Library  of  Che  t:heolo<jtcal  Aetmnarp 
 
 PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 
 
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 V7/  \\V 
 
 FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
 REVEREND  JESSE  HALSEY,  D.D. 
 
■nAn/fcb.  'Jt'dt 
 
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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
 in  2019  with  funding  from 
 Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 
 
 https://archive.org/details/devilotherparablOOrhin 
 
"THE  'TV  L" 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER  PARABLES 
 
 Truths  for  the  Times 
 
 by  V 
 
 Arthur  B.  Rhinow 
 
 EDEN  PUBLISHING  HOUSE 
 
 ST.  LOUIS,  MO. 
 
 CHICAGO,  ILL. 
 
Copyright  1923 
 Eden  Publishing  House 
 St.  Louis,  Mo. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Foreword  .  5 
 
 The  Devil .  9 
 
 Opium  Religion .  14 
 
 The  Minister  of  the  Church  in  the  Other 
 
 Block .  20 
 
 During  the  Brooklyn  Car  Strike .  24 
 
 The  Minister's  Malady .  28 
 
 The  Joy  of  Service .  38 
 
 The  Ring .  41 
 
 Tradition  . * .  43 
 
 “Even  as  a  Hen” .  48 
 
 From  the  Diary  of  a  Modern  Minister .  54' 
 
 The  Practical  Thing .  61 
 
 Brother  Martin .  63 
 
 Making  Time .  67 
 
 Elijah  .  70 
 
 (Contents  continued  on  next  page) 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 (Continued) 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The  Drummer’s  Disappointment .  75 
 
 When  He  Omitted  Shadrach’s  Oration .  80 
 
 The  Cure .  84 
 
 Going  Home .  89 
 
 A  Youthful  Fancy . .  .  . .  91 
 
 He  Felt  the  Stars  Looking  at  Him .  93 
 
 Cheap  . 105 
 
 More  Time  for  Herself . Ill 
 
 The  Wise  One . 115 
 
 The  Pale  Faith . 117 
 
 The  Boasters . 121 
 
 The  Church . 124 
 
 The  Spiritual  Man . 126 
 
 The  Smile . 128 
 
 Mr.  Alberg’s  Worry . 132 
 
 Covering  Ground . 137 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 From  the  very  beginning  of  literature,  the 
 parable  or  fable  has  been  a  favorite  vehicle  for 
 conveying  moral  or  religious  truth,  because  its 
 direct  appeal  to  human  interest  gave  special  force 
 to  the  indirect  suggestion  which  it  carried.  Some 
 of  the  most  sublime  truths  of  the  Bible  are  clothed 
 in  this  form  of  speech.  No  other  means  could 
 have  been  so  effective  when  it  became  necessary 
 to  reprove  David  for  his  great  sin  in  the  matter 
 of  Uriah  the  Hittite,  nor  could  any  didactic  state¬ 
 ment  about  God's  willingness  to  receive  penitent 
 sinners  have  had  an  effect  at  all  equal  to  that  pro¬ 
 duced  by  that  immortal  piece  of  literature,  the 
 parable  of  the  prodigal  son. 
 
 It  is  a  matter  of  satisfaction,  therefore,  that 
 the  parable  is  coming  into  its  own  once  more  as 
 a  means  of  teaching  moral  and  religious  truth  to 
 the  present  generation,  which  is  so  desperately 
 in  need  of  religious  teaching  and  at  the  same  time 
 so  discouragingly  hard  to  interest  in  religious 
 thinking.  No  writer  has  shown  greater  skill  in 
 this  direction  during  the  past  few  years  than 
 Arthur  B.  Rhinow,  pastor  of  Ridgewood  Presby¬ 
 terian  Church,  Brooklyn,  New  York,  whose  beauty 
 and  simplicity  of  style,  combined  with  unusual 
 breadth  of  sympathy  and  depth  of  spiritual  in- 
 
sight,  has  again  and  again  charmed  the  readers 
 of  religious  papers  in  various  parts  of  the  coun¬ 
 try.  The  present  volume  is  a  collection  of  some 
 of  the  best  products  of  his  pen,  including  many 
 which  have  not  yet  appeared  in  print,  while  those 
 which  have  already  been  published  deserve  a 
 thoughtful  rereading.  The  parables  cover  a  wide 
 range  of  human  life  and  experience  and  deal  with 
 a  great  variety  of  subjects  which  are  of  perennial 
 interest  to  thoughtful  people. 
 
 The  courtesy  of  those  periodicals  which  kind¬ 
 ly  and  readily  gave  permission  to  reprint  the  par¬ 
 ables  which  have  appeared  in  their  respective 
 columns  ( Christian  Century :  The  Smile;  The 
 Church;  The  Wise  One;  A  Youthful  Fancy;  Bro¬ 
 ther  Martin;  Tradition;  Opium  Religion. — The 
 Continent:  When  He  Omitted  Shadrach’s  Ora¬ 
 tion;  The  Practical  Thing;  From  the  Diary  of  a 
 Modern  Minister.  —  Christian  Endeavor  World: 
 Making  Time;  During  the  Brooklyn  Car  Strike; 
 Elijah;  Covering  Ground.  —  The  Outlook:  The 
 Devil. — Evangelical  Herald:  Mr.  Alberg’s  Worry; 
 The  Spiritual  Man ;  The  Boasters ;  The  Pale  Faith ; 
 He  Felt  the  Stars  Looking  at  Him ;  More  Time  for 
 Herself ;  Cheap  ;  The  Drummer’s  Disappointment ; 
 Going  Home;  The  Joy  of  Service;  The  Minister’s 
 Malady)  is  hereby  gratefully  acknowledged. 
 
 St.  Louis,  Mo.,  May  21,  1923. 
 
 J.  H.  H. 
 
THE  DEVIL 
 
 RI  Ben  Ahithophel  came  down  from  Jeru¬ 
 salem  to  see  the  Prophet.  He  wondered 
 why  he  had  retired  to  the  solitude  when 
 the  people  were  asking  for  him.  He 
 found  him  sitting  on  a  stone.  A  group 
 of  men  were  about  him,  men  with  hunger  in  their 
 eyes. 
 
 The  scenery  was  one  of  contrasts.  Rugged 
 hills  framing  fields  of  flowers ;  in  the  distance  the 
 Jordan  rushing  southward.  And  the  Prophet 
 seemed  to  blend  with  it  all.  But  Uri  Ben  Ahith¬ 
 ophel  saw  none  of  that. 
 
 “I  have  come  to  see  you  about  your  work,” 
 he  began. 
 
 The  Prophet  looked  up. 
 
 “I  think  your  work  looks  very  promising. 
 You  have  made  a  good  start.  Now  what  you  need 
 is  somebody  to  manage  your  campaign.  I  have 
 
 [9] 
 
10 
 
 THE  DEVIL 
 
 had  a  good  deal  of  experience  in  affairs  like  that, 
 and  I  should  like  to — ” 
 
 A  snake  wriggled  through  the  grass  and  dis¬ 
 appeared  in  the  jumble  of  rocks. 
 
 “Now  what  you  need,  first  of  all,”  Uri  con¬ 
 tinued  after  he  had  recovered,  “is  to  gain  the 
 favor  of  influential  people.  As  I  said  before,  you 
 have  begun  well.  People  are  talking  about  you, 
 and  you  know  if  you  can  get  people  to  talk  about 
 you  you  have  gained  a  great  deal.  They  even  say 
 you  have  performed  miracles.  Now  there  is  no 
 reason  why  you  shouldn’t  make  a  big  success  of 
 your  enterprise.  And  I  say,  the  first  thing  to  do 
 is  to  get  the  backing  of  influential  people. 
 
 “Now  there  is  Annas,  the  high  priest,  for  in¬ 
 stance.  Believe  me,  he  is  the  most  powerful  man 
 in  Israel.  If  you  could  get  him  to  indorse  you, 
 that  would  help  immensely.  And  of  course  some 
 prominent  Pharisee,  also.  Annas,  you  know,  is 
 a  Sadducee,  and  you  cannot  afford  to  take  sides. 
 With  two  such  leaders  backing  you,  you  could  not 
 fail.  And  I  believe  my  connections  would  enable 
 me  to  enlist  that  support.  One  only  has  to  know 
 how  to  approach  men  like  that  in  the  right  way; 
 and  I  have  had  experience.  All  I  would  ask  you 
 to  do  is  not  to  say  or  do  anything  to  offend  them. 
 That  would  never  do.  You  understand  that,  of 
 course.  All  the  rest  you  can  leave  to  me.  And 
 
THE  DEVIL 
 
 11 
 
 all  I  ask  of  you  for  myself  is  a  promise  to  remem¬ 
 ber  me  when  you  enter  into  your  kingdom,  so  to 
 speak.  That’s  all. 
 
 “And  believe  me,  without  such  men  as  Annas 
 your  enterprise  will  never  amount  to  very  much. 
 Get  the  right  people  interested  first.” 
 
 The  Prophet  studied  the  lilies  lovingly. 
 
 “And  after  you  have  had  the  indorsement  of 
 those  men,”  13 ri  went  on,  “then  you  ought  to  be 
 careful  about  the  disciples  you  choose.  Get  men 
 that  are  representative,  men  of  the  better  classes, 
 men  that  impress  the  people.  Then  you  will  be 
 able  to  control  means,  and  you  know  you  cannot 
 do  anything  without  money.  For  instance,  I  am 
 just  now  thinking  of  a  certain  rich  young  ruler. 
 Fine  fellow,  and  he  has  great  possessions.” 
 
 “The  Prophet  has  chosen  his  disciples,”  one 
 of  the  men  answered.  There  was  a  deep  glow  in 
 his  eyes,  and  he  held  a  bag. 
 
 “What  kind  of  men  are  they?”  the  inter¬ 
 viewer  asked  quickly. 
 
 “Oh,  Galilean  fishermen,  a  publican,  and 
 other  men  of  that  kind.” 
 
 Uri  Ben  Ahithophel  shook  his  head. 
 
 “Fishermen  and  publicans?  That  will  never 
 do.  Why  did  he  choose  them?” 
 
 “Because  they  believe  in  him.” 
 
12 
 
 THE  DEVIL 
 
 “Well,  that’s  all  right  so  far  as  it  goes.  But 
 this  is  a  practical  age,  and  we  must  be  practical 
 to  succeed.  Look  at  the  way  the  Romans  do 
 things,  and  our  own  politicians.  They’re  shrewd. 
 And  even  a  religious  movement  must  be  con¬ 
 ducted  in  the  right  way.  Imagine  how  Annas 
 would  launch  a  campaign  like  that.  And  it  is 
 very  important  to  get  the  right  kind  of  people 
 to  push  things.  You  look  as  though  you  might 
 be  a  help  to  him,  but  those  other  men  are  just 
 muscle  and  dreams.” 
 
 Uri  Ben  Ahithophel  again  turned  to  the 
 Prophet.  He  saw  him  take  a  reed  and  write  on 
 the  ground. 
 
 “There  is  something  else  I  want  to  talk  to 
 you  about,”  Uri  continued.  “I  have  heard  people 
 say  that  you  were  of  Nazareth.  Now  I  wouldn’t 
 advertise  that  too  much.  You  know  the  people 
 say,  'Can  any  good  thing  come  out  of  Nazareth?’ 
 And  we  must  avoid  anything  that  might  offend 
 the  people.  ‘Give  the  people  what  they  want,’  is 
 the  way  to  succeed. 
 
 “Now,  tell  me,”  Uri  went  on,  “is  there  not 
 some  other  place  with  which  you  are  associated 
 by  ties  of  something  or  other?” 
 
 “He  was  born  in  Bethlehem,”  he  with  the  bag 
 volunteered. 
 
 Uri  Ben  Ahithophel  leaped  up. 
 
THE  DEVIL 
 
 13 
 
 “In  Bethlehem?”  he  cried,  “The  very  place! 
 The  birthplace  of  a  king.” 
 
 “He  is  of  the  seed  of  David.” 
 
 “He  is?  Come,  come,  this  is  great.  We  shall 
 begin  the  big  demonstration  at  Bethlehem.  Leave 
 that  to  me.  We  shall  advertise  you  as  the  son  of 
 David.  That  alone  will  give  you  popular  applause. 
 We  shall  speak  of  the  glorious  reign  of  David  and 
 Solomon,  and  that  a  scion  of  that  illustrious  house 
 has  come  to  them  to  lead  them  to — ” 
 
 The  Prophet’s  look  silenced  Uri  Ben  Ahitho- 
 phel.  He  remained  quiet  for  a  long  time.  At 
 first  he  had  an  unearthly  feeling,  then  his  mind 
 reverted  to  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  and  the 
 glory  of  them.  He  turned  to  the  man  with  the 
 glowing  eyes. 
 
 “Your  master  might  win  the  whole  country,” 
 he  said,  “if  he  listened  to  reason ;  but — ” 
 
 He  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  left. 
 
OPIUM  RELIGION 
 
 E  necessarily  treat  the  news  coming  from 
 Russia  with  reserve.  If  all  the  reports 
 coming  from  that  land  of  gloom  and  mys¬ 
 tery  were  true,  Mr.  Lenine  has  more  lives 
 than  a  cat.  But  there  is  no  reason  why 
 we  should  not  comment  on  the  news.  Sermons 
 have  been  preached  on  texts  whose  authenticity 
 is  questioned  by  the  critics. 
 
 We  are  told  that  placards  have  been  displayed 
 in  Russia,  telling  the  people  that  religion  is  the 
 opium  of  the  mind.  Therefore  discard  religion. 
 
 This  has  shocked  many,  and  it  certainly  is  a 
 striking  expression.  The  propaganda  department 
 of  the  Soviet  seems  to  be  efficient.  What  would 
 it  not  do  in  case  of  war?  We  pity  the  enemy  as 
 we  stop  to  think  of  it.  For  example,  a  slogan  like 
 “Kill  the  Calf,”  meaning  the  golden  calf,  a  gentle 
 innuendo  against  plutocracy;  to  which  the  other 
 
OPIUM  RELIGION 
 
 15 
 
 side  might  reply  with  “Bare  the  Beast/’  offering 
 an  opportunity  for  acrid  punning.  Then,  indeed, 
 would  the  leaders  regret  having  disparaged  re¬ 
 ligion.  For  a  certain  kind  of  religion  has  always 
 been  a  factor  in  mesmerizing  the  masses  into  can¬ 
 non-fodder  bravery.  Think  of  what  they  might 
 draw  on  in  the  Apocalypse  in  preparing  for  world 
 conquest. 
 
 All  this  I  pondered  as  I  leaned  back  in  the  old 
 Morris  chair,  and  my  eyes  began  to  blink.  There 
 were  shadows  on  the  wall,  and  presently  I  be¬ 
 came  aware  that  my  old  friend,  the  Guide  in 
 many  reveries,  was  with  me.  We  know  each  other 
 too  well  to  indulge  in  effusive  greeting. 
 
 “Surely  that  is  a  false  statement,”  I  asserted 
 inquiringly. 
 
 He  knew  I  referred  to  the  statement  that  re¬ 
 ligion  is  the  opium  of  the  mind.  He  seems  to  un¬ 
 derstand  me  so  much  more  readily  than  others. 
 He  smiled. 
 
 “Come  with  me,”  he  said,  “and  I’ll  answer 
 you.” 
 
 In  a  moment  I  was  in  a  study.  A  slender 
 young  clergyman  sat  in  a  chair,  and  looked  up 
 eagerly  at  his  brother  minister,  who  was  turning 
 the  leaves  of  a  book  aimlessly. 
 
 “That  is  one  of  my  textbooks,”  the  young  man 
 
16 
 
 OPIUM  RELIGION 
 
 volunteered.  “I  matriculated  today,  and  the 
 course  begins  on  Monday.  We  shall  take  up  the 
 modern  trend  of  philosophy.” 
 
 The  other  man  frowned. 
 
 “What  do  you  want  to  take  up  such  studies 
 for?”  he  asked,  with  towering  authority.  “You 
 have  the  whole  truth  in  the  Bible.  Don't  bother 
 about  anything  alse.” 
 
 The  Guide  looked  at  me,  and  I  began  to  un¬ 
 derstand. 
 
 “That's  opium  religion,”  he  said.  “He  has 
 lost  the  open  mind,  and  with  it  the  open  soul.  His 
 assurance  is  narcotic.  Who  knows  only  the  Bible, 
 does  not  know  it.  The  Bible  touches  all  of  life, 
 and  all  of  life  touches  the  Bible.” 
 
 Suddenly  the  scene  was  changed.  The  in¬ 
 terior  of  a  magnificent  church.  Arches  and  domes 
 and  beautiful  windows.  Candles  and  incense. 
 Now  the  people  bow  the  head  and  repeat  the 
 Lord's  Prayer.  After  the  Amen,  one  almost  hears 
 a  pious  sigh  sweep  over  the  entire  congregation, 
 and  yet  nobody  has  given  thought  to  the  petition 
 of  the  prayer. 
 
 The  Guide  turned  and  our  eyes  met.  I  un¬ 
 derstood.  That  was  opium. 
 
 He  took  me  into  a  large  room.  Many  articles 
 were  there.  Fetishes,  totems,  idols,  amulets.  And 
 
OPIUM  RELIGION 
 
 17 
 
 all  along  the  sides  were  shelves  and  shelves  of 
 books,  most  of  them  looking  like  editions  de  luxe, 
 and  all  of  them  covered  with  dust. 
 
 “What  are  they?”  I  inquired. 
 
 “Those  are  Bibles  that  are  never  opened,”  he 
 informed  me.  “Their  owners  believe  they  are  re¬ 
 ligious  and  under  the  care  of  Providence  because 
 they  have  a  Bible  in  the  house.” 
 
 I  nodded.  I  understood. 
 
 Next  I  was  taken  to  a  little  garret  room, 
 poorly  furnished.  Before  a  book  sat  a  man  who 
 was  reading  like  one  famished.  As  he  looked  up, 
 I  saw  that  his  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  his  eyes 
 were  aglow  with  bigotry.  Presently  a  little 
 woman  entered  the  room.  She  looked  spent.  He 
 raised  his  head,  and  I  interpreted  the  expression 
 on  his  face  as  a  mixture  of  resentment  at  having 
 been  disturbed  and  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his 
 wife. 
 
 “Ah,  if  you  knew  what  beautiful  thoughts 
 are  in  this  book,”  he  said  ecstatically.  “They  are 
 heavenly.” 
 
 “Beautiful  thoughts!”  she  inveighed,  as  in 
 desperation.  “Why  don’t  your  beautiful  thoughts 
 make  you  do  something?  Your  religion  just 
 makes  you  drunk.  And  I  must  make  a  living  for 
 you.” 
 
18 
 
 OPIUM  RELIGION 
 
 Then  the  Guide  took  me  to  a  portrait  gallery. 
 It  was  peculiar  in  that  every  portrait  looked  like 
 a  picture  of  Siamese  twins.  One  face  was  proudly 
 poised  on  fine  shoulders,  every  line  indicating  con¬ 
 fidence  and  initiative;  while  the  other  face,  of 
 the  same  man,  was  expressive  of  servile  yielding 
 and  imitation. 
 
 I  asked  for  an  explanation. 
 
 “These  are  men  who  are  successful  in  their 
 professions.  There  they  think  for  themselves. 
 They  have  individual  opinions  on  matters  of  poli¬ 
 tics  and  sport  and  business ;  but  on  matters  of  re¬ 
 ligion  they  do  not  think  for  themselves.  In  that 
 realm  their  pet  mottoes  are:  ‘My  father  and 
 my  grandfather  were  Methodists,  and  that's  why 
 I'm  one.'  ‘The  church  says  so;  that  settles  it.' 
 ‘The  priest  says  so;  I  accept.'  ‘This  passage  of 
 Scripture  is  enough  for  me.'  " 
 
 It  was  an  interesting  gallery;  but  we  could 
 not  stay. 
 
 Next  I  beheld  a  man  leaning  languidly  against 
 a  tree  on  a  very  high  precipice.  Before  him  in 
 the  valley  lay  the  city.  On  one  side  of  the  stream 
 were  mansions ;  on  the  other  hovels.  There  was 
 hauteur  and  hatred  and  crime.  In  the  far  distance 
 a  battle  was  being  fought. 
 
 But  the  man  saw  none  of  these.  His  mind 
 was  fixed  on  a  vision  of  peace  and  bliss  he  saw 
 
OPIUM  RELIGION 
 
 19 
 
 in  the  sky ;  and  he  muttered  to  himself,  “This  alone 
 is  real.” 
 
 We  seemed  to  travel  through  the  air.  Then  I 
 saw  millions  and  millions  of  people.  They  looked 
 like  sheep  having  no  shepherd.  They  could 
 neither  read  nor  write.  On  their  faces  I  saw  the 
 expression  of  stupid  piety.  Priests  and  monks 
 moved  among  them.  They  were  dressed  in  long 
 robes,  and  some  of  the  people  tried  to  kiss  the 
 hems  of  their  garments. 
 
 “This  is  called  the  God-fearing  people,”  the 
 Guide  remarked. 
 
 “Why,  this  is  Russia,”  I  exclaimed. 
 
 And  I  awoke. 
 
THE  MINISTER  OF  THE  CHURCH 
 IN  THE  OTHER  BLOCK 
 
 ATHER: — “Now,  my  boy,  I  want  to  give 
 you  a  bit  of  advice.  Mother  has  gone  to 
 the  fruit  store,  and  we  are  alone.  So  we 
 can  speak  as  man  to  man.” 
 
 (The  boy  settles  down  in  his  chair, 
 arranges  the  creases  of  his  trousers,  rests  the 
 ankle  of  his  right  leg  on  the  knee  of  his  left  leg, 
 caresses  his  silk  sock,  almost  the  identical  shade 
 of  his  tie,  and  with  constrained  patience  prepares 
 to  listen  to  one  of  father’s  outbursts  of  intimate 
 oratory.  Father  is  wonderfully  fluent  in  the 
 bosom  of  his  family,  where  he  usually  occupies 
 the  “chair”  and  the  “floor”  at  the  same  time, 
 though  he  is  extremely  different  outside  of  his 
 home.) 
 
 Son “All  right.” 
 
 Father  (giving  tone-quality  to  his  voice)  : — 
 
 [20] 
 
THE  MINISTER  OF  THE  CHURCH  21 
 
 “You  are  now  at  the  age  when  a  youth  ought  to 
 think  of  choosing  his  profession.  Now,  I  am  not 
 going  to  tell  you  what  profession  to  choose,  but  I 
 want  to  impress  upon  you  to  be  courteous  to  a 
 certain  profession.  I  mean  the  ministry.  Do  you 
 understand  ?” 
 
 (The  son  looks  mystified,  but  his  nod  indi¬ 
 cates  that  he  vaguely  understands.) 
 
 “Now,  the  other  day  1  saw  you  bumping 
 into  the  minister  of  the  church  in  the  next  block. 
 You  know  where  I  mean.  And  you  were  so  busy 
 with  the  strings  of  your  tennis  racket  that  you 
 hardly  looked  up,  and  I  believe  you  failed  to  ex¬ 
 cuse  yourself.” 
 
 Son: — “I  said,  ‘Excuse  me.’” 
 
 Father: — “Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  But 
 don’t  interrupt  me.  I  guess  your  father  has  a 
 right  to  speak  to  you.” 
 
 Son : — “Oh,  certainly.”  (He  changes  his  posi¬ 
 tion  and  begins  to  caress  the  other  sock.) 
 
 Father: — “I  have  always  held  that  ministers 
 must  be  treated  with  respect.  Now,  you  can  do 
 a  great  deal  to  help  that  cause  along,  William. 
 You  are  a  brilliant  boy.  Of  course,  those  last  re¬ 
 ports  you  brought  home  from  high  school  were 
 not  exactly, — well,  you  know  what  I  mean ;  but  I 
 believe  it’s  just  as  you  said.  The  teacher  dislikes 
 
22  THE  MINISTER  OF  THE  CHURCH 
 
 you.  I  would  rather  believe  my  child  than  any 
 teacher.  Now,  as  I  said,  you  have  a  brilliant 
 future.” 
 
 (The  boy  has  caught  sight  of  the  sporting 
 page  of  the  Sunday  newspaper,  spread  out  on  the 
 table.  The  father  believes  his  son’s  face  is  averted 
 to  give  better  attention.) 
 
 Father  (continues,  tenderly)  : — “You  may 
 be  president  of  a  railroad  some  day,  William.  In 
 that  case,  see  to  it  that  ministers  get  half  fare. 
 Or  you  may  become  the  head  of  a  large  mercan¬ 
 tile  establishment.  Then  be  sure  to  let  the  minis¬ 
 ters  have  the  customary  discount.  If  you  become 
 a  professional  man — a  doctor,  a  dentist,  or  a  law¬ 
 yer — don’t  charge  the  minister  for  your  services. 
 I  heard  an  undertaker  say  only  the  other  day, 
 speaking  of  a  certain  minister,  that  he  would  be 
 glad  to  bury  him  free  of  charge.  Or  if  you  be¬ 
 come  a  gentleman  farmer — the  future  is  veiled, 
 you  know — always  supply  the  village  parsonage 
 with  plenty  of  vegetables. 
 
