully as it\nwas possible for another to share, the sweet sacredness, the holy\nmysteriousness, and the proud triumph of it all. But with the gladness\nof those days, there had come into her heart a strange quietness like\nthe quietness of an empty room that is furnished and ready but without\na tenant.\n\nAt the wedding that evening she had been all that a bridesmaid should\nbe, even to the last white ribbon and the last handful of rice, for\nshe would that no shadow of a cloud should come over the happiness of\nher friend. But when the new-made husband and wife had been put safely\naboard the Pullman, and, with the group on the depot platform\nfrantically waving hats and handkerchiefs and shouting good lucks and\nfarewells, the train had pulled away, the loneliness in her heart had\nbecome too great to hide. Her escort had made smart jokes about her\ntears, alleging disappointment and envy. He was a poor, shallow,\nwitless, fool who could not understand; and that he could not\nunderstand mattered, to her, not at all. She had commanded him to take\nher home and at her front door had thanked him and sent him away.\n\nAnd then it was--in the blessed privacy of her own room, with the door\nlocked and the shades drawn close, with her wedding finery thrown\naside and the need of self-repression no longer imperative--that, as\nshe sat in a low chair before the fire, she looked, for the first\ntime, boldly at Life and, for the first time, knew that she was a\nwoman--knew that womanhood was not a matter of long skirts, of hair\ndressing, and the putting away of dolls.\n\nShe was tired, very tired, from the responsibilities and excitement of\nthe day but she did not feel that she could sleep. From the fire, she\nlooked up to the clock that ticked away so industriously on the\nmantle. It was a little clock with a fat, golden, cupid grasping the\ndial in his chubby arms as though striving to do away with time when\nhe might better have been busy with his bow and arrows. The hands of\nthe clock pointed nearly midnight. The young woman looked into the\nfire again.\n\nAlready her girl friend had been a wife several hours--a wife. Already\nthe train was miles away bearing the newly wedded ones to their future\nhome--their home. The hours would go swiftly into days, the days into\nweeks and months and years, and there would be boys and girls--their\nchildren. And the years would go swiftly as the days and there would\nbe the weddings of their sons and daughters and then--the children of\ntheir children.\n\nAnd the woman who that night knew that she was a woman--the woman\nwhose heart, as she sat alone before the fire, was even as an empty\nroom--a room that is furnished and ready but without a tenant--what,\nthis woman asked herself, would the years bring her? The years of her\nchildhood and girlhood were past. What of her womanhood years that\nwere to come?\n\nThere are many doors in the life of these modern days at which a woman\nmay knock with hope of being admitted; and this woman, as she sat\nalone before her fire that night, paused before them all--all save\ntwo. Two doors she saw but did not pause before; and _one_ of\nthem was idleness and pleasure. And one other door there is that\nstands open wide so that there is no need to knock for admittance.\nBefore this wide open door the woman paused a long time. It is older\nthan the other doors. It is very, very, old. Since the beginning it\nhas never been closed. But though it stood open so wide and there was\nno need to knock for admittance, still the woman could not enter for\nshe was alone. No woman may enter that old, old, open door, alone.\n\nThree times before she had stood before that ancient door and had been\nurged to cross the threshold; but always she had hesitated, had held\nback, and turned away. She wondered if always she would hesitate, if\nalways she would turn away; or would some one come with whom she could\ngladly, joyously, confidently, cross the threshold. She could not say.\nShe could only wait. And while she waited she would knock at one of\nthe other doors. She would knock because she must. The custom of the\nage, necessity, circumstances, forced her to knock at one of those\ndoors that, in the life of these modern days, opens to women who seek\nadmittance alone.\n\nI cannot tell just what the circumstances of the woman's life were nor\nwhy it was necessary. Nor does it in the least matter that I cannot\ntell. The necessity, the circumstances, have nothing to do with my\nstory save this: that, whatever they were, I am quite sure they ought\nnot to have been. I am quite sure that _any_ circumstance, or\nnecessity, or custom, that forces a woman who knows herself to be a\nwoman to seek admittance at any one of those doors through which she\nmust enter alone is not right. This it is that belongs to my story:\nthe woman did not wish to enter the life that lies on the other side\nof those doors through which she must go alone.\n\nAlone in her room that night, with the shades drawn close and the only\nlight the light of the dancing fire, this woman who, for the first\ntime, knew herself to be a woman, did not dream of a life on the other\nside of those doors at which she must ask admittance. She dreamed of a\nfuture beyond the old, old, door that has stood open wide since the\nbeginning.\n\nAnd it was no shame to her that she so dreamed. It was no shame that\nshe called before her, one by one, those who had asked her to cross\nwith them the threshold and those who might still ask her. It was no\nshame that, while her heart said always, \"no,\" she still\nwaited--waited for one whom she knew not but only knew that she would\nknow him when he came. And it was no shame to her that, even while\nthis was so, she saw herself in the years to come a wife and mother.\nIn the glowing heart of the fire she saw her home warm with holy love,\nbright with sacred companionship. In the dancing flames she saw her\nchildren--happy, beautiful, children. Nor did she in her dreams fear\nthe flickering shadows that came and went for in the dusk of the room\nshe felt the dear presence of that one who was to be her other self;\nwho was to be to her strength in her weakness, hope in her sadness,\nand comfort in her mourning.\n\nIt is well indeed that the shadows of life bring no fears into our\ndreams else we would not dare to dream and life itself would lose its\npurpose and its meaning.\n\nSo the woman saw her future, not in the shadows that came and went\nupon the wall, but in the glowing heart of the fire. And, as she\ndreamed her dreams of womanhood, her face grew beautiful with a\ntender, thoughtful, beauty that is given only to those women who dream\nsuch dreams. With the realization of her womanhood and the beginning\nof her woman life, her lips curved in a smile that was different from\nthe smile of girlhood and there came into her eyes a light that was\nnever there before. And then, as one setting out on a long journey\nmight turn back for a last farewell view of loved familiar scenes, she\nturned to go back for a little into her Yesterdays.\n\nThere was a home in those Yesterdays and there was a mother--a mother\nwho lived now in a better home than any of earth's building. A father\nshe had never known but there was a big, jolly, uncle who had done and\nwas doing yet all that an uncle of limited means could do to take her\nfather's place in the life of his sister's only child. And there was\nsunshine in her Yesterdays--bright sunshine--unclouded by city smoke;\nand flowers unstained by city grime; and blue skies unmarred by city\nbuildings; and there were beautiful trees and singing birds and broad\nfields in her Yesterdays. Also there were dreams--such dreams as only\nthose who are very young or very wise dare to dream.\n\nIt may have been the firelight that did it; it may have been the\nvision of her children who lived only in the life that she saw beyond\nthe old, old, open door: or perhaps it was the wedding finery that lay\nover a nearby chair: or the familiar tick, tick, tick, of the clock in\nthe arms of the fat cupid who neglected his bow and arrows in a vain\nattempt to do away with time--whatever it was that brought it about,\nthe woman dreamed again the dreams of childhood--dreamed them even as\nshe dreamed those first dreams of her womanhood.\n\nAnd no one was there to tell her that the dreams of her girlhood and\nof her womanhood were the same.\n\nAgain, on a long summer afternoon, as she kept house in a snug corner\nof the vine shaded porch, she was really the mistress of a grand\nmansion that was furnished with beautiful carpets and furniture, china\nand silver, books and pictures. And in that mansion she received her\ndistinguished guests and entertained her friends with charming grace\nand dignity, even as she set her tiny play table with dishes of\nthimble size and served tea and cakes to her play lady friends. Again,\nas she rocked her dollies to sleep beside the evening fire and tucked\nthem into their beds with a little mother kiss for each, there were\ndreams of merry boys and girls who should some day call her mother.\nAnd there were dreams of fine dresses and jewels the while she\nstitched tiny garments for her newest child who had come to her with\nno clothing at all, or fashioned a marvelous hat for another whose\nfeatures were but a smudge of paint and whose hair had been glued on\nso many times that it was far past combing and a hat was a necessity\nto hide the tangled mat. And sometimes she was a princess shut up in a\ncastle tower and a noble prince, who wore golden armor and rode a\ngreat war horse, would come to woo her and she would ride away with\nhim through the deep forest followed by a long procession of lords and\nladies, of knights and squires and pages. Or, perhaps, she would be a\nhomeless girl in pitiful rags who, because of her great beauty, would\nbe stolen by gypsies and sold to a cruel king to be kept in a dungeon\nuntil rescued by a brave soldier lover.\n\nAnd, in her Yesterdays, the master of the dream home over which she\nwas mistress--the father of her dream children--the prince with whom\nshe rode away through the forest--the soldier lover who rescued her\nfrom the dungeon--and the hero of many other adventures of which she\nwas the heroine--was always the same. Outside her dreams he was a\nsturdy, brown cheeked, bare legged, little boy who lived next door.\nBut what a man is outside a woman's dreams counts for little after\nall--even though that woman be a very small and dainty little woman\nwith a very large family of dolls.\n\nThe woman remembered so well their first meeting. It was at the upper\nend of the garden near the strawberry beds and he was creeping toward\nher on hands and knees through a hole in the hedge that separated the\ntwo places. How she had jumped when she first caught sight of him! How\nhe had started and turned as if to escape when he saw her watching\nhim! How shyly they had approached each other with the first timid\nofferings of friendship!\n\nMany, many, times after that did he come to her through the opening in\nthe hedge. Many, many, times did she go to him. And he came in many\ndisguises. In many disguises she helped him put his dreams into\naction. But always, to her, he was a hero to be worshiped, a leader to\nbe followed, a master to be obeyed. Always she was very proud of\nhim--of his strength and courage--of the grand deeds he wrought--and\nof the great things that he would some day do. And sometimes--the most\ndelightful times of all--at her wish, he would help her, in his\nmasterful way, to play out her dreams. And then, though he liked being\nan Indian or a robber or a soldier best, he would be a model husband\nand help her with the children; although he did, at times, insist upon\npunishing them rather more than she thought necessary. But when the\nlittle family was ill with the measles or scarlet fever or whooping\ncough no dream husband could have been more gentle, more thoughtful,\nor more wise, in his attention.\n\nAnd once they had played a wedding.\n\nThe woman whose heart was as an empty room stirred in her chair\nuneasily as one who feels the gaze of a hidden observer. But the door\nwas locked, the shades drawn close, and the only light was the\nflickering light of the fire. The night without was very dark and\nstill. There was no sound in the sleeping house--no sound save the\nsteady tick, tick, tick, of the time piece in the chubby arms of the\nfat cupid on the mantle.\n\nAnd once they had played a wedding.\n\nIt was when her big, jolly, uncle was married. The boy and the girl\nwere present at the ceremony and she wore a wonderful new dress while\nthe boy, scrubbed and combed and brushed, was arrayed in his best\nclothes with shoes and stockings. There were flowers and music and\ngood things to eat and no end of laughter and gay excitement; and the\njolly uncle looked so big and fine and solemn; and the bride, in her\nwhite veil, was so like a princess in one of the dreams; that the\nlittle girl was half frightened and felt a queer lump in her throat as\nshe clung to her mother's hand. And there was a strange ceremony in\nwhich the minister, in his gown, read out of a book and said a prayer\nand asked questions; and the uncle and the princess answered the\nquestions; and the uncle put a ring on the finger of the princess; and\nthe minister said that they were husband and wife. And then there were\nkisses while everybody laughed and cried and shook hands; and some one\ntold the little girl that the princess was her new auntie; and her\nuncle caught her up in his big arms and was his own jolly self again.\nIt was all very fine and strange and impressive to their childish\neyes; and so, of course, the very next day, the boy and the girl\nplayed a wedding.\n\nIt was up in that quiet corner of the garden, near the hedge, and the\ncherry tree was in bloom and showered its delicate blossoms down upon\nthem with every puff of air that stirred the branches; while, in the\nhedge nearby, a little brown bird was putting the finishing touch to a\nnew nest. The boy's shepherd dog, who sat up when you told him, was\nthe minister; and all the dollies were there, dressed in their finest\ngowns. The little girl was very serious and again, half frightened,\nfelt that queer lump in her throat as she promised to be his wife. And\nthe boy looked very serious, too, as he placed a little brass ring\nupon her finger and, speaking for the brown eyed, shaggy coated,\nminister, said: \"I pronounce you husband and wife and anything that\nGod has done must never be done any different by anybody forever and\never, Amen.\" And then--because there was no one else present and they\nboth felt that the play would not be complete without--then, he had\nkissed her, and they were both very, very, happy.\n\nSo it was that, in the quiet secrecy of her dimly lighted room, the\nwoman who that night knew herself to be a woman, felt her cheeks hot\nwith blushes and upon her hot cheeks felt her tears.\n\nSo it was that she came back from her Yesterdays to wonder: where was\nthe boy now? What kind of a man had he grown to be? Was he making his\nway to fame and wealth or laboring in some humble position? Had he a\nhome with wife and children? Did he ever go back into the Yesterdays?\nHad he forgotten that wedding under the cherry tree? When the one with\nwhom she would go through the old, old, door into the life of her\nwomanhood dreams should come, would it matter if the hero of her\nchildhood dreams went in with them? He could be no rival to that one\nwho was to come for he lived only in the Yesterdays and the Yesterdays\ncould not come back. The fat little cupid on the mantle neglected his\nbow and arrows in vain; he could not do away with time.\n\nVery slowly the woman prepared for her rest and, when she was ready,\nknelt in the soft dusk of her room, a virgin in white to pray. And\nGod, I know, understood why her prayer was confused and uncertain with\nlongings she could not express even to him who said: \"Except ye become\nas little children.\" God, I know, understood why this woman, who that\nnight, for the first time, knowing herself to be a woman had dreamed a\ntrue woman's dream--God, I know, understood why, as she lay down to\nsleep in the quiet darkness, she stretched forth her empty arms and\nalmost cried aloud.\n\nIn to-morrow's light it would all be gone, but that night--that\nnight--her womanhood dreams of the future were real--real even as the\ngirlhood dreams of her Yesterdays.\n\n\n\n\n\nOCCUPATION\n\nIn a small, bare, room in a cheap city boarding house, the man cowered\nlike a wild thing, wounded, neglected, afraid; while over him, gaunt\nand menacing, cruel, pitiless, insistent, stood a dreadful need--the\nneed of Occupation--the need of something to do.\n\nIn all the world there is no danger so menacing as the danger of\nidleness: there is no privation so cruel, no suffering so pitiful, as\nthe need of Occupation: there is no demand so imperative, no necessity\nso dreadful, as the want of something to do.\n\nOccupation is the very life of Life. As nature abhors a vacuum so life\nabhors idleness. To _be_ is to be occupied. Even though one spend\nhis days in seeking selfish pleasures still must he occupy himself to\nlive, for the need of something to do is most imperative upon those\nwho strive hardest to do nothing. As life and the deeds of men are\nborn in dreams so life itself is Occupation. A man _is_ the thing\nhe does. What the body is to the spirit; what the word is to the\nthought; what the sunshine is to the sun; Occupation is to Dreams. One\nof the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life is Occupation.\n\nFrom the cherry tree in the upper corner of the garden near the hedge,\nthe cherries had long ago been gathered. The pair of brown birds had\nreared their children and were beginning to talk with their neighbors\nand kinfolk about their winter home in the south. In the orchard on\nthe hill back of the house, the late fruit was hanging, full ripe,\nupon the bending boughs. From the brow of the hill, where the man had\nsat that afternoon when, for the first time, he faced Life and knew\nthat he was a man, the fields from which the ripened grain had been\ncut lay in the distance, great bars and blocks and patches of golden\nyellow, among the still green pastures and meadows and the soft brown\nstrips of the fall plowing. In the woods, the squirrels were beginning\nto take stock of the year's nut crop and to make their estimates for\nthe winter's need, preparing, the while, their storehouses to receive\nthe precious hoard. And over that new mound in the cemetery, the grass\nfairies had woven a coverlid thick and firm and fine as though, in\nsweet pity of its yellow nakedness, they would shield it from the\nwinds that already had in them a hint that summer's reign was past.\n\nBut all this was far, very far, from where, in his small bare room,\nthe man crouched frightened and dismayed. The rush and roar of the\ncrowded trains on the elevated road outside his window shook the\ncasement with impatient fury. The rumbling thunder of the heavily\nloaded subway trains jarred the walls of the building. The rattle and\nwhirr of the overflowing surface cars rose sharply above the hum and\ndin of the city streets. To the man who asked only a chance, only a\nplace, only room to stand and something--anything--to do, it was\nmaddening. A blind, impotent, fury took possession of him. He clenched\nhis fists and cursed aloud.\n\nBut the great, crowded, world heeded his curses as little as it\nnoticed him and he fell again into the silence of his hopelessness.\n\nOut from the sheltered place of his dreams the man had come into the\nbusy world of deeds--into the world where those who, like himself, had\ndreamed, were putting their dreams into action. Out from the years of\nhis boyhood he had come into the years of his manhood--out from the\nscenes of his Yesterdays into the scenes of his to-days.\n\nFor weeks, with his young strength stirring mightily within him and\nhis rich, red, blood hot in his veins, he had been crying out to the\nworld: \"Make way for me. Give me a place that I may work out my\ndreams. Give me something to do.\" For weeks, he had been trying to\nconvince the world that it needed him. But the busy, happy, world--the\nidle, dreaming, world--the discontented, sullen, world--was not so\neasily convinced. His young strength and his red blood did not seem to\ncount for as much as they should. His confidence and his courage did\nnot seem to impress. His high rank in the boyhood world did not\nentitle him to a like position among men. His graduating address had\nmade no stir in the world of thought. His athletic record had caused\nno comment in the world of industry. His coming did not disturb the\nworld of commerce.\n\nA few he found who wrought with all the vigor and enthusiasm of their\ndreaming. These said: \"What have you done that we should make room for\nyou? Prove yourself first then come to us.\" Many he saw who had\nwearied of the game and were dreaming new dreams. These said: \"We\nourselves are without Occupation. There are not places enough for all.\nStand aside and give us room.\" Many others there were who, with dreams\nforgotten, labored as dull cattle, goaded by brute necessity, with no\nvision, no purpose, no hope, to make of their toil a blessing. And\nthese laughed at him with vicious laughter, saying: \"Why should anyone\nwant anything to do?\"\n\nSo the man in those days saw his dreams going from him--saw his bright\nvisions growing dim. So he came to feel that his young strength was of\nno value; that his red blood was worthless; that his courage was vain.\nSo his confidence was shaken; his faith was weakened; his hope grew\nfaint. He came to feel that the things that he had dreamed were\nalready all wrought out--that there were no more great works to be\ndone--that all that could be done was being accomplished--that in all\nthe world there was nothing more for a man to do. Disappointed,\ndiscouraged, disheartened, weary and alone, he told himself that he\nhad come too late--that in all the world there was nothing more for a\nman to do.\n\nHe did not look out upon the world, now, as a conquering emperor,\nconfident in his armed strength, might look over the field of a coming\nbattle. He did not dream, now, of victories, of honors, and renown. He\ndid not, now, see himself a savior of the world. The world had\nstretched this man also upon the cross that it has always ready for\nsuch as he.\n\nIt was not the man's pressing need that hurt him so--gladly he would\nhave suffered for his dreams. It was not for privation and hardships\nthat he cared--proudly he would have endured those for his dreams. Nor\nwas it loneliness and neglect that made him afraid--he was willing to\nwork out his dreams alone. That which sent him cowering like a\nwounded, wild thing to his room was this: he felt that his strength,\nhis courage, his willingness, his purpose, were as nothing in the\nworld. That which frightened him with dreadful fear was this: he felt\nthat his dreams were going from him. That for which he cared was this:\nhe felt that he was too late. This was the cross upon which the world\nstretched him--the cross of enforced idleness--the cross of _nothing\nto do_.\n\nIt is not strange that in his lonely suffering the man sought to\nescape by the only way open to him--the way that led to his\nYesterdays. There was a welcome for him there. There was a place for\nhim. He was wanted there. There his life was held of value. It is not\nat all strange that he went back. As one flees from a desolate,\nburning, desert waste, to a land of shady groves and fruitful gardens,\nof cool waters and companionable friends, so this man fled from his\ndays that were into his days that were gone--so he went back into his\nYesterdays.\n\nIt may have been the soft dusk of the twilight hour that did it: or it\nmay have been the loneliness of his heart: or, perhaps, it was the\npicture he found in his trunk as he searched among his few things\ntrying to decide what next he should take to the pawn shop. Whatever\nit was that brought it about, the man was a boy again in the boyhood\nworld of his Yesterdays.\n\nAnd it happened that the day in his Yesterdays to which the man went\nback was one of those days when the boy could find nothing to do.\nEvery game that he had ever played was played out. Every source of\namusement he had exhausted. There was in all his boyhood world\nnothing, nothing, for him to do.\n\nThe orchard was not a trackless forest inhabited by fierce, wild\nbeasts; nor an enchanted wood with lords and ladies imprisoned in the\ntrees; it was only an orchard--a commonplace old orchard--nothing\nmore. Indians and robbers were stupid creatures of no importance\nwhatever. There were no fairies, no giants, no soldiers left in the\nboyhood world. The rail fence war horse refused to charge. The apple\ntree ship was a wreck on the rocks of discontent. The hay had all been\ncut and stored away in the barn. The excitement and fun of the grain\nharvesting was over and the big stacks were waiting the threshers. It\nwas not time for fall apple picking and the cider mill, nor to gather\nthe corn, nor to go nutting. There was nothing, nothing, to do.\n\nThe boy's father was busy with some sort of work in the shop and told\nhis little son not to bother. The hired man was doing something to the\nbarnyard fence and told the boy to get out of the way. A carpenter was\nrepairing the roof of the house and the long ladder looked inviting\nenough, but, the instant the boy's head appeared above the eaves, the\nman shouted for him to get down and to run and play. Even the new red\ncalf refused to notice him but continued its selfish, absorbing,\noccupation with wobbly legs braced wide and tail wagging supreme\nindifference. His very dog had deserted him and had gone away\nsomewhere on business of his own, apparently forgetting the needs of\nhis master. And mother--mother too was busy, as busy as could be with\nsweeping and dusting and baking and mending and no end of things that\nmust be done.\n\nBut somehow mother's work could always wait. At least it could wait\nlong enough for her to look lovingly down into the troubled,\ndiscontented, little face while she listened to the plaintive whine:\n\"There's nothin' at all to do. Mamma, tell me--tell me something to\ndo.\"\n\nPoor little boy in the Yesterdays! Quickly mother's arm went around\nhim. Lovingly she drew him close. And mother's work waited still as\nshe considered the serious problem. There was no feeling of not being\nwanted in the boy's heart then. As he looked up at her he felt already\nrenewed hope and quickening interest.\n\nThen mother's face brightened, in a way that mother faces do, and the\nboy's eyes began to shine in eager anticipation. What should he do?\nWhy mother knew the very thing of course. It was the best--the very\nbest--the most interesting thing in all the world for a boy to do. He\nshould build a house for the little girl who lived next door.\n\nOut under the lilac bushes he should build it, in a pretty corner of\nthe yard, where mother, from her window, every now and then, could\nlook out to see how well he was doing and help, perhaps, with careful\nsuggestions. Mother herself would ask the carpenter man for some\nclean, new boards, some shingles and some nails. And it would all be a\nsecret, between just mother and the boy, until the house was finished\nand ready and then he should go and bring the little girl and they\nwould see how surprised and glad she would be.\n\nIt was wondrous magic those mothers worked in the Yesterdays. In a\ntwinkle, for the boy who could find nothing to do, the world was\nchanged. In a twinkle, there was nothing in all the world worth doing\nsave this one thing--to build a house for the little girl next door.\n\nWith might and main he planned and toiled and toiled and planned;\nbuilding and rebuilding and rebuilding yet again. He cut his fingers\nand pounded his thumb and stuck his hands full of slivers and minded\nit not at all so absorbed was he in this best of all Occupations.\n\nBut keep it secret! First there was father's smiling face close beside\nmother's at the window. Then the hired man chanced to pass and paused\na moment to make admiring comment. And, later, the carpenter man came\naround the corner of the house and, when he saw, offered a bit of\nprofessional advice and voluntarily contributed another board. Even\nthe boy's dog, as though he had heard the news that the very birds\nwere discussing so freely in the tree tops, came hurrying home to\nmanifest his interest. Keep it secret! How _could_ the boy keep\nit secret! But the little girl did not know. Until he was almost ready\nto tell her, the little girl did not know. Almost he was ready to tell\nher, when--But that belongs to the other part of my story.\n\nAbout the man in his bare, lonely, room in the great city, the world\nin its madness raged--struggling, pushing, crowding, jostling,\nscrambling--a swirling, writhing, mass of life--but the man did not\nheed. On every side, this life went rushing, roaring, rumbling,\nthundering, whirring, shrieking, clattering by. But the man noticed\nthe world now no more than it noticed him. In his Yesterdays he had\nfound something to do. He had found the only thing that a man, who\nknows himself to be a man, can do in truth to his manhood. Again, in\nhis Yesterdays, he was building a house for the little girl who lived\nnext door--the little girl who did not know.\n\nSomeday this childish old world will grow weary of its games of war\nand wealth. Someday it will lose interest in its playthings--banks,\nand stocks, and markets. Someday it will lose faith in its fairies of\nfame, its giants of position and power. Then will the disconsolate,\nforlorn, old world turn to Mother Nature to learn from her that the\nonly Occupation that is of real and lasting worth is the one\nOccupation in which all of Mother Nature's children have\nfellowship--the Occupation of home building.\n\nIn meadow and forest and field; in garden and grove and hedge and\nbush; in mountain and plain and desert and sea; in hollow logs; amid\nswaying branches; in rocky dens and earthy burrows; high among\ntowering cliffs and mighty crags; low in the marsh grass and among\nreeds and rushes; in stone walls; in fence corners; in tufts of grass\nand tiny shrubs; among the flowers and swinging vines;\neverywhere--everywhere--in all this great, round, world, Mother's\nchildren all are occupied in home building--occupied in this and\nnothing more. This is the one thing that Mother's children, in all the\nages since the beginning, have found worth doing. One wayward child\nalone is occupied just now, seemingly, with everything _but_ home\nbuilding. Man seems to be doing everything these days but the one\nthing that must be the foundation work of all. But never\nmind--homebuilding will be the world's work at the last. When all the\nplaythings of childhood and all the childish games of men have failed,\nhomebuilding will endure. Occupation must in the end mean home\nbuilding or it is meaningless.\n\nAnd the din, the confusion, the struggle, the turmoil of life--when it\nall means to men the building of homes and nothing more; when the\nefforts of men, the ambitions of men, the labor and toil of men are\nall to make homes for the little girls next door; then, will Mother\nNature smile upon her boys and God, I am sure, will smile upon them,\ntoo.\n\nThe man came back from his Yesterdays with a new heart, with new\ncourage and determination, and the next day he found something to do.\n\nI do not know what it was that the man found to do--_that_ is not\nmy story.\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nIt was nearly the time of falling leaves when the woman, who knew\nherself to be a woman, knocked at one of those doors, at which she did\nnot wish to knock, and was admitted.\n\nIt does not matter which of the doors it was. I cannot tell you what\nwork it was that the woman found to do. What mattered to her--and to\nthe world if only the world would understand--was this: that she was\nforced by the customs of the age and by necessity to enter a life that\nher woman heart did not desire. While her dreams were of the life that\nlies beyond the old, old, door that has stood open since the\nbeginning; while she waited on the threshold and longed to go in; she\nwas forced to turn aside, to seek admittance at one of those other\ndoors. This it is that matters--matters greatly. Perhaps only God who\nmade the woman heart and who Himself set that door open wide--perhaps\nonly God knows how greatly it matters.\n\nOf course, if the woman had not known herself to be a woman, it would\nhave made little difference either to her or to the world.\n\nAnd the woman when she had joined that great company of women, who, in\nthese modern days labor behind the doors through which they must go\nalone, found them to be good women--good and brave and true. And most\nof them, she found, were in that great company of workers just as she\nwas there--just as every woman who knows her womanhood is\nthere--through circumstances, the custom of the age, necessity. The\nonly saving thing about it all is this: their woman hearts are\nsomewhere else.\n\nAnd the woman found also that, while the door opened readily enough to\nher knock, she was received without a welcome. Through that other\ndoor, the door that God himself has opened, she would have entered\ninto a joyous welcome--she would have been received with gladness,\nwith rejoicing, with holiest love, and highest honor. To her, in the\nworld that lies beyond the old, old, door, would have been rendered\nhomage and reverence second only to that given to God Himself.\n_There,_ she would have been received as a _woman_ for her\n_womanhood;_ she would have been given first place among all\ncreated things. But the world into which she entered alone did not so\nreceive her. It received her coldly. Its manner said quite plainly:\n\"Why are you here? What do you want?\" It said: \"There is no sentiment\nhere, no love, no reverence, no homage; there is only business here,\nonly law, only figures and facts.\"\n\nThis world was not unkind to her, but it did not receive her as a\nwoman. It could not. It did not value her _womanhood_. Womanhood\nhas no value there. It valued her clear brain, her physical strength,\nher skillful hands, her willing feet, her ready wit: but her womanhood\nit ignored. The most priceless gift of the Creator to his\ncreatures--the one thing without which all human effort would be in\nvain, no Christian prayer would be possible; the one thing without\nwhich mankind would perish from the earth--this world, into which the\nwoman went, rejected. But the things that belonged to her\nwomanhood--the charm of her manner; the beauty of her face and form;\nthe appeal of her sex; the quick intuitions of her soul--all these\nthis world received and upon them put a price. They became not forces\nto be used by her in wifehood and motherhood but commercial assets,\nvalued in dollars, worth a certain price upon the woman labor market\nin the business world.\n\nAnd the woman's heart, because she knew herself to be a woman,\nrebelled at this buying and selling the things of her womanhood. These\nthings she rightly felt to be above price--far, far, above price. They\nwere the things of her wifehood and motherhood. They were given her to\nbe used by her in love, in mating, in bearing and rearing children, in\nthe giving of life to the world.\n\nThe things of a woman's womanhood are as far above price as life\nitself to which they belong. Even as color and perfume belong to the\nflowers; even as the music of the birds belongs to the feathery\nsongsters; even as the blue belongs to the sky, and the light to the\nstars; so these graces of a woman belong to her and to the mission of\nher womanhood are sacred. They are hers to be used in her holy office\nof womanhood; by her alone, without price, for the glory and honor of\nlife and the future of the race. So the woman's heart rebelled, but\nsecretly, instinctively, almost unconsciously. Open rebellion would\nhave made it impossible for her to remain in the world into which she\nentered because of her necessity and the custom of the age.\n\nShe found, too, that this world into which she had entered was very\ncourteous, that it was even considerate and kind--as considerate and\nkind as it was possible to be--for it seemed to understand her\nposition quite as well as she herself understood it. And this world\npaid her very well for the services she was asked to render. But it\nasked of her no favors. It accorded her no honors. It sought her with\nno offering. And, because of this, the woman, in the heart of her\nwomanhood, felt ashamed and humiliated.\n\nIt is the right of womanhood to bestow favors. It is a woman's right\nto be honored above all creatures of earth. Since the beginning of\nlife itself her sex has been so honored--has received the offerings\nfrom life. Mankind, alone, has at times attempted to change this law\nbut has never quite succeeded. Mankind never can fully succeed in this\nbecause woman holds life itself in her keeping. So the woman felt that\nher womanhood was humiliated and shamed. But she hid this feeling\nalso, hid it carefully, buried it deeply, because she knew that if she\ndid not it would betray her and she would not be permitted to remain\nin the world into which necessity forced her. To the woman, it seemed\nthat the world into which she had gone, itself, felt her shame and\nhumiliation. That, in secret, it desired to ask of her; to accord to\nher honors; to seek her with offerings. But this world could not do\nthese things because it dared not recognize her womanhood. When a\nwoman goes into that world into which she must go alone, she leaves\nher womanhood behind. Her womanhood is not received there.\n\nBut most of all, the thing that troubled the woman was this: the risk\nshe ran in entering into that life behind the door at which she had\nsought admittance. She saw that there was danger there--grave\ndanger--to her womanhood. In the busy, ceaseless, activity of that\nlife there would be little time for her waiting beside the old, old,\ndoor. The exacting demands of her work, or profession, or calling, or\nbusiness, would leave little leisure for the meditation and reflection\nthat is so large a part of the preparation necessary for entrance into\nthat other world of which she had dreamed. Constant contact with the\nunemotional facts and figures of that life which sets a market value\nupon the sacred things of womanhood would make it ever more difficult\nfor her to dream of love. There was grave danger that interest and\nenthusiasm in other things would supplant her longing for wifehood and\nmotherhood. She feared that in her Occupation she might not know, when\nhe came, that one who was to cross the threshold with her into the\nlife of her dreams--that, indeed, he might come and go again while she\nwas busy with other things. She feared that she would come to accept\nthe commercial valuation of the things that belonged to her womanhood\nand thus forget their higher, holier, use and that the continued\nrejection of her womanhood would, in time, lead her to think of it\nlightly, as incidental rather than supreme. There was real danger that\nshe would lose her desire to be sought, to give, to receive offerings;\nthat she would cease to rebel secretly; that she would no longer feel\nhumiliated at her position. She feared in short this danger--the\ngravest danger to her womanhood and thus to all that womankind holds\nin her keeping--that she would come to feel contented, satisfied, and\nhappy, in being a part of the world into which she was forced to go by\nthe custom of the age and by necessity. Because this woman knew\nherself to be a woman she feared this. If she had not come to know her\nwomanhood she would not have feared it. Neither would it have\nmattered.\n\nThe woman was thinking of these things that Saturday afternoon as she\nwalked homeward from her work. She often walked to her home on\nSaturday afternoons, when there was time, for she was strong and\nvigorous, with an abundance of good red woman blood in her veins, and\nloved the free movement in the open air.\n\nPerhaps, though, it is not exact to say that she was _thinking_\nof these things. The better word would be _feeling_. She was not\nthinking of them as I have set them down: but she was feeling them\nall. She was conscious of them, just as she was conscious of the dead\nbrown leaves that drifted across her path, though she was not thinking\nof the leaves. She felt them as she felt the breath of fall in the\npuff of air that drifted the leaves: but she did not put what she felt\ninto words. So seldom do the things that women feel get themselves put\ninto words.\n\nThe young woman had chosen a street that led in the direction of her\nhome through one of the city's smaller parks, and, as she went, the\npeople she met turned often to look after her for she was good to look\nat. She walked strongly but with a step as light as it was firm and\nfree; and, breathing deeply with the healthful exercise, her cheeks\nwere flushed with rosy color, her eyes shone, her countenance--her\nevery glance and movement--betrayed a strong and perfect womanhood--a\nwomanhood that, rightly understood, is wealth that the race and age\ncan ill afford to squander.\n\nComing to the park, she walked more slowly and, after a little, seated\nherself on a bench to watch the squirrels that were playing nearby.\nThe foliage had already lost its summer freshness though here and\nthere a tree or bush made brave attempt to retain its garb of green.\nNot a few brown leaves whirled helplessly about--the first of\nunnumbered myriads that soon would be offered by the dying summer in\ntribute to winter's conquering power. The sun was still warm but the\nair had in it a subtle flavor that seemed a blending of the coming\nseason with the season that was almost gone.\n\nNear the farther entrance to the little park, a carpenter was\nrepairing the roof of a house and, from where she sat, the woman could\nsee the long ladder resting against the eaves. A boy with his shepherd\ndog came romping along the walk under the trees as irresponsible as\nthe drifting leaves. The squirrels scampered away; the boy and dog\nwhirled on; and the woman, from the world into which she had entered\nbecause she must, went far away into the world of childhood. From her\nday of toil in a world that denied her womanhood she went back into\nher Yesterdays where womanhood--motherhood--was supreme. Perhaps it\nwas that subtle flavor in the air that did it; or it may have been the\nboy and his dog as they whirled past--care free as the drifting brown\nleaves; or perhaps it was the sight of the man repairing the roof of\nthe house with his long ladder resting against the eaves: the woman\nherself could not have told what it was, but, whatever it was, she\nslipped away to one of the brightest, happiest, days in all her\nYesterdays.