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 CLB:ni 1411 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 SATURDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1916 
 
 
 No. 1 /-•' 
 
 -'■.") 
 
 ^/ 
 
 
 
 Talks of Peace. 
 
Before the Dawn. 
 
 I woke before llie dawn, anJ far below 
 My window in tlie cold, deserted street, 
 
 Faltering along its pavements, sad and slow, 
 1 heard the shufHe of approaching feet. 
 
 Halting and aimless past the house they crept, 
 TVIIing of one with no hope in his breast, 
 
 No bourn bejond, and who, while others slept 
 In sheltered safety, knew no place of rest. 
 
 Down the lojig street, into the nigiit they went. 
 Leaving behind them in my heart an ache, 
 
 And a fresh wonder we can sleep content 
 While in the world such misery is awake. 
 
 Mildred Howkllj. 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY ^ ' l&V »^ ,i' ^X^ 
 
 r, pic*ing-ba 
 
 A Sinner Saved. 
 
 fa 
 
 "Father," said his wife, "why ain't you m tavor o 
 Milly's goin' with Henry Rokes?" 
 
 Andrew Doane was standing under an apple tree in an 
 interval of picking. He was a tall wiry man with stiff 
 gray hair and eyes full of sharp broken gleams. They 
 might have been the eyes of a fanatic or an inventor. 
 Mother was a plump, blonde woman, all curves and 
 pleasant amplitudes. She had a way of regarding him 
 with a tolerant and yet despairing smile, as if she knew 
 his inward thoughts and was compelled to ignore them 
 in the face of his outward habit of speech. She was not 
 used to calling him to account, and he stared at her from 
 a dignified surprise while he answered in a tone that kept 
 an unbroken level: 
 
 "I_ ain't goin' to encourage a granddaughter of mine 
 runnin' round with anybody that makes light o' sacred 
 things." 
 
 "O fcither," said his wife, "how can you.' Henry don't 
 make light o' sacred things." 
 
 "I know what I'm talkin' about," said her husband. 
 "1 says to him not a week ago, 'I ain't committed a sin for 
 thirteen year,' says I, an' he laughed. Henry laughed." 
 
 "Father, you didn't!" 
 
 "Didn't what.?" 
 
 ''You didn't go an' tell Henry you hadn't (.■omniitted 
 a sin for thirteen year?" 
 
 "I'd like to know why I didn't," said her husband, 
 belligerently. "I've told you the same." 
 
 "Why, yes, but I never paid no attention to it." This 
 she said absently, for her mind was on Milly, who was 
 in the house dressing for the Fair, and who was not yet 
 sure whether grandfather would allow her to go. 
 
 "I should like to know," continued Andrew, truculently, 
 "why you never paid no attention to it." 
 
 "Well, there," said she, soothingly, "mebbe 'twas 
 because I'd heard it so often. It didn't seem to do nobody 
 no harm; but if it's stirred you up about Henry, why, 
 then, it seems to 'mount to suthin'." 
 
 Andrew was still ruffled, and not to be assuaged. He 
 took down the ladder from the tree and set it against the 
 other side. 
 
 "I ain't committed a sin for thirteen year," he repeated. 
 "If you've heard me say it more'n once, 'twas as true then 
 as 'tis now. If I said it a year ago, I said I hadn't com- 
 mitted a sin for twelve year, an' if I said it two year ago, I 
 said I hadn't committed a sin for 'leven. 'Twas thirteen 
 year ago I begun to cherish a hope, an' I ain't backslid." 
 
 "Well!" said his wife, in a tone of desjiairing finality. 
 "Well, I must say!" She walked away a few steps and 
 returned. "Father," said she, "Milly's changin' her 
 dress, and if Henry can get off' he's goin' to take her over 
 to the Fair. He dunno but he'll be late, so she's goin' 
 tu meet him down to the cross-roads." 
 
 Father began climbing the ladder, piding-basket 
 hand. His wife came a step nearer. 
 
 ''Father!" said she. There was supplication in her 
 voice. "I ain't told her she can't go." 
 
 Andrew began picking. His face was resolutely set 
 toward the tree, and she knew no response was to be ex- 
 pected. But when he heard her walking away across 
 the stubbly grass, he did turn, with a quick motion, to 
 look after her. His watch-chain caught on the end of 
 the ladder and the watch flew out of his pocket and fell. 
 "The dogs!" said Andrew. That was the sole dilution 
 of an oath he permitted himself. He descended hastily, 
 picked up the watch and held it to his ear. It had stopped! 
 "The dogs!" said Andrew again. 
 
 Mrs. Doane walked thoughtfully back to the house, 
 and at the veranda steps she found Milly waiting, a 
 sweet vision, gray-eyed, and as pink as dawn. 
 
 ''Will he let me.?" she called, before grandmother was 
 quite within speaking distance. 
 
 Grandmother shook her head. 
 
 "I dunno," she said 
 
 nor vxhether he 
 They had both 
 
 'whether he wi 
 won't." 
 
 "Wouldn't he answer.?" asked Milly. 
 accepted his fits of significant dumbness 
 
 "What if you should wait a spell an' then run out an' 
 ask him yourself.? You can make some excuse. Ask 
 him what time 'tis or suthin'." 
 
 "I shall want to know what time it is, anyway," said 
 Milly. "The kitchen clock's been bejuggled ever since 
 the man fixed it. Henry said if we didn't start from the 
 corners by three, we'd miss the car." 
 
 Grandmother sat down on a step and fanned herself 
 with a grape-leaf. "Milly," said she, suddenly, "your 
 grandfather's a real good man." 
 
 Milly stared. "Why, yes," said she, "cour.<;e he is." 
 
 ''But I'd like to know," broke out giandniother, wrath- 
 fully, "if anybody ain't committed any sin, what under 
 the sun 'tis makes 'em so plaguey aggravalin'." 
 
 "As grandfather.?" asked Milly. 
 
 "No," returned grandmother, in virtuous denial. 
 ''Course I shouldn't say such a thing about grandfather. 
 Course I shouldn't." 
 
 The time went on and Milly dawdled about and made 
 useless little errands into the house while grandmother 
 regarded the landscape and fanned herself at intervals 
 with the leaf. Finally it seemed to Milly that the 
 moment of departure was at hand. 
 
 '■ I guess I'll run out and speak to grandfather," she said. 
 
 "I'll go with you," said grandmother, coming to her 
 feet. "I kinder mistrust I'd better be there." 
 
 Grandfather was picking the Hubbardston tree. He did 
 not look down at them as their steps rustled the dry leaves 
 beneath. Milly glanced up at him, and she decided that 
 his back looked obstinate. But she had to speak. 
 
 "Grandfather!" said she. Andrew did not move. 
 He put the apples more carefully into his picking-basket. 
 Grandmother thought she had never known the world 
 to be so still. Milly called him again, in her clear young 
 voice, and he went on picking. "Grandfather," said she, 
 "won't you tell me what tiine it is.?" The Hubbardstons 
 were softly fitted into place. "You see, grandfather," 
 said Milly, "if I don't get to the corners for the four 
 o'clock car, Henry'll miss me. He won't know what to 
 do. Grandfather, won't you tell me what time it is.?" 
 
 The gnarled hand ceased its work among the branches. 
 The obstinate back seemed to be listening. I'hen Andrew- 
 came down slowly, as if each step were an interval in some 
 grim decision. He pulled out his watch and displayed it. 
 He did not look at it himself. Grandmother, following 
 his averted gaze, concluded he was doing something 
 unsuited to a sinless life. Milly gave a little cry. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 "Only three o'clock?" said she. "I've got an hour. 
 I'll go back and fold the clo'es. That's nice clean work. 
 It won't hurt my dress." 
 
 She took a little run away from them, and then fell into 
 a walk, singing as she went. Perhaps she wanted to 
 hurry out of sight before grandfather could call her back. 
 He stood staring after her, an odd look on his face, half 
 triumph, half terror. But his wife was looking at him. 
 He had forgotten his watch, and she stepped quickly to 
 his side and peered at it over his arm. 
 
 "Andrew," said she, "that watch ain't goin'." 
 
 He turned to her with a start, and stooped, in a frown- 
 ing haste, to lift his basket again. But grandmother, 
 too, stooped. She took the basket from him and set it 
 down an arm's length away. 
 
 "Andrew," said she, "you needn't think I don't see 
 through you. I ain't lived with you forty-two year for 
 nothin '. Milly asked you what time 'twas an' you turned 
 your watch round to her, because you wa'n't willin' to 
 tell a lie; but you were more'n willin' she should think it 
 was an hour earlier than 'tis, if 'twould make her late for 
 meetin' Henry." 
 
 Andrew said nothing. He still regarded the land- 
 scape. He was thinking his wife had never spoken so to 
 him in her life. She was thinking that, too. 
 
 "Andrew Doane," said she, "when I try to realize 
 anybody's doin' a thing like that, it seems as if they'd 
 better lie right out an' done with it. An' when it comes 
 to not committin' a sin for thirteen year — well, I'll say 
 no more. But I'll tell you what I'm goin' to do. I'm 
 goin' to harness up an' carry Milly over to the corners. 
 An' you needn't forbid it, for I'm goin' jest the same." 
 
 Andrew looked at her. She seemed taller than usual 
 and the afternoon sun lay on her cheeks and lighted them 
 finely. He dared not think what he read in her eyes. 
 She was turning awa^' from him. Suddenly Andrew knew 
 he must not let her go in wrath, not even if his house of 
 pride should fall about his ears. 
 
 "Here," he called. His voice sounded weak and 
 quavering. "You hold on. I'll harness up." 
 
 Alice Brovi^n. 
 
 Patronage and Plain-speaking. 
 
 The Alanchester Guardian, tenderly concerned for the 
 sensitiveness of the United States, has protested against 
 the plain-speaking of Lloyd George to the neutral nations, 
 against his stern reminder that pacific intervention at 
 this stage of the war would be playing into Germany's 
 hands. The Guardian considers that such talk alienates 
 from Great Britain the friendship of the American people, 
 and so casts away an asset of considerable importance. 
 "The indirect value of sympathy" is, in its editor's 
 opinion, too precious to be tested by temerity, or strained 
 by candor. 
 
 The Guardian is mistaken. Americans do not resent 
 plain speech. They use it, and they understand it. 
 They have no great store of irritable vanity, needing to 
 be soothed by complaisance. Neither are they so su- 
 premely stupid as to mistake the gist of Lloyd George's 
 remarks, to suppose that he advocates an impossible 
 war of annihilation. They conclude quite simply that he 
 meant what he said, and what he said was that, as Britain 
 had asked no intervention when she was unprepared to 
 fight, she would tolerate none now. It is precisely what 
 the Federal Administration would have said, if Britain 
 had been disposed to play the part of peace-maker in the 
 third year of the Civil War. 
 
 Hard words break no bones. We Americans have been 
 too deeply bruised in the past two years to wince at a 
 
 phrase or two, at a warning, well-meant and sincerely 
 spoken. We whose cargoes have been dynamited, or 
 sunk on our coasts "to see how we would take it." We 
 who have been misused by secret and shameless con- 
 spiracies. We to whom the names, "Von Papen," "Von 
 Igel," "Boy-Ed," are humiliatingly familiar. We whose 
 dead lie under the sea, ignored or forgotten. It is not for 
 us to sulk at plain speech, and at a truth not wholly 
 palatable. 
 
 Americans remember well that it was the Manchester 
 Guardian which four years ago rebuked Lord Roberts 
 more severely than it now rebukes Lloyd George, because 
 that wise and sad old soldier misdoubted the good-will of 
 Berlin, because he warned his country of the peril which 
 encompassed her. The Guardian was then as concerned 
 for the feelings of Germany as it is now concerned for 
 the feelings of the United States. The Teutons, it 
 assured its readers, would never break their word. Lord 
 Roberts had shamefully misjudged them. Prussia was 
 in fact a sort of enlarged Lancashire, "blunt, straightfor- 
 ward, and sentimental." 
 
 All of which makes us feel that our kind advocate is 
 perhaps less moved by tenderness for us than by enmity 
 toward the British Secretary of State for War. 
 
 Agnes Repplier. 
 
 A maiden of courage most rare, 
 By an Indian was given a scare; 
 But with perfect repose 
 She just stripped ofl her clothes, 
 For she knew he would fear a white bare. 
 
 A maiden of Kalamazoo 
 
 Thought she'd try for a place on the crew; 
 But her pious old aunty 
 Thought the costume too scanty, 
 
 And declared that it never would do. 
 
 A gentleman went to the studio of a Boston artist to 
 see a newly completed portrait of his brother. He 
 did not approve of the picture, but he did not wish to 
 offend the artist by saying so. Casting about for some 
 phrase at once honest and not uncomplimentary, he at 
 last brought out: "I'm so glad you gave his head a dull 
 finish." The subject of the portrait objected that the 
 phrase was, after all, a little ambiguous. 
 
 They were lamenting the rush and push of modern 
 days. "Yes," observed J., "everybody nowadays is 
 so anxious to lay eggs as to have no time to hatch any 
 of them." 
 
 "Oh, Miss McGillicuddy is the most refined person I 
 ever knew. Why, when she uses the telephone, she 
 takes a cachou to perfume her breath, and never calls 
 anything stronger than 'Hades-ol'" 
 
 A Boston lady who had been visiting in New York 
 returned home, and about eleven in the evening stood 
 looking out of the window of her apartment high above 
 Commonwealth Avenue. "Yes," she said, gazing out 
 upon the deserted street, "it is very homelike, but after 
 New York it is so quiet that it seems like Lovers' Lane!" 
 
 X. "Somebody says there's a lot of difference between 
 learning and earning." 
 
 Y. "There is; a '1 of a difference." 
 
 First Literary Man: "It's got so now that to live at 
 all a man must either write a best seller, or — " 
 Second ditto: "Sell a best writer." 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 Alice Bhown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margaret Dela^jd Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the AlHed 
 Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, inchiding postage, $1.50, may be 
 sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at the Booth. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, pOSTON, MASS. 
 
 special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band each day 
 from 4 to 6 p.m. 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Saturday evening in the Cafe, the Hawaiian Band. 
 
 On Saturday evening, the opening and Gala Night of 
 the Bazaar, the Cecilia Chorus, under the leadership of 
 Mr. Chalmers Clifton, will sing in Exhibition Hall at 
 9.30. The First Corps Band and the Bostonia Orchestra 
 .will play. 
 
 The Daily presents to its readers a warm greeting, 
 and all genial wishes for the coming holidays. It is firm 
 in the conviction that in these painful times nothing 
 could do more to make the overcast season bright than 
 generous work for the relief of the suffering; and so is 
 sure that those who are helping the Bazaar are doing 
 their best to deserve a heart-warm Christmas and a hope- 
 ful New Year. 
 
 The Daily wishes to express its gratitude to the many 
 who have heartily and helpfully co-operated for its suc- 
 cess. The ready response of writers and the sympathetic 
 help of others have made the enterprise possible and the 
 work of the editors most pleasant. Especial thanks are 
 due to Baron Charles Huard for his delightfully con- 
 ceived and most skilfully executed cartoons; to F. Ver- 
 heyden for his strong and touching cartoon-decoration; to 
 the ladies who have undertaken the sale of papers at the 
 booth, and the alert and manly Boy Scouts who have 
 agreed to act as newsboys. For help in the actual mak- 
 ing of the paper thanks are due to Messrs. Carter, Rice & 
 Co. for their generous gift of the paper on which the 
 Daily is printed; to Geo. H. Ellis Co. for the paper on 
 which "The Boston Mother Goose" will be reprinted and 
 the press-work in making it; and in especial to Mr. A. W. 
 Finlay for patient and effective assistance. The Daily 
 does not cover the ground in this enumeration, for in 
 making arrangements, getting subscriptions, the tedious, 
 work of addressing and stamping wrappers, and in many 
 little ways, a great many persons have contributed to the 
 work, and made it possible for the paper to come into the 
 Bazaar, as it is proud to announce that it does, with sub- 
 scriptions enough to defray all expenses. 
 
 It is the intention that in the numbers of the Daily 
 nothing shall appear, except as a quotation, which has been 
 published before; and to secure this end the management 
 has spared no pains. In the matter of jokes, epigrams, 
 and anecdotes, no editor can claim to be infallible; these 
 things are new only at the moment they are made — and 
 by no means always then. A matter written secretly in 
 a notebook to-day, and locked away in a safety-deposit 
 vault, somehow manages to be proclaimed from the 
 housetop to-morrow; and through the pores of the en- 
 velopes into which the Editor has sorted his contributions, 
 undoubtedly much that came there fresh has sifted out 
 into the air. The management can only plead that the 
 honest work of some months has gone to the endeavor to 
 procure original material, that contributors have been 
 exceedingly kind and responsive, and that not even a 
 casual line of "filling" has been allowed if it was sus- 
 pected of having earlier made its bow to the world. 
 Beyond that we can only ask indulgence if the reader 
 meets with old friends; it is hoped that old jokes will at 
 least have their faces newly washed, and perhaps be 
 arrayed in unaccustomed raiment. Those who know the 
 difficulties of deciding upon the originality of contribu- 
 tions will give the indulgence unasked; others can 
 hardly under the circumstances be so unkind as to with- 
 hold it. 
 
 The reason for opening the Bazaar on Saturday mani- 
 festly is that folk may have something to talk with their 
 friends about after church on Sunday. 
 
 George Babbitt accompanies his subscription with a 
 query: "Why not the Bizarre Daily?" Would that we 
 had his wit to make it so! 
 
 Many a man has regarded himself as a star in litera- 
 ture when he was not even an asterisk. 
 
 To the list of contributors published in the prospectus 
 should be added, among others, Mildred Aldrich, Dr. 
 Allen Greenwood, Alice Greenwood Howe, Helen Choat 
 Prince, Laura Richards, and Clara Bowdoin Winthrop. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 "Well," Jack observed, standing big and tall, and 
 looking down upon the Editor, who sat at his desk cor- 
 recting proof for the first number of the Daily, "how 
 does it feel to be back in the Editorial Chair?" 
 
 "Very much as it does to be in any other where you 
 have to be like the White Queen, rushing ahead with all 
 your might to keep in the same place," the Editor 
 answered. "Sit down. You are welcome for just five 
 minutes." 
 
 "You're in great form," Jack observed. "I suppose 
 you're rejoiced to be back on your old job." 
 
 "Why should I be?" the Editor demanded. "I like 
 to work, of course. Any wholesome fellow does, and 
 I'm bred to it; but I always thought the editorial job a 
 detestable one. At any rate, I detest it." 
 
 "Oh, you do? Then I suppose you are in this thing 
 with noble self-denial because you think it's going to 
 bring in a mass of samoleons." 
 
 The Editor regarded him compassionately. 
 
 "You must think me a fool," he responded, "if you 
 suppose that after all that I've had to do with literary 
 matters, I expect wealth from any paper at a fair. We 
 hope, of course, to get something out of it; but certainly 
 nothing startling." 
 
 "Then what's it for? A lot of people have taken a lot 
 of trouble about it. I suppose these literary big guns 
 that have written for it might sell their stuff if they tried." 
 
 "Undoubtedly they could sell what you so elegantly call 
 their 'stuff'; and it is true that they have taken a lot of 
 trouble, and taken it most cheerfully." 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 ■ •.id<;e," Jack remarked, stretching out his long 
 
 , ju have some sort of an idea that you want 
 
 ■ lii-.g .1. me. Fire ahead. I'm game. I'll stand it." 
 
 Well, then," the Editor explained, answering the 
 
 ' .■ :-■ only by a smile, "it was hoped by those who 
 
 : the Daily that it might do the Bazaar good 
 
 !ii^i:eci.iy." 
 
 "As iiow?" 
 
 ■'3y being one more feature good enough to be a 
 
 credit, for one thing. It may be talked about a little; it 
 
 ■ :'! be sent about more or less; perhaps add a little flavor 
 
 .; .istinction. It is also a good medium for daily notes." 
 
 jack did not look so convinced as to be aroused to 
 1 athusiasm. 
 
 "Even if all that is true," he remarked, "it hardly 
 seems to me to be worth so much trouble." 
 
 "That is as it may be," the Editor said, smiling. He 
 looked down at his proof half a minute. Then he added: 
 "The real reason is, of course, something quite different. 
 These, to my mind, are the side-products." 
 
 "Oh, there's a bigger cat in the meal, is there?" was 
 Jack's rejoinder. "I have more faith in side-products 
 nowadays than in some chief results. But it wouldn't 
 be you, if there weren't wheels within wheels." 
 
 "That is better than wheels in the head," the Editor 
 remarked ambiguously. Then he became serious. "See 
 here," he said, "do you recognize that we have a pretty 
 distinguished list of names as contributors to this paper.""' 
 
 "Oh, fair," Jack assented patronizingly. "It's a pity 
 they couldn't have been led off by a more distinguished 
 Editor." 
 
 "Certainly," the Editor agreed calmly, evidently now 
 too much in earnest to chaff. " But the point is that to 
 the paper have contributed a fairly representative body 
 of American authors — pretty well the cream. " 
 
 "Well, you're lucky, of course; but what are you driv- 
 ing at.'" 
 
 "This: in the first place, it is worth while to give them 
 a chance. One man writes to me, for instance, in reply 
 to my note asking his help, like this." He poked among 
 the accumulated letters in a pigeonhole, and then read: 
 "'When a man has a wife and child to support, and can't 
 either go fight for the Allies or give money, it is a godsend 
 to know that he may do something!'" The Editor laid 
 the letter down, and emphasized what he had read by a 
 little pause. Then he added; "The letters I have had 
 all show much the same feeling." 
 
 Jack regarded the Editor closely. 
 
 "So that is what the paper is for, is it," he said, "to 
 give authors a chance to feel that they are helping.'' It 
 isn't a bad notion; but I'm not sure yet that it is 
 enough of a result to pay for the trouble." 
 
 "Well, then," the other returned, with an air in which 
 was a faint suggestion of aggressiveness, "we'll come 
 down to hard-pan. I have to speak only of my own feeling, 
 for I can't tell how the others who are responsible feel 
 about it. I am sure they would agree if they thought 
 the thing out. This paper is run fundamentally for the 
 purpose of putting on record the fact that our writers — 
 and there isn't a harder-worked or a more underpaid class 
 in the community, so their taking the trouble means some- 
 thing — were eager to help; that they were willing to give 
 time and thought and labor. I am jealous of the honor 
 of my craft, and the thing which for me counts most in 
 this business is the fact that it proves how the literary 
 class in America stand and feel. The writers are not 
 always the most profound or the most influential people 
 in a practical country; but they are all persons who 
 think, and in the long run they influence the thought of 
 society. If they hold by the side that is fighting for 
 freedom, that fact cannot but have its effect." 
 
 Jack's face had taken on a graver expression as the talk 
 proceeded. Now he nodded his head. 
 
 "I suppose you are right," he assented. "It is worth 
 while to have it on record that you quill-drivers are on the - 
 side of the angels. At any rate," he added, changing 
 quickly to his original mood, "I must give you credit for 
 being one of that infernal tribe that devastates the earth, 
 the people who mean well." 
 
 But the Editor was too much in earnest not to finish. 
 
 "I believe pretty firmly," he concluded, "in moral 
 issues, and the ultimate effect upon public opinion that 
 thinking will have in shaping them. It is good for 
 writers to be on record in a noble enterprise; and it is 
 better still for the public that they should be." 
 
 Jack nodded again. 
 
 "Yes," he repeated, "at least you mean well." 
 
 The Editor burst into a laugh, and waved his hand in 
 dismissal. 
 
 "That is more than can be said for you," he retorted. 
 "You mean only to waste busy people's time. Get out." 
 
 The Imagist. 
 
 [The Editor confesses his own inabihty to distinguish genuine Imagist 
 "poetry" from the imitation. Of course neither is to be taken seriously, 
 but lie is assured that the following is not even meant to be.] 
 
 Chill in the air. 
 
 Dimness. 
 
 Mist. 
 
 Gray sidewalks — 
 
 Dawn! 
 
 Solitary in the early morning, 
 
 A pallid poet in evening raiment, 
 
 With wine-colored spots on his wrinkled shirt-front, 
 
 Crumpled, bareheaded, crestfallen, 
 
 Wet 
 
 As a sick raven after storm. 
 
 Twines around a green lamp-post 
 
 Unsteadily, 
 
 Sprawling — 
 
 Like an old grape-vine without leaves. 
 
 He has spent a gaudy night. 
 
 His brain reels 
 
 With the passion and the pain 
 
 Of beauty — 
 
 Too much beauty. 
 
 He is gazing at a butterfly 
 
 On the pave. 
 
 Frost-stunned : — 
 
 His patent-leather pumps have almost crushed it. 
 
 He is saying: 
 
 "I see you, pretty butterfly. 
 
 Your wings are a welter of gold and blood. 
 
 You have two wings, 
 
 One on each side, 
 
 Butterfly. 
 
 The wind lifts you; 
 
 You are ruffled; 
 
 You flutter like my heart, 
 
 Bright thing." 
 
 Stuart P. Sherman. 
 
 "Do you believe it is true that before the Flood men 
 lived for seven or eight hundred years, and came down 
 to three score and ten afterward.'" 
 
 "If it is true, it is a striking example of the bad effects 
 of too much water." 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Servants with the Happy Faces. 
 
 Our aunt's winter house looked through broad windows 
 down a garden, with pine-trees, that steeply overhung 
 the Mediterranean. Sea water, veiled with light haze, 
 lay every afternoon glimmering at the bottom of a vista 
 framed in pine-needles, tall curving trunks, and a hillside 
 lawn bright with flowers and tropic shrubs. The house 
 was a modest, comfortable villa. It sheltered the lives 
 of two very charming ladies and their servants. A 
 stranger, trying to describe the place, once called it "that 
 house where the servants have such happy faces"; and 
 they had reason to be happy in those days before the 
 war. 
 
 It was on a stormy Sunday that Maurice came home on 
 short leave from his garrison at Nice, to visit his old 
 fellow-servants. They were in a suppressed hubbub of 
 joy at the news of his arrival; and Joseph the butler, 
 arranging flowers carefully on a table (Joseph loved 
 flowers), wore a smile of friendly satire when he explained 
 the commotion, saying, "It is M. le sergent Maurice who 
 has come." They had all wept when he left them to 
 enter the army as a conscript. Later that evening he 
 came in to pay his respect to Mesdames. A gale was 
 blowing, not the mistral, but a wild southwester off the 
 sea, that lashed our windows with rain, and moaned "like 
 the voices of dead galley-slaves." Parting the curtains, 
 one could see through wet panes a blurred light moving 
 in the blackness, — the light of a ship in distress, close 
 ashore, and laboring to avoid the rocky point of the Cape. 
 We forgot her peril when Maurice entered. He was a 
 slight, alert, blond youth in the blue coat and red trousers 
 and numbered collar of his regiment; a badly cut uniform, 
 overlarge for him, he wore with an air which made it 
 appear to fit. He stood erect, honestly proud of his 
 service, delighted to see the ladies again; and with the 
 glow of lamps and a boulet fire lighting his clean young 
 face, he talked about military life. "Yes, there were 
 hardships. For example, the regiment found not enough 
 beds in the barracks at Nice. Things were ill prepared, 
 but . . ." While the gale whistled and spattered behind 
 the tall curtains, Maurice entertained the ladies as only 
 a Frenchman can do, speaking with a ready and musical 
 fluency that made his narrative sound like Alexandrine 
 verse. He was a splendid, simple figure of youth. His 
 oflFhand courtesy, the quick intelligence in his eyes, re- 
 minded one of the poet's lad, whose 
 
 "... glancing look, if once he smile, 
 Right honest women may beguile." 
 
 But Maurice had no thought of beguilement. He was 
 •disGussing the army, and what he should do when his 
 term of conscription expired. His ambition was to take 
 service with an English gentleman, learn the foreign 
 tongue, and become at last the conductor of a Pullman 
 car. 
 
 He was promoted for gallantry at the Marne; and, 
 having had his part in that miracle, soon afterward fell 
 in another victory, running forward with his men at the 
 charge. 
 
 One of his admirers was poor Marcel, a youngster whom 
 we privately called The Pike, because the pike is a fish 
 said to have no brains. Adarcel had none too many. 
 He was thin and feebly built; his hatchet face, tinged 
 with a pink flush about the cheek-bones, wore a silly 
 smile of good nature; his eyes were sore, flighty, and 
 vague. Born to misunderstand, to blunder, to forget, 
 he lived in an atmosphere of rebuke, and suffered no 
 more than a duck in the rain. "Wait till you get into the 
 army!" his fellows cried, when outraged by some of his 
 many faults. "You'll learn what time of day it is then!" 
 Marcel only laughed, blinked, went his erratic way, and 
 
 learned nothing at all. In the early morn 
 perched on the kitchen stairs to black the h u.?. - 
 boots, he sang very funny songs in a plaintive, i ,b ; 
 voice like a thrush singing in a dark cage. Waii . . 
 table, he dumbly revelled in the conversation whi^ ■- 
 could not understand, and often forgot his duty 
 plates. Many a stern look he got from Joseph th 
 many a winged word afterward behind the scenes; bi 
 Marcel never improved; not for him was the time of day, 
 he could not change his nature which made him float 
 through life obscurely and cheerfully. To act as valet 
 for an American was pure delight, especially when the 
 American spoke unearthly French and wore for bath- 
 slippers a pair of Huron moccasins, which recalled all 
 that there is of romance in Fenimore Cooper and Gustave 
 Aimard. He burned my best clothes with a hot iron, 
 and smiled over them like a thin, pink, sore-eyed angel. 
 The last time I saw Marcel off duty was in Paris, Rue 
 Marbeuf. He pointed westerly, and cried, " Je cherche 
 ma tanie!^' with such exaltation as though an aunt were 
 the Golden Fleece. We had a torrent of words; and when 
 we parted Marcel flew off easterly at a zig-zag, seeking 
 his weather-vane of an aunt with unabated joy. 
 
 Poor Marcel: he died without renown, somewhere in 
 the trenches. A bullet caught him, and the honest 
 featherhead gave up his life for us, for what we believe 
 in. Wherever his soul went — that animula vagula, that 
 ^ animulissima — there will be singing; and the songs will 
 make you smile. 
 
 Then there was Ragot the chauffeur, a great cherub with 
 black moustache and flaming cheeks, who believed that 
 milk was poisonous, who drove his car up and down the 
 Maritime Alps like a devil unchained; but whose pleasure 
 it was to read, ponder, and discuss Latin inscriptions at 
 Our Lady of Laghet and elsewhere. Ragot's old chariot 
 has been smashed or worn out by the enemy these two 
 years, and he himself a prisoner — too capable to be set 
 free — in the unloved country. There was Edouard the 
 gardener also, a swarthy little hillman from Roquebrune 
 way, who left the kindest of wives and le petit Jean his 
 son, to go get shot through the leg and captured. There 
 was Emile, a pale, intelligent, suspicious, warm-hearted 
 major-domo, who went to the front an atheist, and at 
 the front became something quite different. The women- 
 folk of these men made up the remainder of the house- 
 hold. 
 
 They are all scattered and changed, like everything 
 else in our day. These humble and unheroic people 
 were forced to do their duty. The villa missed them; 
 and elsewhere, "what private griefs they had, alas, we 
 know not." The garden has since contained the wounded 
 and the blind, French, English, patient black Senegalese, 
 and Serbian officers, the saddest and most courteous of 
 gentlemen, waiting confidently for a better time. Why 
 should we mention petty figures, ciphers in a great ac- 
 count.'' There is no reason why, except that they belong 
 to our own world, which has suffered all but the over- 
 throw of right and reason, and which has met that shock 
 with an unbroken wall of humble sacrifice. 
 
 It is strange, now, to remember the enemy as he lived 
 and moved in a quiet neighborhood. We saw him 
 walking large and talking proudly along the road outside. 
 Every one, during the spring of 1914, acknowledged that 
 in a material sense he was about to inherit the earth. 
 Stout men and uncouth picnicking women came, and 
 stared, and gawked over gates, and with mouths full 
 sputtered "Schonl" into gardens. They were commonly 
 said in those days to be spying out the country, choosing 
 their future landmarks, mingling with us under orders to 
 become "men of the world" and to fit themselves for that 
 station in life to which it might please an Emperor to 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 1). They were like Boswell's German baron, who, 
 
 ■if certain foreigners, used to jump methodically 
 
 ' ■•: every day, crying, " SA, apprens fetre vifl" 
 
 : nave passed, and still we wonder at their exer- 
 
 i hard to learn from books or by command the 
 
 our human nature. 
 
 Henry Milner Rideout. 
 
 Mercy Buntin'. 
 
 [From an unpublished volume, by the courtesy of Messrs. Houghton 
 '\ iflin Company.) 
 
 Mercy Buntin' ain't exactly what you call flighty, 
 But she certainly does say onexpected things at times. 
 She was mighty 
 Low in her mind 
 
 When her husband Hezekiah died. 
 And says she, standin' by his coffin-side, 
 "I snum, it don't seem to me 
 As if I should ever git married ag'in!" 
 
 Another time her sister died 
 And I said to her: "Mercy, I'm afraid 
 You'll be 
 Sorter lonesome now, all by yourself in that house." 
 "Y-e-e-s," says she, 
 "But there'll be more closet-room." 
 It was house-cleanin' time, though, 
 
 And I ruther guess 
 Women-folks is sorter demented 
 At them times. 
 
 Madelaine Yale Wynne. 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 (The answers will be given togetiier in the last issue of this paper.) 
 
 I. 
 Aweary traveller sought my first, 
 
 For badly he had hurt my second; 
 From far amid the deepening gloom 
 
 A cheering third seductive beckoned. 
 
 . But as he went a sage cried: "Hold! 
 
 Oh, fourth that snare which would decoy you. 
 It is death's wild will-o'-the-wisp; 
 
 Beyond my whole it will destroy you." 
 
 II. 
 
 My first is the same as my second; 
 
 But my second is not my first; 
 For five of my first must be reckoned 
 
 Whenever my second's rehearsed. 
 So my second my first, upon my soul, 
 In worth doth mightily my whole. 
 
 III. 
 Within my first my third men seal; 
 My second's naught, yet woe or weal 
 Oft in it speak. Under my whole 
 Comes comfort to the dying soul. 
 
 IV. 
 Far from its vine, and from my second poured. 
 My first tempts palates at the social board. 
 My whole no less is at the banquet placed. 
 To tempt the eye and satisfy the taste. 
 
 • V. 
 The Devil said to Mother Eve: * 
 
 "Dear first, my second do." 
 And she obeyed. Oh, woeful whole 
 
 Was that for me and you I 
 
 The Traveller. 
 
 Oh, where do I go when I am asleep. 
 When such marvellous things I see.' 
 
 And why will my memory not keep 
 The adventures that happen to me.' 
 
 Such wonderful fragments and bits I recall 
 Such glimpses of beautiful things; 
 
 Of castles and towers mighty and tall, 
 And palaces matchless of kings. 
 
 I visit the wonderful lands that hang 
 
 Where the world is upside down; 
 The isles where the sirens so wickedly sang, 
 
 And many an old, old town. 
 
 And forests with lions and tiger-cubs, 
 
 And monkeys uncaged in each tree; 
 And black men out hunting with arrows and clubs; — 
 
 But they all are afraid of me! 
 
 For neither the land nor the ocean wide 
 
 Can hinder my way at night; 
 When I on a flying-horse can ride. 
 
 As swift iS the wind in flight. 
 
 And I have iought dragons, no knight so bold. 
 
 In lands that are far, far away; 
 And have captured galleons laden with gold, 
 
 Darting out from a palm-fringed bay. 
 
 I have searched weird places in and out, 
 
 By the sure, hid way of dreams; 
 I have journeyed the whole round world about. 
 
 With its forests, and mountains, and streams. 
 
 If I could remember, and if I could tell, 
 
 How people would listen and stare! 
 For never has traveller travelled so well, 
 
 As they all would be forced to declare. 
 
 Enoch Crane. 
 
 The Letter Bag. 
 
 [No letters can adequately represent the suferuigs of unhappy Poland f 
 and we are not even able to give any connmxinications which are recent. For 
 a year the German blockade has been so complete that no letters have come 
 out or gone in. Through the kindness of Mme. Szumowska Adamowski, 
 President of the Society which has done noble work, the Friends of Poland, 
 we are able to give a few extracts. Mr. Adam Siedlecki, an author well 
 known in Poland, wrote in November, igiS, as follows:] 
 
 [As to the situation in Warsaw,] imagine a space filled with thousands 
 of miserable basements; place in them people for whom no human 
 aid can find occupation, — peoj.ue deprived of all comforts for many 
 months; put among them old men and feeble children; count 300,000 
 of such unfortunates, and you will have a faithful picture of Warsaw. 
 In the city, human shapes looking like skeletons leaning against the 
 walls of the houses, who have not even the strength to whisper the 
 word "help"; limitless despair reflected in their eyes. On the side- 
 walks you may see chains of beggars kneeling in the water accumulated 
 by the recent autumn rains, with their eyes glued to the ground. They 
 have not yet overcome the shame of being forced to beg. In the miser- 
 able holes of suburban lodgings are whole families who for weeks have 
 not tasted a spoonful of warm food, and over this human stratum 
 another still more pitiable — the intelligent part of the population de- 
 prived of work; the impossibility of getting out of their mouths a 
 request for help, hiding between the walls of a bare room the misery of 
 hunger and of November cold. Indescribable is the mental anguish 
 of seeing their children without food, wasting under their eyes and 
 becoming an easy prey to the reigning epidemics. . . . The work of relief 
 under great-hearted Prince Lubomirski, assisted by hundreds of 
 men of noble mind, and collections of hundreds of roubles, has done 
 much. The towns have become a network of free kitchens. All sorts 
 of philanthropic committees are working eagerly, but all these cannot 
 give assurance that there will be fuel and food for the unfortunates. 
 . . . One thing only will ever be forthcoming: the ardor and self-forget- 
 fulness of those who work until exhaustion to save if but a portion of 
 these miserable sufferers from death and starvation. . . . 
 
 [That matters have grown constantly worse in Poland, is known in spite 
 of all censorship and blockades. It is to be doubted if the world has ever 
 seen more appalling and atrocious suffering than now ravages unhappy 
 and guiltless Poland.] 
 
 [From a private letter from Warsaw, May, 1915.] I will tell you a 
 part of the unusual self-sacrifice of a young girl, twenty years old, of a 
 wealthy family, Miss Fuchs. She had been taking care of homeless 
 refugees, caught typhus, and died soon after. Before her death, while 
 she was still conscious, she begged her parents to give the money which 
 would have been her dower to the houseless ones, and not to let it be 
 known how she caught the fever, as it might discourage others from 
 helping the unfortunate. It was kept secret, and I know it only ac- 
 cidentally. There have been many victims of the disease among the 
 well-to-do, delicately nurtured women, who were not used to hard work. 
 They perish, but they all die without a murmur, in the quiet conscious- 
 ness of having performed their duty. . . . All together you may be 
 proud of your compatriots. In spite of the present depression and 
 mental suffering, there is great strength and persistence in work of 
 relief. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 THE, B05T0N MOTHLR G005L. 
 
 THE LANDMARKS. 
 
 The Boston landmarks, men agree. 
 Are sights all travellers should see; 
 And so to see them, every year. 
 The travellers come from far and near. 
 
 The 5tate House makes a glorious show. 
 Where fiery bulbs shine row on row. 
 
 As they would never stop; 
 But sometimes one might like to know 
 Whether the statesmen down below 
 
 Are also light a-top. 
 
 Oh, help! Alas! Alackaday! 
 
 What steps are there we can take? 
 A tower's stepped on the Custom House, 
 
 And squashed it flat as a pancake! 
 
 The State House long has single been 
 
 For all its grace and charm; 
 The State House now is Mormon seen. 
 
 With a wife on either arm. 
 
 A hip and a hop and a hippetty-clidge. 
 And that is the shabby old Harvard Bridge. 
 
 Roly-poly the Boston Stone! 
 Once in Boston well was it known. 
 Over the ocean it rolled its way. 
 Served as a landmark for many a day; 
 Now it is built in a down-town wall. 
 Who among you has seen it at all? 
 
 Ten tribes were lost; 
 
 Some hoped to find them one day. 
 The Lsplanade was built; 
 
 And there they were on Sunday. 
 
 To market! To market! We'll go down to Faneuil. 
 Home again! Home again! Back through the tun- 
 nel. 
 
 The lion and the unicorn 
 
 On the Old State House stood, 
 Till certain silly people 
 
 Debated if they should. 
 
 The lion and the unicorn 
 
 Together went away; 
 The lion and the unicorn 
 
 Came back another day. 
 
 They once used Boston Common 
 To hang the witches there; 
 
 But witches got so plenty 
 That they dropped it in despair. 
 
 The people in the Old Folks' \]o^r<<\ 
 
 The Athenaeum named. 
 They never wish abroad to roam. 
 
 They are completely tamed. 
 And if they chance restless to get, 
 
 And life seems rather slow, 
 They watch, to take away all fret. 
 
 The graveyard down below. 
 
 The Somerset 's a noble club; of that there is ni 
 doubt. 
 
 The Common in the windows looks, the uncom- 
 mon look out. 
 
 To Boston Common, row on row. 
 
 Anciently honorable, the troopers go; 
 
 And when they are assembled there, 
 
 They fire the Governor into a chair. 
 
 But common folk hold the Common dear 
 
 Because they flock together here, 
 
 Whenever holidays come round. 
 
 To strew old papers on the ground. 
 
 So the next morning it is seen 
 
 To be both "Common and unclean." 
 
 Answers to Correspondents. 
 
 Scholar. We have never seen the phrase "to take up 
 arms against a See of troubles" explained as referring to 
 the fight against the Pope; but in view of the bitterness 
 of the feeling against the Catholics in Shakespeare's time, 
 we are inclined to agree with you that this is the true 
 meaning. 
 
 Simon. "Tabu" is a word of Polynesian origin. Its 
 meaning is: Made in Germany. 
 
 Concord. The passage in which Emerson protests 
 against the modern spelling of programme is in "Brahma " : 
 
 "They reckon ill who leave 'me' out." 
 
 Zantippette. You ask if you should accept the posi- 
 tion of chief marshal in a parade of woman suffragists 
 when you cannot tell the right hand from the left. We 
 should regard you as specially designed by Providence for 
 that office. 
 