 “You  see,  the  minister  is  in  a  class  of  his  own. 
 Without  churches  we  would  soon  drop  to  lower 
 levels,  and  the  minister  is  the  leader.  We  ought 
 to  encourage  him  in  every  way.  Now,  I  must 
 confess  I  was  annoyed  when  I  saw  you  bump  into 
 the  minister  of  the  church  in  the  next  block,  and 
 I  am  glad  you  apologized.” 
 
THE  MINISTER  OF  THE  CHURCH  28 
 
 Son: — “What  kind  of  a  church  is  that, 
 father?” 
 
 Father: — “That  church?”  (Takes  off  his 
 glasses  and  thinks  hard.)  “Well,  I'll  be  switched. 
 To  think  of  it.  A  man  as  observant  as  I  am.  Well, 
 you  know  how  busy  I  am. — I  think  it's  a  Metho¬ 
 dist  church,  though  it  might  be  a  United  Pres¬ 
 byterian  or  an  Episcopal  church.” 
 
 Son: — “It’s  not  Catholic.  He  doesn’t  wear 
 that  kind  of  a  collar.” 
 
 Father: — “Yes,  I  believe  you  are  right.  But 
 I  really  couldn’t  tell  you  offhand  what  kind  it  is. 
 Ask  mother;  she  knows.  I  don’t  get  to  church 
 very  often,  you  know;  but”  (with  unctuous  em¬ 
 phasis)  “I  believe  in  encouraging  the  minister.” 
 
DURING  THE  BROOKLYN 
 CAR  STRIKE 
 
 ES,  sir,”  said  the  iceman  to  no  one  in 
 particular.  Rather  was  his  remark  de¬ 
 signed  to  be  of  benefit  to  all  within  reach 
 of  his  voice,  and  he  made  sure  to  give  it 
 carrying-power.  He  was  always  audible. 
 If  he  had  no  one  else  to  talk  to,  he  would  air  his 
 sentiments  to  his  horses;  and  they  were  very 
 patient. 
 
 On  this  occasion,  however,  his  horses  were 
 not  present.  They  were  in  the  stable.  He  had 
 discovered  something  more  lucrative  than  ped¬ 
 dling  ice.  Not  that  he  would  neglect  his  custom- 
 ers,  but  they  would  have  to  wait.  If  they  com¬ 
 plained,  he  would  talk  to  them. 
 
 The  fact  was,  the  motormen  and  the  conduce 
 tors  of  the  Brooklyn  Rapid  Transit  Company  were 
 
 [24] 
 
DURING  THE  CAR  STRIKE 
 
 25 
 
 out  on  a  strike,  and  whoever  owned  an  automobile 
 or  a  truck  was  engaged  in  carrying  passengers  to 
 and  from  New  York,  charging  prices  that  were 
 right  in  his  own  eyes.  And  the  iceman  had  taken 
 his  seven-passenger  machine  from  the  garage  and 
 joined  the  joyriders;  that  is,  it  was  a  joy  to  the 
 owners.  And  so  he  stood  there,  near  the  curb, 
 arguing,  and  occasionally  urging  passengers  to 
 step  right  into  his  car. 
 
 “Yes,  sir,”  he  repeated.  “Talking  of  profi¬ 
 teering,  I  can’t  see  why  the  Government  don’t  get 
 after  those  robbers.  They  are  robbers.  Look  at 
 the  way  they  used  us  common  people  when  the 
 war  was  on. 
 
 “Step  right  in  lady.  We’re  going  to  start  as 
 soon  as  I  have  enough  people  in  the  car.  And  that 
 won’t  be  long,  you  bet. — How  much  ?  Fifty  cents 
 to  the  Bridge. — What?  Too  much?  Well,  you 
 don’t  have  to,  you  know ;  but  I  guess  you  do  have 
 to.  Of  course  you  can  ride  in  one  of  them  trucks 
 and  stand  all  the  way.  Ha,  ha!  I  guess  you’d 
 better  step  right  in. — Thank  you,  lady. 
 
 “Now,  take  the  price  of  butter  and  eggs,  for 
 instance.  You  know,  they’ve  got  butter  and 
 eggs  stacked  in  them  cold-storage  houses  by  the 
 million,  just  to  keep  up  the  price.  Where’s  the 
 Government?  That’s  what  I  say. 
 
 “Fifty  cents,  Mister. — Too  much  ?  Well,  now, 
 
26 
 
 DURING  THE  CAR  STRIKE 
 
 you  see  I  can  get  it.  And  why  shouldn't  I,  while 
 the  getting’s  good? — All  right;  I  knew  you’d 
 come.  It’s  a  fine-riding  car,  too. 
 
 “Look  at  shoes.  Of  course,  we  had  to  ship  a 
 lot  of  hides  to  Europe.  That’s  so.  The  boy  over 
 in  the  shoe-store  told  me  that  himself.  But  you 
 can’t  tell  me  that  shoes  have  to  be  as  high  in  price 
 as  they  are  today.  That’s  nothing  but  profiteer¬ 
 ing.  That’s  all.  And  I  don’t  see  why  Congress 
 don’t  get  after  them. 
 
 “All  right !  Step  in,  gentlemen. — Fifty  cents. 
 — What?  Why,  I  heard  of  a  man  that  had  to  pay 
 two  dollars  to  go  from  Myrtle  and  Broadway  to 
 Flatbush.  And  at  first  the  chauffeur  wanted 
 three  dollars.  I  ought  to  charge  more.  Maybe 
 I’m  a  fool.  The  people  will  pay.  They’ve  got  to 
 go  to  New  York.  You  must  take  things  as  they 
 come.  That’s  what  I  say. 
 
 “Yes,  sir,  those  robbers,  those  food  barons. 
 The  farmers  is  getting  more  than  their  share, 
 too ;  but  I  won’t  say  much  to  that.  But  take  flour. 
 Why,  I  could  tell  you  some  stories.  I  got  a  brother 
 living  in  Minneapolis.  And  coal.  Do  you  know, 
 I  believe  there’s  lots  of  coal?  And  they’re  hold¬ 
 ing  it  back  to  screw  up  the  price.  Those  profi¬ 
 teers  ought  to  be  strung  up.  Anyhow,  they  ought 
 to  go  to  the  Island. 
 
 “Just  in  time,  ladies.  Just  two  more  seats 
 
DURING  THE  CAR  STRIKE 
 
 27 
 
 left. — Fifty  cents. — That’s  what  I  said.  And  to¬ 
 morrow  I’ll  charge  more. — But  you  want  to  get 
 there  in  time,  don’t  you? — Well,  then,  in  you  go. 
 I  tell  you  it’s  cheap  at  that. — Everybody’s  doing  it. 
 
 “Just  think  of  it.  They’re  telling  me  that  a 
 suit  of  clothes  will  be  ninety  dollars  next  winter. 
 What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Profiteers,  robbery ! 
 And  where’s  the  Government? — Well,  so-long.” 
 
 While  cranking  the  car,  he  rubbed  his  eye. 
 Maybe  he  was  trying  to  remove  the  beam. 
 
THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 strange  malady  had  seized  the  Rev. 
 Carter  Kellogg.  His  wife  tried  to  keep 
 the  knowledge  of  it  from  the  people  just 
 as  long  as  she  could,  but  finally  it  had 
 leaked  out.  Their  beloved  and  dignified 
 
 pastor ! 
 
 The  ladies’  aid  society  demanded  to  be  taken 
 into  confidence,  and  Mrs.  Kellogg  told  the  story, 
 moistening  every  word  with  tears,  after  which 
 she  bent  her  gray  head  and  covered  her  face  with 
 hands  whose  delicacy  told  of  the  starved  cravings 
 of  culture. 
 
 The  malady  had  developed  gradually,  and  at 
 first  the  dear  little  queen  of  the  parsonage  and 
 her  daughters,  Antoinette  and  Esther,  were  in¬ 
 clined  to  treat  it  humorously.  As  it  recurred 
 month  after  month,  however,  they  resented  it, 
 and  finally  they  became  sadly  aware  that  father’s 
 brain  was  affected  in  a  most  unusual  manner. 
 
 [28] 
 
THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 29 
 
 The  family  physician,  Dr.  Jack  Antony 
 Jackson,  was  puzzled.  He  stroked  his  beard 
 meditatively  for  a  long  while,  and  yet  he  was 
 puzzled.  He  had  known  Mr.  Kellogg  for  many 
 years  and  never  dreamt  of  such  a  thing.  He  con¬ 
 sulted  a  colleague  of  a  neighboring  town  and  at 
 first  indignantly  rejected  that  gentleman’s  advice, 
 but  finally  yielded. 
 
 Dr.  Mosby  suggested  that  the  minister  be 
 followed  on  his  recreation  day,  which,  as  a  rule, 
 he  spent  in  the  city.  This  seemed  to  be  sinister, 
 he  admitted,  but  it  was  necessary,  as  modern 
 medical  diagnosis  as  well  as  the  art  of  the  detec¬ 
 tive  proceeded  along  the  lines  of  elimination. 
 Dr.  Jackson  acquiesced,  not  because  he  was  a  little 
 man  and  his  colleague  a  large  man,  but  because 
 any  theory  was  welcome.  He  was  perplexed. 
 
 At  the  same  time  they  decided  to  call  in  the 
 New  York  specialist  Dr.  Felton  Crosby,  who  was 
 eminent  in  spite  of  his  boyish  face.  He  immedi¬ 
 ately  inspired  the  ladies  with  confidence  by  telling 
 them  the  Latin  name  of  what  he  thought  was  the 
 malady. 
 
 After  they  had  heaved  their  sigh  of  comfort, 
 they  watched  the  great  doctor  with  hopeful 
 scrutiny,  and  soon  suspected  him  of  having  a 
 working  theory.  Which,  indeed,  he  had. 
 
 He  was  known  for  his  duplicity  in  that  he 
 
30 
 
 THE  MINISTER'S  MALADY 
 
 would  nod  approvingly  at  a  colleague’s  diagnosis, 
 but  would  at  the  same  time  follow  a  theory  of  his 
 own.  He  would  excuse  himself  by  claiming  that 
 his  clues  were  of  purely  intuitive  origin  and  would 
 most  likely  be  scorned  by  men  who  were  accus¬ 
 tomed  to  reason  slowly  and  carefully  according 
 to  the  rules  of  scientific  analysis. 
 
 While,  therefore,  tacitly  encouraging  the  sug¬ 
 gestion  that  the  minister  be  followed  with  the 
 view  to  finding  the  source  of  his  idiosyncrasy  in 
 some  craving  for  amusement,  he  set  to  work  along 
 his  own  line,  using  his  theory,  intuitively  given, 
 as  a  working  hypothesis.  He  began  to  question 
 people  that  were  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
 pastor,  beginning  with  the  members  of  his  family. 
 Before  very  long  he  was  aware  of  another  intui¬ 
 tion.  He  was  fond  of  deep  things  and  he  found 
 Antoinette’s  eyes  unfathomable.  He  seemed  to 
 see  them  everywhere,  even  when  his  own  eyes 
 followed  her  as  she  left  the  room  with  the  grace 
 of  one  whom  self  mastery  and  mastery  of  others 
 has  made  a  princess. 
 
 But  what  was  the  minister’s  malady?  We 
 are  reluctant  in  giving  an  account  of  it,  for  we 
 are  afraid  it  will  prove  mirth-provoking,  while  it 
 was  indeed  very  serious. 
 
 Mr.  Kellogg’s  salary  was  one  hundred  dollars 
 a  month,  besides  the  free  use  of  the  parsonage. 
 
THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 31 
 
 Of  this  amount  he  gave  his  wife  eighty  dollars, 
 according  to  a  friendly  understanding,  while  he 
 kept  twenty  dollars  for  himself.  Up  to  within  six 
 months  he  had  always  cheerfully  surrendered  his 
 wife’s  allowance,  always  deploring  that  his  own 
 expenses  were  so  high,  economical  though  he  was. 
 But  they  got  along  very  well,  as  well  as  ministers’ 
 families  usually  get  along,  and  by  the  time  the 
 prices  began  to  soar,  Antoinette  had  found  a  posi¬ 
 tion  in  the  village  high-school,  and  Esther,  the 
 vivacious  girl  who  claimed  to  be  able  to  love  the 
 world  without  loving  the  flesh  and  the  devil, 
 earned  a  handsome  salary  as  bookkeeper  of  the 
 only  factory  in  town. 
 
 One  day  when  mother  reminded  father  that 
 he  had  not  yet  given  her  the  money,  he  looked 
 defiant. 
 
 “You’re  not  going  to  get  that  money  out  of 
 me  so  easily,”  he  answered. 
 
 The  mother  looked  amazed,  seconded  by  her 
 daughters. 
 
 “Why,  what  do  you  want  us  to  do?”  Esther 
 asked.  Business  life  had  developed  a  ready 
 tongue. 
 
 “I  want  you  to  go  through  a  performance 
 before  I  hand  over  the  money.” 
 
 They  thought  it  was  a  joke,  and  immediately 
 
32 
 
 THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 began  to  contribute  to  what  they  regarded  a  fine 
 bit  of  domestic  hilarity.  Antoinette  recited  the 
 Dying  Gladiator,  and  Esther  executed  a  new  set 
 of  calisthenics  that  came  dangerously  close  to  the 
 Terpsichorean,  after  which  the  three  ladies  sang 
 “The  Same  Old  Ocean  Washes  East  and  West,” 
 one  of  the  popular  successes  of  the  better  kind, 
 
 “Now  will  you  let  mother  have  the  money?” 
 Antoinette  asked  her  father,  who  seemed  to  be 
 pleased  with  the  performance.  He  shook  his  head 
 stubbornly. 
 
 “Where  are  the  refreshments?”  he  asked. 
 
 They  laughed,  and  Esther  went  out  for  some 
 ice  cream.  After  they  had  eaten,  father  receiving 
 a  liberal  portion,  he  handed  his  wife  the  eighty 
 dollars  with  a  smile. 
 
 That  was  fun.  But  when  he  demanded  a 
 similar  program  every  month,  only  ever  more  ex¬ 
 acting,  the  family  became  alarmed.  Something 
 was  wrong.  They  kept  the  secret  for  a  long  while, 
 but  finally  it  became  like  little  Moses.  It  could 
 no  longer  be  hid.  Then  they  consulted  the  phy¬ 
 sician. 
 
 The  two  physicians  had  the  minister  followed 
 during  his  recreation  days  in  the  labyrinthine 
 city.  A  semi-professional  who  had  recently  grad¬ 
 uated  with  honors  from  a  detective  correspon- 
 
THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 33 
 
 dence  school,  had  offered  his  services,  and  he  was 
 very  serious  in  his  work.  He  made  note  of  the 
 fact  that  Mr.  Kellogg  walked  up  Broadway  for 
 almost  an  hour,  watching  the  people  and  the  show- 
 windows.  Then  he  went  into  Wanamaker’s,  ate 
 a  hearty  meal,  and  stayed  for  the  afternoon  con¬ 
 cert.  So  far  he  had  seen  nothing  unusual. 
 
 The  minister  then  left  the  department  store 
 and  strolled  along  one  of  the  side  streets,  evi¬ 
 dently  lost  in  thought.  He  came  upon  a  church, 
 still  respectable  looking,  though  it  had  evidently 
 seen  better  days,  for  a  canvas  sign  announced  a 
 social  and  supper  for  the  benefit  of  the  current 
 expense  fund.  The  minister  stood  and  stared  as 
 though  fascinated  by  the  church,  then  turned 
 away  as  with  a  wrench  and  ran  as  fast  as  his 
 weight  would  allow,  until  he  could  turn  the 
 corner.  The  detective  had  a  hard  time  keeping  up. 
 
 After  the  church  was  out  of  sight,  the  runner 
 became  a  panting  walker.  He  mopped  his  face, 
 looked  at  his  watch,  walked  to  the  station,  and 
 after  a  little  wait  boarded  a  train  for  home. 
 
 When  the  detective  made  his  report,  the  two 
 physicians  looked  at  each  other  gravely,  and 
 nodded  with  weighty  sagacity.  For  a  minister  to 
 run  away  from  a  church — that  certainly  looked 
 suspicious. 
 
 They  told  their  findings  to  Dr.  Crosby.  That 
 
34 
 
 THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 gentleman  had  spent  a  day  in  the  village  making 
 inquiries  of  members  of  the  church,  and  using  a 
 good  deal  of  time  in  questioning  Antoinette,  who 
 looked  embarrassed  but  not  very  much  spent  by 
 the  ordeal.  It  was  surprising  how  much  infor¬ 
 mation  the  nerve  specialist  got  from  Antoinette. 
 
 "What  did  Mr.  Crosby  ask  you?”  Mrs.  Kel¬ 
 logg  inquired  of  her  daughter. 
 
 "Oh,  so  much.  He’s  a  heart  specialist,  too.” 
 
 "Is  he?  Does  he  think  something  is  the  mat¬ 
 ter  with  father’s  heart?” 
 
 "No.” 
 
 "No?  that’s  good.” 
 
 After  the  two  physicians  had  made  their  re¬ 
 port  to  the  specialist,  they  ventured  an  opinion. 
 They  thought  the  minister  needed  watching. 
 
 "I  think  he  needs  a  vacation,”  was  his  reply. 
 
 "Well,  now,”  ventured  Dr.  Jackson,  "don’t 
 you  think  it  is  suspicious  for  a  minister  to  run 
 away  from  a  church?” 
 
 "It  is,”  Dr.  Crosby  drawled.  "But  what  will 
 you  say  when  you  see  him  run  away  from  his 
 own  church?” 
 
 Their  eyes  were  interrogative. 
 
 "Be  patient  with  me  just  a  little  longer,”  he 
 pleaded,  "I  think  I  understand  the  case.  I  am  a 
 
THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 35 
 
 minister’s  son.  And  I  am  interested  in  Dr.  Kel¬ 
 logg.  He  has  such  a  lovely — family.  I  cannot  ex¬ 
 plain  to  you  right  now.  Be  patient  a  little 
 longer.” 
 
 They  nodded.  They  knew  him. 
 
 The  next  Sunday  morning,  the  early  arrivals 
 for  the  church  service  were  surprised  to  find  a 
 large  sign  announcing  an  oyster  supper  with 
 songs,  drills,  and  other  attractions,  for  the  benefit 
 of  the  church.  There  was  much  questioning  as 
 to  who  had  arranged  for  such  an  evening’s  enter¬ 
 tainment,  though  no  one  questioned  the  propriety 
 of  it.  They  were  used  to  it. 
 
 Automobile  after  automobile  arrived,  the 
 hubub  grew  more  voluminous.  At  one  corner  of 
 the  shed  Dr.  Crosby  was  talking  to  his  colleagues. 
 
 “There  comes  the  minister,”  said  one  of  the 
 young  men. 
 
 Mr.  Kellogg  walked  slowly,  his  massive  head 
 bent  in  meditation.  He  had  a  fine  face  with 
 strong  features.  He  approached  the  church, 
 bowing  friendly  greetings  to  his  parishioners. 
 When  he  saw  the  sign  he  stared,  pressed  his  hands 
 to  his  head,  turned  about,  and  ran  up  the  street 
 toward  his  house. 
 
 The  people  were  astonished,  and  the  physi¬ 
 cians  nodded  approvingly  at  Dr.  Crosby. 
 
36 
 
 THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 That  specialist  mounted  the  steps  of  the 
 church  and  raised  his  hand,  beckoning  silence. 
 
 “Friends,”  he  began,  “I  have  concluded  my 
 diagnosis  of  your  pastor’s  malady.  I  have  been 
 greatly  helped  by  my  colleagues  and  by  the  fact 
 that  I  am  a  minister’s  son. 
 
 “I  have  learned  by  diligent  inquiry  that  you 
 have  raised  much  of  the  money  to  meet  the  church 
 expenses  by  entertainments  and  fairs,  and  this 
 has  finally  gotten  on  your  pastor’s  nerves.  It  has 
 affected  him  in  a  two-fold  manner.  On  the  one 
 hand  he  is  so  disgusted  with  such  means  of  secur¬ 
 ing  the  church’s  revenue  that  he  runs  away  from 
 every  church  bearing  a  sign  announcing  an  en¬ 
 tertainment  or  bazaar.  On  the  other  hand  a  sub¬ 
 tle,  subconscious  reasoning  tells  him  that  as  he 
 does  not  receive  his  money  without  entertainment, 
 he  ought  not  to  give  it  without  entertainment. 
 
 “Now,  my  dear  friends,  I  am  very  much,  I 
 am  personally  interested  in  this  case.”  Very  few 
 noticed  the  blush.  “And  I  want  to  help.  Your 
 pastor  needs  a  vacation.  I  have  a  mountain  lodge 
 in  the  Adirondacks.  There  he  will  soon  recover. 
 And  I  hope  to  be  able  to  make  him  feel  at  home 
 in  that  lodge  as  often  as  he  cares  to  make  use  of 
 it.”  It  was  probably  the  excitement  that  again 
 colored  his  face. 
 
 “But  you  must  do  your  share.  I  have  found 
 
THE  MINISTER’S  MALADY 
 
 37 
 
 out  how  much  my — your  pastor  is  to  you.  You 
 must  make  him  l'eel  at  home.  Less  suppers  and 
 bazaars  to  raise  his  salary.  You  must  become 
 givers,  proportionate  givers,  as  the  Lord  has  pros¬ 
 pered  you.  We  all  have  been  stingy  with  the 
 church.  We  have  treated  it  more  shabbily  than 
 our  coffee  merchant.” 
 
 The  calm  that  followed  the  bold  speech  grew 
 intense  when  the  people  saw  Dr.  Crosby  offer  his 
 arm  to  Antoinette  and  both  walk  toward  the  par¬ 
 sonage.  Then,  however,  the  storm  broke  loose. 
 But  it  cleared  the  atmosphere  for  a  finer  day  in 
 the  good  old  church  and  for  a  higher  appreciation 
 of  the  beloved  minister. 
 
THE  JOY  OF  SERVICE 
 
 T  was  very  quiet  in  the  church,  the  clock 
 only  keeping  up  its  continual  tick-tock. 
 The  pews  stood  about  like  rows  of  veteran 
 soldiers,  not  saying  a  word;  the  organ 
 seemed  asleep;  and  the  Bible  presided 
 with  silent  dignity. 
 
 Now,  however,  a  whispering  was  heard  in 
 one  of  the  corners,  where  a  hymn-book  had  care¬ 
 lessly  been  left  in  a  pew. 
 
 “You  have  no  business  here,”  said  the  pew. 
 “Why  are  you  not  with  the  stack?” 
 
 “I  don't  know,”  answered  the  hymn-book, 
 “but  I  don’t  see  that  you  have  anything  to  say 
 about  it.  You  are  not  my  superior.  What  do  you 
 do  to  entitle  you  to  such  mastery?” 
 
 “What  do  I  do?  Why,  without  me  the  peo¬ 
 ple  could  hardly  stand  the  service,  especially  if  it 
 were  long.  I  afford  rest  to  the  worshipers.” 
 
 “I  know,”  answered  the  hymn-book,  with  a 
 superior  smile;  “you  ask  people  to  sit  down,  but 
 I  give  them  something  that  makes  them  feel  like 
 rising  and  fighting  a  good  fight.” 
 
 [38] 
 
THE  JOY  OF  SERVICE 
 
 39 
 
 "You  are  putting  on  airs,”  the  pew  sneered. 
 
 "That  well  becomes  me;  and  my  airs  have 
 helped  thousands.” 
 
 Their  quarrel  had  become  loud  enough  to 
 rouse  the  organ  from  its  drowse,  and  it  had  heard 
 the  last  remark  also. 
 
 "Do  you  remember,”  the  organ  said  to  the 
 hymn-book,  "the  last  time  the  people  tried  to  sing 
 your  airs  without  me?  It  was  a  miserable  fail¬ 
 ure.  What  would  the  church  do  without  me !” 
 
 "But  I  am  older  than  you,”  the  hymn-book 
 proudly  replied.  "People  sang  before  they  had 
 you.” 
 
 A  ray  of  sunshine,  which  had  been  listening, 
 now  joined  the  speakers. 
 
 "Talking  of  age,”  it  said  in  its  kind  way,  "1 
 can  say  that  I  am  older  than  you  all.” 
 
 "Older  than  I  ?”  asked  the  Bible. 
 
 "Oh,  much  older,”  answered  the  ray. 
 
 The  hymn-book  and  pew  still  glared  at  each 
 other,  and  the  Bible  was  just  about  to  tell  the  ray 
 of  its  ancient  days,  when  it  heard  footsteps,  and 
 said,  "Hush!” 
 
 A  group  of  children  entered  the  church.  Men 
 and  women  followed.  The  organist  arrived  and 
 began  to  play.  Then  the  organ  felt  happy.  "If 
 only  I  can  please  him  and  the  people,  today,”  it 
 said. 
 