\n\nBut, for a little while, that day was not at all bright and happy. It\nstarted out all right then, little by little, everything went wrong;\nand then it changed again and became one of the best of all her\nYesterdays. The day went wrong for a little while at first because\neverything in the house was being taken up, or taken down, beaten,\nshaken, scrubbed or dusted; everything was being arranged or\ndisarranged and rearranged again. Surely there was never such\nconfusion, so it seemed to the little girl, in any home in all the\nworld. Every time that she would get herself nicely settled with her\ndolls she would be forced to move again; until there was in the whole,\nbusy, bustling place no corner at all where she was not in somebody's\nway. When she would have entered into the confusion and helped to\nstraighten things out, the woman told her, rather sharply, to go away,\nand declared that her efforts to help only made things worse.\n\nOut in the garden, at the opening in the hedge, she called and called\nand waited and waited for the boy. But the boy did not answer. He was\ntoo busy, she thought, to care about her. She felt quite sure that he\ndid not even want her to help in whatever it was that he was doing.\nPerhaps, she thought wistfully, peering through the little green\ntunnel, perhaps if she could go and find him he might--when he saw how\nmiserable and lonely she was--he might be kind. But to go through the\nhedge was forbidden, except when mother said she might.\n\nSorrowfully she turned away to seek the kitchen where the cook was\nbusy with the week's baking. But the cook, when the little girl\noffered to roll the pie crust or stir the frosting for the cake, was\nhurried and cross and declared that the little girl could not help but\nonly hinder and that it would be better for her not to get in the way.\n\nOnce more, in a favorite corner of the big front porch, she was just\nbeginning to find some comfort with her doll when the woman with the\nbroom forced her to move again.\n\nPoor little girl! What could she do under such trying\ncircumstances--what indeed but go to mother. All the way up the long\nstairs she went to where mother was as busy as ever a mother could be\ndoing something with a lot of things that were piled all over the\nroom. But mother, when she saw the tear stained little face,\nunderstood in a flash and put aside whatever it was that she was\ndoing, quickly, and held the little girl, dolly and all, close in her\nmother arms until the feeling of being in the way and of not being\nwanted was all gone. And, when the tears were quite dry, mother said,\nso gently that it did not hurt, \"No dearie, I'm afraid you can't help\nmother now because mother's girl is too little to understand what it\nis that mother is doing. But I'll tell you something that you\n_can_ do. Mother will give you some things from the pantry and\nyou may go over to see the little boy. And I am as sure, as sure can\nbe, that, when he sees all the nice things you have, he will play\nkeeping house with you.\"\n\nSo the little girl in the Yesterdays, with her treasures from mother's\npantry, went out across the garden and through the hedge to find the\nboy. Very carefully she went through the opening in the hedge so that\nshe would lose none of her treasures. And oh, the joy of it! The\nsplendid wonder of it! She found that the boy had built a house--all\nby himself he had built it--with real boards, and had furnished it\nwith tiny chairs and tables made from boxes. Complete it was, even to\na beautiful strip of carpet on the floor and a shelf on which to put\nthe dishes. Then, indeed, when the boy told her how he had made the\nhouse for her--just for her--and how it was to have been a surprise;\nand that she had come just in time because if she tad come sooner it\nwould have spoiled the fun--the heart of the little girl overflowed\nwith gladness. And to think that all the time she was feeling so not\nwanted and in the way the boy was doing _this_ and all for her!\nDid her mother know? She rather guessed that she did; mothers have\nsuch a marvelous way of knowing everything, particularly the nicest\nthings.\n\nSo the little girl gave the boy all the treasures that she had brought\nso carefully and they had great fun eating them together; and all the\nrest of that day they played \"keephouse.\" And this is why that day was\namong the best of all the woman's Yesterdays.\n\nSeveral men going home from work passed the spot where the young woman\nsat. Then a group of shop girls followed; then another group and, in\nturn, two women from an office that did not close early on Saturdays.\nAfter them a young girl who looked very tired came walking alone, and\nthen there were more men and women in a seemingly endless procession.\nAnd so many girls and women there were in the procession that the\nwoman, as she came back from her Yesterdays, wondered who was left to\nmake homes for the world.\n\nThe sun was falling now in long bars and shafts of light between the\nbuildings and the trees, and the windows of the house where the man\nhad been fixing the roof were blazing as if in flames. The man had\ntaken down his ladder and gone away. It was time the young woman was\ngoing home. And as she went, joining the procession of laborers, her\nheart was filled with longing--with longing and with hope. The boy of\nher Yesterdays lived only in those days that were gone. He had no\nplace in the dreams of her womanhood. He was only the playmate of the\nlittle girl. Even as those years were gone the boy had gone out of her\nlife. But somewhere, perhaps, that one who was to go with her through\nthe old, old, open door was even then building for her a home--their\nhome. Perhaps, some day, an all wise Mother Nature would tell her to\nleave the world that gave her no welcome--that could not recognize her\nwomanhood--that made her heart rebel in humiliation and shame--and go\nto do her woman's work.\n\nVery carefully would she go when the time came, taking all the\ntreasures of her womanhood. She would go very carefully that none of\nher treasures be lost.\n\n\n\n\n\nKNOWLEDGE\n\nThe green of the pastures and the gold of the fields was buried so\ndeeply under banks of snow that no one could say: \"Here the cattle fed\nand the buttercups grew; there the grain was harvested; here the corn\nstood in shocks; there the daisies and meadow grass sheltered the nest\nof the bobo-link.\" As death calls alike the least and the greatest\nback to the dust from which they came, so winter laid over the varied\nand changing scenes of summer a cold, white, shroud of wearisome\nsameness. The birds were hundreds of miles away in their sunny\nsouthland haunts. The bees, the butterflies, and many of the tiny wood\nfolk, were all snugly tucked in their winter beds, dreaming, perhaps,\nas they slept, of the sunshiny summer days. In the garden the wind had\nheaped a great drift high against the hedge on the boy's side, and, on\nthe little girl's side, the cherry tree in the corner stood shivering\nin its nakedness with bare arms uplifted as though praying for mercy\nto the stinging cold wind.\n\nIn the city the snow, as fast as it fell, was stained by soot and\ngrime and lay in the streets a mass of filth. The breath of the\nlaboring truck horses arose from their wide nostrils like clouds of\nsteam and, in the icy air, covered their breasts and shoulders and\nsides with a coat of white frost. The newsboys and vendors of pencils\nand shoestrings shivered in nooks and corners and doorways and, as the\npeople went with heads bent low before the freezing blast that swirled\nthrough the narrow canyons between the tall buildings, the snowy\npavement squeaked loudly under their feet.\n\nAnd the man who had found something to do, from his Occupation, began\nto acquire Knowledge. In doing things, he began to know things.\n\nBut the man had to gain first a knowledge of Knowledge. He first had\nto learn this: that a man might know all about a thing without ever\nknowing the thing itself. He had to understand that Knowledge is not\nknowing _about_ a thing but knowing the _thing_. When first\nhe had dreamed his manhood dreams, before he had found something to\ndo, the man, quite modestly, thought that he knew a great deal. In his\nschool days, he had exhausted many text books and had passed many\ncreditable examinations upon many subjects and so he had thought that\nhe knew a great deal. And he did. He knew a great deal _about_\nthings. But when he had found something to do, and had tried to do it,\nhe found also very quickly that, although he knew so much about the\nthing he had to do, he knew very, very, little of the thing itself and\nthat only knowledge of the thing itself could ever help him to realize\nhis dreams.\n\nFrom his Occupation, he learned this also: that Knowledge is not what\nsome other man knows and tells you but what the thing that you have\nfound to do makes known to you. Knowledge is not told, _cannot_\nbe told, to one by another, even though that other has it abundantly\nfor, to the one to whom it is told, it remains ever what someone else\nknows. What the thing that a man finds to do makes known to him,\n_that_ is Knowledge. So Knowledge is to be had not from books\nalone but rather from Life. So idleness is a vicious ignorance and\nthose who do the most are wisest.\n\nBefore he had found something to do the man had called himself a\nthinker. But when he tried to do the thing that he had found to do, he\nquickly realized that he had only thought that he thought. He found\nthat he was not at all a thinker but a listener--a receiver--a\nrememberer. In his school days, the thoughts of others were offered\nhim and he, because he had accepted them, called them his own. He\ncame, now, to understand that thinking is not accepting the thoughts\nof others but finding thoughts of your own in whatever it is that you\nhave found to do.\n\nThinking the thoughts of others is a delightful pastime and profitable\nbut it is not really thinking. Also, if one be blessed with a good\nmemory, he may thus cheaply acquire a reputation for great wisdom;\njust as one, if he happens to be born with a nose of uncommon length\nor bigness, may attract the attention of the world. But no one should\ndeceive himself. A man because he is able, better than the multitude,\nto repeat the thoughts of other men must not therefore think himself a\nbetter thinker than the crowd. No more should the one with the\nuncommon nose flatter himself that he is necessarily handsome or\ndistinguished in appearance because the people notice him. He who\nattracts the attention of the world should inquire most carefully into\nthe reason for the gathering of the crowd; for a crowd will gather as\nreadily to listen to a mountebank as to hear an angel from heaven.\n\nTo repeat what others have thought is not at all evidence that he who\nremembers is thinking. Great thoughts are often repeated\nthoughtlessly. A man's Occupation betrays him or establishes his claim\nto Knowledge. That which a man does proclaims that which he thinks or\nin his thoughtlessness finds him out.\n\nOf course, when the man had learned this, he said at first, quite\nwrongly, that his school days were wasted. He said that what he had\ncalled his education was all a mistake--that it was vanity only and\nwholly worthless. But, as he went on gaining ever more and more\nKnowledge from the thing that he was doing, and, through that thing,\nof many other things, he came to understand that his school days were\nnot wasted but very well spent indeed. He came to see that what he had\ncalled education was not a mistake. He came to understand that what\nwas wrong was this: he had considered his education complete,\nfinished, when he had only been prepared to begin. He had considered\nhis schooling as an end to be gained when it was only a means to the\nend. He had considered his learning as wealth to hold when it was\ncapital to invest. He had mistaken the thoughts that he received from\nothers for Knowledge when they were given him only to inspire and to\nhelp him in acquiring Knowledge.\n\nAnd then, of this knowledge of Knowledge gained by the man from his\nOccupation, there was born in him a mighty passion, a burning desire.\nIt was the passion for Knowledge. It was the desire to know. To know\nthe thing that he had found to do was not enough. He determined to use\nthat knowledge to gain Knowledge of many other things. He felt within\nhimself a new strength stirring--the strength of thought. He saw that\nknowledge of things led ever to more knowledge, even as link to link\nin a golden chain. One end of the chain he held in his Occupation; the\nother was somewhere, far beyond his sight, hidden in the mists that\nshroud the Infinite Fact, fast to the mighty secret of Life itself.\nLink by link, he determined to follow the chain. From knowing things\nto knowledge of other things he would go even until he held in his\ngrip the last link--until he held the key to the riddle--until he knew\nthe answer to the sum of Life.\n\nAnd facts--cold, uncompromising, all powerful, unanswerable\nfacts--should give him this mastering knowledge of Life. For him there\nshould be no sentiment to deceive, no illusion to beguile, no fancy to\nlead astray. As resistlessly as the winter, with snowflake upon\nsnowflake, had buried all the delightful vagaries of summer, so this\nman, in his passion for Knowledge, would have buried all the charming\ninconsistencies, the beautiful inaccuracies, the lovely pretenses of\nLife. The illusions, the sentiment, the fancies, the poetry of Life,\nhe would have buried under the icy sameness of his facts, even as the\nflowers and grasses were hidden under winter's shroud of snow. But he\ncould not. Under the snow, summer still lived. Under the cold facts of\nLife, the tender sentiments, the fond fancies, the dear illusions have\nstrength even as the flowers and grasses.\n\nI do not know what it was that brought it about. It does not matter\nwhat it was. Perhaps it was the sight of some boys coasting down a\nlittle hill, on a side street, near where the man lived at this time:\nperhaps it was a group of children who, on their way home from school,\nwere waging a merry snow fight: or, perhaps, it was the man's own\neffort to acquire Knowledge: or, it may be, that his brain was weary,\nthat the way of Knowledge seemed over long, that the links in the\ngolden chain were many and passed all too slowly through his hand--I\ndo not know--but, whatever it was that did it, the man, as he sat\nbefore his fire that winter evening with a too solid and substantial\nbook, slipped away from his grown up world of facts back into the no\nless real world of childhood, back into his Yesterdays--to a school\nday in his Yesterdays.\n\nOnce again he made his way in the morning to the little schoolhouse\nthat stood half way up a long hill, in the edge of a bit of timber,\nnearly two miles from his home. The yard, beaten smooth and hard by\nmany bare and childish feet, was separated from the timber by a rail\nfence but was left open in front to any stray horses or cattle that,\nwandering down the road, might be tempted to rest a while in the shade\nof a great tree that stood near the center of the little clearing. The\nstumps of the other forest beauties that had once, like this tree,\ntossed their branches in the sunlight were still holding the places\nthat God had given them and made fine seats for the girls or bases for\nthe boys when they played ball at recess or noon. And often, when the\nshouting youngsters had been called from their sports by the rapping\nof the teacher's ruler at the door and only the busy hum of their\nchildish voices came floating through the open windows, a venturesome\nsquirrel or a saucy chipmunk would creep stealthily along the fence,\nstopping now and then to sit bolt upright with tail in air to look and\nlisten. Then suddenly, at sight of a laughing face at the window or\nthe appearance of some boy who had gained the coveted permission to\nget a bucket of water, the little visitor would whisk away again like\na flash and, with a warning chatter to his mate, would seek safety\namong the leaves and branches of the forest only to reappear once more\nwhen all was quiet until, at last, made bold by many trials, he would\nleap from the fence and scamper across the yard to take possession of\nthe tallest stump as though he himself were a schoolboy. Sometimes a\ncrow, after carefully watching the place for a little while from a\nsafe position on the fence across the road, would fly quietly down to\nlook for choice bits dropped from the dinner baskets of the children.\nOr again, a long, lazy, black snake would crawl across the yard to\nsearch for the little mice that lived in the foundation of the house\nand in the corners of the fence. Or, perhaps, a chicken hawk, that had\nbeen sailing on outstretched wings in ever narrowing circles, would\ndrop from the blue sky to claim his share of the plunder only to be\nfrightened away again by the sound of the teacher's voice raised in\nsharp rebuke of some mischievous urchin.\n\nThe schoolhouse was not a large building nor was it, in the least,\nimposing. It was built of wood with a foundation of rough stone and\nthere were heavy shutters which were always carefully closed at night\nto keep out the tramps who might seek a lodging place within. And\nthere was a woodshed, too, where the boys romped upon rainy days and\nwhere was fought many a schoolboy battle for youthful love and honor.\nThe building had once been painted white but the storm and sunshine of\nmany months had worn away the paint, and there remained only the dark,\nweather stained, boards save beneath the cornice and the window ledge\nwhere one might still find traces of its former glory. The chimney,\ntoo, was old and some of the bricks had crumbled and fallen from the\ntop which made it look ragged against the sky. And the steps and\nthreshold were worn very thin--very, very, thin.\n\nWearied with his passion for Knowledge; tired of his cold facts;\nhungering in his heart for a bit of wholesome sentiment as one in\nwinter hungers for the summer flowers; the man who sat before his fire\nthat night, with a too heavy and substantial book, crossed once more\nwith childish feet the worn threshold of the old schoolhouse and stood\nwithin the entry where hung the hats and dinner baskets of his mates.\nThey looked very familiar to him--those hats--and, as he saw them in\nhis memory, each offered mute testimony to its owner's disposition and\nrank in childhood's world. There were broad brimmed straws that\nbelonged to the patient, plodding, boys and caps that seemed made to\nset far back on the heads of the boisterous lads. There was the old\nslouch felt of the poor boy who did chores for his board and the\nbrimless hat of the bully of the school. There were the trim sailors\nof the good little boys and the head gear of his own particular chum.\nAnd there--the man who sought Knowledge only in facts smiled at the\nfire and a fond light came into his eyes while his too solid and\nsubstantial hook slipped unheeded to the floor--there was a sunbonnet\nof blue checkered gingham hanging by its long strings from a hook near\nthe window.\n\nWith fast beating heart, the boy saw that the next hook was vacant and\nplacing his own well worn straw beside the bonnet he wondered if she\nwould know whose hat it was. And then once more, with reluctant hand,\nthe seeker of Knowledge, in his Yesterdays, pushed open the door\nleading to the one room in the building and, with a sigh of regret,\npassed from the bright sunlight of boyish freedom to the shadow of his\nchildish task.\n\nThere were neither tinted walls nor polished woodwork in that hall of\nlearning. But, thank God, learning does not depend upon tinted walls\nor polished woodwork. Indeed it seems that rude rafters and\nunplastered ceilings most often covers the head of learning. The\nhumble cottage of the farmer shelters many a true scholar and\nstatesmen are bred in log cabins. Neither was there a furnace with\nmysterious cranks and chains nor steam pipes nor radiators. But, when\nthe cold weather came, the room was warmed by an old sheet iron stove\nthat stood near the center of the building with an armful of wood in a\nbox nearby and the kindlings for to-morrow's fire drying on the floor\nbeneath. The desks were of soft pine, without paint or varnish, but\ncarved with many a quaint and curious figure by jack knives in the\nhands of ambitious youngsters. The seats were rude benches worn smooth\nand shiny. A water bucket had its place near the door and a rusty tin\ndipper that leaked quite badly hung from a nail in the casing.\n\nAnd hanging upon the dingy wall were the old maps and charts that,\ntorn and soiled by long usage, had patiently guided generations of\nboys and girls through the mysteries of lands and seas, icebergs,\ntrade winds, deserts, and plains. Still patiently they marked for the\nboy's bewildered brain latitude and longitude, the tropic of cancer,\nthe arctic circle, and the poles. Were they hanging there still? the\nman wondered. Were they still patiently leading the way through a\nwilderness of islands and peninsulas, capes and continents, rivers,\nlakes, and sounds? Or had they, in the years that had gone since he\nlooked upon their learned faces, been sunk to oblivion in the depths\nof their own oceans by the weight of their own mountain ranges? And,\nsuddenly, the man who sought Knowledge in facts found himself wishing\nin his heart that some gracious being would make for older children\nmaps and charts that they might know where flow the rivers of\nprosperity, where rise the mountains of fame, where ripple the lakes\nof love, where sleep the valleys of rest, or where thunders the ocean\nof truth.\n\nAt one end of the old schoolroom, behind the teacher's desk, was a\nblackboard with its accompanying chalk, erasers, rulers, and bits of\nstring. To the boy, that blackboard was a trial, a temptation, a\nvindication, or a betrayal. Often, as he sat with his class on the\nlong recitation seat that faced the teacher's desk, with half studied\nlesson, but with bright hopes of passing the twenty minutes safely,\nbefore the slow hand of the old clock had marked but half the time,\nhis hopes would be blasted by a call to the board where he would bring\nupon himself the ridicule of his schoolmates, the condemnation of the\nteacher, and would take his seat to hear, with burning cheeks, the\nawful sentence: \"You may study your lesson after school.\"\n\nAfter school--sorrowfully the boy saw the others passing from the\nroom, leaving him behind. And the last to go, glancing back with tear\ndimmed eyes, was the little girl. Sadly he listened to the voices in\nthe entry and heard their shouts as they burst out doors;\nand--suddenly, his heart beat quicker and his cheeks burned--_that_\nwas her voice!\n\nClear and sweet through the open window of the man's memory it\ncame--the voice of his little girl mate of the Yesterdays.\n\nShe was standing on the worn threshold of the old schoolhouse, calling\nto her friends to wait; and the boy knew that she was lingering there\nfor him and that she called to her companions loudly so that he would\nunderstand.\n\nBut the teacher knew it too and bade the little girl go home.\n\nThen, while the boy listened to that sweet voice growing fainter and\nfainter in the distance; while he saw her, in his fancy, walking\nslowly, lagging behind her companions, looking back for him; the\nteacher talked to him very seriously about the value of his\nopportunities; told him that to acquire an education was his duty;\nsought to impress upon him that the most important thing in life was\nKnowledge.\n\nOf course, thought the boy, teacher must know. And, thinking this, he\nfelt himself to be a very bad boy, indeed; because, in his heart, he\nknew that he would have, that moment, given up every chance of an\neducation; he would have sacrificed every hope of wisdom; he would\nhave thrown away all Knowledge and heaven itself just to be walking\ndown the road with the little girl. And he must have been a little\nhad--that boy--because also, most ardently, did he wish that he was\nbig enough to thrash the teacher or whoever it was that invented\nblackboards.\n\nAs the man stooped to take up again his too solid and substantial\nbook, he felt that he was but a schoolboy still. To him, the world had\nbecome but a great blackboard. In his private life or in conversation\nwith a friend, he might hide his poorly prepared lesson behind a show\nof fine talk, a pet quotation, or an air of learning; but when he was\nforced to put what he knew where all men might see--when he was made\nto write his sentences in books or papers or compelled to do his\nproblems in the business world--then it was that his lack of\npreparation was discovered, and that he brought upon himself the\nridicule or condemnation of his fellows. Unconsciously he listened,\nhalf expecting to hear again the old familiar sentence: \"You may study\nyour lesson after school.\" After school--would there be any after\nschool, he wondered.\n\n\"And, after all, was that teacher in his Yesterdays right?\" the man\nasked himself. \"Was Knowledge the most important thing in life? After\nall, was that schoolboy of the Yesterdays such a bad schoolboy\nbecause, in his boyish heart, he rebelled against the tasks that kept\nhim from his schoolmates and from the companionship of the little\ngirl? Was that boy so bad because he wished that he was big enough to\nthrash whoever it was that invented blackboards, to rob schoolboys of\ntheir schoolgirl mates?\"\n\nSuppose--the man asked himself, as he laid aside the too heavy and\nsubstantial book and looked into the fire again--suppose, that, after\na lifetime devoted to the pursuit of Knowledge, there should be no\none, when school time was over, to linger on the worn old threshold\nfor him? Suppose he should be forced, in the late afternoon, to go\ndown the homeward road alone? Could it be truly said that his manhood\nyears had been well spent? Could any number of accumulated facts\nsatisfy him if the hour was a lonely hour when school closed for the\nday? Might it not be that there is a Knowledge to be gained from Life\nthat is of more value than the wintry Knowledge of facts?\n\nAs the man looked back into his Yesterdays, the blackboard and its\ncondemnation mattered little to him. It was the going home alone that\nmattered. What, he wondered, would matter most when, at last, he could\nlook back upon his grown up school days--the world blackboard with its\napproval or its condemnation, or the going home alone?\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nIt was the time of melting snow. The top of the orchard hill was a\nfaded brown patch as though, on a shoulder of winter's coat, the\nseason had worn a hole quite through; while the fields of the fall\nplowing made spots that looked pitifully thin and threadbare; and the\ncreek, below the house where the little girl lived, was a long dark\nline looking for all the world like a rip where the icy stitching of a\nseam in the once proud garment had, at last, given way. But the drift\nin the garden on the boy's side of the hedge was still piled high\nagainst the barrier of thickly interwoven branches and twigs and the\ncherry tree, in its shivering nakedness, seemed to be pleading, now,\nfor spring to come quickly.\n\nThe woman who knew herself to be a woman did not attempt to walk home\nfrom her work that Saturday afternoon. The streets were too muddy and\nshe was later than usual because of some extra work.\n\nOf her Occupation--of the world into which she had gone--the woman\nalso was gaining Knowledge. Though, she did not learn from choice but\nbecause she must. And she learned of her work only what was needful\nfor her to know that she might hold her place. She had no desire to\nknow more. Because the woman already knew the supreme thing, she had\nno desire to learn more of her Occupation than she must. Already she\nknew her womanhood, and that, to a woman who knows, is the supreme\nthing. For a woman with understanding there is no Knowledge greater\nthan this: the knowledge of her womanhood. There was born in her no\npassion for knowledge of things. She burned with no desire to follow\nthe golden chain, link by link, to its hidden end. In her womanhood\nshe held already the answer to the sum of Life.\n\nThe passion of her womanhood was not to _know_ but to _trust_--not\n_facts_ but _faith_--not _evidence_ but _belief_--not _reason_ but\n_emotion_. Her desire was not to take from the world by the power\nof Knowledge but to receive from the world by right of her sex and love.\nShe did not crave the independence of great learning but longed, rather,\nfor the prouder dependence of a true womanhood. Out of her woman heart's\nfullness she pitied and fed the poor mendicant without inquiring into\nthe economic condition that made him a beggar. Her situation, she\naccepted with secret rebellion, with hidden shame and humiliation\nin her heart, but never asked why the age forced her into such a\nposition. For affection, for sympathy, for confidence, and understanding,\nshe hungered with a woman hunger; and, through her hunger for these,\nfrom the men and women with whom she labored she gained Knowledge of\nLife. Of the lives of her fellow workers--of the women who had entered\nthat world, even as she had entered it, because they must--of the men\nwhom she came to know under circumstances that forbade recognition of\nher womanhood--she gained Knowledge; and the Knowledge she gained was\nthis: that the world is a world of hungry hearts.\n\nI do not know just what the circumstances were under which the woman\nlearned this. I do not know what her Occupation was nor who her\nfriends were; nor can I tell in detail of the peculiar incidents that\nled to this Knowledge. Such things are not of my story. This, only,\nbelongs to my story: the woman learned that the world is a world of\nhungry hearts. Cold and cruel and calculating and bold, fighting\ndesperately, merciless, and menacing, the world is but a hungry\nhearted world with it all. This, when a woman knows it, is, for her, a\nsaving Knowledge. Just to the degree that a woman knows this, she is\nwise above all men--wise with a wisdom that men cannot attain. Just to\nthe degree that a woman is ignorant of this, she is unlearned in the\nworld's best wisdom.\n\nLong before she knocked at the door of the world into which she had\nbeen admitted, upon condition that she left her womanhood without, the\nwoman had thought herself wise in knowledge of mankind. In her school\ndays, text books and lessons had meant little to her beside the\nfriendship of her schoolmates. At her graduation she had considered\nher life education complete. She thought, modestly, that she was\nfitted for a woman's place in life. And that which she learned first\nfrom the world into which she had gone was this: that her knowledge of\nlife was very, very, meager; that there were many, many, things about\nmen and women that she did not know.\n\nSchool could fit her only for the fancy work of Life: plain sewing she\nmust learn of Life itself. School had made her highly ornamental: Life\nmust make her useful. School had developed her capacity for pleasure\nand enjoyment: not until Life had developed her capacity for sorrow\nand pain would her education be complete. School had taught her to\nspeak, to dress, and to act correctly: Life must teach her to feel.\nSchool had trained her mind to appreciate: Life must teach her to\nsympathize. School had made her a lady: Life must make the lady a\nwoman.\n\nThe woman had known her life schoolmates only in pleasure--in those\nhours when they came to her seeking to please or desiring to be\npleased. In her Occupation she was coming to know them in their hours\nof toil, when there was no thought of gaining or giving pleasure, but\nonly of the demands of their existence; when duty, pitiless, stern,\nuncompromising, duty held them in its grip; when need, unrelenting,\never present, dominating need, drove them under its lash. She had\nknown them only in their hours of leisure--when their minds were free\nfor the merry jest, the ready laugh, the quick sympathy: now she was\ncoming to know them in those other hours when their minds were intent\nupon the battle they waged--when their thoughts were all of the\nattack, the defense, the advance, the retreat, the victory or defeat.\nShe had known them only in their hours of rest--when their hands were\nempty, their nerves and muscles relaxed, their hearts calm and their\nbrains cool; now she saw them when their hands held the weapons of\ntheir warfare--the tools of their craft--when their nerves and muscles\nwere braced for the strain of the conflict or tense with the effort of\ntoil; when their hearts beat high with the zeal of their purpose and\ntheir brains were fired with the excitement of their efforts. She had\nknown them only in the hours of their dreaming--when, as they looked\nout upon life, they talked confidently of the future: she was learning\nnow to know them when they were working out their dreams; at times\nwith hopes high and courage strong; at other times discouraged,\nfrightened, and dismayed. She had known them only as they dreamed of\nthe past--when they talked in low tones of the days that were gone:\nnow she saw them as they thought only of the present and the days that\nwere to come. So this woman, from the world into which she had gone,\ngained knowledge of mankind.\n\nAnd this is the pity and the danger of it: that the woman gained this\nknowledge from a world, that, even as it taught her, denied her\nwomanhood. The sadness of it all is this: to the world that refused to\nrecognize her womanhood, it was given to teach her that which would\nmake her womanhood complete. The knowledge that she must have to\ncomplete her womanhood the woman should have gained only from the life\nof her dreams--the life that is beyond that old, old, open door\nthrough which she could not pass alone. In the companionship,\nsympathy, strength, protection, and love, of that one who was to cross\nwith her the threshold of the door that God set open in the beginning,\nshe should have gained the knowledge of life that would ripen her\ngirlhood into womanhood. For what else, indeed, has God given love to\nmen and women? In the strength that would come to her with her\nchildren, the woman should have been privileged to learn sorrow and\npain. In the world that would have honored, above all else, her\nwomanhood, she should have been permitted to find the knowledge of\nlife that would perfect and complete her womanhood.\n\nFruit, I know, may be picked green from the tree and artificially\nforced to a kind of ripeness. But the fruit that matures under\nNature's careful hand; that knows in its ripening the warm sunshine\nand the cleansing showers, the cool of the quiet evening and the\nfreshness of the dewy morn, the strength of the roaring storms and the\nsoftness of the caressing breeze--this fruit alone, I say, has the\nflavor that is from heaven.\n\nIt is a trite saying that many a girl of sixteen, these days, knows\nmore of life than her grandmother knew at sixty. It remains to be\nproven that, because of this knowledge, the young woman of to-day is a\nbetter woman than her grandmother was. But, as the only positive proof\nwould be her children, the case is very likely to be thrown out of\ncourt for lack of evidence for it seems, somehow, that, when women\ngain Knowledge from that world into which they go alone, leaving their\nwomanhood behind, they acquire also a strange pride in being too wise\nto mate for love or to bear children. And yet, it is true, that the\nknowledge that enables a woman to live happy and contented without\nchildren is a damnable knowledge and a menace to the race.\n\nPoor old world, you are so \"grown up\" these days and your palate is so\neducated to the artificial flavor that you have forgotten, seemingly,\nhow peaches taste when ripened on the trees. God pity you, old world,\nif you do not soon get back into the orchard before you lose your\ntaste for fruit altogether.\n\nThe knowledge that the woman gained from her Occupation made her\nquestion, more and more, if that one with whom she could cross the\nthreshold of the door that led to the life of her dreams, would ever\ncome. The knowledge she gained made her doubt her courage to enter\nthat door with him if he should come. In the knowledge she gained of\nthe world into which she had gone alone, her womanhood's only\nsalvation was this: that she gained also the knowledge that the world\nof men, even as the world of women, is a world of hungry hearts. It\nwas this that kept her--that made her strong--that saved her. It was\nthis knowledge that saved her womanhood for herself and for the race.\n\nThe week, for the woman, had been a hard week. The day, for her, had\nbeen a hard day. When she boarded the car to go to her home she was\nvery tired and she was not quite the picture of perfect woman health\nthat she had been that other Saturday--the time of falling leaves.\n\nFor some unaccountable reason there was one vacant seat left in the\ncar and she dropped into it with a little inward sigh of relief. With\nweary, unseeing, eyes she stared out of the window at the throng of\npeople hurrying along through the mud and slush of the streets. Her\ntired brain refused to think. Her very soul was faint with loneliness\nand the knowledge that she was gaining of life.\n\nThe car stopped again and a party of girls of the high school age,\nevidently just from the Saturday matinee, crowded in. Clinging to the\nstraps and the backs of seats, clutching each other with little gusts\nand ripples of laughter, they filled the aisle of the crowded car with\na fresh and joyous life that touched the tired woman like a breath of\nspring. In all this work stale, stupidly weary, world there is nothing\nso refreshing as the wholesome laugh of a happy, care free, young\ngirl. The woman whose heart was heavy with knowledge of life would\nhave liked to take them in her arms. She felt a sense of gratitude as\nthough she were indebted to them just for their being. And would\nthese, too--the woman thought--would these, too, be forced by the\ncustom of the age--by necessity--to go into the world that would not\nrecognize their womanhood--that would put a price upon the priceless\nthings of their womanhood--that would teach them hard lessons of life\nand, with a too early knowledge, crush out the sweet girlish\nnaturalness, even as a thoughtless foot crushes a tender flower while\nstill it is in the bud?\n\nAnd thinking thus, perhaps because of her weariness, perhaps because\nof some chance word dropped by the girls as they talked of their\nschool and schoolmates, the woman went back again into her\nYesterdays--to the schoolmates of her Yesterdays. The world in which\nshe now lived and labored was forgotten. Forgotten were the worries\nand troubles of her grown up life--forgotten the trials and\ndisappointments--forgotten the new friends, the uncongenial\nacquaintances, the cruel knowledge, the heartless business--forgotten\neverything of the present--all, all, was lost in a golden mist of the\nlong ago.\n\nThe tall, graceful, girl holding to a strap at the forward end of the\ncar, in the woman's Yesterdays, lived just beyond the white church at\nthe corner. The dark haired, dark eyed, round faced one, she knew as\nthe minister's daughter. While the dainty, doll like, miss clinging to\nher sturdier sister, in those days of long ago, was the woman's own\nparticular chum. And the girl with the yellow curls--the one with the\ngolden hair--the blue eyed, and the brown--the slender and the\nstout--every one--belonged to the tired woman's Yesterdays--every one\nshe had known in the past and to each she gave a name.\n\nAnd then--as the woman, watching the young schoolgirls in the crowded\ncar, lived once again those days of the old schoolhouse on the hill\nwhere, with her girl companions of the long ago, she sought the\nbeginnings of Knowledge--the boys came, too. Just as in the Yesterdays\nthey had come to take their places in the old schoolroom, they came,\nnow, to take their places in the woman's memory.\n\nThere was the tall, thin, lad whose shoulders seemed, even in his\nschool days, to find the burden of life too heavy; and who wore always\non his face such a sad and solemn air that one was almost startled\nwhen he laughed as though the parson had cracked a joke at a funeral.\nThe woman smiled as she remembered how his clothes were never known to\nfit him. When his trousers were so short that they barely reached\nbelow his knees his coat sleeves covered his hands and the skirts of\nthat garment almost swept the ground; but, when the trousers were\nrolled up at the bottom and hung over his feet like huge bags, his\nlong, thin, arms showed, half way to his elbows, in a coat that was\ntoo small to button about even his narrow chest. That boy never missed\nhis lessons, though, but when he learned them no one ever knew for he\nseemed to be always drawing grotesque figures and funny faces on his\nslate or whittling slyly on some curious toy when the teacher's back\nwas turned. He had no particular chum or crony. He was never a leader\nbut dared to follow the boldest. To the little boys and girls he was a\nhero; to the older ones he was--\"Slim.\"\n\nThe woman, by chance, had met this old schoolmate, one day, in her\ngrown up world. In the editorial rooms of a large city daily he was\nthe chief, and she noticed that his clothing fitted him a little\nbetter; that he was a little broader in the shoulders; a little larger\naround the waist; his face was not quite so solemn and his eyes had a\nmore knowing look perhaps. But still--still--the woman could see that\nhe was, after all, the same old \"Slim\" and she fancied, with another\nsmile, that he often, still, whittled toys when the teacher's back was\nturned.\n\nThen came the fat boy--\"Stuffy.\" He, too, had another name which does\nnot matter. Always in the Yesterdays, as in the to-days, there is a\n\"Stuffy.\" \"Stuffy\" was evidently built to roll through life, pushed\ngently by that special providence that seems to look after the affairs\nof fat people. His teeth were white and even, his eyes of the deepest\nblue, and his nose--what there was of it--was almost hidden by cheeks\nthat were as red and shiny as the apples he always carried in his\npocket. He was very generous with those same apples--was\n\"Stuffy\"--though one was tempted to think that he shared his fruit not\nso much from choice but rather because he disliked the hard work that\nwas sure to follow a refusal of the pressing invitation to \"go\nhalvers.\" The woman fancied that she could see again the look of\nmingled fun and fear, generosity and greed, that went over her\nschoolmate's face as he saw the half of his eatable possessions pass\ninto the keeping of his companions. And then, as he watched the\ntempting morsels disappear, the expression on his face would seem to\nshow a battle royal between his stomach and his heart, in that he\nrejoiced to see the happiness of his friends, even while he coveted\nthat which gave them pleasure. She wondered where was \"Stuffy\" now?\nShe felt sure that he must live in a big house, and drive to and from\nhis place of business in a fine carriage, with fine horses and a\ncoachman in livery, and dine and wine his friends as often as he chose\nwith never a fear that he would run short of good things for himself.\nShe was quite sure, too, that he would suffer with severe attacks of\ngout at times and would have four or five half grown daughters and a\nwife of great ambition. Does he, she wondered, does he ever--in the\nwhirl and rush of business or in the excitement and pleasure of his\nsocial life--does he ever go back to those other days? Does the grown\nup \"Stuffy\" remember how once he traded marbles for candy or bought\nsweet cakes with toys?