 Violet. We can assure you that it is not considered 
 good form to eat catsup on pie for breakfast. As the 
 name indicates, catsup is served only for supper, and then 
 generally on ice-cream. 
 
 Simplex. No, having written fables does not make La 
 Fontaine a fabulous person, any more than not having 
 written them makes Bernard Shaw real. 
 
 Harvard. The patron saint of football players is St. 
 Lawrence, who achieved fame on a gridiron. 
 
 Dorcas. The rule for knitted sponges generally fol- 
 lowed is to cast on as many stitches as one pleases, knit 
 as long as one pleases, drop any number of stitches one 
 pleases, and bind off. 
 
 Priscilla. The names of the debutantes who poured 
 at the Boston Tea Party have not been preserved, so we 
 are unable to give you a description of their dresses. 
 
 The pleasure of Saturday night, 
 
 When we've tried all the week to be good, 
 Is that then we our morals may slight, 
 
 And not do a thing that we should. 
 
 Roman pearls are good enough for swine. 
 
)ci,B;niis>o 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 MONDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1916 
 
 No. 2 
 
 y 
 
 Angling on the River Meuse. 
 'Hope to heaven you don't have to fire. It might scare the fish." 
 
10 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 A Wish at Sea. 
 
 May death come as eve comes to meet 
 
 The level sea; 
 With wide, cool quietude, and sweet 
 
 Tranquillity. 
 One lucent star from out the dusky west, 
 
 Far on the lee. 
 Gives dear assurance darkness will be blest, 
 
 From terrors free; 
 Far, dim horizons mark where voyages cease, 
 
 And we would be. 
 Then hope at last shall merge with peace 
 
 Eternally. 
 
 Rest and Refreshment. 
 
 I had tarried late in town on account of important 
 private business, postponing the move to the country 
 until I should be able to go with a clear conscience, my 
 work finished. The weather had been very hot in the 
 past week in June, and the bricks under my busy feet 
 reminded me of those that in my youth were tucked into 
 sleighs, perfectly heated in the kitchen oven, and wrapped 
 in bits of carpet. 
 
 Some kind friends had a cottage at the seashore, not 
 more than an hour distant by rail; and when they wrote 
 begging me to come for a day and a night, "just for rest 
 and refreshment," as they neatly put it, I was grateful for 
 the thought of me, and gladly took the train in the after- 
 noon of a scorching day. I was very tired, and over- 
 hurried, not allowing myself my usual afternoon siesta 
 and cooling bath. I packed some things into my leather 
 case with a disorderly mind, doubting as to its contents, 
 as the evening at the shore might be very cold by contrast. 
 
 The train was stuffy, and full of the heat and dust which 
 had entered with the sun in the morning and huddled 
 there all day; but as one left the city and confronted the 
 marshes with the soft tide-ways creeping through them, 
 the atmosphere revived, and my wilting spirit with it. 
 When I arrived at the station at M., and found my friend 
 waiting for me in her victoria, I became quite content 
 with all conditions. 
 
 "Oh, you poor dear!" she exclaimed. "I fancy town 
 must have been awful. James came down in an early 
 train, saying that he simply couldn't bear the heat a 
 moment longer." 
 
 "Yes, it was bad enough," I said; "but now I will 
 forget it." 
 
 We rolled smoothly over the well-kept road, after 
 waiting for the departure of many motor-cars, all seem- 
 ingly bent upon getting their owners home first. Our 
 carriage turned into a wood-road, shady and quiet. 
 
 "I thought you wouldn't mind taking a long way 
 round," said my friend. "One of the horses is rather 
 queer about autos, and I like to get away into the roads 
 forbidden to them. It is a good deal farther, but it is so 
 safe." 
 
 I was longing to get to the sea, and the wood-road 
 was shut in rather closely with no view; but, as she said, 
 it was safe, and that was a consideration. On reaching the 
 main road again, we had one or two hairbreadth escapes 
 from being run down by autos, which rushed at us from 
 behind, just shaving our wheels. This caused our horses 
 to prance a good deal on the grass at the roadside, and to 
 behave in a most uneven manner. We made several 
 masterly flank movements, however, and now and again 
 would plunge into lanes which were ticketed in large 
 letters "Not an automobile road," with no explanation 
 what sort of a road it might be. My friend's conversa- 
 tion was fragmentary, as she kept one eye to windward 
 and the other to leeward, and interspersed her remarks 
 to me by suggestions to the coachman. At last we 
 
 entered the home avenue, victorious, if a bit shaken, and 
 as she stepped on the piazza she said with a sigh of 
 content: "I really drive so little this summer, those autos 
 are so annoying." 
 
 The place was delightful, and from one of the windows 
 of the room assigned to me I looked on a dancing summer 
 sea, with a wooded island here and there breaking the blue 
 expanse; and on the other side a garden brilliant with all . 
 the colors of all the flowers. The air was perfumed, and 
 I gratefully recognized the fragrance of box, and mignon- 
 ette, and heliotrope, the incense of their day of service. 
 
 After dinner we sat on the wide veranda, overlooking 
 the terrace to the sea, and it seemed too good to be true. 
 
 "You won't mind my smoking rather near you.""' asked 
 James. "There is no breeze to-night; and sometimes the 
 mosquitoes come out of the grass." 
 
 I didn't mind at all, for they did seem to be coming out 
 of the grass, or somewhere, and I was feebly flicking my 
 handkerchief about my person. That was a small misery, 
 however, in the face of a young moon, not grown to undue 
 fulness of figure, but just artistically well-made. The 
 summer waves lazily kissed the foot of the high cliff, 
 and enfolded the islands silently, as the waters of the 
 lagoons hold Venice in their embrace. As the evening 
 grew late, and we separated for the night, I remarked upon 
 the perfect repose of the picture, adding that sleep in 
 such surroundings would be as a benediction to my city- 
 worn nerves. 
 
 James looked out to the far horizon, saying, with a touch 
 of anxiety in his voice: "I hope it won't be too calm. 
 There is a misty bank out there which may mean fog." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind sea-fog," I replied. "It's so fresh, 
 and full of salt." 
 
 Aly hostess came to see that nothing was wanting in my 
 pleasant room, telling me that her chamber was separated 
 from mine only by a communicating closet, if I might like 
 to speak to her. 
 
 "My dear, I shall speak to no one. I shall be bliss- 
 fully asleep in no time at all." 
 
 I got into bed, leaving the windows open, that the sweet 
 air could enter at will. The friendly lighthouses winked 
 at me from the island in the bay, and I lapsed into slum- 
 ber with a delicious consciousness of doing so which adds 
 the true Epicurean touch to the luxury of it. 
 
 It seemed but a blessed moment of time before I was 
 waked by a tremendous noise that got me to my feet with 
 a vague impression that a large ocean steamer was 
 being wrecked on the terrace. I staggered to a window, 
 to be there greeted by a repetition of the horrid bellow- 
 ing of steam, which struck the air as with an impact of 
 personal motive. The moon had vanished, the stars had 
 gone away, and a sort of white darkness reigned in their 
 stead. The monstrous utterance kept on at regular 
 intervals of half a minute; and as I nervously shut both 
 the windows to shelter me a little, my friend came into 
 the room, candle in hand. 
 
 "I am so sorry! James was afraid it might come." 
 
 "What.? A shipwreck?" I gasped. 
 
 "No, no! It's the new steam fog-signal they have 
 put on the island where the lighthouses are. The whole 
 shore is in a rage about it, and we can only hope that 
 it may be changed before long. Do you think )'ou can 
 sleep at all, dear.'' The fog may clear away, if the wind 
 turns." 
 
 "I can try," I answered with a ghastly attempt at good- 
 nature. "Don't worry about me." 
 
 She went sorrowfully, and I did try. But the thing 
 that shook the night was inevitable, unforgettable; 
 and after covering my head with the sheet, and being 
 asphyxiated, I gave it up, and wondered if the day would 
 never come, when I could go back to town. At about 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 11 
 
 four o'clock the dreadful thing blew with less force, and 
 at last stopped with a groan, as if it had died. 
 
 I got up, opened the windows, saw the blessed dawn, 
 heard the birds singing, and then threw myself desper- 
 ately into bed again, thinking to catch a nap, and ease 
 my aching head. Just as I was catching a nap, what 
 was this new torment outside.^ It was as if all the mill- 
 wheels in the world were turning their clappers, getting 
 nearer and louder as they came. Once more I went to 
 the window, weary with emotion, and steeled to meet 
 whatever might be there. I saw two small boats, a man 
 in each, apparently clapping aimlessly from point to 
 point, like maniacs seeking a likely spot in which to drown 
 themselves. The men stood up, and evidently had no 
 oars. I was really anxious now, and knocked on the 
 dividing door. 
 
 "Yes, dear," said my friend in a sleepy voice. 
 
 "I want to tell you that there are two stranger men in 
 boats, making a clacking noise with some instrument, 
 and I fear they are not all right." 
 
 "Oh, darling, to be sure you wouldn't know, not having 
 been at the shore for years," she cried. "They are the 
 motor-dories; they won't stay long." And she was silent, 
 and, I suppose, asleep again. 
 
 My poor brain was a bit weakened by this time, and 
 I wondered if "motor-dories" were any relation to 
 matadors, and why they would not stay. After watch- 
 ing them for a time, I decided that they were pulling at 
 ropes in the water, probably a strange but innocent way 
 of fishing. At last I returned to my distracted couch, 
 and they clattered away into the morning. 
 
 After a slight doze, followed by a refreshing cup of 
 tea, I met my hosts on the piazza. They were distressed 
 about my night of disturbance, and begged me to make 
 no effort to do more than to wander in the garden and sit 
 about in the pleasant shade of the trees, as I was obliged 
 to take an afternoon train to town. They also advised 
 a nap after luncheon, to which counsel I willingly agreed, 
 and went to my room, taking a novel with me; and on 
 a comfortable couch was in a pleasing condition of somno- 
 lence, when the whole house was shaken to its foundations, 
 doors and windows rattled, and a terrible explosion took 
 place somewhere very near. I rushed to my door, 
 thinking of the gas-machine of which they had been 
 speaking as so great a convenience. I called over the 
 stairs: "What is it.' Shall I come down.'" 
 
 "No, no," answered my friend from below. "It's 
 those stupid big guns they are trying on one of the forts 
 in the harbor. They do it rather often this summer." 
 
 I just groaned and went back to my room, broken in 
 spirit, with only enough decision left to live until I could 
 get home. The concussions went on at intervals, and 
 of course no rest was possible with the couch shaking 
 beneath my tired form. Luncheon was a perfunctory 
 meal on my part, full of forced cheerfulness; and in the 
 warm afternoon I was driven to the train, chased along 
 the dusty road by the devastating motors. 
 
 When I reached town, they had been drenching the 
 streets with water, and as my cab threaded its careful 
 way the queer damp smell was grateful to my nostrils. 
 The servants had a little dinner ready for me, and a 
 cooling breeze blew through the open house. 
 
 As I lay in my bed that night, hearing the footsteps 
 on the sidewalks grow fewer and less frequent, there 
 was a present sense of shelter and relief. The night 
 breeze rustled the leaves of the elms in the park, and the 
 sometime honk of the distant auto lulled me to repose. 
 The majority of the summer world had gone to the 
 seashore for "rest and refreshment." 
 
 Alice G. Howe. 
 
 When Mark Twain Miscued. 
 
 k 
 
 The game of billiards was the solace of Mr. Clemens's 
 last years. 
 
 "r am now so old," he once drawled to me, "that I've 
 got down to just two alternatives. I must either play 
 billiards or go to bed. There is no middle course open 
 to me." So I often used to drop in at his old Fifth Avenue 
 house and save him from bed. 
 
 We played a thing which he declared to be billiards. 
 In reality it was an anomalous game of his own invention. 
 There was about it none of the rigidity of age. Its chief 
 virtue was the variety caused by its unceasing evolution. 
 He treated it as if it were a story that he was writing, 
 and kept inventing new rules as he went along. The 
 basis of the plot was a pool table and three balls. 
 
 He played with his whole soul and could not bear 
 to lose. When an opponent threatened to overtake him 
 he would become seriously agitated, hastily invent a 
 new and more surprising rule, and forge ahead. 
 
 As we were playing one afternoon, an old friend, whom 
 we may call Amos X., arrived to spend the night. Mr. 
 Clemens clasped him to his bosom, installed him in the 
 adjoining room, and hastened eagerly back to make the 
 next shot. Presently Mr. X. drifted in to watch, and 
 was thoughtless enough to try and make conversation. 
 "What have you been reading lately.'" he asked, just 
 as my opponent was endeavoring to mark twain caroms 
 and pocket himself off the red. Mr. Clemens started 
 nervously and left me a golden opportunity. 
 
 "Nothing," he answered shortly. "Given up reading. 
 Do sit down, Amos!" 
 
 But Amos continued to walk about close to the table, 
 and talk, while his friend's game went to pieces. Dis- 
 tractedly he invented a new rule. But it was a feeble 
 one, and did not seriously check my steady advance 
 toward his score. 
 
 "Come on down to Florida with me," suggested Amos. 
 
 "I've given up travelling," snapped the humorist. 
 "Sit down!" 
 
 But Amos explained that he had been sitting down 
 enough in the train. In all innocence he jogged Mr. 
 Clemens's cue arm during a critical shot, and began a 
 long, arid tale about a Western college president visiting 
 Rome, who went to some celebration at St. Peter's and 
 was refused admittance because he had no ticket. "But 
 I don't need one," the president declared. "I have an 
 hereditary right in here." "How so.'" asked the door- 
 keeper. "My name is Martin Luther," he answered. 
 "Oh, all right, you may enter!" cried the doorkeeper. 
 
 Mr. Clemens squeezed out a mirthless laugh. But I 
 could see no mirth in his eyes. For, at the climax of 
 the tale, he had miscued, and I had, in consequence, 
 run fifteen and caught up to him. And he had been 
 too much agitated even to improvise a new rule. 
 
 Then Amos ambled on downstairs. Mr. Clemens 
 watched the receding figure malevolently, and as soon 
 as the other was out of earshot he delivered himself of 
 a good, round expression filled with the tang of his pilot 
 days on the Mississippi. 
 
 "How," he cried, "does that uneasy chap suppose 
 any one can play billiards while he's meanderin' round 
 here talking about Luther and God a'mighty and other 
 uninteresting people?" 
 
 Robert Haven Schauffler. 
 
 "Where did old Midas get that large collection of 
 posters he has left to the Metropolitan Museum.'" 
 
 "I am not sure, but I think it was made years ago 
 by a Shanty Town goat." 
 
12 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 contributing editors 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margabet Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
 Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
 sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at the booth. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1QI6, BY ARLO BATES, »BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band and the 
 Hawaiian Band each day from 4 to 6 p.m. 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of Webb 
 of Brae-Burn Golf Club, Paul Revere Hall, 3 p.m. to 4 p.m. 
 Eduard Jern, violinist to their Majesties, the King and 
 Queen of Belgium. 
 
 In Main Exhibition Hall at 9.30 an ovation to the 
 Allied Colors. Miss Eyemael as little Miss Columbia. 
 
 A QUACK is the shadow of a hypochondriac. 
 
 The unoccupied have no leisure. 
 
 America is the land of the free, and the home of the 
 impertinent. 
 
 We wonder whether the many gentlemen of leisure 
 who have taken to knitting during the war will con- 
 tinue that occupation after the need of sending stockings 
 to the front is over. They find it an interesting and 
 soothing occupation, and it may be that, in the future, 
 elderly gentlemen will be found of an afternoon sitting 
 in the Somerset and L'nion Clubs with their knitting, 
 quite as a matter of course. 
 
 A Crying Want. 
 
 The number of societies in which executive people do 
 good work and futile folk fuddle about is already large. 
 We hesitate, in face of the number already organized, to 
 suggest that yet another is urgently required; but we 
 venture to think that some of those already in operation 
 might wisely be disbanded to make room for a body so 
 urgently needed. The Society for the Multiplication of 
 Breakfast Foods, for instance, may be regarded as having 
 accomplished all that could reasonably be expected of it, 
 and perhaps even more. The Society for the Care of 
 Bachelors' Stockings should certainly be given up, as it 
 seriously discourages matrimony, and the good of the 
 state is vitally interested in the maintenance of that 
 institution. The League for Popularizing the Back Bay 
 must be convinced that its efforts are fruitless, and com- 
 mon sense would call for its abandonment. When these 
 and others of the sort have been cleared away, abundant 
 room will be found for the society we propose. Indeed, 
 some new body would be needed to keep the professional 
 managers of societies happy and out of mischief. The 
 
 organization we have in mind need but be named to arouse 
 interest and approval, for we mean nothing less than a 
 Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Neighbors. 
 
 As things are at present, every man who lives in town is 
 absolutely at the mercy of those dwelling near him. He 
 is the slave of their caprices, the victim of their selfish- 
 ness, and he has no one to help him to relief. His peace 
 may be destroyed, his temper spoiled, his nerves shat- 
 tered, by the folk next door; and all this without his 
 being able to do anything unless he wishes to pay the 
 penalty of being unpopular and regarded as a crank. 
 The offenders have perfect immunity; and the singular 
 thing about it is that people who themselves feel for the 
 victim are yet so inconsistent as to feel also that he should 
 submit in silence. The man whose neighbor keeps a dear 
 little dog with a forty-horse-power yap, a dear little dog 
 that takes his walks abroad at ten every evening with 
 salvos of piercing yelps, only to awaken the community 
 at five on the following morning with barks grown stronger 
 and shriller overnight, is expected to endure it without 
 making any trouble. The man who has next door a 
 neighbor who thinks with monstrous self-deception that 
 he can play the piano, and therefore strums for hours on 
 an instrument set thoughtfully against the party-wall, 
 is looked upon as a beast if he no more than sends in a 
 polite note asking that he may have occasional respites. 
 We all know neighborhoods that are made all but unin- 
 habitable by music-machines of various sorts and varying 
 degrees of deadliness. What is a man to do when the ' 
 people near by have theories about the rearing of babies, 
 put a bracket outside their nursery window, dispose on 
 it the baby's basket, in the basket deposit a baby, and 
 then leave it for hours to shriek to all the world and high 
 heaven its anguish that its parents have not more sense? 
 To complain is to show one's self an egotist opposed to 
 all that is most elevating in human progress. Again, the 
 dwellers in half a dozen houses find their light, their view, 
 even their fresh air, cut off by a wall or an addition which 
 a kindly gentleman has thrown up for the spiritual casti- 
 gation of the neighborhood. All these and many more 
 grievous wrongs call imperatively for the establishment 
 of the new society. 
 
 The S. S. C. N. — as the title would be used constantly, 
 it would be well to abbreviate — should be ready in any 
 case where a citizen is incommoded by those living near 
 him, to step in and set things right. It should adjust 
 those questions which are outside the law, and those deli- 
 cate matters which victims shrink from taking in hand 
 themselves. A man hesitates to tell his piano-mauling 
 fellow-man, however obviously it be true, that he can 
 play no better than a broken piston; but a dispassionate 
 and impersonal society may send word to Mr. X. that 
 his drumming is a nuisance to the folk for half a block. 
 Mr. X. will be furiously angry, but he will not be able 
 to fix a quarrel on any especial person, and that he has 
 been warned by a society is a matter concerning which he 
 is little likely to speak upon the housetops. The same 
 principle holds good of yapping dogs, shrieking babies, 
 canned-music noises, and all the rest of the doleful list. 
 The amount of annoyance which will be saved, the 
 human lots which will be ameliorated, the general oiling 
 of social wheels which would follow from such a society 
 as we propose, if it were properly administered and 
 effectively run, would be simply incalculable. The suf- 
 fering who are unable to right themselves because social 
 conventions interfere would be then raised to the level of 
 animals and children, for the good of either of which 
 organizations already exist and win the admiration of the 
 angels; and the world would be one more long and impor- 
 tant step toward the realization of the ideal of universal 
 peace and good-will. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 13 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 Myrtilla came into the sanctum with a thoughtful mien, 
 . and after the conventional greetings sat for a moment 
 without speaking. The Editor regarded her with the 
 air which he affected, and which he tried to make suffi- 
 ciently wise in appearance to cover the real lack of com- 
 prehension which often lay under it as he endeavored to 
 follow the vagaries of his feminine visitors. 
 
 "No," Myrtilla observed at last, "I don't see the way 
 out of it. The servant question is bad enough on the 
 side of the girls themselves; but if their mistresses go on 
 behaving as they do, we shall all have to give up house- 
 keeping." 
 
 " You may have to give it up," the Editor responded, not 
 very wittily, "but all the same, you won't do it." 
 
 "But things can't go much farther, and leave it possible 
 for a woman who won't fight to keep her end up." 
 
 The Editor regarded her thoughtfully, turning his 
 pencil from end to end on his desk. 
 
 "When a woman makes a general complaint," he ob- 
 served, smiling, "a specific case is always behind it. 
 What is the especial grievance in this case?" 
 
 "I don't know," Myrtilla rejoined, "that that is any 
 more likely to be true of a woman than of a man; but no 
 matter. I did have Miriam's cook in mind." 
 
 "If you have taken her into your mind," he compli- 
 mented, with a flourish of his pencil, "Miriam's cook 
 has a good place at least. But I thought Miriam was 
 especially well pleased with her. How could you take 
 her away.'" 
 
 "I didn't. Somebody else did that. Would you be- 
 lieve that Mrs. X. actually went to the house while 
 Miriam was in New York, and bribed the cook with 
 higher wages to come to her!" 
 
 "I find it easier to believe things about Mrs. X.," the 
 Editor observed, "from the fact that about her grand- 
 father you couldn't tell the truth without being thought 
 snobbish." 
 
 "But I have known several ladies that have done the 
 same thing." 
 
 "To my antediluvian mind," the Editor observed 
 thoughtfully, "it would seem impossible to apply the 
 term 'lady' to a person who would bribe servants to leave 
 their places." 
 
 "At any rate," Myrtilla persisted, "it has been done to 
 people I know by their own friends." 
 
 "Then the persons you know," commented the Editor, 
 suavely, "must be singularly unfortunate in their choice 
 of friends. At least these marauders would be their 
 friends no longer." 
 
 Myrtilla looked at him in evident bewilderment. 
 
 "Why not.?" she asked. 
 
 The Editor smiled rather curiously, and began to tap 
 the back of his left thumb with the pencil. 
 
 "I meant nothing cryptic, my dear Myrtilla; but only 
 the obvious thing that of course you couldn't continue 
 to know a person who had taken a servant out of your 
 house by bribery." 
 
 "But you wouldn't quarrel over a thing like that.?" 
 
 "I wouldn't have a well-bred person quarrel over any- 
 thing; but this case seems simple. If a lady knows that 
 one of her acquaintances has bought a servant out of her 
 house, especially if that acquaintance has been a friend, 
 she of course writes to her at once." 
 
 "Writes to her.?" echoed Myrtilla, evidently puzzled. 
 "Of course then there'd be a quarrel." 
 
 "That depends upon whether she wrote properly. 
 The letter should be especially polite, and as cordial as if 
 nothing had happened." 
 
 "But what could she sav.?" 
 
 "She could say many things, but the things she would 
 like to say would be just those which she must of course 
 leave out. She in common honesty is bound to say to 
 her friend that it has come to her ears that that friend 
 has seduced away her cook, or her waitress, or whatever, 
 by offering her higher wages; but that as it is of course 
 inconceivable that her friend should do a thing so dis- 
 honorable, she is very indignant on her friend's behalf, 
 and she wishes to be able to defend her. So she asks 
 her friend for a specific denial." 
 
 Myrtilla looked at him with absorbed and envying 
 intentness. 
 
 "Oh," she breathed, clasping her hands in her lap, "I 
 believe you'd dare do it." 
 
 "I don't see where the daring comes in," he retorted, 
 "but I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I did not." 
 
 "But," Myrtilla said, evidently struggling with deep 
 considerations, "I don't see what would come of it. The 
 woman who would steal a servant would lie out of it." 
 
 "That," the Editor assented, "is by no means improb- 
 able; but you must remember that if she were guilty, 
 she would be furious. She would be sure to tell the story; 
 and she would know from the air, without anybody's 
 saying it, that she was blamed. She would be so un- 
 comfortable that her protestations would help to make 
 the trick of stealing servants unpopular." 
 
 His caller considered a couple of moments in profound 
 silence. Then she looked up as if a new phase of the 
 difficulty had just occurred to her. 
 
 "But you see the trouble is," she said, "that all the 
 women would blame the one that complained." 
 
 "Why.? What could they blame her for.?" 
 
 "Well," she answered ingenuously, yet with a smile 
 which showed that her sense of humor was awake, "we 
 always blame any woman that makes another uncom- 
 fortable, even if she is in the right." 
 
 "There is something in that," laughed the Editor. 
 "It is a perversion of the sex instinct to defend a woman 
 in everything and anything except when she attracts the 
 men. Save for that unpardonable sin, you do stick to- 
 gether pretty well. You see I am not a cynic." 
 
 "What do you mean by that.?" 
 
 "A cynic might attribute j'our feeling about a woman 
 who puts another in the wrong to a lack of moral sensi- 
 tiveness, or to a secret consciousness that the fault that 
 is corrected, whatever it is, might be committed by any 
 creature in petticoats. But I never hinted at either." 
 
 Myrtilla rose, and he came to his feet also. 
 
 "Well," she observed, holding out her hand in farewell, 
 "you may be right about the way to treat servant-stealing, 
 but I'm afraid the remedy will not be adopted." 
 
 "Then the evil will go on," he said with a smile. "It 
 is one of those social grievances the remedy for which 
 is in the hands of the women and nowhere else. If every 
 woman who was known to do a thing so mean was sent 
 to Coventry, how long would it last.?" 
 
 "Oh, that wouldn't do any good," Myrtilla responded 
 with a smile a thousand times more charming, "for all 
 the women who sent these women to Coventry would in 
 turn be sent to Coventry themselves for doing it. So we 
 should in the end all be there together!" 
 
 At the Country Club one lady called another cheap. 
 "Cheap!" ejaculated the friend with whom she was 
 talking. "She's so cheap she might be put on a five- 
 cent counter and marked down to three cents!" 
 
 A Boston father was asked by his small son why sailors 
 were called tars. "It may be, my son," the father replied, 
 "because they are pitched about so much." 
 
14 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Through Suez Canal in War-time, 
 
 We came down from Luxor to Cairo on Christmas Day, 
 191 5, hoping to sail within a week for Boston via the 
 Mediterranean and Naples. On our way down we saw 
 from the train the long lines of earthworks along the 
 western side of the canal, the fortifications of sandbags, 
 of trenches, of embankments, seen from within. Soldiers 
 were everywhere, and everywhere were at work strength- 
 ening, extending, or perfecting the line. The evening 
 sun shone on men and camels, on excavations, mounted 
 guns, sentries, and camps; and yet it all was so peaceful, 
 so quiet, and so remote, that it seemed hardly to be 
 really war. 
 
 As we started from the station to drive to the hotel in 
 Cairo, however, we found ourselves in an atmosphere 
 anything but placid. The city was full of troops newly 
 returned from Gallipoli, and the lawless Australians, of 
 whom the saying in Cairo was "they are magnificent 
 fighters, but they are not soldiers," were celebrating 
 Christmas in their usual boisterous fashion. We drove 
 to the entrance of a square, hearing the roar of the crowd 
 grow more and more overpowering as we advanced, and 
 suddenly we had a glimpse of long tongues of flame 
 against which a wild and swirling mob was silhouetted. 
 Of course we thought of a riot. At that instant our cab 
 was stopped by the police, and turned about to get to 
 the hotel by a roundabout route, and we naturally thought 
 that the feeling about Gallipoli, which we knew to be 
 strong, had brought an outbreak of the mob. It proved, 
 however, that it was nothing but a bonfire in the street, 
 a feu de joie kindled by the irrepressible Australian con- 
 tingent. 
 
 The news from the Mediterranean was not reassuring. 
 The Pacific had just been sent to the bottom, and trav- 
 elling by the P. and O. boats was looked upon as a des- 
 perate necessity or an act of sheer madness. As neither 
 of us would risk the other to attempt the passage of the 
 torpedo-ridden sea, although each of us had made it 
 separately, a good deal of discussion ended in a visit to 
 Cook's, with a view of ascertaining what were the pros- 
 pects of getting to America by way of the Pacific. The 
 result was not encouraging. Cook's agents offered to 
 book us to Yokohama by P. and O. boats, a change being 
 made at Colombo, but this arrangement was dependent 
 upon the safe arrival of the Medina, due the following 
 week from England. Whether she came through un- 
 scathed or shared the fate of her sister ship the Pacific 
 no man could tell. Beyond Yokohama the agency would 
 promise nothing. None of the steamships of any bel- 
 ligerent nation any longer advertised sailings, and they 
 had no knowledge of what boats went between Japan 
 and America, or when they went. They could assure us 
 that some lines were still running, and that we should be 
 able to obtain information at Singapore. They thought 
 the chance of our getting a boat to San Francisco fairly 
 good, and it might even be that by the time we reached 
 China some of the steamers of the Empress line might be 
 once more in operation. 
 
 He who cannot do what -he would, does what he may. 
 We took passage to Yokohama, and on January 7, 
 according to advice, we went on to Port Said. Nobody 
 knew when the Medina would arrive; she was due, but 
 the only evidence of her being still above water was that 
 no news had come in of her destruction. She did not 
 arrive on the 7th, nor yet on the 8th. When on Satur- 
 day night, January 8, we went to bed at eleven, no news 
 had been received. It was understood, however, that 
 the boat would not use wireless, lest it indicate her 
 whereabouts to hostile craft. At about seven in the 
 morning on Sunday, the 9th, we were awakened by an 
 
 agent from Cook's, who came to say that the Medina 
 had come in soon after midnight, and would sail that 
 day. We were to go on board that forenoon. 
 
 I cannot conceive that any human being could ever 
 leave Port Said with any feeling save that of gratitude 
 for his escape, and we were only too glad of the chance 
 to start for Japan ten days before the time we had fixed 
 in leaving the Soudan for arrival in Boston. We were 
 at the wharf with a rather formidable array of luggage 
 somewhere about ten, and after an hour of struggle we 
 got on board. We were passed ?rom hand to hand, and 
 the officials, although they were courteous, were too 
 numerous to be finished with quickly. The first official 
 had apparently no duty beyond seeing that the names 
 on our passports were not on a black-list of persons for- 
 bidden to leave Egypt. Finding that no evidence existed 
 here of any interest on the part of the government to 
 keep us longer in the land, he passed us to another, who 
 compared us with the passports aforesaid to see whether 
 anything appeared to indicate that we might be using the 
 papers of others. So we went from hand to hand, seeing 
 as we waited the doorkeepers feeling the flowing garments 
 of all who passed in and out to be sure that they carried 
 no concealed weapons. Then our seventeen pieces of 
 luggage came under inspection. In a large case of 
 ethnological material the agent at Congdon's, in Cairo, 
 had, for his own convenience, put a couple of rifles. As 
 the law did not allow the taking of firearms out of Egypt, 
 the discovery of these might have made trouble; but 
 fortunately the case was not opened, no awkward ques- 
 tions touched upon the subject, and at the long last we 
 found ourselves and our belongings on the steamer. 
 
 What the journey across the submarine area had been 
 was indicated in some degree by various things we noted 
 when we went on board. All the glass in ports and 
 windows was pasted over with a double layer of thick 
 paper, a brown layer and a black; in the cabins were 
 notices forbidding the turning up of any light while a 
 window was open; the bridge was piled with sandbags, 
 which made of it a miniature fortress; on the bulletin- 
 boards were lists of all the men among the passengers, 
 assigning each to a watch, and telling the hours, by night 
 as well as by day, when each watch was on duty. The 
 watches were of two hours each, every man had his 
 assigned post, and the passengers in this duty were on 
 the same footing as the regular crew. Each passenger 
 was assigned to a definite lifeboat, the notice being in each 
 cabin and on the general bulletin. Something of these 
 precautions I had known on the Italian steamer when I 
 crossed from Naples to Alexandria in October; but noth- 
 ing approaching the thoroughness of detail which had 
 evidently been observed on the Medina. 
 
 The talk in the smoking-room for the first day or two 
 after we boarded the steamer was largely concerned with 
 the perils through which the company had come. After 
 dinner on the first evening, I heard three men discussing 
 whether the rumor which had at one time spread over the 
 ship somewhere in the Mediterranean, — for the passen- 
 gers, as the boat constantly zigzagged and doubled about, 
 never knew where they were, — to the effect that the watch 
 had actually sighted a submarine, had been true. The 
 decision was that on the whole the tale was not probable, 
 as, had it been true, the whistle would, according to pre- 
 arranged plan, have signalled the passengers to their 
 respective lifeboats. The men were by no means sure, 
 however, and I gathered from their talk that at the time 
 of the rumor the tale was largely believed on board. 
 This sort of talk was not uncommon for days; and, al- 
 though always quiet, it showed plainly enough how great 
 must have been the tension in that erratic darkened 
 voyage from the Pillars of Hercules to Port Said. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 15 
 
 We actually began the passage of the canal at about 
 four-thirty in the afternoon. We steamed first slowly 
 past a row of battleships at anchor on the east side of the 
 canal, largely French. On one torpedo-destroyer with 
 the English flag, a marine was sending a message by the 
 violent wigwagging of flags which is seldom missing from 
 military operations; while in the bow of the thin, knife- 
 like craft, which stood so high out of water, were gath- 
 ered apparently officers, marines, and crew. Somebody on 
 the deck of the Medina below that on which I stood recog- 
 nized the boat, and when lie called it out our passengers 
 and crew alike began to cheer together. I had been so 
 out of touch with details of the war in the winter, fifteen 
 miles from the nearest post-station in the Soudan, that 
 the name meant nothing to me; but the cheering from 
 one boat to the other, and back again from the torpedo- 
 destroyer, easily told its own story. 
 
 Next came another row of battleships, this time on the 
 Port Said side, and among them a Red Cross steamer 
 with a semaphore doing the violent wigwag signalling, as 
 if nobody could be spared from hospital duty, and it 
 must be done by machinery. Here the bow was crowded 
 with convalescents, and again cheers were interchanged. 
 The thin, feebly eager cheers of the wounded men took 
 one suddenly by the throat, so cheery and plucky were 
 they, and so vividly did they suggest what all this meant. 
 
 The canal as we drew on was fortified on both sides, 
 and encampments were abundant. Embankments, rifle- 
 pits, sandbag-redoubts, fairly line the canal from Port 
 Said to the Bitter Lakes. Constantly the figures of the 
 Sikhs, with wonderfully serious bearing, with turbans, 
 like their clothing, of dust-hue, paced up and down on 
 sentinel duty along the margin of the canal, or were sil- 
 houetted against the sky on every rise. They were singu- 
 larly impressive, and no less was there about them an 
 air of unreality, as if one were seeing the ghosts of former 
 peoples watching this new waterway through the imme- 
 morial Egyptian sands. 
 
 Soon we came to the refugee camps where were quar- 
 tered the remnants of the wretched Armenians who had 
 brought their lives out of the Turkish shambles. Here 
 the children seemed innumerable, and as they came rac- 
 ing down to the edge of the canal, often, if appearances 
 could be trusted, at the imminent risk of tumbling in, 
 the camps were stirred like an ant-hill into which a stick 
 has been thrust. A number of the youngsters and now 
 and then an adult were dressed in the brightest scarlet, 
 and stood out as vividly as the poinsettias in an Egyptian 
 garden; and as occasionally a woman in long flowing 
 robe of lemon-yellow would appear, always moving as if 
 sent in by the stage-manager to give a touch of color, the 
 scene did not lack effectiveness. 
 
 Among our passengers was the Maharajah of Kapur- 
 thala, with his wife, — formerly the well-known Spanish 
 dancer, Otera, — his son, and such of his suite as had not 
 gone down in the ill-fated Pacific when she was torpe- 
 doed. One of the suite called out greetings to the Hindu 
 soldiers as we passed, but the response was not much. 
 A Cingalese gentleman also pronounced weird vocables 
 at the top of his voice, but the call and the replies were of 
 course equally unintelligible to the rest of us. 
 
 We had on board, I may note in passing, an Australian 
 Jew who had been one of the passengers on the Pacific. 
 He came on at Port Said, and I overheard him say to a 
 passenger, in relating his experiences in the disaster: 
 "That is a time when a man of course looks out for him- 
 self first." He had stamped all over him the signs of a 
 man who would look out for himself first; and by the end 
 of twenty-four hours he was practically left by the pas- 
 sengers to look out for himself for the remainder of the 
 voyage. a. b. 
 
 (To he continued.) 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 VI. 
 
 First, second, third we early learn 
 On fourths when we would play; 
 
 With fifth grimace that we must turn 
 Into my whole this waj'; 
 
 While sixth, old Ann, our kindly nurse, 
 
 Declares much learning is a curse. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Combat is by my first begun, 
 
 My second marks its close; 
 My second shuns the glaring sun, 
 
 Save when, the whole world knows, 
 Thousands to see it strike attend. 
 And shouts the listening heavens rend. 
 
 My third has served the preacher's ends, 
 
 And points a moral well; 
 My whole in sport or strife contends, 
 
 Where human passions swell. 
 My hated third can always make me feel 
 As if I were my whole, for woe or weal. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Uncommonly alike my first and third, 
 Though one belongs to man and one to bird; 
 My first is heard where farmers second vales, 
 My whole where raging waves cry to wild gales. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My first my second brings, 
 
 As from my whole death springs. 
 
 X. 
 
 My first is always touching pitch, 
 
 Yet never is defiled; 
 My second always must be dear. 
 
 Although a little wild: 
 Yet is not first or second good 
 
 Until by fire tried. 
 My whole is famous from the fact 
 It never is descried. 
 t^ 
 XL 
 My first across the plain 
 
 Boldly my second rode; 
 When first had come again, 
 Then him my first bestrode. 
 
 The Letter Bag, 
 
 [The French IFounded Fund has received a number of poetical letlers 
 of thanks from wounded soldiers in the French hospitals. The following is 
 an example.] 
 
 RONDEAU. 
 d'un petit pensionnaire de l'hopital. 
 
 Merci de vos bontes, semeuses de bonheurs, 
 De vos sourires doux comme parfums de fleurs! 
 Merci des vceux lointains qui rechauffent nos ames! 
 Les blesses attendris vous desirent, Mesdames, 
 De vivre de longs jours loin de maux et des pleurs. 
 
 Vos actes sont marques de charmes enjoleurs, 
 Nous y reconnaissons la bonte de vos cceurs 
 Et ce tact delicat qui distingue les femmes. 
 Merci de vos bontes! 
 
 Vous temoignez surtout aux peuples imposteurs 
 Que nous sommes du droit les nobles defenseurs! 
 Vos sourires charmantes, vos cadeaux sont des blames 
 Aux tyrans escortes de leur troupes infames. 
 Oui! pour nous acquitter nous reviendrons vainqueurs 
 Merci de vos bontes. 
 
 Hopital Auxilaire, Millau, Aveyron. 
 [This may be translated: Rondeau of a little patient in the hospital. 
 Thanks for your gifts, sowers of good fortune, of smiles sweet as the perfuvie 
 of flowers! Thanks for the distant wishes which refresh our spirits! The 
 wounded, touched deeply, desire for you, ladies, that you may live long, far 
 from evils and tears. Your deeds are marked by engaging charms; we 
 recognize in them the goodness of your hearts and the delicate tact which 
 distinguishes woman. Thanks for your gifts! You testify above all to 
 false peoples that we are noble defenders of the right! Your charming 
 smiles, your benefits are so many reproaches to the tyrannical leaders of 
 their infamous armies. Yes, to justify ourselves we shall return conquerors 
 thanks to your gifts!] 
 
16 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 THL B05T0N MOTHER G005L. 
 
 II. 
 
 THL 5TRLLT5. 
 
 On Beacon Hill the Brahmins dwell, 
 And visitors with reverence tell 
 How Culture trickles, rill on rill. 
 As it would all the gutters fill. 
 
 When Boston planned her streets, she laid 
 
 The ends of two together; 
 And thus adroit provision made 
 
 To suit all tastes in weather. 
 For when one walks up Summer Street 
 
 Winter awaits the comer; 
 While if down Winter step one's feet. 
 
 He plunges into Summer. 
 
 The Garden guards the Avenue 
 From contact with the Common; 
 
 The two things common there are wealth 
 And statues one 'd drop bomb on. 
 
 When ships come o'er the ocean blue. 
 The patient wharves in waiting stand 
 
 Along Atlantic Avenue, 
 Nuzzling black noses on the land. 
 
 On Harrison Avenue, Ah Ting Tang, 
 And Hi Chung Lung, and Ho King Kang, 
 And Ha Hang Wang, and Hu Hong Kong, 
 And Sam Tee Hee, and Suey Tong, 
 And a lot beside, by the way abide. 
 Like broken china on every side. 
 
 In Salem Street on all the stores 
 The signs appear like music-scores ; 
 And noses curve in such a way 
 That "Holy Moses!" each seems to say. 
 
 On the wrong side of Beacon Hill, 
 The colored gather with a will; 
 And Joy Street so was called, they say. 
 From shouts of pickaninnies at play. 
 
 No Boston architect can ever idle be. 
 For when he has a day to spare. 
 
 He must on fresh design work steadily 
 For rearranging Copley Square. 
 
 Hey diddle-diddle, a mall in the middle. 
 The Avenue stretches proud; 
 
 The babies there gather 
 
 In sunshiny weather. 
 The jolliest prettiest crowd. 
 
 If you would know concrete respectability. 
 With iust a savor of antique gentility. 
 Just go some afternoon to take the air, 
 And walk about Louisburg Square. 
 
 Perfectly Possible. 
 
 Davenport, Iowa, May 20, 19 — . 
 