40 
 
 THE  JOY  OF  SERVICE 
 
 A  rich  man  sat  down  in  the  quarrelsome  pew, 
 and  as  he  came  down  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
 the  pew  felt  good  to  have  pleased  some  one.  The 
 man  took  the  hymn-book  and  was  about  to  open  it 
 when  he  saw  a  poor  woman,  sitting  near  him, 
 who  had  no  book.  He  walked  over  to  her,  and 
 handed  her  his  own,  and  when  the  poor  woman 
 looked  thankful  both  the  rich  man  and  the  hymn- 
 book  were  glad  to  have  made  some  one  happy. 
 And  when,  during  the  singing,  the  poor  woman 
 dropped  a  tear  on  the  book,  it  did  not  mind  it  at 
 all. 
 
 A  cloud  passed  over  the  sun,  and  the  old  men 
 and  women  could  not  read.  But  in  a  few  moments 
 the  bright  rays  again  burst  through  the  windows, 
 and  they  looked  so  cheerful,  no  doubt,  because 
 they  could  fill  others  with  cheer. 
 
 When  the  pastor  opened  the  Bible,  and  said, 
 “I  shall  read  you  a  chapter  from  the  Book  of  Life,” 
 all  the  people  were  eagerly  listening,  some  of  them 
 as  though  they  were  hungry  for  the  words.  Then 
 the  Bible  no  longer  thought  of  its  antiquity;  it 
 just  felt  happy  in  giving  its  comforting  secrets  to 
 sad  and  seeking  hearts. 
 
 And  thus  they  all  were  happy  in  serving.  And 
 their  quarrel  ?  What  was  it  they  were  quarreling 
 
 about? 
 
THE  RING 
 
 HE  feasting  was  over,  and  the  last  sounds 
 had  retired,  leaving  a  kiss  on  the  sunken 
 but  now  flushed  cheeks  of  the  prodigal. 
 The  night  was  beautiful. 
 
 The  brothers  were  alone.  The  elder 
 was  less  sullen,  but  not  yet  reconciled. 
 
 “But  why  the  ring?”  he  demanded. 
 
 The  prodigal  looked  up  questioningly. 
 
 “The  ring?”  he  repeated,  as  though  groping 
 to  understand. 
 
 “Yes,  the  ring.”  The  eyes  were  defiant,  but 
 they  softened  when  he  saw  the  marks  of  his 
 brother’s  suffering. 
 
 “I  can  understand  why  father  gave  you  a 
 new  robe,  for  you  were  in  tatters;  and  sandals, 
 for  your  feet  were  bare  and  bruised;  and  food, 
 for  you  were  famished.  But  a  ring?  Did  you 
 need  a  ring?” 
 
 [41] 
 
42 
 
 THE  RING 
 
 The  prodigal  looked  away,  out  at  the  stars, 
 his  companions  of  many  a  night,  when  he  was 
 homeward  bound,  rehearsing  his  confession.  They 
 seemed  to  understand. 
 
 He  did  not  answer,  but  he  kissed  the  ring. 
 
 The  elder  brother  urged. 
 
 “Why  the  ring?”  the  prodigal  answered 
 softly.  “Brother,  I  was  in  need  of  the  ring  more 
 than  anything  else.” 
 
 The  elder  brother  was  puzzled. 
 
 “I  was  thankful  for  the  robe  and  the  sandals 
 and  food;  but,  when  my  hand  felt  the  ring,  I 
 knew  I  had  my  father’s  love,  the  old  love  of  my 
 childhood.  I  was  accepted  not  as  a  hired  servant, 
 but  as  his  child.” 
 
 The  wind  was  whispering  to  the  palms,  and 
 the  elder  brother  began  to  feel  the  beauty  of  the 
 night.  The  prodigal  touched  his  brother’s  arm. 
 
 “I  have  come  back  to  you  and  father  and  to 
 God.  And,  brother,  God  too  gave  me  a  ring.  He 
 gives  not  merely  things  and  thoughts.  He  gives 
 his  love,  himself,  to  those  that  need  him  and  want 
 him.” 
 
 God  is  not  merely  a  system  of  laws  or  an  un¬ 
 conscious  soul  of  the  universe.  He  is  the  Father, 
 a  person;  and  he  offers  his  children  the  ring  of 
 his  love.  And  that  is  just  what  we  need. 
 
fRADITION 
 
 OHN  Stone  purchased  a  rare  old  volume 
 from  an  antiquarian.  He  had  it  carefully 
 cleaned  by  expert  hands,  and  was  de¬ 
 lighted  with  the  cover.  The  contents  of 
 the  book  related  to  medieval  fables,  and 
 were  of  little  value.  Ah,  but  the  cover!  The 
 beauty  of  the  grained  leather  was  set  off  by 
 slightly  impressed  points  and  lines  of  gold,  and 
 in  the  middle  was  stamped  a  picture  of  David  with 
 his  harp.  A  bibliophile  told  Mr.  Stone  that  the 
 volume  might  have  belonged  to  Jean  Grolier,  a 
 famous  collector  in  the  time  of  Francis  I. 
 
 The  owner  was  very  much  impressed. 
 
 “This  must  become  an  heirloom  in  the  Stone 
 family,”  he  mused. 
 
 He  admired  the  cover  over  and  over  again, 
 and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  so  rare  a  treasure 
 ought  to  be  protected.  He  decided  to  have  it 
 
 [43] 
 
44 
 
 TRADITION 
 
 covered,  ^o  ne  askea  a  Joook-oinaer  to  reoixia  u 
 m  soil  learner. 
 
 vvnen  it  was  limshea  it  was  very  presentauie. 
 me  coior  was  a  ricii  maroon,  ana  me  workmaii- 
 srnp  was  periect.  ivrr.  ^tone,  However,  was  not 
 satisnea.  vviuie  me  secona  cover  was  to  oe  mereiy 
 a  protection,  lie  thought  it  ought  to  oe  ornamen¬ 
 tal  enough  to  serve  as  an  introduction  to  me 
 beauty  or  the  original,  so  to  speak.  Ui  course, 
 very  lew  besides  inmseit  knew  01  me  treasure  be¬ 
 neath  the  maroon,  and  very  lew  were  to  know  it, 
 but  even  the  exterior  ol  a  book  of  that  value  ought 
 to  be  artistic.  So  he  had  an  artist  paint  a  coat 
 of  arms  on  it,  a  conception  of  his  own,  in  which 
 a  stone  figured  prominently. 
 
 John  Stone  died  suddenly.  His  son,  Henry 
 Stone,  found  the  book  and  was  delighted  with  the 
 cover.  He  found  the  volume  in  the  private  drawer 
 of  his  father’s  desk,  and  he  concluded  that  the 
 book  had  been  very  dear  to  him.  Of  course,  he 
 would  keep  it  and  cherish  it  as  an  heirloom.  In 
 fact,  it  was  too  precious  to  be  left  unprotected. 
 So  he  made  up  his  mind  to  have  it  covered  with  a 
 cloth  binding.  Just  as  a  protection,  to  be  sure, 
 but  secure,  as  artistic  as  possible,  for  the  volume, 
 so  dear  to  his  father,  was  precious  to  him.  The 
 bookbinder,  cautioned  and  encouraged  by  prom¬ 
 ises  of  reward,  did  his  very  best,  so  that  even 
 
TRADITION 
 
 45 
 
 Henry  Stone  was  delighted.  It  was  too  sacred  a 
 matter  to  talk  of  to  any  one,  and  the  volume  was 
 locked  away.  War  broke  out,  and  Henry  Stone 
 died  on  the  field  of  battle. 
 
 “Look  at  this  volume  of  old  legends,”  the  exe¬ 
 cutor  said  to  young  Samuel  Stone.  “What  a  thick 
 cover;  but  a  pretty  one.  Your  father  must  have 
 thought  a  great  deal  of  the  old  book.  He  kept  it 
 with  his  valuables/’ 
 
 Samuel  Stone  agreed  that  it  was  a  pretty 
 cover.  And  he  revered  the  book.  On  the  title 
 page  he  found  the  names  of  his  father  and  grand¬ 
 father,  and  the  volume  became  venerable  to  him. 
 He  decided  to  have  it  covered. 
 
 “Just  to  protect  the  cover,”  he  confided  to 
 the  binder;  “but,  of  course,  firm  enough  to  give 
 it  a  permanent  appearance.” 
 
 The  binder  was  going  to  make  objections,  but 
 he  was  cut  short  by  Samuel,  whose  possessions 
 made  him  a  man  of  authority.  It  was  just  a  pa¬ 
 per  cover,  but  it  was  beautiful.  The  color  was  a 
 soft  purple,  and  the  names  of  John  Stone,  Henry 
 Stone,  and  Samuel  Stone  were  embossed  in  gold, 
 truly  a  royal  combination.  The  craftsman  was 
 paid  a  handsome  sum,  and  the  book  was  laid  aside 
 in  a  safe  place. 
 
 Samuel  Stone  was  hot-blooded.  Books  had 
 little  attraction  for  him.  He  was  sorry  there  were 
 
46 
 
 TRADITION 
 
 no  wars  at  the  time.  He  tried  to  satisfy  his  pas¬ 
 sions  in  various  ways,  and  finally  died  of  a  sword 
 cut  received  in  a  duel. 
 
 One  day  the  widow  sat  by  the  fire  and  wept 
 over  a  beautifully  bound  book  which  the  man  of 
 law  had  handed  her.  The  three  names  embossed 
 on  the  cover  were  dear  to  her,  especially  the  last, 
 that  of  her  husband.  Charles  Stone,  heir  to  the 
 estate,  sat  on  the  floor,  carving  a  boat,  despite 
 the  gentle  protests  of  his  mother.  He  had  the 
 stubborn  spirit  of  the  Stones. 
 
 As  she  wept,  she  laid  the  book  on  a  chair  be¬ 
 side  her,  and  gave  rein  to  memory.  The  cover 
 attracted  the  boy.  What  in  all  the  world  was  finer 
 to  try  his  new  knife  on  than  this  pretty  book.  A 
 longing  seized  him  to  cut  out  those  bright  let¬ 
 ters  and  play  with  them.  So  he  cut,  and  cut 
 deeply. 
 
 “Charles,  what  are  you  doing?”  the  mother 
 cried  in  alarm.  “The  heirloom!  Oh,  how  could 
 you !  This  book  was  very  precious  to  your  father. 
 He  revered  it.  He  kept  it  with  the  jewels  of  the 
 family.” 
 
 Charles  did  not  understand,  but  he  was  anx¬ 
 ious  for  further  developments.  Meanwhile  the 
 mother  noticed  another  cover  beneath  the  pretty 
 one,  and  another  beneath  that.  She  wondered. 
 The  butler  asked  an  expert  antiquarian  to  call. 
 
TRADITION 
 
 47 
 
 When  the  latter  came  and  began  to  peel,  his  cheeks 
 flushed.  He  removed  the  paper  cover,  and  they  be¬ 
 held  the  cloth  cover.  He  removed  the  cloth  cover, 
 and  they  saw  the  leather  with  the  artistic  coat 
 of  arms  of  almost  a  hundred  years  ago.  That 
 was  taken  off,  and  their  eyes  feasted  on  the  quiet 
 beauty  of  the  original. 
 
 The  antiquarian  was  enrapt. 
 
 “And  to  think  of  it,”  he  exclaimed.  “Each 
 generation  revered  a  layer  of  less  value.” 
 
"EVEN  AS  A  HEN" 
 
 HIS  morning  there  was  a  commotion  in  the 
 chicken  run  that  threatened  to  become 
 truculent. 
 
 F or  several  days  we  had  kept  the  lit¬ 
 tle  chicks  that  had  peeped  and  labored 
 their  way  out  of  the  white  shells,  unappreciative 
 of  the  brooding  warmth,  in  the  sun  room ;  and  al¬ 
 though  a  few  of  them  died,  the  rest  throve  nicely. 
 For  the  adults  as  well  as  the  children  it  was  a 
 succession  of  thrills  to  see  the  little  ones  gathered 
 under  the  wings  of  the  mother  hen,  a  wonder  that 
 gave  a  figure  of  speech  to  the  yearning  and  burn¬ 
 ing  love  of  Jesus. 
 
 Last  night,  however,  we  domiciled  the  hen  and 
 her  brood  in  the  little  coop  in  the  corner  of  the 
 run.  When  the  morning  brightened,  the  chickens 
 of  the  main  compartment  filed  out,  the  hens  de¬ 
 murely  as  beseems  them,  and  the  roosters  with 
 stately  poise,  which  seems  to  be  their  prerogative. 
 
 [48] 
 
“EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 
 
 49 
 
 From  the  smaller  coop  at  the  other  end  of 
 the  enclosure  emerged  the  mother  hen  with  her 
 chicks,  just  about  four  days  old.  The  other  chick-, 
 ens  were  surprised.  Evidently  there  were  two 
 armies  in  one  camp.  And  a  deep  though  errone¬ 
 ous  instinct  told  them  they  were  hostile  armies. 
 What  made  them  think  so  is  very  hard  to  tell,  for 
 there  was  room  enough  for  all  of  them.  To 
 ruminate  on  the  origin  of  that  instinct  would  land 
 us  in  very  deep  water,  and  not  everybody  can 
 swim.  The  writer  himself  is  well  aware  of  his 
 limitations.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  this  instinct 
 antedates  chickens  and  has  not  yet  been  overcome 
 by  man. 
 
 However,  they  stood  there  and  glared  at  each 
 other. 
 
 The  older  hens  and  roosters  said,  “What  do 
 these  newcomers  want?  Dispute  our  realm? 
 Scratch  on  the  soil  that  belongs  to  us  ?  Eat  of  the 
 food  that  is  given  to  us?  They  have  no  business 
 here.  We  rule  here;  they  are  usurpers.  This  is 
 our  country;  they  are  foreigners.  Out  with 
 them.” 
 
 And  the  mother  of  the  little  ones  said,  “1 
 know  they  hate  my  brood,  my  darling  brood.  I 
 know  they  will  peck  them  and  kill  them  if  I  do  not 
 defend  them.” 
 
 And  although  she  had  never  attended  a  mili- 
 
50 
 
 “EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 
 
 tary  school,  she  resolved  at  once  to  defend  by  at¬ 
 tacking. 
 
 She  attacked  with  fury.  The  history  of  the 
 initial  onslaught  will  never  be  written,  as  the  re¬ 
 porters,  strange  to  say,  had  had  no  inkling,  and 
 the  film  man  was  absent.  Battles  are  still  fought 
 in  the  world  that  are  missed  by  the  movie  enter¬ 
 prise. 
 
 When  one  of  us  arrived,  being  drawn  by  the 
 tumult  of  battle,  she  saw  the  mother  hen  drag 
 one  of  the  other  hens  through  the  dust,  the  rest 
 of  the  enemy  huddled  in  the  corner,  cackling  and 
 crowing  in  horror. 
 
 Now,  according  to  reliable  statistics,  there 
 were  seven  full  grown  chickens  on  the  one  side. 
 That  is  to  say,  the  hens  were  old  enough  to  en¬ 
 courage  their  owners  to  regard  the  laying  of  the 
 first  egg  as  imminent,  and  the  roosters  were  be¬ 
 ginning  to  crow.  This,  however,  is  where  the  re¬ 
 liability  of  statistics  ceases.  We  are  not  yet  sure 
 just  how  many  of  them  are  roosters,  even  though 
 they  have  been  under  observation  for  a  long  time. 
 We  had  picked  out  one,  but  some  of  the  neighbors 
 smiled  at  our  being  so  unsophisticated.  They 
 pointed  out  at  least  three  roosters.  And  the  other 
 day,  a  minister  from  a  neighboring  church  called, 
 on  a  purely  professional  matter.  He  is  a  musician 
 
“EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 
 
 51 
 
 and  a  married  man,  and  he  knows  a  great  deal 
 about  the  harmonies  of  life. 
 
 He  looked  through  the  wire  screening, 
 blinked,  and  looked  again,  and  then  asserted  that 
 in  his  opinion  there  were  four  roosters  and  three 
 hens.  Of  course,  he  assured  us,  he  had  no  zeal  in 
 the  matter  and  would  not  endeavor  to  force  his 
 opinion  on  us,  but  he  could  not  well  do  otherwise 
 than  stand  by  what  he  conscientiously  regarded 
 as  the  truth. 
 
 What  could  we  do?  We  could  not  be  dis¬ 
 courteous  to  our  visitor,  especially  as  he  is  a  stout 
 man  and  the  mental  concentration  had  made  him 
 perspire.  Besides,  he  might  be  right.  On  the 
 other  hand,  it  would  not  do  to  antagonize  the 
 neighbors,  who  are  very  close  to  us  in  New  York, 
 almost  upon  us. 
 
 So  we  were  silent,  the  more  as  the  exact  num¬ 
 ber  of  roosters  will  not  materially  affect  the  moral 
 of  the  story.  Let  us  compromise  and  say  there 
 were  three.  There  they  stood  in  all  their  mascu¬ 
 line  strength  and  pride,  the  hens  looking  to  them 
 for  leadership  in  strategy  and  attack,  and  not  a 
 Foch  among  them.  Huddled  in  a  heap,  they 
 crowded  into  the  corner,  smitten  with  fear.  Had 
 it  not  been  for  the  wire  wall,  the  possibilities  of 
 their  flight  would  have  been  infinite,  at  least  sev¬ 
 eral  blocks. 
 
52 
 
 “EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 
 
 Four  hens  and  three  roosters  cowed.  By 
 what?  By  one  hen.  And  what  made  her  so  for¬ 
 midable?  A  great  cause.  A  mother  defending 
 her  children.  I  suppose  in  war  we  call  that  mo¬ 
 rale;  inspired  by  the  cause  for  which  one  fights, 
 making  one  man  equal  to  five. 
 
 That  is  why  it  has  happened  a  thousand  times 
 in  the  course  of  history,  when  Biam  declared  war 
 on  Triam,  that  they  did  not  tell  the  people,  the 
 fighters,  the  real  cause  of  the  war,  namely,  some 
 weak  monarch’s  wounded  vanity  or  the  aggran¬ 
 disement  of  the  House  of  Highlivers,  but  they  in¬ 
 vited  a  “patriotic”  cause,  often  nothing  more  than 
 a  balderdash  slogan  of  the  flag  and  the  defence 
 of  the  country.  It  was  almost  always  made  out 
 to  be  a  defensive  war.  Something  like  Demos- 
 thenizing  the  earth  to  take  possession  of  the  moon 
 lest  the  strong  races  of  some  other  planet  get 
 there  first  and  turn  off  the  light,  leaving  us  noth¬ 
 ing  but  starlight  for  our  evening  strolls  through 
 the  country. 
 
 Such  fictitious  causes  will  lose  their  drawing 
 power,  however.  They  have  almost  lost  them  now. 
 If  ever  again  a  nation  wants  to  hurl  its  subjects 
 into  a  cruel  conflict  without  a  cause  that  is  ob¬ 
 viously  just,  the  leaders  will  have  to  be  very  in¬ 
 ventive  to  find  a  pretext  that  will  fool  the  people. 
 Republics  may  have  the  advantage,  because  they 
 
“EVEN  AS  A  HEN” 
 
 58 
 
 have  more  general  elections,  and  elections  furnish 
 excellent  opportunities  for  slogan  camouflage.  On 
 the  other  hand  the  people  will  be  the  better  trained 
 in  detecting  deceit.  However,  we  venture  to  pre¬ 
 dict  the  addition  of  a  secretary  of  slogans  to  the 
 various  cabinets  in  the  event  of  another  great 
 war. 
 
 But  that  does  not  invalidate  the  theory  that 
 a  great  cause  inspires  us  with  wonderful  strength. 
 Look  at  Thermopylae,  at  the  Ironsides  of  Crom¬ 
 well,  the  Swiss  in  their  mountains  of  freedom, 
 look  at  the  Geusen  of  Holland,  look  at  Valley 
 Forge. 
 
 And  behold  the  prophets  who  defied  kings 
 and  nations,  the  apostles  who  obeyed  God  more 
 than  men,  the  Savonarolas  making  princes  quake. 
 Follow  the  martyr  trail  of  the  missionaries,  all 
 red  and  gold.  The  inspiration  of  a  great  cause  is 
 the  secret  of  their  heroism.  They  found  life  worth 
 while  because  they  lived  for  something  worth 
 while. 
 
FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MODERN 
 
 MINISTER 
 
 ONDAY,  February  28 — Bad  case  of  brain¬ 
 fag  this  morning.  But  I  expected  it.  I 
 preached  so  hard  yesterday  that  I  was 
 tired  out.  I  must  find  more  time  for  pre¬ 
 paring.  Whenever  I  am  poorly  prepared 
 I  preach  hard.  When  I  am  well  prepared,  I  am 
 at  ease.  Some  people  compliment  me,  but  I  know 
 better.  And  when  old  Mrs.  Grimm,  good  old 
 soul,  told  me  she  always  feels  edified  by  the  sound 
 of  my  voice,  I  felt  ashamed  of  myself.  Well, 
 Easter  is  near,  I  intended  to  preach  a  series  of  ser¬ 
 mons  on  the  triumphal  entry  into  Jerusalem.  I 
 shall  be  ready. 
 
 Ready  for  my  stroll  this  afternoon.  Going 
 into  the  woods  to  study  barks  and  leaves.  Mr. 
 Swift  just  called  up  and  said  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
 Burns  had  not  been  in  church  for  two  Sundays 
 
 [54] 
 
FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER  55 
 
 and  he  had  heard  that  they  were  disgruntled  about 
 something.  And  that  Sam  Taylor  had  been  ab¬ 
 sent  from  his  Sunday  school  class  for  several 
 weeks.  I  shall  have  to  see  him.  He  is  a  good 
 worker,  but  so  easily  offended. 
 
 Dropped  in  to  see  the  Burnses  on  my  way  to 
 the  woods — but  I  never  got  to  the  woods.  Spent 
 two  hours  with  Mrs.  Burns.  Told  me  she  and  her 
 husband  stayed  away  to  see  if  they  would  be 
 missed.  She  thinks  our  people  are  very  cold,  and 
 there  is  too  much  favoritism  shown  in  our  church. 
 Told  me  about  the  church  they  belonged  to  be¬ 
 fore  they  came  to  us.  There  the  people  are  so  dif¬ 
 ferent  ;  they  are  so  cordial,  and  it  was  “Mrs.  Burns 
 here  and  Mrs.  Burns  there.,,  And  the  services 
 were  so  impressive.  The  minister  always  came  to 
 church  in  a  silk  hat.  When  I  asked  her  why  she 
 left  there,  she  just  answered:  “Oh,  well — .”  I 
 think  she  will  be  in  church  next  Sunday. 
 
 Wonder  if  there  are  any  violets  in  the  woods. 
 
 Went  to  the  supper  of  the  Pollyanna  Club  to¬ 
 night.  I  didn’t  know  they  wanted  me  to  make  an 
 address,  but  I  might  have  expected  it.  The  ladies 
 all  said  it  was  a  fine  speech;  but  what  did  I  say? 
 Something  about  a  silver  lining;  that’s  all.  But 
 I  guess  that  is  what  they  want;  though,  really, 
 it’s  the  cloud  itself  that  brings  the  blessing. 
 
 Now  about  my  sermon.  Oh,  well,  I  still  have 
 
56  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER 
 
 five  days.  Hope  I  sleep  well  tonight.  But  I  wish 
 I  could  have  been  with  the  barks  and  leaves. 
 
 Tuesday,  March  1 — Thought  I  could  spend  a 
 morning  in  my  study.  It  is  as  dear  to  me  as  any 
 place  in  the  world.  A  telephone  call  urges  me  to 
 come  to  the  Home  for  the  Aged.  Some  trouble 
 there;  work  for  the  committee  on  discipline. 
 
 Returned  in  time  for  lunch.  Spent  the  whole 
 morning  in  the  Home.  Some  of  the  members  of 
 the  committee  were  late,  and  the  case  was  com¬ 
 plicated. 
 
 Did  not  look  at  my  mail  this  morning.  Now 
 that  I  do,  it  is  all  bills,  and  the  budget  of  the 
 month  is  heavy — heavy  for  a  minister.  Feel  cross 
 at  the  thought  of  always  being  in  cramped  cir¬ 
 cumstances.  Even  my  books  irritate  me. 
 
 Funeral  of  Henry  Moulder.  A  few  calls. 
 Meeting  of  the  men’s  club.  Well,  tomorrow  morn¬ 
 ing  I'll  start  on  my  sermon. 
 
 Wednesday,  March  2 — Much  mail,  most  of  it 
 from  the  boards  and  committees  of  the  General 
 Council.  Almost  every  letter  marked  “impor¬ 
 tant.”  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  read  it  all,  though 
 it  took  time.  Also  questionaries  for  the  annual 
 report  of  the  church.  This  will  mean  much  work. 
 