\n\nAnd then, there was the boy with the freckled face and tangled hair,\nwhose nose seemed always trying to peep into his own mischief lighted\neyes as though wishing to see what new deviltry was breeding there:\nand his crony, who never could learn the multiplication table, who was\nforever swearing vengeance on the teacher, whose clothes were always\ntorn, and who carried frogs and little snakes in his pockets: and the\ntimid boys who always played in one corner of the yard by themselves\nor with the girls or stood by and watched, with mingled admiration and\nenvy, the games and pranks of the bolder lads: and \"Dummy\"--poor\n\"Dummy\"--the shining mark for every schoolboy trick and joke; with his\nshock of yellow hair, his weak cross eyes, his sharp nose, thin lips,\nand shambling, shuffling, shifting manner--poor \"Dummy.\"\n\nAnd of course there was a bully, the Ishmael of the school, whom\neverybody shunned and nobody liked; who fought the teacher and\nfrightened the little children; who chewed, and smoked, and swore, and\nlied, and did everything bad that a boy could do. He had a few\nfollowers, a very few, who joined him rather through fear than\nadmiration and not one of whom cared for or trusted him. The woman\nremembered how this schoolboy face was sadly hard and cold and cruel,\nas though, because he had gotten so little sunshine from life, his\nheart was frozen over. She had read of him, in the grown up world,\nreceiving sentence for a dreadful crime, and, remembering his father\nand mother, had wondered if his grandparents were like them and how\nmany generations before his birth his career of crime began.\n\nAgain and again, the car had stopped to let people off but the woman\nhad not noticed. The schoolgirls, all but the tall one who had found a\nseat, were gone. But the woman had not seen them go.\n\nAnd then, as she sat dreaming of the days long gone--as she saw again\nthe faces of her school day friends, one there was that stood out from\namong them all. It was the face of the boy who lived next door--the\nboy who had stood with her under the cherry tree; who had put a tiny\nplay ring of brass upon her finger; and who had kissed her with a kiss\nthat was somehow different. He was the hero of her Yesterdays as he\nwas the acknowledged chieftain of the school. No one could run so\nfast, swim so far, dive so deep, or climb so high as he. No one could\nthrow him in wrestling or defeat him in boxing. He was their lord,\ntheir leader, their boyish master and royally he ruled them all--his\nwilling subjects. He it was who stopped the runaway horse; who killed\nthe big snake; and who pulled the minister's little daughter from the\npond. It was he who planned the parties and the picnics; the sleigh\nrides in winter and the berrying trips in summer. It was he whom the\ngirls all loved and the boys all worshiped--bold, handsome, daring,\ndashing, careless, generous, leader of the Yesterdays.\n\nAgain she saw his face lifted slyly from a spelling book to smile at\nher across the aisle. Again she felt the rich, warm, color rush to her\ncheeks as he took his seat, beside her on the recitation bench. Again\nher eyes were dimmed with tears when he was punished for some broken\nrule or shone with gladness when she heard his clear voice laughing\nwith his friends or calling to his mates and her.\n\nAnd once again, in the late afternoon, with him and with the other\nboys and girls, she went down the road from the little schoolhouse in\nthe edge of the timber on the hill; her sunbonnet hanging by its\nstrings and her dinner basket on her arm. Onward, through the long\nshadows that lay across their way, they went together, to pause at\nlast before the gate of her home, there to linger for a little, while\nthe others still went on. Farther and farther in the evening they\nwatched their schoolmates go--up the road past the house where he\nlived--past the orchard and over the hill--until, in the distance,\nthey seemed to vanish into the sunset sky and she was left with him\nalone.\n\nThe conductor called the woman's street but she did not heed. The man\nin uniform pulled the bell cord and, as the car stopped, called again,\nlooking toward her expectantly. But she did not notice. With a smile,\nthe man, who knew her, approached, and: \"Beg your pardon Miss, but\nhere's your street.\"\n\nWith blushing cheeks and confused manner, she stammered her thanks,\nand hurried from the car amid the smiles of the passengers. And the\nwoman did not know how beautiful she was at that moment. She was\nwondering: in the hungry hearted world--under all his ambition, plans,\nand labor, with the knowledge that must have come to him also from\nlife--was his heart ever hungry too?\n\n\n\n\n\nIGNORANCE\n\nWhen the man had gained a little knowledge from the thing that he had\nfound to do and had wearied himself greatly trying to follow the\ngolden chain, link by link, to the very end, he came, then, to\nunderstand the value of Ignorance. He came to see that success in\nworking out his dreams depended quite as much upon Ignorance as upon\nKnowledge--that, indeed, to know the value of Ignorance is the highest\norder of Knowledge.\n\nThere are a great many things about this man's life that I do not\nknow. But that does not matter because most of the things about any\nman's life are of little or no importance. That the man came to know\nthe value of Ignorance was a thing of vast importance to the man and,\ntherefore, is of importance to my story. Ignorance also is one of the\nThirteen Truly Great Things of Life but only those who have much\nknowledge know its value.\n\nA wise Ignorance is rich soil from which the seeds of Knowledge will\nbring forth fruit, a hundred fold. \"I do not know\": this is the\nbeginning and the end of wisdom. One who has never learned to say: \"I\ndo not know,\" has not the A B C of education. He who professes to be\neducated but will not confess Ignorance is intellectually condemned.\n\nA man who pretends to a knowledge which he has not is like a pygmy\nwearing giant's clothing, ridiculous: but he who admits Ignorance is\nlike a strong knight, clothed in a well fitting suit of mail, ready to\nachieve truth.\n\nWhen a man declares openly his ignorance concerning things of which he\nknows but little, the world listens with increased respect when he\nspeaks of the thing he knows: but when a man claims knowledge of all\nthings, the world doubts mightily that he knows much of anything, and\naccepts questioningly whatever he says of everything.\n\nThat which a man does not know harms him not at all, neither does it\nharm the world; but that which, through a shallow, foolish,\nself-conceit, he professes to know, when he has at best only a half\nknowledge, or, in a self destructive vanity, deceives himself into\nthinking that he knows, betrays him always to the injury of both\nhimself and others. An honest Ignorance is a golden vessel, empty,\nready to be filled with wealth but a pretentious or arrogant knowledge\nis a vessel so filled with worthless trash that there is no room for\nthat which is of value.\n\nThe world is as full of things to know as it is full of hooks, No man\ncan hope to read all the books in the world. Selection is enforced by\nnecessity. So it is in Knowledge. One should not think that, because a\nman is ignorant of some things, he is therefore a fool; his ignorance\nmay be the manifestation of a choice wiser than that of the one who\nelects to sit in judgment upon him.\n\nWith the passion to know fully aroused; with his mind fretting to\ngrapple with the problem of Life; and his purpose fired to solve the\nriddle of time; the man succeeded in acquiring this: that he must dare\nto know little. He came to understand that, while all knowable things\nare for all mankind to know, no man can know them all; and that the\nwisest men to whom the world pays highest tribute, are the wisest\nbecause they have not attempted to know all, but, recognizing the\nvalue of Ignorance, have dared to remain ignorant of much.\nIntellectual giants they are; intellectual babes they are, also. The\nman had thought that there was nothing that these men--these wise\nones--did not know. He came to understand that even _he_ knew\nsome things of which they were ignorant. So his determination to know\nall things passed to a determination to know nothing of many things\nthat he might know more of the things that were most closely\nassociated with his life and work. He determined to know the most of\nthe things that, to him, were most vital.\n\nHe saw also that he must work out his dreams within the circle of his\nown limitations; and that his limitations were not the limitations of\nhis fellow workers; neither were their limitations his. He did not\nknow yet just where the outmost circle of his limitations lay but he\nknew that it was there and that he must make no mistake when he came\nto it. And this, too, is true: just to the degree that the man\nrecognized his limitations, the circle widened.\n\nAlso the man came to understand that there are things knowable and\nthings unknowable. He came to see that truest wisdom is in this: for\none to spend well his strength on the knowable things and refuse to\ndissipate his intellectual vigor upon the unknowable. Not until he\nbegan really to know things was he conscious in any saving degree of\nthe unknowable. He saw that those who strive always with the\nunknowable beat the air in vain and exhaust themselves in their\nsenseless folly. He saw that to concern oneself wholly with the\nunknowable is to rob the world of the things in which are its life. To\nmeditate much upon the unknowable is an intellectual dissipation that\nproduces spiritual intoxication and often results in spiritual\ndelirium tremens. A habitual spiritual drunkard is a nuisance in the\nworld. The wisdom of Ignorance is in nothing more apparent than in a\nclear recognition of the unknowable.\n\nAnd then the man came to regret knowing some of the things that he\nknew. He came, in some things, to wish with all his heart that he had\nIgnorance where he had Knowledge. He found that much of the time and\nstrength that he desired to spend in acquiring the knowledge that\nwould help him to work out his dreams, he must spend, instead, in\nridding himself of knowledge that he had already acquired. He learned\nthat to forget is quite as necessary as to remember and very often\nmuch more difficult. Young he was, and strong he was, but, already, he\nfelt the dragging power of the things he would have been better for\nnot knowing--the things he desired to forget. They were very little\nthings in comparison to the things that in the future he would wish to\nforget; but to him, at this time, they did not seem small. So it was\nthat, in his effort to acquire Knowledge, the man began to strive also\nfor Ignorance.\n\nI do not know what it was that the man had learned that he desired to\nforget. My story is not the kind of a story that tells those things. I\nknow, only, that for him to forget was imperative. I know, only, that\nhad he held fast to Ignorance in some things of which he had gained\nknowledge, it would have been better. For him in some things Ignorance\nwould have been the truest wisdom. Ignorance would have helped him to\nwork out his dreams when Knowledge only hindered by forcing him to\nspend much time striving to forget. Those who know too much of evil\nfind it extremely difficult to gain knowledge of the good. Those who\nknow too much of the false find it very hard to recognize the true. A\ntoo great knowledge of things that are wrong makes it almost\nimpossible for one to believe in that which is right. Ignorance,\nrightly understood, is, indeed, one of the Thirteen Truly Great Things\nof Life.\n\nAnd then this man, in learning the value of Ignorance, came perilously\nnear believing that no man could _know_ anything. He came\ndangerously near the belief that Knowledge is all a mirage toward\nwhich men journey hopelessly; a phantom to be grasped by no hand; a\nwill-o'-the-wisp to be followed here and there but leading nowhere.\nHe, for a little, said that Ignorance is the truest wisdom. He\nbelieved, for a time, that to say always: \"I do not know,\" is the\nheight of all intelligence. One by one, he saw his intellectual idols\nfall in the dust of the commonplace. Little by little, he discovered\nthat the intellectual masters he had served were themselves only\nservants. His intellectual Gods, he found to be men like himself. And\nso, for a while, he said: \"We can know nothing. We can only think that\nwe know. We can only pretend to know. There _is_ no real\nKnowledge but only Ignorance. Ignorance should be exalted. In\nIgnorance lies peace, contentment, happiness, and safety.\" Even of his\nwork--of his dreams he said this. He said: \"It is no use.\" To the very\nedge of this pit he came but he did not fall in.\n\nTo accept the fact of the unknowable without losing his faith in the\nknowable: to recognize the unknown without losing in the least his\ngrip upon the known: to find the Knowledge of Yesterday becoming the\nIgnorance of to-day and still hold fast to the Knowledge of the\npresent; to watch his intellectual leaders dropping to the rear and to\nfollow as bravely those who were still in the front: to see his\nintellectual heroes fall and his intellectual idols crumbling in the\ndust and still to keep burning the fire of his enthusiasm: to find\nKnowledge so often a curse and Ignorance a blessing and still to\ndesire Knowledge: all this, the man learned that he must do if he\nwould work out his dreams. That which saved the man from the pit of\nhopeless disbelief in everything and helped him to a clear\nunderstanding of Ignorance, was this: he went back again into his\nYesterdays.\n\nFrom sheltered fence corners and hidden woodland hollows, from the lee\nof high banks, and along the hedge in the garden, the last worn and\nragged remnant of winter's garment was gone. The brook in the valley,\nbelow the little girl's house, had broken the last of its fetters and\nwas rejoicing boisterously in its freedom. The meadow and pasture\nlands showed the tender green of the first grass life. Pussy willow\nbuds were swelling and over the orchard and the wood a filmy veil of\nsummer color was dropped as though by fairy hands. In the cherry tree,\na pair of brown birds, just returning from their southern home, were\ndiscussing the merits of the nearby hedge as a building site: the\nmadam bird insisting, as women will, that the beautiful traditions of\nthe spot made it, for home building, peculiarly desirable. It was a\nwell known fact, said she, that brown birds had builded there for no\none knows how many ages. Even in the far away city, the man felt the\nseason in the air. The reek of city odors could not altogether drown\nthe subtle perfume that betrayed the near presence of the spring. As\nthough the magic of the budding, sprouting, starting, time of the year\nplaced him under its spell, the man went back to the springtime of his\nlife--back into his Yesterdays.\n\nOnce again, he walked under the clear skies of childhood. Once again,\nhe lived in the blessed, blessed, days when he had nothing to\nforget--when his mind and life were as a mountain brook that, clear\nand pure, from the spring of its birth runs ever onward, outward,\nturning never back, pausing never to form stagnant, poisonous, pools.\nAnd there it was--in his Yesterdays--in the pure sunlight of\nchildhood--that he found new intellectual faith--that he came to a\nright understanding of the real wisdom of Ignorance.\n\nThe intellectual giants of his Yesterdays--those wise ones upon whose\nlearning he looked with childish awe--who were they? Famous scholars\nwho lectured in caps and gowns and words of many syllables upon themes\nof mighty interest to themselves? Students who, in their laboratory\nworlds, discovered many wonderful things that were not so and solved\nmany puzzling problems with solutions that were right and entirely\nsatisfactory until the next graduating class discovered them to be all\nwrong and no solution at all? Great religious leaders who were\nsupernaturally called, divinely commissioned, and armed with holy\nauthority to point out the true and only way of life until some other\nwith the same call, commission, and authority, pointed out a wholly\ndifferent true and only way? Great statesmen upon whose knowledge and\nleadership the salvation of the nation depended, until the next\nelection discovered them to be foolish puppets of a dishonest and\ncorrupt party and put new leaders in their places to save the nation\nwith a new brand of political salvation, the chief value of which was\nits newness? No indeed! Such as these were not the intellectual giants\nof the man's Yesterdays. The heights of knowledge in those days were\nheld by others than these.\n\nOne of the very highest peaks in the whole mountain range of learning,\nin the Yesterdays, was held by the hired man. Again, at chore time,\nthe boy followed this wise one about the stables and the barn,\nwatching, from a safe position near the door, while the horses were\ngroomed and bedded down for the night. Again the pungent odors from\nthe stalls, the scent of the straw and the hay in the loft, the smell\nof harness leather damp with sweat was in his nostrils and in his\nears, the soft swish of switching tails, the thud of stamping hoofs,\nthe contented munching of grain, the rustle of hay, with now and then\na low whinny or an angry squeal. And fearlessly to and fro in this\nstrange world moved the hired man. In and out among the horses he\npassed, perfectly at home in the stalls, seeming to share the most\nintimate secrets of the horse life.\n\nEverything that there was to know about a horse, confidently thought\nthe little boy, this wonderful man knew. The very language that he\nused when talking about horses was a language full of strange, hard,\nwords, the meaning of which was hidden from the childish worshiper of\nwisdom. Such words as \"ringbone\" and \"spavin\" and \"heaves\" and\n\"stringhalt\" and \"pastern\" and \"stifle\" and \"wethers\" and \"girth\" and\n\"hock,\" to the boy, seemed to establish, beyond all question, the\nintellectual greatness of the one who used them just as words of many\nsyllables sometimes fix for older children the position on the\nintellectual heights of those who use them. \"Chiaroscuro,\"\n\"cheiropterous,\" \"eschatology,\" and the \"unearned increment\"--who, in\nthe common, every day, grown up, world, would dare question the\nartistic, scientific, religious, or political, knowledge of one who\ncould talk like that?\n\nNor did the intellectual strength of this wise one of the Yesterdays\nexhaust itself with the scientific knowledge of horses. He was equally\nat home in the co-ordinate sciences of cows and pigs and chickens.\nAgain the boy stood in the cow shed laboratory and watched, with\nchildish wonder, the demonstration of the master's superior wisdom as\nthe white streams poured into the tinkling milk pail. How did he do\nit--wondered the boy--where did this wizard in overalls and hickory\nshirt and tattered straw hat acquire his marvelous scientific skill?\n\nIn the garden, the orchard, or the field, it was the same. No secret\nof nature was hidden from this learned one. He knew whether potatoes\nshould be planted in the dark or light of the moon: whether next\nwinter would be \"close\" or \"open\": whether the coming season would be\n\"early\" or \"late\": whether next summer would be \"wet\" or \"dry.\" Always\nhe could tell, days ahead, whether it would rain or if the weather\nwould be fair. With a peach tree twig he could tell where to dig for\nwater. By many signs he could say whether luck would be good or bad.\nSmall wonder that the boy felt very ignorant, very humble, in the\npresence of this wise one!\n\nThen, one day, the boy, to his amazement, learned that this wizard of\nthe barnyard knew nothing at all about fairies. Common, every day,\nknowledge was this knowledge of fairies to the boy: but the wise one\nknew nothing about them. So dense was his ignorance that he even\nseemed to doubt and smiled an incredulous smile when the boy tried to\nenlighten him.\n\nIt was a great day in his Yesterdays when the boy discovered that the\nhired man did not know about fairies.\n\nAs the years passed and the time approached when the boy was to become\na man, he learned the meaning of many words that were as strange to\nthe intellectual hero of his childhood as the language of that\ncompanion of horses had once been strange to him. In time, much of the\nknowledge of that barnyard sage became, to the boy, even as the boy's\nknowledge of fairies had been to the man. Still--still--it was a great\nday in his Yesterdays when the boy discovered that the hired man did\nnot know about fairies. Perhaps, though, it was just as well that the\nhired man did not know. If he had become too familiar with the\nfairies, his potatoes might not have been planted either in the light\nor the dark of the moon and the world's potatoes must be planted\nsomehow.\n\nEqually great in his special field of knowledge was the old, white\nhaired, negro who lived in a tiny cabin just a little way over the\nhill. Strange and awful were the things that _he_ knew about the\nfearsome, supernatural, creatures, that lived and moved in the unseen\nworld. Of \"hants\" and \"spirits\" and \"witches\" and \"hoodoos\" he told the\nboy with such earnest confidence and so convincing a manner that to\ndoubt was impossible. In the unknowable world, the old negro moved\nwith authority unquestioned, with piety above criticism, with a\nreligious zeal of such warmth that the boy was often moved by the old\nman's wisdom and goodness to go to him with offerings from mother's\npantry.\n\nAnd then, one day, the boy discovered that this wonderfully wise one\ncould neither read nor write. Everybody that the boy knew, in the\ngrown up world, could read and write. The boy himself could even read\n\"cat\" and \"rat\" and \"dog.\" Vaguely the boy wondered, even then, if the\nold black saint's lack of those commonplace accomplishments accounted,\nin any way, for his marvelous knowledge of the unseen world.\n\nAnd father--father--was the greatest, the wisest, and the best man\nthat ever lived. The boy wondered, sometimes, why the Bible did not\ntell about his father. Surely, in all the world, there was no other\nman so good as he. And, as for wisdom! There was nothing--nothing--that\nfather did not know! Always, when other men came to see them,\nthere was talk of such strange things as \"government\" and \"party\"\nand \"campaigns\" and \"senators\" and \"congressmen\"--things that the boy\ndid not in the least know about--but he knew that his father knew,\nwhich was quite enough, indeed, for a boy of his age to know.\n\nThe boy, in his Yesterdays, wondered greatly when he heard his father\nsometimes wish that he could be a boy again. To him, in the ignorance\nof his childhood, such a wish was very strange. Not until the boy had\nhimself become a man and had learned to rightly value Ignorance did he\nunderstand his father's wish and in his heart repeat it.\n\nBut there was one in those Yesterdays, upon whose knowledge the boy\nlooked in admiring awe, who taught him that which he could never\noutgrow. Very different from the wisdom of the hired man was the\nwisdom of this one. Very different was his knowledge from the\nknowledge of the old negro. Nor was his learning like, in any way, to\nthe learning that made the boy's father so good and so wise among men.\n\nBut this leader did not often come openly to the boy's home. Always,\nwhen his mother saw the boy in the company of this one, she called him\ninto the house, and often she explained to him that the one whom he so\nadmired was a bad boy and that she did not wish her little son to play\nwith him. So this intellectual leader of the Yesterdays was forced to\ncome, stealthily, through the orchard, dodging from tree to tree,\nuntil, from behind the woodshed, he could, with a low whistle, attract\nthe attention of his admiring disciple and beckon him to his side.\nThen the two would slip away over the brow of the hill or down behind\nthe barn where, safe from mother's watchful eye, the boy could enjoy\nthe companionship of this one whom Knowledge had so distinguished.\n\nAnd often the older boy laughed at the Ignorance of his younger\ncompanion--laughed and sneered at him in the pride of superior\nlearning--while the little boy felt ashamed and, filled with\nadmiration for his forbidden friend, wondered if he would ever grow to\nbe as wise. Scarcely could he hope, for instance, to be able, ever, to\nsmoke and chew and swear in so masterful a way. And the little\nlearner's face would beam with timid adoration and envy as he listened\nto the tales of wicked adventures so boastfully related by his\nteacher. Would he, could he, ever be so bold, so wise in knowledge of\nthe world?\n\nPoor little boy in the Yesterdays who knew nothing of the value of\nIgnorance! Poor boys in the grown up world--admiring and envying those\nwho know more of evil than themselves!\n\nSo, always, secretly, the boy, as the years passed, gained the\nknowledge that makes men wish that they could be boys again. So,\nalways, do men learn the value of Ignorance too late.\n\nAnd then, as the man lived again in his Yesterdays, and, realizing in\nhis manhood the value of Ignorance, wished that he could be a boy\nagain, the little girl came to take her place in his intellectual life\neven as she took her place in all the life of his boyhood. Again he\nsaw her wondering eyes as she stood with him in the stable door to\nwatch the hired man among the horses. Again he felt her timid hand in\nhis as he led her to a place where, safe from horns and heels, they\ncould observe, together, the fascinating operation of milking.\nTogether they listened to the words of strange wisdom and marveled at\nthe knowledge of the barnyard scientist.\n\nAll that the boy learned from the old negro, of the fearsome creatures\nthat inhabit the unseen world, he, in turn, gave to the little girl.\nAnd sometimes she even went with him on a pilgrimage to the cabin over\nthe hill; there to gaze, half frightened, at the black-faced seer who\nhad such store of awful wisdom.\n\nThe boy's pride in his father's superior goodness and wisdom she\nshared fully--because he was the father of the boy.\n\nAll the sweet lore of childhood was theirs in common. All the wise\nIgnorance of his Yesterdays she shared.\n\nOnly in the boy's forbidden friendship with that one who had such\nknowledge of evil the little girl did not share. This knowledge--the\nknowledge that was to go with him, even in his manhood years, and\nwhich, at last, would teach him the real value of Ignorance--the boy\ngained alone. Sadly, the man remembered how, sometimes, when the boy\nhad stolen away to drink at that first muddy fountain of evil, he\nwould hear her calling and would be held from answering by the jeers\nof his wicked teacher. But never when he was playing with the little\ngirl did the boy answer the signal whistle of that one whose knowledge\nhe envied but of whose friendship he was ashamed.\n\nIn his Yesterdays, the ignorance of his little girl mate was an anchor\nthat held the boy from drifting too far in the current of evil. In his\nYesterdays, the goodness and wisdom of his father was not a\nwill-o'-the-wisp but, to the boy, a steady guiding light. What\nmattered, then, if the knowledge of the old negro _was_ but a\nfoolish mirage? What mattered if the hired man did _not_ know\nabout fairies or if he _did_ know so many things that were not\nso? So it was that the man came to know the value of Ignorance. So it\nwas that the man did not fall into the pit of saying: \"There is only\nIgnorance.\"\n\nAnd so it was, as he returned again from his Yesterdays, that day when\neven the reeking atmosphere of the city could not hide, altogether,\nthe sweetness of the spring, that the memory of the little girl was\nwith him even as the perfume of the season was in the air.\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nIt was the time of the first flowers.\n\nThe woman had been out, somewhere, on a business errand and was\nreturning to the place where she worked. A crowd had gathered,\nblocking the sidewalk, and she was forced to stop. Quickly, as if by\nmagic, the people came running from all directions. The woman was\nannoyed. Her destination was only a few doors away and she had much\nwork, still, to do before the remaining hours of the afternoon should\nbe gone. She could not cross the street without going back for the\ntraffic was very heavy. She faced about as if to retrace her steps,\nthen, paused and turned again. The street would be open in a moment.\nIt would be better to wait. Above the heads of the people she could\nsee, already, the helmets of the police clearing the sidewalk. Pushing\ninto the jam, she worked slowly forward.\n\nClang, clang, clang, with a rattle and clatter and crash, a patrol\nwagon swung up to the curb--so close that a spatter of mud from the\ngutter fell on the woman's skirt. The wagon wheeled and backed. The\npolice formed a quick lane across the sidewalk. The crowd surged\nforward and carried the woman close against the blue coated barrier.\nDown the lane held by the officers of the law, so close to the woman\nthat she could have touched them, came two poor creatures who were not\nignorant of what is commonly called the world. They had seen life--so\nthe world would have said. They were wise. They had knowledge of many\nthings of which the woman, who shrank back from them in horror, knew\nnothing. Their haggard, painted, faces, their disheveled hair, their\ntawdry clothing, false jewels, and drunken blasphemies, drew a laugh\nfrom the crowd.\n\nUpon the soul of the woman the laughter of the crowd fell like a demon\nlaugh from the depths of hell. Almost she shrieked aloud her protest.\nBecause she knew herself to be a woman, she almost shrieked aloud.\n\nIt was over in an instant. The patrol wagon rumbled away with its\nburden of woe. The crowd melted as magically as it had gathered. At\nthe entrance of the building where she worked, the woman turned to\nlook back, as though fascinated by the horror of that which she had\nseen. But, upon the surface of that sea of life, there was not the\nfaintest ripple to mark the spot of the tragedy.\n\nAnd the crowd had laughed.\n\nThe woman knew the character of that place so near the building in\nwhich she worked. Several times, each day, she passed the swinging\ndoors of the saloon below and, always, she saw men going in and out.\nMany times she had caught glimpses of the faces of those who occupied\nthe rooms above as they watched at the windows. When first she went to\nwork she had known little of such things, but she was learning. Not\nbecause she wished to learn but because she could not help it. But the\nknowledge of such things had come to her so gradually that she had\ngrown accustomed to knowing even as she came to know. She had become\nfamiliar with the fact without being forced to feel.\n\nPerhaps, if the incident had occurred a few years later, when the\nwoman's knowledge was more complete, she, herself, might have been\nable to laugh with the crowd. This knowledge that enables one so to\nlaugh is, seemingly, much prized these days among those who have not\nthe wisdom to value Ignorance.\n\nThe afternoon passed, as such afternoons must, and the woman did her\nwork. What mattered the work that was being wrought in the soul of her\nwomanhood--the work committed to her hands--the work that refused to\nrecognize her womanhood--_that_ work was done--and that is all\nthat seems to matter. And, when her day's work was done, the woman\nboarded a car for her home.\n\nIt was an hour when many hundreds of toilers were going from their\nlabor. So many hundreds there were that the cars could scarcely hold\nthem and there were seats for only a few. Among those hundreds there\nwere many who were proud of their knowledge of life. There were not\nmany who knew the value of Ignorance. The woman who knew that she was\na woman was crowded in a car where there was scarcely room for her to\nstand. She felt the rude touch of strangers--felt the bodies of\nstrange men forced against her body--felt their limbs crushed against\nher limbs--felt their breath in her face--felt and trembled in\nfrightened shame. In that car, crowded close against the woman, there\nwere men whose knowledge of life was very great. By going to the\nlowest depths of the city's shame, where the foulest dregs of humanity\nsettle, they had acquired that knowledge.\n\nAt first the woman had dreaded those evening trips from work in the\ncrowded cars. But it was an everyday experience and she was becoming\naccustomed to it. She was learning not to mind. That is the horror of\nit--_she was learning not to mind._\n\nBut this night it was different. The heart of her womanhood shrank\nwithin her trembling and afraid--cried out within her in protest at\nthe outrage. In the fetid atmosphere of the crowded car; in the rough\ntouch of the crushing bodies of sweating humanity; in the coarse, low,\njest; she felt again the demon that she had heard in the laughter of\nthe crowd. She saw again the horror of that which had leered at her\nfrom out the disfigured, drunken, faces of the poor creatures taken by\nthe police.\n\nMust she--must she learn to laugh that laugh with the crowd? Must she\ngain knowledge of the unclean, the vicious, the degrading things of\nlife by actual contact? Was it not enough for her to know that those\nthings were in the world as she knew that there was fever in the marsh\nlands; or must she go in person into the muck and mire of the swamps?\n\nSo it was that this woman, who knew herself to be a woman, did not\ncrave Knowledge, but Ignorance. She prayed to be kept from knowing too\nmuch. And it was well for her so to pray. It was the highest wisdom.\nBecause she knew her womanhood, she was afraid. She feared for her\ndream life that was to be beyond the old, old, door. She feared for\nthat one who, perhaps, would come to cross with her the threshold for\nit was given this woman to know that only with one in whose purity of\nlife she believed could she ever enter into the life of her dreams.\nThe Master of Life, in His infinite wisdom, made the heart of\nwomanhood divinely selfish. This woman knew that her dreams could\nnever be for her save through her belief in the one who should ask her\nto go with him through that old, old, door. And the things that the\nwoman found herself learning made it hard for her to believe in any\nman. The knowledge that was forced upon her was breeding doubt and\ndistrust and denial of good. The realization of her womanhood's\nbeautiful dream was possible only through wise Ignorance. She must\nfight to keep from learning too much.\n\nAnd in the woman's fight there was this to help her: in the crowd that\nhad laughed, her startled eyes had seen one or two who did not\nlaugh--one or two there were whose faces were filled with pity and\nwith shame. Always, in the crowded cars, there was some one who tried\nquietly to shield her from the press--some one who seemed to\nunderstand. It was this that helped. These men who knew the value of\nIgnorance kept the spark of her faith in men alive. The faith, without\nwhich her dreams would be idle dreams, impossible of fulfillment, was\nkept for her by those men who knew the value of Ignorance.\n\nThe woman went to her work the next morning with a heart that was\nheavy with dread and nerves that were quivering with fear. The\nbrightness, the beauty, and the joy, of her womanhood, she felt to be\ngoing from her as the sunshine goes under threatening clouds. The\nblackness, the ugliness, and the sorrow, of life, she felt coming over\nher as fog rolls in from the sea. The faith, trust, and hope, that is\nthe soul of womanhood was threatened by doubt, distrust, and despair.\nThe gentleness, sensitiveness, and delicacy, that is the heart of\nwomanhood was beset by coarseness, vulgarity, and rudeness. Could she\nharden her woman heart, steel her woman nerves, and make coarse her\nwoman soul to withstand the things that she was forced to meet and\nknow? And if she could--what then--would she gain or lose thereby? For\nthe life of which she had dreamed, would she gain or lose?\n\nIt was nearly noon when a voice at her side said: \"You are ill!\"\n\nIt was a voice of authority but it was not at all unkind.\n\nTurning, she looked up into his face and stammered a feeble denial.\nNo, she was not ill.\n\nBut the kind eyes looked down at her so searchingly, so gravely, that\nher own eyes filled with tears.\n\n\"Come, come,\" said the voice, \"this won't do at all. You must not lose\nyour grip, you know. It will be all right to-morrow. Take the\nafternoon off and get out into the fresh air.\"\n\nAnd something in his voice--something in his grave, steady, eyes--told\nher--made her feel that he understood. It helped her to know that this\nman of large affairs, of power and authority, understood.\n\nSo, for that afternoon, she went to a park in a distant part of the\ncity to escape, for a few hours, the things that were crowding her too\nclosely. Near the entrance of the park, she met a gray haired\npoliceman who, looking at her keenly, smiled kindly and touched his\nhat; then, before she had passed from sight, he turned to follow\nleisurely the path that she had taken. Finding a quiet nook on the\nbank of a little stream that was permitted to run undisturbed by the\nwise makers of the park, the woman seated herself, while the\npoliceman, unobserved by her, paused not far away to watch a group of\nchildren at play.\n\n[Illustration: The life that crowded her so closely drifted far, far\naway.]\n\nPerhaps it was the blue sky, unstained by the city smoke: perhaps it\nwas the sunbeams that filtered through the leafy net-work of the trees\nto fall in golden flakes and patches on the soft green: perhaps it was\nthe song that the little brook was singing as it went its merry way:\nperhaps it was the twittering, chirping, presence of the feathery folk\nwho hopped and flitted so cheerily in and out among the shrubs and\nflowers--whatever it was that brought it about, the life that crowded\nher so closely drifted far, far, away. The city with its noisy clamor,\nwith its mad rush and unceasing turmoil, was gone. The world of\ndanger, and doubt, and fear, was forgotten. The woman lived again the\ndays that were gone. The sky so blue above her head was the sky that\narched her days of long ago. The sunshine that filtered through the\ntrees was the same golden wealth that enriched the days of her\nchildhood. The twittering, chirping, feathery, folk were telling the\nsame old stories. The little brook that went so merrily on its way was\nsinging a song of the Yesterdays.\n\nThey were free days--those Yesterdays--free as the days of the\nfeathery folk who lived among the shrubs and flowers. There was none\nof the knowledge that, with distrust and doubt and despair, shuts in\nthe soul. They were bright days--those Yesterdays--as bright as the\nsunlight that out of a clear sky comes to glorify the world. There was\nnone of that dark and dreadful knowledge that shrouds the soul in\ngloom. And they were glad days--those Yesterdays--glad with the\ngladness of the singing brook. There was none of that knowledge that\nstains and saddens the heart.\n\nThe woman, sitting there so still by the little brook, did not notice\na well dressed man who was strolling slowly through the park. A little\nway down the walk, the man turned, and again went slowly past the\nplace where the woman sat. Once more he turned and this time seated\nhimself where he could watch her. The man's face was not a good face.\nFor a little while he watched the woman, then rising, was starting\nleisurely toward her when the gray haired policeman came suddenly into\nview around a turn in the path. The officer did not hesitate; nor was\nhe smiling, now, as he stepped in front of the man. A few crisp words\nhe spoke, in a low tone, and pointed with his stick. There was no\nreply. The fellow turned and slunk away while the guardian of the law,\nwith angry eyes, watched him out of sight, then turned to look toward\nthe woman. She had not noticed. The officer smiled and quietly\nstrolled on down the path.\n\nThe woman had noticed neither the man nor her protector because she\nwas far, far, away in her Yesterdays. She did not heed the incident\nbecause she was a little girl again, playing beside the brook that\ncame across the road and made its winding way through the field just\nbelow the house. It was only a little brook, but beautifully clear and\nfresh, for it had come only a short distance from its birth place in a\nglen under the hill that she could see from her window. In some\nplaces, the long meadow grass, growing close down to the edge, almost\ntouched above, making a cool, green, cradle arch through which the\npure waters flowed with soft whispers as though the baby stream were\ncrooning to itself a lullaby. In other stretches, the green willows\nbent far over to dip their long, slim, fingers in the slow current\nthat crept so lazily through the flickering light and shade that it\nseemed scarce to move at all. And other places there were, where the\nstreamlet chuckled and laughed over tiny pebbly bars in the sunlight\nor gurgled past where flags and rushes grew.\n\nAgain, with her dolls, the little girl played on the grassy bank;\nwashing their tiny garments in the clear water and hanging them on the\nflags or willows to dry; resting often to listen to the fairy song the\nwater sang; or to whisper to the brook the secrets of her childhood\ndreams. The drowsy air was full of the sweet, grassy, smell mingled\nwith the odor of mint and the perfume of the willows and flags and\nwarm moist earth. Gorgeous winged butterflies zigzagged here and there\nfrom flower to flower--now near for a little--then far away. Honeybees\ndroned their hymns of industry the while they searched for sweet\ntreasures. And now and then a tiny green frog would come out of a\nshadowy nook in the bank of the stream to see what the little girl was\ndoing; or a bird would drop from out the blue sky for a drink or a\nbath in the pebbly shallows. And not far away--easily within\ncall--mother sat on the shady porch, with her sewing, where she could\nwatch over her little girl.\n\nDear, innocent, sheltered, protected, Yesterdays--when mother told her\nchild all that was needful for her to know, and told her in a most\ntender, beautiful, way. Dear, blessed, Yesterdays--when love did not\nleave vice to teach the sacred truths of love--days that were days of\nblissful Ignorance--not vicious Ignorance but ignorance of the\nvicious. There was a wealth of Ignorance in those Yesterdays that is\nof more worth to womanhood, by far, than much knowledge of the world.\n\nAnd often the boy would come, too, and, together, they would wade hand\nin hand in the clear flood, mingling their shouts and laughter with\nthe music of their playmate brook, while the minnows darted to and fro\nabout their bare legs; or, they would build brave dams and bridges and\nharbors with the bright stones; or, best of all, fashion and launch\nthe ships of childhood.