 Dear Mother, — It was such a comfort to know that you 
 had left safely before the enemy landed. The reports 
 are dreadful. You remember Mrs. Carron, the sweet 
 little rosy-cheeked, gray-haired lady whose farm is just 
 outside our town on the Brady Street road; she gave you 
 recipes, she was a wonderful cook. The yelcurs* cap- 
 tured the little town where her daughter and her husband 
 were. He was a doctor and wouldn't run away. Her 
 daughter's husband was killed protecting his wife; and 
 the two little girls were killed, somehow; and her daughter 
 — well, she got the first news last week; this morning she 
 came into town for news, and came to us. Phoebe opened 
 the door, and the minute she saw her, Phcebe began to 
 cry. The change in that woman! Mother, you remem- 
 ber her, how she looked, so cheery, so comfortable — 
 the clothes just hung on her shoulders they were so loose, 
 and her face was the color of tallow; Phoebe simply fell 
 on her neck, sobbing; she was so ashamed she said after- 
 wards, but she couldn't help it. But Mrs. Carron 
 smiled the strangest smile and said, — I can't get the sound 
 of her voice out of my ears, — "Don't cry, dear, I haven't 
 slept since I heard; but I'll sleep to-night. I've had good 
 news; Bessie killed herself and the little girls before they 
 could touch them." I made sure the news was true; 
 then I left the women crying together; and I walked out 
 into the back yard, and I walked up and down with my 
 fists clenched and swore and swore. Oh, not at the 
 yelcurs, at ourselves who wouldn't prepare in time when 
 we could. But I don't trust myself to think of that! 
 Don't worry about us, here. We've plenty to eat, and 
 at reasonable prices. That's because our farmers can't 
 send their crops away. They are safe, but they are 
 ruined. Our manufacturers have turned their ploughs 
 into swords. They send them under guards; and all the 
 arsenal guns are sent with armored trains. Some pro- 
 visions go, but not very much; and of course we can't 
 send any abroad. About all our young men have vol- 
 unteered. We have splendid generals, and our armies 
 are being trained by defeat. They can't conquer us; 
 but oh, at what a woful, wasteful cost we shall win! 
 Tom is better; he wants to go back on his wooden leg; 
 says a wooden leg is as good as a live one for a chauffeur. 
 Oh, don't be afraid of the end, we'll win; and the middle 
 west will fight with the best of them. 
 
 Your aff. son, 
 
 Timothy. 
 
 P.S. The aeroplane raid did no especial damage to 
 property, only killed one man, and he was a pacifist. 
 They were trying to dynamite the bridge; so Brother 
 John says, "No harm intended and not much done!" 
 
 P.S. 2. I wish you could see the way the boys work at 
 the arsenal; I wanted to go to the front, but the colonel 
 told me I was worth more than a regiment where I am. 
 So you needn't mention me in your prayers; give them all 
 to young Tim and Brother John. We'll win. You will 
 see. 
 
 Octave Thanet. 
 
 Announcement that some famous surgeon has suc- 
 ceeded in making a heart beet after death makes the whole 
 world wonder. — G. A. Martin, Boston Transcript. 
 
 To have made any kind of a beet, even before death, 
 would have been wonderful; but this is "past all whoop- 
 ing." 
 
 A crowd is like a clock, — somebody must wind it up 
 before it will strike. 
 
 * Opprobrious slang name for the enemy. 
 
DEC 13 1916 
 
 71IU1 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 TUESDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1916 
 
 No. 3 
 
 "By Gad, son, this will be 'some' meal — if we're not killed before!" 
 
18 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Lonely Legion. 
 
 We had not known what envy is 
 
 Until we saw you fighting there, 
 England and France and your Allies, 
 
 All glorious in your despair. 
 And smiling, as they smile who die 
 For Freedom's immortality. 
 
 We are the Legion of your blood, 
 
 Sworn, too, to die that Honor live. 
 We light a fight scarce understood, — 
 
 A little in our hand to give, 
 But in our ears the clanging shame 
 Of our besmirched, dishonored name. 
 
 Pray for us: here in darkness we 
 
 Wade through the swamp and breast the stream. 
 For us no fiaming victory, 
 
 No lustihood of banners' gleam: 
 Only to keep the faith, as you 
 Have kept it, resolutely true. 
 
 You who will march in triumph home. 
 Bright as the sun's compelling spears. 
 
 Remember through the time to come, 
 The dewy, peace-encircling years, 
 
 There fought for you, obscured, afar, 
 
 An uncrowned Legion of the War. 
 
 Alice Brov 
 
 The Nook. 
 
 Sheila wakened herself in the gray morning twilight by 
 speaking aloud. 
 
 "Yes, Angus," she said, "I will come." 
 
 She had dreamed that Angus, passing the Manse gate 
 in the early forenoon, had seen her in the garden tying up 
 the hollyhocks, and had come to the gate to give her 
 greeting; and that after they had clasped hands through 
 the grille, he had asked her to keep tryst at the Nook. 
 
 "When grandmother is asleep this afternoon," she had 
 said, "I can get away. Yes, Angus, I will come." 
 
 So vivid had been the dream that she had answered 
 not in her mind, but with actual audible speech which 
 woke her. She lay awake now, fully aware that it was 
 only a dream. She looked out of the latticed window, 
 leftopen so that the cool September air had free access. 
 A little breeze stirred the looped-back muslin curtains, 
 and the clematis vine, already beginning to drop its 
 leaves, tangled across the top, marked against the gray 
 sky. She would not have been Scotch had she not won- 
 dered whether the dream were uncanny; but she was 
 healthily modern, and not given to thinking every trifle 
 of which the explanation was not at first evident as there- 
 fore fey. She at once began to account for the direction 
 her thoughts had taken in sleep. She remembered that 
 last night she had decided that the hollyhocks, rudely 
 treated by yesterday's storm, must be tied up, and that 
 as she did so she had recalled how last year when she was 
 doing this very thing Angus had come by, and the little 
 scene of her dream had been really enacted. The vivid- 
 ness of her vision was doubtless accounted for by this 
 fact. As for the Nook, she had not visited it since 
 Angus left for the front. She could not bear it. No, 
 she could not bring herself to take the memory-haunted 
 path along the shore, and climb to the quaint niche set 
 high in the crag, with its little cushion of grass, seat 
 just large enough for two. She could hardly bear now to 
 look at the sea across which he had sailed away, and she 
 would not trust herself in face of that wide prospect 
 they had so often seen together. 
 
 Through the day, in all her duties, a sort of undercurrent 
 of her dream went with her. Last night in remembering 
 she had been sad; now that she had in her dream relived 
 the meeting, she had almost the sense of having really 
 seen Angus in the flesh, a pleasant warmth such as 
 
 might come to a lover who saw the shadow of his lady 
 cross a lighted window. She did not at all think of going 
 to the Nook, even when late in the afternoon she set 
 out for a walk. The querulous bedridden invalid on 
 whom were lavished her days had sunk into the sleep 
 which came as a merciful respite at this time of day; 
 and for almost the only hours between waking and 
 sleeping she could safely call her own. Sheila, storm or 
 shine, went into the open. She walked slowly down the 
 garden-path to the gate, which in itself, with its tall 
 stone posts and strongly designed grille, gave to the Manse 
 an air of distinction; she passed through it, and hesi- 
 tated a moment, considering which way she should walk. 
 As she did so, she turned, from old habit, to glance at the 
 dole-niche. A shock thrilled through her. The dole- 
 niche was a hollow cut deeply into the stone of one of 
 the gate-posts in the shape of a cross. Her great-great- 
 great-grandfather, who built the Manse, had had it made 
 there. In his day, and for some generations after, it 
 had always, night and day, summer and winter, held 
 bite and sup ready to the hand of any wayfarer in need. 
 The niche now stood empty, save when the wind threw 
 leaves into it or one was laid there by intention. Now 
 in the dole-niche, on the bottom of the cross, lay a single 
 green rowan-leaf. It was the token by which Angus 
 had been wont to summon her to a tryst in the Nook. 
 Sheila looked at it for a startled moment as if it were a 
 trick of fancy; then she turned quickly, and with all the 
 speed possible in her walk she hurried toward the shore- 
 path and the cliffs. 
 
 A walk of a quarter of an hour and ten minutes of stiff 
 climbing were needed to take her to the trysting-place. 
 As she made the sharp turn of the cliff which brought 
 her to it, she almost said to herself with a smile: "I am 
 here first." Then it came over her how foolish she had 
 been to let a stray leaf, tossed about by the wind in yes- 
 terday's storm, send her on such an errand. She was a 
 little out of breath with her swift climb, and a sudden sense 
 of her loneliness brought a gush of tears to her eyes, as 
 she sank down upon the grassy seat. She looked out over 
 the blue sea with blurred vision; but she held herself 
 sharply in hand. She had promised Angus that what- 
 ever happened she would meet it bravely. "Whatever 
 happens," she repeated to herself; "even if — " But 
 she choked back the weakness, and repeated to herself 
 firmly: "Whatever happens." It was not for nothing 
 that she came of old and sturdy northern stock. The 
 marrow in her bones had been passed down from heroes. 
 
 It was perhaps the strength which came from this self- 
 mastery, perhaps it was the association with which the 
 Nook was rich; but all at once she was comforted with 
 a sense of peace and well-being such as she had not known 
 since she said good-by to Angus. It was almost as if 
 he were sitting beside her, not with the sadness of their 
 last tryst the afternoon before his regiment started; but 
 as if out of dreadful battle-fields he had returned safe 
 and with honor. She thought of the pride which had 
 thrilled her when the news came that he had won the 
 V. C, and she believed that other honors were in store for 
 him. She set her face resolutely to the sea, that she 
 might not turn to look at the empty place at her side. 
 She could fancy him therej she actually felt that he must 
 be there. The sea was flecked with white-caps, and over 
 it to and fro the gulls were crossing and curving in their 
 swooping flights. She fixed her attention on them with 
 a half-conscious resolve not to reason about the matter 
 of Angus' presence; she would just give herself up com- 
 pletely to the joy of imagining it, and shut out disturbing 
 reality. For some moments in the fading afternoon she 
 sat in this curious frame of mind, a sort of waking dream, 
 the feeling that he was near warming her like sunshine. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 19 
 
 Suddenly three cormorants went with heavy swiftness 
 across her field of vision, flying low over the sea, and stand- 
 ing out blackly against the sky just above the horizon- 
 line, — the cormorants, omen of evil. She turned sharply 
 to look, and saw the empty seat beside her. She could 
 hold the illusion no longer. She was alone, and Angus 
 was across the sea in the Valley of the Shadow of Death; 
 somewhere beyond the flight of those birds of evil omen, 
 in peril, perhaps suffering, perhaps dead. 
 
 She threw up her head proudly and turned to the sea 
 as one who faces a challenge. The cormorants had dis- 
 appeared as suddenly as they had come, perhaps having 
 dropped in their flight until they were merged in the 
 shadow below the bright horizon-line. 
 
 "Whatever happens!" she said aloud, softly and firmly. 
 
 As she spoke a light touch seemed to fall on her fore- 
 head. The sensation was as real as if actual lips had 
 given the caress. A shock of realization thrilled through 
 her. Her lips parted, her eyes were dilated. Her con- 
 viction was full and absolute. She knew that Angus 
 was dead, and she believed that his spirit was with her 
 in the Nook. 
 
 "It will be so he is telling me," she said in her thought. 
 "It will be so he thinks I can bear it best." 
 
 A supreme wonder and unspeakable joy possessed her. 
 The solemnity of her experience shut out for the time 
 being any possible emotion of sorrow. Between Angus 
 and her death had been but the means of fresh and 
 marvellous proof of how true was his love for her and how 
 abiding. She sat entranced with the wonder of it, sur- 
 rounded by a consciousness of his presence hardly less 
 tangible than the soft breath of the dying day which 
 touched her cheek. She accepted the fact he had come to 
 tell, and of his love that coming was a proof so absolute 
 as to strike her with positive awe. She no longer knew 
 time or place, or remembered the bitterness of separation 
 through the coming years. The moment was complete 
 and supreme. 
 
 Suddenly she rose. Something had brought her to 
 her feet as if by a volition outside of herself. She looked 
 about, and realized how the light had faded. The path 
 down the cliff could not be passed in safety much longer. 
 She smiled with a blessed feeling of being watched and 
 guarded. 
 
 "He wouldn't be willing I'd fall," she murmured happily 
 to herself as she turned away from the Nook and began 
 the descent. 
 
 She did not look back. She left nothing behind, for 
 the presence was still with her. 
 
 She had no need to break the seal of the official letter 
 which waited for her at the Manse. She knew its tidings 
 already. 
 
 Egdon Craige. 
 
 The Sharpshooters. 
 
 [The following extract is, by the courtesy of Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Com- 
 pany, taken from "At Suvla Bay," to be published early in the New Year. It 
 is the account of a fui'llli!! Bby'Scout, who, as a member of the Royal Army 
 Medical Corps, served at Gallipoli.] 
 
 . . . We were working our stretcher-bearers as far as 
 Brigade Headquarters, which were situated on a steep 
 backbone-like spur of the Kapanja Sirt. One of my 
 "lance-jacks" (lance-corporals) had been missing for a 
 good long time, and we began to fear he was either shot 
 or taken prisoner with others who had gone too far up 
 the Sirt. 
 
 That afternoon we were resting among the rocks, 
 waiting for the wounded to be sent back to us; for since 
 the loss of the other we were not allowed past the Brigade 
 Headquarters. There was a lull in the fighting, with 
 only a few bursting shrapnel now and then. . . . Fairly 
 
 late in the day as we all lay sprawling on the rocks or 
 under the thorn-bushes, I saw a little party staggering 
 along the defile which led up to the Sirt at this point. 
 There were two men with cowboy hats, and between 
 them they helped another very thin and very exhausted- 
 looking fellow, who tottered along holding one arm which 
 had been wounded. As they came closer I recognized 
 my lost lance-jack, very pale and shaky, a little thinner 
 than usual, and with a hint of that gleam of sniper-mad- 
 ness which I have noticed before in the jumpy, unsteady 
 eyes of hunted men. The other two, one on each side, 
 were sturdy enough. Well-built men, one short and the 
 other tall, with great rough hands, sunburnt faces, and 
 bare arms. They wore brown leggings and riding- 
 breeches and khaki shirts. They carried their rifles at 
 the trail, and strode up to us with the graceful gait of 
 those accustomed to outdoor life. 
 
 "y^i'cstralians!" said some one. 
 
 "An' the corporal!" 
 
 Immediately our men roused up, and gathered round. 
 
 "Where's yer boss.?" asked the tall Colonial. 
 
 "The adjutant is over there," I answered. 
 
 "We'd like a word with 'im," continued the man. 
 
 I took them up to the officer, and they both saluted in an 
 easy-going sort of way. 
 
 "We found 'im up there," the Australian jerked his 
 head, "being sniped, and couldn't get away — says 'e 
 belongs t' th' 3 2d Ambulance — so 'ere 'e is." 
 
 The two Australians were just about to slouch ofi^ again 
 when the adjutant called them back. 
 
 "Where did you find him.'"' he asked. 
 
 "Up beyond Jefferson's Post; there was five snipers 
 pottin' at 'im, an' it looked mighty like as if 'is number 
 was up. We killed four o' the snipers, and got 'im out." 
 
 "That was very good of you. Did you see any more 
 Medical Corps up there? We've lost some others, and 
 an officer and sergeant." 
 
 "No, I didn't spot any — did you. Bill.'"' The tall man 
 turned to his pal leaning on his rifle. 
 
 "No," answered the short sharpshooter; "he's the only 
 one. It was a good afternoon's sport — very good. We 
 saw 'e'd got no rifle, and was in a tight clove-'itch, so we 
 took the job on right there an' finished four of 'em; but 
 it took some creepin' and crawlin'." 
 
 "Well, we'll be quittin' this now," said the 
 "There's only one thing we'd ask of you, sir; 
 our people know anything about this." 
 
 "But why.'"' asked the adjutant, astonished, 
 saved his life, and it ought to be known." 
 
 "Ya-as, that may be, sir; but we're not supposed to 
 be up here sharpshootin' — we jist done it fer a bit of 
 sport. Rightly we don't carry a rifle; we belong to the 
 bridge-buildin' section. We've only borrowed these rifles 
 from the Cycle Corps, an' we shall be charged with bein' 
 out o' bounds without leave, an' all that sort o' thing, if 
 it gits known down to our headquarters." 
 
 "Very well, I'll tell no one; all the same it was good 
 work, and we thank you for getting him back to us," the 
 adjutant smiled. 
 
 The two Australians gave him a friendly nod, and said, 
 "So long, you chaps!" to us, and lurched off down the 
 defile. 
 
 "We'll chuck it fer to-day — done enough," said the 
 tall man. 
 
 "Ya-as, we'd better git back. It was good sport — 
 very good," said the short one. 
 
 tall one. 
 don't let 
 
 "You've 
 
 The object of fashions is not to make persons more 
 beautiful, but to render them more noticeable. This is 
 the reason why they must so constantly be changed. 
 
20 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margaret Delanb. Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily is issued daily for the ten weclc-days of the Allied 
 Bazaar in Bostolf. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
 sent to the Edit/r, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar/ Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at thelSooth. 
 
 ^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band and the 
 Hawaiian Band each day from 4 to 6 p.m. 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of James 
 Kaye of WoUaston Golf Club. 
 
 Paul Revere Hall, 3 to 4. — Miss Lucretia Craig, dancer; 
 Miss Ippolito, violinist; Estreleta, Hawaiian dancer, with 
 Hawaiian Band. 
 
 4.30 to 5.30. — Concert Programme: Mr. Griffiths, — Miss 
 Ethel Harding, pianist; Miss Henrietta Adams, soprano; 
 Miss Grace Sage, reader. 
 
 8 to 9. — Madame Aleta, dancer, partner, Mr. Rand; 
 Miss Buccuantini, singer. Miss Rodney Smith, singer, in 
 costume; Mr. De Giso, accordion player. 
 
 9.30 o'clock Main Exhibition Hall. — Madame Anna 
 Arnold will sing patriotic songs, with chorus. 
 
 The Daily takes much pleasure in announcing several 
 gifts of $10 each, and one of $75. The donors do not wish 
 their names mentioned. 
 
 The Daily is proud of its brilliant cartoons, of which 
 one will appear in each number. Signed proofs by the 
 artist, Baron Charles Huard, can be bought at the booth 
 of the Daily, No. 36, for the moderate price of $1 each. 
 The original of each cartoon will also be on sale each day. 
 
 The Aldrich autograph, of which the text is printed 
 in another column, is a rare treasure for a collector. 
 Pieces of this sort are not often in the market. The 
 autographs on sale at the book-shop where this is to be 
 found, it may be noted in passing, are really astonishingly 
 good and varied. Letters and manuscripts which in the 
 ordinary course of events would never have come into 
 the market are to be found there in wonderful profusion. 
 
 Mrs. Governor McCall will assist at the Book Booth 
 on Tuesday afternoon. 
 
 A Book Annex has been opened in the kiosk in the main 
 hall near the entertainment platform. 
 
 All who have in any way assisted in the preparation 
 of the Christmas bags which have been sent over to the 
 hospitals, making, filling, packing, or sending, must have 
 a peculiar warmth about their hearts at this holiday time. 
 It is pleasant to think of the thousands of hurt soldiers, 
 men maimed, sick, sorry, mutilated, even living their 
 last days, who will be cheered by these messengers of 
 good-will from over-seas. To the furnishing of these 
 
 sachets have gone many kindly and loving thoughts; 
 nimble fingers, quick minds, and blessed feelings of pity 
 have all helped in their making; and the war-torn world 
 will at Christmastide be happier for their ministry. One 
 lady in this neighborhood had the happy inspiration of 
 putting into those which passed through her hands, 
 and these were many, some token marked to be given 
 by the recipient to his nurse. To make the soldiers 
 sharers in the privilege and delight of giving was a last 
 dear touch, a bit of imaginative sympathy that was , 
 delightful. The Boston branch of workers for the 
 French Wounded forwarded between 11,000 and 12,000 
 of these Christmas bags. Those who packed boxes of 
 them, while joking with each other about being special 
 agents of Santa Claus, were conscious deep down of a 
 sentiment too delicate and too tender to be easily put 
 into word. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 "I hate Mrs. Candor," Tom declared viciously. "She 
 talks of nothing but people. I detest gossip!" 
 
 The Editor smiled with an air perhaps a trifle too 
 superior. 
 
 "There is no doubt you hate her," he returned, "but 
 it is not for talking about people. What else do folk 
 ever talk about in society.^" 
 
 "But she gossips, and I tell you I cannot bear gossip." 
 
 "Nonsense. We all love gossip." 
 
 "Speak for yourself," Tom retorted incisively. "Very 
 likely you do. I thank Heaven I don't." 
 
 "I certainly do," was the placid response. "If you 
 don't, as you pharisaically say, why have you been asking 
 me all those questions about the girl Frank South is 
 engaged to, and the amount of money old Jackscrew left, 
 and how — " 
 
 "Oh, give us a rest!" broke in Tom. "That isn't 
 gossip. That's just natural interest in my neighbors." 
 
 The Editor laughed, and now with an air most cer- 
 tainly too superior. 
 
 "Perhaps you will favor me with a definition," he said. 
 "Just what, according to your notion, is this objection- 
 able thing gossip.'" 
 
 "Why, gossip," Tom began; then he hesitated. 
 "Pshaw! Of course anybody knows what gossip is. It's 
 talk about other people's affairs." 
 
 "Like details about the girls they are engaged to, and 
 the amount of money they leave in their wills, for in- 
 stance." 
 
 "Oh, bother your cheek! Of course one asks things 
 like that." 
 
 "Of course one does," assented the Editor, imperturb- 
 ably. "That's why I say we all love gossip." 
 
 "But gossip," Insisted Tom, "is different. I stick to it 
 that something should be done to stop all this talk about 
 people." 
 
 "You hold on to an idea like a whippet to a catching- 
 cloth," commented the Editor, with a grin. "What 
 would become of history.? It is all talk about people." 
 
 "But that's facts." 
 
 "Um. Is it.? Perhaps so. But letting that go, I 
 suppose that what you are driving at is that talk is all 
 right, if one sticks to facts." 
 
 "Of course," assented Tom, fairly leaping into the trap. 
 
 "Then why on earth, if you don't mind my asking, did 
 you come in here in such a fume because Mrs. Candor had 
 told the truth about Dick's engagement being oflF?" 
 
 Tom shook himself impatiently in his chair. 
 
 "Look here!" he broke out explosively, "if you think 
 I'm a beetle on a pin — " 
 
 "'Cockchafer' is more generally used in that phrase," 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 21 
 
 murmured the other. The caller glared at him, but re- 
 fused to be diverted. 
 
 "A beetle on a pin to squirm for your amusement," 
 he went on, "you are tremendously mistaken. You 
 know that gossip is talk about people." 
 
 "A kit is a cat, but a cat is not necessarily a kit." 
 
 "And that there is too much of it," Tom said, per- 
 sisting to the end of what he started to say. 
 
 The Editor laughed, and evidently decided to stop 
 chaffing. 
 
 "Don't get excited," he said. "I know what you 
 mean well enough. I've had practice in guessing at your 
 ideas from the words that literally convey something 
 quite different. But it's more than you know yourself. 
 What you are driving at is talk that is malicious. Mrs. 
 Candor is generally malicious." 
 
 "Well, isn't gossip always ill-natured.'"' 
 
 "My dear Tom, you and I, as I have already had the 
 honor to point out to you, gossip every day; but there 
 certainly is nothing ill-natured about it." 
 
 Tom gave an impatient shake of the head. 
 
 "I hate that word 'gossip,'" he declared explosively. 
 "I swear that when I talk about people I don't gossip." 
 
 The Editor laughed. 
 
 "Don't get excited over a mere question of terms," he 
 responded. "Certainly in the phrase 'a dish of gossip' 
 nothing unpleasant is implied. I started to call your 
 attention to the fact that what you object to in Mrs. 
 Candor is not what she talks about, but the temper in 
 which it is done." 
 
 "But you keep harping on that beastly word 'gossip,' 
 as if society was a set of malicious old women." 
 
 "It was your own word to start with. Call your talk 
 about Frank South's fiancee and so on whatever you 
 please. I call it gossip because I don't know of any 
 better word for the discussion of the affairs of our neigh- 
 bors that interest us, but which are in reality none of our 
 especial concern. It is perfectly normal that we should be 
 interested in these matters, and I can see no virtue in 
 pretending that we are not." 
 
 "But everybody knows," Tom insisted stubbornly, 
 "that gossip is nasty and offensive." 
 
 "If you define it as meaning something nasty and 
 offensive, of course it is. That is not the way I under- 
 stand the word. I consider the love of gossip as a 
 maligned virtue." 
 
 "Rubbish! Now you are talking for the sake of hear- 
 ing the sound of your little ideas," Tom said rudely. 
 "I've noticed that a man with weak ideas is like a woman 
 with ugly girls: always bringing them forward." 
 
 "Bravo, Tom! Are you also of the makers of epi- 
 grams.?" 
 
 "Well," the caller said, rising, "I dropped in to see if 
 I could stir you up a bit, and I may as well give you up." 
 
 "Like other deeds of self-sacrifice," the Editor observed 
 with a smile, "your act seems to be its own reward; 
 for you got stirred up yourself." 
 
 Tom turned his hat around to get it right for his head. 
 
 "If I were as clever as you pretend to be," he said with 
 a ponderous effort to be crushing, "I would always speak 
 in a dead language." 
 
 The Editor laughed boyishly. 
 
 "I say," he retorted, "that reminds me. You have of 
 course heard the old tag of Terence: ' Humani nihil a 
 me alienum piito.^ Do you know what it means.?" 
 
 "Of course I know. Don't you remember how old 
 Professor Ferox was always slinging it at us.? 'I'm 
 indifferent to nothing that concerns humanity,'" Tom 
 quoted with a mimicry of the old Latin professor's manner. 
 
 "It really means," corrected the Editor, with a smile, 
 '"If there is one thing I really enjoy, it is a good dish of 
 gossip.' " 
 
 Rangardo's Song. 
 
 I saw a fairy, a fairy, a fairy; 
 
 I saw a fairy, down in tlie dell! 
 
 She danced, oh, so lightly, 
 
 With motions so airy! 
 She glanced, oh, so brightly, 
 With eyes watching wary! 
 Was never a dancer who danced so well, 
 As that lovely fairy I saw in the dell. 
 
 Thistle-down gliding, and gliding, and gliding. 
 Rides not the zephyr as lightly as she; 
 Now rising so fleetly, 
 
 And nowhere abiding; 
 Now sinking so sweetly. 
 In curves gently sliding; 
 A swallow that slcims o'er the sun-gleaming sea 
 Not swifter, or brighter, or buoyant could be. 
 
 I love the fairy, the fairy, the fairy. 
 Fairy that vanished down there in the dell; 
 For oh, she danced lightly, 
 
 With motions so airy! 
 She smiled at me brightly. 
 With eyes bold and wary! 
 But whither she vanished, or where she may dwell. 
 Neither the winds nor the waters will tell. 
 
 HiLAD. 
 
 The following letter from Lord Northcliffe, editor of 
 the London Times, is here printed because it expresses 
 so clear an appreciation of the sympathy in America 
 for the Allied Cause. The original may be seen at the 
 bookstall. 
 
 "'Boston,' says a German newspaper, speaking of 
 an attempt at propaganda in the Hub, 'we have found to 
 be an impossible proposition.' 
 
 "Only a German would have failed to realize that the 
 'Mayflower,' Old South Meeting-house, Faneuil Hall, 
 and the Harbor mean something to all Anglo-Saxons. 
 
 "We Allies know that the names of Longfellow, Haw- 
 thorne, Emerson, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, James, 
 Eliot, and how many more, are indestructible links 
 between us. We know what Harvard thinks about the 
 war. 
 
 "We know that the best blood in th^ United States 
 is ready, if the need arise, to be shed, once more, in the 
 cause of freedom. Happily the need has not arisen. 
 We are able to slay the Dragon ourselves. But none 
 the less we are grateful for the sympathy of the Real 
 Americans. 
 
 Northcliffe." 
 
 Boston is a unique compound of utter recklessness in 
 theory with the utmost caution in action. 
 
 With lots of folk the reward of virtue is just plain self- 
 conceit. 
 
 A BLUFF is always called at Time's poker-table. 
 
 Philanthropy is too often largely the attempt to 
 force helpless people to be uncomfortable in our way, in 
 place of being comfortable in their own. 
 
 A weary and tired-out chap 
 
 Was determined to catch a small nap; 
 
 He put salt on its tail. 
 
 But that did not avail. 
 For it slipped out from under his hat. 
 
 A lady came to Spotless Town 
 
 With polka-dots all over her gown; 
 
 And the ladies thought it so beautiful, they 
 
 Stopped washing the spots from their gowns to this day. 
 
22 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Through Suez Canal in War-time. 
 
 {CoiitiiiKcd.) 
 
 Ramparts, embankments, the fortifications of which we 
 had seen the inside from the train windows as we came 
 down from Luxor, the Sikh sentinels, with now and then 
 an Austrahan on duty, continued as we went on. The 
 day faded quickly, according to its wont in these regions, 
 and the camp-fires began to assert themselves rather by 
 flame than by smoke. The figures of the sentinels be- 
 came moving shadows, and faces were no longer distinct. 
 Once, however, before the darkness quite cut us off from 
 the personalities on the shore, an officer on the Medina 
 recognized a brother oflncer on whose face the shore-fires 
 cast a full light. 
 
 "Hallo, Dalrymple," he called out. "How goes it.?" 
 
 "Who are you?" came back from the shore, the firelit 
 spot with the wide, dusk desert behind it. 
 
 "I'm Linton," was the answer from our deck. 
 
 "Where are you going.?" 
 
 "To Lidia." 
 
 The response came back in a voice mingling good- 
 fellowship, whimsical raillery, and an indescribable flavor 
 of weariness. Perhaps the contrast between India and 
 the oppressive monotony of life on guard in the desert 
 rushed over the speaker, as the boat w'ent sliding past on 
 the way to the Red Sea and the lands beyond. 
 
 "Oh, you old shirker!" Dalrymple cried. 
 
 The Australian soldiery had succeeded now to the 
 Indian troops. Their camps were universally riotously 
 noisy with boisterous mirth. Songs and laughter frothed 
 up like the bubbling of a pot that boils over; and as the 
 Medina passed, a constant stream of chaff and greeting 
 came to us from the darkened shore. A favorite cry, 
 shouted through megaphones with all the vigor of bull- 
 strong lungs, was the doggerel sarcasm: 
 
 "We're the boys 
 Tlvat make no noise!" 
 
 Once from beside an Australian camp-fire a big voice 
 shouted: 
 
 " Are there any ladies on board .? " 
 
 "Plenty of 'em," cried somebody from the second- 
 cabin deck. 
 
 "Oh, throw 'em overboard!" roared back the strenu- 
 ous soldier chorus. "We'll catch 'em! God bless the 
 ladies!" 
 
 Again to a post that seemed comparatively quiet was 
 tossed from our decks the call: "Who are you.?" 
 
 As if a regiment had awakened to a man, and all 
 shouted together, came back the answer: "We'm the 
 Australians! We'm waitin' for the Turks!" 
 
 Some time in the night — I slept too soundly to know 
 when — we halted a couple of hours. Four steamers were 
 coming in the other direction, and had the right of way. 
 The result was that the southern end of the canal, which 
 otherwise we should have passed in darkness, we took 
 by daylight. 
 
 The fortifications continue throughout, and of course 
 are much the same all along. They are somewhat more 
 elaborate toward the Suez end, and here one got a wider 
 outlook into the Eastern Desert. The forces and the 
 encampments are larger when they are so far south that 
 the question of protecting the approaches from the east 
 is more pressing. The redoubts are higher, the works 
 extend farther back from the canal, and frequently men 
 were to be seen at work on trenches or embankments a 
 mile or two back. The desert is not picturesque as seen 
 from the steamer. It has none of that enchantment 
 which belongs to the wonderful stretches around Gizeh 
 or farther up the Nile below the First Cataract. It is 
 equally far removed, it is fair to add, from the inexpressi- 
 ble dreariness of the desert of the Second Cataract region. 
 
 The land is dry and arid, and nothing obstructs the view 
 for miles; so that the soldiers at work even at a consider- 
 able distance were easily watched through a binocular. 
 
 Fairly early in the forenoon the sailors finished putting 
 the ship into the ordinary conditions of peace. The 
 paper was peeled from the glass, the sandbags had dis- 
 appeared from the bridge, and once more we were in 
 appearance an ordinary P. and O. boat going on its 
 unmolested way to Australia via India and Java. 
 
 After breakfast the passengers began the game of 
 flinging tins of cigarettes to the soldiers in the camps as 
 we went past. The distance to the shore was about twice 
 throwing distance, but the tins floated, and had to be 
 retrieved by swimming. The first Australian whom I 
 saw start for them modestly kept on his shirt until he 
 was above his middle in the water; but this refinement of 
 modesty was not copied. Scores of men, as we went on, 
 ran to the edge of the canal, stripped to the buff, unde- 
 terred by the fact that every woman on the Medina 
 was at the rail. In they went, like a flock of schoolboys 
 on a frolic, shouting and laughing. The Australian, 
 whatever else he may be, is eminently a noisy creature. 
 Once a cluster of officers on a pier did send in a superior 
 manner a picturesque Soudanese out in a boat to do the 
 harvesting; but this was the single exception. 
 
 Just beyond this little pier was another, and on it sat 
 rows of little Ghurkas, the silent, slant-eyed, mysterious, 
 imperially independent folk out of the hills of India, — the 
 people who were outside of the jurisdiction of England, 
 who volunteered to fight, and when they first arrived in 
 Egypt refused to land because the actual fighting was 
 farther on. They are a silent race, and among the tur- 
 bulent Australians seemed more quiet than ever. They 
 sat amid the cheering of the white soldiers which ran along 
 the banks, and grinned like little Japanese netsukes 
 carved out of cherry-wood. Not a sound came from 
 their throats or lips, but they clapped their hands with 
 fervor and seeming glee. 
 
 When we were well past the last garrison, nearing Suez, 
 and all opportunity for further distribution of nicotine 
 was ended, a couple of women of the provincial-woman's- 
 club type of Australian appeared from below with arms 
 full of tins of cigarettes and of sweetmeats. They were 
 a good deal annoyed that the chance of bestowing gifts 
 was over, and showed a strong sense of indignation that 
 the Medina had not waited their movements. One of 
 them declared fervently, and with an accent which in 
 America would have been called, to use an Englishman's 
 expression, the " nasal eloquence of the backwoods," that 
 she had never known anything so mean in her life. One 
 of her countrymen, of the uncouth commercial traveller 
 breed, suggested that he would take the cigarettes, as he 
 had thrown all his overboard, but he was sharply informed 
 that they were not brought for him. 
 
 The whole passage of the canal, of which this is a pale 
 record, was really an experience with a genuine thrill in 
 it. Those encampments, with the grimness of the desert 
 behind; the water that man had made to cross a conti- 
 nent to serve his ends, and for the possession of which 
 forces were hovering over there in the Eastern Desert, 
 impelled and planned for and incited by councils in Con- 
 stantinople and in Berlin; the historic suggestiveness of 
 the "old palm-land of tombs" in which the struggle was 
 taking place; all that the presence here of troops from 
 the ends of the earth meant; and all the principles which 
 the measureless contest involved and implied; — a man 
 must have been cloddishly insensitive not to feel it. It 
 had none of the horror of the war-front where actual 
 fighting was in progress, but perhaps for that very reason 
 the imagination could work more unimpeded and force- 
 fully. I am entirely aware that simply to say that it 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 23 
 
 was thrilling will not carry conviction; but it was an 
 experience which one was not likely to hold lightly or 
 soon to forget. 
 
 And so we went through the Bitter Lakes, past insig- 
 nificant Shaluf with its oil-tanks, past stupid Suez, down 
 the Gulf of Suez, and on into the almost Gulf Stream 
 blueness of the miscalled Red Sea. a. b. 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 XII. 
 My first is often full of meat; 
 
 With drink my second plies. 
 Either in heaps is far from neat; 
 
 Yet either doubt defies. 
 When on my first has followed fast 
 
 My first and second too, 
 Then is the giddy midnight passed 
 
 M)- whole in whirling through. 
 
 XIII. 
 A sailor brought from southern seas 
 
 First w'holes within a cage. 
 "If these," he said, "should fail to please, 
 
 Naught second, I'll engage." 
 
 But when he^tood before his miss, 
 
 Shyness possessed his soul. 
 "Alas!" he cried, "may not one kiss?" 
 
 "Nay," answered she, "but whole!" 
 
 XIV. 
 "Now second first," the landlord cried, 
 
 Who on my second stood; 
 "Pain in my whole," the man replied, 
 
 "Prevents me, or I w'ould." 
 
 XV. 
 
 To my first she went for mj' second. 
 
 Her nerves beyond control; 
 And gay was her heart returning. 
 
 Since health was now her whole. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 St. Anthony, within his cell. 
 Found himself in my third; 
 
 A ribald first, direct from hell, 
 .■\ frightful demon herd, 
 
 Had made him second from his soul, 
 
 Despite the power of my whole. 
 
 The Letter Bag. 
 
 [The following extracts art- translated from the letters written to an Ameri- 
 can lady from the front. The first is from "the trenches of Farm M.," 
 the others from the neighborhood of Verdun. Their intelligence, feeling, 
 and courage all speak for themselves.] 
 
 Sunday, September 20, 1915. 
 
 . . . You belong to a neutral nation, which is a country great by 
 its extent, by its resources, by its riches, and above all by elevation and 
 independence of character. Having been much in France, you are 
 not ignorant of the cordial feelings which we have for the United States: 
 they are those of a people loving liberty for a people who cultivate it. 
 I have indeed been happy, very happy, that in the bloody conflict 
 which desolates Europe and holds the whole world in suspense, the 
 sympathies of the majority of Americans should be like yours, and bound 
 to our cause. France has not wished this war. The proof is that she 
 was not prepared for it: she endures it. Despite the warnings of far- 
 seeing men of intelligence, a notable portion of public opinion cradled 
 itself in the generous illusions of certain pacifists who clung to chimeras; 
 and we all have participated in the punishment of that error. We have 
 e.xpiated by living through days of agony. But even in our worst 
 moments, we have not despaired. We preserve unshaken the certainty 
 that this which deserves to endure cannot perish; that retreat is not 
 defeat; that sometime the sunrise of victory will rise over the road of 
 our destiny. And we have known happy days of the offensive and of 
 success, success which began a year ago. This is because the war of 
 activity has succeeded to that war of position [resistance] that is so 
 little to the taste of our national temperament and so adapted to the 
 temperament of our adversaries. It is necessary to recognize also 
 that all that human intelligence could foresee in the attack they pre- 
 meditated, the Germans had provided for. But they have deceived 
 themselves grossly in the psychological domain where their methods 
 were not sufficient, — where mental finesse is needed. They have be- 
 
 lieved that Belgium would submit to violation without resistance; 
 that England without protest would let them disregard the treaties 
 they have signed; and after these capital errors, they have made this 
 of believing that France could not hold. We have held, we have 
 adapted ourselves to the exigencies of the situation, and we have easily 
 accepted this life in the trenches for which wc are so little made. 
 
 . . . The moral tone of the army continues excellent. It gives me 
 pleasure to know and to tell you that this is no less true of the country 
 at large. We have been unfairly judged abroad; we have been judged 
 there by what we say of ourselves, and of ourselves we have said hard 
 things, not as mere fanfaronade, but from a spirit of modesty. Then 
 strangers, who have seen little of intimate French family life, know us 
 only from superficial outward appearances, social phases, or romances. 
 This terrible war may have among other good results, that of correcting 
 erroneous opinions in regard to us in the opinion of those whose esteem 
 we desire. ... 
 
 [We venture to emphasize this extract not only because it so clearly gives the 
 earnest side of the writer, but because it expresses truthfully a certain type of 
 American opinion in regard to the French people, and the fine and dignified 
 sentiment which is often among that sensitive race concealed under apparent 
 indifference or folly. The lightness of certain phases of French — or, more 
 strictly speaking, of Parisian — life has been continually commented upon, and 
 often exaggerated from being seen through eyes behind whicii lived brains not 
 untouched with Puritan super-gravity. No one who has known the intimacies of 
 French life is Ignorant of the real seriousness which underlies the gayety of 
 the French temperament; but for those who do not, the earnest words of this 
 letter, literally written in the trenches, are worth thoughtful consideration. — Ed.) 
 
 The trenches of Wood B.M. Saturday, June 4, 1916. 
 
 . . . You must excuse me that I have been so slow in answering. 
 Very sad events have prevented. My young brother was killed on the 
 twenty-sixth of last March. We received the news a month and a 
 half afterward. ... 
 
 He was a young lad of great charm, before whom opened a future of 
 promise. He attracted by his delicate and reasonable nature, his quick 
 brain, his refined spirit. The war had greatly matured his spirit, de- 
 veloped his judgment, and refined his character, so that he presented 
 a happy mixture of youth and maturity. Although far from one 
 another, we lived for long months the same life of hardships, of fatigues, 
 of dangers; and thus was created a fresh sympathy between us. We 
 had much in common already: he had a taste for belles-lettres, he painted 
 with talent, he was fond of music; nothing that belong to the arts left 
 him indifferent. He loved me much, and I warmly returned his affec- 
 tion. Since he had come out safe and sound from numerous hard 
 engagements into which he had been thrown, I cherished the illusion 
 that he would win to the end of the campaign without serious harm; 
 and then a bullet fired too surely has cut him down in his twenty-second 
 year. He had been mentioned for brave conduct in a hot skirmish three 
 days before; he was brave. . . . 
 
 We have suffered during two years a terrible assault. Much blood, 
 many tears have been spilled; sorrows have been multiplied; miseries 
 have accumulated; but the cause which we defend merits the sacrifices 
 which it demands. ... I write these lines by the light of a candle, in 
 one of our shelters that we call " guitonne" or "gourbi." It is silent 
 around; for the moment the cannon are quiet. The night is clear, and 
 one might say that Nature demanded that man should let her repose. . . . 
 
 From the trenches of Wood B.M. .'\ug. 4, igi6. 
 
 ... Of all the neutral countries the good-will which we most prize 
 is that of yours. . . . Your institutions and ours are not identical in form, 
 but they are practically directed to the same ideal of liberty and jus- 
 tice. . . . Nothing can destroy the past, and as to-day "the Stars and 
 Stripes salutes the Tricolor," our flag saluted the aurora of your his- 
 tory. . . . 
 
 Sun and Sunflower. 
 
 Said the Sun to his faithful flower: 
 "Please show me your back, at least an hour. 
 Always the same black face before me. 
 You have no notion how you bore me!" 
 
 "Ah," sighed the Flower to Apollo, 
 "I would I might your wishes follow; 
 But you perhaps are not aware 
 I'm wholly lacking in back-hair!" 
 