 Mr.  Spencer  brought  me  a  book  and  asked  me 
 to  read  it  if  I  would  be  so  kind.  “As  soon  as  pos- 
 
FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER  57 
 
 sible,  please/’  Because  he  had  had  an  argument 
 with  a  friend  who  had  been  captivated  by  the  con¬ 
 tents.  I  promised  to  read  it.  It  may  open  an  op¬ 
 portunity  for  pastoral  work. 
 
 Read  part  of  the  book.  Written  by  a  western 
 clergyman  who  tries  to  prove  with  subtlety  and 
 boldness,  mostly  the  latter,  that  the  impending 
 coming  of  Christ  is  not  the  second  but  the  third. 
 The  book  is  shot  through  with  Bible  verses.  The 
 writer  waxes  warm  over  his  subject,  and  his  in¬ 
 vectives  against  the  “second-comers”  are  sixteen- 
 inch  shells.  Now,  I  hope  nobody  will  try  to  prove 
 that  the  expected  coming  is  the  fourth.  But  I 
 guess  the  third-comers  will  have  their  day ;  every¬ 
 thing  presented  with  boldness  has  its  day. 
 
 I  am  glad  Christ  has  come  to  me. 
 
 Called  on  Elizabeth  Wellen,  poor  cripple. 
 Prayer  meeting.  I’ll  try  to  think  of  my  sermon 
 in  bed.  But  I’m  afraid  I’ll  soon  fall  asleep ;  I  am 
 tired. 
 
 Thursday,  March  3 — Papers  are  full  of  pre¬ 
 parations  for  inauguration  day.  Good  introduc¬ 
 tion  to  my  sermon,  showing  the  difference  between 
 the  president  coming  to  Washington  and  Christ 
 entering  Jerusalem.  I  know  some  will  call  it 
 catchy.  But  I  want  more.  I’d  like  to  preach  a 
 good  sermon  next  Sunday. 
 
 Painter  called  to  see  the  church,  in  order  to 
 
58  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER 
 
 give  an  estimate  on  interior  decorating.  Had  a 
 long  talk  with  him.  Prided  himself  on  the  piety 
 of  his  wife’s  relations. 
 
 Meeting  of  the  ladies’  aid  society.  The  chair¬ 
 man  asked  for  my  views  on  the  coming  May  fair, 
 and  elicited  my  promise  to  help.  My  views  ap¬ 
 plauded.  Oh,  I  am  popular;  but  I  often  feel  as 
 though  I  were  missing  the  real  thing.  I’ll  have  to 
 get  at  my  sermon  tomorrow. 
 
 Attended  a  meeting  of  the  Red  Cross  advisory 
 council.  Suggested  that  I  might  send  a  represen¬ 
 tative  to  take  my  place,  but  the  offer  was  not  ap¬ 
 proved.  “It  is  your  personality  we  want,  Rev¬ 
 erend.” 
 
 Friday,  March  4 — Papers  are  full  of  the  in¬ 
 auguration  festivities.  Was  “visited”  by  the  most 
 genial  book  agent  I  have  ever  met.  I  was  adaman¬ 
 tine  to  all  his  blandishments  and  arguments,  but 
 I  almost  broke  down  when  I  saw  his  look  of  utter 
 commiseration.  To  think  of  depriving  myself  of 
 so  valuable  an  addition  to  my  library!  To  think 
 of  foregoing  the  equipment  of  the  Ancient  and 
 Modern  Encyclopedia  of  Homiletics!  Now,  how¬ 
 ever,  after  some  reflection,  I  believe  he  will  re¬ 
 cover.  Wondered  if  we  ought  not  to  be  as  aggres¬ 
 sive.  But  we  certainly  cannot  use  the  same  meth¬ 
 ods,  we  have  a  different  commodity.  The  best 
 way  of  doing  our  work  is  to  let  the  divine  stream 
 
FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER  59 
 
 flow  through  us  into  other  hearts.  And  that  would 
 rather  preclude  the  aggressiveness  of  the  drum¬ 
 mer. 
 
 Mr.  Anderson  telephoned,  asking  me  over  to 
 his  place  to  discuss  the  Easter  Sunday  school  pro¬ 
 gram. 
 
 Received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  De  Mott,  telling 
 me  that  she  would  have  to  leave  the  church  if  we 
 received  that  “impossible”  Mrs.  Walberg.  Said 
 she  had  trouble  with  her  in  her  former  church. 
 “Utterly  incompatible.”  That  is  a  problem.  Mrs. 
 Walberg  seems  to  be  a  refined  woman  of  quiet 
 force,  but  I  should  not  like  to  see  Mrs.  De  Mott 
 leave.  She  has  a  following. 
 
 Spoke  at  the  Christian  Endeavor  rally  in  Al¬ 
 lison  Memorial  church.  Came  home  late,  but  sat 
 in  my  study  for  a  little  while  to  brood  over  my 
 sermon. 
 
 Saturday,  March  5 — Went  to  placate  Mrs.  De 
 Mott.  Called  on  her  in  the  morning  to  make  sure 
 to  find  her  in.  She  certainly  has  a  splendid  re¬ 
 pertoire  to  characterize  persons  with  whom  she 
 is  on  terms  of  incompatibility.  She  dislikes  Mrs. 
 Walberg,  but  all  the  reasons  she  gives  for  doing 
 so  amount  to  “because.”  Her  antipathy  evidently 
 has  some  hidden  spring.  How  candor  would  lu¬ 
 bricate  the  wheels  of  life. 
 
 Alexander  Small  called  just  as  I  was  going  to 
 
60  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  MINISTER 
 
 '  ‘I  .  : 
 
 settle  down  to  work  on  my  sermon.  He  represents 
 the  Boy  Brothers,  a  new  organization  for  boys, 
 with  military,  gymnastic,  outdoor,  literary  and 
 also  religious  features.  Took  two  hours  of  my 
 time  to  impress  on  me  the  necessity  of  introducing 
 this  organization,  the  Bee  Bees,  into  my  church. 
 No  church  is  up  to  date  without  it,  it  fills  a  long 
 felt  want,  and  surpasses  everything  that  has  ever 
 gone  before.  1  told  him  we  had  too  many  organi¬ 
 zations  now,  but  he  smiled  and  assured  me  that 
 Boy  Brothers  was  something  different.  When  he 
 left,  I  found  myself  perspiring. 
 
 I  shall  have  to  stay  up  late  tonight  to  work 
 on  my  sermon. 
 
 I  had  forgotten.  Mr.  Clarke  came  and  re¬ 
 minded  me  of  the  committee  on  new  hymn  books. 
 The  men  could  not  meet  at  any  other  time. 
 
 Just  got  home.  It  is  late.  Find  notices  on 
 my  desk  earnestly  soliciting  my  presence  at  the 
 community  council  executive  session  on  Tuesday 
 afternoon,  at  the  luncheon  of  the  Mighty  Good 
 Club  Wednesday  noon,  and  at  the  meeting  of  the 
 committee  of  twenty-five  on  Friday  evening,  to 
 prepare  for  the  union  revival  services  to  be  con¬ 
 ducted  by  Tom  Tussler,  the  converted  prizefighter, 
 and  Blind  Jennie,  the  girl  evangelist. 
 
 Tomorrow's  sermon — the  Lord  help  me! 
 
THE  PRACTICAL  THING 
 
 HE  Secretary  of  the  National  Emergency 
 Commission  looked  up  from  his  papers, 
 turned  in  his  swivel  chair,  and  asked  the 
 stenographer  to  take  a  letter. 
 
 “I  want  this  letter  to  go  to  all  the 
 churches  in  the  country,”  he  said  with  fine  feeling. 
 
 After  a  pucker  and  a  gaze  into  the  unseen 
 he  began  to  dictate. 
 
 “To  the  Churches  of  America. 
 
 “Dear  Friends, 
 
 “It  is  with  profound  gratitude  that  the  men 
 in  public  life,  particularly  the  men  of  large  re¬ 
 sponsibility  in  the  late  crisis,  acknowledge  their 
 indebtedness  to  the  churches  for  their  splendid  co¬ 
 operation  in  the  emergencies  of  the  cruel  war,  in 
 eluding  their  help  in  the  various  drives :  Liberty 
 Loan,  Red  Cross,  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  Y.  W.  C.  A.,  Sal¬ 
 vation  Army,  and  others. 
 
 [61] 
 
62 
 
 THE  PRACTICAL  THING 
 
 “Indeed,  we  believe  that  without  your  valued 
 assistance,  moral  and  material,  the  final  outcome 
 of  the  war  would  have  been  doubtful.  We  feel 
 more  than  ever  that  we  need  the  church. 
 
 “Allow  us  to  assure  you  of  our  highest  appre¬ 
 ciation.  The  history  of  these  trying  years  will 
 have  to  report  that  the  churches  were  tried  and 
 not  found  wanting.” 
 
 There  was  a  pause.  The  brow  puckered 
 again,  and  the  eyes  gazed  intently. 
 
 “That  letter  isn't  complete.  I  want  to  say 
 something  else.”  He  addressed  partly  the  win¬ 
 dow  shade  and  partly  the  stenographer.  “I  would 
 like  to  say  something  striking;  something  prac¬ 
 tical.  Can't  you  suggest  something?” 
 
 As  the  window  shade  remained  silent,  the 
 stenographer  felt  it  incumbent  upon  himself  to 
 reply.  He  coughed. 
 
 “Would  you  care  to  say  that  in  view  of  your 
 recognition  of  the  high  value  of  the  church,  the 
 public  men  feel  themselves  morally  obliged  to  be¬ 
 come  more  regular  in  their  attendance  of  church 
 services?  I  know  the  churches  would  like — .” 
 
 “Well,  I — I  don't — you  see —  By  the  way, 
 what  time  is  it? —  What  do  you  think  of  that? 
 I  am  late  for  my  appointment.  Put  that  letter 
 aside  for  the  present.  We’ll  take  it  up  again,  when 
 I  have  a  convenient  season.” 
 
BROTHER  MARTIN 
 
 UTHER  is  drowsy.  He  is  working  on  his 
 war  sermon  against  the  Turks,  for  the 
 enemy  of  Christendom  has  reached  the 
 walls  of  Vienna,  and  Europe  trembles. 
 Did  not  Constantinople  fall  less  than  a 
 hundred  years  ago? 
 
 On  the  old  desk,  before  him,  lies  the  manu¬ 
 script,  every  letter  bearing  testimony  to  a  master¬ 
 ful  hand.  He  calls  the  Turks  Gog  and  Magog,  and 
 appeals  to  his  countrymen  to  fight  the  common 
 enemy  with  the  bravery  displayed  by  their  fore¬ 
 fathers  in  staying  the  Romans.  He  asks  them  to 
 march  under  the  banner  of  the  emperor,  to  whom 
 God  has  entrusted  the  authority  of  temporal 
 power. 
 
 He  has  written  with  the  fire  of  a  prophet.  But 
 now  he  feels  drowsy,  and  his  head  nods.  He  be¬ 
 gins  a  reverie  of  Worms,  and  Spires,  and  Mar¬ 
 burg. 
 
 [63] 
 
64 
 
 BROTHER  MARTIN 
 
 i 
 
 The  massive  head  jerks  up.  Ah,  yes,  the 
 Turks !  He  seizes  the  quill  again.  But  the  strain 
 of  hard  work  is  asserting  itself,  and  he  nods  again. 
 
 There !  Was  that  Philip  Melanchthon  calling 
 him?  No ;  the  voice  was  softer,  like  a  gentle  purr. 
 
 “Martin !” 
 
 Luther  looks  up.  It  is  late  in  the  afternoon, 
 near  November.  Who  is  that  standing  over  there 
 near  the  door?  A  monk  in  the  garb  of  the  Au- 
 gustinian  order.  Luther  smiles. 
 
 “Brother  Martin !”  the  voice  pleads. 
 
 “What  is  it,  brother?” 
 
 “I  have  come  to  advise  you.  You  are  making 
 a  big  mistake.” 
 
 “Are  you  with  us  or  against  us,”  asks  the 
 voice  that  is  feared  by  princes. 
 
 “I  want  to  advise  you  for  your  own  good.  You 
 are  making  a  big  mistake.” 
 
 “What  mistake?”  Even  the  voice  seems  to 
 bristle. 
 
 “Martin,  Martin!  You  are  a  good  man,  and 
 a  prophet.  But  you  don't  know  much  of  the  ways 
 that  lead  to  victory.  You  are  as  innocent  as  a 
 dove,  but  in  addition  you  ought  to  be  as  wise  as  a 
 serpent.  You  know  that  is  the  great  injunction. 
 
 “Now,  look  here !”  The  visitor  draws  nearer. 
 
BROTHER  MARTIN 
 
 65 
 
 It  is  growing  darker.  The  eyes  of  Luther  are 
 strangely  luminous. 
 
 “Here  you  are  preparing  a  sermon  against 
 the  Turks,”  the  velvet  tones  proceeded;  “and 
 really  they  are  your  friends.  So  long  as  the  Turks 
 batter  against  the  walls  of  Christendom,  the  em¬ 
 peror  cannot  carry  out  the  decree  of  Worms  and 
 the  wishes  of  the  Pope.  The  Lutheran  heresy — 
 he  smiled  understanding^ — has  a  chance  to  take 
 deeper  root  and  grow  and  spread  so  long  as  the 
 crescent  can  keep  the  cross  busy.  And  here  you 
 are  urging  your  countrymen,  even  the  Protestants, 
 to  fight  with  the  emperor  against  the  Turk.  Par¬ 
 don  me,  Martin;  but  that  is  foolish  of  you.  A 
 great  man  like  you  ought  to  be  more  of  a  general. 
 You  could  afford  to  send  secret  emissaries  to  en¬ 
 courage  Solyman  and  his  generals.” 
 
 Luther  fumbles  the  ink  bottle. 
 
 “Look  at  the  king  of  France,”  the  visitor 
 continues.  “He  is  a  shrewd  man.  His  aim  is  to 
 weaken  the  power  of  the  emperor,  and  to  that  end 
 he  befriends  the  Protestants  of  Germany.  Per¬ 
 sonally  he  does  not  like  you  and  your  friends.  His 
 heart  is  Catholic.  In  his  own  country  he  would 
 look  with  scant  favor  upon  the  heresy,  as  they 
 call  it.  But  he  knows  that  the  German  Protes¬ 
 tants  are  a  thorn  in  the  emperor’s  side,  and  he  is 
 taking  pains  to  keep  the  point  as  sharp  as  pos- 
 
66 
 
 BROTHER  MARTIN 
 
 sible.  That  is  diplomacy.  Francis  has  penetra¬ 
 tion.^ 
 
 Luther  is  breathing  heavily.  The  air  is  thick. 
 
 “And  your  cause  is  greater  far  than  the  cause 
 of  Francis  of  France.  Your  end  would  justify 
 all  means.” 
 
 Luther  is  bending  over,  as  though  suddenly 
 recognizing  his  adviser.  The  visitor’s  voice  soft¬ 
 ens  down  to  a  whisper. 
 
 “And  you  understand,  Martin,  nobody  need 
 to  know  of  the  commission  excepting  one  or  two 
 trusted  men.” 
 
 With  a  jerk  Luther  rises,  and  flings  the  ink 
 bottle  at  the  satanic  intruder.  A  crash  wakes 
 him.  Bewildered,  he  hears  his  Katie  chiding,  as 
 she  points  to  a  black  spot  on  the  wall. 
 
MAKING  TIME 
 
 HE  speedometer  and  the  clock  had  a  quar¬ 
 rel,  as  the  automobile  was  standing  near 
 the  curb. 
 
 “You  just  keep  time,”  nagged  the 
 speedometer. 
 
 “I'm  up  to  the  minute,”  the  clock  defended. 
 
 “Yes,  but  you  just  keep  on  ticking  in  the  same 
 old  way,  no  matter  how  fast  men  drive.” 
 
 “What  do  you  do?” 
 
 “I  measure  their  speed.  They  never  go  ahead 
 of  me.  I  keep  up  with  them.  They  can't  go  too 
 fast  for  me.” 
 
 “They  never  get  ahead  of  me,”  echoed  the 
 clock. 
 
 “Never  get  ahead  of  you?  Why,  you  are  not 
 keeping  up  with  the  times.” 
 
 “The  times  never  get  ahead  of  time.  It  takes 
 time  to  keep  up  with  the  times.” 
 
 [67] 
 
68 
 
 MAKING  TIME 
 
 “You  are  trying  to  be  funny.” 
 
 “No,  I  am  serious.  You  register  speed;  I 
 register  time.  You  keep  up  with  men's  leisure  or 
 hurry.  I  keep  up  with  the  great  clock  God  es¬ 
 tablished  in  the  heavens.  And  they  never  get 
 ahead  of  that.  Some  time  or  other  they  must  come 
 to  time.  People  are  speeding  through  life,  but 
 they  are  not  making  time.” 
 
 “I  see  you  are  a  preacher.” 
 
 “What  you  see  is  mostly  second-hand  preach¬ 
 ing.  But  study  me,  and  you  will  hear  the  sun, 
 moon,  and  stars  preaching  through  me.” 
 
 “I  think  I  can  figure  out  what  you  mean.” 
 
 “I  am  reminded  of  a  story  my  grandmother 
 told  me.  It  was  a  fine  old  pendulum  clock,  an  ex¬ 
 cellent  timepiece.  It  keept  time  like  a  sun-dial. 
 One  day  the  little  boy  of  the  house  unscrewed 
 the  weight  of  the  pendulum,  just  to  see  what  would 
 happen.  And  the  pendulum  hurried  like  mad. 
 The  second-hand  sped  around.  Also  the  minute- 
 hand.  The  boy  could  even  see  the  hour-hand  mov¬ 
 ing. 
 
 “  ‘Mother,'  he  cried,  ‘come  and  see  the  clock 
 making  time.' 
 
 “But  the  mother  chided  the  boy.  She  knew 
 that  the  clock  was  out  of  time.  The  heavenly 
 bodies,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  summer  and 
 
MAKING  TIME 
 
 69 
 
 winter,  pursued  their  stately  way  in  spite  of  the 
 mad  haste  of  the  clock.” 
 
 “It  had  lost  its  weight.” 
 
 “Exactly.  And  just  so  men  that  hurry 
 through  life  in  a  mad  rush  have  lost  their  weight. 
 They  disregard  those  eternal  things  of  the  soul 
 that  lend  weight  to  life.  They  may  be  Jabals,  Ju- 
 bals,  and  Tubal-cains,  but  they  lack  the  balance- 
 weight  that  keeps  them  in  time  with  eternity. 
 They  are  out  of  harmony  with  God  as  the  clock 
 was  out  of  harmony  with  the  sun.” 
 
 “Then,  if  men  were  in  harmony  with  God, 
 you  and  I  would  have  no  quarrel.” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 The  conversation  stopped,  for  the  master  of 
 the  car  hurried  out  of  the  house,  and  quickly 
 stepped  into  the  machine.  His  hands  trembled 
 as  he  cranked  the  car  and  drove  off.  The 
 clock  smiled  sadly  as  he  saw  the  haste  of  the  mo¬ 
 ment  recorded  not  only  on  the  speedometer,  but 
 in  the  nerve-centres  of  the  man’s  system,  to  be  ac¬ 
 counted  for  in  days  to  come. 
 
ELIJAH 
 
 HE  dry  reeds  crackled  as  they  parted,  and 
 startled  the  ravens.  Elijah  looked  up, 
 and  saw  a  bland  and  courteous  face  that 
 seemed  out  of  harmony  with  the  wild 
 scenery  of  the  Cherith.  He  dimly  remem¬ 
 bered.  As  the  man  stood  before  him,  his  dress 
 announced  a  courtier  from  Samaria. 
 
 The  stranger  smiled,  while  Elijah's  features 
 remained  adamant.  What  good  news  could  be  ex¬ 
 pected  from  the  court  of  Ahab  and  Jezebel? 
 
 “Don't  you  remember  me?"  the  courtier  be¬ 
 gan  ingratiatingly.  “Don't  you  remember  Ethbaal 
 Ben  Joseph,  the  friend  of  your  boyhood?  My 
 father  married  a  woman  of  Sidon.  Don't  you  re¬ 
 member?" 
 
 Elijah  nodded  his  head.  He  remembered. 
 How  hateful  the  marriage  had  been  to  his  people ! 
 But  since  then — why,  even  the  king  had  married 
 
 [70] 
 
ELIJAH 
 
 71 
 
 a  Sidonian  princess.  Something  in  Elijah’s  atti¬ 
 tude  made  Ethbaal  keep  his  distance.  He  did  not, 
 however,  lose  his  composure. 
 
 “You  remember  how  we  roamed  together  over 
 the  fields  of  Tishbe,”  he  continued.  “And  the  hills 
 of  Naphtali.  And  you,  even  you,  loved  to  hear  my 
 mother  tell  of  Sidon  and  its  wonderful  ships.” 
 
 Elijah  trembled. 
 
 “Now,  listen,  Elijah.”  He  took  a  step  nearer. 
 “I  want  to  tell  you  something.  And  for  the  sake 
 of  our  friendship  and  the  great  cause  of  Israel,  I 
 hope  you  will  attend  and  be  reasonable.” 
 
 The  prophet’s  silence  was  not  encouraging. 
 Yet  the  speaker  continued. 
 
 “I  have  come  from  the  queen.” 
 
 Clouds  gathered  on  the  forehead  of  the 
 prophet,  and  his  eyes  flashed  lightning. 
 
 The  messenger  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  a 
 rock. 
 
 “Now  don’t  look  so  angry,  Elijah,”  he  said 
 suavely.  “Really,  the  queen  thinks  a  great  deal  of 
 you.  Your  sterling  loyalty  to  the  cause  you  rep¬ 
 resent  commends  itself  to  the  favorable  attention 
 of  everybody  who  is  at  all  able  to  appreciate  the 
 finer  things  of  life.  And  you  may  be  sure  her  maj¬ 
 esty  is  able  to  do  that.  Elijah,  she  is  one  woman 
 in  a  million.  It  is  too  bad  that  two  strong  char- 
 
72 
 
 ELIJAH 
 
 acters  like  you  and  the  queen  are  opposed  to  each  • 
 other.  It  isn’t  natural.  You  two  ought  to  work 
 together.” 
 
 He  paused. 
 
 Elijah  was  studying  the  thin  rills  of  the 
 brook. 
 
 “If  you  knew  her  better,  Elijah,  you  would 
 admire  her,  believe  me.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a 
 great  king,  and  she  is  greater  than  her  father. 
 She  comes  of  a  nation  that  is  known  for  brilliant 
 daring,  and  I  believe  she  is  as  brilliant  as  any  of 
 them.  She  is  a  good  queen.  You  ought  to  see 
 what  she  does  for  religious  worship.  Her 
 prophets  and  priests  do  not  suffer  want.  Ah,  you 
 ought  to  see  her,  Elijah,  when  she  appears  at 
 court  functions.  She  loves  jewelry,  but  she  is  the 
 jewel.  The  king  is  all  right,  too.  Mind  you,  I’m 
 not  saying  anything  disloyal  of  him.  But  the 
 queen — !” 
 
 Elijah  beckoned  the  ravens,  but  they  would 
 not  return. 
 
 “That  woman  could  rule  a  nation  ten  times 
 as  large.  Thousands  are  willing  to  die  for  her. 
 It  is  too  bad  you  misunderstand  her.  I  am  sure 
 if  you  understood  you  would  relent.  Think  of 
 what  good  you  could  do  if  you  came  to  her  court. 
 By  and  by  you  would  reform  us  all.  There  would 
 be  rain;  the  land  would  prosper;  and  you  could 
 
ELIJAH 
 
 73 
 
 be  the  court  preacher  of  righteousness.  Think  of 
 it!  I  am  authorized  to  say”  (he  raised  his  voice 
 and  gesticulated  significantly)  “that  such  a  posi¬ 
 tion  would  be  open  to  you.  There  you  could 
 prophesy  unmolested,  even  in  Samaria,  and  work 
 until  the  worship  of  Baal  would  gently  merge  into 
 the  worship  of  Jehovah. 
 
 “Now  you  are  just  protesting.  You  have 
 done  that  well,  and  we  all  admire  it,  the  queen 
 most  of  all.  She  admires  you,  and  would  like  to 
 have  you  nearer  to  her.  So  would  Ahab,  of  course. 
 Mere  protesting  does  little  good.  Come  to  Sa¬ 
 maria  ;  eat  the  queen’s  bread ;  and  work  for  a  real 
 reformation.” 
 
 He  was  cowed  by  Elijah’s  terrible  look.  How¬ 
 ever,  he  soon  recovered.  He  was  a  seasoned  man. 
 