\n\nOh, childish ships of the Yesterdays! What precious cargoes they\ncarried! What priceless treasures they bore to the far away port of\ndreams!\n\nThe little brook was a safe stream for the boy and the girl to play\nbeside. Nor did they know, then, that their streamlet flowed on and on\nuntil it joined the river; and that the river, in its course, led it\npast great cities that poured into it the poisons and the filth of\ntheir sewers, fouling its bright waters, until it was unfit for\nchildren to play beside.\n\nThey did not know, _then_--but the woman knew, _now_.\n\nAnd what--she thought as she came back from her Yesterdays--what of\nthe boy who had played with her beside the brook? He, too, must have\nlearned what happened to their brook. In learning, what had happened\nto him--she wondered--and wondering, she was afraid.\n\nBecause she was no longer ignorant, she was afraid for the mate of her\nYesterdays. Not that she thought over to meet him again. She did not\nwish, now, to meet him for she was afraid. She would rather have him\nas he was in her Yesterdays.\n\nSlowly the woman turned away from the quiet seat beside the brook. It\nwas time for her to go.\n\nNot far away, she passed the gray haired policeman, who again smiled\nand touched his hat.\n\nSmiling in return she bade him: \"Good afternoon.\"\n\n\"Good afternoon, Miss,\" he said, still smiling gravely. \"Come again,\nMiss, when ye's want a breath of air that's pure and clean.\"\n\nMay heaven bless, for the sweet sake of womanhood, all men who\nunderstand.\n\n\n\n\n\nRELIGION\n\nIt was springtime--blossoming time--mating time. The world was a riot\nof color and perfume and song.\n\nEvery twig that a few weeks before had been a bare, unsightly stick\nwas now a miracle of dainty beauty. From the creek, below the little\ngirl's house, the orchard hill appeared against the soft, blue, sky a\nwonderous, cumulus, cloud of fleecy whiteness flushed with a glow of\ndelicate pink. The meadows and pastures were studded with stars of\ngold and pearl, of ruby and amethyst and silver. The fairy hands that\nhad thrown over the wood a filmy veil of dainty color now dressed each\ntree and bush in robes of royal fabric woven from many tints of\nshimmering, shining, green.\n\nThrough the amber light above new turned furrows; amid the jewel glint\nof water in the sun; in the diamond sparkle of the morning; against\nthe changing opal skies of evening; the bees and all their winged kin\nfloated and darted, flashed and danced, and whirled, from flower to\nflower and field to field, from blossom to blossom and tree to tree,\nbearing their pollen messages of love and life while sweet voiced\nbirds, in their brightest plumage, burdened the perfumed air with the\npassionate melody of their mating time.\n\nAll nature seemed bursting with eager desire to evidence a Creator's\npower. Every tint and color, every breath of perfume, every note of\nmusic, every darting flight or whirling dance, was a call to life--a\nchallenge to love--an invitation to mate--a declaration of God. The\nworld throbbed and exulted with the passion of the Giver of Life.\n\nLife itself begat Religion.\n\nNot the least of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life is Religion.\nReligion is an exaltation of Life or it is nothing. To exalt Life\ntruly is to be most truly religious.\n\nBut the man, when he first awoke that morning, did not think of\nReligion. His first thought was a thought of lazy gratitude that he\nneed not get up. It was Sunday. With a long sigh of sleepy content, he\nturned toward the wall to escape the too bright light that, from the\nopen window, had awakened him and dozed again.\n\nIt was Sunday.\n\nThere are bitter cold, icy, snowy, Sundays in mid-winter when one hugs\nthe cheerless radiator and, shivering in chilly discomfort, wishes\nthat Sundays were months instead of days apart. There are stifling,\nsticky, sweltering. Sundays in midsummer when one prays, if he can\npray at all, for the night to come. And there are blustering, rainy,\nsleety, dismal, Sundays in the fall when the dead hours go in funeral\nprocession by and the world seems a gloomy tomb. But a Sunday in\nblossoming time! That is different! The very milk wagons, as they\nclattered, belated, down the street rattled a cheery note of\nfellowship and good will. The long drawn call of the paper boy had in\nit a hint of the joy of living. And the rumble of an occasional\npassing cab came like a deep undertone of peace.\n\nThe streets were nearly empty. The stores and offices, with closed\ndoors, were deserted and still. A solitary policeman on the corner\nappeared to be meditating, indifferent to his surroundings. The few\npedestrians to be seen moved leisurely and appeared as though in a\nmood for reflective thought and quiet interest in the welfare of their\nfellows. The hurrying, scrambling, jostling, rushing crowd; the\nclanging, crashing, roaring turmoil; the racking madness, the fierce\nconfusion, the cruel selfishness of the week day world was as a\ndreadful dream in the night. In the hard fought battle of life, the\nworld had called a truce, testifying thus to the place and power of\nReligion.\n\nThis is not to say that the world professes Religion; but it _is_\nto say that Religion possesses the world. In a thousand, thousand,\nforms, Religion possesses the world. In thoughts, in deeds, in\nwords--in song and picture and story--in customs and laws and\nindustries--in society, state, and school--in all of the Thirteen\nTruly Great Things of Life, Religion makes itself manifest and\ndeclares its power over men. If one proclaim himself without Religion\nthen is its power made known in that one's peculiarity. If Religion\ndid not possess the world, to scorn it would mark no one as different\nfrom his fellows, And this, too, is true: so imperial is the fact of\nReligion, that he who would deny it is forced to believe so firmly in\nhis disbelief that he accepts the very thing he rejects, disguised in\na dress of his own making, and thus bows down in worship before a God\nof his own creation.\n\nTo many, Sunday is a day of labor. To many others, it is a day of\nroistering and debauch. To some, it is a day of idleness and\nthoughtless pleasure. To some, it is a day of devotion and worship.\nBut still, I say, that, whatever men, as individuals, may do with the\nday, the deserted streets, the silent stores, the closed banks, the\nempty offices, evidence that, to the world, this day is not as other\ndays and give recognition--not to creeds and doctrines of warring\nsects indeed--but, to Religion.\n\nAgain the man awoke. Coming slowly out of his sleep and turning\nleisurely in his bed he looked through the open window at the day. And\nstill he did not think of Religion.\n\nLeisurely he arose and, after his bath, shaved himself with particular\ncare. With particular care he dressed, not in the garb of every day,\nbut in fresher, newer, raiment. Thus did he, even as the world, give\nunthinking testimony to the power and place of Religion.\n\nLater, when the church bells sent their sweet voiced invitations\nringing over the city, the man went to church. He did not go to church\nbecause he was a religious man nor because he was in a religious mood;\nhe went because it was his habit to go occasionally. Even as most men\nsometimes go to church, so this man went. Nor did he, as a member of\nany religious organization, feel it his duty to go. He went as he had\nalways gone--as thousands of others who, like himself, in habit of\ndress and manner were giving unconscious testimony to the power of\nReligion in the world, went, that day, to some place of public\nworship.\n\nThe streets of the city were now well filled with people. Yesterday,\nthese same people, in the same streets, had rushed along with anxious,\neager, strained, expressions upon their faces that told of nerves\ntense, minds intent, and bodies alert, in the battle they waged for\ndaily bread, for gain, and for all the things that are held by men to\nbe worth the struggle. To-morrow, these same people would again lose\nthemselves in the fierce and strenuous effort of their lives. But\nto-day, they walked leisurely; they spoke calmly; they thought coolly;\nthey had time to notice each other; to greet each other, to smile, to\nshake each others' hands. There were many children, too, who, dressed\nin their Sunday clothes, with clean faces and subdued manners, even as\ntheir parents, evidenced the power of Religion in the life of\nhumankind. And, even as their parents, the children knew it not. They\ndid not recognize the power of Religion in their lives.\n\nThe man did not think of the meaning of these things; though he felt\nit, perhaps, somewhat as he felt the warm life of the sun filled air:\nhe sensed it, perhaps, as he sensed the beauty of the morning. He did\nnot realize, then, how, in his Dreams, Religion had subtly manifested\nitself. He did not realize, that, in his Occupation, he was, every\nday, revealing the influence of Religion in his life. He had seen\nReligion but dimly when he had thought to follow the golden chain of\nKnowledge, link by link, to its hidden end. Dimly had he seen it when\nhe was learning the value of Ignorance. And yet, in all of these\nthings it had been even as it would be in all the things that were yet\nto come. No man can escape Religion. Man may escape particular forms\nof Religion, indeed, but Religion itself he cannot escape.\n\nWith many others the man entered a church. An usher gravely led him to\na seat. I do not know what church it was to which the man went that\nmorning nor does it, for my story, matter that I do not know. My story\nis not of churches nor of sects nor of creeds. This is my story: that\nthe man came to realize in his life the power of Religion.\n\nIt may have been the beauty of the morning that did it; it may have\nbeen that the week just past was unusually hard and trying and that\nthe day of rest, therefore, was more than usual, needed: or, perhaps,\nit was because the man had learned that he could never follow the\ngolden chain of Knowledge to its hidden end and had come to know the\nvalue of Ignorance for Religion walks ever close to both Knowledge and\nIgnorance, hand in hand with each; whatever it was that brought it\nabout, the man, that Sunday, came to realize the power of Religion in\nthe world and in his own manhood life.\n\nIt was very quiet in the church but it was not a sad quietness. The\npeople moved softly and, when they spoke at all, spoke in whispers but\nthere was no feeling of death in the air; rather was there a feeling\nof life--a feeling of life, too, that was very unlike the feeling of\nlife in a crowded place of business or amusement. The sweet,\nplaintively pleading, tones of the organ trembled in the air. The\nglorious sunshine came through the stained glass windows softened and\nsubdued. Here and there heads were bowed. The people became very\nstill. And, in the stillness, the man felt strongly the spirit of the\nday and place. The organ tones increased in volume. The choir filed\nin. The preacher entered. The congregation arose to sing an old\ntriumphant hymn.\n\nThe man did not sing, but, as he listened to the music and followed\nthe words of the hymn, he smiled. The people were singing about\nunknowable things--of streets of gold and gates of pearl--of crowns\nand harps and the throne of God.\n\nAll his life, the man had known that hymn but he had never before\nthought of it just as he thought of it that morning. He looked about\nat the people who were singing. Who were they? Uneducated,\nirresponsible, fanatical dreamers of no place or importance in the\nweek day world? No indeed! They were educated, responsible, practical,\nhard headed, clear brained, people of power and influence--and--the\nman smiled again--they were singing about unknowable things. For the\nfirst time in his life, the man wondered at the strangeness of it all.\n\nWhen the minister prayed, the man listened as he had never listened to\na prayer before. He felt baffled and bewildered as though he had\nwandered into a strange land, among strange people, of whose customs\nhe was ignorant, and whose language he could neither speak nor\nunderstand. Who was this man who seemed on such familiar terms with\nthe Infinite? Upon what did he base his assurance that the wealth of\nblessings he asked for himself and his people would be granted or even\nheard? Had he more than finite mind that he could know the Infinite?\n\nThe sermon that followed was largely a sermon about unknowable things.\nIt was full of beautiful, helpful, thoughts about things that it was\nimpossible for anyone to really know anything about. Very familiar\nwere the things that the minister said that morning. Since his\nchildhood, the man had heard them over and over many times; but he had\nnever before thought of them in just that way.\n\nThe sermon was finished and the beautifully mysterious and impressive\nwords of the benediction were spoken as the people stood with bowed\nheads, hushed and still. Again the deep tones of the organ trembled in\nthe air as the crowd poured forth from the building into the street.\n\nThe man was thoughtful and troubled. He felt as one, who, meeting an\nold friend after many years, finds him changed beyond recognition. He\nwas as one visiting, after years of absence, his old home to find the\nfamiliar landmarks all gone with the years. He was sadly conscious\nthat something had gone out of his life--that something exceedingly\nprecious had been taken away from him and that it could never be\nreplaced.\n\nSeriously, sadly, the man asked himself: must his belief in Religion\ngo as his faith in fairies had gone? Was Religion, after all, but a\nbeautiful game played by the grown up world, even as children play?\nAnd if, indeed, his faith must go because songs and prayers and\nsermons have to do so largely with unknowable things, what of the\nspirit of the world expressed in the day that is so set apart from all\nother days? Sunday is a fact knowable enough. And the atmosphere of\nthe church is another fact as knowable as the atmosphere of a race\ntrack, a foundry, or a political convention. And the fruits of\nReligion in the lives of men--these are as clearly knowable as the\nfruits of drunkenness, or gambling, or licentiousness. The man was as\nsure of the fruits of Religion as he was sure that the sun was\nshining--that the day, so warm and bright, was unlike the cold, hard,\nstormy, days of winter. And still--and still--the songs and prayers\nand sermons about unknowable things--must his belief in Religion go as\nhis faith in fairies had gone?\n\nUnknowable things? Yes--as unknowable as that mysterious something\nthat colors the trees and plants and flowers with tints of infinite\nshadings--as unknowable as that which puts the flavor in the peach,\nthe strength in the corn, the perfume in the rose--as unknowable as\nthe awful force that reveals itself in the lightning flash or speaks\nin the rolling thunder--as unknowable as the mysterious hand that\nholds the compass needle to the north and swings the star worlds far\nbeyond the farthest reach of the boasting eye of Science. Unknowable?\nYes--as unknowable as that which lies safe hidden behind the most\ncommonplace facts of life--as unknowable indeed, as Life itself.\n\n\"Nature,\" said the man, in answer to himself, and smiled at the\nfoolishness of his own answer. Is nature then so knowable? Are all her\nlaws revealed; all her secrets known; all her ways understood; all her\nmysteries made clear? Do the wise men, after all, know more of nature\nthan they do of God? Do they know more of earth than of heaven? Do\nthey know more of a man's mind than they do of his soul? And yet--and\nyet--does one refuse to live because he cannot understand the mystery\nof life? Does one deny the earth because the secrets of Mature are\nunknowable? Does one refuse to think because thoughts are not material\nthings--because no one has ever seen a thought to say from whence it\ncame or whither it went?\n\nDisbelief demands a knowledge as exact as that demanded by belief. To\ndeny the unknowable is as impossible as to affirm it. If it be true\nthat man knows too much to believe in miracles these days, it is just\nas true that he does not know enough to disbelieve in them. And, after\nall, there is no reason why anyone should believe in miracles; neither\nis there any reason why one should disbelieve in them.\n\nEvery altar is an altar to an unknown God. But man does not refuse to\nbelieve in bread because he cannot understand the mystery of the wheat\nfield. One believes in a garden, not because he knows how, from the\nsame soil, water, and air, Nature produces strawberries, potatoes,\nsweet corn, tomatoes, or lettuce, but because fresh vegetables are\ngood. The hungry man neither believes nor disbelieves but sits down to\nthe table and, if he be a right minded man, gives thanks to the God of\ngardens who, in ways so unknowable, gives such knowable gifts to man.\n\nNor was the man, at this time, able to distinguish clearly between\nReligion and the things that men have piled about and hung upon\nReligion. Therefore was he troubled about his waning belief and\nworried because of his growing doubt. He did not wish to doubt; he\nwished to believe.\n\nIn all these many years, through intellectual pride or selfish\nambition, because of an earnest but mistaken purpose to make clear, or\nin a pious zeal to emphasize, men have been piling things about and\nhanging things upon Religion; and, always, they have insisted that\nthis vast accumulation of things _is_ Religion.\n\nThese things that men have hung upon Religion are no more a part of\nReligion than the ivy that grows upon the stone wall of a fortress is\na part of the nation's defensive strength. These things that men have\npiled about Religion belong to it no more than a pile of trash dumped\nat the foot of a cliff belongs to the everlasting hills. But these\ntraditions and customs of men, with their ever multiplying confusions\nof doctrines and creeds and sects, beautiful as they are, hide\nReligion even as the ivy hides the wall. Even as the accumulated trash\nof the ages piled at the foot of the cliff is of interest to the\narchaeologist and the seeker after curious junk, so these things that\nmen have piled about Religion are of interest. But the observer, in\nadmiration of the ivy, is in danger of ignoring the stern reality of\nthe fortress. The curious digger in the pile of trash, if his interest\nbe great, heeds not the grandeur of the cliff that towers above his\nhead.\n\nThat afternoon the man went for a long walk. He wished to think out,\nif he could, the things that troubled him.\n\nWithout plan on his part, his walk led toward a quarter of the city\nwhere he had never been before and where he came at last to an old\ncemetery. The ancient iron gates, between their vine clad columns of\nstone, were invitingly open and within the enclosure were great trees\nthat locked their green arms above the silent, grass grown, graves as\nthough in sheltering kindness for the dead. Tempted by the beauty of\nthe place the man entered, and, in the deep shade of the old trees,\nscreened from the road by their mossy trunks, found a seat. Here and\nthere, among the old graves under the trees, a few people moved\nslowly; pausing often to decipher the inscriptions upon the leaning\nand fallen tombstones. So old was that ancient burying place that\nthere was left among the living no one to keep the flowers upon the\ngraves and visitors came only from idle curiosity.\n\nAnd it was so, that, as the man sat there under the quiet old trees,\nthe graves with their leaning and fallen tombstones, or, perhaps, the\nday itself, led his mind back to those companion graves that marked\nthe passing of his boyhood--back to father and mother and to their\nreligion--back to the religion of his Yesterdays. And the week of toil\nand strife, of struggle and of storm, slipped far, far, away. The\ndisturbing questions, the doubt and the uncertainty of the morning,\nraised as the fogs lift to leave the landscape clear.\n\nIt was such a little way from the boy's home to the church that, when\nthe weather was fine, they always walked. And surely no day could have\nbeen finer than that Sunday to which the man went back. As the boy,\nall washed and combed and dressed in his Sunday best, sat on the big\ngate post waiting for his father and mother, it seemed to him that\nevery living thing about the place knew what day it was. In the\npasture across the road, the horses, leisurely cropping the new grass,\npaused often to lift their heads and look about with an air of kindly\ninterest in things to which they would have given no heed at all had\nthey been in week day harness. And one old gray, finding an inviting\nspot, lay down to roll--got up--and, because it felt so good, lay down\nagain upon his other side; and then, as if regretting that he had no\nmore sides to rub, stretched himself out with such a huge sigh of\ncontent that the boy on the gate post laughed; whereat the horse\nraised his head and looked at him as though to say: \"Little boy, don't\nyou know that it is Sunday?\" Under the big elm, in the corner of the\npasture, the cows stood, with half closed eyes, chewing their cuds\nwith an air of pious meditation. The hens strolled sedately about\nsinging solemnly: ca-w-w, ca-w-w, ca-w-w, and the old red rooster,\nstanding on tiptoe, flapped his wings as if to crow then checked\nhimself suddenly and looked around as if to say: \"Bless me, I nearly\nforgot what day it is!\" Then the clear, mellow, tones of the church\nbell floated across the little valley and the boy's parents came out\nof the house. The dog, stretched at full length on the porch, lifted\nhis head but did not offer to follow. He, too, seemed to know, thought\nthe boy as he climbed down from the post to walk soberly away with his\nparents.\n\nBefore they reached the lower end of the garden, the little girl with\nher mother and uncle came out of their house and, at the gate, waited\nfor them while the little girl waved her hand in greeting. Then the\ntwo men and the two women walked on ahead and, as the boy and girl\nfollowed, the boy, looking shyly at his companion, saw the sunlight on\nher soft, brown, hair that was so prettily arranged with a blue\nribbon--saw the merry eyes under the broad brim of her best hat--saw\nthe flushed, softly rounded, cheek with the dimple, the curve of the\nred lips, and the dainty chin--saw her dress so clean and white and\nstarched--saw and wondered if the angels in heaven could be more\nbeautiful than this little girl.\n\nSo they went, that Sunday, down the hill, across the creek, and up the\ngentle slope beyond, until they came to the cross roads where the\nwhite church stood under the old elm and maple trees. Already there\nwere many teams standing under the sheds or tied to the hitch racks\nalong the side of the road. And by the roads that led away in four\ndirections, through the fields and meadows and pastures of the farms,\nother country folk were coming from their homes and their labors to\nworship the God of seedtime and harvest.\n\nThere were no ushers in that church of the Yesterdays for there would\nbe no strangers save those who would come with their friends; but the\npreacher himself was at the door to greet his people or was moving\nhere and there among them, asking with care for the absent ones.\nNeither was there a great organ to fill the air with its trembling\ntones; but, at the humble instrument that served as well, the mother\nof the little girl presided, while the boy's father led the country\nchoir. And the sunlight of that Sunday streamed through the open\nwindows, softened only by the delicate traceries of gently waving\nbranches and softly rustling leaves.\n\nAnd in the songs and prayers and sermons of that worship in the\nYesterdays, the boy heard the same unknowable things that the man had\nheard that morning in the city church. Among those people, the boy\nfelt stirring the same spirit that had moved the man. The old preacher\nwas long ago resting in the cemetery on the hill, with the boy's\nparents, the mother of the little girl, and many, many, others of his\nflock. A new and more modern minister would be giving, now, to the\nchildren of that old congregation, the newest and most modern things\nthat theologians do not know about Religion. But the same old spirit\nwould be there still; doing the same work for the glory of the race.\nAnd the boy in the Yesterdays, as he listened to the songs and prayers\nand sermons, had wondered in his heart about the things he heard--even\nas the man, he had asked himself many unanswerable questions... But\nthere had been no doubt in the questions of the boy. There had been no\ndisbelief in his wonder. Because the girl's mother played the\norgan--because the boy's father sang in the choir--because his mother\nand the little girl were there beside him--the boy believed that which\nhe could not understand.\n\n\"By their fruits\"--it is a text as good for grown up children as for\nboys and girls.\n\nWhat the preachers say about Religion matters little after all. It is\nthe fathers and mothers and the little girls who keep the faith of the\nworld alive. The _words_ of those sermons and prayers and songs\nin his Yesterdays would go with the boy no farther than the church\ndoor; but that which was in the hearts of those who sang and preached\nand prayed--that which song and sermon and prayer attempted but could\nnot express--_that_ would go with the boy through all the years\nof his life. From _that_ the man could never get wholly away. It\nbecame as much a part of him as his love for his parents was a part.\n\nWhen church and Sunday school were over the boy went home to the\nmiracle of the Sunday dinner. And, even as the unknowable things upon\nthe Sunday dinner table contributed to his manhood's physical strength\nand health, so the things expressed by the day that is set apart from\nall other days contributed to that strength of manhood that is more\nvital than the strength of bone and muscle and nerve and sinew. In the\nbook wherein it is written: \"Man shall not live by bread alone,\" it is\nwritten, also: \"Except ye become as little children.\"\n\nSlowly the man arose. Slowly and regretfully he turned to leave his\nplace under the great trees that, in the solemn, quiet, twilight of\nthe old cemetery, locked their arms protectingly above the dead.\n\n\"Except ye become as little children.\"\n\nMust men in Religion be always trying to grow up? Are the wisest and\nthe greatest among scholars nearer the secrets of the unknowable\npower, that, through Religion, possesses the world, than the\nunthinking children are? As the man in the late afternoon went out\nthrough the ancient iron gates, between the vine covered columns of\nstone, he knew that his belief in Religion would not go as his faith\nin fairies had gone. Because of those companion graves and all that\nthey meant to him--because of the little girl in his Yesterdays--his\nfaith in Religion would not go.\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nThe woman, alone in her room, sat at the open window looking out over\nthe city. The long, spring, Sunday was drawing to its close. Above the\nroofs of the houses across the street, above the towering stories of\nthe buildings in the down town districts, above factory chimneys,\nchurch steeples, temple dome, and cathedral spire, she saw the evening\nsky light with the glory of the passing day. Over a triumphant arch in\nthe west, through which the sun had gone, a mighty cloud curtain of\npurple was draped, fold on fold, all laced and looped with silver and\nedged with scarlet flame. Above the curtain, far flung across the wide\nsky, banners of rose and crimson and gold flashed and gleamed; while,\nmarching in serried ranks, following the pathway of the sun, went\ninnumerable thousands of cloud soldiers in their uniforms of light.\nSlowly the procession passed--the gleaming banners vanished--the\nmarching armies disappeared--the curtain in the west was drawn close.\nThe woman at the window watched until the last of the light was gone\nand, in the still sky above, the stars hung motionless. Like a\nbenediction, the sweet mystery of twilight had come upon the land.\nLike a softly breathed blessing from heaven, the night had come.\n\nBecause of the experience through which she had passed in the week\njust gone, that day, dedicated to Religion, had held for the woman a\nnew meaning.\n\nLooking into the darkness that hid the city from her eyes she\nshuddered. There were so many there to whom the night came not as a\nblessing, but as a curse. Out there, in the soft darkness into which\nthe woman looked, dreadful crimes were being committed, horrid deeds\nwere being planned. Out there, in the quiet night, wretched poverty,\ngaunt pain, and loathsome disease were pulling down their victims. Out\nthere, in the blackness, hideous licentiousness, beastly passion,\ndebasing pleasure were stalking their prey. Out there, murderers of\nsouls were lying in wait; robbers of hearts were creeping stealthily;\nslayers of purity were watching; killers of innocence were lurking. To\nthe woman at the window, that night, the twinkling lights of the city\nwere as beacon fires on the outskirts of hell.\n\nAnd to-morrow--to-morrow--she must go down into that hell. All that\nwas there in the darkness, she must see, she must know, she must feel.\nAll those things of evil would be watching her, crowding her, touching\nher, hungering for her; placing pitfalls in her way; longing for her\nto slip; waiting for her to fall; testing her, trying her, always\nready with a damnable readiness; always hoping with a hellish hope.\nInto that she must go--even into that--this woman, who knew herself to\nbe a woman, must go.\n\nAnd what--what--of her dreams? Could she, she asked herself that\nnight, could she go into that life, day after day, and still have a\nheart left for dreaming? Against the unclean strength that threatened\nher, where would she find the strength to keep her womanhood pure and\nstrong for the holy mission of womanhood?\n\nClear and sweet from out the darkness of the night came the sound of a\nbell. Then another, and another, and another, until, from every\nquarter of the city, their music came, as though in answer to her\nquestion. Some, near at hand, rang loud, triumphant, peals as though\nrejoicing over victories already won; others, farther away, in softer\ntones, seemed to promise strength for present need; while still\nothers, in more distant places, sounding soft and far away, seemed to\ngently warn, to beckon, to call, to plead. Lifting her tear filled\neyes from the lights of the streets the woman looked at the stars,\nand, so looking, saw, lifting into the sky, the church spires of the\ncity.\n\nIn a little, the music of the bells ceased. But the woman, at the\nwindow, sat still with her face upturned to the stars.\n\nGone, now, were the city lights that to her had seemed as beacon fires\non the outskirts of hell. Gone, now, the horrors of that life to which\nnight comes not as a benediction. Gone, now, her fears for her dreams.\nThe woman lived again a Sunday evening in her Yesterdays.\n\nIt may have been the flaming glory of the sky; it may have been the\nmusic of the bells; it may have been the stars--whatever it was--the\nwoman went again into the long ago. Once again she went back into her\nYesterdays--to a Sunday evening in her Yesterdays.\n\nThe little girl was on the front porch of her home with mother. The\nsun was going down behind the great trees in the old churchyard at the\ncross roads while, across the valley, the voice of the bell was\ncalling the people to evening worship. And, with the ringing of the\nbell, the boy and his mother came to sit with them while the men were\ngone to church.\n\nThen, while the mothers, seated in their easy chairs, talked in low\ntones, the boy and the girl, side by side, on the steps of the porch,\nwatched the light go out of the sky and tried to count the stars as\nthey came. As the twilight deepened, the elms in the pasture across\nthe road, the maples along the drive, and the willows down by the\ncreek, became shadowy and indistinct. From the orchard, an owl sent\nforth his quavering call and was answered by his mate from the roof of\nthe barn. Down in the shadow of the little valley, a whip-poor-will\ncried plaintively, and, now and then, a bat came darting out of the\ndusk on swift and silent wings. And there, in the darkness across the\nvalley, shone the single light of the church. The children gave up\ntrying to count the stars and grew very still, as, together, they\nwatched the lights of the church. Then one of the mothers laughed, a\nlow happy laugh, and the children began telling each other about God.\n\nMany things the boy and the girl told each other about God. And who is\nthere to say that the things they told were not just as true as many\nthings that older children tell? Though, I suppose, as the boy and\ngirl did not quarrel or become angry with each other that Sunday\nevening, their talk about God could scarcely be considered orthodox.\nTheir service under the stars was not at all regular, I know. With\nchildish awe and reverence--with hushed voices--they only told each\nother about God. They did not discuss theology--they were not church\nmembers--they were only children.\n\nThen, by and by, the father and uncle came, and, with his parents, the\nboy went home, calling through the dark, as he went, many good\nnights--each call sounding fainter and farther away. And, when she\ncould neither hear nor make him hear more, the little girl went with\nher mother into the house, where, when she was ready for bed, she\nknelt to pray that old familiar prayer of the Yesterdays--forgetting\nnot in her prayer to ask God to bless and keep the boy.\n\nOh, childish prayers of the Yesterdays! Made in the strength of a\nchildish faith, what power divine is in them to keep the race from\ndeath! Oh, childish understanding of God, deep grounded in that wisdom\nto which scholars can never attain! Does the Master of Life still set\nlittle children among His disciples in vain?\n\nThe woman no longer feared that which lay in the darkness of the city.\nShe knew, now, that she would have strength to keep the treasures of\nher womanhood safe for him should he come to lead her into the life of\nher dreams. She knew, now, what it was that would help her--that would\nenable her to keep that which Life had committed to her.\n\nAs she turned from the window, strength and peace were in her heart.\nAs she knelt beside her bed to pray, her prayer was that prayer of her\nYesterdays. The prayer of a child it was--the prayer of a woman who\nknows that she is a woman it was also.\n\n\n\n\n\nTRADITION\n\nIt was summer time--growing time.\n\nThe children of the little brown birds that had nested in the hedge\nnear the cherry tree, that year, were flying now, quite easily, away\nfrom their little brown mother's counsel and advice. Even to the top\nof the orchard hill, they went in search of brave adventure, rejoicing\nrecklessly in their freedom. But, for the parent birds, the ties of\nthe home in the hedge were still strong. And, every day, they examined\nwith experienced eyes the cherries, that, on the near by tree, were\nfast nearing ripening time.\n\nWith every gesture expressing more clearly than any spoken word his\nstate of mind, the man jerked down the top of his desk, slammed the\ndoor, jabbed the elevator bell, and strode grimly out of the building.\n\nThe man's anger was not one of those flash like bursts of wrath, that,\npassing as quickly as they come, leave the sky as clear as though no\nstorm had crossed it. Nor was it the slow kindling, determined, anger,\nthat, directed against a definite object, burns with steady purpose.\nIt was rather that sullen, hopeless, helpless rage, that, finding\nnothing to vent itself upon, endures even while recognizing that its\nendurance is in vain. It was the anger of a captive, wild thing\nagainst the steel bars of its cage, which, after months of effort, it\nhas found too strong. It was the anger of an explorer against the\nimpassable crags and cliffs of a mountain range that bars his path. It\nwas the anger of a blind man against the darkness that will not lift.\n\nThe man's work demanded freedom and the man was not free. In his\ndreams, at the beginning of his manhood, he had thought himself free\nto work out his dreams. He had said to himself: \"Alone, in my own\nstrength, I will work. Depending upon no man, I will be independent.\nLimited only by myself, I will be free.\" He said this because he did\nnot, then, know the strength of the bars. He had not, at that time,\nseen the mountain range. He had not faced the darkness that would not\nlift. Difficulties, hardships, obstacles, dangers, he had expected to\nface, and, in his strength, to overcome. But the greatest difficulty,\nthe severest hardship, the most trying obstacle, the gravest danger,\nhe had not foreseen.\n\nLittle by little, as the days and months had passed and the man had\nmade progress in his work, this thing had made itself felt. Little by\nlittle, this thing had forced itself upon him until, at last, he was\nmade to realize the fact that he was not independent of but dependent\nupon all men. He found that he was limited not alone by himself but by\nothers. He understood, now, that he was not free to work out his\ndreams. He saw, now, that the thing most difficult to overcome--the\nthing that forbade his progress and refused him freedom--was\nTradition. On every side he met this: \"It has never been done; it,\ntherefore, can never be done. The fathers of our fathers believed\nthis, therefore we must believe it. This has always been, therefore\nthis must always be. Others do this, think this, believe this,\ntherefore you must so do and think and believe.\" The man found, that,\nbeyond a point which others could see, others denied him the right to\ngo. The established customs and habits of others fixed the limit of\nthe progress he could make with the approval of the world.\n\nAt first he had laughed--secure in his own strength, he had laughed\ncontemptuously. But that was because he did not then realize the power\nof this thing. Later he did not laugh. He became angry with a sullen,\nhopeless, helpless, rage that accomplished nothing--that could\naccomplish nothing--but only weakened the man himself. As one shut in\na cell exhausts himself beating against the walls, so he wearied\nhimself.\n\nNot until he was in the full swing of his work had this thing come\nupon him in force. At the beginning of his manhood life, when, in the\nstrength of his first manhood dreams he had looked out upon the world\nas a conquering emperor upon the field of a coming battle, he had not\nseen this thing. When he was crying out to the world for something to\ndo this thing had not made itself felt. Not until he had made\nnoticeable progress--not until he was in the full swing of his\nwork--did he find himself forced to reckon with what others had done\nor said or thought or believed.\n\nAnd never had the man felt his own strength as he felt it now when\nface to face with this thing against which his strength seemed so\nhelpless. If only he could have freedom! He asked nothing but that. As\nin the beginning he had asked of the world only room and something to\ndo, he asked now only for freedom to do. And the world granted him the\nfreedom of the child who is permitted to play in the yard but must not\ngo outside the fence. He was free to do his work--to play out his\ndreams--only so far as the established customs and fixed\nhabits--Tradition--willed. \"Beyond the fence that shuts in the\nfamiliar home ground,\" said the world, \"you must not go. If you dare\nclimb over the fence--if you dare go out of the yard,\" said the world,\n\"I will punish you--I will ridicule you, condemn you, persecute you,\nostracize you. I will brand you false, a self-seeker, a pretender, a\ncharlatan, a trickster, a rogue. I will cry you unsafe, dangerous, a\nmenace to society and the race, an evil to all that is good, an\nunspeakable fool. Stay in the yard,\" said the world, \"and you may do\nwhat you like.\"\n\nEven in matters of personal habits and taste, the man found that he\nwas not free. In his dress; in the things he ate and drank; in his\npleasures; in the books he read, the plays he attended, the pictures\nhe saw, the music he heard, he found that he was expected to obey the\nmandates of the world--he found that he was expected to conform to\nTradition--to the established customs and habits of others. In\nreligion, in politics, in society, in literature, in art--as in his\nwork--the world said: \"Don't go outside the yard.\"\n\nI do not know what work it was that the man was trying to do. It does\nnot matter what his work was. But this I know: in every work that man,\nsince the beginning, has tried to do, man has been hindered as this\nman was hindered--man has been denied as this man was denied, freedom.\nTradition has always blocked the wheels of progress. The world has\nmoved ahead always in spite of the world. Just as the world has always\ncrucified its saviors, so, always, it has hindered and held back its\nleaders.\n\nAnd this, too, I know: after the savior is crucified, those who nail\nhim to the cross accept his teaching. While the world hinders and\nholds back its leaders, it always follows them.\n\nBut the man did not think of this that day when he left the scene of\nhis labor in such anger. He thought only of that which he was trying\nto do. When he went back to his work, the next day, he was still angry\nand with his anger, now, came discontent, doubt, and fear, to cloud\nhis vision, to clog his brain and weaken his heart.\n\nA friend, at lunch, said: \"You look fagged, knocked out, done up, old\nman. You've been pegging away too long and too steadily. Why don't you\nlet up for awhile? Lay off for a week or two. Take a vacation.\"\n\nAgain and again, that hot, weary, afternoon, the words of the man's\nfriend came back to him until, by evening, he was considering the\nsuggestion seriously. \"Why not?\" he asked himself. He was\naccomplishing little or nothing in his present mood. Why not accept\nthe friendly advice? Perhaps--when he came back--perhaps, he could\nagain laugh at the world that denied him freedom.\n\nSo he came to considering places and plans. And, as he considered,\nthere was before him, growing always clearer as he looked, the scenes\nof his boyhood--the old home of his childhood--the place of his\nYesterdays. There were many places of interest and pleasure to which\nthe man might go, but, among them all, there was no place so\nattractive as the place of his Yesterdays. There was nothing he so\nwished to do as this: to go back to the old home and there to be, for\na little while, as nearly as a man could be, a boy again.\n\nIf the man had thought about it, he would have seen in this desire to\nspend his vacation at the old home something of the same force that so\nangered him by hindering his work. But the man did not think about it.\nHe wrote a letter to see if he might spend two weeks with the people\nwho were living in the house where he was born and, when the answer\ncame assuring him a welcome, quickly made his arrangements to go.