 When one sees a Hindu god of many faces and many 
 hands, one feels sure that the modern type of politician 
 must have been known in India of old. 
 
 "Tom, do be careful. You almost knocked 
 vase down with your arm on the mantel." 
 "I didn't come within two feet of it." 
 "You did, and more too." 
 
 that 
 
24 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 THL BOSTON MOTHER G005L. 
 
 III. 
 
 THL CHURCHLS. 
 
 On 5alem Street a steeple stands 
 Whose story 's known in many lands ; 
 For there the lanterns flashed out clear 
 Their message to bold Paul Revere. 
 
 The Holy Trumpeters they sound 
 With none awake to hear; 
 
 But sometimes in a dream profound, 
 Men know their music clear. 
 
 O Holy Moses and world of sin ! 
 If Tremont Temple you enter in. 
 You'll find the architecture worst 
 Was ever devised since Adam was cursed. 
 
 If you grave dignity would spy, 
 Just on King's Chapel cast an eye. 
 
 Said the saints in a row to the statue below: 
 "What has happened your anger to rouse?" 
 
 "It would anger a saint!" came back the com- 
 plaint; 
 "They have stolen the half of my house!" 
 
 Said the New Old South to the Old Old South: 
 
 "I am handsomer far than you!" 
 Said the Old Old South to the New Old South: 
 
 "That depends on the point of view." 
 
 In the Spiritual Temple 
 The ghosts gave matinees. 
 
 Till men found how much better 
 The Pickford movie pays. 
 
 The bells of the Advent 
 
 They made such a clatter 
 The pigeons all went 
 
 To see what was the matter, — 
 Such a tintinnabulation. 
 
 Such clangors and such swells, 
 Jingle-jangled from their station 
 
 Those most voluble of bells. 
 So on the roof the pigeons settled. 
 And there their feathers preened and fettled. 
 Outside the Advent is not high ; 
 I5ut if one goes within — oh, my! 
 
 The church on Park Street corner stands 
 Is a receptacle for brands 
 Plucked from the brimstone fires that flame 
 In that dread place one does not name. 
 
 When churches die in Boston, 
 To theatres they are turned; 
 
 To have a chance at gaiety 
 Is the reward they've earned. 
 
 Says Arlington Church: "Hear, all ye people! 
 You see these urns up on my steeple ; 
 They are full of virtue's holy oil. 
 Put up high to keep cool, so it may not spoil." 
 
 An Aldrich Autograph. 
 
 [At the book-stall in the Bazaar is to be found on sale a most interesting auto- 
 graph. It is an amusing skit, entirely in Mr. Aldrich's writing, and was found 
 among his posthumous papers. It is full of the author's characteristic fun, 
 and those who knew him can in reading it almost see the contagious twinkle 
 of his eye and hear the charm of the voice which gave double zest to any quip 
 or fancy which bubbled up so spontaneously from his quick mind. It is an 
 autograph which any collector, and no less any book-lover, might own with 
 delight. — Ed.] 
 
 THE SHAKESPEARE-BACON IDIOCY. 
 
 So Bacon wrote our Shakespeare's plays, 
 
 And also Marlowe's "mighty line," 
 And Burton's prose, and Spenser's lays, 
 
 .t\nd Peel's and Green's dull things — in fine 
 Wrote Bacon. Well, if this is thus, 
 Then Bacon was industrious — 
 One might quite say, voluminous! 
 
 Forgive me, thou whose ashes rest 
 
 Beside the Avon, that I can 
 Even for a moment and in jest 
 
 Waste words upon a charlatan. 
 
 The above was of course written before my conversion 
 from a weak and childish belief in the Fraud of Avon. 
 But now I am thoroughly converted. After (not years, 
 but) minutes of the severest mental strain, I have my- 
 self discovered a cipher (and the lack of one at the end of 
 the numerals representing my this year's income) by 
 which I can prove that Sir Francis Bacon wrote Words- 
 worth's poems, and left them for post-humorous publica- 
 tion. That several of these so-called poems deal with 
 events which took place long after Bacon's death, is a 
 fact that will not in the least trouble any good, intelli- 
 gent Baconite — intelligent Baconite seems almost like 
 tautology! 
 
 My investigations and discoveries do not end here. 
 "Season your admiration for a while," as Horatio re- 
 marks in Lord Bacon's tragedy of "Hamlet." I have 
 procured two large-size regulation drums (from Fort 
 Warren) on which I shall plaster the complete works of 
 Amelie Rives and Edgar Saltus and those of the alleged 
 Wordsworth; from these masterpieces I shall select, by 
 an ingenious method of my own, detached words and 
 sentences which, being joined together with Standard 
 Mucilage, will form an uninterrupted narrative showing 
 conclusively that E. A. Poe was the unnatural son of 
 Lydia Pinkham by a very particular friend (as they 
 would have said in the eighteenth century) of George 
 Francis Train. The dramatic critic of The Szcavxpscott 
 and Munchausen Gazette, a gentleman of the highest 
 culture, and the only adequate literary authority we have 
 (now that Howells has gone to New York to "write up" 
 the millionaires), endorses cordially all 1 have said — ^and 
 more too! This is no catch-penny job.* 
 
 I am really deeply grieved that William S. has turned 
 out so badly. My book will sell at 50 cents in paper and 
 75 cents in cloth, with liberal discount to the trade. 
 
 Yours respectfully, 
 Robert Babington Southey Macaulay Jones, M.D., 
 Harvard Annex, A. S. S. (Anti-Shakespeare Society), 
 
 University of Shawmut. 
 
 *No connection with the exploded "Great Cryptogram" of the late Mr. 
 Ignauseous Donnelly. 
 
 Bailey appeared at the door with his new roller-skates: 
 "Mother, you'll have to scratch these skates for me — ■ 
 they are so slippery I can't stand up." 
 
DEC 15 1916 
 
 pu.B:{7r^i>*"i 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 BOSTON, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1916 
 
 No. 4 
 
 
 
 
 
 -^if?Tm:^i 
 
 "Listen, Jules, all you've got to do is to cross Paris and take a train for St. Gauberge. There 
 you'll get a stagecoach that'll drop you at La Pernelle. You'll take the road to the right after you've 
 passed the church. Walk about two kilometers and then ask any one where I live. Every one 
 knows me." 
 
20 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Old Plastersides. 
 
 (On the Technology "Bucentaur," wrecked in Clurles River 
 Basin, October, 1916.) 
 
 Ay, tear her battered statues down! 
 
 Long — long enough-^the eye 
 Has twinkled at their foolish look 
 
 Against the evening sky; 
 About her glowed the red-fire's light, 
 
 And swelled the Tcchnic roar; — 
 The great Caproni's shop afloat 
 
 Shall plough the Charles no more. 
 
 Her deck, once packed with bored trustees, — 
 
 That perfect night in June! — 
 With bandsmen and with choristers, 
 
 All more or less in tune, 
 No more shall bear such precious freight — 
 
 Keys, charter, treasured things; 
 The "muckers" of the North-West End 
 
 Shall pluck her cherubs' wings! 
 
 Oh, better that her leaky hulk 
 
 Should sink just out of sight! 
 (Alas, that such a tipsy bark 
 
 Can be so far from tight!) 
 If but the flood were deep enough 
 
 For one dark farewell plunge! 
 'Tis not — then give the Basin's Queen 
 
 A superdreadnought sponge! 
 
 M. A. DeWolfe Howe. 
 
 A Discord Stilled. 
 
 Susanna Clay could not remember the time when she 
 and her cousin Jerry, many times removed, did not 
 quarrel. They had begun it while they were little, going 
 to school in District Number Five. They had continued 
 it when Jerry went into the singing seats and Susanna, 
 who had no ear, but strong lungs, wrecked the congrega- 
 tional singing with her loud dissonances. Jerry told her 
 plainly she had no ear, and Susanna retorted that she had 
 a voice, and when she felt like singing she should sing. 
 In the intervals when they were not quarrelling they had 
 wildly happy times together, and while the happiness 
 lasted it seemed as if they never should quarrel again. 
 And after their last quarrel, about Aunt Selina's clock 
 •which Susanna said had descended from her own great- 
 grandfather Peters, and Jerry said had come from his 
 great-grandfather Green, it seemed they never could 
 make up again. They went to Aunt Selina to settle the 
 dispute, and she, sitting with the Bible in her hand and 
 looking over it, as it seemed, into her empty grave and 
 wondering how fleeting mortality should fret itself about 
 clocks, only said placidly: "I can't remember, children. 
 Sometime I'll look it up." In a day or two after that 
 Jerry got a good position with a builder, fifty miles away, 
 and disappeared without even bidding Susanna good-by. 
 Susanna cried that night, though she tried to think it was 
 because Aunt Selina was so feeble. Then in two years 
 Aunt Selina died, and in an unsigned memorandum she 
 left Susanna her personal effects and with them the clock. 
 Her house had been mortgaged long ago, and the money 
 eaten up, and there was nothing else to leave. Susanna, 
 who was living quite alone now, set the clock upon the 
 mantel and regarded it with fond eyes. She had always 
 loved it, and now it had an added value because Jerry 
 had loved it, too. She was sure he had not forgotten it. 
 She knew him, as she had often told him, sometimes in 
 anger and oftener in fun, root and branch, egg and bird. 
 
 One night in the late fall she was sitting by her shining 
 lamp, and the clock was ticking tranquilly. She had a 
 story to read in the County Star, and a dish of apples at 
 her side, and she was almost content. If she allowed 
 herself to think, she knew she might be very lonely; but 
 
 she did not intend to think. As she settled to her story 
 there came a knock at the door, and at the same time a 
 voice called from without: 
 
 "Don't be scared. It's me." 
 
 It was a voice she knew. She could not get to the door 
 fast enough. Sh^ threw it open, and there he was, older, 
 but handsomer, well-knit and sinewy. She kept his 
 hand, and began pulling him into the room. 
 
 "Why, Jerry," she said, and she was between laughter 
 and crying. "Why, Jerry, you here.?" 
 
 ,He laughed a little, too, but his face was flushed and 
 he kept her hand even after he was seated and Susanna 
 stood by him, thinking how he had brought the sweet 
 cold air in with him. And then they began to quarrel. 
 
 "By George!" said he, when Susanna was seated at the 
 other corner of the hearth. "You've got Aunt Selina's 
 clock. Or maybe she told you to keep it till I come round 
 again." 
 
 Susanna thought he was reviving the old dispute for fun. 
 
 "No," said she. "She never so much as thought o' 
 you, so far as the clock's concerned. She knew 'twas 
 mine by rights." 
 
 "I dunno why it's yours by rights," said Jerry. "That 
 clock come down from great-grandfather Green — " 
 
 "Oh, no, it didn't," said Susanna. "'Twas my great- 
 grandfather Peter's, an' it's mine." 
 
 She was half in fun when she said it, and she was 
 willing to believe Jerry was in fun, too; yet she knew 
 they were suddenly both in earnest. A deeper flush had 
 come into Jerry's face; his eyes gloomed upon her re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 "It ain't that I want the clock," he began, and Susanna 
 interrupted him: 
 
 "If it ain't the clock, then what is it.?" 
 
 "It's your bein' so confounded obstinate," said Jerry 
 in good faith, and again she interrupted him with a sudden 
 hoot of laughter. 
 
 "Obstinate!" said she. "My soul!" 
 
 Jerry rose to his feet. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "obstinate. You'd ought to be paid 
 out for it. You'd ought to lose that clock. An' I'll 
 miss my guess if you don't, some fine day or other." 
 And he took his hat and walked out of the house. 
 
 Susanna sat still and waited for him to come back. 
 He had always come back in the old days, sheepish and 
 sorry. But the clock went ticking serenely on, and a 
 stick broke and fell. When the clock struck eight she 
 looked up at it and frowned. It seemed to have made 
 all her misfortune, and at nine she went to bed. 
 
 The next morning Susanna locked her house early and 
 started across lots to spend the day with Isabel Pierce, 
 who lived over the Ridge. Isabel was an old school 
 friend who liked to have her at any time, and she felt this 
 was the day to go, so that Jerry, when he came to her 
 door, sheepish and sorry, would find it locked. Susanna 
 reasoned that he had really hurt her feelings, and it would 
 be exceedingly bad for him to find himself forgiven, as 
 he must be if she saw him, for that had always been the 
 way. It was after dark when she got home again, and her 
 heart did fail her, the empty house looked so desolate. 
 But she made her fire on the hearth and lighted two 
 lamps, one for the kitchen and one for the sitting-room, 
 and then, because she suddenly knew he would not come 
 at all, she went into the dark bedroom, and put her 
 elbows on the bureau and her head in her hands, and 
 cried. Yet Susanna knew that would never do. She 
 had learned that those who live alone must, when they 
 feel like crying, put on an added cheerfulness, and she 
 wiped her eyes savagely, and went back to sit by her crack- 
 ling fire. And as she went she took the "Choral Harp" 
 from the centre-table, and sat down with it, to sing 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 27 
 
 herself into calm. She often sang to herself when she 
 needed to, and she opened first, by custom, to a joyful 
 hymn. She began it in a weak and tearful voice; but the 
 spirit of it uplifted her, and she sang stridently and with 
 a mounting courage. And then she sang another and 
 another, and ever her voice rose more and more. But 
 at a pause she was aware that some one was battering on 
 the cellar door and a man's voice was calling: 
 
 "Stop that! stop that, I say!" 
 
 Again Susanna knew the voice. She threw down the 
 "Choral Harp," and hurried to the cellar door. There he 
 was on the top stair, laughing, but nevertheless sheepish 
 and sorry. Susanna, too, began to laugh and again she 
 took his hand and drew him in. 
 
 "What under the sun you down cellar for.'" she 
 asked. 
 
 Jerry stood in the kitchen and ran his fingers through his 
 hair. 
 
 "Well," said he, "I broke an' entered. I was goin" 
 to steal that infernal clock. An' then you come in the 
 front way, an' I stepped down cellar." 
 
 "O Jerry," said Susanna, "d'you want the clock so much 
 as that.? You take it then. I don't set half so much by 
 it as I do by your thinkin' well o' me." 
 
 Jerry stood staring at her so long that she thought he 
 had forgotten her altogether, and was looking through her 
 at some dream or purpose of his own. 
 
 "By George, Susanna," said he, "I know what makes 
 us fight so. It ain't because we ain't friends, an' more. 
 It's because we set the world by one another, an' if we 
 once owned it an' give up to it, we could live together as 
 budge as you please. Susanna, I'm goin' to kiss you, 
 an' within a week we're goin' to get married an' move 
 away from here for good, an' you can take your old clock 
 along or you can smash it against the wall. I don't 
 care. Susanna, you come here." 
 
 It was late when he went away, and the}' stood for a 
 long time in the cold, sweet air, saying good-night. 
 Susanna laughed a little. 
 
 "Jerry," said she, "you needn't ha' hollered for me to 
 let you up. You could ha' crep' out through the kitchen, 
 and I never should known you were there at all." 
 
 Jerry laughed, too. 
 
 "'Twa'n't that," he said. "I wa'n't hoUerin' to be let 
 up. I was hollerin' to stop your singin' off the key." 
 
 Alice Brown. 
 
 A Daily Paper of the Past. 
 
 I wonder, Mr. Editor, how many of your readers now 
 living (I like this careful way of putting the case) will 
 remember a certain enterprise akin to your own but in- 
 spired by a wholly different occasion: perhaps only we who 
 took a chief part in that enterprise, which, I had better 
 say at once, was a daily paper published fifty years ago 
 in the interest of a Bazar calling itself a Great Peace 
 Jubilee, which was held in a coliseum built of pine boards 
 in a region of the Back Bay now covered deep and wide 
 with the stateliest edifices of Commonwealth Avenue 
 and its parallel streets. Mr. Patrick Gilmore, the 
 greatest band-master known to his time, was the ade- 
 quate impresario of the vast affair, and he conducted the 
 choral performance of forty thousand voices (mostly 
 girls' voices) which daily hailed the return of good feeling 
 between the North and the South at the close of four 
 years of Civil War, when the Jubilee had been dedicated 
 to universal good-will by the great general who fought 
 that war to its glorious event in the reunion of all the 
 States. 
 
 Everything was on a gigantic scale which could hardly 
 
 be exaggerated, but was perhaps a little overstated in 
 some of the joyous gibes which attended the distinctive 
 moments. It is perfectly true that a park of artillery 
 daily sounded the notes of the noble Anvil Chorus, but 
 it was not perhaps exact to say that the Jubilee was 
 opened with prayer by a hundred ministers. No de- 
 scription, however, could have exceeded the great central 
 fact of the singing, and when that stupendous utterance 
 followed at a wave of the director's baton the sight was 
 as magnificent as the sound. The multitudinous sea of 
 faces smote the eye like a vision of the. Heavenly Host 
 that accompanied the music of the stars when they sang 
 together and all the sons of God shouted for joy; but 
 I suppose the chorus was really made up of the human 
 elements which usually constitute church choirs and 
 musical societies. I never had speech with any member 
 of that chorus until the other day (or month, or year) 
 when an ageless young lady of Beacon Hill (the best part 
 of the Hill) avowed that she had sung in that chorus 
 when more actually a girl. She did not seem to share 
 my astonishment at the fact any more than she partook 
 of my satisfaction in declaring that I was one of the chief 
 writers, if not the very chief writer, on Jubilee Days. 
 
 That was what w^ called the daily paper of our Bazar, 
 and I know it will sensibly increase my glory from it 
 when I add that my prime associate was our dear dead, 
 undying Aldrich. Of course we had a managing editor, 
 who was Mr. Stanwood, then of the Daily Advertiser 
 (you need not say Advertiser in those days; The Daily 
 said it all), and of course we had a publisher, who was 
 nearly as young as ourselves and worthy as any publisher 
 could be of two such promising authors. He was the 
 vividly hopeful and courageous James R. Osgood, who 
 indomitably lost money on every one of the Jubilee Days, 
 and generously shared his misfortunes with us in the 
 hour of final settlement. With the affair quite in our 
 own hands, we had thought we might as well contribute 
 in verse as in prose, and we mainly did so, naturally 
 expecting that we should be paid for our work as poetry; 
 but what was our surprise and pain when Osgood paid 
 for it as prose. We soon forgave him, for we loved in 
 him the habitual liberality which he was obliged by mis- 
 fortune to blink at a crucial moment; and now he lies 
 in Kendal Green, and my thought goes to him there 
 in tender regret for his loss to Boston and then to New 
 York, and then to the gain of London, where he died in 
 the hour of success crowning so many years of failure. 
 
 Our themes were always the events of the Jubilee, and 
 I have been surprised in looking over my file of our paper 
 to see how much of these events we made, not to say how 
 many. We had the most brilliant artist of his day to 
 illustrate us, and Augustus Hoppin did not ultimately 
 succeed in sparing us some personal touches of his satirical 
 pencil; we had begun it by not sparing him altogether 
 with our pens. His brilliant work was interpreted to 
 the public by a new sort of etching process in a day 
 long before the day of half-tone; but if it must have been 
 cut in wood there was the prince of wood engravers, 
 A. V. S. Antony, in the sole employ of Osgood, to do it. 
 
 My bound copy of Jubilee Days is one of the few ex- 
 tant, and I wish it were the only one, for I should like 
 to offer it to any patron of this noble charity of yours 
 for about )'ii,ooo, or more, which I would do my best 
 to contribute wholly, or largely, or at least partially, to 
 the cause of the Allies now fighting the battles of Liberty, 
 Equality, and Fraternity. 
 
 With every good wish, Mr. Editor, for your success 
 in an enterprise which must remain eclipsed by that 
 which I have been fondly celebrating, I am 
 Cordially yours, 
 
 William Dean Howells. 
 
28 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily isj^sued daily for the ten week-days of the AlHed 
 Bazaar in Bostoiy Subscriptions, including postage, $1..50, may be 
 sent to the Editof, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar. /Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at the biSoth. 
 
 a thousand per cent of his original expenditure. Would 
 that this sort of thing could obtain here! 
 
 e biSi 
 
 COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES./bOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band, Donald 
 Sawyer and Miss Polly Prior from 4 to 6 p.m. 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of James 
 Kaye of WoUaston Golf Club. 
 
 Paul Revere Hall, Serbian-Armenian. 3 to 4. — A-Ia- 
 dame Zabel Panosian, lyric soprano; Hawaiian Band. 
 
 4.30 to 5.30. — Miss Elsie DeWolfe will tell of the 
 miracles performed by the doctors in treating the soldiers 
 who have been burned by gases — Stereopticon Pictures. 
 
 8 to 9. — Lansing Orchestra — mandolins, banjos, and 
 guitars. 
 
 9.15. — Miss DeWolfe will tell of the miracles per- 
 formed by the doctors in treating the soldiers who have 
 been burned by gases — Stereopticon Pictures. 
 
 9.30, Main Hall. — Mr. A. Chah Mooradian with Choral 
 Society. 
 
 The Editor regrets that he received the notice of 
 the delightful work of the Lithuanians at the Thistle 
 and Shamrock too late for insertion in yesterday's paper. 
 The people of this nationality are doing their bit for 
 the Bazaar most effectively and effectually. 
 
 The diminutive size of the booth of the Daily and the 
 press of business there have made it necessary to transfer 
 the sale of the artist's proofs and original drawings of 
 Baron Huard to the Atelier, Booth 25. It is to be hoped 
 that the large number of other attractions there will not 
 cause these admirable pictures to be overlooked. The 
 delightful humor of the French soldier has never been 
 better put on paper than by Baron Huard, and a set 
 of the proofs or one of the originals would make a wonder- 
 fully fine Christmas gift. 
 
 The four large figures in the Main Hall by John F. 
 Paramino make a decoration hardly to be excelled in 
 appropriateness or in effectiveness. 
 
 Mrs. Eleanor H. Porter, author of "PoUyanna," 
 will assist at the Book Booth on Thursday afternoon. 
 
 The effective way of raising money for the Bazaar, 
 could one but devise the practical method of applying it, 
 would be the principle of the plumber's candle. The 
 plumber buys a candle for five cents or less. It is carried 
 to every job, and at a few of them it is lighted. Whether 
 it is used or not, it is charged in every bill for about three 
 times its cost, and often a single candle will go through 
 scores of jobs. In the end the thrifty plumber nets about 
 
 Never has there been a time when were more poign- 
 antly applicable the lines of George Eliot: 
 
 The greatest gift a hero leaves mankind 
 Is to have been a hero. Say we fail! 
 We feed the high tradition of our race. 
 And leave our spirit in our children's breast. 
 
 No man has served his kind more nobly than he who has 
 fed "the high tradition of our race" that mankind has 
 still something worth dying for; and nothing calls for 
 more fervent gratitude than the fact that no man has 
 served it more effectively or more abidingly. 
 
 The young Americans who have been killed fighting 
 abroad did not give their lives simply for the cause to 
 which they had joined themselves. However great may 
 have been the value of their services to the Allies, the good 
 they have done unconsciously in this country has been 
 greater. They "fed the high tradition of the race," and 
 impressed upon the youth of the United States the 
 nobility of death met in battle for the right and for ideals. 
 Their memory may well be honored abroad; here we owe 
 to it something which hardly falls short of reverence. 
 
 One of the great functions of the Bazaar is to lighten 
 the annual strain which is imposed upon the brain in the 
 selection of Christmas gifts. The proper, and no less 
 the knowing, attitude for a visitor to take in going about 
 is that of being on the watch for things which will be 
 pleasing and appropriate for the different friends and 
 relatives to be remembered. With list in hand, a lady 
 should pass from booth to booth, saying in her mind, 
 "There is the very thing for Rosa; John would be de- 
 lighted with this; over on that table 's just what I wanted 
 for Jane." Or, if the visitor is of the helpless sex, and 
 unable to trust to his own unaided taste and judgment, 
 he may ask assistance from the ladies in charge. What 
 woman, and least of all what young woman, could fail 
 to be moved to do her best for the ingenuous swain who 
 blushingly falters out: "Could you tell me what a young 
 lady would like to have as a Christmas present.^" Her 
 warmest sympathies would be aroused, and the swain 
 might be sure for once of making a wise choice, and 
 scoring heavily with the girl of his heart. The Bazaar 
 is to be regarded as the headquarters of Santa Claus, 
 and it is to be patronized accordingly. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 Candida regarded the Editor thoughtfully for a time 
 after the first talk about the weather and the Bazaar had 
 been accomplished. It was evident that she had some- 
 thing on her mind. 
 
 "If I ever ask your advice," she observed, "it is always 
 so hard when it comes that I can't follow it." 
 
 "Why ask it then.?" 
 
 "I suppose," she returned, smiling, "that I am always 
 hoping that you will do better. At least I can't seem to 
 help it." 
 
 "The fact is, my dear Candida," observed the Editor, 
 "that your instinct as a woman drives you to trying over 
 and over to see if you cannot coerce me into saying what 
 you wish instead of what I think." 
 
 "If you were really polite," she threw back, "that's 
 what you would do." 
 
 "We might not agree on our definition of politeness," 
 was his comment. "Few people ever do agree on a 
 definition. What is the complication to-day.?" 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 29 
 
 Candida twisted her muff, and knitted her smootli brow. 
 
 "Oh, such a horrid thing has happened; and I don't 
 see what I am to do about it." 
 
 "That is apt to mean with a mere man that he knows 
 perfectly well what he ought to do, and wishes to shirk it." 
 
 Candida looked at him firmly. 
 
 "If you begin," she said, "by pelting me with epi- 
 grammatic statements like that, I will not tell you a 
 word." 
 
 "That would be a thousand pities, for you came ex- 
 pressly to tell me, and I am consumed with curiosity to 
 hear." 
 
 "Well, at least save your moral reflections till }'ou've 
 heard. You see, it is this way." 
 
 She paused, and teased her unfortunate muff more 
 vigorously than ever. The Editor leaned forward, and 
 with a murmured excuse took it gently away and laid 
 it on the top of his desk. 
 
 "Now fold your hands like a good child," he directed, 
 "and say your piece straight away." 
 
 She smiled and obeyed him, but she looked troubled. 
 
 "You know that white house with the latticed fence 
 and the big buttonwood trees just down the street from 
 our house in Brookline. You wouldn't know the people 
 that live there. They came from the West a couple of 
 years ago. There's a daughter, rather a striking-looking 
 girl. She caught my beloved Persian cat and had it 
 sent home, and then I thanked her; and we spoke on 
 the street, and then we exchanged calls. She's younger 
 than I am, and ever so much prettier." 
 
 "Consider that I've thrown in the compliment called 
 for by that remark," the Editor interpolated, "and go 
 right on." 
 
 She gave him a little troubled smile. 
 
 "I've never seen much of her. Once in a while I met 
 her on the street or in the electrics. The truth is, I 
 didn't care much about her, and nobody seemed to 
 know anything about the family." 
 
 "I'd trust your instincts," the Editor commented as 
 she paused, "even without that social consideration." 
 
 "Would you.-"' she asked rather eagerly, and ignoring 
 the little fling at social conventions. "I think some- 
 times I'm too apt to take prejudices. Anyway, I haven't 
 anything — at least, I hadn't anything against her. Now 
 I am terribly upset." 
 
 "What has happened?" 
 
 "Oh, it is horrid!" Candida burst out with unexpected 
 vehemence. "I don't know what right people have to 
 get you all roused up!" 
 
 The Editor gave a little explosive laugh. 
 
 "It is generally the last thing they intend to do or wish 
 to do," he said. "But get on. You have been doing 
 magnificently, but my curiosity is heated to white heat." 
 
 "Well, a couple of weeks ago I received a bill from 
 Henderson & Wannemaker, where I never traded in my 
 life. It was for gloves and things, and a $35 silk sweater. 
 Of course I went in to ask about it. I will say they were 
 very nice. A girl had come in with my card, and ordered 
 the things. She said she was going to New York that 
 afternoon, so she would take the goods with her, but she 
 gave them two or three hours to look her up, because she 
 had no account. She went off to do errands or some- 
 thing. When she came back, they said it was all right, 
 and off she went with the things she'd bought, leaving 
 them charged to me." 
 
 "The firm seems very easily caught by a very old 
 trick," the Editor observed dispassionately. 
 
 "She's pretty," Candida responded simply. "I told 
 you she was; and of course they knew about our family. 
 When they saw me, they said at once that I was not the 
 one who bought the things." 
 
 "Your method of narration leaves something to be 
 desired," the Editor said. "Who is pretty.? You have 
 not said that your neighbor had anything to do with the 
 theft." 
 
 "But why," demanded Candida, "did you suppose I 
 told you about her.'' Of course it was she." 
 
 "How did you discover it?" 
 
 "They described her, in the first place, and she is easily 
 identified. Then they showed me a sweater like the one 
 she bought. They had had only two made, after a special 
 pattern, and she took that one because it was unusual. 
 Yesterday it was just like a detective novel. I was 
 walking home, and there she was by her gate. She 
 spoke to me, and her coat was open, and there was the 
 sweater. It was unmistakable." 
 
 The Editor regarded his visitor closely. 
 
 "Candida," he said, "why do you pretend to yourself 
 that you come to ask me what you ought to do? You 
 know you really came in the hope that I would tell you 
 that you needn't do it. No wonder you find my advice 
 hard when you come here like that, just to get an excuse 
 from some obvious duty." 
 
 "But how can I go to Henderson & Wannemaker," 
 Candida burst out in vehement self-betrayal, "and tell 
 them that she is a thief? Why, I've called on her!" 
 
 "That should, of course, render her immune from the 
 consequences of a criminal action," the Editor remarked 
 with dispassionate smoothness; "but in a world imper- 
 fectly ordered it is doubtful if it will." 
 
 Candida flushed, and looked as if on the verge of tears. 
 
 "Don't be hateful," she begged plaintively. "I'm 
 in real trouble. I thought she was respectable." 
 
 "Of course," he said sympathetically. "I'm really 
 very sorry for your fix. In any bother in this queer 
 world, the innocent always suffer more than the guilty. 
 It is part of the price they pay for being innocent. It is 
 horrid, of course; but consider a little. Has anybody 
 paid for those goods?" 
 
 "No. The manager said it was their mistake, and 
 they must bear the loss. They were very civil." 
 
 "And you consider the possibility of repaying their 
 civility by becoming accessory to the theft of their prop- 
 erty? " 
 
 "I don't consider anything of the sort! Oh, you are 
 cruel! I'm not to blame." 
 
 "Not yet; but you would not be to blame if you were 
 so unfortunate as to discover that some one you know had 
 committed murder. The law would make things most 
 unpleasant fdr you just the same, if you concealed your 
 knowledge." 
 
 "But that, of course, is different." 
 
 "In principle or in degree?" the Editor demanded very 
 gently. 
 
 Candida regarded him wistfully for a moment in 
 silence. Then she rose and retrieved her muff. 
 
 "I might have known what you would say," she de- 
 clared, evidently more in sorrow than in anger. 
 
 "You did know," he responded, facing her bravely. 
 "You knew perfectly well that we all have duties to the 
 community and to our neighbors, not to speak of our- 
 selves; and that the fact that they are disagreeable does 
 not make them any the less duties." 
 
 "Of course I know it. That's the hateful part of it. 
 I wish I didn't know; and I hoped you'd say I was a fool 
 to interfere. I wish I hadn't come!" 
 
 "What earthly difference did your coming make?" 
 he asked, smiling, and holding out his hand. "You know 
 you had your conscience with you when you came." 
 
 He who follows goose-steps is 
 lead into foul and miry places. 
 
 likely to find that they 
 
30 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Burrowers. 
 
 In the fire-trench — or perhaps it would be more correct 
 to call it the water-trench — life may be short, and" is sel- 
 dom merry; but it is not often dull. For one thing, we 
 are never idle. 
 
 A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several yards of 
 your parapet. Straightway your machine-gunners are 
 called up, to cover the gap until darkness falls and the 
 gaping wound can be stanched with fresh sandbags. A 
 mine has been exploded upon your front, leaving a crater 
 into which predatory Bodies will certainly creep at night. 
 You summon a posse of bombers to occupy the cavity and 
 discourage any such enterprise. The heavens open, and 
 there is a sudden deluge. Immediately it is a case of all 
 hands to the trench-pump! A better plan, if you have the 
 advantage of ground, is to cut a culvert under the parapet 
 and pass the inundation on to a more deserving quarter. 
 In any case you need never lack healthful exercise. 
 
 While upon the subject of mines, we may note that 
 this branch of military industry has expanded of late to 
 most unpleasant dimensions. The Boche began it, of 
 course, — he always initiates these undesirable pastimes, — 
 and now we have followed his lead and caught him up. 
 
 To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind groper amid 
 the dark places of the earth, in search of a foe whom it is 
 almost certain death to encounter there, seems perhaps 
 the most idiotic of all the idiotic careers open to those who 
 are idiotic enough to engage in modern warfare. How- 
 ever, many of us are as much at home below ground as 
 above it. In most peaceful times we were accustomed 
 to spend eight hours a day there, lying up against the 
 "face" in a tunnel perhaps four feet high, and wielding 
 a pick in an attitude which would have convulsed any 
 ordinary man with cramp. But there are few ordinary- 
 men in" K(i)." There is never any difficulty in obtain- 
 ing volunteers for the Tunnelling Company. 
 
 So far as the amateur can penetrate its mysteries, min- 
 ing, viewed under our present heading, — namely. Winter 
 Sports,^ofl[ers the following advantages to its participants : 
 
 (i) In winter it is much warmer below the earth than 
 upon its surface, and Thomas Atkins is the most con- 
 firmed "frowster" in the world. 
 
 (2) Critics seldom descend into mines. 
 
 (3) There is extra pay. 
 
 The disadvantages are so obvious that they need not 
 be enumerated here. 
 
 In these trenches we have been engaged upon a very 
 pretty game of subterranean chess for some weeks past, 
 and we are very much on our mettle. We have some 
 small leeway to make up. When we took over these 
 trenches, a German mine, wh'ich had been maturing 
 (apparently unheeded) during the tenancy of our pred- 
 ecessors, was exploded two days after our arrival, in- 
 flicting heavy casualties upon "D" Company. Curiously 
 enough, the damage to the trench was comparatively 
 slight; but the tremendous shock of the explosion killed 
 more than one man by concussion, and brought down the 
 roofs of several dugouts upon their sleeping occupants. 
 All together it was a sad business, and the Battalion swore 
 to be avenged. 
 
 So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram — 
 usually called Bertie the Badger, in reference to his rodent 
 disposition — to make the first move in the return match. 
 So Bertie and his troglodyte assistants sank a shaft in a 
 retired spot of their own selecting, and proceeded to 
 burrow forward toward the Boche lines. 
 
 After certain days Bertie presented himself, covered 
 with clay, before Colonel Kemp, and made a report. 
 
 Colonel Kemp considered. 
 
 "You say you can hear the enemy working.?" he said. 
 
 "Yi 
 
 "N 
 
 es, sir. 
 ear.?" 
 
 "Pretty near, sir." 
 
 "How near.?" 
 
 "A few yards." 
 
 "What do you propose to do.?" 
 
 Bertie the Badger — in private life a consulting mining 
 engineer with a beautiful office in Victoria Street and a 
 nice taste in spats — scratched an earthy nose with a 
 muddy forefinger. 
 
 "I think they are making a defensive gallery, sir," 
 he announced. 
 
 "Let us have your statement in the simplest possible 
 language, please," said Colonel Kemp. "Some of my 
 young officers," he added rather ingeniously, "are not 
 very expert in these matters." 
 
 Bertie the Badger thereupon expounded the situation 
 with solemn relish. By a defensive gallery, it appeared 
 that he meant a lateral tunnel running parallel with the 
 trench-line, in such a manner as to intercept any tunnel 
 pushed out b}^ the British miners. 
 
 "And what do you suggest doing to this Piccadilly 
 Tube of theirs.?" inquired the Colonel. 
 
 "I could dig forward and break into it, sir," suggested 
 Bertie. 
 
 "There seems a move in the right direction," said the 
 Colonel. "But won't the Boche try to prevent you.?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "How.?" 
 
 "He will wait until the head of my tunnel gets near 
 enough, and then blow it in." 
 
 "That would be very tiresome of him. 
 
 alternatives are open to you 
 
 What other 
 replied Bertie, 
 
 "I could get as near as possible, sir,' 
 calmly, "and then blow up his gallery." 
 
 "That sounds better. Well, exercise your own discre- 
 tion, and don't get blown up unless you particularly 
 want to. And, above all, be quite sure that while you are 
 amusing yourself with the Piccadilly Tube, the wily 
 Boche isn't burrowing past you, and under my parapet, 
 by the Bakerloo! Good luck! Report any fresh develop- 
 ment at once." 
 
 So Bertie the Badger returned once more to his native 
 element, and proceeded to exercise his discretion. This 
 took the form of continuing his aggressive tunnel in the 
 direction of the Boche defensive gallery. Next morning, 
 encouraged by the absolute silence of the enemy's miners, 
 he made a farther and final push, which actually landed 
 him in the Piccadilly Tube itself. 
 
 "This is a rum go, Howie!" he observed in a low voice 
 to his corporal. "A long, beautiful gallery, five by four, 
 lined with wood, electrically lighted, with every modern 
 convenience — and not a Boche in it." 
 
 "Varra bad discipline, sir!" replied Corporal Howie, 
 severely. 
 
 "Are you sure it isn't a trap 
 
 "It may be, sir, but I doot the oversman is awa' to 
 his dinner, and the men are back in the shaft, doing 
 naething." Corporal Howie had been an "oversman" 
 himself, and knew something of subterranean labor 
 problems. 
 
 "Well, if you are right, the Boche must be getting 
 demoralized. It is not likely for him to present us with 
 openings like this. However, the first thing to do is to 
 distribute a few souvenirs along the gallery. Pass the 
 word back for the stuff. Meanwhile I shall endeavor to 
 test your theory about the oversman's dinner-hour. I 
 am going to creep along and have a look at the Boche 
 entrance to the Tube. It's down there at the south end, I 
 think. I can see a break in the wood lining. If you hear 
 any shooting, you will know that the dinner-hour is over!" 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 31 
 
 At the end ot half an hour tlie Piccadilly Tube was 
 lined sufficiently with explosive material — securely 
 rammed and tamped — to ensure the permanent closing 
 of the line. Still no Boche had been seen or heard. 
 
 "Now, Howie," said Bertie the Badger, fingering the 
 fuse, "what about it.'" 
 
 "About what, sirr.?" inquired Howie, who was not 
 quite au fait with current catch-phrases. 
 
 "Are we going to touch oS all this stuflf now, and clear 
 out, or are we going to wait and see.?" 
 
 "I would like fine — " began the Corporal, wistfully. 
 
 "So would I," said Bertie. "Tell the men to get 
 back and out; and you and I will hold on until the guests 
 return from the banquet." 
 
 " Varra good, sirr." 
 
 For another half-hour the pa^r waited — Bertie the 
 Badger like a dog in its kennel, with his head protruding 
 into the hostile gallery, while his faithful henchman 
 crouched close behind him. Deathly stillness reigned, 
 relieved only by an occasional thud, as a shell or trench- 
 mortar bomb exploded upon the ground above their 
 heads. 
 
 "I'm going to have another look round the corner," 
 said Bertie, at last. "Hold on to the fuse." 
 
 He handed the end of the fuse to his subordinate, 
 and having wormed his way out of the tunnel proceeded 
 cautiously on all fours along the gallery. On his way 
 he passed the electric light. He twisted off the bulb 
 and crawled on in the darkness. 
 
 Feeling his way by the east wall of the gallery, he came 
 presently to the break in the woodwork. Very slowly, 
 lying flat on his stomach now, he wriggled forward until 
 his head came opposite the opening. A low passage 
 ran away to his left, obviously leading back to the Boche 
 trenches. Three yards from the entrance the passage 
 bent sharply to the right, thus interrupting the line of 
 sight. 
 
 "There's a light burning just around that bend," 
 said Bertie the Badger to himself. "I wonder if it 
 would be rash to go on and have a look at it." 
 
 He was still straining at his gnat, when suddenly his 
 elbows encountered a shovel which was leaning against 
 the wall of the gallery. It tumbled down with a clatter 
 almost stunning. Next moment a hand came around the 
 bend of the tunnel and fired a revolver almost in the 
 explorer's face. 
 
 Another shot rang out directly after. 
 
 The devoted Howie, hastening to the rescue, collided 
 sharply with a solid body crawling toward him in the 
 darkness. 
 
 "Curse you, Howie," said the voice of Bertie the 
 Badger, with refreshing earnestness. "Get back out of 
 this! Where's your fuse.'" 
 
 The pair scrambled back into their own tunnel and 
 the end of the fuse was soon recovered. Almost in- 
 stantaneously three more revolver-shots rang out. . 
 
 "I thought I had fixed that Boche," murmured Bertie, 
 in a disappointed voice. "I heard him grunt when my 
 bullet hit him. Perhaps this is another one — or several. 
 Keep back in the tunnel, Howie, confound you, and 
 don't breathe up my sleeve! They are firing straight 
 along the gallery now. I will return the compliment. 
 Ouch!" 
 
 "What's the matter, sirr?" inquired the anxious voice 
 of Howie, as his officer, who had tried to fire round the 
 corner with his left hand, gave a sudden exclamation and 
 rolled over upon his side. 
 
 "I must have been hit the first time," he explained. 
 "Collar-bone, I think. I didn't know, till I rested my 
 weight on my left elbow. Howie, I am going to exercise 
 my discretion again. Somebody in this gallery is going 
 
 to be blown up presently, and if you and I don't get a 
 move on p. d. q. it will be us! Give me the fuse-lighter, 
 and wait for me at the foot of the shaft. Quick!" 
 
 \'ery reluctantly the Corporal obeyed. However, he 
 was in due course joined at the foot of the shaft by 
 Bertie the Badger, groaning profanely; and the pair 
 made their way to the upper regions with all possible 
 speed. After a short interval a sudden rumbling, followed 
 by a heavy explosion, announced that the fuse had done 
 its work, and that the Piccadilly Tube, the fruit of many 
 toilsome weeks of Boche calculation and labor, had 
 been permanently closed to traffic of all descriptions. 
 
 Bertie the Badger received a Military Cross, and 
 his abetter the D. C. M. 
 