 “As  to  the  religion  of  the  queen,  Elijah,  you 
 must  take  a  broad  view  of  those  things,  don’t  be 
 narrow,  old  boy.  I’m  half  and  half,  you  know; 
 half  Sidonian  and  half  Israelite;  and  I  am  natu¬ 
 rally  inclined  to  take  a  broad  view  of  things.  Be¬ 
 sides  I  like  to  ponder  the  deeper  meanings  of  re¬ 
 ligious  rites  and  beliefs.  Now  there  are  Baal  and 
 Ashtoreth.  They  are  not  just  images  and  groves. 
 We  must  go  deeper.  Baal  is  the  sun-god,  and  Ash¬ 
 toreth  the  moon-god.  The  images  represent  them. 
 And  sun  and  moon?  Why,  they  represent  the 
 great  Spirit  that  controls  them.  The  heavens 
 
74 
 
 ELIJAH 
 
 declare  the  glory  of  God,'  you  know.  You  see  the 
 Phoenicians  are  not  all  wrong.  One  only  has  to 
 look  for  the  spiritual  meaning  of  their  rites.  No 
 religion  is  all  wrong.  I  say  we  must  try  to  find 
 the  good  that's  in  them.  And  then  start  with  that, 
 and  gradually  develop  it  into  something  higher 
 and  purer.  And  you  can  trust  the  queen  to  help 
 you  if  you  come  to  court. 
 
 “Of  course,  some  of  those  rites  are  too — in¬ 
 teresting  ;  but  by  and  by — oh,  you  could  do  a  lot ! 
 Just  let  the  people  feel  that  you’re  no  kill-joy,  but 
 that  you’d  like  to  give  them  the  finer  joy.  Some¬ 
 thing  like  that.  That  would  do  more  than  just 
 pouting  out  here  in  the  wilderness  and  letting  the 
 country  go  dry.” 
 
 Elijah’s  voice  was  terrible. 
 
 “Thus  said  the  Lord,”  he  roared. 
 
 The  reeds  crackled  again,  and  Ethbaal  was 
 gone. 
 
 And  the  ravens  returned  to  comfort  the 
 prophet. 
 
THE  DRUMMER'S 
 DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 HE  drummer  sat  down  and  studied  his  sur¬ 
 roundings  with  the  air  of  a  man  whose 
 profession  trains  the  eye  as  well  as  the 
 tongue. 
 
 They  were  somewhat  unfamiliar  sur¬ 
 roundings.  He  felt  he  had  lost  touch.  And  yet 
 they  gave  him  a  homely  thrill.  They  reminded 
 him  of  the  days  of  childhood  and  youth,  when  he 
 went  to  church  with  his  parents  and  when  his  at¬ 
 tendance  at  Sunday  school  often  received  honora¬ 
 ble  mention. 
 
 What  made  him  come  to  this  convention  of 
 the  Loyal  League?  What  business  had  he,  the 
 busy  drummer,  in  a  gathering  of  Christian  work¬ 
 ers? 
 
 Well,  it  was  that  letter.  A  letter  from  his 
 wife,  in  which  she  had  told  him  that  the  Rev. 
 
 [75] 
 
76 
 
 THE  DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 Dr.  Manville  would  speak  at  the  convention  of 
 the  Loyal  League  in  Sanitown  on  the  26th  of  No¬ 
 vember,  and  as  he  expected  to  “make”  that  city 
 at  about  that  time,  she  would  like  to  have  him  go 
 and  hear  him. 
 
 “He  is  fine,  George,”  she  added.  “He  spoke 
 in  our  church  a  few  months  ago,  and  I  can  never 
 forget  him.  He  is  a  man  of  deep  spirituality,  with 
 just  enough  wit  and  humor  to  relieve  the  tension. 
 Try  to  hear  him,  at  all  events.” 
 
 That  was  the  main  reason  for  his  presence. 
 There  were  other  reasons.  He  was  fond  of  wit 
 and  humor.  To  be  sure,  he  no  longer  made  a  col¬ 
 lection  of  “good”  stories;  he  was  sick  of  them; 
 but  he  still  liked  a  fine  joke.  And  that  was  not  all. 
 “A  man  of  deep  spirituality.”  Some  people  seem 
 to  think  a  drummer  doesn’t  care  for  such  a  thing, 
 that  he  just  wants  to  be  gay. 
 
 He  muttered  something  to  himself  to  express 
 his  opinion  of  such  inadequate  estimates.  Just  one 
 word.  It  was  not  at  all  to  the  point;  in  fact,  it 
 was  senseless.  But  it  was  the  name  of  a  very 
 definite  theological  locality. 
 
 At  any  rate,  he  was  here  and  he  had  come  to 
 hear  Dr.  Manville.  His  train  would  not  leave 
 until  half  past  ten,  and  if  he  left  the  meeting  at 
 ten  oclock,  he  would  be  able  to  “make”  it,  espe¬ 
 cially  as  he  was  staying  at  the  Howard  House, 
 
THE  DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 77 
 
 which  was  close  to  the  station.  So  he  settled  down 
 for  a  treat. 
 
 The  meeting  was  to  have  begun  at  eight 
 o’clock,  but  it  was  fifteen  minutes  later  when  the 
 leader  faced  the  congregation  with  a  broad  smile 
 and  said  they  would  have  a  season  of  song  as  the 
 people  seemed  to  be  slow  in  coming.  The  singing 
 was  lusty,  and  the  people  came. 
 
 At  half  past  eight  the  leader  rose  to  introduce 
 the  Rev.  Mr.  Catte,  who  was  scheduled  to  conduct 
 the  devotional  exercises.  The  name  gave  the 
 chairman  an  excellent  opportunity  to  tell  a  few 
 good  stories  of  the  diminutive  feline,  which  were 
 received  with  mirthful  applause,  and  Mr.  Catte 
 replied  in  kind.  It  was  twenty  minutes  of  nine 
 when  the  devotions  began.  They  were  impressive 
 and  prepared  the  drummer  for  Dr.  Manville. 
 
 Then  the  leader  rose,  winked  and  smiled,  and 
 introduced  the  convention  treasurer.  Some  of 
 the  girls  giggled,  and  a  number  of  persons  fum¬ 
 bled  for  their  purses. 
 
 The  treasurer  was  famously  facetious,  and 
 he  lived  up  to  his  reputation.  The  drummer  was, 
 of  course,  glad  to  make  his  contribution,  but  he 
 glanced  at  his  watch.  The  collection  being  over, 
 he  looked  up  expectantly. 
 
 The  chairman  smiled  again,  and  congratu¬ 
 lated  the  convention  on  having  with  it  that  eve- 
 
78 
 
 THE  DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 ning  the  Honorable  John  Moulton  Smith,  ex¬ 
 governor  of  a  neighboring  state,  and  he  was  sure 
 the  audience  would  be  pleased  to  hear  from  him. 
 The  secretary  clapped  his  hands,  and  the  conven¬ 
 tion  echoed  a  rousing  applause.  Governor  Smith 
 was  a  distinguished  looking  man,  a  man  of  prom¬ 
 inence,  especially  as  to  nose  and  voice. 
 
 He  began  by  apologizing  for  the  cold  in  his 
 head,  adding  that  a  susceptibility  to  colds  had  been 
 a  weakness  in  his  family  for  generations,  but  that 
 it  had  never  affected  the  temperature  of  the  heart. 
 (Applause.)  Then  he  expressed  his  delight  with 
 being  permitted  to  address  so  happy  and  hand¬ 
 some  an  assembly,  which  statement  evoked  a  re¬ 
 sponse  of  gratification.  After  that  he  launched 
 out  upon  the  subject  of  his  address:  Thrift 
 Stamps.  If  he  was  as  generous  in  investing  his 
 money  in  Stamps  as  he  was  in  giving  time  to  the 
 audience,  he  was  certainly  a  paragon  of  patriot¬ 
 ism,  and  the  leader  did  not  have  the  heart  to  stop 
 an  ex-governor. 
 
 It  was  half  past  nine  when  he  got  through. 
 Then  followed  a  hymn.  After  that,  the  presiding 
 officer  announced  that  his  keen  eye  had  detected 
 an  old  friend  of  the  cause  in  the  audience,  Joseph 
 O’Leary,  and  he  felt  the  evening  would  not  be 
 complete  without  a  word  from  Joe. 
 
 So  Joe  came  to  the  platform  and  held  forth. 
 
THE  DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 79 
 
 He  was  utterly  unprepared,  and  for  a  while  he 
 floundered.  Then  he  happened  to  think  of  his  ex¬ 
 periences  in  the  trenches,  and  the  tickling  rill  of 
 his  oratory  became  a  wide  stream.  The  leader 
 called  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  his  time  was 
 up,  but  Joe  replied  that  for  a  full  year,  in  the 
 army,  he  had  to  obey,  and  that  he  made  up  his 
 mind,  once  out  of  service,  he  would  not  take  orders 
 from  anybody  for  another  full  year.  This  retort 
 pleased  the  audience  immensely,  and  the  chair 
 was  defeated. 
 
 Joe,  however,  was  considerate,  and  stopped  at 
 ten  minutes  of  ten. 
 
 The  drummer  looked  for  his  hat  and  over¬ 
 coat.  As  he  went  up  the  aisle,  the  congregation 
 sang  two  verses  of  “On  to  Victory.”  He  paused 
 near  the  door  long  enough  to  hear  the  introduc¬ 
 tion  of  Dr.  Manville.  More  than  that.  Although 
 it  was  a  few  minutes  after  ten,  he  lingered.  Too 
 bad !  What  he  saw  and  heard,  was  just  enough  to 
 whet  his  heart  hunger.  He  wished  he  could  stay, 
 but  he  had  to  “make”  the  train. 
 
WHEN  HE 
 
 OMITTED  SHADRACH'S  ORATION 
 
 HE  Rev.  John  Bell  was  at  work  in  his 
 study,  preparing  a  sermon.  He  was  a 
 young  man,  with  a  young  man’s  opti¬ 
 mism,  and  a  confidence  that  bordered  on 
 conceit.  Would  he  make  a  success  of  this 
 church?  He  had  no  doubt  of  it.  Had  he  not 
 drawn  encouraging  audiences  almost  every  Sun¬ 
 day  since  his  arrival  at  Marston?  And  that  was 
 three  months  ago.  To  be  sure,  he  lately  had  felt 
 the  prick  of  disappointment  once  or  twice.  But 
 his  enthusiasm  had  not  yet  been  chilled.  And  the 
 sermon  he  was  finishing  would  certainly  make  a 
 great  impression. 
 
 “I  think  this  ought  to  make  a  hit,”  he  mused, 
 lapsing  into  the  vernacular.  “The  story  of  the 
 three  men  in  the  fiery  furnace  is  full  of  the  dra¬ 
 matic.” 
 
 [80] 
 
OMITTED  SHADRACH’S  ORATION  81 
 
 He  read  aloud  his  version  of  the  dialogue  be¬ 
 tween  the  young  Hebrews  and  Nebuchadnezzar. 
 He  had  liberally  amended  the  Bible  record.  Why 
 not?  Is  there  not  homiletic  license  as  well  as 
 poetic  license?  When  he  reached  the  final  defiance 
 of  the  Hebrews  to  the  king’s  command,  he  put  into 
 the  mouth  of  Shadrach  an  oration  which  savored 
 of  Burke  and  Patrick  Henry.  Nor  was  he  satis¬ 
 fied  merely  reading  this  to  himself.  He  rose  to  the 
 occasion,  halted  before  a  man-size  mirror,  and 
 tried  the  doubtful  experiment  of  studying  his 
 oratorical  fervor  with  calm  and  careful  criticism. 
 
 He  was  satisfied  with  himself.  Turning  from 
 the  mirror  he  faced  an  imaginary  audience  crowd¬ 
 ing  his  little  church.  And  let  it  be  credited  to  the 
 creative  faculty  of  the  brother  that  he  was  as  satis¬ 
 fied  with  his  imaginary  audience  as  his  imaginary 
 audience  was  satisfied  with  him. 
 
 He  was  so  enthusiastic  that  he  gave  an  out¬ 
 line  of  his  sermon  to  Deacon  McKnight,  whom  he 
 met  on  the  street. 
 
 “Fine,”  ejaculated  the  deacon.  “Wish  I  could 
 be  there  to  hear  it.” 
 
 “You’ll  not  be  there?” 
 
 “No;  I’m  sorry  to  say.  My  wife’s  folks  are 
 going  to  spend  the  week  end  with  us,  and  it  will 
 be  hard  for  me  to  get  away.  By  the  way,  did  you 
 see  Benson’s  new  car?  He’ll  be  a  speeder  before 
 
82  OMITTED  SHADRACH’S  ORATION 
 
 long.”  Falling  back  upon  Benson's  car  was  not 
 retreat  but  strategy. 
 
 John  Bell  was  not  much  disturbed  by  the  an¬ 
 nounced  absence  of  his  substantial  deacon.  He 
 would  like  to  have  him  present,  to  be  sure,  but  one 
 man  could  well  be  missed.  He  was  so  elated  over 
 the  prospective  hit  that  he  was  hardly  aware  of 
 the  beautiful  spring  weather  that  set  in  toward 
 the  end  of  the  week.  And  thus  dawned  a  glorious 
 Sunday.  The  evening  before  he  had  once  more 
 gone  over  his  sermon,  and  during  the  night  he 
 had  dreamed  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  whom  he  had 
 seen  very  distinctly,  though  with  some  occidental 
 admixtures. 
 
 Alas,  alas !  The  church  was  not  filled  to  suf¬ 
 focation.  The  service  was  not  even  well  attended. 
 It  was  no  distraction  for  the  minister  to  count 
 his  audience.  There  were  thirteen  hearers  pres¬ 
 ent  and  some  of  them  were  not  hearers  through¬ 
 out  the  entire  discourse.  His  delivery  was  spirit¬ 
 less,  and  Shadrach’s  speech  of  defiance  was 
 omitted.  He  was  not  disconcerted  by  the  number 
 thirteen.  One  less  would  have  made  him  feel  just 
 as  bad.  How  can  a  man  deliver  to  empty  benches 
 a  sermon  he  has  prepared  for  an  expectant  au¬ 
 dience  filling  the  church? 
 
 “Where  are  the  people?”  he  asked  after  he 
 had  agonized  through  the  service. 
 
OMITTED  SHADRACH’S  ORATION  83 
 
 “Oh,  they  are  out  in  their  machines,  or  play¬ 
 ing  tennis,  or  entertaining  friends.  Never  mind. 
 You’ll  get  used  to  that  all  right.  They  did  the 
 same  thing  to  your  predecessor.  The  first 
 few  months  they  came  out  of  curiosity,  but  the 
 attendance  soon  settled  down  to  ‘normal.’  Our 
 folks  aren’t  stingy  in  their  contributions,  but 
 they’re  not  strong  on  going  to  church.  But  you’ll 
 get  used  to  that  all  right.” 
 
 And  he  did  get  used  to  it.  Let  it  be  admitted 
 with  shame,  he  did  get  used  to  it.  At  first,  his 
 heart  rebelled,  but  by  and  by,  slowly,  impercepti¬ 
 bly,  there  stole  into  his  soul  the  deadly  spirit 
 of  “What’s  the  use?”  His  sermons  were  prepared 
 with  ever  less  thought.  Who  cared?  He  became 
 known  as  the  most  genial  clergyman  in  town.  A 
 common  saying  had  it  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bell  was 
 idolized  by  his  people,  but  that  they  seldom  went 
 to  church. 
 
THE  CURE 
 
 R.  Mortimer  Mindfull  had  a  theory  that 
 he  could  not  sleep,  and  theories  are  stub¬ 
 born  things.  It  made  him  feel  very  bad. 
 For  one  thing,  his  reputation  was  at 
 stake.  Until  about  a  month  ago,  he  had 
 been  an  excellent  sleeper,  and  his  wife,  with  fine 
 sarcasm,  entirely  and  solely  actuated  by  her  love 
 for  him,  as  she  averred,  had  often  advised  him  to 
 enter  a  Marathon  sleeping  race,  predicting  easily 
 won  laurels,  unless  the  judges  insisted  upon  noise¬ 
 less  engines. 
 
 Besides,  he  realized  the  insomnia  would  un¬ 
 dermine  his  health.  The  cause  of  the  deplorable 
 condition,  which  preyed  upon  his  mind,  had  not 
 yet  been  ascertained,  although  several  experts 
 were  working  on  the  case.  One  said  coffee;  an¬ 
 other,  after  exhaustive  interrogations  going  back 
 about  six  generations,  was  sure  it  was  the  after- 
 
 [84] 
 
THE  CURE 
 
 85 
 
 effect  of  bibulous  indulgences  of  an  ancestor.  Let 
 it  be  said,  however,  that  they  did  not  spend  too 
 much  time  on  the  investigation  of  possible  causes ; 
 rather  did  they  proceed  vigorously  to  experiment 
 with  probable  remedies. 
 
 The  tonics  and  nerve  exercises,  the  latter  very 
 taxing,  such  as  describing  circles  and  semi-circles 
 with  the  index  finger  without  a  jerky  movement, 
 had  so  far  been  of  no  apparently  beneficial  effect, 
 mainly  because  Mr.  Mindfull  was  impervious  to 
 suggestion.  His  wife  would  assure  him  that  he 
 had  slept,  but  he  always  triumphed  by  affirming 
 he  was  positive  she  had  been  sleeping  the  whole 
 night  through. 
 
 “How  could  I  know  that  if  I  had  slept?  I 
 tell  you  I  didn’t  sleep.” 
 
 And  she  was  quiet.  That  was  victory  for 
 him,  to  be  sure ;  but  his  song  of  triumph,  sung  to 
 a  tune  of  his  own,  always  ended  in  a  minor  key, 
 to  the  words:  “I  know  I  have  not  slept  for  a 
 month.” 
 
 One  night,  he  heard  a  voice  calling  him,  about 
 two  thousand  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  miles 
 away.  He  listened;  he  listened  intently.  Was 
 this  one  of  the  mysterious  messages  from  Mars 
 he  had  been  reading  about,  or  was  there  something 
 in  spiritism  after  all  ? 
 
 The  voice  spake  again.  It  was  calling  him. 
 
86 
 
 THE  CURE 
 
 Now  it  seemed  much  nearer.  He  strained  his 
 ear.  Then  he  heard  it  again.  He  started  from 
 his  pillow,  for  this  time  it  was  close  to  him. 
 
 “For  goodness’  sake,  didn’t  you  hear  that 
 door-bell?”  It  was  not  a  spirit;  or  rather,  it  was 
 a  spirit  that  was  very  dear  to  him. 
 
 “Door-bell !”  he  echoed,  in  a  very  unspiritual 
 way,  though  nevertheless  spiritedly.  “What  are 
 you  talking  about?  I  ought  to  have  heard  it.  You 
 know  I  don’t  sleep.” 
 
 “Well,  it  did  ring.  Get  up  and  see  who  is 
 there !” 
 
 “Now,  my  dear — ” 
 
 He  was  going  to  say  a  good  deal  more,  and 
 the  “dear”  was  like  the  icing  on  devil  cake,  but 
 just  at  that  moment  the  door  bell  gave  forth  a 
 clear,  sharp  call  to  duty. 
 
 Mr.  Mindfull  ejaculated  something  that 
 drowned  the  “I  told  you  so”  of  his  wife.  This 
 was  very  unchi valrous,  for  what  will  become  of 
 the  human  race  if  man  becomes  so  coarse  as  not 
 to  bow  in  dignified  acquiescence  to  woman’s  “I 
 told  you  so.” 
 
 At  any  rate  he  slipped  into  his  slippers, 
 hastily  donned  Mrs.  Mindfull’s  dressing  gown,  and 
 descended  the  stairs.  We  had  better  say  he  stum¬ 
 bled  down  the  stairs,  for  he  had  a  hard  time  keep¬ 
 ing  the  hem  of  his  garment  above  his  ankle  and 
 
THE  CURE 
 
 87 
 
 the  sleeves  from  reaching  out  beyond  his  hands. 
 The  gown  completely  enveloped  his  body,  and  the 
 mesenger  boy  was  reminded  of  some  of  the  pic¬ 
 tures  he  had  seen  in  a  History  of  Rome. 
 
 The  telegram  was  important,  but  not  enough 
 to  throw  Mr.  Mindfull  into  hysterics.  Even  his 
 poor,  tantalized  nerves  stood  the  test.  In  fact, 
 after  he  had  turned  it  over  to  his  superior  who 
 claimed  she  had  a  right  to  know,  his  thoughts  re¬ 
 verted  to  the  insomnia  problem. 
 
 He  certainly  must  have  been  asleep.  Mrs. 
 Mindfull’s  contention  had  been  confirmed  by  the 
 statement  of  the  messenger  that  he  had  rung  the 
 bell  twice. 
 
 Now  what  had  he  been  doing  when  the  bell 
 rang  the  first  time  ?  He  must  have  been  sleeping. 
 He  could  not  deny  it.  And  yet  he  had  been  sure  of 
 not  having  slept  for  a  month.  And  if  he  had  been 
 mistaken  in  this  instance,  why  not  in  others?  It 
 was  quite  possible  that  he  had  been  sleeping  more 
 than  he  thought  he  had.  That  certainly  was  com¬ 
 forting.  His  health  was  not  as  bad  as  he  thought 
 it  had  been.  In  fact,  he  felt  better.  His  condition 
 seemed  to  be  much  more  hopeful.  The  obsession 
 of  a  month  felt  the  expulsive  power  of  a  new 
 conviction.  Something  seemed  to  dissolve  in  Mr. 
 Mindfull’s  brain ;  something  seemed  to  relax. 
 Then  again  there  was  a  fusing.  He  was  conscious 
 
88 
 
 THE  CURE 
 
 of  levitation.  He  was  being  wafted  through  a  mil¬ 
 lion  or  more  miles  of  purest  ether.  It  all  lasted 
 just  a  minute  or  two  when  a  voice  brought  him 
 back  to  the  realities  of  blankets  and  pillows. 
 
 “For  goodness’  sake,  stop  your  snoring.  It’s 
 time  to  get  up,  anyhow,  and  look  after  the  fur¬ 
 nace.” 
 
 He  opened  his  eyes,  blinked,  and  saw  it  was 
 daylight. 
 
 He  knew  he  was  cured. 
 
GOING  HOME 
 
 certain  man  had  a  large  family.  And 
 he  had  said  to  his  son,  “You  see  there 
 are  too  many  of  us.  You  are  strong  and 
 bright,  and  the  world  is  full  of  oppor¬ 
 tunities.” 
 
 And  not  many  days  after  the  son  left  his 
 home.  He  traveled  many  miles,  and  found  a  posi¬ 
 tion  in  a  distant  city. 
 
 He  worked  hard,  and  became  wealthy. 
 
 When,  after  fifteen  years  of  incessant  toil,  he 
 took  a  vacation,  he  heard  the  cow-bells  in  the 
 meadow,  and  he  longed  for  the  old  home. 
 
 He  said  to  himself,  “I’m  going  home.” 
 
 Then  he  thought  of  the  riches,  and  he  added, 
 “And  I  am  going  to  dazzle  them  with  my  wealth.” 
 
 And  he  journeyed  home  in  a  fine  limousine, 
 enjoying  all  the  comforts  that  money  can  buy. 
 
 But  when  they  left  the  state-road,  and  he  saw 
 
 [89] 
 
90 
 
 GOING  HOME 
 
 an  old  chimney  rise  above  the  brow  of  the  hill,  he 
 said  to  the  chauffeur,  “James,  you  stay  here  with 
 the  car.  I  am  going  to  walk  home.” 
 
 He  took  off  his  coat,  and  he  did  not  mind  the 
 dust  of  the  road.  He  would  fain  have  bathed  his 
 feet  in  the  brook  and  walk  home  barefoot. 
 
 He  felt  like  crying,  “Father,  mother,  I  don’t 
 want  to  come  back  to  you  as  the  wealthy  man;  I 
 want  to  come  back  to  you  as  your  boy.” 
 
 When  he  reached  home,  his  brother  did  not 
 recognize  him;  but  the  mother  rushed  out  of  the 
 kitchen  and  called  him  by  a  pet  name  of  his  child¬ 
 hood,  which  he  had  forgotten.  He  dropped  his  hat 
 and  his  coat  to  rest  in  her  arms.  And  the  father 
 came  out  of  the  barn,  and  his  heart  was  in  his 
 hand. 
 
 It  was  long  before  he  remembered  James. 
 
 Likewise  we  want  to  forget  the  daubles  of  life 
 when  we  approach  the  Father,  and  just  be  His 
 child. 
 
A  YOUTHFUL  FANCY 
 
 HE  rich  young  ruler  had  grown  old.  He 
 still  had  great  possessions;  more  than 
 ever.  He  was  resting  on  the  roof  of  his 
 country  home,  in  the  shade  of  a  curtain 
 of  rare  design.  He  was  charmed  with  the 
 view  of  fields  and  groves  and  mountains,  and  the 
 blue  waves  of  the  sea.  So  were  the  servants,  but 
 they  did  not  dare  to  take  their  eyes  off  the  master. 
 
 A  messenger  arrived  and  salaamed  low. 
 
 “Jehovah  is  good,  my  master,”  he  exclaimed. 
 “Thy  ships  have  reached  the  harbor  of  Joppa,  and 
 all  is  well.” 
 
 And  while  he  was  yet  speaking,  there  came 
 also  another. 
 