\n\nWith boyish eagerness, he was at the depot a full half hour before the\ntime for his train. While he waited, he watched the crowd, feeling an\ninterest in the people who came and went in the never ending\nprofession that he had not felt since that day when he had first come\nto the city to work out his dreams among men. In the human tide that\nebbed and flowed through this world gateway, he saw men of wealth and\nmen of poverty--people of culture and position who had come or were\ngoing in Pullman or private cars and illiterate, stupid, animal\nlooking, emigrants who were crowded, much like cattle, in the lowest\nclass. There were business men of large affairs; countrymen with\nwondering faces; shallow, pleasure seekers; artists and scholars; idle\nfools; vicious sharks watching for victims; mothers with flocks of\nchildren clinging to their skirts; working girls and business women;\nchattering, laughing, schoolgirls; and wretched creatures of the\noutcast life--all these and many more.\n\nAnd, as he watched, perhaps because he was on his vacation, perhaps\nbecause of something in his heart awakened by the fact that he was\ngoing to his boyhood home, the man felt, as he had never felt before,\nhis kinship with them all. With wealth and poverty, with culture and\nilliteracy, with pleasure and crime, with sadness and joy, as\nevidenced in the lives of those who passed in the crowd, the man felt\na sympathy and understanding that was strangely new. And, more than\nthis, he saw that each was kin to the other. He saw that, in spite of\nthe wide gulf that separated the individuals in the throng, there was\na something that held them all together--there was a force that\ninfluenced all alike--there was a something common to all. In spite of\nthe warring elements of society; in spite of the clashing forces of\nbusiness; in spite of the conflicting claims of industry represented\nin the throng; the man recognized a brotherhood, a oneness, a kinship,\nthat held all together. And he felt this with a strange feeling that\nhe had always known that it was there but had never recognized it\nbefore.\n\nThe man did not realize that this was so because he was not thinking\nof the people in their relation to his work. He did not know, that,\nbecause his heart and mind were intent upon the things of his\nYesterdays, he saw the world in this new light. He did not, then,\nunderstand that the force which hindered and hampered him in his\nwork--that denied him the full freedom he demanded--was the same force\nthat he now felt holding the people together. Even as they all,\nwhether traveling in Pullman, private car, or emigrant train, passed\nover the same rails, so they all, in whatever class they traveled on\nthe road of Life, were guided by the Traditions--the established\ncustoms--the fixed habits--that are common to their race or nation.\nAnd the strength of a people, as a people, is in this oneness--this\nforce that makes them one--the Traditions and customs and habits of\nlife that are common to all. It is the fences of the family dooryards\nthat hold the children of men together and make the people of a race\nor nation one.\n\nSo it was that the man, knowing it not, left his work behind and went,\nfor strength and rest, back to the scenes of his Yesterdays in\nobedience to the command of the very thing that, in his work, had\nstirred him to such rage. For what, after all, are Traditions and\ncustoms and habits but a going back into the Yesterdays.\n\nAs the train left the city farther and farther behind, the man's\nthoughts kept pace with the fast flying wheels that were bearing him\nback to the scenes of his childhood. From the present, he retraced his\nsteps to that day when he had dreamed his first manhood dreams and to\nthose hard days when he was asking of the world only something to do.\nAs, step by step, he followed his way back, incidents, events,\nexperiences, people, appeared, even as from the car window he caught\nglimpses of the whirling landscape, until at last he saw, across the\nfields and meadows familiar to his childhood, the buildings of the old\nhome, the house where the little girl had lived, the old church, and\nthe orchard hill where he had sat that day when the smoke of a distant\ntrain moving toward the city became to him a banner leading to the\nbattle front. Then the long whistle announced the station. Eagerly the\nman collected his things and, before the train had come to a full\nstop, swung himself to the depot platform where he was met by his\nkindly host.\n\nAs they drove past the fields and pastures, so quiet after the noisy\ncity, the man grew very still. Past the little white church among its\nold trees at the cross roads; down the hill and across the creek; and\nslowly up the other side of the valley they went: then past the house\nwhere the little girl had lived; and so turned in, at last, to the\nhome of that boy in the Yesterdays. And surely it was no discredit to\nthe man that, when they left him alone in his old room to prepare for\nthe evening meal, he scarce could see for tears.\n\nScenes of childhood! Memories of the old home! Recollections of the\ndear ones that are gone! No more can man escape these things of the\nYesterdays than he can avoid the things of to-day. No more can man\ndeny the past than he can deny the present. Tradition is to men as a\ngovernor to an engine; without its controlling power the race would\nspeed quickly to its own destruction. One of the Thirteen Truly Great\nThings of Life is Tradition.\n\nFor two happy, healthful, restful, strengthening, inspiring weeks, the\nman lived, so far as a man can live, in his Yesterdays. In the cool\nshade of the orchard that once was an enchanted wood; under the old\napple tree ship beside the meadow sea; on the hill where, astride his\nrail fence war horse, the boy had directed the battle and led the\ndesperate charge and where the man had dreamed the first of his\nmanhood dreams; in the garden where the castaway had lived on his\ndesert island; in the yard near mother's window where the boy had\nbuilded the brave play house for the little girl next door; in the\nvalley, below where the little girl lived, beside the brook that in\nits young life ran so pure and clear; at the old school house in the\nedge of the timber; in the ancient cemetery, beside the companion\ngraves; through the woods and fields and pastures; beside the old mill\npond with its covered bridge; the man lived again those days of the\nlong ago.\n\nBut, in the places of his Yesterdays, the man found, already, many\nchanges. The houses and buildings were a little more weather-beaten,\nwith many of the boards in the porch floors and steps showing decay.\nThe trees in the orchard were older and more gnarled with here and\nthere gaps in their ranks. The fences showed many repairs. The little\nschoolhouse was almost shabby and, with the wood cleared away, looked\nnaked and alone. The church, too, was in need of a fresh coat of\nwhite. And there were many new graves in the cemetery on the hill. As\ntime had wrought changes in the man himself, even so had it altered\nthe scenes of his boyhood. Always, in men and in things, time works\nchanges.\n\nBut it is not the changes wrought by time that harms. These come as\nthe ripening of the fruit upon the tree. It is the sudden, violent,\ntransformations that men are ever seeking to make, both in things and\nin themselves, that menace the ripening life of the race. It is well,\nindeed, for the world to hold fast to its Traditions. It is well to\ncling wisely to the past.\n\nNor did the man live again in his Yesterdays alone. He could not.\nAlways, she was there--his boyhood mate--the little girl who lived\nnext door.\n\nBut the opening in the hedge that, at the lower end of the garden,\nseparated the boy's home from the home of the little girl, was closed.\nLong and carefully the man searched; smiling, the while, at a foolish\nwish in his heart that time would leave that little gate of the\nYesterdays always open. But the ever growing branches had woven a\nthick barrier across the green archway hiding it so securely that, to\nthe man, no sign was left to mark where it had been.\n\nWith that foolish regret still in his heart, the man asked, quite\ncasually, of the people who were living in the house if they knew\naught about his playmate of the Yesterdays.\n\nThey could tell him very little; only that she lived in a city some\ndistance from his present home. What she was doing; whether married or\nalone; they could not say.\n\nAnd the man, as he stood, with bared head, under the cherry tree in\nthe corner near the hedge, told himself that he was glad that the\npeople could tell him nothing. In his busy, grown up, life there was\nno room for a woman. In his battle with the things that challenged his\nadvance, he must be free to fight. It was better for him that the\nlittle girl lived only in his Yesterdays. The little girl who had\nhelped him play out his boyhood dreams must not hinder him while he\nworked out the dreams of his manhood. That is what the man told\nhimself as he stood, with bared head, under the cherry tree. With the\nmemory of that play wedding and that kiss in his heart, he told\nhimself _that_!\n\nI wonder, sometimes, what would happen if men should chance to\ndiscover how foolish they really are.\n\nNo doubt, the man reflected--watching the pair of brown birds as they\ninspected the ripening cherries--no doubt she has long ago forgotten\nthose childish vows. Perhaps, in the grown up world, she has even\ntaken new and more binding vows. Would he ever, he wondered, meet one\nwith whom he could make those vows again? Once he had met one with\nwhom he thought he wished to make them but he knew, now, that he had\nbeen mistaken. And he knew, too, that it was well that he had found\nhis mistake in time. Somehow, as he stood there again under the cherry\ntree, the making of such vows seemed to the man more holy, more\nsacred, than they had ever seemed before. Would he dare--He wondered.\nWas there, in all the world, a woman with whom he could--The man\nshrugged his shoulders and turned away. Yes, indeed, it was much\nbetter that she lived only in his Yesterdays. And still--still--in the\nman's heart there was regret that Time had closed that gateway of his\nYesterdays.\n\nAnd often, in the twilight of those evenings, after a day of wandering\nabout the place, visiting old scenes, or talking with the long time\nfriends of his people, the man would recall the traditions of his\nfamily; hearing again the tales his father would tell by the winter\nfireside or listening to the stories that his mother would relate on a\nSunday or a stormy afternoon. Brave tales they were--brave tales and\ntrue stories of the man's forbears who had lived when the country was\nyoung and who had played no small part in the nation's building. And,\nas he recalled these traditions of his people, the man's heart\nthrilled with loyal pride while he determined strongly to keep the\nsplendid record clean. As a sacred heritage, he would receive these\ntraditions. As a holy duty he would be true to that which had been.\n\nReluctantly, but with renewed strength and courage, when the time came\nfor his going, the man set his face away from his Yesterdays--set it\nagain toward his work--toward the working out of his dreams. And, as\nhe went, there was for the thing that checked his progress something\nmore than anger--for the thing that forced him to go slowly there was\npatience.\n\nStanding on the rear platform, as his train moved slowly away past an\nincoming train that had just pulled onto a siding, the man saw the\nneighbor who lived next door to his old home drive hurriedly up. The\nman in the carriage waved his hand and the man on the moving train,\nanswering in like manner, wondered idly what had brought the neighbor\nthere. Surely he had not come to bid one who was almost a stranger\ngood-bye. And, strangely enough, as the man watched from the window\nfor a last view of the scenes of his Yesterdays, there was in his\nheart, again, regret that the little opening in the hedge was closed.\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nThe city was sweltering in a summer heat wave. The sun shone through a\ndingy pall of vile smoke with a sickly, yellow, glare. From the\npavement and gutter, wet by the sprinkling wagons, in a vain effort to\nlay the dust, a sticky, stinking, steam lifted, filling the nostrils\nand laving the face with a combination of every filthy odor. The\natmosphere fairly reeked with the smell of sweating animals,\nperspiring humanity, rotting garbage, and vile sewage. And, in the\nmidst of the hot filth, the people moved with languid, feeble manner;\ntheir faces worn and pallid; their eyes dull and weary; their voices\nthin and fretful.\n\nThe woman's heart was faint with the weight of suffering that she was\nhelpless to relieve. Her quivering nerves shrieked with the horror of\nconditions that she could not change. Her brain ached with\ncontemplation of the cruel necessity that tortured humankind. Her very\nsoul was sick with the hopelessness of the gasping, choking,\nstruggling, multitude who, in their poverty and blindness, toiled to\npreserve their lives of sorrow and pain and sought relief from their\nlabors in pleasures more horrible and destructive, by far, than the\nslavery to which they gave themselves for the means to pay.\n\nThe woman was tired--very tired. Heart and nerves and brain and soul\nand body were tired with a weariness that, it seemed to her, would\nnever pass. She was tired of the life into which she had gone because\nit was the custom of the age and because of her necessity--the life\ninto which she had not wished to go because it denied her womanhood.\nBecause she knew herself to be a woman, she felt that she was being\nrobbed of the things of her womanhood. The brightness and beauty, the\nstrength and joyousness of her womanhood were, by her, held as sacred\ntrusts to be kept for her children and, through them, for the race.\nShe wearied of the struggle to keep the things of her womanhood from\nthe world that was taking them from her--that put a price upon\nthem--that used them as thoughtlessly as it uses the stone and metal\nand wood that it takes from the earth. She was tired of the horrid\nlife that crowded her so closely--that crushed itself against her in\nthe crowded cars--that leered into her face on the street--that\nreached out for her from every side--that hungered for her with a\nfierce hunger and longed for her with a damnable, fiendish, longing.\nShe was faint and weak from contact with the loathsome things that she\nwas forced to know and that would leave their mark upon her womanhood\nas surely as the touch of pitch defiles. And she was weary, so weary,\nwaiting for that one with whom she could cross the threshold of the\nold, old, open door.\n\nLittle time was left to her, now, for thought and preparation for the\nlife of which she had dreamed. Little heart was left to her, now, for\ndreaming. Little courage was left for hope. But still her dreams\nlived. Still she waited. Still, at times, she hoped.\n\nBut the thing that most of all wearied the woman, who knew that she\nwas a woman, was this: the restless, discontented, dissatisfied,\nuneasy, spirit of the age that, scorning Tradition in a shallow, silly\npride, struggles for and seems to value only that which is new\nregardless of the value of the thing itself. The new in dress,\nregardless of beauty or fitness in the costume--the new in thought,\nregardless of the saneness of the thinking--the new in customs and\nmanner of living--the new in the home, in marriage relation, in the\neducation and rearing of children--new philosophy, new science, new\nreligion, new art, new music, new books, new cooking, new women--it\nsometimes appears that the crime of crimes, the most degrading\ndisgrace, these days, is to be held old-fashioned, behind-the-times,\nout-of-date, and that everything, _everything_, not new is\nold-fashioned--everything not of the times is\nbehind-the-times--everything not down-to-date is out-of-date.\n\nPatriotism, love of country, is old, very old, and is also--or\ntherefore--quite out-of-date. To speak or write of patriotism,\nseriously, or to consider it a factor in life--to live it, depend upon\nit, or appeal to it, is to be considered very strange and sadly\nold-fashioned. The modern, down-to-date, age considers seriously not\npatriotism but \"graft\" and \"price\" and \"boodle.\" These are the modern\nforces by which the nation is said to be governed; these are the means\nby which the nation strives to go ahead. To talk only of these things,\nto believe only in these things, to live only these things, is to be\nmodern and down--low down--to-date. To work from any motive but the\nmaking of money is to be queerly behind-the-times. To write a book or\npaint a picture or sing a song, to preach a sermon, to do anything for\nany reason under heaven but for cash marks you a fanatic and a fool.\nTo believe, even, that anyone does anything save for the money there\nis in it stamps you simple and unsophisticated, indeed. To profess\nsuch belief, save you put your tongue in your cheek, marks you\npeculiar.\n\nLong, long, ago mankind put its best strength, its best thought, its\nbest life, into its works, without regard for the price, simply\nbecause it was its work. And the work so wrought in those queer\nold-fashioned days has most curiously endured. There is little danger\nthat much of our modern, down-to-date work will endure for the very\nsimple reason that we do not want it to endure. \"The world wants\nsomething new.\" Down-to-date-ism does not want its work to last longer\nthan the dollar it brings. Never fear, the world is getting something\nnew! But, though we have grown so bravely away from those queer,\nold-fashioned days we have not succeeded yet in growing altogether\naway from the works that those old-fashioned days produced. But,\npatience, old world--patience--down-to-date-ism may, in time,\naccomplish even this.\n\nIn those old, old, times, too, it was the fashion for men and women to\nmate in love. In love, they planned and builded their homes. In love,\nthey brought forth children and reared them, with queer, old-fashioned\nnotions about marriage, to serve the race. In those times, now so\nsadly old and out-of-date, men planned and labored for homes and\nchildren and women were home makers and mothers. But the world is now\nfar from those ancient ways and out-of-date ideals. Marriage has\nlittle to do with home making these modern days. It has almost nothing\nto do with children. We have, in our down-to-date-ism, come to be a\nnation of childless wives and homeless husbands. We are dwellers in\nflats, apartments, hotels, where children would be in the way but dogs\nare welcome if only they be useless dogs. We live in houses that are\nalways for sale or rent. It is our proud boast that we possess nothing\nthat is not on the market for a price. The thought of selling a home\nis not painful for we do not know, the value of a home. We have, for\nconvenience, to gratify our modern, down-to-date, ever changing\ntastes, popularized the divorce court as though a husband or wife of\nmore than three seasons is old-fashioned and should be discarded for\none of a newer pattern, more in harmony with our modern ideals of\nmarriage.\n\nFrom the down-to-date--the all-the-way-down-to-date woman, I mean--one\ngains new and modern ideas of the service that womankind is to render\nto the race. Almost it is as though God did not know what he was about\nwhen he made woman. To place a home above a club; a nursery above the\npublic platform; a fireside above politics; the prattle of children\nabove newspaper notoriety; the love of boys and girls above the\nexcitement of social conquest; the work of bearing strong men and true\nwomen for the glory of the race above the near intellectual pursuits\nand the attainments of a shallow thinking; all this is to be sadly\nold-fashioned. All this is so behind-the-times that one must confess\nsuch shocking taste with all humiliation.\n\nI hereby beg pardon of the down-to-date powers that be, and most\nhumbly pray that they will graciously forgive my boorishness. I assure\nyou that, after all, I am not so benighted that I do not realize how\nseriously babies would interfere in the affairs of those down-to-date\nwomen who are elevating the race. By all means let the race be\nelevated though it perish, childless, in the process. Very soon, now,\nwomanhood itself will be out-of-date for the world, in this also,\nseems to be evolving something new.\n\nSo the woman, who knew herself to be a woman, most of all, was tired\nof things new and longed, deep in her heart, for the old, old, things\nthat were built into the very foundation of the race and that no\namount of gilding and trimming and ornamenting can ever cover up or\nhide; and no amount of disregarding or ignoring can do away with; lest\nindeed the race perish from the earth.\n\n\"And when do you take your vacation?\" asked a fellow worker as they\nwere leaving the building after the day's work.\n\n\"Not until the last of the month,\" returned the woman wearily. \"And\nyou?\"\n\n\"Me, oh, I must go Monday! And it's such a shame! I've just received a\ncharming invitation for two weeks later but no one cares to exchange\ntime with me. No one, you see, can go on such short notice. I don't\nsuppose that you--\" she paused suggestively.\n\n\"I will exchange time with you,\" said the woman simply.\n\n\"Will you really? Now, that _is_ clever of you! Are you\n_sure_ that you don't mind?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I will be glad to get away earlier.\"\n\n\"But can you get ready to go so soon?\"\n\nThe woman smiled. \"I shall do very little getting ready.\"\n\nThe other looked at her musingly. \"No, I suppose not, you are so queer\nthat way. Seems to me I can't find time enough to make new things. One\njust _must_ keep up, you know.\"\n\n\"It is settled then?\" asked the woman, at the corner where they\nparted.\n\n\"It will be so good of you,\" murmured the other.\n\nThe woman had many invitations to spend her brief vacation with\nfriends, but, that night, she wrote a letter to the people who lived\nin her old home and asked if they would take her for two weeks,\nrequesting that they telegraph their answer. When the message came,\nshe wired them to meet her and went by the first train.\n\nAt the old home station, her train took a siding at the upper end of\nthe yards to let the outgoing express pass. From the window where she\nsat the woman saw a tall man, dressed in a business suit of quiet\ngray, standing on the rear platform of the slowly moving outbound\ntrain and waving his hand to someone on the depot platform. Just a\nglimpse she had of him before he passed from sight as her own train\nmoved ahead to stop at the depot where she was greeted by her host.\nNot until they were driving toward her old home did the woman know who\nit was that she had seen.\n\nThe woman was interested in all that the people had to tell about her\nold playmate and asked not a few questions but she was glad that he\nhad not known of her coming. She was glad that he was gone. The man\nand the woman were strangers and the woman did not wish to meet a\nstranger. The boy lived, for her, only in her Yesterdays and the woman\ntold herself that she was glad because she feared that the man, if she\nmet him, would rob her of the boy. She feared that he would be like so\nmany that she had been forced to know in the world that denied her\nwomanhood. She had determined to be for two weeks, as far as it is\npossible for a woman to be, just a girl again and she wanted no\ncompany other than the little boy who lived only in the long ago.\n\nAs soon as supper was over she retired to her room--to the little room\nthat had been hers in her childhood--where, before lighting the lamp,\nshe sat for awhile at the open window looking out into the night,\nbreathing long and deep of the pure air that was sweetly perfumed with\nthe odor of the meadows and fields. In the brooding quiet; in the soft\nnight sounds; in the fragrant breeze that gently touched her hair; she\nfelt the old, old, forces of life calling to her womanhood and felt\nher womanhood stir in answer. For a long time she sat there giving\nfree rein to the thoughts and longings that, in her city life, she was\nforced to suppress.\n\nRising at last, as though with quick resolution, she lighted her lamp\nand prepared for bed; loosening her hair and deftly arranging the\nbeautiful, shining, mass that fell over her shoulders in a long braid.\nThen, smiling as she would have smiled at the play of a child, she\nknelt before her trunk and, taking something from its depth, quickly\nput out the light again and once more seated herself in a low rocking\nchair by the open window.\n\nHad there been any one to see, they would not have understood. Who is\nthere, indeed, to understand the heart of womanhood? The woman,\nsitting in the dark before the window in that room so full of the\nmemories of her childhood, held close in her arms an ancient doll\nwhose face had been washed so many times by its little mother that it\nwas but a smudge of paint.\n\nThat night the woman slept as a child sleeps after a long, busy,\nhappy, childhood day--slept to open her eyes in the morning while the\nbirds in the trees outside her window were heralding the coming of the\nsun. Rising she looked and saw the sky glorious with the light of\ndawning day. Flaming streamers of purple and scarlet and silver\nfloated high over the buildings and trees next door. The last of the\npale stars sank into the ocean of blue and, from behind the old\norchard above the house where the boy lived, long shafts of golden\nlight shot up as if aimed by some heavenly archer hiding behind the\nhill.\n\nWhen the day was fully come, the woman quickly dressed and went out\ninto the yard. The grass was dew drenched and fragrant under her feet.\nThe flowers were fresh and inviting. But she did not pause until, out\nin the garden, at the farther corner, close by the hedge, she stood\nunder the cherry tree--sacred cathedral of her Yesterdays.\n\nWhen she turned again to go back to the house, the woman's face was\nshining with the light that glows only in the faces of those women who\nknow that they are women and who dream the dreams of womanhood.\n\nSo the woman spent her days. Down in the little valley by the brook,\nthat, as it ran over the pebbly bars, drifted in the flickering light\nand shade of the willows, slipped between the green banks, or crept\nsoftly beneath the grassy arch, sang its song of the Yesterdays: up in\nthe orchard beyond the neighboring house where so many, many, times\nshe had helped the boy play out his dreams; on the porch, in the soft\ntwilight, watching the stars as they blossomed above while up from the\ndusky shadows in the valley below came the call of the whip-poor-will\nand the bats on silent wings flitted to and fro; out in the garden\nunder the cherry tree in the corner near the hedge--in all the loved\nhaunts of the boy and girl--she spent her days.\n\nAnd the tired look went out of her eyes. Strength returned to her\nweary body, courage to her heart, and calmness to her over-wrought\nnerves. Amid those scenes of her Yesterdays she was made ready to go\nback to the world that values so highly things that are new, and, in\nthe strength of the old, old, things to keep the dreams of her\nwomanhood. And, as she went, there was that in her face that all men\nlove to see in the face of womankind.\n\nPoor old world! Someday, perhaps, it will awake from its feverish\ndream to find that God made some things in the heart of the race too\nbig to be outgrown.\n\n\n\n\n\nTEMPTATION\n\nThe heights of Life are fortified. They are guarded by narrow passes\nwhere the world must go single file and where, if one slip from the\ntrail, he falls into chasms of awful depths; by cliffs of apparent\nimpassable abruptness which, if in scaling, one lose his head he is\nlost; and by false trails that seem to promise easy going but lead in\nthe wrong direction. Not in careless ease are those higher levels\ngained. The upward climb is one of strenuous effort, of desperate\nstruggle, of hazardous risk. Only those who prove themselves fit may\ngain the top.\n\nSomewhere in the life of every man there is a testing time. There is a\ntrial to prove of what metal he is made. There is a point which, won\nor lost, makes him winner or loser in the game. There is a Temptation\nthat to him is vital.\n\nTo pray: \"Lead us not into temptation,\" is divine wisdom for\nTemptation lies in wait. There is no need to seek it. And, when once\nit is met, there is no dodging the issue or shifting the burden of\nresponsibility. In the greatest gifts that men possess are the seeds\nwhich, if grown and cultivated, yield poisonous fruit. In the very\nforces that men use for greatest good are the elements of their own\ndestruction. And, whatever the guise in which Temptation comes, the\ntempter is always the same--Self. Temptation spells always the mastery\nof or the surrender to one's self.\n\nOnce I stood on a mighty cliff with the ocean at my feet. Ear below,\nthe waves broke with a soothing murmur that scarce could reach my ears\nand the gray gulls were playing here and there like shadows of half\nforgotten dreams. In the distance, the fishing boats rolled lazily on\nthe gentle swell and the sunlight danced upon the surface of the sea.\nThen, as I looked, on the far horizon the storm chieftain gathered his\nclans for war. I saw the red banners flashing. I watched the hurried\nmovements of the dark and threatening ranks. I heard the rumbling\ntread of the tramping feet. And, like airy messengers sent to warn me,\nthe gusts of wind came racing and wailed and sobbed about the cliff\nbecause I would not heed their warning. The startled boats in the\noffing spread their white wings and scurried to the shelter of their\nharbor nests. The gray gulls vanished. The sunlight danced no more\nupon the surface of the sea. And then, as the battle front rolled\nabove my head, the billows, lashed to fury by the wind and flinging in\nthe air the foam of their own madness, came rushing on to try their\nstrength against the grim and silent rock. Again and again they hurled\ntheir giant forms upon the cliff, until the roar of the surf below\ndrowned even the thunder in the clouds above and the solid earth\ntrembled with the shock, but their very strength was their ruin and\nthey were dashed in impotent spray from the stalwart object of their\nassault. And at last, when the hours of the struggle were over; when\nthe storm soldiers had marched on to their haunts behind the hills;\nwhen the gulls had returned to their sports; and the sun shone again\non the waters; I saw the bosom of the ocean rise and fall like the\nbreast of an angry child exhausted with its passion while the cliff,\nstanding stern and silent, seemed to look, with mingled pride and\npity, upon its foe now moaning at its feet.\n\nLike that cliff, I say, is the soul of a man who, in temptation, gains\nthe mastery of himself. The storm clouds of life may gather darkly\nover his head but he shall not tremble. The lightning of the world's\nwrath and the thunder of man's disapproval shall not move him. The\nwaves of passion that so try the strength of men shall be dashed in\nimpotent spray from his stalwart might. And when, at last, the storms\nof life are over--when the sun shines again on the waters as it shone\nbefore the fight began--he shall still stand, calm and unmoved, master\nof himself and men.\n\nBecause those things are true, I say: that Temptation is one of the\nThirteen Truly Great Things of Life.\n\nAnd the man knew these things--knew them as well as you know them. In\nthe full knowledge of these things he came to his testing time. To win\nor to lose, in the full knowledge of all that victory or defeat meant\nto him, he went to his Temptation.\n\nIt was early winter when his time came but he knew that first morning\nafter he had returned from his vacation that it was coming. The moment\nhe entered the room to take up again the task of putting his dreams\ninto action, he saw her and felt her power for she was one of those\nwomen who compel recognition of their sex as the full noonday sun\ncompels recognition of its light and heat.\n\nAn hour later her duties brought her to him, and, for a few moments,\nthey stood face to face. And the man, while he instructed her in the\nwork that she was to do, felt the strength of her power even as a\nstrong swimmer feels the current of the stream. Through her eyes, in\nher voice, in her presence, this woman challenged the man, made him\nmore conscious of her than of his work. The subtle, insinuating,\nluring, strength of her beat upon him, enveloped him, thrilled him. As\nshe turned to go back to her place, his eyes followed her and he knew\nthat he was approaching a great crisis in his life. He knew that soon\nor late he would be forced into a battle with himself and that\ntremendous stakes would be at issue. He knew that victory would give\nhim increased power, larger capacity, and a firmer grip upon the\nenduring principles of life or defeat would make of him a slave, with\nenfeebled spirit, humiliated and ashamed.\n\nEvery day, in the weeks that followed, the man was forced to see\nher--to talk with her--to feel her strength. And every day he felt\nhimself carried irresistibly onward toward the testing that he knew\nmust come. He was conscious, too, that the woman, also, knew and\nunderstood and that it pleased her so to use her power. She willed\nthat he should feel her presence. In a thousand subtle forms she\nrepeated her challenge. In ways varied without number she called to\nhim, lured him, led him. To do this seemed a necessity to her. She was\none of those women whose natures seem to demand this expression of\nthemselves. Instinctively, she made all men with whom she came in\ncontact feel her power and, instinctively--unconsciously, perhaps--she\ngloried in her strength.\n\nIf the man could have had other things in common with her it would\nhave been different. If there had been, as well, the appeal of the\nintellect--of the spirit--if the beauty of her had been to him an\nexpression of something more than her sex--if there had been ideals,\nhopes, longings, fears, even sorrow or regret, common to both, it\nwould have been different. But there was nothing. Often the man sought\nto find something more but there was nothing. So he permitted himself\nto be carried onward by a current against which, when the time should\ncome, he knew he would need to fight with all his might. And always,\nas the current swept him onward toward the point where he must make\nthe decisive struggle, he felt the woman's power over him growing ever\ngreater.\n\nAt last it came.\n\nIt was Saturday. The man left the place where he worked earlier than\nusual that he might walk to his rooms for he felt the need of physical\naction. He felt a strong desire to run, to leap, to use his splendid\nmuscles that throbbed and exulted with such vigorous life. As he\nstrode along the streets, beyond the business district, he held his\nhead high, he looked full into the faces of the people he met with a\nbold challenging look. The cool, bracing air, of early winter was\ngrateful on his glowing skin and he drank long deep breaths of it as\none would drink an invigorating tonic. Every nerve and fiber of him\nwas keenly, gloriously, alive with the strength of his splendid\nmanhood. Every nerve and fiber of him was conscious of her and exulted\nin that which he had seen in her eyes when she had told him that she\nwould be at home that evening and that she would be glad to have him\ncall. With all his senses abnormally alert, he saw and noted\neverything about him. A thousand trivial, commonly unseen things,\nalong his way and in the faces, dress, and manner, of the people whom\nhe met, caught his eye. Yet, always, vividly before him, was the face\nof her whose power he had felt. Under it all, he was conscious that\nthis was his testing time. He _knew_--or it would have been no\nTemptation--it would have been no trial. Impatiently he glanced at his\nwatch and, as he neared the place where he lived, quickened his\nstride, springing up the steps of the house at last with a burst of\neager haste.\n\nIn the front hall, at the foot of the stairs, the little daughter of\nhis landlady greeted him with shouts of delight and, with the\nmasterful strength of four feminine years, dragged him, a willing\ncaptive, through the open door to her mother's pleasant sitting room.\nShe was a beautiful, dainty, little miss with hair and eyes very like\nthat playmate of the man's Yesterdays and it was his custom to pay\ntribute to her charms in the coin of childhood as faithfully and as\nregularly as he paid his board.\n\nSeated now, with the baby on his lap and the smiling mother looking\non, he produced, after the usual pretense of denial and long search\nthrough many pockets, the weekly offering. And then, as though some\nguardian angel willed it so, the little girl did a thing that she had\nnever done before. Putting two plump and dimpled arms about his neck\nshe said gravely: \"Mamma don't like me to kiss folks, you know, but\nshe said she wouldn't care if I kissed _you_\" Whereupon a sweet\nlittle rosebud mouth was offered trustingly, with loving innocence, to\nhis lips.\n\nA crimson flame flushed the man's face. With a laugh of embarrassment\nand a quick impulsive hug he held the child close and accepted her\noffering.\n\nThen he went quickly upstairs to his room.\n\nIt was sometime later when the man began to prepare for the evening to\nwhich he had looked forward with such eagerness and all his fierce and\ndriving haste was gone. The mad tumult of his manhood strength was\nstilled. He moved, now, with a purpose, sullen, grim, defiant. The\nfight was on. While he was still vividly conscious of the woman whose\ncompelling power he felt, he felt, now, as well, the pure touch of\nthose baby lips. While he still saw the light in the woman's eyes and\nsensed the meaning of her smile, he saw and sensed as clearly the\nloving innocence that had shown in the little girl's face as it was\nlifted up to his. Upon his manhood's strength lay the woman's luring\nspell. Upon his manhood the baby's kiss lay as a seal of\nsacredness--upon his lips it burned as a coal of holy fire. The fight\nwas on.\n\nThe man's life was not at all an easy life. Beside his work and his\nmemories there was little to hold him true. Since that day when he\nstood face to face with Life and, for the first time, knew that he was\na man, he had been, save for a few friends among the men of his own\nclass, alone. The exacting demands of his work had left him little\ntime or means to spend in seeking social pleasures or in the delights\nof fellowship with those for whose fellowship he would have cared,\neven had the way to their society been, at that period of his life,\nopen to him. He told himself, always, that sometime in the future,\nwhen he had worked out still farther his dreams, he would find the way\nto the social life that he would enjoy but until then, he must, of\nnecessity, live much alone. And now--now--the testing time--the crisis\nin his life--had come. Even as it must come to every man who knows his\nmanhood so it had come to him.\n\nThe man was not deceived. He knew the price he would pay in defeat.\nBut, even while he knew this--even while he knew what defeat would\nmean to him, so great was her power that he went on making ready to go\nto her. With the kiss of the little girl upon his lips he made ready\nto go to the woman. It was as though he had drifted too far and the\ncurrent had become too strong for him to turn back. Thus do such men\nyield to such temptations. Thus are men betrayed by the very strength\nof their manhood.\n\nWith mad determination he waited the hour. Uneasily he paced his room.\nHe tried to read. He threw himself into a chair only to arise and move\nabout again. Every few moments he impatiently consulted his watch. At\nevery step in the hall, without his door, he started as if alarmed. He\nbecame angry, in a blind rage, with the woman, with himself and even\nwith the little girl. At last, when it was time to go, he threw on his\novercoat, took his hat and gloves, and, with a long, careful look\nabout the room, laid his hand on the door. He knew that the man who\nwas going out that evening would not come hack to his room the same\nman. He knew that _that_ man could never come back. He felt as\nthough he was giving up his apartments to a stranger. So he hesitated,\nwith his hand upon the door, looking long and carefully about. Then\nquickly he threw open the door and, down the hall and down the stairs,\nwent as one who has counted the cost and determined recklessly.\n\n[Illustration: Two dimpled arms went around his neck]\n\nThe man had opened the front door and was about to pass out when a\nsweet voice called: \"Wait, oh, wait.\"\n\nTurning, he saw a tiny figure in white flying toward him.\n\nThe little girl, all ready for bed, had caught sight of him and, for\nthe moment, had escaped from her mother's attention.\n\nThe man shut the door and caught her up. Two dimpled arms went around\nhis neck and the rosebud mouth was lifted to his lips.\n\nThen the mother came and led her away while the man stood watching her\nas she went.\n\nWould he ever dare touch those baby lips again he wondered. Could he,\nhe asked himself, could he face again those baby eyes? Could he ever\nagain bear the feeling of that soft little body in his arms?\n\nAt the farther end of the hall, she turned, and, seeing him still\nthere, waved her hand with a merry call: \"Good-bye, good-bye.\"\n\nThen she passed from his sight and, in place of this little girl of\nrosy, dimpled, flesh, the startled man saw a dainty maiden of his\nYesterdays, standing under a cherry tree with fallen petals of the\ndelicate blossoms in her wayward hair, and with eyes that looked at\nhim very gravely and a little frightened as, for the shaggy coated\nminister, he spoke the solemn words: \"I pronounce you husband and wife\nand anything that God has done must never be done any different by\nanybody forever and ever, Amen.\" By some holy magic the kiss of the\nlittle girl became the kiss of his play wedding wife of the long ago.\n\nVery slowly the man went up the stairs again to his room; there to\nspend the evening not as he had planned, when he was in the mastering\ngrip of self, but safe in the quiet harbor of the Yesterdays where the\nstorms of life break not or are felt only in those gentle ripples that\nscarce can stir the surface of the sea.\n\nThe fierce passion that had shaken the very soul of him passed on as\nthe storm clouds pass. In the calm of the days that were gone, he\nrested as one who has fought a good fight and, safe from out the\nturmoil and the danger, has come victoriously into the peace that\npasseth all understanding.\n\nIn the sweet companionship of his childhood mate, with the little girl\nwho lived next door, the man found again, that night, his better self.\nIn the boy of the long-ago, he found again his ideals of manhood. In\nhis Yesterdays, he found strength to stand against the power of the\ntemptation that assailed him.\n\nBlessed, blessed Yesterdays!\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nIt was the time of the first snow when, again, the woman sat alone in\nher room before the fire, with her door fast locked and the shades\ndrawn close, even as on that other night--the night when her womanhood\nbegan in dreams.