 Ian Hay. 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 XVII. 
 Who chooses for my whole a knave 
 
 Is sure my first; and for himself 
 Does second woe till he must needs 
 
 Sadly my third, a hapless elf. 
 At the first step in wisdom's ways 
 
 My fourth stands clear before all 
 Ne'er with the base first him have v, 
 
 But still to fifth the fool be wise. 
 
 eyes; 
 hole, 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 To save his first 
 
 From doom accurst, 
 My third across my fourth did second; 
 
 But he, betrayed, 
 
 VV'as soon waylaid, 
 Since his fell foe with whole had reckoned. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Dark, sparkling, from the depth of earth 
 My first is digged, and after clings 
 
 To beauty's neck; or, taking birth 
 Of water, in my second springs. 
 
 Cast in the sea, down sinks my whole, 
 Nor woman's second knows me more; 
 
 Over it long the green waves roll. 
 Nor second gilds it on the shore. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The actor, drunk with self-conceit, 
 With third would groundlings stir; 
 
 My shrinking whole is at his feet, — 
 He gives no first for her. 
 
 I and my second see the show 
 
 With weariness and scorn; 
 -Actor and whole, full well we know. 
 
 For art were never born. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Naught ever can my first without my second; 
 My whole as reason feminine is reckoned. 
 
 XXII. 
 Half dead my first; my next half living; 
 Who does my third needs much forgiving; 
 But wins it not if, like my whole. 
 The error he repeats, as, on my soul. 
 My fourth is like my third in dole. 
 
 XXIII. 
 My first times first my fourth would be; 
 Halve it, and you my second see. 
 My third one seventh of my fourth; 
 My whole the test of highest worth. 
 
 XXIV. 
 "What? Second first.'" fair Kittie cried. 
 "Then who would whole for me provide.'" 
 
 A youth who went out in a yacht 
 
 Said he found home the pleasantest spot; 
 
 For his stomach, he said. 
 
 Climbed up into his head. 
 Though he begged and implored it would not. 
 
32 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 THE BOSTON MOTHLR G005L. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE 5TATUL5. 
 
 The Maid in the Mist 
 
 5he has worn out her wrist 
 
 Holding her petticoats high ; 
 
 5oon it will be shocking 
 
 To see folk come flocking 
 
 When she's dropped them, and lets them 
 
 lie! 
 
 The angel on the monument 
 For Crispus Attucks named. 
 
 Frantic, on its escape is bent; 
 For which it can't be blamed. 
 
 Sops and sugar candy. 
 Dancing-master handy, 
 Franklin by the City Hall 
 With his legs so bandy. 
 Like a jack-a-dandy. 
 
 Science and Art their blankets took. 
 And they took thick blankets too; 
 
 And sat down each in a granite nook. 
 On the Library steps in view. 
 
 cry 
 
 "But why those weighty blankets?" 
 
 The passers great and small. 
 Said they: "To keep our scalp-locks dry, 
 
 If rain should chance to fall." 
 
 "Come buy! Come buy!" calls Phillips, 
 To passers on Boylston Street. 
 
 "Buy chains French-made, 
 
 For a better trade 
 You never may chance to meet." 
 
 If the eagle on the tooth-pick, 
 Down in Post Office Square 
 
 Changed places with the eagle 
 On the Beacon,— ! declare. 
 
 That were a weird phenomenon 
 To make good people stare. 
 
 Was he in truth excusable 
 Who made the Banks of brass? 
 
 A sarcasm so obvious 
 Could not unnoticed pass. 
 
 In his chair on the Avenue Garrison sits, 
 While many a sparrow around him flits; 
 And the more they twitter, the more frets he. 
 Who talked through life incessantly. 
 That now forever he dumb must be. 
 
 Leif Lricson, dressed for a fancy ball. 
 Is trying on a pose, his face turned west. 
 
 Which he believes, if taken in the hall. 
 Will show his hired costume at its best. 
 
 While the telescoped boat down under his feet 
 
 Shows how well he is able to make both ends 
 meet. 
 
 The Good Samaritan means well. 
 
 First aid for iniured giving; 
 But the result one hates to tell, 
 
 if the hurt man were living. 
 Since he has had no proper training. 
 Wide open he the wound is straining. 
 
 Says Hamilton: "This place is cold. 
 And much exposed to storm. 
 
 So I have brought my bedclothes here. 
 To keep me rear-ly warm. 
 
 For much my dignity 't would tease. 
 
 To have my granite nostrils sneeze." 
 
 Called the Devens statue across to the Banks: 
 "There's little in ugliness us outranks." 
 Quick back the cheerful answer came: 
 "No matter; we got here just the same!" 
 
 Oh, the sculptors tell their children. 
 
 If they're very, very bad. 
 They had better mend their manners 
 
 Or their future will be sad. 
 They may grow up to be pirates. 
 
 Thieves, or any kind of crooks; 
 Or, — far worse! — may make a statue 
 
 Bad as that of Phillips Brooks. 
 
 John Glover, enraged to the tips of his toeses, 
 For a movie-film up on the Avenue poses; 
 In spite of his cannon and bullets of lead. 
 Some rascaf has stolen the hat from his head! 
 
 Gay go up and sad go down, — 
 Viewing the statues of Boston town: 
 Statues of marble and bronze and lead, — 
 Would that the most were of snow instead! 
 
 Questions for Discussion at tlie Women's Clubs. 
 
 How far is a hired cook morally responsible for the 
 temper of the family for which she works.' 
 
 If property has been bequeathed to twins, can it 
 properly be inherited by a two-headed child.' 
 
 VVould the world be better if the men had all been 
 born women and the women all born men ? 
 
 If women had the vote, would hens crow, and what 
 would be the probable increase in double-yolked eggs.'' 
 
 If John Keats had been Bernard Shaw, would he have 
 written "Pilgrim's Progress".' 
 
 If Eve had had the right to vote, would it have pre- 
 vented the Fall of A4an.' 
 
 How far can the philosophy of the Autocrat of the 
 Breakfast Table be applied to the use of cereals.' 
 
 If a unicorn were impaled on the two horns of a dilem- 
 ma, where would be the point of its one horn, and would 
 it settle the question.' 
 
 How far would Cleopatra have been an ideal President 
 for a woman's college.' 
 
 If Queen Elizabeth had married Guy .Fawkes, would 
 she have given Ireland Home Rule.' 
 
 If you were in solitary confinement, without books, 
 and were allowed to have the advertisements of one 
 patent medicine to read, what would be your choice.' 
 
3.B:nr^'-^:'> 
 
 DEC I5iyl6 
 
 AZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 BOSTON, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1916 
 
 No. 5 
 
 / 
 
 P^>U>;^'-:':kk-^):::;!^i''^ 
 
 / 
 
 'The Kaiserbloom " : an ideal type of super-man, 
 
34 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Zeppelin. 
 
 [From "The Cause: Poems of the War," to appear later; by the kind per- 
 mission of Houghton Mifflin Company.] 
 
 Guns! far and near 
 Quick, sudden, angry, 
 They startle the still street. 
 Upturned faces appear, 
 Doors open on darkness. 
 There is a hurrying of feet. 
 
 And whirled athwart gloom 
 
 White fingers of alarm 
 
 Point at last there 
 
 Where illumined and dumb 
 
 .\ shape suspended 
 
 Hovers, a demon of the starry air! 
 
 Strange and cold as a dream 
 
 Of i 
 
 ster fan 
 
 It charms like a snake, 
 Poised deadly in the gleam, 
 While bright e.xplosions 
 Leap up to it, and break. 
 
 Is it terror you seek 
 Toe.xultin.' Know then 
 Hearts are here 
 That the plunging beak 
 Of night-winged murder 
 Strikes not with fear 
 
 So much as it stings 
 To a deep elation 
 And a quivering pride 
 That at last the hour brings 
 For them, too, the danger 
 Of those who died. 
 
 Of those who yet fight. 
 
 Spending for each of us 
 
 Their glorious blood 
 
 In the foreign night, — 
 
 That now we are neared to them 
 
 Thank we God. 
 
 Laurence Binyon. 
 
 The Daughter of Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas. 
 
 (Jilhouf:li litis narrative is in the form oj Jiction, the events took place in the 
 summer oj iQoy in Syria practically as told.) 
 
 I. 
 
 It was the schoolmaster, the fiki, of the small village 
 in the Syrian hills where I was stationed who introduced 
 me to the situation. He was an agreeable young Moslem, 
 in a silk robe of narrow green and yellow stripes, and at 
 his first call he told me he should next day close the 
 school at the mosque for lack of funds. In the interests 
 of the Expedition that I represented, I undertook the 
 modest napoleon a month required for its continuance, 
 and the fikt became my devoted friend. At one of his 
 afternoon visits he spoke of Sheikh Hassan Osman, and 
 that gentleman's matrimonial prospects. We sat drink- 
 ing tea in the courtyard of the abandoned mission-church 
 in which I was camped, ragged Bishara, stupidest of ser- 
 vants, in attendance, and oily Franziz of Nazareth keep- 
 ing in earshot when he could. 
 
 "Oh, beautiful tea," murmured the schoolmaster. 
 "Dream-worthy tea; it is even better than that of Sheikh 
 Hassan!" 
 
 "Nay, O Pilgrim," I answered in the approved fashion, 
 "it is but dust from the bazaars of Russia; your kindness 
 commends it. Who travels, fares plainly; and I have 
 drank the tea of Sheikh Hassan, fragrant with freshly 
 steeped mint. It was to this as sun to moon. It was 
 yesterday I went to the Sheikh about his land." 
 
 "Under Allah's will," said my visitor, "he will let you 
 dig on it. But he is an old one, and full of trouble about 
 a matter which is the talk of the village." 
 
 "Of what matter is the talk.?" 
 
 "Y'd Saldm,'' said Hajji Hamed, setting down his cup 
 in well-feigned surprise, "has it not blown this way."" 
 Thus it is: desire has come upon Sheikh Hassan, so that 
 he neither eats nor sleeps, — a desire for the daughter of 
 Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas." 
 
 My friend the schoolmaster, skilled in three modes of 
 calligraphy, a Hajji, and one who knew the Quran by 
 heart, was something of a gossip, and a tale lost nothing 
 from his telling. Not two hours before I had seen the 
 man of whom he spoke rating the harvesters in one of 
 his barley-fields in a voice quavering but unceasing, and 
 certainly anything but love-lorn. 
 
 "Like a fire," ran on the Hajji with gusto, "desire con- 
 sumes the marrow of his bones!" 
 
 I expressed interest, but inwardly I doubted both the 
 marrow and the fire. I thought it improbable that the 
 aged bones of Sheikh Hassan were consumed by anything 
 more romantic than rheumatism. 
 
 "The word goes that she is a pearl among maidens," 
 went on my friend; "but to talk of that is shameless. 
 Her father, Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas, is eager to 
 give her to one so rich and of such piety; but Abdul 
 Ahmed spoke openly against it, reviling Sheikh Hassan 
 in the shop, so that all the young lack-lands were laughing 
 and the elders put to shame." 
 
 "If Allah wills," I said piously, "He will make an end. 
 Does Abdul Ahmed place his desires against those of the 
 Sheikh.?" 
 
 "Like a fire! and he follows Sheikh Hassan a-field 
 with his gun, and threatens him, and sets his men at 
 naught. And a-whiles the Sheikh feels chill with this 
 trouble and his years; and a-whiles Ibrahim the Father 
 of Nuwas and his brother and his cousins stay him, and 
 comfort him, and say: 'How are you, Sheikh, to yield 
 to such a one.? Is he not a dog, the son of a dog, the 
 father of a dead donkey.? Is it Sheikh Hassan that shrinks 
 before the lack-land, a thing-not-to-be-named?' Thus 
 the Sheikh is now hot, and now again he is cold." 
 
 Hajji Hamed told the tale thrice with subtle changes 
 before he finished his call. I went down the hillside that 
 evening to the shop, and as I left after purchasing some 
 Samsun tobacco, I noticed a young man in a yellow jacket, 
 rather ragged, with a short gun across his knees, squatting 
 just on the edge of the light from the doorway. An 
 older man was, with a wealth of opprobrious words, 
 denouncing him, and waving his hands in energetic 
 gesticulation. The young man, without a trace of 
 feeling on his heavy, dogged face, chewed a straw without 
 appearing to listen. 
 
 "That," said my boy Bishara, " is Abdul Ahmed, called 
 Landless." 
 
 "And who sits beside him.?" I asked, catching sight of 
 a second squatting figure — this one wholly in the shadow. 
 
 "Nam?" responded Bishara; "oh, that is Nuwas, the 
 son of Ibrahim. He is a blockhead even as I am, 
 Master. He is the particular friend of Abdul Ahmed." 
 
 II. 
 
 When Bishara brought next morning the water for 
 my bath his eyes were big with news. After the rubber 
 tub had been turned into an aquarium for the various 
 monsters that sweetened our well, I lingered a moment 
 to finish my cigarette. 
 
 "Is there news, O Father of Stupidity.?" I asked. 
 
 "Nam? Aye, there is news! The village talks of noth- 
 ing else! my Master, there is an uproar!" 
 
 I waited in silence, looking across the valley through 
 the iron-barred window. I knew this to be the short cut 
 to getting Bishara to facts. 
 
 "An uproar, sir!" repeated the fumble-witted one. 
 
 I threw away the butt of my cigarette and rose. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 35 
 
 "O my Master!" exclaimed Bishara, with a rush, 
 "there is an uproar because Abdul Ahmed has girdled 
 with fire, so that they are dead for the ages, five of the 
 olive-trees of Sheikh Hassan, — five of the best, between 
 moon-set and dawn; and Abdul Ahmed has fled, and 
 Sheikh has turned cursing on Ibrahim the Father of 
 Nuwas; and he and his kin have sworn to beat Abdul 
 Ahmed, only he is not presently to be found." 
 
 "Abdul Ahmed has begotten a folly," said I. "Go 
 and get breakfast." 
 
 At three that afternoon I sat down to write to the 
 agent that the Expedition would purchase the mission 
 church. It had been for sale since the failure of the 
 mission half a dozen years before, and while it was not 
 quite what we wished, it had the strong point of "ex- 
 territoriality." Once over the threshold, we were on Eng- 
 lish ground. I finished my letter, and as it was not 
 cool enough for riding, I then went to my room to 
 change. Except for the buzzing of the flies the place was 
 very still. From the flat-roofed village a little below 
 rose the shrill droning of a woman's voice, blended with 
 the ruzz-ruzz-ruzz of a quern. That one sound came up- 
 ward with the effect of a single column of wood-smoke 
 seen rising from a camp-fire at dawn. I was buckling a 
 spur when the afternoon quiet was shattered by a sudden 
 clamor on the north side of the mission. A confused 
 shouting drew rapidly nearer, swelling in volume. I 
 pulled my carbine out of its boot, and, flinging it on the 
 cot, went out, calling my men. As I came into the 
 court the shouting and yelling were seemingly just in 
 front of the mission: howls, shrieks, and curses were 
 mingled with the sound of men running, with roars of 
 defiance, and — with startling abruptness — the rattling 
 crash of stones against our gate. Simultaneously some 
 one without began to hammer furiously at the wicket, 
 and to shout for admittance. My five men rushed for- 
 ward and shot the extra bar. I dove back, seized my 
 rifle, and ran to them. Of a truth, things were happen- 
 ing, and that with a vengeance. 
 
 "Open, O sir! Open, in the name of Allah!" 
 
 A shower of stones sounded on the wood. 
 
 "Open the wicket," I said to the men, "and stand clear 
 of it." 
 
 Old Mohammed the Orderly drew the bolt; there was 
 a lull outside. Not without a curious feeling that I was 
 making of myself an uncommonly good target, I looked 
 out. With his back against the gate, and his flushed 
 face level with mine, stood Abdul Ahmed, called the 
 Landless. His gun was in his hands, pointing toward a 
 half-circle of excited villagers, who, for the most part 
 armed with stones, stood in a mass some twenty yards 
 away. Some few were provided with guns. I divined 
 instantly that Abdul Ahmed and not the mission was the 
 object of attack. For me was but one course. I put 
 on a rage I did not feel, and shouted with such air of 
 authority as I could assume: 
 
 "What sort of a. fantasia is this? Are you people gone 
 mad.?" 
 
 For answer came back from the crowd a chorus of 
 discordant yells in which I distinguished nothing clearly. 
 But at the same time the voice of Abdul Ahmed was 
 saying in my ear: 
 
 "By the Bread and the Salt, O sir, let me inside the 
 House of the English. I have warmed up Sheikh Hassan 
 with a charge of shot, and for this the dog-sons of shame- 
 less mothers will slay me. Let me wait but half an hour 
 in the House of the English, and a horse will be in the 
 valley. Even now one leads him thither." 
 
 I wanted to take him in as one man set upon by many. 
 I wanted to take him in because of his good courage. 
 I much desired to see what would happen; but I could 
 
 not because I was not my own master. The Expedition's 
 interests could not be perilled by being involved in a 
 village row. Yet, certainly, on the other hand, the 
 villagers, when their anger had cooled, would feel only 
 contempt for me if I refused a suppliant. 
 
 "Look, O People of the village," I shouted; "here is 
 one who asks for shelter." 
 
 "The gate in his face, the dog without faith!" yelled a 
 big peasant. 
 
 "Silence, son of burnt fathers!" I cried in answer. 
 "On one condition he enters." 
 
 A wild yell greeted this. I thrust my rifle through the 
 wicket. Abdul Ahmed brought his gun to his shoulder, 
 and very slowly swept a half-circle with it. Check! 
 
 "Allah will reward the compassionate," he said in a 
 cool whisper. "We are fooling them out of time, O sir, 
 at the very least." 
 
 "I will take him in if I please," I called. "Who here 
 shall dare to forbid me.? But I shall hand him over to 
 the men of the Basha at Nablus as soon as may be." 
 
 "The curse of Allah on such hospitality, on its father, 
 its mother, and its religion!" said the voice of Abdul 
 Ahmed, quietly and bitterly. 
 
 The crowd stirred, some bawling out that they would 
 shoot if the gate were opened, others that I should promise 
 "on the words of an Englishman" to hold the prisoner. 
 Out of the confusion came a stone which banged against 
 the wood a handbreadth from my head. That decided 
 me. I drew back and slammed the wicket. 
 "Open!" I ordered. 
 
 A-Iy men drew the heavy oak bars and looked to their 
 arms. At that instant from without sounded a yell that 
 must have leaped simultaneously from every throat in the 
 crowd. 
 
 Old Mohammed, his big ivory-handled pistol at full 
 cock, flung back the gate. He did so just in time for us 
 to see the last of the crowd tearing madly down the 
 terraced hillside. Among the olive-trees below the 
 village, we saw a lithe figure running, ducking, dodging, 
 and the whole male population, men, boys, and dogs, 
 tearing pell-mell after. Abdul Ahmed had bolted with 
 the pursuit at his heels. We watched the chase to the 
 bottom of the valley, where for a moment the Landless 
 disappeared amOng the olives. It was a fresh wonder to 
 see him emerge on horseback! The yell of the villagers 
 came to us faintly. We saw him halt, and among them, 
 suddenly, the gleam of gun-barrels. Two or three shots 
 were fired at the fugitive. He was well out of range, but, 
 as if to show that he accepted the compliment in the 
 spirit in which it was given, he turned in the saddle and 
 fired twice. Then, brandishing his gun above his head, 
 he swung round the hill, and disappeared. 
 
 Oric Bates. 
 
 (To be cominued.) 
 
 "Alas! My life is full of woes," 
 
 Wailed Jeremiah Grace; 
 "I cannot see my lovely nose, 
 
 It grows so near my face." 
 "But when one knows one's nose is there, 
 
 His loving wife replied, 
 ".\bout one's nose no one should care, 
 
 If friends are satisfied." 
 
 An envious and not over-refined Yale man, somewhat 
 far from pleased at the result of a foot-ball match, was 
 heard to say, with profane embellishments, that never 
 again would he be found in Cambridge, for it was only 
 a gob of wheel-grease on the rim of the Hub. 
 
 Cupid's scientific name is Propinquity. 
 
36 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 Tlie Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Alhed 
 Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
 sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at the booth. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band, and Madame 
 EstrelHta from 4 to 6 p.m. 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trahied Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of Matt 
 Campbell, Jordan Marsh Company. 
 
 Paul Revere Hall. 2.30. — Miss Elsie DeWolfe will tell 
 of the miracles performed by the doctors in treating^ the 
 soldiers who have been burned by gases — Stereopticon 
 Pictures. 
 
 3 to 4. — Miss June Moody and Miss Lucretia Craig 
 in Solo Dances. Hawaiian Band. Madame Estrellita, 
 Spanish dances and songs. 
 
 4.30 to 5.30. — Miss Randall and Mr. Joseph Santeley, 
 from the Raymond Hitchcock Company, by the courtesy 
 of Charles Dillingham. 
 
 8 to 9. — Vaudeville Attractions; Dancers; Miss 
 Amelia Burnham, Mr. Leroy Young, Exhibition Dancing; 
 Miss Mabelle Patten, Ballet Dancer; The Misses Helen 
 Mann and Helen Linnehan, Character Dancing; Misses 
 Beatrice Poole and Georgine Moses, Classic Dances; 
 Mr. Paul Chute, Unique Solo Dance; Miss Melba 
 Proctor, A Dramatic Story Dance of Mrs. Wyman's 
 entitled "The Somnambulist"; Spanish Scene and 
 Pantomime Dance by Messrs. Herford, Hartwell, Robert 
 Grantham, Calbraith Perry, James Kennedy, Paul Jones 
 Chute, Misses Florence Barker, Mabelle Patten, Grace 
 Parker, Amelia Burnham, Florence Meredith. 
 
 9.15. — Miss Elsie DeWolfe will tell of the miracles 
 performed by the doctors in treating the soldiers who 
 have been burned by gases — Stereopticon Pictures. 
 
 9.30, Main Hall. — Patriotic Songs, Madame Androva 
 and Chorus. 
 
 A Personal Explanation. 
 
 I REGRET exceedingly that there has apparently been 
 unreasonable delay in the delivery of a good many 
 copies of the Daily. I took beforehand so much pains 
 to be sure that this could not happen that I went over 
 and stamped, counted, and verified something like three 
 thousand wrappers. I took them myself to the pub- 
 lisher, and I am absolutely sure of his word when he 
 declares that they were properly wrapped, and delivered 
 at the post office. I cannot see that any precaution 
 has been neglected outside the post office. Over what 
 happens afterward I have, unfortunately, no control. 
 I am extremely sorry and not without a good deal of 
 indignation that the extra pains I took should have been 
 thrown away. I can only express to those who suffer, 
 my regret; I do not see that anything need be apologized 
 for. Arlo Bates. 
 
 To-day is Poland's Day, and at the very name of 
 
 Poland a strong man might well fall to weeping. So 
 
 wonderful is her past, so heart-breaking is her present, 
 
 that humanity should rise up to aid, to succor, and to 
 avenge her! 
 
 The Paul Revere House at the Toy Booth, No. i, is 
 a wonderfully clever bit of reproduction, and its only 
 possible fault is that it is a hundred times too pretty for 
 a dolls' house. It was made by Mrs. O. E. Williams, 
 and is a miniature replica of the old mansion in North 
 Square. Mrs. Revere is providing the historic lantern, 
 thus solving an important historic point, and showing 
 that the sexton was a mere puppet in the affair. The 
 toy is really, besides being a most attractive bit of work, 
 a lesson in historic architecture, furniture, and costume. 
 
 The kindnesses which the citizens of one country do to 
 those of another in misfortune are often of effect more 
 general and more lasting than large political benefits, 
 because they appeal to the sentiments of the common 
 people. It is notorious that nations, in the great world- 
 struggles for self-preservation or self-aggrandizement, 
 are likely to have short memories for any sort of benefits 
 from the outside; but the relief work done by this country 
 in the present war has made its appeal to so many of 
 the simple common people of the various countries 
 involved, that the good-will engendered must long have 
 its effect. Every day the direct influence of the common 
 people is stronger in the governments of the world, and 
 permanent universal peace will never be possible until 
 universal good-will is thoroughly established. Toward 
 the establishment of such good-will is this Bazaar working. 
 
 The Boston Mother Goose, which has been ap- 
 pearing in the columns of the Daily, is being prepared in 
 a neat pamphlet, with introductory verses and a won- 
 derfully life-like portrait of the old lady herself. The 
 price will be fifty cents a copy, and it is expected that a 
 first edition will be on sale to-morrow at the booth. No. 
 36, of the paper. 
 
 A MOST interesting item at the booth of the American 
 Fund for the French Wounded is a basket of woven wire, 
 made by a wounded Annanite soldier from French Indo- 
 China, in a hospital in France. It was presented by 
 Madame la Generale de Castelnau, and is really a thing 
 of beauty. 
 
 Two elderly ladies, beaming benevolence and piety 
 through gold-bowed spectacles, were yesterday seen 
 listening to the Hawaiian Band with rapt yet critical 
 attention. At last one said with a sigh: "It is certainly 
 very alluring, Jane; but I don't think it will quite do for 
 our missionary meeting. I think it is perhaps a little 
 secular." 
 
 Friday is fish day, and at the Blue Cross Booth, No. 
 9, will be sold four hundred pounds of dried fish, gift of 
 the Gloucester fishermen. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 "I dropped in," said Gregory, with a hint of doubt in 
 his tone which was evidently not meant to be there, 
 "to ask if you didn't want me to write you an article on 
 vers libre." 
 
 "That is very easily answered," the Editor responded. 
 "No, I don't." 
 
 Although he smiled, the reply was so decided that 
 Gregory looked offended. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 37 
 
 "You are curt enough, I hope!'' he exclaimed. "You 
 might at least have let me tell you about it." 
 
 "Oh, I want you to tell me about it; only I prefer that 
 you shouldn't write it." 
 
 "Why don't you want it?" 
 
 "What in the world do you think my readers care about 
 'Mrs libre? Why not offer me a paper on the Bacon- 
 Shakespeare madness, or on the miracles of Prester John.'' 
 But tell me about it, by all means." 
 
 Gregory looked a little doubtful, but he drew from his 
 pocket a book. 
 
 "I found this," he said; "and it seemed to me a chance 
 for comparison." 
 
 The Editor bent forward and took from the hand of 
 his visitor the little volume bound in faded blue paper, 
 and regarded it with a smile. 
 
 "My old friend," was his comment. "I haven't seen a 
 copy of 'Infelicia' for years. I fancy even collectors do 
 not care anything for the poems of Adah Isaacs Menken 
 nowadays. They are like the snows of yester-year, or 
 her glorious ride up sham mountains in fleshings, tied 
 to a white horse in 'Mazeppa.' Sic transit — if these 
 things were ever gloria.'" 
 
 "Then you know it?" Gregory asked. 
 
 The Editor smiled, and began to quote: 
 "'Away down in the shadowy depth of the Real 1 once Uved. 
 I thought that to seem was to be.' 
 
 We had too much fun with it when I was a college lad 
 for me not to remember it." 
 
 "But it's the beginning of vers libre." 
 
 "The beginning!" snorted the Editor. "What about 
 'Ossian'? What about lifeless corpses of 'prose poems' 
 centuries older? From the time men began to study 
 metrical form, the people who could not work in it tried 
 to show that it was artificial, and that they could do 
 without it." 
 
 "Well, anyway," Gregory persisted, "at least this is 
 the beginning of the present craze." 
 
 "Not in the least. Not one of the foolish folk who 
 are trying to-day to show themselves independent of 
 form ever heard of the Menken. Besides, 'Leaves of 
 Grass' was earlier by a dozen years." 
 
 Gregory had by this time a look in which mingled 
 grievance and doubt. 
 
 "Well, anyway, I could compare — '' 
 
 "Oh, compare!" interrupted the Editor, impatiently. 
 "It would be like comparing one heap of sticks with 
 another. A pile of prose lines no more makes a poem 
 than a pile of sticks is a tree. Why compare?" 
 
 "I thought your readers — " 
 
 " My readers, if I still had any when you had done 
 with them, don't want comparisons of that sort." He 
 was turning over the little volume as he spoke, and 
 began to read with a smile: 
 
 '"See the poor wounJed snake; how burdened to the ground; 
 How it lengthens limberly along the dust. 
 
 Now palpitates into bright rings only to unwind, and reach its bleed- 
 ing head up the steep high walls around us.' 
 
 It is much of a muchness with the more recent product," 
 he said, "only that in the mid-nineteenth century senti- 
 mentality was more the fashion, and now we have what 
 it is the misleading fashion to call realism. One was 
 as true as the other, neither more nor less. The woods 
 were full of 'prose poems' in the eighties, but I doubt 
 if one of them is left to-day, even in the refuges for old 
 age called anthologies." 
 
 "It is easy stuff to parody," observed Gregory, with 
 the air of one who had an example in his pocket. 
 
 "Parody! Anybody could parody it; but the diffi- 
 culty is that in the end the original is funnier than the 
 parody. I would undertake to put into the manuscript 
 of any of these writers pieces that nobody could tell 
 
 from the rest; and that the authors could distinguish 
 only by remembering what they had written. There 
 is no fun in parodies where things parody themselves." 
 
 "There are plenty of parodies made," suggested 
 Gregory. 
 
 ''There always have been," the other assented. "I 
 remember one that we used to spout in the early seventies. 
 It might have been written to-day. 
 
 "'I met a man. VVhere.' 'Twas in the gutter. 
 We embraced. 
 
 We at once were friends. Our meeting was a palingenesis of Paradise. 
 "Hast thou, oh, hast thou, Philadelphian, 
 Eighteen pence?" 
 
 "I have it not," I shrieked; "or — " 
 Whom do I love.' 
 Whom do I admire? 
 Not four lolling in a carriage, but twelve bulging out of a cart.' 
 
 It is all of a piece?" 
 
 "But don't you think there may be something in it?" 
 
 '"There's something in a flying horse,'" quoted the 
 Editor. "Yes, there is this in it. Folk who long 
 to produce, without having the power to "compass the 
 language of art, decide to do without it. The result 
 has to be justified, of course, and the natural course is 
 -to proclaim — they are generally honest enough about 
 it — that old conventions are obsolete. They are always 
 novel, because each outbreak is so easily forgotten; 
 and they always can defend themselves for the moment 
 by calling attention to the fact that many great works 
 of art were sneered at in the beginning. It is easy to 
 draw the conclusion that anything that is laughed at 
 must therefore be great art. It has been done over and 
 over again." 
 
 "Do you think that is the whole of it?" Gregory asked. 
 
 "The whole of it? Of course not. The rest of it is 
 pretty accurately said in this extract from the criticism 
 from the London Athenatim that the publishers have 
 put on the cover of 'Infelicia' here." He read from the 
 faded blue page a sentence, adroit and acute, from the 
 review of more than half a century ago: "The poems 
 'show much uncultivated pathos and senseful love 
 of nature to have existed in the author's mind.' Un- 
 cultivated and senseful, those are the words, my dear 
 fellow. That is the rest of it. A good deal of clever- 
 ness, a fair amount of fancy, very little imagination, 
 and no technique. That seems to me to be about the 
 whole of it. I am an old fogy, you know." 
 
 "I wish," observed Gregory, rather wistfully, "that 
 you'd let me write about it. I think I could give your 
 view." 
 
 "My view?" echoed the Editor, with a laugh. 
 "Readers do not care a fig for my view or yours. If 
 they bother at all about these constantly appearing 
 and as steadily disappearing literary eccentricities, it is 
 either to seem to be in the intellectual swim or to amuse 
 themselves with novelty. They don't want, views on 
 it. As to the writers, they are of the same tribe as 
 Browning's young Duke: 
 
 '"So all the old Duke had been, without knowing it, 
 This Duke would fain know he was, without being it.' 
 
 Though they take themselves too seriously not to think 
 such a verdict cruelly flippant. After all, vers libre 
 is an opium-dream of the muse at best." 
 
 "But what about their sense of humor?" Gregory 
 asked. 
 
 " Some of them have a sense of humor," was the 
 answer; "but how many persons have you ever known 
 who could apply it to their own doings? Human vanity 
 takes care of that." 
 
 "Well," quoth Gregory, rising and pocketing 'Infe- 
 licia,' "you are pretty difficult. Good-by." 
 
 "Perhaps I am," assented the Editor. "Good luck." 
 
38 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 "Old, Unhappy, Far-off Things." 
 
 [The following is practically a literal report of the conversation of Mrs. Robert 
 Stone, the wife of President Lincoln's Physician. Mrs. Stone was a- cousin ol 
 General Lee, and also of the writer. — Ed.] 
 
 "Yes, my dear, Brandon House is the most beautiful 
 place in the world, even now," said the old lady; she was 
 beautiful herself, sitting there in her big, shabby house, 
 before a table which had more silver on it than food, and 
 waited upon by an old, old negro, whose wool was as 
 white as the enormous cotton gloves that covered his 
 black hands. "Yes, a beautiful house; but 1 wish you 
 could have seen it before the war!" she said, sighing. 
 "It was almost ruined by the Yankees, inside as well as 
 outside. They cut the portraits out of the frames, and 
 broke the mirrors — vandals, my dear, vandals! 'Huns,' 
 my brother used to call them. But what could you ex- 
 pect? The officers were not gentlemen. There were no 
 gentlemen above Mason and Dixon's line, — at least," she 
 corrected herself, hurriedly, "very few; and your dear 
 grandfather can hardly be called a Yankee, because he 
 married one of our Southern girls. But as for Brandon, 
 if it had not been for my husband's friendship with Mr. 
 Lincoln (I suppose I must call it 'friendship,' though at 
 the time I wouldn't have believed I should ever use the 
 word!), if it hadn't been for their — ah — acquaintance, — 
 Brandon would have been burned. When I think of 
 that, I can see the finger of God in my Robert's having 
 been called in when the President needed a dose of blue 
 mass! 
 
 "That is why I have forgiven Lincoln; indeed I have 
 even come to quite respect the man, — as one respects 
 persons of character in the lower classes. 
 
 "It was curious, considering our connections, Robert's 
 happening to be Lincoln's doctor — ... I recollect I 
 came downstairs one morning — that was in 1861 — and 
 there was your Cousin Robert sitting at the breakfast 
 table, looking very much perplexed. 
 
 "'I've had a call, Meg,' he said; 'but I wanted to see 
 you about it before I answered it.' 
 
 '"Who's ill?' I asked him. 
 
 '"The call is from the White House,' he said. 
 
 '"The White House!' I said; 'O Rob, you don't 
 mean that that man has sent for you?' (I was a Rebel 
 in those days, my dear; and I am a Rebel still, though, 
 of course, I never let it be seen.) 
 
 "'Yes,' he said; 'I don't know why in the world he 
 has done it! He must know who I am. Of course I 
 won't go, Meg, if you don't want me to.' 
 
 "'"Want" you to?' I said; 'good heavens, how can 
 you think of such a thing? We should be ostracized! 
 We haven't a friend who would ever recognize us again 
 if you went near him. If Cousin Robert Lee heard of 
 it, he would think I had turned traitor!' 
 
 "But just at that minute in came old Dr. Hall; I was 
 poorly and. he was looking after me. We loved him, both 
 of us. Robert used to roll up pills in his office, before 
 he put out his own shingle. 'What's the matter, Bob?' 
 the old doctor said. 
 
 "'Well, sir,' said Robert, 'Lincoln has sent for me, and 
 I don't know what to do. Of course I shan't go, if it 
 will annoy Meg.' 
 
 "'Go?' said Dr. Hall, 'of course you will go! It's the 
 opportunity of your life. Go and kill him! Kill him!' 
 Dr. Hall always had his joke. 'I'll come along, and hold 
 your hat,' he said. 
 
 "'/'// sharpen the knife!' I said. 
 
 "And then Dr. Hall said, 'Ah, well; of course you 
 must go, no matter who sends for you. In our profession, 
 we can't choose our patients, any more than a minister 
 can choose his congregation; — sometimes very big 
 scallawags sit in the pews! So you will have to go to 
 
 this man Lincoln, and do the best you can for him. Give 
 him a fist full of aloes, with my compliments!' 
 
 "Of course Rob went, — and I was mortified to death! 
 But it was that morning's work which kept Brandon 
 from being burned. For certainly, in those next four 
 years, Lincoln was kind. I have always been just to the 
 Yankees; I was just to your worthy grandfather — 
 though how one of our girls could have married a North- 
 ener! — However, that's neither here nor there. Yes, I 
 am willing to admit that Lincoln was kind. I have 
 wondered whether he was trying, by being polite to me, 
 to ingratiate himself with General Lee, against the time 
 Lee should take Washington. But perhaps not. Per- 
 haps not. My dear husband said I was suspicious; but 
 he loved him, and couldn't see anything wrong with him — 
 except, of course, his manners. The poor man had no 
 manners. But he was kind. He let me send a messenger 
 through the lines every month, with provisions to my 
 dear sister's family, and he promised that just as soon as 
 it was safe I should have a special guard, and go down 
 to Brandon myself. So one morning — Good Friday 
 morning — your Cousin Robert came into the breakfast 
 room, holding something up in his hand. 
 
 "'Guess what it is,' he said. 
 
 '"You look as pleased as if it was a check for ^100,000, ' 
 I told him. 
 
 "'It's better than that!' said he. 'It is the President's 
 order for a guard to take you South to-morrow, you and 
 some older lady, for of course you could not go alone, — 
 with Yankee officers.' 
 
 "Oh, I was so happy! I could hardly breathe I was 
 so happy. I was going to see my family again, after these 
 long, long years! Of course there were a great many 
 things to do; I had to send word to my sister, who was 
 to be 'the lady' whom the President's order said I might 
 take. That was quite gentlemanly in him, wasn't it? 
 Generally the Yankees never protect their women, in 
 any way. I must say, my dear, I am a little shocked to 
 know that you travelled here, all alone, on the train! 
 What was your father thinking of! You say you are over 
 thirty? A'ly dear, a female needs the protection of the 
 gentlemen of her family — if she is ninety! However, 
 times have changed. Well, I had to get my little Vir- 
 ginia's spring hat; so I went down town to buy ribbons 
 for it, and to get things for the people at home, — such 
 sad need in the South — such sad need. I bought some 
 hoop-skirts for my sisters, you. may be sure! Well, the 
 day passed, and I was just as busy as busy could be, and 
 at night I was very tired. But I couldn't go to bed 
 before I had trimmed Ginnie's hat, and it was when I 
 was tying up the ribbons to put on that little bonnet, 
 that suddenly the door-bell rang furiously. There 
 seemed to be some discussion at the door, and I went 
 out into the hall. I saw two soldiers standing on the 
 steps, with flambeaus in their hands, and they were 
 talking to Willis; — Willis was a very smart nigger in 
 those days," she interrupted herself, looking affectionately 
 at the shambling old man with the white wool; "you 
 recollect, Willis?" she said, and the darkey touched his 
 forelock with his shaking, white-gloved hand. "The 
 soldiers saw me, and one of them pushed poor W^illis 
 aside; — you recollect, Willis.'' — and called out to me, 
 'The doctor! The doctor! Where is he?' 
 
 "'My husband is not at home,' I said. 
 
 '"We must have him at once!' the man said. He was 
 panting, and his hands were trembling so that the flam- 
 beau shook, and the shadows lurched about. And I 
 said, 'What on earth is the matter?' 
 
 "'Good God, madam,' he said, 'Mr. Seward's throat 
 has been cut from ear to ear; we've come for the doctor!' 
 
 "I cried out with horror, and told them to run up the 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 39 
 
 street for Dr. Hall, and if they couldn't find him, to come 
 back, because I knew Rob might come in any minute. 
 Then I went upstairs again, but, oh, it seemed to me as 
 if there were spots of blood all over that heap of ribbons 
 on the table! I couldn't trim Ginnie's hat; and couldn't 
 even stay in the house by myself! I went out into our 
 garden, and opened the little door in the garden wall be- 
 tween our house and Rob's mother's house, and ran into 
 her parlor. I remember she was standing before her 
 musical glasses — you see that case over there against the 
 wall.' The musical glasses are in it. She always played 
 a little air before she went to bed; and she was playing 
 ^Believe me if all those endearing young charms^ — I've 
 never heard it since without a shudder! Of course I 
 burst out about Seward's assassination, but while 1 was 
 telling her, her door-bell rang! and rang! and rang! and I 
 ran out into the hall, ahead of her old Matilda, and 
 opened the front door myself, and there were two officers 
 standing on the steps — I knew they were officers by the 
 straps on their sleeves; and one of them screamed at me: 
 
 "'Is the doctor here?' 
 
 "'No!' I said; 'but I've sent the soldiers to get Dr. 
 Hall for Mr. Seward. Is he living.?' 
 
 "And the officer said, 'Madam, what is this }-ou say 
 about Mr. Seward.' I have come from Mr. Lincoln. 
 Mr. Lincoln has been assassinated!' 
 
 "And I said, 'No! No! It is Mr. Seward!; 
 
 "The man said to me, 'What are you talking about.' 
 Good God! Seward.' It is the President! I helped to 
 carry him out of the theatre. The blood — the blood,' he 
 said, in a sort of whisper; 'it dripped on my hand.' He 
 looked sick, and he rubbed his hand on his trousers. I 
 can see him now. 
 
 "Just at that minute Robert's boy came in through 
 the back hall from our house; I remember he had his 
 master's gauntlets in his hand, and the buggy whip; 
 Rob was just behind him. 
 
 "'What in the world is all this fuss.'' he said to me; 
 and then he saw the soldiers. 'What do you want?' he 
 said. But they didn't wait to answer him; they just 
 took hold of him and pulled him into the street. I heard 
 one of them cry out: 
 
 '"Mr. Lincoln has been assassinated! Mr. Lincoln 
 has been shot! Mrs. Lincoln is calling for you — ' 
 
 "And they pulled him over the pavement to the 
 carriage, and pushed him into it. I ran down the steps 
 after them, into the street, saying: 
 
 "'Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen, don't let any harm come 
 to Dr. Stone!' But they did not listen to me; they 
 just slammed the door of the carriage, and the driver 
 lashed the horses, and they tore off over the cobblestones, 
 down the street. Mother had come out of the parlor, 
 and was standing in the doorway, wiping her fingers on 
 a lace handkerchief; they were wet, you know, from the 
 musical glasses; she looked perfectl)' bewildered. 
 
 "'What is it.'' she said. But I stood there on the pave- 
 ment, with the wind blowing my skirts round my ankles, 
 and burst out crying: 
 
 "'Oh,' I said, 'he will be hurt!' I never thought of 
 poor Lincoln — it was just my Rob. 'They will hurt 
 him,' I said; 'everybody knows I am Robert Lee's 
 cousin, and they'll put my Robert in prison!' 
 