 “Jehovah  is  with  thee,”  he  greeted.  “Thy 
 caravan  was  attacked  by  Arabians,  but  thy  men 
 beat  them  off,  and  only  Nahum  was  slain.  The 
 spices  are  safe,  and  not  a  camel  was  lost.” 
 
 [91] 
 
92 
 
 A  YOUTHFUL  FANCY 
 
 And  while  he  was  yet  speaking,  there  came 
 also  another,  a  craftsman,  bearing  a  parchment 
 roll.  He  bowed  humbly. 
 
 'Thy  palace  on  Mt.  Carmel  is  almost  finished. 
 The  storm  that  uprooted  trees  in  the  park  left  no 
 mark  on  the  marble.  The  house  is  built  on  a 
 rock.” 
 
 "House  built  on  a  rock?  Where  have  I  heard 
 that  before?”  The  eyes  of  the  rich  man  became 
 dreamy,  but  not  for  long.  Even  while  he  re¬ 
 flected  another  messenger  arrived.  He  bowed 
 with  courtly  grace. 
 
 "Hail  to  thee,  master.  Good  news.  Nero  has 
 heard  of  thee.  Thou  wilt  hear  from  him.” 
 
 "What  other  news  from  Rome,  Philip?” 
 
 "They  are  persecuting  the  Christians.” 
 
 "The  Christians?”  With  a  gesture  he  dis¬ 
 missed  the  messengers.  "The  Christians.”  His 
 lips  scarcely  articulated  the  word.  But  there  came 
 with  it  a  misty  recollection  of  a  prophet  of  Na¬ 
 zareth,  whom  he  had  once  asked:  "What  shall  I 
 do  to  inherit  eternal  life?” 
 
 He  smiled.  "A  youthful  fancy.” 
 
 And  his  mind  reverted  to  the  obsession  of 
 ships  and  caravans,  and  palaces,  and  Rome. 
 
HE  FELT  THE  STARS  LOOKING 
 
 AT  HIM 
 
 HE  Rev.  James  Murgatroyed  rose  on  tip¬ 
 toe  and  looked  for  his  friend,  the  Rev. 
 Thomas  Spencer.  He  had  seen  him  come 
 into  the  minister’s  Monday  conference 
 and  had  recognized  him  at  once,  though 
 they  had  seen  very  little  of  each  other  since  their 
 college  days  in  Wooster. 
 
 Now  that  the  meeting  was  over  and  the  clos^ 
 ing  hymn  was  followed  by  the  hubbub  of  a  hundred 
 trained  voices  greeting  one  another  in  pulpit 
 tones,  he  looked  for  Tom.  Ordinarily  he  would  not 
 have  to  rise  on  tip-toe,  for  he  was  a  tall  man; 
 but  Tom  was  a  little  fellow,  and  he  was  bound 
 not  to  miss  him. 
 
 “There’s  a  fine  little  coffee  parlor  on  Broad¬ 
 way,  not  far  from  here,”  Jim  suggested  after  the 
 first  ecstasies  were  over. 
 
 [93] 
 
94 
 
 FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 Tom  agreed,  moreover,  as  he  would  not  dare 
 to  interfere  with  the  arrangements  of  those  of  his 
 brethren  who  were  evidently  born  to  lead.  Say¬ 
 ing  this,  he  drew  twelve  cents  from  his  vest  pocket 
 and  glanced  meaningly  up  at  his  friend’s  athletic 
 height. 
 
 Mr.  Murgatroyed  deprecated  with  one  hand 
 and  drew  Mr.  Spencer  out  of  the  crowd  with  the 
 other. 
 
 When  they  faced  each  other  over  the  linen 
 that  shimmered  bluishly  in  the  softened  light, 
 Tom  began  the  story  of  his  life,  not,  however  with 
 absolute  fidelity  to  histone  consecutiveness.  In 
 fact,  it  was  haphazard,  now  about  his  revered  an¬ 
 cestor  who  had  come  over  in  the  Mayflower,  and 
 now  about  his  eldest  boy,  a  prodigy.  But  the  de¬ 
 sultoriness  of  the  recital  did  not  interfere  with 
 the  continuity  of  the  flow. 
 
 “Hold  on  a  minute,”  Jim  interrupted  as  the 
 waiter  brought  the  coffee.  “I  want  to  tell  you 
 something  about  myself.  I  may  make  a  change.” 
 
 “Where  to?” 
 
 “South  Lebanon,  Pennsylvania.” 
 
 “South  Lebanon?  A  suburb  of  Lebanon; 
 isn’t  it?  On  a  spur  of  the  Pennsylvania.  Am  I 
 right?” 
 
 “That’s  it.” 
 
FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 95 
 
 “I  know  that  church.  I  was  there  at  one  time 
 when  McPherson  was  the  minister.” 
 
 “McPherson?  I  never  heard  of  him.” 
 
 “Oh,  that’s  about  ten  years  ago.” 
 
 “Oh!” 
 
 “I  can  give  you  a  few  pointers  on  that  church. 
 You  know  the  churches  in  that  neighborhood 
 don’t  change  very  much.” 
 
 “I  know,  the  elder,  Dr.  Bruce,  wrote  it  was  a 
 church  of  established  character.” 
 
 “Bruce?  Bruce?  No,  that’s  not  his  name. 
 I’m  thinking  of  an  old  elder  I  met  there.  Let’s 
 see.  What  was  his  name?  I  remember  him  well 
 now.  Face  like  granite  and  eyebrows  like  bushes. 
 What  was  his  name?  I  have  it.  Burns.  That’s 
 it.  I  remember  him  well.  He’s  very  proud  of 
 being  a  descendant  of  John  Knox.” 
 
 “Is  that  so?”  Murgatroyed  returned  the 
 cup  to  the  saucer,  and  while  his  guest  began  to 
 dissect  and  deposit  a  delicious  piece  of  cake,  he 
 wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper  that  Burns  was  a  descen¬ 
 dant  of  John  Knox. 
 
 “What  else  do  you  know  of  the  church?” 
 
 “Oh,  I  remember  it  very  well.  They  have  a 
 lot  of  Dutch  people  in  it.  Fine  folks  they  are. 
 Steady  as  the  needle.  They’re  slow  in  loving  a 
 
96 
 
 FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 newcomer,  but  if  they  once  love  him,  they’ll  love 
 him  for  good.” 
 
 “Go  on.  What  else?”  Murgatroyed  made  an¬ 
 other  note. 
 
 “There’s  one  man  there — good  man,  too — 
 he’s  developed  a  strange  fondness  for  the  Old  Tes¬ 
 tament  Apocrypha.  You’d  better  read  up  on  Mac¬ 
 cabees  and  so  forth.” 
 
 Murgatroyed  made  a  few  hieroglyphic  dashes. 
 
 “Anything  else?” 
 
 “I  can’t  think  of  anything  just  now.  Just 
 that  they’re  fine  people.  Some  of  them  country 
 gentlemen  who  like  to  hear  about  metropolitan 
 life.” 
 
 They  talked  on  for  a  half  hour,  after  which 
 Tom  plead  an  engagement.  He  would,  however, 
 be  anxious  to  await  Jim’s  verdict  on  the  congre¬ 
 gation  as  well  as  the  congregation’s  verdict.  He 
 was  on  his  vacation,  which  he  always  took  in  Oc¬ 
 tober,  and  would  stay  in  New  York  for  a  few 
 weeks. 
 
 When  Murgatroyed  was  back  in  his  study  in 
 Newark,  he  took  the  history  of  Scotland  from 
 the  shelf  and  began  to  read  the  account  of  the 
 struggle  between  John  Knox  and  Mary  Stuart. 
 Hastily  he  jotted  down  his  impressions,  his  imag¬ 
 ination  creating  a  South  Lebanon  audience  with 
 
FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 97 
 
 Mr.  Burns  as  the  central  figure.  Under  such  his¬ 
 toric  stimulus  as  was  furnished  by  the  scene  be¬ 
 tween  the  Elijah  of  the  North  and  the  beautiful 
 queen,  the  sentences  rolled  off  his  fountain  pen 
 to  his  own  evident  satisfaction. 
 
 “That  isn’t  bad,”  he  complimented  himself 
 after  he  had  read  it  aloud.  “But  I  think  I’ll  add  a 
 few  lines  from  The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night.  That 
 ought  to  impress  the  old  elder.” 
 
 “And  now  something  to  please  the  Dutch.” 
 He  turned  his  revolving  book-case  for  a  volume 
 of  Motley’s  History  of  the  United  Netherlands. 
 After  browsing  for  a  while,  his  eyes  chanced  upon 
 the  name  of  William  of  Orange. 
 
 “The  very  character,”  he  smiled  to  himself. 
 He  read  the  account  of  the  siege  of  Leyden,  and 
 the  heroism  of  William  the  Silent  made  him  feel 
 volubly  rhetorical.  His  pen  raced  over  five  pages. 
 The  flow  of  ink  being  occasionally  impeded  by 
 some  temporary  defect,  the  little  outbursts  of 
 temper  as  he  ejected  spouts  of  ink  on  the  carpet, 
 which  fortunately  was  a  linoleum,  helped  to  set 
 his  words  afire  with  temperament. 
 
 He  sighed  as  he  reviewed. 
 
 “That’s  kind  o’  fine,”  was  his  self-felicitation. 
 
 He  then  consulted  the  Apocrypha.  For  a 
 while  he  was  undecided  as  to  whether  to  use  the 
 
98 
 
 FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 heroism  of  Judas  Maccabeus  driving  the  Syrian 
 host  to  cover  in  five  successive  victories  or  the 
 truculent  bravery  of  Judith  slaying  Holoferness; 
 but,  after  standing  at  the  window  for  a  minute 
 and  vainly  looking  for  an  oracle  from  the  scud 
 of  the  sky,  or  the  passersby  scanning  the  clouds 
 and  buttoning  their  coats,  or  the  jangling  street 
 car,  he  finally  decided  on  Judas  as  most  compatible 
 with  the  tenor  of  his  other  illustrations. 
 
 “And  now  for  a  bit  of  Metropolitan  life,”  he 
 mused.  “Well,  I  can  think  of  nothing  better  than 
 that  parade  when  the  Sixty-ninth  came  home. 
 First  the  furled  flag  and  the  slow  beat  of  drums. 
 Then  the  wounded,  and  at  last  the  endless  rows  of 
 Young  America  passing  under  the  Victory  Arch. 
 I  am  sure  they  did  not  see  anything  like  that  in 
 Lebanon.” 
 
 He  left  the  desk  and  dropped  into  the  Morris 
 chair,  where  he  closed  his  eyes  and  endeavored 
 to  fuse  John  Knox  and  William  of  Orange,  and 
 Judas  Maccabeus  and  the  Victory  Arch  into  a 
 composite  harmony  when  suddenly  he  jerked  up 
 with  a  start. 
 
 “Why  I  haven’t  chosen  my  text  yet.” 
 
 Some  ministers  there  are,  to  be  sure,  who 
 are  so  audacious  as  to  preach  without  a  text,  but 
 Murgatroyed  was  conservative  enough  to  eschew 
 such  ultra-modern  escapades.  Besides,  he  was  to 
 
FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 99 
 
 preach  a  trial  sermon,  and  in  that  case  one  had 
 better  not  deviate  too  much  from  established  cus¬ 
 tom.  So  he  hunted  for  and  finally  succeeded  in 
 finding  a  text  that  was  sufficiently  comprehensive 
 and  elastic  to  admit  of  the  use  of  all  of  his  stra¬ 
 tegic  illustrations. 
 
 He  had  expected  to  leave  on  Friday,  but  a 
 funeral  service  detained  him,  so  that  he  did  not 
 start  until  Saturday  morning,  and  the  change  of 
 trains  at  Harrisburg  caused  a  delay  of  several 
 hours.  However,  the  trip  was  delightful,  and  his 
 mind  alternated  between  noting  the  beauties  of 
 the  scenery  and  allowing  his  thoughts  to  drift  into 
 random  but  fine  dreaming,  which,  also,  was  a 
 preparation  for  the  morrow’s  work. 
 
 It  was  dark  when  he  arrived.  Dr.  Bruce,  his 
 host,  had  received  the  telegram  and  met  Mr.  Mur- 
 gatroyed  at  the  station.  The  pleasure  was  mutual, 
 and  the  Franklin  car — which  was  new,  for  the 
 doctor  had  recently  married — soon  brought  them 
 to  the  cottage  whose  chimney  waved  the  smoke 
 plume  of  welcome  at  the  minister. 
 
 He  had  little  opportunity  to  draw  information 
 from  his  host,  for  the  doctor  had  to  excuse  him¬ 
 self  several  times  to  attend  to  patients.  Besides, 
 the  trip  had  made  him  tired  and  he  longed  to  go 
 to  bed. 
 
 From  the  window  of  his  bed-room  he  saw  a 
 
100  FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 lane  of  cottages,  and  at  the  end  of  it  a  church 
 whose  spire  was  outtowered  by  the  mountains  in 
 the  distance.  Here  and  there  lights  were  blind-'" 
 ing  through  the  trees  on  the  hillside,  and  he  felt 
 the  stars  looking  at  him.  Nature  seemed  to  have 
 pressed  her  finger  to  her  lips,  saying  to  the 
 stranger :  “Be  still,  and  know.”  He  forgot  about 
 Scotland  and  Holland  and  the  Macabees.  Rather 
 did  he  have  a  touch  of  the  mystic  feeling  of  them 
 that  gained  all  by  yielding  all. 
 
 In  the  morning,  however,  he  awoke  to  the 
 necessities  of  the  campaign.  At  the  breakfast,  he 
 adroitly,  as  if  casually,  questioned  Mrs.  Bruce,  a 
 young  woman  of  promising  proportions  and  will¬ 
 ing  confidences. 
 
 “I  understand,  Mrs.  Bruce,  quite  a  number 
 of  your  members  are  of  Dutch  descent;  I  mean 
 Hollanders.”  Thus  he  began  to  find  his  range. 
 
 “Why,  no;  not  many,”  his  hostess  answered 
 musically.  “There’s  the  Van  Steens,  the  Hornes, 
 and  the  Arembergs.  Nice  people.  The  Van 
 Steens  will  come  to  church  in  their  new  automo¬ 
 bile,  I  guess.  Mr.  Van  Steen  is  in  the  real  estate 
 and  lumber  business,  and  the  doctor  tells  me  he 
 has  mining  interests.  Now,  the  Arembergs.”  She 
 stopped,  for  the  minister  had  stopped  eating  and 
 stared  at  her. 
 
FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM  101 
 
 “Will  you  have  another  cup  of  coffee,  Doc¬ 
 tor?”  she  asked  solicitously. 
 
 “No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Bruce,”  he  replied  with 
 less  color  in  his  voice.  “But  tell  me,  is  Mr.  Burns, 
 the  old  elder,  still  living?  A  friend  of  mine  told 
 me  about  him.” 
 
 “Mr.  Burns?”  She  shook  her  head.  “There 
 is  a  Mr.  Burns  here,  but  he  is  just  a  recent  arri¬ 
 val.  He’s  working  for  the  Standard  Oil  Company. 
 Very  pleasant  man  to  meet,  and  an  elegant 
 dresser.  But  he  is  a  young  man.” 
 
 Murgatroyed  wiped  his  forehead  with  his 
 napkin. 
 
 “No;  that  can’t  be  the  Mr.  Burns  my  friend 
 referred  to.  He  must  be  an  old  man  now,  and  he 
 is  very  proud  of  being  a  descendant  of  John 
 Knox.” 
 
 Mrs.  Bruce  laughed.  Such  a  melodious  laugh. 
 
 “Now  I  understand.  That’s  Mr.  Jonathan 
 Burns  of  the  East  Lebanon  church.  Ours  is  the 
 South  Lebanon  church,  you  know.  Your  friend 
 must  have  confused  the  two  churches.  Yes,  I 
 know  Mr.  Burns.  Everybody  within  six  miles 
 around  here  knows  Mr.  Burns.  I  know  him  well 
 because  the  East  Lebanon  church  was  my  church 
 before  I  was  married.  It's  a  good  church,  too. 
 And  Mr.  Burns  is  a  fine  man.  He  wants  to  have 
 
102  FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 his  own  way,  that’s  true,  but  it’s  usually  a  good 
 way. 
 
 “If  you  can  stay  here  a  few  days  you  are  likely 
 to  meet  him.  And  maybe  you  will  meet  Mr. 
 Greer,  the  Sunday  school  superintendent  of  East 
 Lebanon.  We  all  liked  him,  although  we  used  to 
 giggle  when  in  his  funny  way  he  would  tell  us  by 
 all  means  to  read  the  Apocrypha.” 
 
 The  doctor  entered. 
 
 “Mr.  Murgatroyed,”  he  interrupted,  “I  don’t 
 want  to  hurry  you.  But  if  you  would  like  to  say  a 
 word  to  the  Sunday  school  before  the  church  serv¬ 
 ice,  I  think  we  shall  have  to  get  ready  to  go.” 
 
 “Certainly,”  the  minister  answered,  like  one 
 in  a  daze. 
 
 Excusing  himself,  he  went  up  to  his  room.  He 
 closed  the  door  and  dropped  into  a  chair.  There 
 he  sat  for  fully  five  minutes  and  stared  at  the 
 washbowl,  or  rather  through  the  washbowl  to 
 something  far  away.  Slowly  he  took  the  sermon 
 from  the  pocket  of  his  Prince  Albert  coat,  glanced 
 at  a  few  pages,  and  then  deposited  the  carefully 
 prepared  manuscript  in  his  suit  case. 
 
 But  why  not  preach  the  sermon?  What  if 
 the  Scotch  heir  to  greatness  was  not  there?  What 
 if  the  Dutch  were  in  a  small  minority?  What  if 
 the  church  was  different  from  what  he  had  been 
 
FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM  IDS 
 
 led  to  presume?  Did  not  those  illustrations  ad¬ 
 mit  of  cosmopolitan  application?  Up  and  doing! 
 
 No;  he  could  not.  The  disappointment  had 
 torn  something  from  his  eyes.  He  was  disgusted 
 with  the  worldly  strategy  in  writing  the  sermon. 
 A  voice  within,  to  be  sure,  reminding  him  that 
 even  ministers  may  be  wise  as  serpents,  and  to 
 please  all  men  in  all  things  that  they  may  be  saved 
 had  a  noble  precedent ;  but  he  shook  his  head.  He 
 felt  the  stars  looking  at  him  again. 
 
 He  rose,  donned  his  coat,  and  after  an  inad- 
 vertant  glance  at  the  mirror,  descended  the  stairs. 
 
 The  children  in  the  Sunday  school  he  told  the 
 incident  of  a  little  girl,  poorly  clad,  who  had 
 looked  wistfully  up  at  the  train  when  it  stopped 
 for  a  few  minutes  near  a  hamlet.  Somebody  took 
 an  interest  in  her  and  handed  her  an  apple  out  of 
 the  window.  She  stammered  thanks  and  then 
 asked  her  benefactor  to  please  cut  it  in  two  so 
 as  to  enable  her  to  share  it  with  a  companion  who 
 looked  just  as  ill-fed. 
 
 He  wondered  what  he  would  preach  about. 
 He  knew  he  could  not  deliver  the  sermon  he  had 
 prepared.  He  knew  he  was  above  it.  That  was 
 not  his  message;  certainly  not  for  today.  But 
 what  would  he  say? 
 
 As  the  organist  played  the  prelude,  a  text 
 
104  FELT  STARS  LOOKING  AT  HIM 
 
 flashed  through  his  mind  which  years  ago  had  be¬ 
 come  one  of  the  anchor  passages  of  his  life :  “The 
 Son  of  God  who  loved  me  and  gave  himself  for 
 me.”  It  was  surprising  how  quickly  the  skeleton 
 was  formed  and  how  rapidly  it  was  covered  with 
 living  flesh.  He  preached  on  the  beauty  of  sacri¬ 
 fice.  He  began  with  the  Victory  Arch  and  the  re¬ 
 turned  soldiers  marching  under  it.  He  spoke  of 
 the  thousands  who  had  laid  down  their  lives,  of 
 the  cross  bearers  of  all  ages,  of  Livingstone’s  heart 
 buried  in  Africa ;  and  in  the  second  part  he 
 painted  the  holy  beauty  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows. 
 It  was  a  soul  yielding  to  inspiration  and  pouring 
 itself  forth  to  self-forgetful  abandon. 
 
 Six  months  later,  a  school  teacher  told  him 
 he  had  made  three  grammatical  errors  in  that 
 sermon,  but  she  had  not  become  aware  of  them 
 until  the  following  day. 
 
 He  stopped  without  a  formal  conclusion.  The 
 professor  of  homiletics  would  have  criticized,  and 
 the  eyes  of  his  hearers  seemed  to  say:  “Go  on.” 
 He  could  not  go  on.  He  had  painted  the  cross 
 until  he  saw  it,  and  he  felt  like  worshiping.  He 
 bowed  his  head  and  prayed. 
 
CHEAP 
 
 NNOUNCEMENT  was  made  by  the  chair¬ 
 man  that  the  state  convention  would  meet 
 at  Charlottesburg,  and  that  it  would  be 
 well  to  have  the  society  represented. 
 Would  not  somebody  volunteer? 
 
 “The  fare  is  fifteen  dollars  for  the  round  trip, 
 and  the  total  expenses  will  amount  to  about 
 twenty-five  dollars.”  He  spoke  as  one  having  au¬ 
 thority. 
 
 There  was  a  pause,  and  much  silent  thinking. 
 
 “I  wouldn’t  mind  going,”  thought  Sam 
 Browne.  “Must  be  great.  Fine  trip,  too.  But 
 twenty-five  dollars  would  make  a  dent  in  my  bank 
 account.”  According  to  the  expression  on  his  face 
 he  would  have  qualified  for  the  position  of  certified 
 expert  of  income-tax  intricacies.  An  expenditure 
 of  twenty-five  dollars,  especially  for  altruistic  pur¬ 
 poses,  was  a  serious  matter. 
 
 [105] 
 
106 
 
 CHEAP 
 
 “I’d  love  to  go,”  mused  Flossie  Perkins. 
 “Nice  to  meet  a  lot  of  nice  people.  But  I’d  rather 
 have  that  mauve  dress  I  saw  in  Madame  Trudeau’s 
 window  today.  The  one  with  the  Nile-green  trim¬ 
 mings.”  She  looked  adoringly  up  at  the  ceiling, 
 and  then  more  adoringly  at  the  mirror  in  her 
 purse. 
 
 “I  guess  it’s  up  to  me,”  the  president  said  to 
 himself.  “But  business  first,  and  we’re  too  busy.” 
 
 Then  Old  Faithful  rose. 
 
 “Well,  if  nobody  else  goes,  I  guess  I’ll  go,”  she 
 said  simply.  She  was  tall  and  strong.  Her 
 friends  remarked  about  two  of  her  habits,  for  she 
 was  mature  enough  to  have  a  few  mixed  habits. 
 One  was  her  smile  that  would  come  unexpectedly 
 and  endow  the  serious  cast  of  her  features  with 
 a  beauty  that  was  distinctly  spiritual.  The  other 
 was  a  way  she  had  of  brushing  her  dark  hair  from 
 her  forehead.  It  stood  for  clearing  the  deck  and 
 getting  ready  for  action. 
 
 Her  decision  was  applauded.  The  members 
 nodded  to  one  another,  as  though  saying,  “You 
 might  know.” 
 
 Old  Faithful  was  popular,  especially  with  the 
 younger  set,  whom  she  had  often  helped  in  pre¬ 
 paring  papers  and  other  work.  It  was  strange 
 what  fun  a  person  could  have  doing  serious  work 
 when  Old  Faithful  helped.  She  was  still  young. 
 
CHEAP 
 
 107 
 
 Friend  and  not-friend  would  have  resented  any 
 intimation  of  her  being  an  old  maid.  In  fact, 
 some  believed  she  would  always  remain  young. 
 
 John  Raymond  asked  for  the  floor.  He  was 
 a  recent  accession  to  the  society,  but  a  keen  ob¬ 
 server  through  glasses  that  glistened  immacul¬ 
 ately. 
 
 “Mr.  Raymond  has  the  floor.” 
 
 “Well,  I  just  want  to  say,  that  is,  I  just  want 
 to  say,  that  I  think — of  course,  that’s  j  ust  my  idea, 
 you  know — I  think  anyhow  that  we  ought  to  pay 
 the  delegate’s  expenses,  at  least  her  fare.” 
 
 There  was  a  pause  for  twenty-three  seconds, 
 and  much  violent  thinking.  This  was  followed  by 
 earnest  whispering,  frilled  with  giggles. 
 
 Then  Sam  Browne  arose.  He  squared  his 
 shoulder,  caressed  an  early  clearing  on  the  top 
 of  his  head,  and  looked  for  a  moment  as  though 
 he  might  release  a  Patrick  Henry  oration.  In  a 
 most  unparliamentary  manner,  however,  he 
 turned  on  the  nervous  Mr.  Raymond. 
 
 “Are  you  going  to  furnish  the  money?”  he 
 blurted. 
 