\n\nIn the soft dusk, while the shadows of the flickering light came and\nwent upon the walls, and the quiet was broken only by the tick, tick,\ntick, of the timepiece held in the chubby arms of the fat cupid on the\nmantle, the woman sat very still. Face to face with her Temptation,\nshe sat alone and very still.\n\nFor several months, the woman had seen her testing time approaching.\nThat day when, looking into her eyes, the man of authority had so\nkindly bidden her leave her work for the afternoon, she had known that\nthis time would come. In the passing weeks she had realized that the\nday was approaching when she must decide both for him and for herself.\nShe had not sought to prevent the coming of that day. She had\nknowingly permitted it to come. She was even pleased in a way to watch\nit drawing near. Not once, in those weeks, had he failed to be very\nkind or ceased to make her feel that he understood. In a hundred ways,\nas their work called them together and gave opportunity, he had told\nher, in voice and look and the many ways of wordless speech, that the\ntime was coming. He had been very careful, too--very careful--that, in\ntheir growing friendship, the world should have no opportunity to\nmisjudge. And the woman, seeing his care, was grateful and valued his\nfriendship the more.\n\nSo had come at last that Saturday when, with low spoken words, at the\nclose of the day's work, he had asked if he might call upon her the\nfollowing evening; saying gravely, as he looked down into her face,\nthat he had something very important to tell her. And she had gravely\nsaid that he might come; while her blushes to him confessed that she\nknew what it was of importance that he would say.\n\nScarcely had she reached her home that afternoon when a messenger boy\nappeared with a great armful of roses and, as she arranged the flowers\non her table, burying her flushed face again and again in their\nfragrant coolness, she had told herself that to-morrow, when he asked\nher to cross with him the threshold of that old, old door, she would\nanswer: yes. But, even as she so resolved, she had been conscious of\nsomething in her heart that denied the resolution of her mind.\n\nAnd so it was that, as she sat alone before her fire that night, she\nknew that she was face to face with a crisis in her life. So it was\nthat she had come to the testing time and knew that she must win or\nlose alone. In the sacred privacy of her room, with the perfume of his\nroses filling the air and the certainty that when he came on the\nmorrow she must answer, she looked into the future to see, if she\nmight, what it held for her and for him if she should cross with him\nthe threshold of that old, old, door.\n\nHe was a man whose love would honor any woman--this she knew. And he\nwas a man of power and influence in the world--a man who could provide\nfor his mate a home of which any woman would be proud to be the\nmistress. Nor could she doubt his love for nothing else could have\npersuaded such a man to ask of a woman that which he was coming to ask\nof her.\n\nBeginning with her answer on the following evening the woman traced,\nin thought, all that would follow. She saw herself leaving the life\nthat she had never desired because it could not recognize her\nwomanhood and, in fancy, received the congratulations of her friends.\nShe lived, in her imagination, those busy days when she would be\nmaking ready for the day that was to come. Very clearly, she pictured\nto herself the wedding; it would be a quiet wedding, she told herself,\nbut as beautiful and complete as cultured taste and wealth could make\nit. Then they would go away, for a time, to those cities and lands\nbeyond the sea that, all her life, she had longed to visit. When they\nreturned, it would be to that beautiful old home of his family--the\nhome that she had so often, in passing, admired; and in that home, so\nlong occupied by him alone, she would be the proud mistress. And\nthen--then--would come her children--their children--and so all the\nfulfillment of her womanhood's dreams.\n\nBut the woman's face, as she looked into a future that seemed as\nbright as ever woman dared to dream, was troubled. As she traced the\nway that lay so invitingly before her, this woman, who knew herself to\nbe a woman, was sad. Her heart, still, was as an empty room--a room\nthat is furnished and ready but without a tenant. Deep within her\nwoman heart she knew that this man was not the one for whom she waited\nby the open door. She did not know who it was for whom she waited. She\nknew only that this man was not the one. And she wished--oh, how she\nwished--that this was not so. Because of her longing--because of the\ndreams of her womanhood--because of her empty heart--she was resolved\nto cross with this man, who was not the man for whom she waited, the\nthreshold that she could not cross alone. Honor, regard, respect, the\naffection of a friend, she could give him--did give him indeed--but\nshe knew that this was not enough for a woman to give the man with\nwhom she would enter that old, old, door.\n\nRising, the woman went to her mirror to study long and carefully the\nface and form that she saw reflected there. She saw in the glass, a\nsweet, womanly, beauty, expressing itself in the color and tone of the\nclean carved features; in the dainty texture of the clear skin and\nsoft, brown, hair; and in the rounded fullness and graceful lines of\nthe finely moulded body. Perfect physical strength and health was\nthere--vital, glowing, appealing. And culture of mind, trained\nintelligence, thoughtfulness, was written in that womanly face. And,\nwith it all, there was good breeding, proud blood, with gentleness of\nspirit.\n\nThis woman knew that she was well equipped to stand by this man's side\nhowever high his place in life. She was well fitted to become the\nmistress of his home and the mother of his children. She had guarded\nwell the choicest treasures of her womanhood. She had squandered none\nof the wealth that was committed to her. She had held it all as a\nsacred trust to be kept by her for that one with whom she should go\nthrough the old, old door. And she had determined that, to-morrow\nevening, she would give herself, with all the riches of her womanhood,\nto this one who could give her, in return, the home of her dreams.\nWhile her heart was still as an empty room, she had determined to\ncross, with this man, the threshold over which no woman may again\nreturn.\n\nTurning from her mirror, slowly the woman went to the great bunch of\nroses that stood upon her table. They were his roses; and they fitly\nexpressed, in their costly beauty, the life that he was coming to\noffer to her. Very deliberately she bent over them, burying her face\nin the mass of rich color, inhaling deeply their heavy fragrance.\nThoughtfully she considered them and all that, to her, they\nsymbolized. But there was no flush upon her cheek now. There was no\nwarmth in the light of her eyes. No glad excitement thrilled her.\nThere was no trembling in her touch--no eager joyousness in her\nmanner.\n\nSuddenly, some roisterer, passing along the street with his\ncompanions, laughed a loud, reckless, half drunken, laugh that sounded\nin the quiet darkness with startling clearness.\n\nThe woman sprang back from the flowers as though a poisonous serpent,\nhidden in their fragrant beauty, had struck her. With a swift look of\nhorror on her white face she glanced fearfully about the room.\n\nAgain the laugh sounded; this time farther down the street.\n\nThe woman sank into her chair, trembling with a nameless fear. To her,\nthat laugh in the dark had sounded as the laughter of the crowd that\nday when she was forced so close to the outcast women who were in the\nhands of the police.\n\n\"But those women,\" argued the frightened woman with herself, \"sell\nthemselves to all men for a price.\"\n\n\"And you,\" answered the heart of her womanhood, \"and you, also, will\nsell yourself to one man, for a price. The wealth of womanhood\ncommitted to you--all the treasures that you have guarded so\ncarefully--you will sell now to this good man for the price that he\ncan pay. If he could not pay the price--if he came to you empty\nhanded--would you say yes?\"\n\n\"But I will be true to him,\" argued the woman. \"I will give myself to\nhim and to him only as wife to husband.\"\n\n\"You are being false to him already,\" replied her woman heart, \"for\nyou are selling yourself, not giving yourself to him. You are planning\nto deceive him. You would make him think that he is taking to himself\na wife when, for a price, you are selling to him--something higher\nthan a public woman, it is true--but something, as true, very much\nlower than a wife. What matter whether the price be in gold and silver\nor in property and social position--it is a price. Except he pay you\nyour price he could not have you.\"\n\nAnd what, thought the woman, what if--after she had crossed the\nthreshold with this good man--after she had entered with him into the\nlife that lay on the other side that door--what if, then, that other\none should come? What if the one for whom her empty heart should have\nwaited were to come and stand alone before that door through which she\ncould not go back? And the children--the dear children of her\ndreams--what of them? Had not her unborn children the right to demand\nthat they be born in love? And if she should say, \"no,\" to this\nman--if she should turn once more away from the open door, through\nwhich he would ask her to go with him--what then? What if that one who\nhad delayed his coming so long should never come?\n\nAnd then the woman, who knew herself to be a woman, saw the lonely\nyears come and go. While she waited without the door that led to the\nlife of her womanhood's dreams, she saw the beauty that her mirror\nrevealed slowly fading--saw her firm, smooth, cheeks become thin and\nwrinkled, her bright eyes grow dim and pale, her soft, brown, hair\nturn thin and gray, her body grow lean and stooped. All the wealth of\nher womanhood that she had treasured with such care she saw become as\ndust, worthless. All the things of her womanhood she would be forced\nto spend in that life that denied her womanhood, and then, when she\nhad nothing left, she would be cast aside as a worn out machine. Never\nto know the joy of using her womanhood! Never to have a home! Never to\nfeel the touch of a baby hand! To lay down the wealth of her woman\nlife and go empty and alone in her shriveled old age! With an\nexclamation, the woman sprang to her feet and stretched out her arms.\n\"No, no, no,\" she whispered fiercely, \"anything, anything, but that. I\nwill be true to him. I will be a faithful wife. He shall never know.\nHe shall not feel that he is cheated. And perhaps--\" she dropped into\nher chair again and buried her face in her hands as she\nwhispered--\"perhaps, bye and bye, God will let me love him. Surely,\nGod will let me love him, bye and bye.\"\n\nSometime later, the woman did a strange thing. Going to her desk,\nsoftly, as a thief might go, she unlocked a drawer and took from it a\nsmall jewel case. For several moments she stood under the light\nholding the little velvet box in her hand unopened. Then, lifting the\nlid, she looked within and, presently, from among a small collection\nof trinkets that had no value save to her who knew their history, took\na tiny brass ring. Placing the box on the dresser, she tried,\nmusingly, to fit the little ring on her finger. On each finger in turn\nshe tried, but it would go only part way on the smallest one; and she\nsmiled sadly to see how she had grown since that day under the cherry\ntree.\n\nTurning again, she went slowly across the room to the fire that now\nwas a bed of glowing coals. For a little she stood looking down into\nthe fire. Then, slowly, she stretched forth her hand to drop the ring.\nBut she could not do it. She could not.\n\nReturning the little circle of brass to its place among the trinkets\nin the jewel box, the woman prepared for bed.\n\nThe timepiece in the arms of the fat cupid ticked loudly now in the\ndarkness that was only faintly relieved by the glowing embers of the\nfire.\n\nWith sleepless eyes the woman who had determined to give herself\nwithout love lay staring into the dusk. But she did not see the\ndarkness. She did not see the grotesque and ghostly objects in the\ngloom. Nor did she see the somber shadows that came and went as the\ndying fire gained fitful strength. The woman saw the bright sun\nshining on the meadows and fields of the long ago. She saw again the\nscenes of her childhood. Again, as she stood under the cherry tree\nthat showered its delicate blossoms down with every puff of air, she\nlooked with loving confidence into the face of the brown cheeked boy\nwho spoke so seriously those childish vows. Again, upon her lips she\nfelt that kiss of the childhood mating.\n\nThe soft light of the fire grew fainter and fainter as the embers\nslowly turned to ashes. Could it be that the woman, in her temptation,\nwould let the sacred fire of love burn altogether out? Must the\nmemories of her Yesterdays turn to ashes too?\n\nThe last faint glow was almost gone when the woman slipped quickly out\nof her bed and, in the darkness, groped her way across the room to the\ndesk where she found the little jewel case.\n\nAnd I think that the fat cupid who was neglecting his bow and arrows\nto wrestle with time must have been pleased to see the woman, a little\nlater, when the dying fire flared out brightly for a moment, lying\nfast asleep, while, upon the little finger of the hand that lay close\nto her smiling lips, there was a tiny circle of brass.\n\n\n\n\n\nLIFE\n\n\nIn childhood, the Master of Life exalts Life. A baby in its mother's\narms is the fullest expression of Divinity.\n\nIt was Christmas time; that season of the year when, for a brief\nperiod, the world permits the children to occupy the place in the\naffairs and thoughts of men that is theirs by divine right.\n\nIn the birth of that babe in Bethlehem, the Giver of Life placed the\nseal of his highest approval upon childhood and decreed that, until\nthe end of time, babies should be the true rulers of mankind and the\nlawful heirs of heaven. And it is so, that the power of Mary's babe,\nfrom his manger cradle throne, has been more potent on earth in the\ngovernments of men than the strength of many emperors with their armed\nhosts.\n\nIt is written large in Nature's laws that mankind should be governed\nby love of children. The ruling purpose and passion of the race can\nbe, with safety, nothing less than the purpose and passion of all\ncreated things--of even the trees and plants--the purpose to reproduce\nits kind--the passion for its offspring. The world should be ruled by\nboys and girls.\n\nBut Mammon has usurped the throne of Life. His hosts have trampled the\nbanners of loyal love in the dust. His forces have compelled the\nrightful rulers of the world to abdicate. But, even as gross\nmaterialism has never succeeded in altogether denying Divinity, so,\nfor a few days each year, at Christmas time, childhood asserts its\nclaims and compels mankind to render, at least a show, of homage.\n\nPoor, blind, deceived and betrayed, old world; to so fear a foolish\nand impotent anarchism that spends its strength in vain railings\nagainst governments while you pay highest honors and present your\nchoicest favors to those traitors who filch your wealth of young life\nunder pretense of loyal service. The real anarchists, old world, are\nnot those who loudly vociferate to the rabble on the street corners\nbut those who, operating under the laws of your approval, betray their\ncountry in its greatest need--its need of children. The real\nanarchists, old world, are those whose banners are made red by the\nblood of babies; who fatten upon the labor of their child slaves; and\nwho seek to rule by the slaughter of children even as that savage of\nold whose name in history is hated by every lover of the race.\nRegicides at heart, they are, for they kill, for a price, the God\nordained rulers of mankind. A child is nearer, by many years, to God\nthan the grown up rebel who traitorously holds his own mean interests\nsuperior to the holy will of Life as vested in the sacred person of a\nboy or girl.\n\nTo prate, in empty swelling words, of the sacredness of life, the\npower of religion, the dignity of state, the importance of commercial\ninterests and the natural wealth of the nation, while ignoring the\nsacredness, power, dignity, importance, and wealth of childhood, is\nevidence of a criminal thoughtlessness.\n\nChildren and Life are one. They are the product, the producers, and\nthe preservers of Life. They exalt Life. They interpret Life. Without\nthem Life has no meaning. The child is no more the possession of its\nparents than the parents are the property of the child. Children are\nthe just creditors of the human race. Mankind owes them everything.\nThey owe mankind nothing. A baby has no debts.\n\nNor is the passion for children satisfied only in bearing them. A\nwoman who does not love _all_ babies is unsafe to trust with one\nof her own flesh. A man who does not love _all_ children is unfit\nto father offspring of his own blood. One need not die to orphan a\nchild. One need only refuse to care for it. One need only place other\ninterests first. Men and women who desire to become parents will not\ngo unsatisfied in a world that is so full of boys and girls for whom\nthere are neither fathers nor mothers.\n\nThe Master of Life said: \"Except ye become as little children.\" His\nfalse disciple--world--teaches: \"Except ye become grown up.\" But the\nlaws of Life are irrevocable. If a man, heeding the world, grows up to\npossess the earth, his holdings, at the last, are reduced--if he be\none of earth's big men--to six feet of it, only; while the man who\nnever grows up inherits a heaven that the false kings of earth know\nnot.\n\nWhen the man left his work, at close of the day before Christmas, he\nwas as eager as he had been that Saturday when he faced the crisis of\nhis life. With every sense keenly alive, he plunged into the throng of\nbelated shoppers that filled the streets and crowded into the gaily\ndecked stores until it overflowed into the streets again. Nearly\neveryone was carrying bundles and packages for it was too late, now,\nto depend upon the overworked delivery wagons. In almost every face,\nthe Christmas gladness shone. In nearly every voice, there was that\nspirit of fellowship and cheery good will that is invoked by Christmas\nthoughts and plans. Through the struggling but good natured crowd, the\nman worked his way into a store and, when he forced his way out again,\nhis arms, too, were full. For a moment he waited on the corner for a\ncar then, with a look of smiling dismay at the number of people who\nwere also waiting, he turned away, determined to walk. He felt, too,\nthat the exercise in the keen air would be a relief to the buoyant\nstrength and gladness that clamored for expression.\n\nAs he swung so easily along the snowy pavement, with the strength of\nhis splendid manhood revealed in every movement and the cleanness of\nhis heart and mind illuminating his countenance, there were many among\nthose he met who, while they smiled in sympathy with his spirit,\npassed from their smiles to half sighs of envy and regret.\n\nWith the impatient haste of a boy, the man dashed up the steps of his\nboarding house and ran up stairs to his room; chuckling in triumph\nover his escape from the watchful eyes of the little daughter of the\nhouse. For the first time since his boyhood the man was to have the\nblessed privilege of sharing the Christmas cheer of a home.\n\nWhen the evening meal was over and it was time for his little playmate\nto go to sleep, he retired again to his room, almost as excited, in\nhis eager impatience for the morning, as the child herself. Safe\nbehind his closed door, he began to unwrap his Christmas packages and\nparcels that he might inspect again his purchases and taste, by\nanticipation, the pleasure he would know when on the morrow the child\nwould discover his gifts. Very carefully he cut the strings from the\nlast and largest package and, tenderly removing the wrappings,\nrevealed a doll almost as tall as the little girl herself. It was as\nlarge, at least, as a real flesh and blood baby.\n\nThe wifeless, homeless, man who has never purchased a doll for some\nlittle child mother has missed an educational experience of more value\nthan many of the things that are put in text books to make men wise.\n\nRather awkwardly the man held the big doll in his arms, smoothing its\ndress and watching the eyes that opened and closed so lifelike;\ncautiously he felt for and found that vital spot which if pressed\nbrought forth a startling: \"papa--mama.\"\n\nAs the dear familiar words of childhood sounded in the lonely bachelor\nroom, the man felt a queer something grip his heart. Tenderly he laid\nthe doll upon his big bed and stood for a little looking down upon it;\na half-serious, half-whimsical, expression on his face but in his eyes\na tender light. Then, adjusting his reading lamp, he seated himself\nand attempted to busy his strangely disturbed mind with a book. But\nthe sentences were meaningless. At every period, his eyes turned to\nthat little figure on the bed, with its too lifelike face and hair and\nform while the thoughts of the author he was trying to read were\ncrowded out by other thoughts that forced themselves upon him with a\npersistency and strength that would not be denied.\n\nThe weeks following the testing of the man had been to him very\nwonderful weeks. He seemed to be living in a new world, or, rather,\nfor him, the same old world was wonderfully enriched and glorified.\nNever had he felt his manhood's strength stirring so within him. Never\nhad his mind been so alert, his spirit so bold. He moved among men\nwith a new power that was felt by all who came in touch with him;\nthough no one knew what it was. He was conscious of a fuller mastery\nof his work; a clearer grasp of the world events. As one, climbing in\nthe mountains, reaches a point higher than he has ever before attained\nand gains thus a wider view of the path he has traveled, of the\nsurrounding country, and of the peak that is the object of his climb\nas well, so this man, in his life climb, had reached a higher point\nand therefore gained a wider outlook. It is only when men stay in the\nlowlands of self interest or abide in the swamps of self indulgence\nthat their views of life are narrowly circumscribed. Let a man master\nhimself but once and he stands on higher ground, with wider outlook,\nwith keener vision, and clearer atmosphere.\n\nThe man had always seen Life in its relation to himself; he came, now,\nto consider his own life in its relation to all Life; which point of\nview has all the difference that lies between a low valley and the\nmountain peaks that shut it in. He felt his relation, too, not alone\nto all human life but to all created things. With everything that\nlived he felt himself kin. With the very dray horses on the street,\ndragging with patient courage their heavily loaded trucks; with the\nstray dog that dodged in and out among the wheels and hoofs of the\ncrowded traffic; even with the sparrow that perched for a moment on\nthe ledge outside the window near his desk, he felt a kinship that was\nnew and strange. Had they not all, he reflected, horse and dog and\nsparrow and man--had they not all one thing in common--Life? Was not\nLife the one thing supreme to each? Were they not, each one, a part of\nthe whole? Was not the supreme object of every life, of all life, to\nlive? Is the life of a man, he asked himself, more mysterious than the\nlife of a horse? Can science--blind, pretentious, childish\nscience--explain the life of a dog with less uncertainty than it can\nexplain the life of a man? Or can the scientist make a laboratory\nsparrow more easily than he can produce a laboratory man? With the\nvery trees that lined the streets near where he lived, he felt a\nkinship for they, too, within their trunks and limbs, had life--they,\ntoo, were parts of the whole even as he was a part--they, too,\nbelonged even as he belonged.\n\nThus the man saw Life from a loftier height than he had ever before\nattained. Thus he sensed, as never before, the bigness, the fullness,\nthe grandness, the awfulness, of Life. And so the man became very\nhumble with a proud humbleness. He became very proud with a humble\npride. He became even as a child again.\n\nAnd then, standing thus upon this new height that he had gained, the\nman looked back into the ages that were gone and forward into the ages\nthat were to come and so saw himself and his age a link between the\npast and the future; linking that which had been to that which was to\nbe. All that Life had ever been--the sum of all since the unknown\nbeginning--was in the present. In the present, also, was all that Life\ncould ever be, even unto the unknown end. Within his age and within\nhimself he felt stirring all the mighty forces that, since the\nbeginning, had wrought in the making of man. Within his age and within\nhimself he felt the forces that would work out in the race results as\nfar beyond his present vision as his age was beyond the ages of the\nmost distant past.\n\nSince the day when he had first realized his manhood, the working out\nof his dreams had been to the man the supreme object of his life. He\nhad put his life, literally, into his work. For his work he had lived.\nBut that Christmas eve, when his mind and heart were so filled with\nthoughts of childhood and those new emotions were aroused within him,\nhe saw that the supreme thing in his life must be Life itself. He saw\nthat not by putting his life into his work, would he most truly live,\nbut by making his work contribute to his life. He realized that the\ngreatest achievements of man are but factors in Life--that the one\nsupreme, dominant, compelling, purpose of Life is to _live_--to\n_live_--to _live_--to express itself in Life--that the only\nadequate expression of Life _is_ Life--that the passion of Life\nis to pass itself on--from age to age, from generation to generation,\nin a thousand thousand forms, in a thousand thousand ages, in a\nthousand thousand peoples, Life had passed itself on--was even then\npassing itself on--seeking ever fuller expression of itself; seeking\never to perfect itself; seeking ever to produce itself. He saw that\nthe things that men do come out of their lives even as the plants come\nout of the soil into which the seed is dropped; and, that, even as the\ndead and decaying plant goes back into the earth from which it came,\nto enrich and renew the ground, so man's work, that comes out of his\nlife, is reabsorbed again into his life to enrich and renew it. He\nrealized, now, that the object of his life must be not his work but\nLife itself--that his effort must be not to do but to be--that he must\naccomplish not a great work but a great Life.\n\nIt was inevitable that the man should come to see, also, that the\nsupreme glory of his manhood's strength was in this: the reproduction\nof his kind. The man life that ran so strongly in his veins, that\nthrobbed so exultantly in his splendid body, that thrilled so keenly\nin his nerves--the man life that he had from his parents and from\ncountless generations before--the life that made him kin to all his\nrace and to all created things--this life he must pass on. This was\nthe supreme glory of his manhood: that he could pass it on--that he\ncould give it to the ages that were to come.\n\nFrom the heights which he attained that Christmas eve, the man laughed\nat the empty, swelling, words of those who talk about the sacredness\nof work--who prattle as children about leaving a great work when they\nare gone--who gibber as fools about contributing a great work to the\nworld.\n\nIf the men of a race will perfect the manhood strength of the race; if\nthey will exalt their manhood power; if they will fulfill the mission\nof life by perfecting and producing ever more perfect lives; if they\nwill endeavor to contribute to the ages to come stronger, better, men\nthan themselves; why, the work of the world will be done--even as the\nplant produces its flowers and fruit, the work of the world will be\ndone. In the exaltation of Life is the remedy for the evils that\nthreaten the race. The reformations that men are always attempting in\nthe social, religious, political, and industrial world are but\nattempts to change the flavor or quality of the fruit when it is\nripening on the tree. The true remedy lies in the life of the tree; in\nthe soil from which it springs; in the source from which the fruit\nderives its quality and flavor. In the appreciation of Life, in the\npassion of Life, in the production of Life, in the perfection of Life,\nin the exaltation of Life, is the salvation of human kind. For this,\nand this alone, man has right to live--has right to his place and part\nin Life.\n\nAll this the man saw that Christmas eve because the kiss of the little\ngirl, on that night of his temptation, had awakened something in his\nmanhood that was greater than the dreams he had been denying himself\nto work out. The friendship of the child had revealed to him this\ndeeper truth of Life; that there are, for all true men,\naccomplishments greater than the rewards of labor. The baby had taught\nhim that the legitimate fruit of love is more precious to Life, by\nfar, than the wealth and honors that the world bestows--that, indeed,\nthe greatest wealth, the highest honors, are not in the power of the\nworld to give; nor are they to be won by toil. In his thinking, this\nman, too, was led by a little child.\n\nThe man's thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door.\n\nIt was the little girl's mother; to tell him, as she had promised,\nthat the child was safely asleep.\n\nWith his arms filled with presents, the man went softly down the\nstairs.\n\nWhen all had been arranged for the morning, the man returned again to\nhis room; but not to sleep. There was in his heart a feeling of\nreverent pride and gladness, as though he had been permitted to assist\nin a religious rite, and, with his own hands, to place an offering\nupon a sacred altar. And, if you will understand me, the man was\nright. Whatever else Christmas has come to mean to the grown up world,\nits true meaning can be nothing less than this.\n\nNor did the man again turn to his book or attempt to take up the train\nof thought that had so interfered with his reading. Something more\ncompelling than any printed page--something more insistant than his\nown thoughts of Life and its meaning--lured him far away from his\ngrown up days--took him back again into his days that were gone. Alone\nin his room that Christmas eve, the man went back, once more, to his\nYesterdays--back to a Christmas in his Yesterdays.\n\nOnce again, his boyhood home was the scene of busy preparations for\nthe Christmas gaieties. Once again, the boy, tucked snugly under the\nbuffalo robe, drove with his parents away through the white fields to\nthe distant town while the music in his heart kept time to the melody\nof the jingling bells. Once again, he experienced the happy perplexity\nof selecting--with mother's help--a present for father while father\nobligingly went to see a man on business and of choosing--with\nfather's assistance--a gift for mother while she rested in a far\ncorner of the store. And then, once again, he faced the trying\nquestion: what should he get for the little girl who lived next door.\nWhat, indeed, _could_ he get for _her_ but a beautiful new\ndoll--one with brown hair, very like the little girl's own, and brown\neyes that opened and closed as natural as life.\n\nThe next day the boy went, with his father and the little girl and her\nuncle, in the big sleigh, to the woods to find a tree for the\nChristmas \"exercises\" at the church; and, in the afternoon, in company\nwith the older people, helped to make the wreaths of evergreen and\ndeck the tree with glittering tinsel; while the little girl strung\nlong strings of snowy pop corn and labored earnestly at the sweet task\nof filling mosquito bar stockings with candy and nuts.\n\nThen came that triumphant Christmas eve, when, before the assembled\nSunday school and the crowded church, the boy took part, with his\nclass, in the entertainment and sat, with wildly beating heart, while\nthe little girl, all alone, sang a Christmas carol; and proud he was,\nindeed, when the applause for the little singer was so long and loud.\nAnd then, when the farmer Santa Claus had distributed the last\nstocking of candy, the boy and the girl, with their elders, went home\ntogether, in the clear light of the stars; while, across the white\nfields, came the sound of gay laughter and happy voices mingled with\nthe ringing music of the sleigh bells--growing fainter and fainter--as\nfriends and neighbors went their several ways.\n\nBut, best of all--by far the best of all--was that Christmas morning\nat home. At the first hint of gray light in the winter sky, the boy\nwas awake and out of bed to gather his Christmas harvest; hailing each\ntoy and game and book with exclamations of delight and arousing all\nthe house with his shouts of: \"Merry Christmas.\"\n\nThe foolish, grown up, old world has a saying that we value most the\nthings that we win for ourselves by toil and hardship; but, believe\nme, it is not so. The real treasures of earth are the things that are\nwon by the toil of those who bring to us, without price, the fruits of\ntheir labor as tokens of their love.\n\nVery early, that long ago Christmas morning, the boy went over to the\nlittle girl's house; for his happiness would not be complete until he\ncould share it with her. And the man, who, alone in his bachelor room\nthat Christmas eve, dreamed of his Yesterdays, saw again, with\nstartling clearness, his boyhood mate as she stood in the doorway\ngreeting him with shouts of, \"Merry Christmas,\" as he went toward her\nthrough the snow; and the heart of the man beat quicker at the lovely\nvision--even as the heart of the boy--for she held, close in her\nlittle mother arms, the new addition to her family of dolls--his gift.\nThe lonely man, that night, realized, as he had never realized before,\nhow full, at that moment, was the cup of the boy's proud happiness. He\nrealized and understood.\n\nI wonder--do you, also, understand?\n\nIn the still house, the big clock in the lower hall struck the hour.\nThe man in his lonely room listened, counting the\nstrokes--nine--ten--eleven--twelve.\n\nIt was Christmas.\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nAnd the woman, also, when she had passed safely through her trial,\nlooked out upon Life from a point higher than she had ever reached\nbefore. Never before had Life, to her, looked so wide.\n\nBut the woman did not feel stronger after the crisis through which she\nhad passed; she felt, more keenly than before, her weakness. More than\never, she felt the need of a strength that she could not find within\nherself. More than ever, she was afraid of the Life, that, from where\nshe now stood, seemed so wide. Nor did she feel a kinship with all\nLife. She stood on higher ground, indeed, but the wideness of the\nview, to her, only emphasized her loneliness. She sadly felt herself\nas one apart--as one denied the right of fellowship. More keenly than\never before, she felt, in the heart of her womanhood, the humiliation\nof the life that sets a price upon the things of womanhood while it\nrefuses to recognize womanhood itself. More than ever, in her woman\nheart, she was ashamed. Neither could she feel that she was doing her\npart in Life--that she was taking her place--that she was a link\njoining the ages of the past to the ages that would come. She felt\nherself, rather, a parasite, attached to Life--not a part of--not\nbelonging to--but feeding upon.\n\nThis woman who knew herself to be a woman saw, more clearly than ever\nbefore, that one thing, only, could give her full fellowship with the\nrace. She saw that one thing, only, could make her a link between the\nages that were gone and the ages that were to come. That one thing,\nonly, could satisfy her woman heart--could make her feel that she was\nnot alone.\n\nThat one thing which the woman recognized as supreme is the thing\nwhich the Master of Life has committed peculiarly to womanhood. Not to\nwoman's skillful hands; not to her ready brain; not to the things of\nher womanhood upon which the world into which she goes alone to labor\nputs a price has the Master of Life committed this supreme thing; but\nto her _womanhood_--her sex. In the womanhood that is denied by\nthe world that receives womankind alone, is wealth that may not be\nbought by any price that the world can pay. In the womanhood of women\nis that supreme thing without which human life would perish from the\nearth. The exercise of this power alone can give to woman the high\nplace in Life that belongs to her by right divine. The woman saw that,\nfor her, all other work in the world would be but a makeshift--a\nsubstitute; and, because of this, while Life had, never before seemed\nso large, she had, never before felt so small--so useless.\n\nBut still, for the woman, there was peace in her loneliness--there was\na peace that she had not had before--there was a calmness, a\nquietness, that was not hers before her trial. It was the peace of the\nlonely mountain top to which one climbs from out a noisy, clamoring,\nvillage; the calmness of the deep sky uncrossed by cloud or marked by\nsmoke of human industry; the quietness of the wide prairie, untouched\nby man's improvements. And this tranquil rest was hers because she\nknew--deep in her woman's heart she knew--that she had done well; that\nshe had not been untrue to the soul of her womanhood.\n\nThe woman knew that she had done well because she had come to\nunderstand that, while life is placed peculiarly in the care and\nkeeping of her sex, her sex has been endowed, for the protection,\nperfection, and perpetuation of Life, with peculiar instincts. She had\ncome to understand that, while woman has been made the giver and\nguardian of Life, she, for that reason, is subject to laws that are\nnot to be broken save with immeasurable loss to the race. To her sex\nis given, by Life itself, the divine right of selection that the\nfuture of the race may be assured. To her sex is given an instinct\nsuperior to reason that her choice may perfect human kind. For her,\nand for the Life of her kind, there is the law that if she permits aught\nbut her woman instinct to influence her in selecting her mate\nher children and the children of her children shall mourn.\n\nIn the crisis of her life the woman had heard many voices--bold and\ntempting, pleading and subtle--urging her to say: \"Yes.\" But always\nher instinct--her woman heart--had whispered: \"No. This man is not\nyour mate. This is not the man you would choose to be the father of\nyour children. Better, far better, contribute nothing to the race than\nbreak the law of your womanhood. Better, far better, never cross the\nthreshold of that open door than cross it with one who, in your heart\nof hearts you know, to be not the right one.\"\n\nSo the woman had peace. Even in her loneliness, she had peace--knowing\nthat she had done well.\n\nAnd the woman tried, now, to interest herself in the things that so\nmany of the women of her day seemed to find so interesting. She\nlistened to brave lectures by stalwart women on woman's place and\nsphere in the world's work. She heard bold talks by militant women\nabout woman's emancipation and freedom. She attended lectures by\nintellectual women on the higher life, and the new thought, and the\nadvanced ideas. She read pamphlets and books written by modern women\non the work of women in the social, political and industrial fields.\nShe became acquainted with many \"new\" women who, striving mightily\nwith all their strength of body and soul for careers, looked with a\nkind of lofty disdain or pitying contempt upon those old-fashioned\nmothers whose children interfere with the duty that \"new\" women think\nthey owe the world.\n\nBut this woman who knew herself to be a woman could not interest\nherself in these things to which she tried to give attention. She felt\nthat in giving herself to these things she would betray Life. She felt\nthe hollowness, the shallowness, the emptyness of it all in comparison\nwith that which is divinely committed to womankind. She could not but\nwonder: what would be the racial outcome? When women have long enough\nsubstituted other ideals for the ideals of motherhood--other passions\nfor the passions of their sex--other ambitions for the ambition to\nproduce and to perfect Life--other desires for the desire to keep that\nwhich Life has committed to them--what then? \"How,\" she asked herself,\n\"would the world get along without mothers? Or how could the race\nadvance if the best of women refused to bear children?\" And then came\nthe inevitable thought: are the _best_ women, after all, refusing\nto bear children? Might it not be that the wisdom of Mother Nature is\nin this also, and that the refusal of a woman to bear children is the\nbest evidence in the world that she is unfit to be a mother? Is it not\nbetter that the mothers of the race should be those who hold no ideal,\nambition, desire, aim, or purpose in life higher than motherhood? Such\nwomen--such mothers--have, thus far, through their sons and daughters,\nwon every victory in Life. It is they who have made every advance of\nthe race possible. Will it not continue to be so, even unto the end?\nIs not this indeed the law of Life? If there be any work for women\ngreater or of more value to the human race than the work of motherhood\nthen, indeed, is the end of the world, for mankind, at hand.\n\nFrom where she lay, the woman, when she first awoke that Christmas\nmorning, could see the sun just touching the topmost branches of the\ntall trees that grew across the street.\n\nIt was a beautiful day. But the woman did not at first remember that\nit was Christmas. Idly, as one sometimes will when awakening out of a\ndeep sleep, she looked at the sunshine on the trees and thought that\nthe day promised to be clear and bright. Then, looking at the clock in\nthe chubby arms of the fat cupid on the mantle, she noticed the time\nwith a start of dismay. She must arise at once or she would be late to\nher work. Why, she wondered, had not someone called her. Then, a\ncrumpled sheet of tissue paper and a bit of narrow ribbon on the\nfloor, near the table, caught her eye and she remembered.\n\nIt was Christmas.\n\nThe woman dropped back upon her pillow. She need not go to work that\nday. She had not been called because it was a holiday. Dully she told\nherself again that it was Christmas.\n\nThe house was very quiet. There were no bare feet pattering down the\nhall to see what Santa Claus had left from his pack. No exulting\nshouts had awakened her. In the rooms below, there was no cheerful\nlitter of toys and games and pop corn and candy and nuts with bits of\nstring and crumpled paper from hastily opened parcels and shining\nscraps of tinsel from the tree. There were no stockings hanging on the\nmantle. At breakfast, there would be a few friendly gifts and, later,\nthe postman would bring letters and cards with the season's greetings.