 "You see, I knew that people used to whisper 'traitor' 
 when they saw me. Yankees have no manners (though 
 you have been very well brought up, my dear. Nobody 
 would dream you were from the North). 
 
 "Well, I started up mother's steps, but waited to let 
 two men pass me; they were gesticulating, and talking 
 very loud and frightened; and one of them said: 
 
 "'And Stanton was to have been killed, too, but he 
 was out of town.' 
 
 "Then I knew it was a conspiracy against the Govern- 
 ment."' 
 
 Marg.\ret Deland. 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 .x.w. 
 
 My first my second till his third 
 
 Refused to serve him more. 
 His wife declared his course absurd, 
 
 When fourth to him she bore. 
 
 "Your third how second," then she cried, 
 
 "And like a fourth too high." 
 "Do break this habit!" he replied; 
 
 "It is my whole, more strong than I." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 My first a measure is; the king my ne.xt 
 Is sure to have, while farmers for it pray; 
 
 My whole a measure is; if you're perple.xed. 
 It is the obstacle that's in your way. 
 
 XXVII. 
 When my first found my next at hand. 
 
 He said with dismal cry; 
 "Where is the good so long I planned, 
 
 And third ere I shall die.' 
 Now spite of all my whole, I know. 
 Unfinished all these schemes must go." 
 
 XXVIII. , 
 
 Seek for my first at the poles; 
 For my second where the chariot-wheel rolls; 
 My whole you'll find, when on pleasure bent. 
 Delighting crowds in the circus-tent. 
 
 XXIX. 
 My first and second are the same. 
 And by my fourth I might you name. 
 One fifth my second thrown away, 
 My fourth would as remainder stay; 
 Yet one fifth of my first, 'tis plain. 
 Is of my fourth a fourth again. 
 To do my whole still Mercy strains, 
 However black the guilty stains. 
 
 The Letter Bag. 
 
 the letters of an American who enlisted in England early 
 
 [Extracts from 
 in the war, and who is a Lieutenant in th 
 
 ■ Guards. 
 
 .\pRii. 3, '16. Belgium. 
 
 . . . I'm feeling very perky this morning, for an order has just 
 come through for us to move to a safer place further back, and I already 
 feel younger, for we have been in this continuous hell for three weeks 
 to-day, and our nerves are pretty well shredded. It's all very well, and 
 our natural job to go up to the trenches at night, and have things hum- 
 ming about us; but being shelled all day and every day besides is more 
 than most people can live unafl^ected through for any length of time. 
 Mind you, the other battalions are never up in the shelled area for more 
 than eight or ten days at most; they do about four days in reserve 
 under intermittent shell fire, then two days in support trenches, 2 in the 
 front line — or about that much — and then go right away back for a 
 week, while we poor devils have been under shell fire for three weeks, 
 and go up into the lines sometimes 2 nights out of 3, sometimes alternate 
 nights, depending on the amount of work required. Two officers of 
 this company are on detached duty, and one sick in hospital, so I'm the 
 only subaltern left, and last week I went up three nights running; the 
 first two nights it was bullets only, but the third night Fritz was after the 
 reliefs passing to and fro in our communication trench, and we got 
 shelled good and plenty, spending half our time in the trench taking 
 cover, instead of outside doing work. It was impossible to stay in the 
 open, for they plastered the place with shrapnel, "woolly bears" and 
 "whizz bangs"; and when they let up so that we could resume work, 
 a very busy ma.xim traversed our area so that it wasn't too healthy 
 either. Night before last I was in charge of 3 platoons, and we were 
 dodging shrapnel and whizz bangs for over a mile — you can imagine my 
 funk and an.xiety with three platoons to get through whole if possible. 
 But both those two bad nights, though we had some precious narrow 
 squeaks and several helmets got strafed or dented, we lost no men. 
 Thomas A. is really wonderful, and doesn't care a hang. One lad 
 summed up the situation tersely the other night in his only French: 
 "No bloody bonne promenade this!" and another called out in a plain- 
 tive voice — "Don't strafe me, Fritz, I'm next for leave." A few have 
 their nerves a bit shaky, but they joke with their pals, and feel better. — 
 I think the wretched officers with responsibilities feel it most. 
 
40 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 THE, BOSTON MOTHLR C^OOSL. 
 
 V. 
 
 A BOSTON ALPHABET. 
 
 A is 5am Adams in Adams Square, 
 With such an i-don't-give-Adam air. 
 
 B is the Browning Club, known in the town 
 
 As a place where the poet is done up so brown. 
 
 C's Charles River Basin, most lovely of views 
 When sunset and dusk mingle on it their hues. 
 
 D is the Dome of the State House, all gold. 
 Marking the market where laws are sold. 
 
 E's the Exchange, where whatever the weather 
 The brokers all hasten to shout there together. 
 
 F is the Frog Pond, where Boston fads 
 Are taken for baptism by their dads. 
 
 G is the Garden, where flowers are gay. 
 And lovelier yet are the children at play. 
 
 H is the Harvard boy ; his manners to spoil 
 Is Boston society's unflagging toil. 
 
 I is a pronoun which ever to use 
 
 The modest Bostonian is firm to refuse. 
 
 J is for Jobs. But the rest of this verse 
 
 It would give in high quarters offence to rehearse. 
 
 K's Boston Kuilur, as it would be 
 
 If German dominion had crossed the sea. 
 
 L is the Library, on whose scutcheon boldly 
 
 Two little boys stand wjthout nighties so coldly. 
 
 M's the Museum; Back Bay's of it proud; 
 And North End Italians go there in a crowd. 
 
 N's the North End, once there dwelt aristocracy; 
 Now 'tis the home of the foreign democracy. 
 
 O is Old South, saved by action concerted. 
 When by its children the shrine was deserted. 
 
 P is for Parks, lovely laid on each side. 
 
 Matchless they stretch, Boston's glory and pride 
 
 O is the line waiting long to get in 
 
 When the Rehearsals on Friday begin. 
 
 R is Rehearsal ; as all are aware 
 
 Better are heard than concerts elsewhere. 
 
 S is the Subway, when one in it goes. 
 
 Where one will come out again nobody knows. 
 
 T is Trimountain ; don't ask where it stands. 
 
 For its top was dug off to fill in Back Bay lands. 
 
 U is the Union Club, where portly gentlemen 
 Eat, smoke, and talk of nothing, — thendoitall again. 
 
 V's Veneration the Boston man knows 
 Whenever a mirror his face to him shows. 
 
 Ws for Washington, riding so grand 
 
 Adown through the Garden with air of command. 
 
 X is Expenses, a fungus that all 
 
 Know grows most rankly inside City Hall. 
 
 Y is for Yawns the Bostonian suppresses 
 Feigning to like transcendental addresses. 
 
 Z is for Zig-zag, which old Boston ways 
 Make to fool strangers in tortuous maze. 
 
 The British Tommy and the Harvard Unit. 
 
 There is no one thing that impresses a surgeon who 
 has spent a great deal of time working in British Base 
 Hospitals more than the wonderful spirit and fortitude 
 with which the average British Tommy bears up under 
 the suflFering and crippling that is an inevitable part of 
 the present European catastrophe. 
 
 Having spent two summers with the Harvard Surgical 
 Unit in General Hospital 22 of the British Expeditionary 
 Force and having acted as consultant for the other 
 British Base Hospitals in the immediate vicinity, I have 
 had under my personal observation something over ten 
 thousand British wounded, and I can truthfully say that 
 in practically no instance has there been any exhibition 
 of loss of courage at the often inevitable crippling resulting 
 from the removal of eye or limb. 
 
 No one who has not worked with these men can have 
 any conception of the inspiration it is to surgeons and 
 nurses for the accomplishment of their best work to be 
 daily in contact with men who give so much for the sake 
 of their country so cheerfully. Each soldier is imbued 
 with the idea that he is out, as he expresses it, "to do his 
 bit," and if doing that bit involves what it does to so 
 many, each man feels that he has done his duty and is 
 willing to take "whatever comes to him" in so doing. 
 
 The several hundred surgeons and nurses who have 
 constituted the various Harvard Surgical Units, besides 
 giving of their strength and time to help the Allies, have 
 also helped themselves to a much broader view of the 
 brotherhood of man than probably any of them had 
 before. 
 
 It is not my purpose at this time to call special attention 
 to individual members of the Units, but I cannot let the 
 opportunity pass without expressing my appreciation of 
 the fact that the success of the Harvard Surgical Units 
 has been largely due to the energy and versatility of the 
 manager, Mr. Herbert White, of the University Press, 
 who now keeps an office-force simply for the purpose of 
 doing the executive work for the Units and for forward- 
 ing all kinds of Red Cross supplies to the different Units 
 and to the various other hospital interests in England 
 and France. Probably no man in America has done 
 more than Mr. White to demonstrate to the Allies the 
 desire of many in this country to show friendship for 
 them. 
 
 Allen Greenwood. 
 
 "Birds in tlieir little nests agree, 
 And 'tis a shameful sight" 
 
 The way they gobble worms to see, 
 Chewing them not a mite! 
 
 Young wife (doing her accounts): "How much is nine 
 and sixteen.^ " 
 
 Young husband: "Twenty-five." 
 
 Wife: "Oh, no, that isn't right, for then my check- 
 book wouldn't balance. Can't you call it twenty-three.?" 
 
DEC 18 1916 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 BOSTON, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1916 
 
 No. 6 
 
 CW . Hua^rdL^ 
 
 The last word in modern comfort at a winter resort on the Somme. 
 
42 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Forgotten. 
 I. 
 
 And even while we wait, 
 For them that thirst, bright Time is growing late. 
 Such hours are quick to go; 
 Quick, even so 
 As pale auroras flicker, — 
 Pulse of my heart] how quicker 
 To them that wait what Spring may bring at last, 
 And look, — and find her past. 
 Quicker than orchards blow; 
 Quick as a smile, to rise 
 And ripple from the young believing eyes; 
 And go. 
 
 II. 
 And even while we wait, 
 For them that starve, the daytime is so late. 
 Even such hours must go; 
 But slow, — slow. 
 Slow for the ooze of hope; 
 For hands too weak to grope; 
 For hearts too spent to listen, at the last. 
 Knowing the footstep passed. 
 Last hours, and stark as snow 
 Over the heart's dim cries; 
 Slow as the smile that wakes, in aged eyes. 
 To fade and fade; — 
 And go. 
 
 Josephine Preston Peabody. 
 
 The Daughter of Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas. 
 
 III. 
 
 Less than an hour after the escape of Abdul Ahmed a 
 deputation waited upon me with much ceremony to 
 request ("Was I not the dowerer of the portionless and a 
 cool fountain of kindness.'"') that I would visit the 
 wounded Sheikh Hassan Osman, that he might be blessed 
 with my skill in surgery. I went gladly enough, willing 
 to put an end to my share of the day's business by an 
 act which might counterbalance any feeling among the 
 people that I had been guilty in refusing asylum to one 
 hard-bestead. 
 
 On the way to the house of the Sheikh I heard the 
 whole story: how the trees of the Sheikh had been burned 
 early in the morning; how he had flown into a towering 
 rage, and declared he would shoot the offender at sight; 
 how he had cursed Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas, root 
 and branch, for bringing this upon him; how he had given 
 over his cursing when they had offered to join his feud 
 and had adduced his senile rage as proof of the youthful 
 vigor which made him an exceptionally fitting spouse 
 for the fifteen-year-old daughter of Ibrahim. Of the 
 afternoon's catastrophe I was told by an eyewitness. 
 The Sheikh, breathing vengeance, had gone to look once 
 more at the ruined trees. As he stood with a small 
 crowd of villagers among the olives, suddenly Abdul 
 Ahmed, gun in hand, had appeared on the scene. He had 
 called out tauntingly to know if the Sheikh was yet 
 minded to lead home a new wife. The old man had 
 answered with a curse, and, being unarmed, had snatched 
 at the gun of a bystander. At this, Abdul Ahmed had 
 promptly blazed away with both barrels. The first took 
 the Sheikh in the right shoulder, and peppered him well 
 with shot. Luckily, on account of the distance, they 
 had done little more than embed themselves in the skin; 
 but the second barrel, charged with a ball, had splintered 
 the old man's heel. 
 
 After this brilliant piece of powder-play, the Landless 
 One had coolly reloaded. He called out that if he fired 
 again he should do so to kill, and then started to walk 
 away. The villagers, recovering themselves, set after 
 him, and he ran. Others, attracted by the noise of the 
 shots, joined the chase. Eventually he had come to my 
 door, but with that firm justice for which I was dis- 
 tinguished, said the narrator (Oh, the stealth and inscrut- 
 
 able meaning of the sultry brown eyes that here glanced 
 obliquely at my own!), I had frightened him away with 
 talk of the Government. They had characteristically 
 forgotten the wretched Sheikh until the cliase was ended. 
 Each man, apparently, had then turned on his fellow 
 with the question: "Why didn't you stay with him?" 
 Thus wrangling, they went back, to find that the old 
 man had limped and crawled halfway home. He had 
 lost a good deal of blood, and was weak and giddy when 
 they found him. 
 
 Most of all, however, the Sheikh suffered from the 
 'aib which had been put upon him. Nothing we Occi- 
 dentals can say of "disgraces" quite represents an ^aib. 
 It is something that eats into the soul until it is re- 
 quited. An ' aib may be wiped out with blood or money, 
 but it can never be forgiven without redress. 
 
 "But how did the Landless get a horse.?" I asked. 
 
 "' Wallahi!" cried four men together. "It was the son 
 of Ibrahim who waited in the valley with the horse! And 
 the horse was Ibrahim's — Allah save us from begetting 
 such sons! This Nuwas is a friend to the enemy of his 
 house. Now he cries 'Woe! Woe!' while Ibrahim beats 
 him with a stick!" 
 
 I was astonished, and showed it. Here was a friendship 
 worthy of old days. A boy of perhaps fourteen who aids 
 a penniless friend to thwart the wishes of his own father 
 in the matter of disposing of a daughter, and who lifts 
 a horse out of the parental stable therefore, might well 
 "taste stick," even with us. In Syria he would certainly 
 be gorged with that quickly cloying diet. 
 
 The deputation was yet talking when we reached the 
 house of the Sheikh. We crossed the dirty court, and 
 entered the dark and cool seldmlik where the wounded 
 man lay. He was stretched on the low divan, groaning 
 feebly in response to the questions of solicitous friends, 
 who almost filled the square room. It was with some 
 difficulty that I got them out and obtained hot water. 
 I pass over the surgical details of my visit. By the same 
 messenger who carried to Nablijs, si.x miles away, the news 
 of the shooting to the ears of the Mutessarif Basha, I 
 despatched to the mission doctor a note for bandages, 
 and trusted to luck that the old man should not die and 
 our Expedition be held responsible because I had done 
 this service. I was much relieved at each visit I made 
 during the next two days to find the Sheikh holding his 
 own. Indeed, on looking back, I believe his soul suffered 
 more from the disgrace than did his body from its wounds; 
 nor should I be surprised if a burning lust to be avenged 
 made him well-nigh insensible to his hurts. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Three days after the fray, as I sat smoking in the dusk 
 of the court, Bishara tumbled in at the gate, quite breath- 
 less. 
 
 "O my Master," he cried, "they have got him safe. 
 They caught_him in the Wady 'Azzun, and he is here 
 with five soldiers in charge of him. And I saw the 
 shau'hh [sergeant] in the shop, and he was telling—" 
 
 "Who has got whom.?" I interrupted. 
 
 ''Nam? The soldiers have taken Abdul Ahmed. 
 They have brought him here in irons. The shawish 
 is in the shop, telling how they took him. In the morning 
 they will carry him to Nablus to prison." 
 
 "Get my shoes," I said; "I will go to the village. 
 Send Mohammed with a lantern." 
 
 The little box of a shop was filled with peasants, 
 grouped about a very fierce and very ragged sergeant of 
 police, who was evidently enjoying his popularity to the 
 utmost. The men rose courteously as I came in. I 
 bought some tobacco, and sat down beside my friend 
 Hajji Hamed, the schoolmaster. As I refrained from 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 43 
 
 asking questions, tlie narrative I had interrupted was 
 quickly recommenced. 
 
 "Alia!" ran on the sergeant; "a dog-son. . . . Whence 
 so much wit.' . . . But I took the fox. . . . Ask the 
 Mutessarif Basha who is eyes and hands to his police. 
 He will tell you: 'Without 'Aly Shahin I would know no 
 peace.' Not so.?" 
 
 "True, by the head of my father," said a villager. 
 "Did not Abdul Ahmed elude us.? Yet by the cunning of 
 this one he was taken.'' 
 
 "Cunning is a good thing," said the sergeant, rolling 
 a fresh cigarette, "but without courage and daring the 
 rest is as nothing. By my head, there was great danger. 
 We had news he was at Jiljulieh, and so were riding at 
 ease down the Wady 'Azzun. So! A man on a gray 
 horse with a gun across his saddle-pommel. Hal He 
 is not afraid to use it either, the son of a burnt father! 
 That is known. But I rode to him. 'Halt,' I said to 
 him, 'in the name of the Sultan!' He raised his gun. 
 Oh, he is a bold one, that Abdul! " 
 
 " Yfl Salami" exclaimed a breathless hearer. "He 
 raised his gun? " 
 
 The sergeant borrowed a match, lit his cigarette, in- 
 haled deeply, and then spoke while the smoke curled 
 slowly from his lips, beneath his short black mustache. 
 
 "'In the name of the Sultan,' I said; but that devil 
 only grinned, and raised his gun. But I, I rode straight 
 to him, so that he was overcome with fright. Then fear 
 seized him, so that he threw down his gun, and wept." 
 
 "A strong liar," whispered the schoolmaster in my ear. 
 " One of the soldiers told me they took him asleep at noon. 
 And in that is only one thing doubt-worthy: that they 
 should themselves have been awake." 
 
 Shortly there appeared at the door of the shop one of 
 the soldiers. He excused himself lamely for deserting 
 guard, but the sergeant was evidently glad of one who 
 would indorse all his boasts, and he began telling the 
 tale over again. By the time this was completed, with 
 ardent confirmatory chorus from the soldier, a second of 
 the sergeant's men slipped in; and I reflected that the 
 irons on Abdul Ahmed's wrists would soon be all there 
 was left to take care of the prisoner. Ibrahim the 
 Father of Nuwas, much solaced by this day's work, called 
 for the retelling of the whole story, as I was starting on 
 my homeward way. 
 
 Oric Bates. 
 {To be continued.) 
 
 Some Ancient Wisdom and a Moral. 
 
 While engaged a few years ago in writing a life of Carlo 
 Goldoni, the dramatist, I was often led into Italian 
 pastures far afield from the drama. To be enticed into 
 an acquaintance with Machiavelli was unavoidable, since 
 this much-maligned Florentine was the author of the 
 first real comedy of manners written in the Italian 
 language. I confess, however, that after reading "The 
 Mandrake," as I was bound in all conscience as a biogra- 
 pher of Goldoni to do, I turned with considerable avidity 
 to "The Prince," in order that I might find the manner 
 of the man, whose name, has become a synonym for 
 duplicity. 
 
 Now I have no intention of holding a brief for Signor 
 Niccolo di Bernardo dei Machiavelli; yet I must con- 
 fess that after glancing through his much-anathematized 
 epitome of statecraft, as well as his history of Florence, 
 I came to the conclusion that he was considerable of a 
 patriot and also a very sophisticated person. Indeed, I 
 have had reason to feel, during the past two years, that 
 those in authority in my own land might profit from a 
 study of Machiavelli. Our world has become quite as 
 
 unscrupulous as that in which he lived, and far more 
 warlike. Those who would guide our nation to a safe 
 haven have need, it seems to me, of a statesmanly wisdom 
 such as Machiavelli displayed when he penned these 
 words: — 
 
 "For the Conqueror doth not care for doubtful friends, who will not 
 help him in his need; and the Loser will not welcome thee, when thou 
 wouldst not take arms, and run his risks." 
 
 But Machiavelli was not the only worldly wise Floren- 
 tine of the Renaissance who devoted his leisure moments 
 to the writing of history. Francesco Guicciardini, a 
 lawyer, diplomat, administrator, and soldier, who was 
 born just ten years before Columbus sailed on his first 
 voyage of discovery, found sufficient time during his 
 active life to write so consequential a history of his 
 native land, that he has taken an important place among 
 the historians of Italy. I confess that I have not read 
 Guicciardini at any great length; yet I chanced, not 
 long ago, to be browsing in the library of a friend, where 
 my glance fell upon a prettily bound volume bearing the 
 title "The Maxims of Francis Guicciardini." It was an 
 English translation published some seventy years ago, 
 and having a fondness for things Italian and knowing 
 Guicciardini by name, at least, I picked it from its shelf 
 and began turning its pages in a desultory way. In a 
 moment my attention was arrested by this passage so 
 applicable to the United States at the present time, that 
 it seemed as if it must have been written yesterday, in- 
 stead of four centuries ago: — 
 
 "I commend him who stands Neutral in the Wars of his Neighbors, 
 if he be so powerful, or has his Dominions of such Condition, as that 
 he hath nothing to fear from the Conqueror; because he doth thus avoid 
 Peril, Expenses, and Exhaustion, and the Disorders of the others who 
 may afford him some profitable Opportunity. Except it be with 
 these conditions. Neutrality is Foolishness, because binding thyself to 
 one of the parties, thou dost run no danger but the victory of the 
 other, but standing between, thou art always bruised, conquer who 
 will." 
 
 While it may be commendable for Americans to stand 
 neutral in the wars of our neighbors, we should ask our- 
 selves whether indeed our dominions are of such condition 
 that we have nothing to fear from the conqueror. If we 
 are not, we may learn to our sorrow the truth of Machia- 
 velli's admonition that the conqueror will not care for 
 doubtful friends, and that the loser will not welcome those 
 who would not take arms and run the risk. 
 
 H. C. Chatfield-Taylor. 
 
 The Legacy. 
 
 [This poem, read at the Papyrus Club in 1907, has not before been printed.) 
 
 With patient toil he tilled his plot of ground. 
 
 And stored each shoot that light and air had found. 
 
 Amid the labor that he loved so well 
 
 His neighbor's shadow on the harvest fell. 
 
 Pausing to argue, with a languid smile: 
 
 "Why work, my friend, when naught is worth your while.'" 
 
 The idler asked: "Rewards men die to gain 
 
 I count not, but I hold them all- in vain. 
 
 "Worthless your work, the shadow of a shade! 
 
 Why labor to create iti"" Undismayed 
 
 The toiler turned. "God knows," he said; "not I! 
 
 Though naught do I produce, I like to try!" 
 
 The other laughed. "Lo! neighbor, everywhere 
 
 I long have sought a man to be my heir; 
 
 "To you, what share of my estate you please. 
 
 Cash, titles, gems — " "No, neighbor, hone of these," 
 
 The man replied: "If honestly you mean. 
 
 Give me your shrivelled thought to make it green. 
 
 "And if your bounty would add one thing more, 
 
 Leave me your ashes, to enrich my store. 
 
 "That gift were priceless!" "Ah, my friend, why so?" 
 
 "Neighbor, your dust would make my garden grow!" 
 
 Thomas Russell Sullivan. 
 
44 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the AUied 
 Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
 sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at the booth. 
 
 COPVRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band, Donald 
 Sawyer and Polly Prior in Exhibition Dancing from 4 to 
 
 6 P.M. 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of George 
 Bowden of Tedesco. 
 
 Paul Revere Hall. 3 to 4. — Portuguese Dances; 
 Marimba Band; Solo Dances; Hawaiians. 
 
 4.30. — Mr. Stewart Baird, " Impersonations," of the 
 Sybil Company, by the courtesy of Charles Dillingham. 
 
 8 to 9. — Miss Bertram, soprano, Irish Songs. 
 
 9.45. — Main Hall, Singing of Patriotic Songs. 
 
 Shall we ever again be able to see a person part the 
 lips without expecting to hear: "Can you tell me 
 where — " 
 
 The crowds at the Bazaar are large, but they are 
 uniformly good-humored. The kindly purpose of the 
 enterprise seems to have entered into the hearts of the 
 folk, and in a way to have made the bustling, noisy stir 
 wonderfully human and wonderfully humane. 
 
 The phrase "to trench on another's ground" will 
 after this war have a fresh and biting significance. 
 
 Patriotism is the love, of country; but love of the 
 material prosperity of one's land is not patriotism. It 
 may be a poison which destroys patriotism utterly. 
 No man is truly a patriot who does not realize that a 
 country which has nothing worth dying for has nothing 
 worth living for. The backbone of national greatness 
 is national self-respect, and national self-respect is 
 possible only where men are ready to give up anything, 
 even life itself, rather than that the national honor shall 
 be tarnished. 
 
 The -decorative cartoons made by F. Verheyden for 
 the booth of the Daily and for the Belgian booth have 
 attracted much attention and admiration. Fine in 
 conception and strong in design, and excellently adapted 
 to their purpose, they are a notable contribution toward 
 the success of the Bazaar. 
 
 To Friends of France! 
 
 I would it were possible to bring nearer home, make 
 more real to your life, a tiny village on the Eastern 
 front, such as the one where I first started my chateau- 
 hospital. How can one depict the agricultural difficulties 
 
 that have been obliterated by the untiring labor of old 
 men, women, and even of children; to bring vividly before 
 your minds the hundreds of humble cottages where the 
 mother with tears in her eyes joins the hands of her little 
 ones, and piously repeats with them: "O God, our Father 
 in Heaven, keep papa and our big brothers safe and bring 
 them back to us." 
 
 Here all is sadness, hard labor, and resignation. 
 
 From time to time a mounted gendarme rides up to the 
 town hall. Our mayor, a very old man, talks a moment 
 with him, and as the horseman takes his leave, he hands 
 out a paper which the mayor thrusts into his pocket, 
 going with tender heart about his various daily duties, 
 as though nothing had happened. 
 
 At nightfall the old man, unaccompanied, glides along 
 the outer walls of the chateau, enters by the side door, 
 and directs his steps towards my little study, which is 
 now in the possession of my head-nurse and her aids. 
 He knocks gently, then enters. He has come so often 
 on this sad mission that the words "Which one.'"' are now 
 superfluous; the interrogation in the woman's eyes 
 suffice. 
 
 "It is So-and-so! Dead! Will you come?" 
 
 Silently the nurse dons her dark blue cape, and to- 
 gether they go to break the sad news. For alone he finds 
 himself incapable of saying the tender word, of proffering 
 the simple gesture that consoles. 
 
 As the season of Great Good Tidings approaches, does 
 it not seem both fitting and proper that those of us who 
 are in sympathy with the glorious French should find some 
 tangible way of expressing that sentiment? There are 
 many who feel so disposed, but cannot find proper means. 
 Imagine then the surprise in a tiny township, when, after 
 rolling the drum, the town crier announces that some 
 lone sympathetic citizen of a far-off foreign country has 
 taken the trouble to write a personal letter to the mayor, 
 praising the valor of those at the front, lauding the 
 courage of those who wait! Think what a change from 
 the much-dreaded "casualty roll"! 
 
 Therefore with no other thought in mind than that of 
 making real and more human the great bond of sympathy 
 between the sister republics, I appeal to each of you, readers 
 of this paper, to write a personal letter to the mayor of 
 some little town, anywhere in France. 
 
 It would be my pleasure to supply names of persons 
 to whom one may write in English, and for those who do 
 not speak French, a sample letter has been printed, which 
 will be enclosed with name on request to 
 
 Madame Charles Huard, 
 44 Gramercy Park, New York City, 
 
 or 
 Booth 31, National Allied Bazaar, Boston. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 Phyllis came in looking so charming that the Editor 
 wanted — quite in a fatherly way — to kiss her on the 
 spot; but he restrained this entirely natural impulse, 
 and restricted himself to a compliment. 
 
 "My child," he said, "you have really no right to be so 
 pretty." 
 
 Phyllis promptly produced a dimple, just by way of 
 showing that she could be prettier still. It was her only 
 answer, but it was sufficient. 
 
 "And such a taking frock," he went on. 
 
 "Oh, do you think so?" demanded Phyllis, finding her 
 voice instantly when it came to a question of clothes. 
 "I hoped you would." 
 
 "You knew I would. What diabolical favor have you 
 come to ask, that you take the trouble to put on a frock 
 that crushes me utterly?" 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 45 
 
 Phyllis laughed gleefully, and seated herself in the chair 
 he handed. 
 
 "I haven't a favor to ask at all," she responded. "I 
 only wanted to ask you something, and see what you'd 
 say." 
 
 The Editor leaned forward impressively, and laid the 
 tip of a finger on the arm of her chair. 
 
 "My dear Phyllis," he said, "will you do me a favor?" 
 
 "What is it.?"' 
 
 "Tell me first what you want me to say, and then you 
 can let me know afterward what it is about. I wouldn't 
 have you disappointed for the world; and if you put it 
 the other way, I might say the wrong thing." 
 
 Phyllis deepened the original dimple, and looked as if on 
 sufficient provocation she might even produce a mate to it. 
 
 "You mustn't talk nonsense," she declared, "for this 
 means a lot of money for the wounded." 
 
 "Is it serious then.' What is it.''" 
 
 "Why, of course you know this is my coming-out year." 
 
 "Out of the nursery; yes, of course," the Editor as- 
 sented. "I really think you are old enough now to sit 
 up to dinner, and have long dresses — only that grown-ups 
 don't wear long dresses any more." 
 
 She lifted a reproving finger, and ignored his words. 
 
 "And Aunt Ellen has always promised to give me a 
 coming-out ball." 
 
 "Nobody gave me a coming-out ball," he interpolated. 
 "Probably that is the reason for the failure of my social 
 career. But then even when I was young I wasn't pretty 
 like you, and I had no Aunt Ellen." 
 
 Phyllis shook her head at him sternly, but she still 
 refused to be diverted from what she had to say. 
 
 "A ball, you know, costs an awful lot of money; and 
 now Aunt Ellen says that if I choose I may have .|5,000 
 to give to the wounded instead." 
 
 "Instead of your ball?" 
 
 "Of course. But isn't it horrid to have to decide?" 
 
 "Surpassingly horrid. If she sets traps like that, I 
 regret less that I never had an Aunt Ellen." 
 
 "Oh, she's a dear," honest Phyllis protested; "but 
 what shall I do?" 
 
 "You might remain in, I suppose, and shirk the de- 
 cision." 
 
 "Oh, I'm out already. You know you came to 
 mamma's tea." 
 
 "So I did; but I always try to forget when I have suf- 
 fered a tea. It makes me more friendly to folk. I 
 remember, now, you were embedded in roses, and had 
 on a purple frock." 
 
 "'Purple!'" she exclaimed in horror. "It was very pale 
 lavender." 
 
 "Well," the Editor conceded generously, "have it so 
 by all means. The exact shade doesn't alter the fact 
 that you are irrevocably out. What are you going to do 
 about it?" 
 
 "Why, there isn't anything to do," Phyllis said rather 
 woefully. "Of course I can't have my ball; and I had 
 counted on it so. If I had it now, I should think of all 
 the poor fellows that money would have helped, and it 
 would be horrid! But don't you think that it is too bad 
 that—" 
 
 "That you can't have your cake and eat it too?" 
 the Editor finished the sentence she left incomplete. 
 "Quite, quite too bad. It is one of the most painful of 
 earthly limitations that the thing can't be done. So you 
 are giving up the ball, like the little trump that I always 
 knew you to be." 
 
 Phyllis looked at him with sudden gravity. 
 
 "Do you think it is awful of me to be pleased with 
 having things like that said?" she asked with a touch of 
 wistfulness. "That's what I wanted to ask you." 
 
 The Editor looked at her quizzically, and then laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 "Oh, you poor child of self-tormenting Puritans!" 
 he cried. "I didn't suppose one of your kind was left. 
 Of course you are pleased that people approve of what 
 you've done. You'd be a humbug to pretend you weren't. 
 You can't help it, and you wouldn't be human if you 
 could. The Puritans couldn't help it either, and so they 
 had a sort of mental hair-shirt of self-reproach always 
 ready to clap on at a minute's notice whenever anybody 
 approved of their conduct. We all know when we are 
 acting finely, my child; and the pleasure of it is one of 
 the strongest inducements to go on in the same fashion." 
 
 Phyllis regarded him with an air of some doubt. 
 
 "But they always told me that I ought not to pride 
 myself on being decent," she objected. " I always thought 
 it was wicked and horrid." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks and grandmothers, my child! If we 
 don't pride ourselves on doing well, we shan't keep at 
 it very long; I can tell you that, young lady. Besides, 
 we must pride ourselves on something, just to keep our 
 self-respect." 
 
 Phyllis brought the dimple from its temporary retire- 
 ment. 
 
 "But don't you always try to think you don't pride 
 yourself on being good?" she asked slyly. "You don't 
 boast your good deeds." 
 
 "You remind me of Charles Lamb's remark," was the 
 Editor's answer, rather indirect than ingenuous, "that 
 one of the greatest pleasures in life is to do good by 
 stealth, and have it found out by accident. Life has a lot 
 of humbug in it. It is like nitrogen in the air. It keeps 
 us from a too morally oxygenated atmosphere." 
 
 "I don't know what that means," Phyllis said hardily, 
 "but you needn't explain it. I must go to pour at Ethel's 
 tea." 
 
 She rose as she spoke, and adjusted her fluffy furs. 
 
 "Then you don't think I'm a cad because I was pleased 
 at Jack's praising me for giving up the ball?" she asked 
 shyly, and with the pink coming into her cheeks. 
 
 The Editor took her hand kindly, and with an air 
 almost paternal stroked it softly. 
 
 "My dearest maid," was his answer, "nothing in the 
 world is better than that you should be happy to have 
 Jack praise a good deed that you've done at a sacrifice." 
 
 The Penny. 
 
 She left her bonds, her stocks, her gold, — 
 For richest of earth's women she, — 
 
 And through the spaces wide and cold, 
 To Heaven's gate came wistfully. 
 
 "A single penny," Peter said, 
 
 "Is all you here for entrance pay; 
 
 But 't must be one, ere you were dead, 
 In charity you gave away." 
 
 The ghost on the chill pavement stone 
 Fell down, and prayed on bended knee. 
 
 "Oh, such a penny was never known! 
 Yet let me in!" moaned she. 
 
 St. Peter pointed finger stern 
 Toward a way that led below. 
 
 "Find Dives there," he said, "and learn 
 The lesson he can show!" 
 
 Ruth Carus. 
 
 The hot waffles upstairs are causing trouble in suburban 
 homes. They are so delicious that the ladies who taste 
 them depart with firm determination to treat their 
 husbands to a similar dish. The cooks, frantically fol- 
 lowing divers and sundry receipt-books, cannot accomplish 
 this, and hence domestic excursions and alarums. 
 
46 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 A Peasant Woman. 
 
 She took her baby on her breast, 
 
 After the long, hard toil of day; 
 And as the sun sank in the west. 
 
 Started the long, hard way. 
 
 Only to see her man go past 
 
 When the war-shattered troops marched by, 
 All night she walked; till dawn at last 
 
 Tinged as with blood the sky. 
 
 And with the dawn the throbbing drum; 
 
 And there her wistful eyes may see 
 The shattered rank of heroes come, — ■ 
 
 Friend, neighbor, but not he. 
 
 A kindly sergeant stayed to speak. 
 
 "So brave he was," he stammered low. 
 "He died for France." With death-pale cheek 
 
 She heard, but eyes aglow. 
 
 Her man-child, with no tear let fall, 
 Up toward the war-flag's tattered pride 
 
 She lifted as who gives her all. 
 "Vive la France!" she cried. 
 
 QuiNCY TOWNSEND. 
 
 An Appreciation. 
 
 I was twelve years old when first introduced to France. 
 I remember the year, because we landed on the day of 
 the battle of Solferino, a battle since immortalized by 
 a French dye. I remember the place, because my mother, 
 a poor sailor, remarked she was glad to lay her head on 
 the Brest of France. 
 
 Later we saw the entry of the Army of Italy into 
 Paris. Whether it was the sight of those victorious 
 battalions swinging down the Boulevards which turned 
 my boyish thoughts to West Point, or the reluctant 
 promise of a wise parent to consider a military career 
 if a young would-be patriot would abandon his threat 
 to run away and enlist at the ripe age of fourteen, is of 
 no consequence. 
 
 I remember, too, being lifted in a dense crowd in order 
 that I might catch a glimpse of the Empress as she 
 swept up the Rue de Rivoli with postilions and cuirassiers 
 of the Imperial Guard, and of appropriating to myself 
 the gracious smile, poor lady! bestowed in my direction. 
 I do not claim now in days of reason that that smile was 
 intended for the bareheaded boy on his father's shoulder, 
 but I know that then and there I adopted, annexed as 
 my own, another country. For how many things is the 
 smile of a woman responsible! 
 
 When my parents started on the then conventional 
 journey, to follow the track of the Israelites from the 
 Red Sea to the Jordan and incidentally to discover by 
 the way proofs of the fulfilment of prophecy, I was 
 dropped, perhaps as a useless encumbrance, in a French 
 school known as the Pension Roulet. An older brother 
 and one other American boy failed to modify sensibly 
 the French atmosphere. It was a new world. I re- 
 member how insignificant cafe au lait and a petit pain 
 looked in the morning to eyes accustomed to a New 
 England breakfast. But I was equal to the occasion. 
 For I proudly wrote my mother that butter for breakfast 
 was a grave mistake — "Monsieur Roulet says it clogs 
 the brain." I cannot, however, adduce anything to 
 show she became a convert to this theory. 
 
 I remember that laundry days were so far apart that 
 my stock of underwear, designed for shorter intervals, 
 became at once alarmingly inadequate. 
 
 I remember, too, the big boy who sat next me at the 
 long table, — he was a German-Swiss, named Respinger, — 
 who regularly diverted to himself my share of a large 
 plum tart to which we looked forward every Sunday 
 
 evening. My memory needs no jogging on this point, 
 because my older brother advised me to battle for that 
 triangle of plum tart, advice I put into practice the fol- 
 lowing Sunday with disastrous results. Shall I ever 
 forget dear old Monsieur Roulet's lecture on the vul- 
 garity of using the fist in the defence of one's rights! 
 
 The memories that cluster about those months are 
 vague now. Is it any wonder.' For I read in the journal 
 in which I recorded my doings and impressions one 
 ever-recurring phrase — "Same as yesterday." The im- 
 pressions not recorded in that journal are the permanent 
 ones. There were, to be sure, excursions in the mountains, 
 hunts for fossils which I still incline to call " petrifications," 
 duels with short sticks in the cellar of the new building, 
 between the German boys; and among the impressions, 
 that made by the sweet face of a daughter of the house at 
 whose feet I laid with fifty others the first offerings of wor- 
 ship. But what I did not realize then as most worthy of 
 record was something altogether too subtle for a boy to ap- 
 preciate, something intangible but not evanescent, some- 
 thing akin to a flavor or an aroma, which pervaded even 
 the literature fed to the schoolboy. Very likely at the 
 time I was not keenly interested in the morals so artfully 
 concealed in "Telemaque" and the "Dialogues of the 
 Dead," those "Greek poems in French prose"; very 
 likely I did not then recognize the genius which, as 
 d'Aguesseau says, "gave to trifling subjects a new im- 
 portance, treating the gravest with a touch so light that it 
 appeared to have invented the sciences rather than learned 
 them"; but I am sure that in those days when Fenelon, 
 seasoned now and then with a chanson de geste and a 
 novelette, was my meat and drink, I felt the influence 
 of that incomparable grace, that beauty and finish of 
 workmanship, that limpid art and fresh originality, which 
 have made French literature the delight and despair of 
 the reader. 
 
 My second contact with France was in a sterner school, 
 the Ecole des Fonts et Chaussees, and the Conservatoire des 
 Arts et Metiers. The tinsel glitter of the Second Empire 
 had passed away. The Lady of the Gracious Smile was 
 in mourning for an Emperor and a throne. After the 
 baptism of the Revolution had come the baptism of 
 national defeat and humiliation — both regenerative. 
 Even the student of Monge and Euler could not fail to 
 be impressed by that extraordinary vitality and recupera- 
 tive energy which, in spite of the tragedy of Sedan and 
 the Commune, the burden of the war indemnity, the 
 three royalist pretenders and the Napoleonic legend, 
 triumphed over reaction and laid the enduring foundations 
 of the Republic. Paris was a seething furnace of political 
 emotion and excitement, in the midst of which the in- 
 tellectual life flourished, radiant and serene. What a 
 delight it was to steal away from stereotomy at the 
 Conservatoire for an hour with Taine at the Beaux Arts or 
 Caro at the Sorbonne! And how astonished was the 
 West Point graduate to find in the Annates of the Fonts 
 et Chaussees the sources, even to the illustrations, of his 
 Mahan! 
 
 There follow later associations in an editorial capacity 
 with Rod and Verlaine, Sarcey, de Maupassant, and others, 
 associations chiefly of correspondence and tinctured with 
 commercialism, though not devoid of personality; and 
 later still the closer associations formed in official life — 
 a longer story. But on these it is not necessary to dwell. 
 For I am speaking of foundations, foundations of aflPection 
 and of taste, and these were laid long before in the 
 schoolroom and the family, when the same clarity and 
 precision which distinguishes all French literature was 
 found in the textbook, and the charm which pervades 
 French social intercourse in the home. 
 
 I am neither blind nor unjust in respect to my debt 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 47 
 
 to Germa'ny, a debt contracted more especially in the 
 realm of Science. But in those particular subjects in 
 w^iich I was interested, when I foot up my debit column 
 I find most of the items are to be charged to patient 
 minute compilation and practical application, and few 
 to originality. 
 
 If in later life I had had the honor of having talked to 
 a Kaiser, as when a boy I was smiled upon by an Empress, 
 would the current of my sympathy have been diverted? 
 I think not. For beginning with student days in '73 
 and '74, and continuing down through numerous tourist 
 wanderings to official life in six capitals, I encountered so 
 often that insolence, no less offensive because veiled, that 
 rasping pretence to superiority, that brutality of method, 
 in matters large and small, that even the accolade of a 
 Kaiser could not have condoned them. After '70 the 
 Prussian shadow spread gradually over all Germany, 
 completely obscuring the simple homely land of our 
 earlier love. Should any one contend that my experi- 
 ence was exceptional, I beg to cite the recent experience 
 of the world at large, of which mine is a humble but 
 faithful illustration. 
 