 Mr.  Raymond  blushed. 
 
 “Why,  no,”  he  stammered.  “I  thought,  that 
 is,  I  thought,  we  might  take  the  money  out  of  the 
 treasury;  or  else  it  seems  to  me,  anyhow  I  think 
 
108 
 
 CHEAP 
 
 so,  it  is  just  my  opinion,  we  might  chip  together 
 out  of  our  own  pockets.’' 
 
 It  was  evident  Mr.  Raymond  needed  two  feet 
 to  stand  on.  He  tried  very  hard  to  stand  on  one 
 foot  only,  first  one  and  then  the  other,  but  the  at¬ 
 tempt  proved  a  complete  failure.  When  he  sat 
 down  he  wiped  the  beads  of  moisture  from  his 
 brow  with  Mrs.  Manning’s  veil  instead  of  his 
 handkerchief,  which  did  not  add  to  his  popularity. 
 
 The  meeting  resolved  itself  into  a  committee 
 of  the  whole  without  consent  of  the  chairman.  The 
 latter  turned  to  the  secretary  for  advice  but  on 
 seeing  her  pretty  teeth  try  to  bite  the  pencil  in 
 two,  while  her  eyes  studied  invisible  stars  and  her 
 hair  curled  rebelliously,  he  forgot  about  the  meet¬ 
 ing  for  a  moment ;  even  two  moments. 
 
 Above  the  subdued  surf  of  animated  discus-: 
 sion  could  be  heard  the  voice  of  Flossie  Perkins. 
 
 “If  it  comes  to  having  the  expenses  paid,  I 
 guess  there  are  others.” 
 
 She  said  it  in  a  whisper  that  was  distinctly 
 heard  by  the  cat  which  had  strayed  into  the  room 
 through  the  window  and  now  blinked  at  the  meet¬ 
 ing  from  the  sill.  When  she  heard  the  last  re¬ 
 mark,  she  washed  herself  vigorously. 
 
 At  last  order  was  restored,  partly  through  the 
 efforts  of  the  chairman  who  had  “come  to”  and 
 now  pounded  the  table  with  a  fist  that  was  used  to 
 
CHEAP 
 
 109 
 
 wielding  a  heavy  fountain-pen,  and  partly  by  the 
 voice  of  Old  Faithful.  The  latter  part  was  four 
 fifths. 
 
 “I  move  to  lay  this  matter  on  the  table,”  she 
 said.  She  cleared  her  forehead  for  a  few  imper¬ 
 tinent  wisps,  and  her  eyes  looked  more  penetrating 
 than  ever.  “Or  better,  since  there  was  no  motion, 
 let  us  fire  it  under  the  table  and  forget  it.  I’m 
 going  to  pay  my  own  expenses. 
 
 “And  now,  while  we’re  talking  about  money, 
 let  me  speak  to  you  of  the  Tenement  Fund.  We 
 must  not  forget  it.  The  need  is  great.” 
 
 She  talked  on,  and  they  listened.  Sam 
 Browne  admired  her  with  eyes  and  purse.  Pres¬ 
 ently  he  took  out  his  note-book  and  pen. 
 
 When  Old  Faithful  had  finished,  he  rose  and 
 asked  for  the  floor.  The  chairman  assured  him  of 
 that  privilege,  realizing  the  futility  of  refusing, 
 in  view  of  the  fact  that  Sam  took  possession  of  a 
 considerable  portion  of  the  floor  wherever  he 
 stood. 
 
 Sam  did  not  merely  rise ;  he  rose  to  the  occa¬ 
 sion. 
 
 “There  was  no  motion  made  to  pay  the  dele¬ 
 gate’s  expenses,”  he  began,  “and  for  that  reason 
 we  cannot  well  do  anything  about  it ;  that’s  sure. 
 But  I  don’t  think  we  ought  to  let  the  chance  go 
 by  without  doing  something.  Not  only  say  nice 
 
110 
 
 CHEAP 
 
 things  outside,  but  do  something  right  here.  Yes, 
 Mr.  Chairman,  do  something.”  (The  chairman 
 nodded  vaguely.)  “And  therefore  I  move  to  adopt 
 the  following  resolution : 
 
 “We,  the  members  of  this  society,  convened 
 for  a  regular  meeting,  on  this  twenty-fifth  day  of 
 October,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1923,  do  hereby 
 and  herewith  seriously  and  earnestly  express  our 
 high  appreciation  of  the  noble,  unselfish,  self-de¬ 
 nying,  and  splendid  services  rendered  this  society 
 by  our  much-beloved  delegate  to  the  state  conven¬ 
 tion,  and  we  wish  her  happy  and  glorious  hours 
 and  days  on  the  trip  and  at  the  convention.” 
 
 “Second  the  motion,”  trebled  and  bassed  a 
 number  of  voices.  The  enthusiasm  was  unani¬ 
 mous,  and  the  resolution  was  carried  without  a 
 dissenting  vote. 
 
 The  cat,  however,  yawned,  sang  a  sad  song  of 
 one  note,  and  leaped  out  of  sight. 
 
MORE  TIME  FOR  HERSELF 
 
 RS.  Sperry  sighed. 
 
 “It  is  work,  work,  work,  from  morn 
 to  night.  I  haven’t  a  moment  for  myself. 
 Housework  certainly  is  slavery.  Why 
 don’t  those  men  of  genius  think  of  some¬ 
 thing  to  make  life  easier  for  us  ?  Here  the  minis¬ 
 ter  tells  us  to  spend  at  least  a  half  hour  in  quiet 
 communion  every  day.  But  how  will  I  get  in  the 
 half  hour?  And  servants  are  expensive — when 
 you  can  get  them.” 
 
 That  evening  her  husband  announced  that  he 
 would  have  electricity  installed,  and  would  make 
 her  a  present  of  one  of  the  improved  electric 
 sweepers. 
 
 Well,  it  was  great,  and  Mrs.  Sperry  was  de¬ 
 lighted.  It  was  such  a  labor  and  time-saving  in¬ 
 vention.  Now  at  last  she  was  able  to  take  in  a 
 matinee  or  two  a  week. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
112 
 
 MORE  TIME  FOR  HERSELF 
 
 But  the  matinee  devoured  more  time  than 
 just  the  performance.  There  was  the  dressing, 
 and  the  hours  spent  on  the  way.  And  then  it  was 
 absolutely  necessary,  once  in  a  while,  to  have  a 
 confidential  chat  with  the  dressmaker. 
 
 “Oh,  dear,”  she  sighed.  “I  wish  I  had  a  lit¬ 
 tle  more  time  for  myself.  Just  to  be  able  and  sit 
 still  and  come  to  myself.” 
 
 One  morning  the  expressman  brought  a  new 
 device,  with  the  compliments  of  Mr.  Sperry.  An 
 electrical  dishwasher.  Not  of  the  old-fashioned 
 kind  that  have  long  been  on  the  market.  Some¬ 
 thing  altogether  new.  A  machine  that  would 
 wash  and  dry  the  dishes.  All  the  human  hand 
 had  to  do  was  to  put  the  dishes  into  the  receiver, 
 fill  it  with  water,  cover  it  up,  and  turn  on  the 
 current. 
 
 Mrs.  Sperry  rejoiced.  She  had  no  difficulty 
 in  persuading  her  husband  to  crown  his  kind 
 benevolences  by  taking  the  dishes  out  of  the  ma¬ 
 chine  and  stacking  them  away.  She  convinced 
 him  that  baby  would  hold  him  in  higher  esteem 
 for  being  so  good  to  mama. 
 
 But  why  hurry? 
 
 “Now  I  can  be  in  time  for  the  first  film  in 
 the  movie.  Mrs.  Fudge  has  often  asked  me  to  go 
 with  her.  Of  course,  I  have  been  there,  but  Mrs. 
 Fudge  told  me  I  have  to  be  regular  to  get  the  real 
 
MORE  TIME  FOR  HERSELF 
 
 113 
 
 benefit.  She  says  the  movies  are  so  human.  They 
 bring  the  real  life  close  to  us.” 
 
 But  she  had  to  hurry,  poor  woman ! 
 
 “Oh,  dear,”  she  sighed,  “this  life  is  killing. 
 Not  a  moment  for  myself.  My  head  is  in  a  whirl. 
 And  the  beautiful  pictures  so  stir  my  emotion.  I 
 just  do  wish  I  had  a  little  more  time  just  to  come 
 to  myself.” 
 
 A  great  invention  stirred  the  household 
 world  just  at  that  time.  Mrs.  Sperry  read  and 
 gasped  delightedly. 
 
 “Isn’t  that  great?”  she  exclaimed  to  her  hus¬ 
 band,  handing  him  the  paper. 
 
 He  read  with  increasing  interest.  It  was 
 indeed  a  wonderful  thing.  A  machine  about  the 
 size  of  an  oil-stove.  It  could  be  carried  from  room 
 to  room.  It  looked  so  innocent,  but  it  was  filled 
 with  chemicals  so  delicately  and  dynamically  ad¬ 
 justed  that  when  connected  with  an  electric  cur¬ 
 rent,  they  would  draw  unto  themselves  and  de¬ 
 posit  into  a  refuse  pocket  every  particle  of  dirt 
 in  the  room,  doing  the  work  of  sweeping  and  dust¬ 
 ing.  “Easywork”  was  the  name  of  the  clever  de¬ 
 vice.  The  house-wife  would  take  it  into  the  room, 
 attach  the  wire,  turn  on  the  current,  and  then 
 leave.  In  a  half  hour  the  room  would  be  im¬ 
 maculate. 
 
 It  was  a  marvel.  Of  course,  it  was  expensive, 
 
114 
 
 MORE  TIME  FOR  HERSELF 
 
 but  Sperry  loved  his  wife  dearly.  He  knew  it 
 would  save  time  and  labor,  and  give  his  darling 
 a  few  hours  a  day  more  for  herself. 
 
 When  the  “Easywork”  arrived,  he  almost  re¬ 
 gretted  being  present,  for  his  wife’s  gratitude  was 
 oppressive. 
 
 She  certainly  was  happy.  It  meant  so  much 
 more  time  for  herself. 
 
 And  she  joined  a  euchre  club. — 
 
 Poor  Mrs.  Sperry! 
 
 The  name,  of  course,  is  fictitious.  The  real 
 name  is  humanity. 
 
 With  every  labor,  and  time-saving  invention 
 we  become  more  fretful  and  restless,  and  we  have 
 less  and  less  time  for  the  one  thing  needful. 
 
THE  WISE  ONE 
 
 HE  Wise  One  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  palm. 
 Old  men  said  their  fathers  had  told  them 
 that  the  tree  was  older  than  the  Wise 
 One. 
 
 "Did  you  see  Him?”  he  asked,  in  a 
 voice  that  echoed  centuries. 
 
 "Yes,  we  did,”  the  men  answered.  They 
 were  tired.  Their  feet  and  sandals  were  dusty. 
 
 "And  did  you  feel  the  power?” 
 
 They  smiled ;  and  one  of  them,  a  young  man, 
 laughed. 
 
 "We  did  just  as  Martha  told  us  she  did,”  the 
 spokesman  reported.  "Each  one  of  us  took  his 
 turn.  We  waited  until  the  Prophet  was  sur¬ 
 rounded  by  a  crowd,  we  came  up  from  behind,  we 
 touched  the  hem  of  his  garment.  Just  as  she  told 
 us.  But  we  felt  nothing  like  the  power  of  which 
 she  speaks.  Benoni,  the  fool,  thought  he  felt 
 
 [115] 
 
116 
 
 THE  WISE  ONE 
 
 something,  but  he  is  a  fool.  And  he  did  not  do  as 
 we  told  him  to  do.  He  listened  to  the  Prophet's 
 words  and  forgot  himself." 
 
 The  Wise  One  was  silent. 
 
 “We  were  scientific,"  the  spokesman  con¬ 
 tinued.  “We  tabulated  our  impressions.  And  we 
 have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Martha  did  not 
 tell  the  truth.  If  she  felt  the  power,  why  did  not 
 we?  We  did  just  as  she  told  us  she  had  done.” 
 
 “But  how  was  she  cured?" 
 
 The  spokesman  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
 his  eyebrows  hinted  at  dark  powers. 
 
 “Did  you  indeed  do  as  she  did?"  the  Wise  One 
 asked  again,  after  a  pause. 
 
 “Exactly  as  she  told  us.  We  waited  until  the 
 people  thronged  about  him,  then  we  came  up  from 
 behind,  and  we  touched  the  hem  of  his  garment.” 
 
 The  voice  of  the  Wise  One  became  deeper, 
 unearthly. 
 
 “And  had  you  felt  the  need  of  him?"  he  asked. 
 
 “No,"  the  spokesman  wavered.  “We  were 
 making  a  scientific  investigation.”  He  coughed. 
 
 The  Wise  One  dropped  his  eyes  and  sat  very 
 still.  And  in  the  long  silence  that  followed,  one 
 after  the  other  of  the  men  stole  away. 
 
THE  PALE  FAITH 
 
 R.  Hiram  Meeke  was  a  devout  man.  He 
 was  the  foremost  surgeon  of  Charlton. 
 Nature  had  endowed  him  with  a  love  for 
 the  mysteries  of  the  human  body  as  well 
 as  with  a  keen  eye  and  a  steady  hand. 
 But  he  was  interested  in  other  mysteries  also.  The 
 tension  of  his  daily  task  was  often  relieved  by  in¬ 
 dulging  in  the  devotions  of  the  mystics. 
 
 He  was  a  man  of  faith.  God  would  make  all 
 things  well,  he  was  sure.  People  loved  the  tall, 
 spare  doctor.  His  white  hair  and  mustache  made 
 him  almost  venerable,  especially  when  his  eyes 
 shone  with  a  deep,  deep  light. 
 
 One  evening,  after  office  hours,  a  committee 
 waited  on  the  doctor.  It  was  a  committee  of 
 three:  Rev.  Mr.  Beckett  of  the  Presbyterian 
 Church,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Burns  of  the  Methodist 
 Church,  and  Mr.  William  Atwood,  president  of 
 
 [117] 
 
118 
 
 THE  PALE  FAITH 
 
 the  Atwood  and  Martin  Motor  Co.  The  Martin 
 motors  were  famous. 
 
 Dr.  Burns  acted  as  spokesman.  With  his 
 ready  flow  of  words  he  urged  the  doctor  to  join 
 them  in  a  crusade  against  the  vile  performance 
 in  the  local  moving  picture  theatres. 
 
 ‘‘They  are  bad/’  the  reverend  gentleman  ges¬ 
 ticulated.  “They  are  vicious  when  they  are  openly 
 obscene,  and  they  are  insidiously  bad  when  they 
 assume  a  sentimentally  good  appearance.  You 
 know  it  is  true,  doctor.  And  something  has  to  be 
 done,  unless  we  are  willing  to  forfeit  our  reputa¬ 
 tion  for  a  high  standard  of  decency.” 
 
 His  little,  pompous  figure  grew  two  inches 
 while  he  spoke. 
 
 Dr.  Meeke  smiled  a  beautiful  smile,  and  his 
 eyes  feasted  on  distant  verdures. 
 
 The  Presbyterian  minister  remained  seated. 
 His  size  was  impressive  enough  even  in  a  chair. 
 He  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  His  statement 
 was  strong  and  incontrovertible.  Something  had 
 to  be  done. 
 
 Some  people  called  Mr.  Beckett  dry.  He 
 didn’t  have  much  gravy,  to  be  sure,  but  his  meat 
 was  always  well  cooked. 
 
 Mr.  Atwood  was  a  man  of  few  words.  In 
 his  younger  days,  he  had  been  an  amateur  prize 
 fighter,  billed  as  “Still  Bill.” 
 
THE  PALE  FAITH 
 
 119 
 
 “Better  join  us,”  he  said,  stiffening  his  jaw. 
 “We  need  you.” 
 
 Dr.  Meeke  came  to. 
 
 “Do  you  know,”  he  said  mellowly,  “I  have 
 learned  to  leave  all  such  things  to  the  Lord.” 
 
 They  argued;  they  pleaded. 
 
 “I  am  sure,”  he  ended  the  debate,  “that  if  the 
 Lord  wants  the  ‘movies’  reformed,  He  will  find  a 
 way.  I  am  willing  to  leave  it  to  Him.  If  people 
 ask  me  for  my  opinion,  I  shall  give  it,  of  course ; 
 but  otherwise  I  shall  leave  it  to  the  Lord.” 
 
 The  men  were  disappointed,  but  not  discour¬ 
 aged.  And  through  the  months  that  followed  they 
 fought  hard.  They  fought  an  entrenched  and  de¬ 
 termined  enemy.  But  they  won.  The  courts  de¬ 
 cided  in  their  favor,  and  the  legislature  passed 
 a  new  law  ordering  a  stricter  and  more  competent 
 censorship. 
 
 The  fighters  celebrated  in  a  quiet  way.  When 
 they  returned  from  the  hotel,  where  they  had 
 dined,  they  met  the  doctor. 
 
 “Well,  doctor,  we  won,”  doctor  Burns  hailed 
 
 him. 
 
 The  doctor  smiled  benignly. 
 
 “Wasn’t  I  right?”  he  said.  “I  told  you  the 
 Lord  would  find  a  way  to  reform  the  ‘movies’  if 
 He  wanted  to  do  so.” 
 
 They  stared  at  him,  while  he  gazed  far  out 
 
120 
 
 THE  PALE  FAITH 
 
 to  where  abstraction  from  the  realities  of  life 
 pales  into  nothing.  He  cranked  his  car  and  drove 
 off. 
 
 "Beautiful  faith,  after  all,”  Dr.  Burns  said, 
 as  though  trying  to  make  himself  believe  it. 
 
 "Beautiful?”  questioned  his  colleague.  "Yes, 
 beautiful,  but  pale.” 
 
 Mr.  Atwood  said  nothing,  but  in  his  heart  he 
 rededicated  himself  to  the  faith  that  had  been  in¬ 
 carnadined  through  the  service  and  sacrifice  of  the 
 last  months. 
 
THE  BOASTERS 
 
 OMEBODY  had  thrown  the  old  parasol 
 into  a  corner  of  the  beach,  close  to  the 
 pier,  where,  together  with  boards  and 
 posts,  between  which  it  was  wedged,  it 
 formed  a  perfect  shelter  from  the  sun. 
 The  spot  it  covered  was  damp  and  moldy  and 
 wormy. 
 
 Thither  stole  Worry,  the  old  hag.  She  loved 
 the  spot  for  its  seclusion,  and  a  chat  with  the  para¬ 
 sol  was  a  treat,  though  they  often  quarreled.  She 
 taunted  it  with  the  faded  advertisements  that 
 were  still  legible  on  its  sides,  though  the  gaudy 
 colors  had  faded;  and  the  parasol  sneered  at  the 
 deep  furrows  in  Worry’s  face.  All  this,  while 
 men  and  women  and  children  were  gamboling  in 
 the  surf. 
 
 “How  large  is  the  sun?”  the  parasol  asked. 
 
 “Really,  I  don’t  know,”  Worry  answered,  cau- 
 
 [121] 
 
122 
 
 THE  BOASTERS 
 
 tiously,  for  she  knew  that  it  was  designing.  “I 
 wonder  if  anybody  really  knows.” 
 
 “Is  it  larger  than  the  earth?” 
 
 “Oh,  much  larger.  I  heard  a  man  say  that 
 it  was  more  than  two  thousand  times  as  large.” 
 
 “More  than  two  thousand  times  as  large,”  it 
 repeated.  “Think  of  how  powerful  it  must  be. 
 And  yet — ” 
 
 Was  it  the  breeze  from  the  ocean  or  pride 
 that  made  the  sides  swell? 
 
 “And  yet  what?”  Worry  sneered. 
 
 “And  yet  I  keep  the  sun  away.  That  pow¬ 
 erful  being  has  not  touched  this  spot  for  months. 
 I  kept  it  away.” 
 
 Worry  was  silent.  Of  course  she  could  not 
 gainsay  the  claim  of  the  parasol,  and  it  was  not 
 envy  that  silenced  her.  Rather,  was  she  reminded 
 of  her  own  power. 
 
 “I  think  I  am  more  powerful  than  you,”  she 
 contended. 
 
 The  parasol  leered  at  her  questioningly. 
 
 “Yes,  I  am,”  Worry  affirmed.  “For  I  can 
 keep  away  something  more  powerful  than  the 
 sun.” 
 
 “What?” 
 
 “All  about  us  is  the  love  of  God.  It  is  just 
 eager  to  get  into  human  hearts  and  bless  them. 
 There  is  no  sorrow  for  which  the  love  of  God  has 
 
THE  BOASTERS 
 
 123 
 
 not  comfort  and  healing.  And  yet  I  can  keep  it 
 away.” 
 
 “You?  Do  you  know  you  sometimes  seem 
 very  little?” 
 
 “Yes.  But  a  little  worry  can  keep  the  peace 
 of  God  away.  Just  as  a  little  thing  like  you  can 
 keep  the  sun  away.  Ah,  the  tales  I  could  tell  you. 
 I  am  very  ,very  old,  you  know.  All  over  the  world, 
 and  throughout  more  centuries  than  history 
 knows  I  have  done  my  work.  Little  Worry!  But 
 it  robbed  men  and  women  of  peace.” 
 
 “Why  did  they  not  chase  you  away?” 
 
 “They  invited  me  when  their  faith  was 
 weak,  and  the  longer  I  stayed  the  stronger  I  got.” 
 
 The  sky  had  grown  dark,  and  in  the  storm  an 
 unusually  high  wave  washed  the  parasol  from  its 
 mooring.  Worry  fled ;  but  she  will  keep  on  boast¬ 
 ing  so  long  as  faith  is  small. 
 
THE  CHURCH 
 
 HE  keeper  of  the  sacred  fire  sat  by  the 
 altar  on  the  mountain,  and  mused.  He 
 was  sad. 
 
 Day  and  night  the  torch  bearers 
 came  to  the  altar  to  light  the  torches  with 
 which  to  kindle  the  fires  that  warmed  the  homes 
 of  the  valley  and  illumined  the  night. 
 
 From  his  aerie  he  watched  them  and  saw 
 they  were  selfish  and  careless.  They  thought 
 more  of  the  pretty  flambeaux  in  their  hands  than 
 the  cheer  they  could  bring  to  others. 
 
 The  keeper  was  sad.  Oh,  that  he  might  go 
 down  to  warm  and  brighten  the  valley.  But  the 
 fire,  the  sacred  fire!  Who  would  guard  it?  He 
 dare  not  let  it  die. 
 
 One  afternoon,  he  noticed  gross  neglect,  for 
 his  eye  was  keen.  Fires  were  left  unkindled.  He 
 
 [124] 
 
THE  CHURCH 
 
 125 
 
 knew  that  men  would  grope  in  the  dark  and  stum¬ 
 ble  in  the  night. 
 
 Ablaze  with  zeal,  he  seized  a  torch,  tipped  it 
 with  the  holy  flame,  and  hurried  down  the  narrow 
 path.  He  fought  the  offenders,  and  kindled  the 
 fires. 
 
 Homeward,  the  hills  echoed  his  praises.  He 
 was  proud  as  he  reached  the  height  and  saw  the 
 fires  below. 
 
 But  as  he  turned  to  the  altar,  his  heart  was 
 chilled. 
 
 Alas,  the  sacred  fire  had  died. 
 
THE  SPIRITUAL  MAN 
 
 H,  yes,  come  right  in. 
 
 You  say  you’re  from  the  Fairview 
 church.  I  know  that  church.  It’s  up  on 
 the  ridge.  Get  a  fine  view  from  up  there. 
 Fairview  is  right.  Hear  you  have  a  good 
 preacher  up  there,  too.  I  hear  people  talking 
 about  your  church. 
 
 I  join  your  church?  Weil,  no,  I’m  not  that 
 kind  of  a  man.  You  see  I  believe  in  a  spiritual 
 religion.  I  am  a  spiritually  minded  man.  I  have 
 no  use  for  organizations.  My  soul  feeds  on  a  re¬ 
 ligion  that  is  above  all  institutions  and  organiza¬ 
 tions.  No  doubt,  others  need  these  material  helps, 
 but  I  am  above  them;  I  would  be  hampered  by 
 them.  You  are  doing  good  work,  I  know,  and  we 
 are  one  in  the  spirit,  but  I  believe  in  a  spiritual 
 religion. 
 
 [126] 
 
THE  SPIRITUAL  MAN 
 
 127 
 
 You  are  glad  to  meet  a  spiritually  minded 
 man?  Thank  you. 
 
 Why  I  don’t  come  to  church,  even  though  I 
 don’t  join?  Well,  it’s  for  the  same  reason.  You 
 see,  the  highest,  the  spiritual  religion,  ought  to 
 be  above  all  songs  and  sermons.  Spirit  commun¬ 
 ing  with  spirit.  Others,  of  course,  need  the  out¬ 
 ward  helps,  some  even  need  pictures  and  candles, 
 but  I — I  am  a  spiritually  minded  man. 
 