\nThat was all.\n\nThe sun, climbing higher above the tall buildings down town, peeped\nthrough the window and saw the woman lying very still. And the sun\nmust have thought that the woman was asleep for her eyes were closed\nand upon her face there was the wistful smile of a child.\n\nBut the woman was not asleep though she was dreaming. She had escaped\nfrom the silent, childless, house and had fled far, far, away to a\nland of golden memories. She had gone back into her Yesterdays--to a\nChristmas in her Yesterdays.\n\nOnce again a little girl, she lived those happy, busy, days of\npreparation when she had asked herself a thousand times each day: what\nwould the boy give her for Christmas? And always, as she wondered, the\nlittle girl had tried not to wish that it would be a doll lest she\nshould be disappointed. And always she was unable to wish, half so\nearnestly, for anything else. Again she spent the hours learning the\nsong that she was to sing at the church on Christmas eve and wondered,\noften, if _he_ would like her new dress that mother was making\nfor the occasion. And then, as the day drew near, there was that merry\ntrip to the woods to bring the tree, followed by that afternoon at the\nchurch. The little girl wondered, that night of the entertainment, if\nthe boy guessed how frightened she was for him lest he forget the\nwords of his part; or, when she was singing before the crowd of people\nthat filled the church, did he know that she saw only him? And then\nthe triumph--the beautiful triumph--of that Christmas morning!\n\nThe little girl in the Yesterdays needed no one to remind her what day\nit was. As soon as it was light, she opened her eyes, and, wide awake\nin an instant, slipped from her bed to steal down stairs while the\nrest of the household still slept. And there, in the gray of the\nwinter morning, she found his gift. It was so beautiful, so lifelike,\nwith its rosy cheeks and brown hair that, almost, the little girl was\nafraid that she was not awake after all; and she caught her breath\nwith a gasp of delight when she finally convinced herself that it was\nreal. She knew that it was from the boy--she _knew_. Quickly she\nclasped it in her arms, with a kiss and a mother hug; and then, back\nagain she ran to her warm bed lest dolly catch cold. The other\npresents could wait until it was really, truly, daylight and uncle had\nmade a fire; and she drew the covers carefully up under the dimpled\nchin of her treasure that lay in the hollow of her arm, close to her\nown soft little breast, as natural as life--as natural, indeed, as the\nmother life that throbbed in the heart of the little girl.\n\nFor women also it is written: \"Except ye become as little children.\"\nIf only women would understand!\n\nAll the other gifts of that Christmas time were as nothing to the\nlittle girl beside that gift from the boy. The other things she would\nenjoy all the more because the supreme wish of her heart had been\ngranted; but, had she been disappointed in _that_, all _else_ would\nhave had little power to please. Under all her Christmas pleasure\nthere would have been a longing for something more. Her Christmas\nwould not have satisfied. Her cup of happiness would not have been\nfull. So, all the treasures that the world can lay at woman's feet will\nnever satisfy if the one gift be lacking. And that woman who has felt\nin her arms a tiny form moulded of her own flesh--who has drawn close\nto her breast a soft little cheek and felt upon her neck the touch of\na baby hand--that woman knows that I put down the truth when I write\nthat those women who deny the mother instinct of their hearts and, for\nsocial position, pleasure, public notice, wealth, or fame, kill their\nlove for children, are to be pitied above all creatures for they deny\nthemselves the heaven that is their inheritance.\n\nEagerly, that morning, the little girl watched for the coming of the\nboy for she knew that he would not long delay; and, when she saw him\nwading through the snow, flung open wide the door to shout her\ngreeting as she proudly held his gift close to her heart; while on her\nface and in her eyes was the light divine. And great fun they had,\nthat Christmas day, with their toys and games and books; but never for\nlong was the new doll far from the little girl's arms. Nor did she\nneed many words to make her happiness in his gift understood to the\nboy.\n\nThe sun was shining full in the window now; quite determined that the\nwoman should sleep no longer. Regretfully, as one who has little heart\nfor the day, she arose just as footsteps sounded outside her door.\nThen came a sharp rap upon the panel and--\"Merry Christmas\"--called\nher uncle's hearty voice.\n\nBravely the woman who knew herself to be a woman answered: \"Merry\nChristmas.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nDEATH\n\nAnd that winter's coat, also, began to appear thin and threadbare.\n\nBy looking carefully, one could see that the twigs of the cherry tree\nwere brightening with a delicate touch of fresh color, while the tiny\ntips of the tender green buds were cautiously peeping out of their\nsnug wrappings as if to ask the state of the weather. In the orchard\nand the woods, too, the Life that slept deep in the roots and under\nthe bark of trunks and limbs was beginning to stir as though, in its\nslumber, it heard Spring knocking at its bedroom door.\n\nI do not know what business it was that called the man to a\nneighboring city. The particular circumstances that made the journey\nnecessary are of no importance whatever to my story. The important\nthing is this: for the first time the man was forced to recognize, in\nhis own life and in his work, the fact of Death. He came to see that,\nin the most abundant life, Death cannot be ignored. Because Death is\none of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life, this is my story: that\nthe man was introduced to Death.\n\nHurriedly he arranged for his absence, and, rushing home, packed a few\nnecessities of travel in his grip, snatched a hasty dinner, and thus\nreached the depot just in time to catch the evening train. He would\nmake the trip in the night, devote the following day to the business\nthat demanded his presence, and the next night would return to his\nhome city.\n\nThe Pullmans were well filled, mostly with busy, eager, men who, like\nhimself, were traveling at night to save the daylight for their work.\nBut the man, perhaps because he was tired with the labor of the day or\nbecause he wished to have for the business of the morrow a clear,\nvigorous, brain, made no effort to find acquaintances who might be on\nthe train or to meet congenial strangers with whom to spend a pleasant\nhour. When he had read the evening papers and had outlined in his mind\na plan of operation to meet the situation that compelled him to make\nthe hurried trip, he retired to his berth.\n\nThe low, monotonous, hum of the flying wheels on the heavy steel\nrails; the steady, easy, motion of the express as it flew over the\nmiles of well ballasted track; the dim light of the curtained berth,\nand the quiet of the Pullman, soon lulled the tired traveler to sleep.\nMile after mile and mile after mile was marked off, with the steady\nregularity of time itself, by the splendidly equipped train as it\nrushed through the darkness with its sleeping passengers. Hamlets,\nvillages, way stations, signal towers, were passed with flash like\nquickness; while the veteran in the engine cab, with the schooling of\nthirty years in the hand that rested on the throttle, gazed steadily\nahead to catch, with quick eye and clear brain, the messages of the\nsignal lamps that, like bright colored dots of a secret code, appeared\non the black sheet of night.\n\nWith a suddenness that defies description, the change came.\n\nThe trained eyes that looked from the cab window read a message from\nDeath in the night ahead. In the fractional part of a second, the hand\non the throttle responded, doing in flash like movements all that the\nthirty years had taught it to do. There was a frightful jarring,\njolting crash of grinding, screaming, brakes, followed on the instant\nby a roaring, smashing, thundering, rending of iron and steel and\nwood.\n\nThe veteran, whose eye and brain and hand had been thirty years in\nservice, lay under his engine, a mangled, inanimate mass of flesh; His\nfireman, who had looked forward to a place on the engineer's side of a\ncab as a young soldier dreams of sword and shoulder straps, lay still\nbeside his chief. From the wrecked coaches, above the sound of hissing\nsteam and crackling flames, came groans and shrieks and screams of\ntortured men and women and children.\n\nThen, quickly, the hatless, coatless, and half dressed forms of the\nmore fortunate ones ran here and there. Voices were heard calling and\nanswering. There were oaths and prayers and curses mingled with sharp\nspoken commands and the sound of axes and saws and sledges, as the\nmen, who a few minutes before were sleeping soundly in their berths,\ntoiled with superhuman energy to free their fellows from that horrid\nhell.\n\nTo the man who had escaped from the trap of death that had caught so\nmany of his fellow passengers and who toiled now with the strength of\na giant among the rescuers, it all seemed a dream of terror from which\nhe must presently awake. He did not think, then, of the Death that had\ncome so close while he slept. He was not conscious of the danger that\nhad threatened him. He did not feel gratitude for his escape. He could\nnot think. He could only strive madly, with the strength of despair,\nin the fight to snatch others from the grip of an awful fate; and, as\nhe fought, he prayed to be awakened from his dream.\n\nIt was over at last.\n\nHours later, the man reached his destination, and still, because his\nbusiness was so urgent, there was no time for him to think of the\nDeath that had come so close. Rarely does the business of life give\nmen time to think of the Death that stands never far away. But, when\nhis work was finished and he was again aboard the train, on his way\nhome, there was opportunity for a fuller realization of the danger\nthrough which he had passed so narrowly--there was time to think. Then\nit was that the man realized a new thing in his life. Then it was that\na new factor entered into his thinking--Death. Not the knowledge of\nDeath; he had always had that of course. Not the fear of Death; this\nman was no coward. But the _fact_ of Death--it was the _fact_ of Death\nthat he realized now as he had never realized it before.\n\nAll unexpected and unannounced--without sign of its approach or\nwarning of its presence--Death had stood over him. He had looked into\nthe eyes of the King. Death had touched him on the shoulder, as it\nwere, and had passed on. But Death would come again. The one firmly\nfixed, undeniable, unalterable, fact in Life was, to him, now, that\nDeath would come again. When or how; that, he could not know; perhaps\nnot for many years; perhaps before the flying train could carry him\nanother mile. How strange it is that this one fixed, permanent,\nunalterable, inevitable fact of Life--Death--is most commonly ignored.\nThe most common thing in Life is Death; yet few there are who\nrecognize it as a fact until it presents itself saying: \"Come.\"\n\nGoing back into the years, the man recalled the death of his mother;\nand, later, when he was standing on the very threshold of his manhood,\nthe death of his father. Those graves on the hillside were still in\nhis memory but they had not realized Death for him. His grief at the\nloss of those so dear to him had overshadowed, as it were, the fact of\nDeath itself. He thought of Death only as it had taken his parents; he\ndid not consider it in thinking of himself. But now--now--he had\nlooked into the eyes of the King. He had felt the touch of the hand\nthat chills. He had heard the voice that cannot be disobeyed. Death\nhad come into his life a _fact_.\n\nThe low, steady, hum and whirr of the wheels and the smooth, easy\nmovement of the train told him of the flying miles. One by one, those\nmiles that lay between him and the end of his journey would go until\nthe last was gone and he would step from the coach to the platform of\nhis home depot. And, then, all suddenly, to the man, those flying\nmiles became as the years of his life. Even as the miles of his\njourney were passing so his years had gone--so his years were going\nand would go.\n\nThe man was a young man still. For the first time, he felt himself\ngrowing old. Involuntarily he looked at his hands; firm, strong, young\nhands they were, but the man, in his fancy, saw them shaking,\nwithered, and parched, with prominent dull blue veins, and the skinny\nfingers bent and crooked with the years. He glanced down at his\npowerful, full moulded limbs, and, in fancy, saw them thin and\nshrunken with age. And, suddenly, he remembered with a start that the\nnext day would be his birthday. In the fullness of his young manhood's\nstrength, he had ignored the passing years even as he had ignored\nDeath. As he had learned to forget Death, he had learned to forget his\nbirthdays. It was strange how fast the years were going, thought the\nman. Scarcely would there be time for the working out of his dreams.\nAnd, once, it had been such a long, long, time between his birthdays.\nOnce, he had counted the months, then the weeks, then the days that\nlay between. Once, he remembered--\n\nPerhaps it was the thought of his birthday that did it; perhaps it was\nthe memory of those graves in the old cemetery at home. Whatever it\nswas, the man slipped back into his Yesterdays when birthdays were ages\nand ages apart and, more than anything else in the world, the boy\nwanted to grow up.\n\nAt seven, he had looked with envy upon the boy of nine while the years\nof grown up men were beyond his comprehension. At nine, fifteen was\nthe daring limit of his dreams; so far away it seemed that scarcely he\nhoped to reach it. As for eighteen--one must be very, very, old,\nindeed, to be eighteen. How long the years ahead had seemed,\n_then_--and _now_, how short they were when looking back!\nAnd the birthdays--the birthdays that the man had learned to\nforget--how could he have learned to forget them! What days of\ntriumph--what times of victorious rejoicing--those days once had been!\nAnd so, with the fact of Death so recently forced into his life, with\nthe miles as years slipping under the fast whirring wheels that bore\nhim onward, the man lived again a birthday in the long ago.\n\nWeeks before that day the boy had planned the joyous occasion, for\nmother had promised that he should have a party. A birthday party!\nJoyous festival of the Yesterdays! What delightful hours were spent in\nanticipation! What innumerable questions were asked! What a multitude\nof petitions were formed and presented! What anxious consultations\nwith the little girl who lived next door! What suggestions were\noffered, accepted and rejected, and rejected or accepted all over\nagain! What lists of the guests to be invited were made, revised and\nthen revised again! What counting of the days, and, as the day drew\nnear, what counting of the hours; not forgetting, all the time, to\nhint, in various skillfully persuasive and suggestive ways, as to the\npresents that would be most fitting and acceptable! And at last, when\nthe day had come, as all days must at last come, was there ever in the\nhistory of mortal man or boy such a day?\n\nThere was real wealth of love in mother's kiss that morning. There was\nholy pleasure in the pride that was in father's face and voice. There\nwas unmarred joy when the little girl captured him and, while he\npretended--only pretended--to escape, gave him the required number of\nthumps on the back with her soft little fist and the triumphant \"one\nto grow on.\" Then came, at last, the crowning event: and so the man\nsaw, again, the boys and girls who, that afternoon in his Yesterdays,\nhelped to celebrate his birthday. Why had he permitted them to pass\nout of his life? Why had he gone out of their lives? Why must the\nyears rob him of the friends of the Yesterdays?\n\nWith the birthday feast of good things and the games and sports of\nchildhood the busy afternoon passed. Up and down the road and across\nthe fields, the guests departed, with their party dresses soiled,\ntheir party combed hair disheveled, and their party cleaned faces\nsmudged with grime; but with the clean, clean, joy of the Yesterdays\nin their clean, clean, childish hearts. Together the boy and the girl\nwatched them go, with waving hands and good-bye shouts, until the last\none had passed from sight and the last whoop and call had died away.\nAnd then, reluctantly, the little girl herself went home and the boy\nwas left alone by the garden hedge.\n\nOh, brave, brave, day of the Yesterdays! Brave birthdays of the long\nago when Death was not a fact but a fiction! When the years were ages\napart, and the farthest reach of one's imagination carried only to\nbeing grown up!\n\nFrom his Yesterdays the man came back to wonder: if Death should wait\nuntil he was wrinkled, bent, and old--until his limbs were palsied,\nhis hearing gone, his voice cracked and shrill, and his eyes dim--if\nDeath should let him stay until he had seen the last of his companions\ngo home in the evening after that last birthday--would there be one to\nstand beside him--to watch with him as the others passed from sight?\nWould there be anyone to help him celebrate his last birthday, if\nDeath should fail to come again until he was old?\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nEveryone was very kind to the woman that morning when the word came\nthat her uncle had been killed in a railroad accident. All that kind\nhearts could do for her was done. Every offer of assistance was made.\nBut there was really nothing that anyone could do just then. She must\nfirst go as quickly as she could to her aunt.\n\nThe man of authority, who had always seemed to understand her woman\nheart and who had paid to her the highest tribute possible for a man\nto pay a woman, had broken the news to her as gently as news of Death\ncan be told, and, as soon as she was ready, his own carriage was\nwaiting before the entrance in the street below. Nor did he burden her\nwith talk as they were driven skillfully through the stream of the\ndown town traffic and then, at a quicker pace, through the more open\nstreets of the residence district.\n\nThere is so little that can be said, even by the most thoughtful, when\nDeath enters thus suddenly into a life. The man knew that the woman\nneeded him. He knew that, save for the invalid aunt, there was now no\nnear relative to help her do the necessary things that must be done.\nThere was no one to help her think what would be best to do. So he\nasked her gently, as they neared the house, if she would not permit\nhim, for the next few days, to take the place in her life that would\nhave been taken by an older brother. Kindly he asked that she trust\nhim fully--that she let him think and do for her--be a help to her in\nher need--even as he would have helped her had she consented to come\ninto his life as he wished her to come. And the woman, because she\nknew the goodness and honor of this man's heart, thanked him with\ngratitude too great for words and permitted him to do for her all that\na most intimate relative would have done.\n\nAt last it was over. The first uncontrollable expressions of\ngrief--the arrangements for the funeral--the service at the house and\nthe long ride to the cemetery with the final parting and the return to\nthe house that would never again be quite the same--all those hard,\nfirst, days were past and to-morrow--to-morrow--the woman would go\nback to her work. In the final going over of affairs, the finishing of\nunfinished business, the ending of undeveloped plans and prospects,\nthe settling and closing of accounts, and the considering of new\nconditions enforced by Death, it had been made very clear that for the\nwoman to work was, now, more than ever necessary. There was, now, no\none but her upon whom the invalid aunt could depend for even the\nnecessities of life.\n\nAnd the woman was glad that she was able to provide for that one who\nhad always been so gentle, so patient, in suffering and who, in her\nsorrow, was now so brave. Since the death of the girl's own mother,\nthe aunt had taken, so far as she could, a mother's place in the life\nof the child; and, as the years had passed and the little girl had\ngrown into young womanhood, she had grown into the heart of the\nchildless woman until she was as a daughter of her own flesh. So the\nwoman did not feel this added care that was forced upon her by the\nchanged conditions as a burden other than a burden of love. But still,\nthat afternoon, when it was all over, and she faced the new future\nthat Death had set before her, she realized the fact of Death as she\nhad never realized it before.\n\nThe years since her mother's death had not been many, and, it seemed\nto her, now, that they had passed very quickly. She was only a little\ngirl, then, and her uncle and his wife had taken her so fully into\ntheir hearts that she had scarcely felt the gap in her life after the\nfirst weeks of the separation had passed. Her mother belonged to the\ndays of her childhood and, though the years were not many as she\nlooked back, those childhood days seemed far, far, away. Death had\ncome to her, now, in the days of her womanhood. Suddenly,\nunexpectedly, with awful, startling, reality, the fact of Death had\ncome into her life; forcing her to consider, as she had never\nconsidered before, the swiftly passing years.\n\nWhat--she asked herself as she thought of the morrow--what, for her,\nlay at the farthermost end of that procession of to-morrows? When the\nbest of her strength was gone with the days and weeks and months and\nyears--what then? When Death should come for that one who was, in\neverything but blood, her mother and who was, now, her only\ncompanion--what then? To be left alone in the world--to go, alone, all\nthe rest of the journey--this was the horror that Death brought to\nher. As she looked, that afternoon, into the years that were to come,\nthis woman, who knew that she was a woman, and who was still in the\nglory and beauty of her young womanhood, felt suddenly old--she felt\nas though every day of the sad days just passed had been a year.\n\nAnd then, at last, from her grief of the present and from her\ncontemplation of the years that were to come, she turned wearily back\nto the long ago. In the loneliness and sorrow of her life she went,\nagain, hack into her Yesterdays. There was, indeed, no other place for\nher to go but back into her Yesterdays. Only in the Yesterdays can one\nescape the sadness and loneliness that attend the coming of Death.\nDeath has little power in the Yesterdays. In childhood life, Death is\nnot a fact.\n\nFunerals were nothing more than events of surpassing interest in those\ndays--a subdued, intense, interest that must not be too openly\nexpressed, it is true, but that nevertheless could not be altogether\nsuppressed. Absorbed in her play the little girl would hear, suddenly,\nthe ringing of the bell in the white church across the valley; and it\nwould ring, not joyously, cheerily, interestingly, as on Sundays but\nwith sad, solemn, measured, notes, that would fill her childish heart\nwith hushed excitement. And then--it mattered not where he was or what\nhe was doing--the little boy would come, rushing with eager haste, to\njoin her at the front gate where they always watched together for the\nprocession and strove for the honor of sighting first the long string\nof vehicles that would soon appear on one of the four roads leading to\nthe church. And oh, joy of joys, if it so happened that the procession\ncame by the way that led past the place where they danced with such\neager impatience!\n\nFirst would come, moving with slow feet and drooping head, the old\ngray horse and time worn phaeton of the minister; and they would feel\na little strange and somewhat hurt because the man of God, who usually\ngreeted them so cheerily, would not notice them as he passed. But the\nsadness in their hearts would be forgotten the next moment as they\ngazed, with excited interest and whispered exclamations, at the\nshining, black, hearse with its beautiful, coal black, horses that,\nstepping proudly, tossing their plumed heads, and shaking the tassels\non the long nets that hung over their glossy sides, seemed to invite\nthe admiration that greeted them. And then, through the glass sides of\nthe hearse, the boy and the girl, with gasps of interest, would\ndiscover the long black coffin half hidden by its load of flowers; or,\nperhaps, the hearse, the horses, and the coffin, would all be snow\nwhite which, the little girl thought, was prettiest of all. Then would\nfollow the long line of carriages, filled with people who wore their\nSunday clothes; and the boy and the girl, recognizing a friend or\nacquaintance, here and there, would wonder to themselves how it would\nseem to be riding in such a procession. One by one, they would count\nthe vehicles and recall the number in the last funeral they had\nwatched; gleefully triumphant, if this procession were longer than the\nlast; scornfully disappointed, if it were not so imposing. And then,\nwhen the last carriage had gone up the hill on the other side of the\ncreek and had disappeared from sight among the trees that half hid the\nchurch, they would wait for the procession to reappear after the\nservices and would watch it crawling slowly along the distant road on\nits way to the cemetery.\n\nAnd the next day they would play a funeral.\n\nEven as they had played a wedding, they would play a funeral. Only,\nthey played a wedding but that once, while they played funerals many,\nmany, times.\n\nSometimes it would be a doll's funeral when the chief figure in the\nsolemn rites would be taken from the grave, after it was all over, and\nwould be rocked to sleep with the other dollies, none the worse,\napparently, for the sad experience. Again, the part of the departed\nwould be taken by a mouse that had met a violent death at the hands of\nthe cook; or, perhaps, they would find a baby bird that had fallen\nfrom its nest before its wings were strong. But the grandest, most\ntriumphant, most successful funeral of the Yesterdays was a kitten\nthat had most opportunely died the very day a real grown up funeral\nhad passed the house. What a funeral that was--with an old shoe box\nfor a coffin, the boy's wagon draped with pieces of black cloth\nborrowed from the rag bag for a hearse, the shepherd dog for a proudly\nstepping team, and all the dolls in their carriage following slowly\nbehind! In a corner of the garden, not far from the cherry tree, they\ndug a real grave and set up a real tombstone, fashioned by the boy, to\nmark the spot. And the little girl was so earnest in her sorrow that\nshe cried real tears at which the boy became, suddenly, very gay and\nboisterous, as boys will upon such occasions, and helped her to forget\nright quickly.\n\nOh, boy of the Yesterdays, who would not let his little girl mate\ngrieve but made her laugh and forget! Where was he now? The woman\nwondered. Had Death come into his life, too? Were the years ever, to\nhim, as a funeral procession? Did ever he feel that he was growing\nold? Could he, now, make her forget her grief--could he help her to\nlaugh again--or had his power gone even as those Yesterdays when\nDeath, too, was only a pleasing game?\n\nFrom the next room, a gentle voice called softly and the woman arose\nto go to her aunt. For that one who was left dependent upon her she\nwould be brave and strong--she would go back to her work in the\nmorning.\n\nOnly children are privileged to play with the fact of Death. Only in\nthe Yesterdays are funerals events of merely passing interest. Only in\nthe Yesterdays does Death go always past the door.\n\n\n\n\n\nFAILURE\n\nAnd that year, also, went to join the years of the Yesterdays.\n\nIt is as though Life, bringing to man every twelve months a new year,\nbids him try again. Always, it is necessary for man to try again.\nIndeed Life itself is nothing less than this: a continual trying\nagain.\n\nIn the world laboratory, mankind is conducting a series of elaborate\nexperiments--always on the verge of the great discovery but never\nquite making it--always thinking that the secret is about to be\nrevealed but never quite uncovering it--always failing in his\nexperiments but always finding in the process something that leads\nhim, with hope renewed, to try again.\n\nThe man had failed.\n\nSadly, sternly, with the passing of the year, he admitted to himself\nthat he had failed. Humiliated and ashamed, with the coming of the new\nyear, he admitted that he must begin again. Bitterly he called himself\na fool. And perhaps he was--more or less. Most men are a little\nfoolish. The man who has never been forced to swallow his own folly\nhas missed a bitter but wholesome tonic that, more than likely, he\nneeds. This man was not the kind of a man who would blame any one but\nhimself for his failure. If he had been that particular kind of a fool\nhis failure would have been of little value either to him or to any\none. Neither would there be, for me, a story.\n\nI do not know the particulars of this man's failure--neither the what,\nthe why, nor the how. I know only that he failed--that it was\nnecessary for him to fail. Nor is this a story of such particulars for\nthey are of little importance. A man can fail in anything. Some, even,\nseem to fail in everything. This, therefore, is my story: that as\nFailure enters into the life of every man it came into the life of\nthis man. In some guise or other Failure seems to be a necessity. It\nis one of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life. But the man did\nnot, at that time, understand that his failure was a necessity.\n_That_ understanding came to him only with Success.\n\nYou may say that this man was too young to accomplish a real Failure.\nBut you need not bother about that, either. One is never too young to\nexperience Failure. And Failure, to the one who fails, is always, at\nthe time, very real.\n\nSo this man saw the castles that he had toiled so hard to build come\ntumbling down about him. So he was awakened from his bright dreams to\nfind that they were only dreams. So he came to see his work as\nidleness and folly. Sorrowfully he looked at the ruin of his building.\nHopelessly he recalled his dreams. Despairingly he looked upon his\nfruitless labor. With his fine manhood's strength dead within him, he\nbitterly felt himself to be but a weakling; fit only to be pushed\naside by the stronger, better, men among whom he went, now, with\nlifeless step and downcast face. There was left in his heart no\ncourage and no hope. He saw himself a most miserable coward, and,\nashamed and disgraced in his own sight, he shrank from the eyes of his\nfellows and withdrew into himself to hide.\n\nAnd the only thing that saved the man was this: he did not pity\nhimself. Self-pity is debilitating. It is the dry rot that weakens the\nlife lines. It is the rust that eats the anchor chains. At the last\nanalysis, a man probably knows less about himself than he knows about\nothers. The only difference is that what he knows about others is\nsometimes right while that which he thinks he knows about himself is\nnearly always wrong. Salvation is in pitying someone else. If one must\nhave pity he should accept it from strangers only. The pity of\nstrangers is harmless to the object of it and very gratifying--to the\nstrangers. Self-accusation, self-censure, self-condemnation: these are\nthe antidotes for the poison that sometimes enters the soul through\nFailure. But these antidotes must be administered with care.\nSelf-accusation has, usually, a very low percentage of cause.\nSelf-censure, undiluted, is dangerous to self-respect. And\nself-condemnation is rarely to be had pure. When one brings himself to\ntrial before himself his chance for justice is small--the judge is\nnearly always prejudiced, the jury packed, and the evidence\nincomplete.\n\nThe man, when he had withdrawn into himself, saw the world moving on\nits way without him as though his failure mattered, to it, not at all.\nHe was forced to realize that the work of the world could be done\nwithout him. He was compelled to see that the sum of human happiness\nand human woe would be neither less nor more because of him. The world\ndid not really need his success--he needed it. The world did not\nsuffer from his failure--he suffered. He did not understand, then,\nthat no man is in line for success until he understands how little\neither his success or his failure matters to the world. He did not\nknow, then, how often a good strong failure is the corner stone of a\nwell builded life.\n\nA child is not crippled for life because it falls when it is learning\nto walk; neither has a man come to the end of his upward climb because\nhe \"stubs his toe.\" The man knew this later but just then he was too\nsore at heart to think of even trying to get up again. All those first\nmonths of that new year he did nothing but the labor that was\nnecessary for him to do in order to live. And, in that which he did,\nhe had no heart but toiled as a dumb beast toils in obedience to its\nmaster. The joy of work which is the reward of labor was gone.\n\nSo the spring came. The air grew warm and balmy. The grass on the\nlawns and in the parks began to look soft and inviting to feet that\nwere weary with the feel of icy pavements. The naked trees were being\nclothed in spring raiment, fresh and green. The very faces of the\npeople seemed to glow with a new warmth as though a more generous life\nwas stirring in their veins. As the sun gathered strength, and the\ncoldness and bleakness of winter retreated farther and farther before\nthe advance of summer, the manner and dress of the crowds upon the\nstreets marked the change as truly as the habits of the birds and\nflowers, until, at last, here and there, straw hats appeared and\nsuddenly, as bluebirds come, barefooted boys were playing marbles in\nthe alleys and fishing tackle appeared in the windows of the stores.\n\nAll his life the man had been an ardent fisherman. And so, when his\neyes were attracted that noon, as he was passing one of those windows\nfilled with rods and reels and lines and hooks and nets and all things\ndear to the angler's heart, he paused. His somber face brightened. His\nform, that was already stooped a little, straightened. His listless\neyes, for a moment, shone with their old time fire. Then he went on to\nhis work.\n\nBut, less than ever, that afternoon, was the man's heart in his labor.\nWhile his hands mechanically performed their appointed tasks and his\nbrain as mechanically did its part, the man himself was not there. He\nhad gone far, far, away into his Yesterdays. Once again, in his\nYesterdays, the man went fishing.\n\nThe boy was a very small boy when first he went fishing. And he fished\nin the brook that ran through the valley below the little girl's\nhouse. His hook was only a pin, bent by his own fingers; his line, a\nbit of string or thread borrowed from mother's work basket; and his\nrod, a slender branch of willow or a green shoot from one of the trees\nin the orchard, or, it might be, a stalk of the tall pigweed that grew\ndown behind the barn; and for bait, those humble friends of boyhood,\nthe angle worms. How the boy shouted and danced with glee when he\nfound a big one; even though he did shudder a little as he picked it\nup, squirming and wiggling, to drop it into the old baking powder can\nhe called his bait box! And how the little girl shrieked with fear and\nadmiration! Very proud was the boy that he had courage to handle the\ncrawling things--though many of them did escape into their tiny holes\nbefore he could bring himself quite to the point of catching them and\npulling them out. \"Only girls are afraid of worms and toads and bugs.\nBoys can bait their own hooks.\" Manfully, too, did he hide his\nthoughts when conscience pricked him, even as he the worm. \"Do worms\nhave feelin's?\" He wondered. \"Does it hurt?\" Half frightened, he had\nlaughed, one day, when the little girl asked: \"What if some wicked\ngiant should catch you and stick you on a great hook and swing you\nthrough the air, kicking and squirming, and drop you into the water\nwhere it's deep, and leave you there till some great fish comes along\nto swallow you like the man in the Bible that mother reads about?\"\n\nBut the boy in his Yesterdays carried home no fish from that little\nbrook; though he spent many hours in the hot summer sun watching\neagerly for a bite. He knew there must be fish there--great big\nfellows--there were such lovely places for them under the grassy\nbanks--if only they would come out--but they never did. Not until he\nwas older did the boy understand the real reason of this failure. The\nwater was not deep enough. He learned, in time, that big fish are not\nfound in shallow streams.\n\nI do not know, but perhaps, the man, even as the boy, was fishing in a\ntoo shallow stream.\n\nAs he grew older, the boy wandered farther down the creek. A \"sure\n'nough\" fishhook took the place of the bent pin and a real \"boughten\"\nline, with a sinker, was tied to the hook though he still used the\nslender willow rods. And, now, he sometimes brought home a fish or two\nfrom the deeper water down in the pasture lot; and no success in after\nlife would ever bring to the man the same thrill of delight that was\nfelt by the boy when he landed a tiny \"chub\" or \"shiner.\" No Roman\ngeneral, returning in triumph from the wars with captives chained to\nhis chariot, ever moved with a prouder spirit than he, when he went\nhome to mother with his little string of captured fishes.\n\nThen there came a day that was the proudest in his life--the day when\nhe was given a larger hook, a longer line, a cane pole, and permission\nto go to the mill pond. No more fishing for him in the brook now! He\nhad outgrown all that. How small the little stream seemed, now, as he\ncrossed it on his way down the road! Could it be possible, he asked\nhimself, that he was ever content to fish there, and with a bent pin,\nat that? And he felt carefully in his pocket to see if those extra\nhooks were safe; and took another peep at the big worms in his bait\nbox--an old tomato can this time. There would be no twinge of\nconscience when he baited his hook that day. And proudly he tried to\ntake longer steps in the dusty road; almost breaking into a run as he\nneared the turn where he knew that he would see the pond.\n\nOften, the boy wondered if there could be anywhere in all the world\nsuch another body of water as that old mill pond. Often, he wondered\nhow deep it was down by the dam in the shadow of the giant elms that\nhalf hid the mill. Many times, he questioned: \"Where did all the water\ncome from anyway?\" Surely it could not _all_ come from the tiny\nstream that flowed down the valley below the little girl's house! Why,\nhe could wade in that and there were boats on this!\n\nOnce again, the man, in his Yesterdays, stood at that turn in the\nroad; under his bare, boyish, feet the hot, hot, dust; over his head\nthe blue, blue, sky; before him the beautiful water that mirrored back\nthe trees, the clouds, and the buildings. Once again, he sat in the\nshadow of the old covered bridge, fish pole in hand, and, with boyish\ndelight and pride, hailed each addition to the string of catfish and\nsuckers that swam near by, safely anchored to the bank. He could hear\nthe drowsy hum of the mill across the pond and the merry shout of the\nmiller hailing some passer-by. And, now and then, would come, the\nclatter of horses' hoofs and the rumble of a farmer's wagon on the\nplanks above his head and he would idly watch the ever widening\ncircles in the water as some bit of dirt, jarred from the beams above,\nmarred the glassy surface. The swallows were wheeling here and there\nin swift, graceful motions; one moment lightly skimming the surface of\nthe pond and the next, high in air above the trees and buildings. A\nwater snake came gliding toward an old log close by. A turtle was\nfloating lazily in the sun. And a kingfisher startled him with its\nharsh, discordant, rattle as it passed in rapid flight toward the\nupper end of the pond where the tall cat-tails were nodding in the\nsunlight and the drooping willows fringed the bank with green.\n\nThe shadows of the giant elms near the dam grew longer and longer. A\nworkman left the mill and started across the pasture toward his home.\nA farmer stopped on his way from the field to water his team. The\nfrogs began to call shrilly from the reeds and rushes. The swallows,\ntwittering, sought their nests beneath the bridge. It was time that\nthe boy was going home.\n\nSlowly, reluctantly, the little fisherman drew his line from the water\nand wrapped it carefully round the pole. Then, picking up his string\nof fish, he inspected them thoughtfully--admiring the largest and\nwishing that the others were like him--and, casting one last glance at\nthe water, the trees, the mill, started down the road toward home.\n\nHe must hurry now. It was later than he thought. Mother would be\nwatching and waiting supper for him. How pleased she would be to see\nhis fish. He wished that the string were longer. How quickly the night\nwas coming on. It was almost dark. And then, as the boy went down into\nthe deepening dusk of the valley, he saw, on the other side, the light\nin the windows. He was almost home.\n\nTired little fisherman. Wearily he crossed the creek and made his way\nup the gentle slope toward the lights that gleamed so brightly against\nthe dark mass of the orchard hill, while high above, the first stars\nof the evening were coming out. And then, as in the gloaming he\nreached at last the gate where the little girl lived, he found her\nwaiting--watching anxiously--eager to greet him with sweet solicitude.\n\"Did you catch anything?\"\n\nProudly the boy exhibited his catch--wishing again in his heart that\nthe string were longer. Sadly, he told how the biggest fish of all had\ndropped from his hook just when he had it almost landed. And\nsometimes--the man remembered--sometimes the boy was forced to answer\nthat he had caught nothing at all. But always, then, would he bravely\ndeclare that he would have better luck next time.\n\nTired little fisherman--going home with his catch in the evening!\nAlways--disappointed little fisherman--wishing that his string were\nlonger! Always-brave-to-try-again little fisherman--when his day was a\nday of failure!\n\nThe man came back from his Yesterdays, that afternoon, to wonder: when\nthe shadows of his life grew longer and longer--when his sun was\nslowly setting--when he reluctantly withdrew, at last, from the busy\nhaunts of men--when he went down the road toward home, as it grew\ndarker and darker until he could not see the way, would there be a\nlight in the window for him? Would he know that someone was waiting\nand watching? And would he wish that his string of fish were longer?