 No, I do not regret the boyish choice, confirmed in 
 maturer years. France wears her faults upon her sleeve. 
 On the empty sleeve of to-day they are forgotten. The 
 bitter irony of it all is that we should ever have judged 
 her by a Boulanger instead of a Joffre, by an Austerlitz 
 instead of a Verdun. 
 
 Arthur Sherburne Hardy. 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Double my first is found inside, 
 They say, of every Russian's liide. 
 The work of every printer's reclconed 
 By what's the double of my second. 
 Who is my whole in any clime 
 Gets twice my second many a time. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 My first is perusal; 
 
 My next is notation; 
 My third is refusal; 
 A'ly fourth is evasion; 
 My whole, like blessed charity, 
 A covering for sins may be. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Sweet Rose did I for pity first, 
 
 So fair she third and cold; 
 Yet I so high her charms must fifth, 
 
 I cried: "Despair makes bold! 
 I am my whole with fervent love; 
 
 Your favor let me boast!" 
 "Fourth!" sneered-she. "Leave me. I'll return 
 
 Your letters second post." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 When spicy scandal greets the ear, 
 
 It may be first or first and next; 
 But if of third the tale we hear. 
 
 Then whole we call it, sorely vexed. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 When that my second bore my whole, 
 
 Men seized it as a thing accursed, 
 And cast it straightway in the sea, 
 
 Because my whole was not my first. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 My first has not my next because 
 
 "My whole!" hath ordered fashion's laws. 
 
 The Letter Bag. 
 
 April 13, '16. 
 
 . . . Good old Mackensie Rogan and our Regimental Band have been in 
 France three or four months now and have done themselves proud. 
 The old man has fifty-one years' service, having started as a drummer, 
 and he is still going strong. I have heard the band several times on 
 off days in the big town behind us, and the other day a crump burst 
 near enough to throw debris and stuff on the roof of the building in 
 which he was playing, but he finished the piece without a break, and 
 then a staff officer turned the audience out. Another day I heard the 
 massed drums and fifes of the Guards Brigade play in the Square there, 
 and it was splendid. 
 
 July i6th, '16. 
 
 . . . Just at this juncture a silly ass (a private) in a near-by hut 
 caused a young explosion by putting some cordite into an old oil bottle 
 made of brass and touching a match to it; result, loud bang, one man 
 narrowly missed by a bit of brass, and the remainder of the oil bottle 
 embedded in the wall of the hut; also perpetrator very much scared at his 
 performance, assuring me, who happened to be the officer on the spot, 
 that he wouldn't have done it if he'd known it would cause an explosion 
 — crazy loon! He's in the book, and I suppose I shall have to be the 
 cause of his getting strafed, though it does seem funny that a man 
 should have to be school-boyed here in camp when there's hell-fire and 
 destruction going on unasked not very far off. ... I suppose you 
 have read about the new wound stripe — all officers and men who have 
 been wounded are to wear a three-inch, very narrow perpendicular 
 stripe on the left arm, gold Russian braid. It had already started in 
 England, one stripe for each occasion wounded. . . . 
 
 Aug. 7, '16. 
 
 . . . Yesterday I saw a pen with 250 odd Hun prisoners in it, in- 
 cluding three beastly looking officers. Of that lot two officers and 
 ninety men had come over the night before and surrendered — 500 of 
 'era, which is half a battalion, started across, but got caught between 
 the two artillery barrages, and only 92 got over; it was their first time 
 in the trenches, and they had new uniforms and were a pretty well set 
 up looking lot — Jaegers, with light green uniforms; so if they are coming 
 over in half-battalions to any extent before they have had a proper 
 dose of the trenches and our iire, it looks pretty cheery for us — that lot 
 thought the war will end by Aug. 13! The rest of the prisoners were a 
 bestial, ratty, mangy, loathsome looking swine, and nearly all had also 
 come over of their own accord to surrender. One of the compound 
 guards told me one of the Hun officers had "cursed him proper" when 
 he woke him up that morning, so I said, "Wake him with your boot next 
 time, seeing how they treat our officers"; and he replied, "Well, sir, 
 I did bring 'im to by droppin' a brick on the floor of the tent next to 'is 
 'ead." 
 
 Aug. 15, '16. 
 
 You seem surprised that we have parades anywhere near the lines; we 
 don't have just drill parades very near (5 miles is the nearest I can 
 remember) but parade doesn't mean only for drill — we have rifle, am- 
 munition and gas-helmet inspections as near as two miles from Fritz, 
 or anyhow within the shrapnel zone, and I've had to dismiss quick 
 sometimes. . . . You also asked about the Y. M. C. A. huts — Yes, 
 they are a splendid institution, and everyone seems to agree that they 
 are about the most valuable and useful things of their kind. . . . They 
 are a godsend to the men. 
 
 Sept. 24, '16. 
 
 . . . Two friends of mine and several acquaintances were killed on 
 
 the 15th, and Col. was killed too; they got his body back to 
 
 and I made an expedition to bring him in. I managed to send him back 
 to where his battalion were resting, and he got a proper burial. I gave 
 him as decent a send-off as possible from the battlefield — I had my party 
 fix bayonets and present arms as the limber moved off; we couldn't 
 have done even that had it not been a rainy day, for the Huns weren't 
 so very far off, and would have caught the glint of our bayonets and 
 shelled us. 
 
 Little Bailey having been disobedient through the day, 
 his mother suggested, when he was saying his prayers, 
 he should ask God to help him to obey his mother. To 
 this suggestion he answered, "I did, one night." 
 "But you ought to every night." 
 "O mother, I trust God more than that." 
 
 A farrier fared to the fair 
 To get for his fair fairing there; 
 But the cost of the fairing 
 And fare set him swearing. 
 For he vowed it was fairly unfair. 
 
 Which is merrier, a grig or a sandboy? 
 
 What is the relation of divorce to a knowledge of 
 cooking? 
 
 A man's heart is in his stomach. Is it affected by an 
 operation for appendicitis? 
 
48 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 THL B05T0N MOTHER G005L. 
 
 VI. 
 
 LT CLTLRA. 
 
 High jinks and jinks low 
 
 How the ginko trees do grow, 
 
 In the Public Garden fair 
 
 Lifting in the summer air 
 
 Boughs like garlands rich and rare. 
 
 For some dream of eastern passion 
 
 Seems their fluted leaves to fashion, 
 
 As some wizardry each tree 
 
 Compassed in its mystery. 
 
 And when Autumn comes to scold 
 
 With its winds so bleak and cold. 
 
 Then with talismans of gold. 
 
 All the ground they cover well; — 
 
 Shaped as for some orient spell 
 
 Cunningly by magian wrought 
 
 With dread words all magic-fraught. 
 
 Planned and shaped in wizard's cell, 
 
 So to foil the evil schemes 
 
 Which the bitter Autumn dreams. 
 
 Whatever thing can't be found out. 
 The Oneday Club must talk about; 
 All questions having no replies 
 Are precious in its members' eyes. 
 Of certainty the glim they douse. 
 Of great ideas the clearing-house. 
 The isness of the ain't 
 
 And becauseness of the why 
 To them are just as easy 
 
 As to swat a noxious fly ; 
 They play with words like tennis-balls. 
 
 And find it stunning fun; 
 And there's nothing, nothing like it 
 
 Beneath the searching sun. 
 
 Once 'Boston Notions' were knicks and knacks. 
 
 Knives and razors, and pins and tacks ; 
 
 Now they are creeds, and cranks, and views. 
 
 And mixed religions where each may choose; 
 
 Strange-isms and philanthropies. 
 
 And mushroom ethic theories. 
 
 Crops may flourish, or crops may fail, 
 
 Feast or famine may here prevail, 
 
 Weather be sunshine, rain, or hail; 
 
 But the crop of fads in Boston Town 
 
 Will never be done till the place falls down. 
 
 The whirling Hub goes round and round; 
 
 It need not go ahead : 
 For through a wide circumference 
 
 Its moving force is spread. 
 
 Hi-diddle-diddle! The men who can fiddle 
 
 All to the Symphony come; 
 But when they get there they only can stare 
 
 At THE MAN WITH THE KETTLEDRUM ! 
 
 The good policeman, brave and grand. 
 Stands in the street and waves his hand. 
 Now he says: "Stay!" and now says: "Go!" 
 And then, the first thing that you know. 
 He says them both, and with a smash 
 The autos come together— crash ! 
 
 As 1 was going up Beacon Hill, 
 
 Beacon Hill — was not clean; 
 And there 1 met a Back Bay miss. 
 
 As pretty as a queen. 
 
 I said: "Orion's shining bright." 
 She answered, smiling sweet, 
 
 "Because, you know, it's owned by right 
 By our dear Beacon Street." 
 
 Oh, Charon's Barge, one summer night. 
 
 Crammed full of Faculty, 
 Sailed into darkness out of sight. 
 
 And vanished utterly. 
 
 Then Charon's Barge, an empty shell. 
 
 White on the Basin see. 
 Until at last they sold the sell, 
 
 A house-boat for to be. 
 
 But then this boat so very dear 
 Could not such doom abide; 
 
 And so one day in autumn drear 
 Committed suicide. 
 
 The codfish up on Beacon Hill 
 
 Keeps watch o'er the Speaker's chair; 
 The grasshopper down on Faneuil Hall 
 
 Swings lightly in the air. 
 Should that codfish that grasshopper gulp. 
 
 Good gracious, the row there would be! 
 For people would cry: "Oh, my! Oh, my! 
 
 What a shell-fish cod is he!" 
 
 A club, a club, and a very swell club. 
 In a very swell house of tone; 
 
 And a consciousness of its swellness swells 
 A swell in the front of stone. 
 
 The Boston child on Browning feeds, 
 He talks Theosophy and creeds; 
 He prattles of the Soul of Things, 
 And scorns the levity of kings. 
 His spectacles' refulgent glare 
 Fills common mortals with despair; 
 He never's young and never ages. 
 Within the comic papers' pages 
 He in immortal sameness stays. 
 And out of them he never strays. 
 
 Symphony Hall the people seek 
 
 Twice at the end of every week; 
 
 And there, with plaster gods to view. 
 
 They read their programmes through and through; 
 
 And since advertisements are dry, 
 
 Musicians to divert them try. 
 
 It is ever the fashion of men at the Hub, 
 When they're tired or bored, to kill Time with a 
 Club. 
 
 Rub-a-dub-dub! A dome like a tub. 
 
 And four squashed pyramids near; 
 
 An acre of factory-lines all refractory, 
 
 Making a mixture most queer; 
 Inside to pass the building round 
 The only way is underground. 
 If Tech to move made up her mind, 
 Why leave her architects behind? 
 
DEC 18 1916 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 BOSTON, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1916 
 
 No. 7 
 
 The stage door. 
 
50 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Decoration Day. 
 
 When with new leaves and flowers ye next shall go 
 To strew fresh memories upon your dead 
 And plant clean flags for soldiers who once bled 
 
 In Lincoln's cause; when next your trumpets blow 
 
 From earth to sky the solemn strain and slow 
 Of Taps above each sleeping veteran's bed — 
 O then forget not those dear youths that shed 
 
 Their April's blood, whose graves ye do not know. 
 
 Far off in France their bodies folded lie 
 
 Sheathing unbudded promise 'neath the sod, 
 Their blossomed spirits safe in peace and ease. 
 Pass not these other happy warriors by; 
 
 For these strew flowers and lift your thanks to God; 
 They too served Lincoln's cause; sound taps for these. 
 
 Owen Wister. 
 
 The Daughter of Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas. 
 
 Early the next morning I went to see how Sheikh 
 Hassan was getting on. I arrived at the house of the 
 Sheikh to find him — gone! 
 
 Oh, mockery of ink and paper! Oh, impotence of 
 pens and set words! I tell what had befallen not as it 
 should be told, but as best I am able: Abdul Ahmed had 
 escaped, and Sheikh Hassan had been arrested in his 
 place. These two facts were all that were offered me by 
 the old servant whom I found in the court of the house. 
 Later, from Mustafa Kerim, the keeper of the shop, I 
 obtained particulars in this sort: 
 
 "Yea, O sir, those devils have taken him, — him who 
 is a Sheikh, a Hajji. By the head of my father, but the 
 times are passing evil, or they should smart for it. It 
 was after Your Excellency left last evening that another 
 soldier came in. Soldiers.'' I spit on such! They left 
 but one on guard, and here they sat till cock-crow, drinking 
 my coffee and smoking my tobacco. Did I see the color 
 of their money? Not so much as a louse could stand on! 
 The company had thinned to five or six, when in ran the 
 last of those knaves, and whispered to the shaunsh. 
 Shazvish? Sa)' rather long-dead-donkey-father! And 
 when he heard he roared, and smote the man, and leaped 
 to his feet. And Ibrahim the Father of Nuwas, who has 
 brought all this trouble upon us, bellowed that Abdul 
 Ahmed had escaped. And so it was, but he went not 
 alone. Thus it happened. There came to that sentry- 
 swine the boy Nuwas, the son of Ibrahim. And he spoke 
 the sentry fairly, and said he was come to take leave of his 
 friend. And the soldier denied him; but Allah wished 
 to punish Ibrahim through his son, and so made the boy 
 plead well and the sentry yield. And a short two hours 
 after Nuwas had gone away again, the sentry looked in at 
 the door. — No Abdul, but only his chains, and two window- 
 bars that had been filed half through and wrenched free 
 at the bottom. Till broad daylight all were searching, 
 but nothing did they find, save that the mare of Sheikh 
 Hassan, the Pearl of the Village, our pride, was lifted. 
 The Pearl of the Village! The fleetest and the best! 
 And now Sheikh Hassan will no more need the yellow- 
 corn from me, of which he bought weekly two measures. 
 A mare worth a sultan's ransom, gone like the wind, and 
 the boy-devil NGwas has taken yet another horse from 
 his father, and gone too. Let them return, if they would 
 that I spit upon them both!" 
 
 Mustafa Kerim was entirely right in regard to the 
 excellence and value of "The Pearl." She was the 
 darling of her master's heart, and so guarded that only 
 in a time of confusion in the family could Nuwas have 
 
 succeeded in lifting her. I was still in the dark, however, 
 why my unfortunate patient should have been taken 
 away. 
 
 "Why take him.?" cried Mustafa in answer to my 
 question; " because they who have lost all taste for small 
 wickednesses must gorge on greater villainies! When 
 they could find nothing of Abdul Ahmed, they took 
 counsel together, saying that they dared not go empty- 
 handed to Nabliis. And that devil shazvish said: 'Let 
 us have a rich witness, such as the Basha and his council 
 love.' Then they took the Sheikh — Allah consume their 
 marrow! — because he was rich and stricken and old, and 
 well-nigh without kin. They put the old one in irons and 
 lifted him into a litter. And he was silent until they 
 told him of the lifting of the Pearl, and then he wept." 
 
 " Allah increase your goods, O Mustafa," I said. " The 
 affair is not my affair, but I will write a letter to the 
 English doctor at Nablijs, telling him of this. They will 
 free the Sheikh, lest their day be blackened.'' 
 
 VI. 
 
 Of the following letters, one I received five days after 
 the wretched Sheikh had been carried to Nablus, and the 
 second four months later, after I had left Syria. They 
 explain themselves, and bring this tumultuous history to 
 a close. 
 
 THE FIRST LETTER. 
 
 Nablus; C. M. S. Hospital, July 17, 19 — . 
 .l/_v Dear Canton: 
 
 I have seen the Pasha about your Sheikh. At first he "knew nothing 
 about him," but he afterward "found out." I insisted upon seeing him. 
 They had stuffed him into a villainous hole in the prison, and I found 
 him in a very apathetic condition, the left leg badly inflamed, and a 
 slight temperature. I insisted upon getting him into the hospital, 
 becoming responsible for his safekeeping. He has bucked up a little, 
 and is now telling stories of the Russian war to a small Jew in the next 
 cot. He told the nurse that he only wants to see his mare again and 
 die. I don't think it likely he will for some time do either. 
 
 I am yours heartily, 
 
 Arthur Winton. 
 
 THE SECOND LETTER. 
 
 To the Khawaja Kantfui, making diggings for the Government at 
 the Beled of Bab el Kalabsheh, by way of Masr. 
 
 Peace and prosperity and direction under Allah from the Hajji Hamed 
 el Fiki of Fendakumieh. 
 
 It is already long, O Sir, that I have meant to write to you, but here 
 one comes more readily by attar than by news. The money for the 
 school comes every month from the Big Gentleman who now makes the 
 diggings you began. Of them I will not write, since I am in darkness of 
 their meaning or their purpose. Mustafa Kerim blesses you because 
 the men are well paid, and never was so much money seen here before; 
 and too for the letter you wrote to the English doctor at Nablus concern- 
 ing Sheikh Hassan Osman at the time of his misfortune. 
 
 The Basha would not let the Sheikh go, not even when he was sent 
 cured out of the Hosbitalieh. A guard was set over him, and at night 
 he slept in the court of the house of the city treasurer. 
 
 At this time came thither a Persian who was a leper. He was a 
 scribe of the scribes, and master of nine schools of writing. I know not 
 why the hand of Allah had cast upon him the affliction of leprosy, 
 unless because he was of the sect of the Shi'a. Now this one remained 
 here for some days, and because of his craft 1 fed him. And he told 
 me that the last money that had come to his hand had also been from a 
 man of Fendakumieh. And when I wondered, he told me that it was at 
 Ajlun, across the Jordan: and that there he had written a letter for a 
 young man, who, with a bo;- and a blood mare, he had met by the road. 
 And I was stirred, for I knew it must be Abdul Ahmed the Landless 
 and Nijwas the son of Ibrahim; and that the mare was none other than 
 our Pearl. So I told him somewhat of what had here befallen, and he 
 told me what was in the letter. It was to be sent to the Hosbitalieh, 
 to Sheikh Osman. 
 
 In this letter Abdul Ahmed offered brazenly one half of the mare as 
 blood-money for the olive-trees and for the injury; and a quarter more 
 that the Sheikh gwe over all thought of marriage with the daughter 
 of Ibrahim the Father of Nijwas; and a quarter more for fifteen Turkish 
 pounds. And if the Sheikh liked not this bargain, there was no more to 
 be said: .Xbdul Ahmed would take the mare to Beyrut and sell her. 
 But if the bargain liked him, he should send a letter by post to Niiwas 
 the son of Ibrahim at Ajlun, and when the vouchers for the blood- 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 51 
 
 money and the fifteen pounds came, Abdul Ahmed would write to the 
 Basha acknowledging his guilt and the aiTair would end. This was the 
 letter that the Persian wrote by the roadside near Ajlun. 
 
 And when Sheilih Osman received this letter at Nablus he was amazed 
 at such shamelessness, and showed it to the Englishman doctor. And 
 the Englishman doctor whistled after the manner of his kind (for so 
 the Sheikh has since told me), and said: "Let the feud rest. Take 
 peace and the mare." 
 
 So the Sheikh sent the quittance and the money, and vowed never 
 to look on tlie daughter of Ibrahim. And Abdul Ahmed rode boldly 
 into Nablus on the Pearl of the Village, and told the Basha that he did 
 the shooting, and that now there was no feud. At first the Council 
 said: "To prison"; but he gave five Turkish pounds to the Kadi, and 
 the Kadi whitened him in the eyes of those great ones. So he came back 
 among us, and gave over the Pearl to the Sheikh, and kissed his hand, 
 and they are much together, so that it is a great wonder! And Abdul 
 Ahmed is to marry the daughter of Ibrahim the Father of Niiwas, 
 for between his gun and the friendship of the Sheikh there is no stand- 
 ing against him. Thus does Allah weave with the threads of our lives, 
 even as it is written: 
 
 "The shuttle flies from hand to hand, 
 But all unknowing grows the weave." 
 
 Mustafa Kerim salutes you; Sheikh Osman salutes you; and many 
 others. Forget not your friends, and may Allah increase your prosperity. 
 
 Written by me, Hajji Hamed el Fiki, at Fendakumieh, the si.xth of 
 Ramadan, 132-. 
 
 Oric Bates. 
 
 A Sheaf of War Memories. 
 
 I must begin by stating clearly that this meagre sheaf 
 of memories is made up of stray straws snatched by mc 
 here and there as the warwind whirled them by, and I 
 ask to be forgiven for binding them together with a quite 
 personal band composed of too many I's and me's. 
 
 I know how hard it must have been for you at home to 
 understand our ignorance on this side of the water of the 
 storm rolling up from the Near East. To illustrate 
 how completely we were in the dark, when a friend living 
 near us on the island of Noirmoutier telephoned me on 
 the morning of August I, 1914, that she and her children 
 were starting at noon to join her husband in their chateau 
 in the south of France, as .the mobilization would make 
 travelling impossible twenty-four hours later, not only 
 did I think her panic-stricken, but I told her so. I went 
 at once to her villa to help her pack, laughed at her fears, 
 and tried to persuade her to stay, not believing her when 
 she assured me that she had the terrible facts from one who 
 knew. She begged me to take a thousand francs from 
 her store, predicting that we should have trouble about 
 getting money later, and not at all liking the idea of 
 leaving me with only a little over three hundred francs 
 on hand. I told her that our month's supplies would 
 be sent to us on Monday, the third, and took the lofty 
 tone that no matter what might take place in Europe, 
 American credit would be all right. How often in the 
 coming weeks did I regret that rejected thousand francs! 
 Twice we saw our last ten-franc piece melt away in pay- 
 ment for bread and postage stamps; everything else we 
 had on credit, thanks to the moratorium, which cut both 
 ways. 
 
 It was a chilly, gusty day, that first of August, 1914, 
 and my spirits sank as I walked home to Le Gaillardin 
 after seeing my friend start at noon. A sight not calcu- 
 lated to cheer me was the setting sail of a yacht carrying 
 a party of young reservists to the mainland. As her sails 
 filled, and she bent to the breeze, an Abbe, standing on 
 the rocky point jutting out into the bay, lifted his hand 
 in blessing, and the men on the white deck bared their 
 heads as his words of benediction came to them across 
 the dancing waves. I stopped to say a word to the 
 mother of one of the boys, herself the daughter of a 
 famous marshal, and her evident anxiety depressed me 
 still more. Her son fell gloriously last November, and 
 three are missing from the gay band of his friends who 
 used to fill her pretty cottage with laughter and song. 
 
 But on reaching home I was reassured by the complete 
 scepticism shown by my husband and one of our friends 
 who was there with him. A friend? I might more 
 truthfully say brother, so dear was he to us. How 
 could any one imagine, they insisted, that Germany, with 
 almost all the commerce of the world in her hands, pros- 
 perous to a fabulous degree, could be so short-sighted 
 as to bring on a war.? It was a woman's scare, they told 
 me, and I was so glad to be reassured that I cheerfully 
 swallowed the snub. Just the same, should there be 
 trouble, our friend, although past the military age, 
 would be obliged to report at headquarters, and in order 
 to avoid any delay he decided to take the afternoon boat, 
 and run up to Paris for a few days. We went to see him 
 off at five, and his last words were that he should be back 
 in a week's time. — He fell a year ago last September, 
 charging superbly at the head of his men. 
 
 We left the boat-pier, and walked under the trees to 
 the main road which runs straight in to the town of Noir- 
 moutier, about two miles inland. As we stepped out 
 from the shade of the ilexes the strong west wind bore 
 to our ears the terrible sound of the tocsin, hurried, 
 fateful, threatening. It was the call to a general mobili- 
 zation. No more doubts now. 
 
 The next image that I recall is that of a young Parisian, 
 rather a dandy, good-looking, well-dressed; he had 
 bought a Swampscott dory from my husband, and came 
 to Le Gaillardin the following afternoon, his six-year-old 
 boy holding tightly to his hand. There were a few out- 
 standing bills, he said, that had not been settled, and he 
 wanted to pay them up. My husband replied that these 
 small charges had not yet been presented to him, that 
 they amounted to very little anyhow, and had better 
 wait for the present. "But I am starting to-morrow," 
 persisted the Parisian. "Then leave them till you come 
 back," was my husband's answer. The young man 
 looked down at his boy, whose big, solemn eyes never 
 left his father's face; then he threw back his head with a 
 laugh, and said so gayly that the child must have thought 
 it some dull, grown-up joke not worth puzzling over, 
 "And what if I never come back.?" A quick pain caught 
 me in my throat, and my husband's lips trembled; neither 
 of us spoke. They went away, and I, watching them 
 through the window, saw the little boy stumble as they 
 walked along the path to the gate; he could not see 
 where to place his feet, for his eyes were always on his 
 father's face. 
 
 I recall another father. It was a late afternoon in the 
 November of the same year; we were walking home 
 across the fields, and stopped to say a word to a peasant 
 ploughing, his two boys of ten and twelve beside him. 
 In reply to some remark about the failing light he said: 
 "It's not for the fun of the thing that we're working so 
 late. They are going to take Cocotte off in the morning" 
 (here the younger boy turned brusquely and hid his face 
 on the mare's shoulder), "and I follow next day. The 
 kids must learn how to plough; they and the wife will 
 have to do that; I shan't be here to help them see to the 
 early potatoes." We gave some socks and one of the 
 sweaters that our knitting women had already begun to 
 turn out by hundreds, thanks to Boston aid, and many 
 a time during that long, dark winter we saw those two 
 red-headed little chaps pluckily doing their work; when 
 a good potato harvest rewarded their efforts we felt a 
 personal glow of delight. 
 
 Helen Choate Prince. 
 {To be continued.) 
 
 "Tell me not in idle numbers, 
 Life is but an empty dream;" 
 
 Sandwiches of sliced cucumbers 
 Make it something better seem. 
 
52 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 CONTRIBUTING EDITORS 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 Alice Bkown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
 Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
 sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at the booth. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, I916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band and Madame 
 EstrelHta from 4 to 6 p.m. Last appearance. 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of James 
 Barnes, Whitmarsh Golf Club, Philadelphia. 
 
 Paul Revere Hall, 3. — Miss Columbia's Greeting to 
 the Children of the Allies; Dance by the pupils of Mrs. 
 Lilla Viles Wyman. 
 
 8. — "The Cotter's Saturday Night," given by the 
 Scottish Musical Comedy Company. 
 
 9.15. — A lecture on the American Field Ambulance 
 work at the front, by Mr. Luke Doyle, who has been 
 in active service in the Field Ambulance. 
 
 Main Hall, 9.45. — Miss Mary Desmond, soloist, will 
 sing "God Bless the Prince of Wales," with chorus. 
 
 The Post Office authorities are now giving special 
 service to the mailing of the Daily, for which we wish 
 to express our thanks. 
 
 The postal cards made in the trenches by the soldiers 
 are selling admirably. The choice of them brought $100. 
 It is doubtful if it is to be sent through the mail with a 
 one-cent stamp on it. 
 
 The life-buoy of the Lusltania, which hangs in the 
 Main Hall, is one of the most poignantly suggestive of all 
 the relics in the Bazaar. It is a sort of historic document 
 which for generations will tell its pathetic story, and is 
 far more eloquent than anything that can be put into 
 words. It will be sold by auction on Saturday night 
 from the stage, by Mr. John R. Rathom, the editor of 
 the Providence Journal. 
 
 The Thistle and Shamrock Booth has for Saturday an 
 attractive programme of the folk dances, songs, and 
 games of France. 
 
 The Canadian War Exhibit is rather of solid historic 
 than of sensational interest, but there are a good many 
 thrills in it. The jewelled fragments of glass from 
 assassinated Rheims, the fragments of a Zeppelin destroyed 
 in England, the helmet of one of the Kaiser's guard, the 
 first machine-gun captured by the Canadians, and so 
 on for an astonishing list of mementoes and souvenirs. 
 The poster show is in itself richly worth a visit, and the 
 whole collection one of the important features of the 
 Bazaar. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 "Of course social honesty is impossible," Dick observed, 
 repeating the old statement with an apparent conviction 
 that he had discovered a great and original truth. "It 
 is too bad that we should all lie so continuously." 
 
 The Editor regarded him curiously. 
 
 "So Mrs. Noah was remarking to a friend," he returned, 
 "when that eminent shipwright and voyager, her husband, 
 sent Shem to tell her that in ten minutes the gang-plank 
 of the Ark would be hauled in." 
 
 "Even if it has been said," Dick persisted with un- 
 diminished gravity, "it is just as true. It doesn't take 
 the truth out of a thing to say it over." 
 
 "Hum! Doesn't it.^ I am not so sure of that." 
 
 "But aren't our commonest phrases lies?" 
 
 "You must remember, my dear Dick," the other 
 reminded him, "that no man is obliged to convict him- 
 self." 
 
 The caller evidently did not understand the delicate 
 insinuation, but went on stolidly. 
 
 "Now when I came in I said I hoped I saw you well; 
 but I really didn't care a button whether I saw you well 
 or not." 
 
 "Thank you; I didn't for a moment suppose you did; 
 and, what is more to the point, you did not mean that I 
 should. A lie is an attempt to deceive; and you were 
 not trying to deceive me." 
 
 "But what I said wasn't true." 
 
 The Editor regarded him with a look which said 
 plainly enough: "In what words of one syllable can I 
 make him understand?" 
 
 "My dear Dick," he said, "you are evidently so anxious 
 to prove yourself a liar that it seems cruel to thwart you. 
 Suppose we grant that on general grounds, and now 
 stick to the particular instance. You meant me to 
 think that you were not so boorish as to omit the ordinary 
 conventions of courtesy; and your words conveyed that 
 intention perfectly. When you say what you mean, 
 and what you mean is true, I fail to see where the lie 
 comes in." 
 
 Dick's rather obstinate jaw began to look more firm. 
 
 "But I say it wasn't true that I cared how you were." 
 
 "It also was not true that your aunt's cat has six legs. 
 You meant to say that as much as you meant to say you 
 cared about my health." 
 
 Dick showed evidence of growing bewilderment. 
 
 "Look here," he said, "are you really trying to say 
 something, or is this just your usual guff?" 
 
 " It is my not un-usual endeavor to have people employ 
 terms properly. It is so stupid to call a convention a lie, 
 because it isn't meant to convey what it might literally 
 mean. We give an arbitrary meaning to a sound, and 
 make it stand for a house or a tree or whatever you will. 
 We take a phrase and make it stand for a social idea. 
 The two processes are practically the same." 
 
 "But the phrases mean something else." 
 
 "They might, of course; but the same thing is often 
 true of the sounds. What is a tree, a plant or a thing to 
 keep your boot in shape? Do I lie if I say I have a lot 
 of trees in my dressing-room?" 
 
 "Why, of course not; but that is because we know what 
 you mean." 
 
 "You know what I mean when I say I hope you are 
 well, or write 'Dear Sir,' or send a servant to say 'not 
 at home.' I knew a detestable old woman in the country 
 once, who, when she saw an unwelcome caller coming up 
 the avenue, told the maid to say she was out, and then 
 whipped out of the back door for two minutes to make 
 it true." 
 
 "Well," declared Dick, uncomprehendingly, "she did 
 make it true." 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 53 
 
 "Nonsense! She made a perfectly honest conven- 
 tionality into a lie. By taking the words literally, and 
 then being only momentarily out, she turned them into a 
 falsehood, and a very sneaking one at that. Besides, 
 she was fool enough to lie to herself." 
 
 "She was rather a sneak," Dick assented. "When 
 I lie, I do it straight from the shoulder." 
 
 "'Lie,'" echoed the Editor, impatiently, "I am not 
 talking about your lying. That, as they said so often 
 in the old novels, is between you and Heaven. I am 
 trying to get it through your thick head that you don't 
 know a lie when you see one. Do you call it a lie to begin 
 a letter 'Dear Sir' or to end it 'Yours truly'.'"' 
 
 "Why, not exactly," was the hesitating answer; "but 
 that is different." 
 
 "Oh, feminine excuse! Do try to be sensible, if you 
 can without bursting a blood-vessel in the effort. Speech 
 is full of phrases that have come to have specialized mean- 
 ings, and are so used without a trace of anything else. 
 You meet a man and tell him it is a fine day. If you 
 mean that to be taken literally, it is an insult, for it ac- 
 cuses him of being so great a fool as not to have perceived 
 the fact already. You mean really to tell him that you 
 are friendly, and do not wish to pass without letting him 
 know it." 
 
 "But that is true, anyway," persisted Dick, whose 
 wits were certainly never intended to shine on intellectual 
 race-tracks. 
 
 The Editor made a gesture of impatience, but he con- 
 trolled himself, and went on. 
 
 "When I say 'good-evening' do you expect me seriously 
 to have considered whether I really am interested that 
 your evening shall be good ; Am I lying, because I tell 
 you, in abbreviated form, that I do.'" 
 
 "Why, I never thought 'good-evening' meant that," 
 Dick returned, staring. 
 
 "It doesn't; it only says that, if you go to taking an- 
 other meaning of the words, as you might take another 
 for the tree in my boot. It really means the same thing 
 that 'hallo' does, only it says it more politely." 
 
 Dick regarded him with earnest eyes. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, "that I say a lot of thin 
 out knowing what I mean." 
 
 "Most people do," the Editor returned, 
 ambiguously; "but then perhaps you don't mean them, 
 after all." 
 
 s with- 
 smiling 
 
 To My "Poilus." 
 
 Oh, my poilus, bearded, rugged, 
 
 "Bleuets" ' scarce to manhood budded, 
 Whose blue waves, fame-crested, break to-day, — 
 
 Worthier tongues than mine have sung you; 
 
 But let me, who've lived among you. 
 Known and loved you well, my tribute pay. 
 
 Deafened by the roar and rattle, 
 
 Dazed and stricken from the battle, 
 Stretcher-borne, and limping, in they come; 
 
 But from wounded and from weary, 
 
 Comes the greeting ever cheery: 
 "On Us aura, (a marche hien,"' from every one. 
 
 Haunted by the fierce attacking. 
 
 Food and drink and sleep long lacking, 
 Yet each still claiming, but half-healed, to do his share; 
 
 Quick to lighten every labor, 
 
 Giving to each task a flavor 
 Of his piquant poilu wit and temper rare. 
 
 Though he hates the thought of tubbing, 
 
 And his matitudinal scrubbing 
 May be wanting both in detail and in scope, 
 
 Yet an extra busy morning 
 
 Finds him zealously adorning 
 All his comrades with an extra share of soap.' 
 
 You may catch him in his nighty 
 
 On some expedition flighty, 
 Such as waving to the Tommies as they pass; 
 
 But for the potato-peeling, 
 
 You are apt to find him stealing — 
 Though it's not his usual habit — in to Mass. 
 
 Glorying in the linen-changing, 
 ■' From an early hour he's ranging 
 Far and wide, shirtless, in sockless feet; 
 
 And from dull routine escaping, 
 
 Round his person coyly draping, 
 Comme une voile d'epouse,* his weekly sheet! 
 
 For some cigarettes he'll barter 
 
 All his daily share of "rata,"* 
 Which is truly called a ''sale hidoche" ^ ; 
 
 But he'll fight you to a finish, 
 
 If his pinard'' you diminish. 
 Though he styles this precious liquid "pliitol moche."^ 
 
 Unashamed of the detection 
 
 Of some samples of refection 
 Which he's hidden for safe-keeping in his bed, 
 
 He conceals these peccadilloes 
 
 Underneath his comrade's pillows, 
 And will smilingly invite you to his spread. 
 
 Through the cure's loud imploring, 
 
 He may be discreetly snoring, 
 Yet he faces death, high-hearted, undismayed; 
 
 And his sharply moral strictures 
 
 On some extra moving-pictures 
 Would put even Billy Sunday in the shade. 
 
 Eloquent his perorations 
 
 On those placed in lofty stations, 
 Governmental, these he calls "des gros legumes*^ ^: 
 
 And a visit of inspection 
 
 Fills him with a dire dejection, 
 And with prophecies most lamentable of doom. 
 
 But his Lieutenant's a hero, 
 
 And his Capitaine a Nero, 
 Singing ballads 'midst the bursting shell and bomb; 
 
 And he's proud to tell their story 
 
 For the honor and the glory 
 Of the leaders of Verdun and of the Somme. 
 
 - Hiding suffering with joking, 
 
 'Neath the knife serenely smoking. 
 Courteous and grateful, kind and brave; 
 
 Oh, my poilus, who'd not love you. 
 
 Praying all the Powers above you 
 To confound your foes and France to save! 
 
 Holding death in grim derision, 
 France triumphant in your vision, 
 Well we know your breed, for once we knew 
 How, of every age and station, 
 For the saving of a nation, 
 Fought, and bled, and died our "boys in blue." 
 
 Clara Bowdoin VV'inthrop. 
 'The boys of the Classes of 19IS and I916 are called "bleuets." The new 
 French uniform is blue. 
 
 ■"We'll get them yet, things are going well." "On lis aura" is now in 
 France the universal expression, and one of the newest and most famous car- 
 toons has it for a title. 
 
 J He helps to wash their faces. < Like a bridal veil, s Rations. •Horrid 
 mess. I Wine. < Rather weak or poor. « "Big potatoes." 
 
 From a Set of Limericks on the Thames Villages. 
 
 Datchett. 
 
 Said a rat to a hen, once, in Datchett: 
 "Throw an egg to me, dear, and I'll catch it." 
 "I thank you, good sir; 
 But I greatly prefer 
 To sit on it here till I hatch it!" 
 
 Medmenham Abbey. 
 Few hairs had the Vicar of Medmenham, 
 Few hairs, and he still was a sheddin' 'em. 
 But had none remained 
 He would not have complained, 
 Because there was far too much red in 'em. 
 
 K. D. W. 
 
54 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Why Italy Put off Fighting. 
 
 Many Americans naturally wondered at Italy's long 
 delay in entering the war on the side of the Allies. They 
 wondered further that she did not declare war on Ger- 
 many until this last summer. They imputed to her mere 
 sordid self-interest. The facts, however, do not warrant 
 any such harsh opinion; for they show that it would 
 have'been suicidal for Italy to break with the Central 
 Powers in August, 1914 — and suicide cannot be required 
 of a nation except when all is lost, even honor. IVIerely 
 as a practical question, Italy was undeniably right in 
 waiting until she was strong enough both to protect 
 herself and to bring valid help to the Allies, before she 
 entered the conflict. 
 
 When the war broke out, she was in a state of military 
 destitution. Her campaign in Tripolitania and with the 
 Turks had exhausted her supplies and left large gaps 
 needing to be filled in her army. Experts doubted with 
 reason whether she could prevent the Austrians, led by 
 German commanders, from breaking through her frontier 
 and overrunning Lombardy and Venetia in the early 
 autumn of 1914- Such a disaster would have been 
 not only Irreparable to Italy herself, but it might have 
 plunged the cause of the Allies into a panic. So Italy's 
 prudence was of the utmost benefit to all her friends as 
 well as to herself. 
 
 Having replenished her equipment, renewed and mobil- 
 ized her army, she denounced the treaty which bound her 
 in the Triple Alliance, and attacked Austria in May, 1915. 
 Foreign critics who wondered why her fresh troops did 
 not sweep the Austrians before them and dictate terms 
 of peace to the Emperor Francis Joseph in Vienna were 
 almost as fatuous as they would have been if they had 
 wondered why Italy did not march her army across the 
 Adriatic; for the almost impregnable Alpine wall which 
 the Italians had to surmount in the north was scarcely 
 less difficult than the sea itself. 
 
 Besides these military considerations which held her 
 back, she was entangled in economic relations with Ger- 
 many which, of themselves, would have been sufficient 
 to justify her in not breaking with that ruthless Power. 
 Only since the war began have foreigners, and many 
 Italians also, understood to what an alarming extent 
 Italy had become the commercial and industrial vassal 
 of Germany. In no other country, except perhaps in 
 Belgium, had the clandestine invasion of the Germans, 
 ironically called "peaceful penetration," been carried 
 so far. 
 
 Thirty years ago the Germans supplied a great deal 
 of capital to promote factories, electrical establishments, 
 steamship lines, and many other forms of economic de- 
 velopment. They founded the great Banca Com- 
 merciale, which almost dictated the directions in which 
 Italy's industries should expand, because it loaned money 
 to the projects which it secretly approved as helpful to 
 Germany, and withheld it from others. This bank 
 prohibited munitions factories, for instance, in order 
 to make the Italians dependent upon Germany for their 
 war supplies. It floated navigation companies, but took 
 care that they should not compete with the Hamburg- 
 Amerika and the North German Lloyd. It not only 
 controlled much of the capital which nourished Italy's 
 material growth, but it had trusty and experienced 
 Germans at the head of each concern, or, if not visibly 
 at the head, in order not to excite too much suspicion 
 they were at the really vital points. And just as has 
 happened in this country, the Germans saw to it that 
 politicians who represented them, with or without dis- 
 guise, should be elected to Parliament. "Peaceful 
 penetration" with a vengeance! 
 
 When the war broke out, therefore, Italy woke up to 
 realize that a large part of the sources of her wealth was 
 in German hands. To declare war on Germany at once 
 would have deprived her of much of that wealth sorely 
 needed for carrying on the war. If she had expelled the 
 Germans who were managing the commercial and in- 
 dustrial enterprises, where could she have found among 
 her own people experts to replace them at a moment's 
 notice.^ The passengers on an ocean liner might con- 
 ceivably find the officers so obnoxious that they would 
 like to throw them overboard; but they would refrain, 
 knowing that there would be nobody left to steer the 
 ship or run the engines. This was Italy's plight in regard 
 to Germany in the summer of 1914. 
 
 But even if Italy had not been so dependent on German 
 experts and initiative, she could not lightly adopt a 
 policy which might cut the ties which bound her trade 
 to Germany. Her statesmen had to look forward and 
 plan for conditions after the war. It was certain that, 
 however the war ended, Germany would continue to be 
 an important market for Italian products. So it was the 
 duty of her statesmen to make the rupture, if it had 
 to come, as little harmful as possible to Italy's permanent 
 interests. 
 