 Come  for  the  sake  of  others?  Well,  I  don’t 
 know.  I  am  afraid  I’d  have  to  sacrifice  too  much. 
 It’s  all  right  to  stoop  down  to  raise  others,  but 
 when  one  is  used  to  the  more  rarified  atmos¬ 
 phere — 
 
 What’s  that?  Contribute  to  the  cause?  Why, 
 my  dear,  how  can  you  speak  of  such  coarse  things 
 as  gold  and  silver  after  I  have  explained  that  I  am 
 a  spiritually  minded  man.  Believe  me,  there  is 
 too  much  money  and  machinery  in  the  church 
 now.  Too  much  reliance  upon  the  market.  It  is 
 sordid. 
 
 “But—1 ” 
 
 Ah,  there  goes  the  dinner  bell.  You’ll  have 
 to  excuse  me.  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  bear ;  and  be¬ 
 sides  the  dinner  bell  is  orders,  and  we  must  obey 
 orders,  you  know.  Good-bye.  My  best  wishes. 
 
THE  SMILE 
 
 N  the  roof  of  his  house  in  Anathoth,  the 
 old  priest  lounged  with  the  air  of  one 
 who  was  acquainted  with  every  finesse  of 
 comfort.  His  couch  was  soft,  and  the 
 draperies  of  the  canopy  were  rich.  His 
 shrewd  face  was  a  study  in  smiles,  befitting  the 
 corpulency  of  his  body.  Occasionally  he  reached 
 for  the  silver  cup,  and  sipped  the  palm  wine  like 
 an  epicurean.  He  was  an  influential  man. 
 
 Before  him  stood  Jeremiah,  the  young 
 prophet. 
 
 He  did  not  mind  the  rays  of  the  sun,  hot  even 
 in  the  late  afternoon.  Plain  was  his  garb,  and 
 plain  the  hood,  shading  lean  features,  set  with 
 luminous  eyes.  After  a  glance,  a  loving  glance, 
 at  the  famous  hills  of  Benjamin,  rising  in  a  half 
 circle  to  the  west  and  northwest,  he  turned  to  his 
 host. 
 
 The  priest  sipped  and  smiled.  His  voice  was 
 musical. 
 
 [128] 
 
THE  SMILE 
 
 129 
 
 "I  asked  you  to  come  to  me,”  he  began,  “be¬ 
 cause  I  have  something  to  tell  you  that  is  for  your 
 own  good.  You  are  the  son  of  a  priest,  and  I 
 want  to  do  all  I  can  for  you.” 
 
 The  prophet  tried  to  smile  in  return,  but  it 
 was  hard. 
 
 “I  want  to  talk  to  you  like  a  father,”  the 
 priest  went  on.  “I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  take 
 things  too  seriously.  You  look  like  a  man  of  sor¬ 
 rows  and  acquainted  with  grief,  full  of  lamenta¬ 
 tions.  You  must  learn  to  look  at  the  bright  side 
 of  things.  Don’t  let  the  corners  of  your  mouth 
 sag.  Learn  to  smile,  smile,  smile.  Look  at  me.” 
 
 He  raised  the  cup,  and  there  was  a  pause. 
 
 “You  know  I  am  a  man  of  affairs  and  respon¬ 
 sibilities,  and  the  burdens  of  my  office  are  heavy. 
 But  I  have  learned  to  take  things  as  they  come. 
 I  take  them  with  a  smile.” 
 
 The  young  man  was  about  to  speak,  but  the 
 priest  silenced  him  with  a  languid  wave  of  the 
 hand  and  a  deprecating  smile. 
 
 “Life  is  sweet,”  he  continued.  “Why  not  en¬ 
 joy  it?  Judah  is  rich  and  prosperous.  There  is 
 so  much  to  be  proud  of,  and  to  enjoy.  Of  course, 
 there  are  poor,  but  there  will  always  be  poor.” 
 
 His  fingers  and  his  eyes  fondled  the  cup. 
 
 The  prophet  was  silent.  He  was  struggling 
 with  a  surge  of  sadness.  How  could  he  smile! 
 
130 
 
 THE  SMILE 
 
 How  could  this  priest  before  him  smile!  A  film 
 gathered  over  his  eyes,  illumined  by  a  fire  within. 
 The  surge  found  expression. 
 
 “The  stork  in  the  heaven  knoweth  her  ap¬ 
 pointed  times ;  and  the  turtle  dove  and  the  crane 
 and  the  swallow  observe  the  time  of  their  coming ; 
 but  my  people  know  not  the  judgment  of  the 
 Lord.” 
 
 The  priest  raised  his  hands.  There  was  an 
 attempt  at  indignation,  but  his  features  hardly 
 lost  their  bland  composure. 
 
 “Are  you  blind?”  he  expostulated.  “Do  you 
 not  rejoice  in  the  sweeping  reformation  of  our 
 good  king  Josiah?  The  high  places  have  been 
 leveled  to  the  ground ;  the  Asherahs  have  been  de¬ 
 stroyed  ;  and  the  altars  of  Baal  broken  down ;  and 
 the  vestments  of  idoltary  have  been  burned  in  the 
 valley  of  the  Kedron.  The  black-robed  priests  of 
 Baal  have  made  way  for  the  white-robed  priests 
 of  Jehovah.  The  reformation  has  reached  even 
 Ephraim  and  Manasseh,  for  Assyria  is  weak.  Je¬ 
 hovah  be  praised.” 
 
 The  film  in  the  eye  of  the  prophet  glowed  as 
 he  answered.  Was  it  he  that  spoke  or  another? 
 
 “Will  ye  steal,  murder,  commit  adultery,  per¬ 
 jure  yourselves,  and  then  come  into  my  presence 
 into  this  house  which  is  called  after  my  name?” 
 
 The  priest  lowered  his  voice. 
 
THE  SMILE 
 
 131 
 
 “If  you  are  not  reasonable,  you  will  be  dis¬ 
 liked.  Already  you  have  lost  favor,  and  the  priests 
 are  beginning  to  hate  you.  We  want  to  keep 
 things  smooth,  and  your  ravings  are  annoying. 
 You  go  too  far.  You  have  prophesied  the  destruc¬ 
 tion  of  Jerusalem  and  the  temple.  That  makes 
 me  smile.  The  temple!  The  home  of  Jehovah! 
 Impossible!  Certainly  not  while  Josiah  reigns; 
 and  he  is  young.  And  if  after  us — ” 
 
 He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiled,  and  re¬ 
 freshed  himself. 
 
 Long  had  the  emotions  of  the  prophet  been 
 repressed.  Now  they  overwhelmed  him.  Like 
 one  possessed  he  poured  out  his  predictions. 
 
 “I  tremble  for  sorrow.  The  walls  of  my  heart 
 will  break.  The  enemy  comes  up  in  dense,  huge 
 masses,  like  clouds,  his  chariots  rush  on  like  a 
 whirlwind,  his  horses  are  swifter  than  eagles  in 
 their  flight.  Woe  to  us,  we  are  destroyed.” 
 
 The  flow  of  fervid  eloquence  did  not  cease 
 until  the  passion  had  been  spent.  The  sun  was 
 setting,  and  the  hills  were  roseate,  but  on  the  face 
 of  the  prophet  perspiration  mingled  with  tears. 
 At  last  he  stood  as  one  waiting  for  a  reply  from 
 the  couch.  When  no  answer  came,  he  bent  over 
 to  look.  Alas,  the  priest  was  fast  asleep,  an  in¬ 
 fantile  smile  on  his  chubby  face. 
 
MR.  ALBERG'S  WORRY 
 
 head. 
 
 R.  Alberg  sank  into  his  Morris  chair  and 
 furrowed  his  brow ;  not  with  the  furrows 
 of  concentration,  up  and  down  alongside 
 of  the  root  of  the  nose,  but  the  furrows 
 of  perplexity,  lengthwise  across  the  fore- 
 He  had  reason  to  be  perplexed.  His  little 
 
 eyes  shifted  from  floor  to  ceiling  in  search  of  a 
 fulcrum.  It  was  not  business  that  worried  him. 
 No,  no;  his  collars  and  shirts  were  always  im¬ 
 maculate,  and  he  was  as  punctual  as  the  usual 
 laundryman.  Whenever  he  did  have  to  disap¬ 
 point  a  customer,  his  face  would  take  on  so  doleful 
 an  expression  that  the  accompanying  gesture  w’as 
 entirely  superfluous.  Besides,  his  sigh  seemed  to 
 issue  from  a  cavern  that  fed  two  hundred  pounds 
 of  mortal  flesh.  He  was  forgiven,  and  the  plain¬ 
 tiff  bowed  apologetically. 
 
 Now,  Mr.  Alberg’s  worries  were  of  political 
 nature.  Election  was  near  and  he  did  not  know 
 for  whom  to  vote.  Four  candidates  were  in  the 
 field  for  the  mayoralty,  and  it  was  hard  for  him 
 to  decide.  Not  that  his  case  was  that  of  most 
 people  who  were  perplexed  because  they  read  the 
 
 [132] 
 
MR.  ALBERTS  WORRY 
 
 133 
 
 newspapers.  Mr.  Alberg  read  nothing  but  the 
 real  estate  news.  Some  day  he  hoped  to  have 
 money  enough  to  make  the  great  venture.  His 
 wife  would  smile  at  him,  but  he  did  not  see  her 
 benevolent  grimace;  for  he  usually  had  trouble 
 keeping  his  glasses  on  his  nose.  Once  indeed  he 
 had  read  about  the  election.  That  was  in  a  scrap 
 of  a  newspaper  in  which  a  customer  had  wrapped 
 his  soiled  collars.  But  as  it  was  during  working 
 hours  he  did  not  get  very  far,  for  his  wife  urged 
 him  on  in  so  gentle  a  tone  of  voice  that  the  little 
 fox  terrier  lowered  his  tail  and  hunted  a  corner 
 in  the  show-window  behind  the  artificial  palm 
 whose  fronds  needed  a  dusting. 
 
 He  was  worried  because  interests  affecting 
 his  vote  seemed  to  clash. 
 
 “Now,  there’s  Deems,  the  Republican  candi¬ 
 date.  I  ought  to  vote  for  him.  He’s  a  member 
 of  my  lodge.  It  really  won’t  do  to  go  against 
 him.  Lodge  members  ought  to  stick  together,  and 
 he  treated  us  fine  at  the  last  meeting.  And  he 
 sure  does  look  elegant  in  his  full  regalia. 
 
 “But  then  there’s  Conner,  the  Democrat.  I 
 wouldn’t  want  him  to  know  that  I  didn’t  vote  for 
 him.  He’s  a  member  of  my  church.  I  ought  to 
 vote  for  him.  Church  people  ought  to  do  some¬ 
 thing  for  each  other.  Of  course,  I  don’t  go  to 
 church  very  often,  and  Conner  don’t  either;  but 
 
134 
 
 MR.  ALBERTS  WORRY 
 
 he  gave  us  fifty  dollars  for  our  Fair  last  Novem¬ 
 ber,  and  he  put  a  big  'Vote  for  Me’  in  our  concert 
 program.  He’s  a  good  fellow,  too.  None  of  these 
 narrow  fanatics.  My,  how  he  shakes  hands  with 
 us  fellows  when  he  comes  around.  He’s  all  right.” 
 
 The  little  eyes  blinked.  They  looked  at  the 
 picture  of  Abraham  Lincoln  on  the  old  starch  cal¬ 
 endar.  Was  the  figure  of  the  martyr  president 
 growing?  The  eyes  blinked  again.  No;  it  was 
 the  same  old  picture. 
 
 "Then  there  is  Jack  Brace  on  the  Fusion 
 ticket.  He’s  my  wife’s  cousin’s  gentleman  friend. 
 They’re  not  engaged  yet,  but  I  guess  they  will  be. 
 I  can’t  slight  him.  My  wife  thinks  he’s  a  fine? 
 man,  and  if  I  don’t  vote  for  him — well,  I  may 
 have  to  hunt  another  boarding  house.  I  guess 
 he’s  a  fine  man  at  that,  and  it  would  be  fine  to 
 have  the  mayor  of  the  town  in  the  family.  One 
 never  can  tell.  I  may  get  something  out  of  that 
 myself.” 
 
 That  picture  of  Honest  Abe  was  growing 
 after  all.  Taller  every  minute.  Looked  as  though 
 he  might  step  out  of  the  frame  any  moment.  No! 
 It  was  just  an  illusion.  Yes!  He  was  getting 
 taller,  and  looking  right  at  Mr.  Alberg.  No !  Yes ! 
 No!  Yes! 
 
 Well,  anyhow,  there  was  Har court,  who  was 
 running  independently.  He  used  to  be  a  neighbor 
 
MR.  ALBERG’S  WORRY 
 
 135 
 
 of  the  Albergs  on  Chestnut  Hill.  And  a  good 
 neighbor,  too.  There  was  no  spite  fence  between 
 the  Harcourts  and  the  Albergs.  And  Harcourt 
 had  sent  him  a  nice  letter  only  the  other  day  ask¬ 
 ing  his  support  at  the  polls.  And  when  they  met, 
 Alberg  had  promised  in  a  vague  sort  of  a  way. 
 Not  a  binding  promise,  to  be  sure.  It  was  this 
 way.  Harcourt  was  overjoyed  to  see  Alberg,  and 
 called  him  “my  dear  old  neighbor,”  and  intro¬ 
 duced  him  as  “one  of  the  best  men  in  town”  to 
 a  man  who  was  with  Harcourt  and  who  looked 
 like  a  governor.  And  when  Harcourt  took  Alberg 
 aside  and  gave  him  a  cigar  and  asked  for  his  vote, 
 even  hinting  that  he  would  surely  remember  his 
 old  friends  and  neighbors,  Alberg  had  answered, 
 “Fll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you.”  And  they  had 
 shaken  hands  so  cordially  that  Alberg  still  felt 
 the  warmth  of  it.  He  didn’t  see  how  he  could  go 
 back  on  an  old  friend  like  that. 
 
 What  was  that?  Abraham  Lincoln,  six  feet 
 four  inches  tall,  leaving  the  frame  of  the  calendar. 
 With  slow  stride  he  steps  over  to  where  the  laun- 
 dryman  is  sitting.  He  stands  before  him  with 
 searching,  melancholy  eyes.  Alberg  feels  uncom¬ 
 fortable,  aware  of  being  collarless.  But,  no,  that 
 is  not  what  the  great  Emancipator  is  gazing  at. 
 
 The  voice  is  a  blending  of  tenderness  and 
 earnestness. 
 
136 
 
 MR.  ALBERG’S  WORRY 
 
 “Why  not  do  right?”  the  great  spirit  pleads. 
 “The  simple  right.  Forget  yourself.  Vote  for 
 the  man  who,  in  your  honest  opinion,  will  serve  the 
 cause  best.  With  malice  toward  none,  with  char¬ 
 ity  for  all;  with  firmness  in  the  right,  as  God 
 gives  us  to  see  the  right.” 
 
 Far,  far  away,  the  sound  of  a  bell,  as  though 
 on  a  ship  sailing  the  infinite  sea.  Now  again,  but 
 much  nearer.  Again  and  again.  As  Mr.  Alberg 
 awakes,  he  hears  three  more  strokes  of  the  clock. 
 He  rubs  his  eyes  vigorously,  also  his  nose,  and 
 comes  to.  Yes,  yes.  He  is  still  in  the  old  room, 
 and  Abraham  Lincoln  is  still  in  the  frame.  But 
 it  is  no  longer  the  same  room.  He  has  had  his 
 vision.  The  simple  right,  regardless  of  social  con¬ 
 siderations  and  personal  advantages!  He  looks 
 at  the  candidates  from  a  different  point  of  view. 
 He  has  made  up  his  mind  to  vote  right. 
 
 From  the  kitchen  comes  a  voice,  musical  but 
 masterful. 
 
 “John,  did  you  register  today?  You  know, 
 this  is  the  last  day.” 
 
 He  jerks  up  with  an  exclamation  that  is  com¬ 
 plimentary  neither  to  himself  nor  his  wife  nor 
 any  one  else.  He  has  indeed  forgotten  to  regis¬ 
 ter.  He  has  been  too  busy  thinking  of  possible 
 advantages  for  himself. 
 
COVERING  GROUND 
 
 VERETT  Leslie  Rushgait  was  a  devout 
 man,  after  his  own  fashion ;  and,  as  this 
 is  the  country  of  religious  freedom,  no¬ 
 body  interfered  with  him.  His  com¬ 
 panions  in  the  office,  to  be  sure  with  com¬ 
 placent  conspiracy,  induced  him  every  Monday 
 morning  to  relate  his  Sunday  adventures,  and  his 
 wife  regarded  him  with  a  puzzling  smile  as  he 
 told  his  story  with  glowing  eyes.  He  certainly 
 “could  cover  ground  and  make  time.” 
 
 He  rose  early  on  this  particular  Sunday  morn¬ 
 ing.  He  knew  it  would  be  a  busy  day.  After 
 hasty  ablutions  and  hurried  attention  to  Sunday 
 attire  he  bolted  his  breakfast  in  spite  of  Mrs, 
 Rushgait’s  protests,  and  prepared  to  start  off  on 
 his  trip. 
 
 “Why,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?”  he  an¬ 
 swered  his  wife.  “I’m  going  to  hear  an  address 
 
 [137] 
 
138 
 
 COVERING  GROUND 
 
 by  Dr.  Samuel  Isaacs,  a  converted  rabbi.  He's 
 going  to  speak  on  ‘The  World  War  in  the  Light 
 of  Canticles.'  He's  great,  I  tell  you;  I  wish  you 
 could  come.  Why,  he's  the  same  man  I  told  you 
 about  a  month  ago.  Don't  you  remember?  I 
 heard  him  speak  on  the  prophecies  of  the  witch 
 of  Endor  at  that  time.  Something  occult,  he 
 called  it.  I  think  that's  what  it  was.  Maybe  I'm 
 mistaken.  Maybe  it  was  that  Syrian  I  heard  in 
 the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  I  tell  you  Dr. 
 Isaacs  is  great.  But  I'll  have  to  hurry.  He  ad¬ 
 dresses  the  Higher-up  Bible  Class  in  the  Bronx 
 at  nine  o'clock." 
 
 He  did  hurry.  Elevated  to  Park  Row,  and 
 subway  to  the  Bronx.  How  he  chafed  at  delays ! 
 How  he  condemned  Sunday  amusements  because 
 of  the  crowded  cars  and  platforms! 
 
 He  got  out  at  One-hundred-and-forty-ninth 
 Street.  After  making  sure  of  the  direction  he 
 struck  out  vigorously,  and  soon  reached  the 
 church.  The  lecture  certainly  reflected  credita¬ 
 bly  on  the  resourcefulness  of  the  rabbi,  though 
 much  of  the  time  was  taken  up  with  the  pathetic 
 story  of  his  conversion. 
 
 Rushgait  thought  it  was  fine.  But  he  had 
 no  time  to  shake  the  speaker's  hand,  for  the  morn¬ 
 ing  service  in  his  own  church  would  begin  at 
 eleven.  He  hardly  expected  to  be  there  on  time. 
 
COVERING  GROUND 
 
 139 
 
 Nor  was  he.  While  the  congregation  was  bowed 
 in  prayer,  he  stood  in  the  vestibule  and  told  the 
 chief  usher  about  Canticles  and  his  plans  for  the 
 afternoon.  The  sermon  was  on  the  loaves  and 
 fishes ;  and,  as  the  beneficiaries  of  the  miracle  had 
 tried  to  make  the  Master  king,  Mr.  Rushgait  was 
 able  to  find  some  connection  between  the  loaves 
 and  fishes  and  Canticles. 
 
 Dinner  was  a  hasty  affair.  Indeed,  a  slight 
 frown  marked  the  face  of  the  head  of  the  house¬ 
 hold,  for  Mrs.  Rushgait  was  not  quite  ready  with 
 the  meal  when  he  arrived.  However,  he  controlled 
 himself  and  spiced  the  conversation  with  a  few 
 references  to  great  speakers  he  had  heard,  all  of 
 which  was  listened  to  patiently  by  his  wife  and 
 rapturously  by  his  daughter,  a  little  girl  of  ten 
 years. 
 
 “Won't  you  go  to  Sunday  school  with  me  this 
 afternoon?"  the  little  one  asked.  “Some  of  the 
 teachers  are  sick,  I  know,  and  you  could  help." 
 
 “Is  that  so?"  He  looked  up,  always  reluctant 
 to  refuse  her.  “Well,  maybe  1  will.  But  I'll  have 
 to  leave  early,  I  want  to  hear  Dr.  Burns  in  the 
 Fifth  Avenue  Temple  this  afternoon.  That  may 
 be  the  last  chance  I'll  ever  have.  They  say  he's 
 going  back  to  Scotland  next  week.  I  couldn't  af¬ 
 ford  to  miss  that,  you  know." 
 
 He  did  not  stay  longer  in  Sunday  school  than 
 
140 
 
 COVERING  GROUND 
 
 absolutely  necessary,  but  he  made  his  presence 
 felt,  in  fact,  so  much  so  that  the  teachers  near  him 
 complained  they  could  do  nothing  with  their 
 classes.  The  lesson  was  on  the  parable  of  the 
 Good  Samaritan.  Mr.  Rushgait  gave  rein  to  his 
 imagination  as  he  spoke  of  the  poor  victim;  he 
 held  forth  vehemently  against  the  priest;  and 
 after  he  was  through  with  the  Levite  he  found 
 he  had  no  time  left  for  the  Good  Samaritan. 
 
 He  excused  himself,  and  ran  for  the  elevated. 
 Arriving  at  the  Bridge,  he  stumbled  down  to  the 
 subway  and  manfully  checked  a  Boanergian  out¬ 
 burst  when  he  just  missed  the  train.  He  was  late, 
 of  course,  for  the  service  in  the  Temple,  and  he 
 had  to  stand  in  a  line  more  than  a  block  long.  By 
 and  by  he  was  admitted,  and  even  found  a  seat. 
 The  quartette  finished,  and  Dr.  Burns  began  to 
 preach.  It  was  a  sermon  on  the  prayer  vigils  of 
 Christ.  The  great  divine  urged  the  people  to  take 
 time  for  the  quiet  hour. 
 
 Toward  the  close  of  the  impassionate  appeal 
 Mr.  Rushgait  grew  fidgety,  and  he  looked  at  his 
 watch.  It  was  getting  late,  and  he  was  bound  to 
 hear  Dr.  Boneau  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  Brooklyn. 
 He  always  got  so  much  out  of  Dr.  Boneau’s  ad¬ 
 dresses.  So,  bowing  an  excuse  to  the  lady  sitting 
 at  his  side,  and  kicking  over  the  gentleman's  cane 
 next  to  her,  he  passed  out  as  quietly  as  he  was  able 
 
COVERING  GROUND 
 
 141 
 
 to  do  in  his  hurry.  This  time  it  was  the  subway 
 straight  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  he  was  in  time  to 
 hear  the  last  part  of  the  address,  including  the 
 peroration  and  the  applause.  He  was  thankful 
 for  having  heard  even  that.  It  was,  of  course,  on 
 the  League  of  Nations ;  and  the  beauty  of  the  ad¬ 
 dress  was  that,  while  the  speaker  was  emphatic 
 on  all  sides  of  the  question,  he  really  did  not  com¬ 
 mit  himself.  There  was  nothing  like  an  attempt 
 to  introduce  politics  into  a  Sunday  afternoon  ad¬ 
 dress. 
 
 Well,  Rushgait  was  late  for  supper,  although 
 he  was  out  of  breath.  At  first  his  wife  adminis¬ 
 tered  a  gentle  reproof,  but  on  seeing  his  spent 
 condition  she  asked  him  how  it  all  was. 
 
 “Fine,”  he  answered.  And  that  was  about 
 all  he  could  say. 
 
 He  had  promised  his  wife  to  go  to  church 
 with  her  in  the  evening  and  the  time  was  not  far 
 off.  So  they  went,  and  the  little  girl  was  happy 
 to  have  her  father.  Rushgait  did  not  hear  the 
 entire  discourse,  for  his  head  was  drowsy;  but, 
 when  the  minister  quoted  a  verse  from  Canticles, 
 his  mind  began  to  review  the  good  things  of  the 
 last  twelve  hours,  and  so  he  thought  the  sermon 
 a  fitting  close  of  a  perfect  day. 
 
 That  night  he  dreamt.  He  saw  the  Shulamite, 
 the  king,  the  lad  with  the  loaves,  and  the  Good 
 
142 
 
 COVERING  GROUND 
 
 Samaritan  rushing  along  in  apparently  aimless 
 haste  until  they  heard  a  voice  saying,  “Be  still, 
 and  know  that  I  am  God.” 
 
 “What  kind  of  a  Sunday  did  you  have  yester¬ 
 day?”  he  asked  his  wife  the  next  morning. 
 
 “I  spent  an  afternoon  in  quiet  communion,” 
 she  answered.  “It  was  beautiful,  but  I  missed 
 you.” 
 
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