\nHowever great his catch, would he not wish that the string were\nlonger? And might it not be, too, that always in life the largest fish\nwould be the one that he had almost landed?\n\nAnd it was so that the old fire came again into the man's eyes to\nstay. He stood once more erect before men. Again his countenance was\nlighted with courage and with hope. With the brave words of the little\nfisherman who had caught nothing, the man, once again, faced the world\nto work out his dreams.\n\n*    *    *    *    *\n\nAnd the woman who knew herself to be a woman was haunted by the\nthought of Failure.\n\nAfter Death had come with such suddenness into her life, she had gone\nback to her work, and, in spite of the changes that Death had wrought,\nthe days had gone much as the days before. But, because of the new\nconditions and the added responsibilities, she gave herself, now,\nsomewhat more fully to that work than she had ever done before. She\nleft for herself less time for the dreams of her womanhood--less time\nfor waiting beside that old, old, door beyond which lay the life that\nshe desired with all the strength of her woman heart.\n\nAnd that world in which she labored--that life to which she now gave\nherself more and more--rewarded her more and more abundantly. Because\nshe was strong in body with skillful hands and quick brain; because\nshe was superior in these things to many who labored beside her; she\nreceived a larger reward than they. For the richness, the fullness, of\nher womanhood, she received nothing. From love, the only thing that\ncan make that which a woman receives fully acceptable to her, she\nreceived nothing.\n\nThere were many who, now, congratulated the woman upon what they\ncalled her success. And some, who knew the measure of the reward she\nreceived from the world that set a price upon the things of her\nwomanhood, envied her; wishing themselves as fortunate as she. She was\neven pointed out and spoken of triumphantly, by certain modern,\ndown-to-date, ones, as an example of the successful woman of the age.\nHer success--as it was called--was cited as a triumphant argument for\nthe right of women to sell their womanhood for a price: to put their\nstrength of mind and flesh and blood, their physical and intellectual\nvigor, their vitality and life, upon a market that cannot recognize\ntheir womanhood; even though by so doing they rob the race of the only\ncontribution they can make that will add to its perfection.\n\nReally, if the customs and necessities of this age of\n\"down-to-date-ism\" are to take the world's mothers, then it would seem\nthat this age of \"down-to-date-ism\" should find, for the perpetuation\nand perfection of the race, a substitute for women. The age should\nevolve a better way, a more modern method, than the old-fashioned way\nthat has been in vogue so long. For, just as surely as the laws of\nlife are beyond our power to repeal, so surely will the operation of\nthe laws of life not change to accommodate our newest thinking and the\nrace, by spending its best woman strength in work that cannot\nrecognize womanhood, will bequeath to the ages to come an ever\nlowering standard of human life.\n\nThe woman felt this--she felt that she could most truly serve the race\nby being true to the dreams of her womanhood. She felt that the work\nshe was doing was not her real work but a makeshift to be undertaken\nunder protest and discarded without regret when her opportunity to\nenter upon the real work of her life should present itself. But still,\neven while feeling this, gradually there had come to be, for her, an\namount of satisfaction in knowing that she was succeeding in that\nwhich she had set her hand to do. In the increasing reward she\nreceived, in the advanced position she occupied, in the deference that\nwas shown her, in the authority that was given her, in the larger\ninterests that were intrusted to her, and even in the attitude of\nthose who held her to be a convincing example of the newest womanhood,\nthere was coming to be a kind of satisfaction.\n\nThen came that day when the woman expressed a little of this\nsatisfaction to the man who had always understood and who had been\nalways so kind. In this, too, the woman felt that he understood.\n\nThe man had not sought to take advantage of the intimacy she had\ngranted him in those trying days when Death had come into her life. He\nhad never failed in being kind and considerate in the thousand little\nthings of the work that brought them together and that gave her\nopportunity to learn his goodness and the genuine worth of his\nmanhood. Nor had he failed to make her understand that still he hoped\nfor the time when she would go with him into the life beyond the old,\nold, door. But that day, when she made known to him, a little, her\ngrowing satisfaction in that which the world called her success, she\nsaw that he was hurt. For the first time he seemed to be troubled and\nafraid for her.\n\nVery gravely lie looked down into her eyes. Very gravely he\ncongratulated her. And then, quietly and convincingly, with words of\nauthority, he pointed out to her the possible heights she might\nreach--would reach--if she continued. He told her of the place that\nshe, if she chose, might gain. He spoke of the reward that would be\nhers. And, as he talked to her of these things, he saw the light of\ninterest and anticipation kindling in her eyes. Sadly he saw it. Then,\npausing--hesitating--he asked her slowly: \"Do you really think that it\nis, after all, worth while? For _you_, I mean, do you think that\nit would be a satisfying success?\" He did not wish to interfere with\nher career, he said--and smiled a little at the word. He would even\nhelp her if--if--she was sure that such a career would bring her the\nreal happiness he so much wanted her to have.\n\nAnd the woman, as the man looked into her eyes and as she saw the\ntrouble in his thoughtful face and listened to his gravely spoken\nwords, felt ashamed. Remembering, again, the dreams of her womanhood,\nshe was ashamed. From that day, the woman was haunted by the thought\nof Failure.\n\nWhy, she asked herself, why could she not open the door of her heart\nto this man who had been so good to her--so true to her and to\nhimself? If he had taken advantage in any way, if he had sought to use\nhis power, she would not have cared so much. But because she knew him\nso well; because she had seen his splendid character, his fine\nmanhood, his kindness of heart, and his strength; because of the\ndreams of her womanhood; she had tried to open the door and bid him\ntake possession of her heart that was as an empty room furnished and\nready. But she could not. She seemed to have lost the key.\nWhy--why--could she not give this man what he asked? Why could she not\ngo with him into the life of her dreams? What was it that held her\nback? What was it that held shut the door of her womanhood against\nhim? Could it be that, after all, she was fit only for the career upon\nwhich she was already entered? Could it be that she was not worthy to\nenter into the life her womanhood craved--the life for which she had\nlonged with such passionate longing--the life she had desired with\nsuch holy desire? Could it be that she was unworthy of her womanhood?\n\nBitterly this woman, who knew herself to be a woman, who had dreamed\nthe dreams of womanhood, and who was pointed out as a successful\nwoman--bitterly she felt that she had failed.\n\nShe knew that her failure could not be because she had squandered the\nwealth of her womanhood. Very carefully had she kept the treasures of\nher womanhood for the coming of that one for whom she waited--knowing\nnot who he was but only that she would know him when he came. Might it\nbe that he _had_ come and she did not know him? Might it be that\nthe heart of her womanhood did not know? If this was so then, indeed,\nLife itself is but an accident and must trust to blind chance the\nfulfillment of its most sacred mission--the perpetuation and\nperfection of itself.\n\nThat the Creator should give laws for the right mating of all his\ncreatures except man--leaving men and women, alone, with no guide to\nlead them aright in this relationship that is most vital to the\nspecies--is unthinkable. Deeply implanted in the hearts of men and\nwomen there is, also, an instinct; an instinct that is superior to the\ndictates of the social, financial, or ecclesiastical will. And it is\nthis natural instinct of mate selection that should govern the\nmarriages of human kind as truly as it marries the birds of the fields\nand the wild things that mate in the forests.\n\nThe woman knew, instinctively, that she should not give herself to\nthis man. She felt in her heart that to do so would make her kin to\nher sisters in the unnamable profession. The church would sanction,\nthe state would legalize, and society would accept such a union--does\naccept such unions--but only the divine laws of Life, given for the\nprotection of Life, can ever make a man and a woman husband and wife.\nThe laws that govern the right mating of human kind are not enacted by\norganizations either social, political, or religious, but are written\nin the hearts of those who would, in mating, fulfill the purpose of\nLife. These laws may be broken by man but they cannot by him be\nrepealed; and the penalty that is imposed for their violation is very\nevident to all who have eyes to see and who observe with\nunderstanding.\n\nThe woman knew, also, that, in respect and honor and gratitude to this\nman, she dared not do this thing against which the instinct of her\nheart protested. But still she asked herself: \"Why? Why was the door\nshut against him? Why was it not in her power to do that which she so\nlonged to do?\"\n\nAnd still, the thought of Failure haunted her.\n\nAnd so it was, that, in asking, \"why\"--in seeking the reason of her\nfailure, the woman was led back even to the years of her childhood.\nBack into her Yesterdays she went in search of the key that kept fast\nlocked the door of her heart against the man whom she would have so\ngladly admitted. And, all the way back, as she retraced the steps of\nher years, she looked for one who might have the key. But she found no\none. And in her Yesterdays she found only a boy who had entered her\nheart when it was the heart of a little girl.\n\nThat the boy of her Yesterdays lived still in the heart of the woman,\nshe knew. But surely--surely--the boy was not strong enough to hold\nher woman heart against the man who sought admittance. The boy could\nnot hold the door against the man and against the woman herself. Those\nvows, made so solemnly under the cherry tree, were but childish vows.\nIt was but a play wedding, after all. And the kiss that had sealed the\nvows--the kiss that was so different from other kisses--it was but a\nchildish kiss ... In the long years that had come between that boy and\ngirl the vows and the kiss had become but memories--even as the games\nthey played--even as her keeping house and her family of dolls. That\nchild wedding belonged only to the Yesterdays.\n\nThe woman was haunted by the thought of Failure.\n\n\n\n\n\nSUCCESS\n\nThe world said that he was a young man to have achieved so notable a\nSuccess. And he was. But years have, really, little to do with a man's\nage. It is the use that a man makes of his years that ages him or\nkeeps him young.\n\nThis man knew that he was a man. He knew that manhood is not a matter\nof years. And, knowing this, he had dreamed a man's dream. In the\nworld he had found something to do--a man's work--and from his\nOccupation he had gained Knowledge. He had learned the value of\nIgnorance and, behind the things that men have hung upon and piled\nabout it, he had come to recognize Religion. He knew both the dangers\nand the blessings of Tradition. He had gained the heights that are\nfortified by Temptation and from those levels so far above the\nlowlands had looked out upon Life. Death he knew as a fact and through\nFailure he had passed as through a smelting furnace. It is these\nthings, I say, that count for more in life than years. So, although he\nwas still young, the man was ready for Success. He was in the fullness\nof his manhood strength. The tide of Life, for him, was just reaching\nits height.\n\nI do not know just what it was in which the man achieved Success. Just\nwhat it was, indeed, is not my story; nor does it matter for Success\nis always the same. My story is this: that the man achieved Success\nwhile he was still young and strong to rejoice in the triumph.\n\nThe dreams that he had dreamed on the hilltop, when first he realized\nhis manhood, were, in part, fulfilled. He was looked upon by the world\nas one not of the common herd--as one not of the rank and file. He was\naccepted, in the field of his work, as a leader--a master. He was held\nas one having authority and power. The world pointed him out to its\nchildren as an example to be followed. The mob, that crowds always at\nthe foot of the ladder, looked up and cursed or begged or praised as\nis the temper of such mobs. His name was often in the papers. When he\nappeared on the streets or in public places he was recognized. The\npeople told each other who he was and what he had done. He was\nreceived as a companion by those who were counted great by the world.\nDoors that were closed to the multitude, and that had been closed to\nhim, were opened readily. Opportunities, offered only to the few, were\npresented. The golden stream of wealth flowed to his feet. By the\nfoolish hangers-on of the world he was sought--he was offered praise\nand admiration. All that is called Success, in short, was his; not in\nso great a measure as had come to some older than he, it is true; but\nit was genuine; it was merited; it was secure; and, with the years, it\nwould increase as a river nearing the sea.\n\nAnd the man, as he looked back to that day of his dreams, was glad\nwith an honest gladness. As he looked back to the time when he had\nasked of the world only something to do, he was proud with a just\npride. As he looked back upon the things out of which he had builded\nhis Success and saw how well he had builded, he was satisfied. But\nstill in his gladness and pride and satisfaction there was a\ndisappointment.\n\nIn his dreams, when he had looked out upon the world as a conquering\nemperor, the man had seen only the deeds of valor--the exhibitions of\ncourage, of heroism, of strength--he had seen only the victories--the\nhonors. But now, in the fulfillment of his dreams--when he had won the\nvictory--when the honors were his--he knew the desperate struggle, the\ndisastrous losses, the pitiful suffering. He had felt the dangers grip\nhis heart. He had felt the horrid fear of defeat striking at his soul.\nUpon him were the marks of the conflict. His victory had not been won\nwithout effort. Success had demanded a price and he had paid. Perhaps\nno one but the man himself knew how great was the price he had paid.\n\nThe man found also that Success brought cares greater than he had ever\nknown in the days of his struggle. Always there are cares that wait at\nthe end of the battle and attend only upon the victor. Always there\nare responsibilities that come only when the victory is won--that are\nnever seen in the heat of the conflict.\n\nOnce let it be discovered that you have the strength and the\nwillingness to carry burdens and burdens will be heaped upon you until\nyou stagger, fainting, under the load. Life has never yet bred a man\nwho could shoulder the weight that the world insists that he take up\nin his success. And, when the man could not carry all the burdens that\nthe world brought because his strength and endurance was only that of\na mortal, the world cursed him--called him selfish, full of greed,\nheartless, an oppressor caring nothing for the woes of others. Those\nwho had offered no helping hand in the time of his need now clamored\nloudly for a large part of his strength. Those who had cared nothing\nfor his life in the times of his hardships now insisted that he give\nthe larger part of his life to them. Those who had held him back now\ndemanded that he lift them up to a place beside him. Those who had\nshown him only indifference--coldness--contempt, now begged of him\nattention--friendship--honors--aid.\n\nAnd from all these things that attended his success the man found it\nimpossible to escape. The cares, the burdens, the responsibilities\nthat Success forced him to take up rested heavily upon him. So heavy\nindeed were these things that he had little strength or will left for\nthe enjoyment of that which he had so worthily won.\n\nAnd the victory that he had so hardily gained, the place that he now\nheld, the man found that he could keep only by the utmost exertion of\nhis strength. The battles he had fought were nothing in comparison to\nthose he must now fight. The struggle he had made was nothing to the\neffort he must continue to make. Temptations multiplied and appeared\nin many new and unexpected forms. The very world that pointed him out\nas an example watched eagerly for excuse to condemn. Those who sought\nhim with honors--who praised and flattered him, in envy, secretly\nhoped for his ruin. Those who followed him like dogs for favors would\nhowl like wolves on his trail if he turned ever so little aside. Those\nwho opened for him the doors of opportunities would flock like\nvultures to carrion if he should fall. The world, that, without\nconsideration, heaped upon him its burdens, would trample him beneath\nits feet if he should slip under the weight. Nor had he in Success won\nfreedom. His very servants were freer than he, to come and go, to seek\ntheir peculiar pleasures.\n\nThe chains with which Success had fettered the man were unusually\ngalling and heavy upon him that day, when, on his way to an important\nappointment, his carriage was checked in a crowded street. The man's\nmind was so absorbed in the business waiting his attention that he did\nnot notice how dense was the crowd that barred the way.\nImpatiently--with overwrought nerves--he spoke sharply, commanding his\nman to drive on.\n\nThe man begged pardon but it was impossible.\n\n\"Impossible,\" still more sharply, \"what's the matter?\"\n\nThe driver ventured a smile, \"It's the circus parade, sir.\"\n\n\"Then turn around.\"\n\nBut that, too, was impossible. The traffic had pushed in behind\nhemming them in.\n\nThen, down the street that crossed in front of the crowded jam of\nvehicles, came the familiar sound of trumpets and the gorgeously\nattired heralds at the head of the procession appeared, followed by\nthe leading band with its crashing, smashing, music.\n\nAs gilded chariot followed gilded chariot, each drawn by many pairs of\nbeautiful horses, gaily plumed and equipped--as the many riders, in\nglittering armor and flashing, spangled, costumes, rode proudly past;\nfollowed by the long line of elephants and camels with the cages of\ntheir fellow captives; and, in turn, by the chariot racers, the\nclowns, and the wagons of black faced fun makers; and at last by the\nsteam calliope with its escort of madly shouting urchins--the man in\nthe carriage slipped away from the cares and burdens of the present\ninto the freedom of his Yesterdays. He escaped from the galling chains\nthat Success had put upon him and lived again a circus day in the long\nago.\n\nWeeks before the date of the great event, the barns and sheds and\nevery available wall in the little village, to which the boy often\nwent with his father, would be covered with gorgeous pictures\nannouncing the many startling, stupendous, wonders, to be seen for so\nsmall a price. There was a hippopotamus of such size that a boat load\nof twenty naked savages was not for him a mouthful. There were\nelephants so huge that the house where the boy lived was but a play\nhouse beside them. There were troops of aerial artists, who, on wires\nand rings and trapeze and ladders and ropes, did daring, dreadful,\ndeath defying, deeds, that no simian in his old world forest would\never think of attempting. There was a great, glittering, gorgeous,\nprocession, of such length that the farther end was lost beyond the\ndistant horizon and tents that covered more acres of ground than the\nboy could see from the top of the orchard hill.\n\nWonderful promises of the billboards! Wonderful! Wonderful promises of\nthe billboards of Life! Wonderful!\n\nThen would follow the days of waiting--the endless days of\nwaiting--when the boy, with the help of the little girl, would try to\nbe everything that the billboards pictured, from the roaring lion in\nhis cage to the painted clown who cut such side splitting capers and\nthe human fly that, with her gay Japanese parasol, walked upside down\nupon a polished ceiling. When circus day was coming, the fairies and\nknights and princes and soldiers and all their tried and true\ncompanions were forced to go somewhere--anywhere--out of the boy's\nway. There was no time, in those busy days, even for fishing. The old\nmill pond had no charm that was not exceeded by the promises of the\nbillboards. The earth itself, indeed, was merely a place upon which to\npitch a circus tent. The charms of the little girl, even, were almost\ntotally eclipsed by the captivating loveliness of those ladies who, in\nspangled tights of blue and pink and red, hung by their teeth at dizzy\nheights, bestrode glittering wheels upon slack wires, or were shot\nfrom cannon to soar, amid black smoke and lurid flame, like angels,\nfar above the heads of the common people.\n\nThere was no lying in bed to be called the third time the morning of\nthat day; when at last it came. Scarcely had the sun peeped through\nthe orchard on the hill when the boy was up and at the window\nanxiously looking to see if the sky was clear. Very early the start\nfor town was made for there is much on circus day that is not pictured\non the billboards--_that_, of course, the boy knew. And, as they\ndrove through the fresh smelling fields, the boy would wonder if the\nlong journey would ever come to an end and would ask himself, with\nsinking heart: \"What if they had mistaken the day? What if something\nhad happened that the circus could not materialize the promises of the\nbillboards? What, if the hippopotamus, the elephants, the beautiful\nladies in spangles and tights, and all the other promises of the\nbillboards should fail?\" And somewhere, deep within his being, the boy\nwould feel a thrill of gladness that the little girl was so close\nbeside him. If anything should happen that the promises of the\nbillboards should fail he would need the little girl. While, if\nnothing happened--if it was all as pictured--still it would not be\nenough if the little girl were not there.\n\nIt was all over at last. The spangled riders galloped out of the ring;\nthe trapeze performers made their last death defying leap; the clown\ncracked his last joke and cut his last caper; the last peanut in the\nsack was devoured by the elephant; and, at the close of the long day,\nthe boy and the girl went back through the quiet fields to their\nhomes; tired with the excitement and wonder of it all but with sighs\nof content and happiness. And, deep in his heart, that night, the boy\nresolved that he would grow up to travel with a circus. He would be\nvery sorry to leave father and mother and the little girl but nothing\nin the world--nothing--should keep him from such a glorious career.\n\nThe man knew, now, that the promises of those billboards in his\nYesterdays were never fulfilled. He knew, now, that the golden\nchariots were not gold at all but only gilded. He knew, now, that\nthose wondrous beings who wore the glittering, spangled, costumes,\nwere only very common and very ordinary men and women. He did not,\nnow, envy the riders in the procession or the performers in the tent.\nHe knew that to have a place in the parade or to perform in the ring,\nis to envy those whose applause you must win. The quiet of the old\nfields; the peaceful home under the orchard hill; the gentle\ncompanionship of the little girl; these were the things that in the\nman's life endured long after the glamor of the circus was gone.\n\nThrough the circus day crowd the man was driven on to his appointment\nbut his mind was not now occupied with the business that awaited him.\nHis thoughts were not with the crowd that filled the streets. His\nheart was in his Yesterdays. The music of the circus band, the sight\nof the parade that so stirred his memories of childhood, had awakened\nwithin him a hunger for the old home scenes. He longed to escape from\nSuccess--to get away from the circus parade of Life in which he found\nhimself riding. He was weary of performing in the ring. He wanted to\ngo home through the quiet fields. Perhaps--perhaps--amid the scenes of\nhis Yesterdays, he might find that which Success had not brought.\n\nAs quickly as he could make arrangements, he went.\n\nOf the woman's success, I cannot write here. My story has been poorly\ntold, indeed, if I have not made it clear that, for this woman who\nknew herself to be a woman, Success was inseparable from Love.\n\nFor every woman who knows herself to be a woman, Love and Success are\none.\n\n\n\n\n\nLOVE\n\nAgain it was that time of the year when every corner of the world is a\nlovers' corner.\n\nOn bough and branch, in orchard and wood; on bush and vine, in garden\nand yard; in meadow grass and pasture sod; on the silvery lichens that\ncling to the rocks; among the ferns and mosses that dwell in cool\nretreats; amid the reeds and rushes by the old mill pond; in the\nfragrant mints and fluted blades on the banks of the little creek; the\nchildren of Nature sought their mates or by their mates were sought.\n\nEvery flower cup was a loving cup, lifted to drink a pledge to Life;\nevery tint of color was a blush of love, called forth by the wooing of\nLife; every perfumed breath was a breath of love, a blessing and\nprayer of Life; every rustling movement was a whisper of love, a\npromised word of Life; every touch of the breeze was a caress of love,\na passionate kiss of Life; every sunbeam was a smile of love, warm\nwith the tender triumph of Life.\n\nThe bees, that, in their labor for hive and swarm, carry the golden\npollen from flower to flower, preach thus the word of God. The gauze\nwinged insects, that, in the evening, dance their aerial mating dance,\ndeclare thus the Creator's will. The fireflies, that, in the night\ntime, light their tiny lamps of love, signal thus a message from the\nthrone on high.\n\nThe fowls of the air, singing their mating songs; the wild stallion on\nthe hills, trumpeting aloud his fiery strength; the bull on the\nplains, thundering his bellowing challenge; the panther that in the\nmountains screams to his mate; the wolf that in the timber howls to\nhis mistress; declare thus the supreme law of Life--make known the\nunchanging purpose of God--and evidence an authority and power divine.\n\nIn all this wooing and mating; in all this seeking and being sought;\nin all this giving and receiving; in all this loving and being loved;\nin all natural and holy desire; Life is exalted--the divine is\nworshiped--acceptable offerings to God are made.\n\nTo preserve Life--to perpetuate Life--to produce Life--to perfect\nLife--to exalt Life--this is the purpose of Life. In all the activity\nof Life there is no other meaning manifest. This, indeed, _is_\nLife. How foolish then to think only of eternal Life as though it\nbegan at the grave. This Life that _is_, is the eternal Life.\n_Eternity is to-day_. The man and woman who mate in love fulfill\nthus the eternal law of Life, and, in their children, conceived and\nborn in Love, do they know and do the will of God, even as do all\nthings that are alive.\n\nLife and Love are one.\n\nThe man had been at his boyhood home but three days when the neighbor,\nwho lived next door, told him that his childhood playmate was coming,\nwith her aunt, to visit their old home for a few weeks.\n\n\"Needs a rest and quiet\" the neighbor said; and smiled at nothing at\nall as neighbors will sometimes do.\n\nPerhaps, though, the neighbor smiled at the look of surprise and\nbewilderment that swept over the man's face as he heard the news, or\nit might have been at the mingling of pleasure and regret that was in\nhis voice as he answered: \"Indeed.\" Or, perhaps, the neighbor was\nwondering what the woman would say and how she would look if she knew\nthat the man was to be next door. Whatever the reason the neighbor\nsmiled.\n\nThey did not know that the woman was, in reality, seeking to escape\nfrom the thought of Failure that so haunted her. Since that day when\nher good friend had talked to her of her career and had gravely\nasked--\"for _you_ do you think it would be success?\"--her work\nhad become more and more unbearable. In desperation, at last, she had\narranged to go, for a few weeks, back to the scenes of her girlhood;\nhoping to find there, as she had found before, the peace and strength\nshe needed.\n\nThe cherry tree, in the corner of the garden near the hedge, showered\nthe delicate petals of its blossoms down with every touch of the\ngentle breeze. In the nearby bower of green, a pair of brown birds had\njust put the finishing touch to a new nest. But, in the years that had\npassed since that boy and girl play wedding, the tree had grown large,\nand scarred, and old. Many pairs of brown birds had nested and reared\ntheir broods in the hedge since that day when the lad had kissed his\nchildhood mate with a kiss that was different. And the little opening\nthrough which the boy and girl had so often gone at each other's call\nwas closed by a growth of branches that time had woven as if to shut,\nforever, that gateway of their Yesterdays. On his former visit, the\nman had looked for that gateway of his childhood but could not find\nit. And now, when he heard that she was coming, he went again,\ncuriously, to see if he could find any sign to show where the opening\nhad been. But the branches that the years had woven hid from the man's\neyes every trace of the old way that, in his Yesterdays, had been so\nplain.\n\nLate that afternoon, when the neighbor, coming from the depot with his\nguests, drove slowly up the hill, the man stood at the gate where,\nyears before, the little boy had sat on the post, and, swinging his\nbare legs, had watched the big wagons, loaded with household goods,\nturning into the yard of the place next door.\n\nThere was no reason why the man should get up when the first touches\nof gray light showed in the eastern sky the next morning, but the day\nseemed to call him and he arose and went out. From the little hill\nwhere he had sat that day when first he knew that he was a man and\nwhere his manhood life began with his dreams, he watched the sun rise\nand saw the sleeping world awake. Then back through the orchard that\nwas all dew drenched and ringing with the morning hymn of the birds,\nhe went, until he stood in the garden.\n\nThe man did not know why he went into the garden. Something seemed to\nlead him there. And he went very softly as one goes into places that\nare holy with the memories of dead years. Very still, he stood,\nwatching the two birds that had builded their nest in the hedge near\nthe cherry tree that, now, lifted its branches so high. The two birds\nwere very, very, busy that morning; but, busy as they were, the father\nbird could not resist pouring forth the joy of his life in a flood of\nmelody while his mate, swinging and fluttering and chirping on a\nnearby twig, seemed to enter as fully and heartily into his sentiments\nas though the song were her own. Breathlessly, with bare head and\nupturned, eager, face, the man watched and listened.\n\nWhen the song was ended he drew a long breath--then started and,\nwithout moving from his place, looked carefully around. A low call had\nreached his ears--a familiar call that seemed to come out of the long\nago. Surely his fancy was playing him strange tricks that morning.\n\nHe was turning toward the house when, again, that call came--low and\nclear. It was a call of his Yesterdays. And this time it was followed\nby a low, full throated laugh that was as full of music as the song of\nthe bird to which the man had been listening.\n\nWith amazement and wonder upon his face, he turned quickly toward the\nhedge, as a voice that was like an echo of the laugh said: \"Good\nmorning! Pardon me for startling you--you looked so much like the\nlittle boy that I couldn't resist.\"\n\n[Illustration: When they told me that you were here I wanted to go\naway again]\n\n\"But where are you?\" asked the man, bewildered still.\n\nAgain came that low, full throated laugh. Then: \"I believe you think I\nam a ghost. I'm here at the hedge--at the old place. Have you\nforgotten?\"\n\nSlowly, as she spoke, he went toward the hedge, guided by her voice.\n\"So _you_ found it then,\" he said slowly, gazing at the beautiful\nwoman face that was framed in the green of the leaves and branches.\n\nAnd at his words, the woman's heart beat quicker--so he had\n_tried_ to find it--but aloud she only said: \"Of course.\"\n\nTo which he returned smilingly: \"But it is quite grown over now, isn't\nit? You could scarcely come through there now as you used to do--could\nyou?\"\n\nThe woman laughed again. \"I could if I were a man\"--she challenged.\n\nA moment later he stood beside her; a little breathless, with his\nclothing disarranged, and a scratch or two on his face and hands.\n\n\"Do you know\"--she said when they had shaken hands quite properly as\ngrown up people must do--\"do you know that I was dreadfully afraid to\nmeet you? When they told me that you were here I wanted to go away\nagain. I was afraid that you would be so different. Do you\nunderstand?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, gravely, \"I understand.\" But he did not tell her,\nthen, how fully he understood.\n\nShe went on: \"But when I looked through the hedge and saw you with\nyour hat off, watching the birds, I knew you were the same little\nboy--and--well--I could not resist giving the old call.\"\n\nAnd, all at once, the man knew why he had risen early that morning and\nwhy he had gone into the garden.\n\nAfter that, they spent many days together in the scenes of their\nchildhood; living over again, so far as man and woman may, their\nYesterdays. And so cane, at last, the day that was forever after, to\nthem, _the_ day of all their days.\n\nIt was in the afternoon and they were together down by the little\nbrook, in the shade of the willows, where the stream, running lazily\nunder the patches of light and shade, murmured drowsily--seeming more\nthan half asleep. She was weaving an old time daisy chain from a great\narmful that he had helped her gather on their way to the cool retreat.\nA bit of fancy work that she had brought from the house lay neglected\nnear his hat, which the man, boy like, had cast aside. He was\nindustriously fishing for minnows, with a slender twig of willow for a\nrod, a line of thread from her sewing, and a pin, that she had found\nfor him, fashioned into a hook. With a pointed stick he had dug among\nthe roots of the old tree for bait--securing one, tiny, thin, worm and\nrejoicing gleefully at his success. For a long time neither had said a\nword; but the woman, her white fingers busy with the daisies in her\nlap, had several times looked up from her pretty task to smile at the\nman who was so intensely and seriously interested in his childish\nsport.\n\n\"Gee! I nearly got one that time!\" He exclaimed with boyish triumph\nand disappointment in his voice.\n\nThe woman laughed merrily. \"One would think,\" she said, \"that your\nfame in life depended upon your catching one of those poor little\nfish. What do you suppose your dear, devoted, public would say if they\ncould see you now?\"\n\nThe man grunted his disapproval. \"I came out here to get away from\nsaid public,\" he retorted. \"Why do you drag 'em into our paradise?\"\n\nAt his words, a warm color crept into the woman's face, and, bending\nlow over the daisies in her lap, she did not answer.\n\nLifting the improvised fishing tackle of his childhood and looking at\nit critically the man said: \"I suppose, now, that if this rod were a\nsplit bamboo, and this thread were braided silk, and this pin with its\nwiggly piece of worm were a \"Silver Doctor\" or a \"Queen of the Waters\"\nor a \"Dusty Miller\" or a \"Brown Hackle\"; and if this stream were an\neducated stream, with educated trout; and the house up there were a\nclub house; and your dear old aunt, who is watching to see that I\ndon't eat you, were a lot of whist playing old men; I suppose you\nwould think it all right and a proper sport for a man. But for me--I\ncan't see much difference--except that, just now--\" he carefully\nlowered his hook into the water--\"just now, I prefer this. In fact,\"\nhe added meditatively, \"I would rather do this than anything else in\nthe world.\"\n\nThe color in the woman's face deepened.\n\nAfter a little, he looked cautiously around to see her bending over\nthe daisy chain. A moment later, under pretense of examining his bait,\nhe stole another look. Then, in spite of his declaration, he abandoned\nhis sport to stretch himself full length on the ground at her side.\n\nShe did not look at him but bent her head low over the wealth of white\nand gold blossoms in her lap; and the man noticed, with an odd feeling\nof pleasure, the beautiful curve of her white neck from the soft brown\nhair to the edge of her dress low on the shoulder. Then, with a sly\nsmile, as the boy of their Yesterdays might have done, he stealthily\nraised the slender willow twig and with the tip cautiously attempted\nto lift the thin golden chain that she always wore loosely about her\nthroat with the locket or pendant concealed by her dress.\n\nShe clutched the chain with a frightened gesture and a little\nexclamation. \"You must not--you must not do that.\"\n\nThe man laughed aloud as the mischievous boy would have laughed.\n\nBut the woman, with flaming cheeks, caught the twig from his hand and\nthrew it into the creek. \"If you are not good, I shall call auntie,\"\nshe threatened.\n\nAt which he looked ruefully toward the porch and became very serious.\n\"Do you know that I am going away to-morrow?\" he asked.\n\n\"And leave your paradise for your dear public?\" she said mockingly.\n\"The public will be glad.\"\n\n\"And you, will you care?\"\n\n\"I'm going back to my work, too, next week,\" she replied.\n\n\"But will you care to-morrow?\" he persisted.\n\nThe woman's fingers, busy with the daisy chain, trembled.\n\nThe man, when she still did not answer his question, arose and,\npicking up his hat and her sewing, held out his hand.\n\nShe looked up into his face questioningly.\n\n\"Come\"--he said with a grave smile--\"come.\"\n\nStill without speaking, she gave him her hand and he helped her to her\nfeet; and, at her touch, the man again felt that thrill of pleasure.\n\nThe aunt, from her place on the porch, saw them coming up the grassy\nslope, through the daisies, toward the house. She saw them coming and\nsmiled--as the neighbor had smiled, so she smiled, apparently, at\nnothing at all.\n\nBut the man and the woman did not go to the porch where the old lady\nsat. With a wave of their hands, they passed from her sight around the\nhouse, and, a few minutes later, stood face to face in that quiet,\nsecluded, corner of the garden, under the old cherry tree, close by\nthe hedge.\n\n\"Now,\" said the man gently, \"now tell me--will you be sorry to have me\ngo away to-morrow?\"\n\nShe made no pretense that she did not understand, Nor did she hesitate\nas one in doubt. Lifting her head, proudly, humbly, graciously, she\nlooked at him and, in that look, surrendered to him, without reserve,\nall the treasures of her womanhood that, with such care, she had kept\nagainst that hour. And her face was shining with the light that only a\nwoman's mate can kindle.\n\nThe man caught his breath. \"My wife,\" he said. \"My wife,\"\n\nA few moments later he whispered: \"Tell me again--I know that you have\nalways belonged to me and I to you--but tell me again--you will--you\nwill--be my wife?\"\n\nReleasing herself gently, she lifted her hands and, unfastening that\nslender chain of gold from around her throat, with rosy cheeks and\nhappy, tender, eyes, held out to him a tiny brass ring.\n\nSo the Yesterdays of the man and the Yesterdays of the woman became\nTheir Yesterdays.\n\nAll that Dreams, Occupation, Knowledge, Ignorance, Religion,\nTradition, Temptation, Life, Death, Failure, Success, Love and\nMemories had given him, this man who knew that he was a man, gave to\nher. All that the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life had given her,\nthis woman who knew herself to be a woman, gave to him. And thus these\ntwo became one. As God made them one, they became one.\n\nAnd this is the love that I say, is one of the Thirteen Truly Great\nThings of Life.\n\nBut my story is not yet quite finished for still, you must know, there\nare Memories.\n\n\n\n\n\nMEMORIES\n\nAnd the years of the man and the woman passed until all their days\nwere Yesterdays.\n\nEven as they had, together, crossed the threshold of the old, old,\ndoor that has stood open since the beginning, they stood now,\ntogether, upon the threshold of another door that has never been\nclosed.\n\nAnd it was so, that, as once they went back into the Yesterdays that\nbecame Their Yesterdays, so they still went back to the days that were\npast. It was so, that the things of their manhood and womanhood had\nbecome to them, now, even as the things of their childhood. They knew,\nnow, that, indeed, the work of men is but the play of children, after\nall.\n\nTheir years were nearly spent, it is true. His hair was silvery white\nand his form was bent and trembling. Her cheeks were like the drying\npetals of a rose and her once brown hair was as white as his. But the\nvigor and strength and life of their years lived still--gloriously\nincreased in the lives that they had given to the race.\n\nGone were the years of their manhood and womanhood--even as the days\nof their boyhood and girlhood--they were gone. But, as the boy and the\ngirl had lived in the man and the woman, the man and the woman lived,\nnow, in their boys and girls and in the children of their children.\n\nAnd this was the true glory and the fulfillment of their lives--that\nthey could live thus in their children--that they could see themselves\nrenewed in their children and in their children's children.\n\nSo it was that Memories became to this man and this woman, also, one\nof the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life.\n\nThere are many things that might be told about this man and\nwoman--about the work they did, the place they held in life, and the\nrewards and honors they received--but I have put down all that, at the\nend, seemed of any importance to them. Therefore have I put down\nall that matters to my story.\n\nWhat matters to them and to my story is this: always, as they went\nback into the Yesterdays, they went back to the days of their\nchildhood and to the days of their children. They went back only to\n_Their_ Yesterdays. To those other days--those days when they\nwere strangers--they did not go back.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE END.","title":"Their Yesterdays","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":66999}