 Thus it will be seen that Italy's motives for going to 
 war with Germany differed intrinsically from her hos- 
 tility toward Austria, and required very different action. 
 Just as she was obliged to wait until she could put her 
 army into condition before she declared war on Austria, 
 so she had to safeguard her industries and her economic 
 concerns before she broke with Germany. Her tradi- 
 tional attitude toward her Teutonic allies also differed 
 widely. Although she had come to feel the weight of 
 German influence as a burden, she still remembered her 
 league with Prussia in 1866, which had resulted in the 
 recovery of Venetia; and she had always cherished a 
 vague expectation, illusory as I believe, that Protestant 
 Germany would protect her, if danger arose, from any 
 attempt of the Roman Catholic Powers to restore the 
 Pope to his temporal throne. Austria, on the other 
 hand, was Italy's hereditary enemy. From 1815 to 1866 
 Austria had upheld Despotism, her own and that of 
 her satellites, in the Peninsula; and when the frontier 
 line was drawn between Austria and Free Italy, it left 
 several Italian districts still under Austrian dominion. 
 More than this, the Austrians, in collusion with the 
 Germans, had drawn the frontiers so that all the ap- 
 proaches into Italy lay wide open to Austrian invaders, 
 whereas if the Italians should invade Austria, they were 
 met everywhere by natural defences of immense strength. 
 Italy could never rest without anxiety until her northern 
 and eastern borders were rectified. 
 
 Of the great value on the military side of Italy's co- 
 operation with the Allies, I need not speak. For over 
 a year and a half she has kept a large Austrian force busy, 
 steadily wearing down the Austrian troops in number 
 and diminishing their supplies of food and munitions. 
 On the moral side, her service has likewise been incal- 
 culable. By refusing to throw in her lot with her former 
 Teutonic allies, she disposed forever of the Teutonic 
 pretext that Germany and Austria had had the war 
 forced upon them and that they were fighting on the 
 defensive. If Italy's testimony stood alone, it would 
 suffice to transmit the truth to posterity. 
 
 William Roscoe Thayer. 
 
 Flattery may be laid on with a trowel, but truth must 
 be applied with a camel's-hair brush. 
 
 Where ignorance may kiss, 'tis folly to be wise. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 55 
 
 The Wounded Dream. 
 
 He was a very cheerful little Dream, and he had all 
 night long been making happy a wretched Belgian orphan 
 pitifully lodged in a corner of a hovel blown to pieces by 
 shells. As he was flying back home over the trenches, 
 a fragment of shell struck him. It dashed him into the 
 mud, and quite ruined his shoulder, so that flying would 
 always be a trouble. When he managed to get himself 
 out of the mire and struggle homeward, he was a very 
 battered and forlorn creature indeed. His mishap did 
 not make him any less cheery, for if you are a bright 
 dream, cheery you stay always; but after his accident 
 he was sent to the hospitals. There, of course, it would 
 seem natural for him to have been wounded, and nobody 
 would mind. 
 
 So it came about that one autumn midnight the little 
 hurt Dream was cheering what remained of a big English 
 Sergeant after the shrapnel and the surgeons were done 
 with him. The Dream had showed the sick man happy 
 pictures of childhood, and had cleverly spread rosy clouds 
 before painful episodes of sin or sorrow in later life. 
 There had been too many of these, for the Sergeant had 
 been both wild and wicked; but the Dream was there 
 to comfort, and for that night at least the soldier saw 
 nothing of his past to pain him. At last, when the Dream 
 and the Sergeant seemed to be lying out on the grass 
 under an apple-tree down in Sussex, — a tree gnarled 
 and crooked and famous for the sweetness of its fruit, a 
 tree where many an afternoon the boy that was to be the 
 soldier and be shot in Flanders had lain in the sunshine 
 and munched the red globes, — they fell to talking. 
 
 "I haven't been comfortable before since I was blown 
 to pieces there in the trench," the soldier observed. 
 "I don't seem to ache at all to-night." 
 
 "I'm very glad," the Dream answered. "Of course 
 that's what I'm here for. It's my business." 
 
 "You've been wounded yourself," said the Sergeant. 
 
 "Oh, yes; but I don't mind it now I'm used to it. 
 It was very unpleasant when it happened — especially 
 falling into the mud. I don't believe you have any idea 
 how a dream hates to get into mud." 
 
 "It must be a queer go," the other commented with 
 a smile. "I'm not over fond of mud myself — especially 
 when you have to march in it up to your knees." 
 
 "You'll never have to do that again," suggested the 
 Dream, softly. 
 
 "Right you are," assented the big Sergeant. "With 
 both legs gone and only one arm, and one eye keeping 
 them company somewhere, I certainly am out of the 
 marching column." 
 
 He said it quite cheerily, for the influence of his little 
 companion held him, and would not let him be sad. 
 
 "Perhaps," went on the little Dream, "you'll never 
 get round again, anyway." 
 
 "That's what I think myself, little chap. Out of my 
 one eye I saw a look the surgeon gave the nurse this 
 afternoon, and I got the creeps all right. It was my 
 marching orders." 
 
 "Well, perhaps that wouldn't be so bad. Sergeant. 
 It's going to be terribly hard if you live on. Why, even 
 I, a dream, find this smash in my shoulder a great nuisance 
 whenever I fly; and you — " 
 
 "Well," the Sergeant broke in with a grin, "you must 
 remember how much less of me there is to be bothered 
 than there was. I'm not good at mathematics, or I'd 
 reckon what per cent of me the surgeons have left. It's 
 a lot less than half." 
 
 "Do you really want to go on living?" the little Dream 
 asked. 
 
 The big man hesitated. 
 
 "The truth is, little chap," he said in an altered voice, 
 "I don't; but I'm not too sure that it wouldn't be better 
 than the other thing. I've been a pretty rotten lot in 
 my day." 
 
 "And you're afraid of what might happen to you if 
 you don't go on living.?" 
 
 "Well, it's this way. I don't know what's there, and 
 I do know I've deserved a pretty stiff hauling over the 
 coals. I could make up my mind better to face it, if I 
 knew the worst of it." 
 
 "Why not think, then, of facing the best.-"' asked the 
 Dream, cheerfully. "At least you deserve something for 
 giving up your life in a good cause." 
 
 "I don't know as there's any great credit in that. Of 
 course a man can't stand by and see his country have her 
 throat cut. Besides, there was Belgium; I was never 
 such a blackguard that I wouldn't fight for a square deal 
 to the under dog." 
 
 The Dream smiled on him sweetly and reassuringly. 
 
 "I think," he said, with a look that comforted the 
 Sergeant like the sunshine of a perfect October noon, 
 " that even if in the place where you will go if you never 
 wake up any more you find you are the under dog, you'd 
 be likely to find somebody to fight for you." 
 
 "Do you really think so.?" asked the soldier. 
 
 "I'm sure of it," said the little Dream. 
 
 The big Sergeant lay quiet for a time, thinking in- 
 tently. Then he looked at the little wounded Dream with 
 earnest eyes. 
 
 "I've a great mind not to wake up," he said. 
 
 "I wouldn't," responded the little Dream. "Why 
 should you.?" 
 
 Egdon Craige. 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 My first my next my whole; 
 
 And then in pain, 
 Cried out my third 
 
 Once and again. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 When night was black as is my first. 
 Stole forth to prey my first reversed; 
 When night was colored like my next. 
 My next reversed by plunder vexed; 
 My whole by day and night alike 
 Went forth to plunder, slay, and strike. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 My whole is my second; the whole of the law 
 From my first reversed your skill may draw. 
 Turn second around, and from its side 
 You may draw red wine in a flowing tide. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 My first I despise; as my next do I stand 
 
 To condemn it where'er it appear; 
 That the sentiment often attached to my whole 
 
 Is my first, I have sometimes the fear. 
 
 XL. 
 My first a mother, but a curse, alas! 
 
 The next comes floating on the flood of years; 
 My first would stay the stream that strives to pass; 
 
 But comes my whole, and naught is left but tears. 
 
 XLI. 
 My first and fourth are still the same, 
 
 Though looking different ways; 
 My next begins and ends my whole. 
 
 And in my third still stays; 
 Half of my first and fourth it is, — 
 
 The other half we drink; 
 My third is but five hundred less 
 
 Than all the land, I think. 
 My whole was a fast girl of yore, 
 Who trouble made and woe galore. 
 
56 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Loyal Legion. 
 
 (An incident founded on fact.) 
 Within the German prison pen 
 
 The word was passed, — is it surprising: 
 That roused by Roger Casement's men 
 
 The Irish patriots were rising. 
 The word was passed and as it sped 
 
 The stealthy summons circulated — 
 "Your turn has come to play the man, 
 
 Speak, Kamerad, and you are slated." 
 Thus from the Teuton web was spun 
 
 The Irish Legion, recreant blighters. 
 And counting on each mother's son 
 
 To emulate the fiercest fighters. 
 The Teutons furnished these recruits 
 
 By hope of Erin's freedom flattered 
 With spending money and new suits 
 
 In place of khaki stained and tattered. 
 Because they looked such perfect Huns 
 
 These men from Limerick, Cork, and Kerry, 
 Ere they were sent as food for guns, 
 
 Were given one chance to be merry. 
 To see Berlin, where Kultur reigns, 
 
 Would make these new compatriots wiser. 
 Forgetting Tipperary strains 
 
 In one united "Hoch der Kaiser!" 
 The loyal legion took the hint. 
 
 The money jingling in their pockets, 
 They pledged the Kaiser without stint 
 
 Until their spirits soared like rockets. 
 And one a little worse for wear, 
 
 Who haply hankered for a shindy, 
 Exclaimed, "Begorry! let's see where 
 
 The Bosches call Unter den Lindy." 
 Away they strode, and as they marched 
 
 Their rampant spirits kept on soaring. 
 They halted when their throats felt parched. 
 
 And erelong they were simply roaring! 
 Arriving at the Avenue, 
 
 Chief glory of their foster nation, 
 They broke into a song or two 
 
 In token of their jubilation. 
 For now that they had slaked their thirst, 
 
 Their souls were yearning for a ditty. 
 "Rule — Rule Britannia!" proudly burst 
 
 On the bewildered German city. 
 The listeners upon the street 
 
 For one brief moment thought they liked it, 
 Then with antagonistic feet 
 
 Toward the blithe procession hiked it. 
 The legion could not understand 
 
 Why epithets and blows were showered. 
 "God save the King," sang all the band 
 
 Until the last was overpowered. 
 They went to prison against their will 
 
 For punishment, perhaps sepulture. 
 An Irishman stays Irish still 
 
 In spite of foreign coat or Kultur. 
 
 Robert Grant. 
 
 A Reading-Lesson from Charlotte Cushman. 
 
 [The following pleasant glimpse of noted people is from the pen of the late 
 Arnold Barges Johnson, who for about twenty-five years was the private" 
 secretary and personal friend of Charles Sumner. Sumner died in his arms. 
 For more than forty years he held the third office on the United States Light- 
 house Board, and was held, at home and abroad, an authority in pharology. 
 He had note as a scientist, and was one of the earliest experimenters in under- 
 sea signalling. He died in Boston in February, 1915.] 
 
 Senator Sumner's study and bedroom were in the 
 second story of his large old-fashioned house. The rooms 
 adjoined, with communicating doors. The study had 
 two working-desks, the Senator's and mine. His was at 
 one end, while mine at the other was by the door which 
 opened into the bedroom. 
 
 It was the Senator's habit to have me read the morn- 
 ing paper to him while he was dressing. The door 
 between the rooms would be thrown open, and I, seated 
 at my desk facing the wall, would read in a loud, pene- 
 trating, monotonous voice the headlines and such items 
 as I deemed of interest. The Senator, meanwhile, would 
 be moving about as he dressed, and would call out to me 
 from time to time: "Enough, give me the next." Then 
 
 I would break off and turn to another column, which I 
 read in the same catalogue-like voice. 
 
 One morning, at about eight o'clock, when the per- 
 formance was at its height, the butler appeared, announc- 
 ing: "A lady to see the Senator." "Show her up," said 
 Mr. Sumner. "Proceed." I continued my recital of 
 the day's news, with hardly more of an interruption 
 than a wave of my hand toward a chair and a bow, as the 
 lady entered the room. 
 
 In a few minutes the Senator came into the study, and, 
 as he caught sight of his visitor, was profuse in his apolo- 
 gies. "Ah! My dear Miss Cushman! That you should 
 have been brought up here, and that I should have kept 
 you waiting! Allow me." And he would have at once 
 escorted her to the drawing-room on the floor below, 
 but she would have none of the ceremony, and without 
 delay struck into the object of her visit. As I recall it, 
 it was in behalf of a nephew, either to procure him ad- 
 mission into the army, or his discharge; which, I do not 
 remember. The Senator promised his aid, and, leaving 
 certain papers with him, she promptly took her leave, the 
 Senator preceding her downstairs, and opening the door 
 for her himself. On his return to the study, he asked: 
 "Why didn't you tell me who had called.?" "I did not 
 know myself," I answered; "and I don't now, for I did 
 not catch her name. May I ask.'"' "Why, that was 
 Charlotte Cushman, the great actress." And during 
 breakfast, which was at once ' announced, he told me 
 much of her extraordinary career. 
 
 A few nights later, I was in a Pullman car on my way 
 to New York. Passing through the car from the diner, 
 I saw, through the open door of a compartment, a lady 
 seated before the mirror, a maid brushing her heavy white 
 hair. I had hardly found my seat when the porter told 
 me that a lady wished to speak with me; and as I looked 
 up I saw at the end of the car a maid beckoning. When 
 I reached her, she said: "Madame desires to speak with 
 Monsieur." I followed her into the compartment, and 
 the white-haired lady faced me. It was Charlotte 
 Cushman. 
 
 She motioned me to a seat, and without preliminaries 
 began. "I saw you at Senator Sumner's the other 
 morning, and heard you read. You are his secretary, I 
 believe?" I bowed. "Young man, I have sufficient 
 esteem for the Senator to feel sorry that he should undergo 
 the daily- inffiction of such reading. May I ask why 
 there should have been such an intolerable performance.?" 
 Overcome with embarrassment, I tried to explain that 
 the Senator had taken much pains to drill me in that 
 manner of reading; that, as far as I could, I gave him 
 just what he asked. She listened, and then, picking up 
 the evening paper, said: "I will show you how it should 
 have been done, and if you profit by it, I think Mr. 
 Sumner will be grateful." 
 
 And with the maid still at work on her wonderful hair, 
 she read aloud the headlines from the paper she held in 
 her hand. And such reading! Every word was clear- 
 cut, every word was given its proper intonation, its due 
 weight and emphasis in the sentence; each sentence con- 
 veying not only its meaning, but the subtlest shade of 
 meaning; and all given in her round, full, sonorous voice, 
 that was of itself music. As she finished, she said: 
 
 "I hope you will not forget this, and will imitate it 
 when next you read to the Senator." 
 
 And I, bowing over her hand, said: "I shall never for- 
 get my reading-lesson from Charlotte Cushman; but 
 I can never hope to attain to the perfection of my teacher." 
 
 When I told the Senator of my adventure, he, laughing 
 heartily, said: "We will leave oratory to Charlotte Cush- 
 man, and will continue our newspaper-reading in our own 
 style." 
 
DEC \Sim 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 BOSTON. MONDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1916 
 
 No. 8 
 
 •Curse 'em— and just when I needed that sage for the stuffing of our duck! 
 
58 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 An Appeal to Humanity. 
 
 The European war reminds one, with startling emphasis, 
 how far behind the Angel of Death and Pain the Angel 
 of Mercy lags. The common purpose of all humane 
 Americans, in this crisis, is to spur forward this some- 
 what indolent Angel of Mercy, and to endeavor to lessen 
 the sad truth of Hood's familiar words: — 
 "Alas for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun." 
 
 Our business now is with the living, and not with the dead. 
 The heroic dead have been borne to the highest heaven, 
 from the field of battle, as in chariots of fire; they have 
 received a kind of apotheosis; they are already numbered 
 with famous men in glory everlasting. Those little 
 wooden crosses in Flanders and elsewhere, more moving 
 than the stateliest mausoleum, are symbols of a tran- 
 scendent experience forever secure; the heroic dead chant 
 "in the cathedral of immensity" the triumphant song 
 "The way of the cross is the way of light." 
 
 We cannot agree with Byron in his view of the battle- 
 field:— 
 
 "Alp turned him from the sickening sight, 
 Never had shaken his nerves in fight, 
 But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
 Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
 Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain. 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain." 
 
 Pain is the one great foe against which the medical pro- 
 fession, that rarest combination of science and humanity, 
 arrays all its forces, pain and the source of pain. If not 
 overcome and expelled, pain means death. To weep over 
 the dead who have won eternal freedom, while doing 
 nothing for the living in their distress, is never anything 
 higher than sad superstition; usually it is of the same stuff 
 as the cheapest insincerity. 
 
 Dr. John Brown, in his little classic, "Rab and his 
 Friends," has some fine words on sympathy. Physicians, 
 Dr. Brown says, "get over their professional horrors, 
 and into their proper work; and in them pity as an emo- 
 tion ending in itself, or at least in tears and long-drawn 
 breath, lessens, while pity as a motive is quickened, and 
 gains power and purpose." It is this kind of pity or 
 sympathy that is now our great need; any other kind 
 offering itself as a substitute for practical help merits only 
 reprobation. 
 
 The sufferings caused by this war are simply unimagi- 
 nably vast and terrible. One must not confine the effort 
 to represent them to the mutilated forms at the front, nor 
 to the weary days of convalescence in the hospital, nor 
 to the cripples that are returning in place of the men who 
 went forth in the pride and strength of youth, nor to the 
 endless heartache, inside the iron ring of heroism, of those 
 whose brave and beloved can never come back to them. 
 Beyond all this lies an area of suffering that will persist 
 through the life of another generation. I mean the 
 suffering that must come to the children of the dead and 
 the disabled. Here is a human sorrow aggravated by 
 acute economic misery. Bitter struggles must follow this 
 war, of mothers and children, weakened by grief, to keep 
 the wolf from the door. Terrible will the world seem to 
 them, as they are forced to face it, that ordains a struggle 
 so pitiless for the wives and children of those who gave 
 their lives that freedom might not perish from the earth. 
 
 It is this unmerited woe that falls upon the families 
 of heroic men that is the most moving of appeals. These 
 soldiers of the Allied Armies are fighting and dying, and 
 undergoing mutilation, that tyranny may not again 
 overrun the earth; that the government of free peoples 
 shall not come to an end; that the organization of science 
 detached from the impulse of humanity, and turned into 
 
 an engine of death, shall meet eternal defeat; that faith 
 in a moral Deity and in a moral race of men may not be 
 extinguished; and that the civilization won by all the 
 ages of honor may not be forever lost. 
 
 When stripped to the bone, this is the cause for which 
 the Allied Armies contend. They are fighting for the 
 moral forces in human nature and in our human world 
 against the Teutonic nations whose organization draws 
 its warrant from the animal struggle in the sub-human 
 sphere, and in the black belief that "War is the Father 
 of the universe." The Allied hosts are fighting the idea 
 that governments may use, for their own brutal ends, and 
 without the consent of the governed, their peoples like 
 cattle in the slaughter-house; they are contending against 
 the theory that rulers are justified in systematically misin- 
 forming and misleading those whom they rule, in calling 
 them to rejoice in the shadow of victory when the shadow 
 is the shadow of death. 
 
 General Grant, in our Civil War, used to tell the Con- 
 federates that it would be for the highest good of the 
 South to be beaten by the North. At that time that was 
 a hard saying for the brave Southern people to believe, 
 and few of them were able to believe it. To-day every 
 wise mind in that great and gallant section of our common 
 country sees clearly the truth of the prophetic remark 
 made by the magnanimous Northern commander. It is 
 for the interest of the Teutonic peoples that they shall be 
 beaten in this war. Germany is the monumental example 
 of a great people misled, misinformed, victimized by rulers 
 as contemptuous of individual freedom at home as they 
 are ruthless abroad. The awakening will come; the 
 mills of the gods grind slow, but they grind. In the 
 day of Teutonic defeat, the Teutonic peoples will begin 
 to win their freedom and the rights that belong to man 
 as man. 
 
 The fundamental issue of this war is between a moral 
 and an unmoral civilization; between faith in a moral 
 world and hypocritical assent to the order of the world as 
 moral, concealing the real conviction that nothing reigns 
 in human affairs and in the universe but brute force. 
 In giving to the cause of the Allies our support, moral and 
 economic, we are aiding the highest forces and hopes of 
 mankind, and we are opposing in our strength the mili- 
 tarism that has made a covenant with death and a league 
 with hell. 
 
 As an American citizen of British birth, I have till now 
 neither written nor spoken on this tragedy of humanity. 
 I have refrained because I desired to keep my American 
 citizenship inviolate, and because I did not wish to follow 
 the example of other American citizens of foreign birth. 
 Now that the end of the war, though still far distant, is 
 within sight, and since there is little likelihood that the 
 United States will be drawn into this conflict, one may 
 express one's thoughts and hopes with less reserve. I 
 desire ardently that the people of the United States 
 should, by their more abundant gifts to the relief of suffer- 
 ing, gain an increasing share in the experiences of re- 
 surgent manhood plainly seen to be coming among the 
 Allied nations. Part of the mighty issues of the sufferings 
 and achievements of these Allied peoples will be a new 
 perspective of values; a new solidarity of souls whose 
 wealth of memories, insights, ideals, and hopes no mind 
 can measure; a new world of men. Our people must not 
 grovel while kindred nations soar; we must claim a place 
 in their high fellowship by a greater ministry to their 
 distress. 
 
 George A. Gordon. 
 
 "Oh, the man is always full of the most visionary 
 schemes. He's quite capable of forming a company to 
 get silver out of the linings of the darkest clouds." 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 59 
 
 A Sheaf of War Memories. 
 
 {Conlinued.) 
 
 Our next touch with the outside world was when a 
 family of refugees from Louvain arrived in the town^ 
 This was really an event, and we went in at once to see 
 what could be done for them. We found the sorry group 
 sitting in the dining-room of the principal hotel, nine in 
 all, including two babies, — a buxom elderly woman, her 
 two daughters, one son-in-law, a nephew, two grand- 
 children, and a waif, little Victor. The two men and 
 one of the daughters spoke French, and we sat there for 
 more than an hour, hearing tales of such unspeakable 
 horrors that, in spite of the truthful manner of the Bel- 
 gians, we fully believed them only when we had heard 
 and investigated too many to leave room for doubt. 
 
 We all took great comfort in spoiling our refugees; 
 any amount of dresses, hats, gloves, and so on were sent 
 to the comfortable house lent to them, and we could not 
 imagine why they always appeared in the shabby clothes 
 they had worn when they first came among us. Finally 
 we discovered that their chief pleasure was in remaking 
 and carefully putting aside their new raiment against the 
 day when they would return to their own country; we 
 evidently were not worthy to see the glories. One day 
 a lady who spoke Flemish came to Noirmoutier, and 
 went to see the mother of the family, who could never 
 speak a word of French. Naturally enchanted to be able 
 to talk to some one besides her own family, she told the 
 ghastly story, already familiar to us, speaking with great 
 calmness and clearness; she kept entire self-control until 
 at the end of her recital she suddenly broke down com- 
 pletely, and burst into violent weeping. Her visitor 
 made out through her sobs the wail: "I shall never see 
 again my beautiful kitchen stove! I bought it only a 
 month before the devils came, and now I shall never see 
 it again — never again!" 
 
 Little Victor, the only outsider, had his own special 
 history. A boy of twelve, he was to sail from Antwerp 
 with his mother and her eight children, having escaped 
 from Louvain. They were all on board the boat lying 
 at the pier, when the mother asked a sailor if she had time 
 to send Victor ashore to buy bread for the voyage. Re- 
 ceiving an affirmative reply, the boy landed, bought his 
 loaves, and returned to see the boat far away in the river. 
 He did not even know for what port she was bound, and 
 was bandied about from one place to another, a poor little 
 bundle of unclaimed humanity, until at Calais some one 
 attached him to the band of his townsfolk bound for our 
 island. There he became at once a hero, and was taken 
 possession of by our Mayor, who is a vice-consul of Bel- 
 gium. He and his wife live alone in a spacious house, as. 
 big as their own hearts, and were delighted to install 
 Victor there. But a difficulty arose; the sturdy, stolid 
 urchin, whose chief aim during the day seemed to be to 
 secure food, and then again food, became at night the 
 prey of his past experiences. He would wake up two or 
 three times shrieking with fear, the memory of his little 
 comrades whom he had seen spitted by the Germans 
 terrifying him beyond control. At these awful moments 
 he required the accents of his own tongue to soothe him, 
 and it was finally arranged that he was to sleep in his 
 compatriots' house, returning in the morning to lead the 
 life of a pet dog at the Mayor's. Everything therefore 
 was well with him; but the thought of that mother, 
 steaming away, not knowing what fate awaited her boy, 
 haunted us, and we wrote about him to Mrs. Fisher 
 Unwin in London, knowing well that no one ever turned 
 to her in vain for help. One day about two months later 
 I opened a letter addressed to me, and found within a 
 post-card written in a strange language, beginning, 
 "Bestes Victor." In two shakes of a lamb's tail, as we 
 
 used to say in the nursery, I was on my way to the town, 
 and in half an hour I entered the Mayor's house. Victor 
 was in the dining-room eating a large slice of bread 
 covered with red currant jelly; he had bitten two cres- 
 cents out of it, and his mouth was enlarged by a curve at 
 either end, which gave him a ruddy, artificial smile. He 
 took the card, held it in his free hand, and read it to the 
 end. Then two tears filled his eyes to the brim, trembled 
 on the edge, and finally, with true Flemish deliberation, 
 rolled down his fat cheeks, mingling with his jellied smile. 
 His family had learnt of his whereabouts from Mrs. Un- 
 win's advertisement, and their first idea was to have 
 Victor rejoin them. But he was reluctant to leave the 
 Mayor's wife, she was distressed to think of parting with 
 him, and so Victor stays on. The last time I saw him 
 I had occasion to rate him soundly for driving the grocer's 
 old horse at an ungodly pace, thus risking his own neck, 
 but more especially, as I told him, treating the poor 
 creature in a Boche-like way. 
 
 In those early days the war seemed to us islanders as 
 far off and unreal as some fabulous beast — a thing to 
 dream about and shudder at, but not an actuality. I 
 recall to-day as if it were very long ago the first time we 
 saw a wounded man. He was a rosy, chubby petty 
 officer, who strutted about with his right hand bound up, 
 followed by a bevy of admiring girls. I use to laugh 
 when I saw them, and feel a sort of impatient amusement 
 at the sight. "He looks as if he ought to be rolling hoop 
 instead of masquerading as soldier," I thought. Then 
 one day we met by chance, he was introduced, and 
 walked home to Le Gaillardin with us, and there I heard 
 from an eyewitness some of the stories I had read in the 
 papers, and could not believe. He told us of his first ex- 
 perience; it was in Belgium; he was riding along a country 
 road with two of his men, and they stopped to watch a 
 big farm-house burning. Thinking he heard cries of dis- 
 tress, he dismounted and ran to the place. As he ap- 
 proached, the shrill cries grew louder; he signed to his 
 men to follow, and with great difficulty they succeeded 
 in wrenching ofi' the planks that had been nailed across 
 the door. They burst it open just in time to rescue a 
 group of women, girls, and babies who had been sys- 
 tematically shut in, every opening having been carefully 
 fastened from the outside. He told us other things as 
 brutal, if not more so, and then we asked him how he got 
 his wound. He replied that the scratch was not worth 
 such an honorable name, and then launched into a de- 
 scription of the charge in which he had been hurt. He 
 stood by the window, and, pointing with his left hand 
 towards the peaceful fields resting from their summer's 
 work under an autumn sky, he said: "It was like this. 
 We were encamped along a line of several kilometers; 
 we knew we were going to charge when the signal was 
 given, and every man was wondering if he should feel as 
 scared when it came as he did then. Suddenly, far off 
 to the right — as if it were there, by the old mill, for in- 
 stance — came a faint bugle call — too-t-t-too-too-too — 
 then a moment or so after, another one a little louder — 
 there, by the group of willows — too-t-t-too-too-too, only 
 about a kilometer to our right. We could hear the men 
 cheer, and were quivering with impatience. 'Keep 
 back! Keep back!' shouted ourofficers, and for a moment 
 we obeyed; but then came the third call, close by this 
 time, down there by the well! Too-t-t-too-too-too! and 
 if our officers gave any orders this time we did not hear 
 them. We dashed forward, crazy men, yelling like mad. 
 It was a magnificent charge! I wish my infernal hand 
 would hurry up and get well." He had his wish, the 
 plucky, rosy, little sub-lieutenant; he was soon back at 
 the front, and his mother never saw her boy again. 
 
 Helen Choate Prince. 
 
 {To he continued) 
 
60 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 contributing editors 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 
 Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
 Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, S1.50, may be 
 sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at the booth. 
 
 COPYRir^T, 1916, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Special Daily Features of the Bazaar. 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band, Donald 
 Sawyer and Polly Prior in Exhibition Dancing from 4 to 
 
 6 P.M. 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Golf Lessons. To-day and evening in charge of Wilfred 
 Raid, Wilmington, Delaware. 
 
 Paul Revere Hall, 2.30.— Mrs. Hill will tell about the 
 Frontier Children and the work of the Association for 
 the Protection of Frontier Children; stereopticon pictures. 
 
 3. — The War in Cartoon, by Mr. A. G. Racey, of 
 Montreal; Stereopticon Pictures; a unique entertain- 
 ment, effective, powerful and graphic. 
 
 8. — Mr. A. G. Racey will repeat his unique talk of the 
 War in Cartoon, with Stereopticon Pictures. 
 
 Main Hall, 9.45. — Madame Pauline Donalda, Canadian 
 Prima Donna; Canadian Patriotic Songs. 
 
 Golf-set number one has been awarded to Miss 
 Julia C. Pendergast, of Bay State Road. 
 
 A GENTLEMAN seeing the sign "Hot Dogs in the Base- 
 ment" remarked that that accounted for the continual 
 barking to be heard there. 
 
 Young Mrs. X., wearing a brooch which had been 
 one of her wedding gifts a few years ago, was stopped 
 the other evening by a lady who greeted her joyously. 
 "I am so glad to find you," the stranger said; "I want to 
 take a chance on the diamond pin." "I am afraid I 
 cannot help you," Mrs. X. returned, rather startled. 
 "Oh, of course you can," was the reply. "Why, you 
 have it on." It took serious argument to convince the 
 stranger that she was in error, and even then she went 
 away with the air of being only half satisfied. 
 
 If elephants could hop like fleas, what a power they 
 would be in close fighting. 
 
 If any advertising dodge funnier or more effective than 
 "Charlie Chaplin, just from the trenches," has ever been 
 devised, it has not been our good fortune to see it. 
 
 A Nation's Angel. 
 
 It is not all a spending to no good, this debauchery of 
 waste in war. The debit side is an appalling one: na- 
 tions possibly bankrupt, beauty scarred and even wiped 
 out utterly, lifelong suffering for millions and the life- 
 long grief of loss for millions more, wholesale destruction 
 of youth and the unguessed dowry it had brought us, and 
 
 even the certainty — a negligible pain! — that some of us, 
 though far from any immediate crippling, must eat and 
 drink in sorrow all our lives because of it; yet even in 
 the face of such destruction what flowers bloom over the 
 field of blood! What richness broods in those deep- 
 hearted blossoms of a willing sacrifice! If the young poet 
 Rupert Brooke had lived through a high fulfilment to 
 old age, he might never have touched such beauty as in 
 the handful of verse he snatched for us on the edge of his 
 waiting grave. They are showering us with beauty, 
 these dying ones, tossing it back to us in the haste of their 
 going. With both hands out and eyes raised to watch 
 for it, we shall treasure it for all time, a gift from them 
 who hardly stay to see what they have given. 
 
 "Things are not always for the best, but the best can 
 be made out of them." It was not for the immediate 
 best that Germany went mad and planned this butchery; 
 but since that was the inevitable festering of the poison 
 she had fed on, it was for the infinitely beautiful best that 
 she should be met, as she has been, by the horror and 
 reprobation of the world and the Everlasting No of the 
 countries she set out to plunder. The beauty of it — a 
 thing for happy laughter in the face of carnage — that 
 you can't get away from God! You can't blow up the 
 earth so deep that it won't answer with a new fertility. 
 Germany plotted the worst things she could imagine for 
 the nation she hated and the nations she envied, and she 
 has merely given them a more beautiful vision than the 
 heart of man conceived: the sight of their own angels, 
 not obscured by clouds of a dull dubiety, but walking with 
 them, day by day. For there is the spirit of a nation of 
 which the census takes no account, and quite apart from 
 acreage and national resources. It is like the unconscious 
 self of a man, betrayed by less than word or look, in spite 
 of him. Could any of us who believe England is su- 
 premely in the right to-day tell how the self that is her 
 spirit, as the spirit of a man is his, shines before our eyes? 
 That composite something which is England, France, 
 Belgium, gigantic Russia, do we not see them throwing 
 off the veils our tardy understanding clothed them with 
 and rising in a many-colored beauty most moving and 
 bewildering to us.' Yet not bewildering to them: for a 
 nation's angel, like a man's angel, is calm and kind, and 
 to walk with him the sanest possible thing. I can think 
 of no more blessed vision for a nation doing its plain duty 
 in a righteous cause than this sight of its own angel. 
 England has it, France, Belgium, Russia. Thej- will not 
 forget. 
 
 Alice Brown. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 The visitor was evidently Irish, a woman not greatly 
 under middle age, dowdily dressed for fifteen years 
 younger than she looked, and with an expression in her 
 black eyes which showed at least firmness of disposition. 
 The Editor regarded her speculatively. 
 
 "What can I do for you.'"' he asked. 
 
 "I come in, sor, to put an adveraV^ment in your paper." 
 
 "We do not have advertisements." 
 
 "Then good is me chance for that people will take 
 notice of mine," she responded, settling back on her 
 hips with a pugnacious air. "I'm told the gentry all 
 reads yer paper, and it's them I'm thinkin' of obligin'. 
 Then ye'd naturally be chargin' less if yer don't have 
 any others; owin' to not bein' able to get 'em loikely; 
 and me out of a place goin' on seven weeks." 
 
 She seated herself without invitation, her mien evi- 
 dently meaning business, and arguing ill for the Editor's 
 forenoon. 
 
 "I'll be as good a housekeeper as ever a dacint man 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 61 
 
 would lay hand on, sor; and you may know yersilf some 
 gentleman as would want a lady to take care of him, for 
 '11 go to no place agin where there's women in the 
 family." 
 
 The Editor reflected that a "d-acint man" would 
 think twice before he laid hand on a person so belligerent, 
 and wondered how he was to get rid of her. 
 
 "I suppose you know how to cook," he observed 
 absently. 
 
 "Do I know how to cook, is it.^" she returned strenu- 
 ously. "I can that for all cookin' that's plain, and a 
 Christian crature ought to eat; but I ain't one to hold 
 with single gentlemen havin' their friends eat at home 
 with them, and expectin' a poor cook to stew up un- 
 holy French things that would make a cat sick. And 
 the washin' of course would go out, and a woman to 
 come in once or twice a week for the extra cleanin' up; 
 and me days out he'd naturally get his victuals at the 
 club." 
 
 "And what are your duties?" inquired the Editor, 
 speculatively. 
 
 "Me, now.? Wouldn't I be doin' the housekeepi" He 
 most likely 'd have his breakfasts to home, and you never 
 can tell how them single men will be wantin' ye to cook 
 his dinner two or three times in a week extra." 
 
 "And his luncheon.'" 
 
 "No gentleman would be after aitin' his lunch to home," 
 the caller responded in a tone of finality; and the Editor 
 reflected how far short, if tried by this standard, he fell 
 of her ideal of a gentleman. 
 
 "Of course you are used to the care of a house," he ob- 
 served absently, his mind divided between pity for her 
 victims and schemes to get her out. 
 
 "I don't hold with houses for single gents," she said. 
 "A fiat with electric lights and an elevator and a gas- 
 range is far more suited; and it ain't so cruel hard on 
 the poor girls." 
 
 "I suppose you would insist upon a piano.?" he in- 
 quired in a passionless tone. 
 
 "No, sir; I would not that. I don't hold with piana- 
 playin' myself; but I'd take it kind if the gent what lived 
 with me would lend the loan of his Victor of an evening 
 when me friends was in." 
 
 The Editor had begun to regard his visitor with a 
 fixed stare, as if she were something unreal and impossible, 
 yet which was obstinately persistent to the inner vision. 
 
 "And your wages?" he asked feebly. 
 
 "No dacint lady would take a job to work herself to 
 death for a single gent, and have all the trouble of his 
 comin' in late at night and like as not wakin' her up 
 slammin' the door, for less than tin dollars the week." 
 
 The Editor rose. 
 
 "If I hear of any single gentleman who wants just 
 such a housekeeper," he said, "I will speak to him of 
 you. You have good references, I suppose?" 
 
 "No, sor; nor I don't need 'em. My last gentleman 
 died on me hands sudden loike, and me only in the house 
 three weeks; and the one before that ran away. But 
 Timmy Brady, the perliceman that keeps company 
 wid me, '11 speak for me gladly, especiallv if it be on his 
 beat." 
 
 She rose in her turn, and the Editor opened the door. 
 
 "Ye'll tell him me name is Bridget O'Shaunnasy, and 
 I'm to be found at 13 Shamrock Street, South Boston." 
 
 "Very well," he said, holding the door very wide 
 open. 
 
 "But my adver/xV^ment?" she demanded. 
 
 "Oh, that is all right," he replied. "I'll write it at 
 once." 
 
 And he did, although he expected nobody to believe 
 such a "lady" had ever visited him. Here it is. 
 
 The Letter Bag. 
 
 [Thr joUoiving extract is Jroin a letter written in acknowledgment oj a 
 Lafayette outfit. This is the soldier's account of himself, and it loses 
 so much in translation that we give the original.] 
 
 Ce 5 OCTOBRE — 1916 — 14 heures. . . . Sachez d'abord que je n'ai pas 
 de famille. Mes parents sont morts il y a quelques annees. Je suis 
 orphelin, celibataire. J'ai 33 ans. J'avais un frere plus jeune que 
 moi de si.x ans; il a ete malheureusement tue a la guerre. Je suis done 
 seul. Je suis a la guerre depuis le debut. Je remplis les fonctions 
 d'agent de liaison du Colonel de mon regiment. Ce qui consiste a trans- 
 mettre ses ordres ecrits ou paries aux officiers qui sont sous ses ordres. 
 Fonction tres delicate et tres dangereuse en temps de combats. . . . 
 Avant la guerre j'e.\ercii;ais la profession de coiffeur, et cela en prati- 
 quant beaucoup les sports. Principalment, les courses de taureau tres 
 en honneur chez nous, le midi de la France. Puisque vous avez beaucoup 
 voyage, vous avez sans doute entendu parler de cette attraction. 
 
 Si vous ne connaissez pas je vous promets de vous envoyer apres la 
 guerre des journeaux taurins, des photographies me representant dans 
 mes e.\ercises en public "sauts au dessus des taureaux sauvages fonjant 
 a toute vitesse sur moi." .-^u moment d'etre saisi par les cornes je 
 fais un bond et la franchis passant ainsi par dessus ses cornes meurtrieres. 
 
 Habitue au danger mcprisant la mort, je vous affirmequ'a la guerre jene 
 crains pas I'ennemi, je remplis mon devoir avec conscience et continurais 
 jusqu'a la fin. Ma conduite sous le feu ma valu 2 fois d'etre I'objet de 
 citations avec la decoration de la croix-de-guerre. J'espere que sou 
 peu nous aurons raison de cette race maudite qui avait la pretention de 
 mettre le monde entier sous le joug de la barbaric Germanique. 
 
 Nous nous battons avec confiance en la victoire et cela pour la paix 
 mondiale, pour la liberte! Ayez confiance .Americains nos amis, vous 
 qui nous aidez par votre generosite et qui etes toujours avec nous par 
 la pensee. "Nous les aurons" comme nous disons en France. C'est 
 notre cri de Ruerre. . . . 
 
 The War Mother on Christinas Eve. 
 
 Baby Jesus slept in a manger. — 
 
 Yes! but it was warm. 
 Heavenly rapture, cobweb-clouded, 
 
 Sheltered it from storm. 
 Mary Mother brooded o'er Him; — 
 
 Who so glad as she.^ — 
 Bowed her head, and prayed before Him, 
 
 Proud as proud could be. 
 
 Baby Jesus heard the angels 
 
 Singing in a row; 
 Hand in hand about the stable 
 
 Courtesying full low. 
 \Iary Mother joyed to hear them. 
 
 Spoke them sweet and low; 
 Clapped her hands and laughed to cheer them, 
 
 With her lovely show. 
 
 All, my son! no friendly hovel 
 
 Spreads o'er you its roof. 
 Ah, my son! no golden angels ' 
 
 Sing for your behoof. 
 And your mother, watching, weeping 
 
 In a dreary daze, 
 Wonders — is 't in death you're sleeping 
 
 While she wakes and prays? 
 
 Jesus! Master! go beside him 
 
 Through the cruel strife! 
 So shall good and grace attend him, 
 
 Whether death or life. 
 And, O Mother, patient standing 
 
 By the bitter cross, 
 Comfort me, first understanding 
 
 Now thy loss! 
 
 Laura E. Richards. 
 
 The expressman who presented himself yesterday with 
 what he said was a package for "the Buzzer" might have 
 been supposed to have heard the daily and nightly 
 buzzing of the crowd. 
 
 One of the things which may well be remembered by 
 workers is that every interested person becomes in turn a 
 centre from which interest spreads. Every person who 
 is induced to help, each one whose sympathy is aroused, 
 is thenceforth, whether he appreciates the fact or not, 
 helping to extend the spirit of the work. 
 
62 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 A Modern Japanese Play. 
 
 The Imperial Theatre at Tokio, under the patronage of 
 the Royal Family, represents the highest development of 
 contemporary Japanese dramatic art. Except for the 
 bridge through the orchestra between the stage and the 
 tire-room, it is built like any Western playhouse, is well 
 appointed, comfortable, and not unpleasant to the eye. 
 Its stock-company includes the actors and actresses of 
 most repute in the kingdom; and months when in the 
 plays the male roles are most important alternate with 
 months when the female parts take the lead. 
 
 I saw here last winter a performance consisting of five 
 plays, and extending from four to ten p.m. An inter- 
 mission for supper, most excellently served in the restau- 
 rant upstairs, and another of twenty minutes for smok- 
 ing, broke the time agreeably. Two of the plays were 
 classics, wonderfully played, and in robes which, if sex 
 obtains in heaven, might have shaken the whole heavenly 
 hierarchy with feminine jealousy. The three others 
 showed what the younger Japanese writers are doing. 
 One was a farce, sufficiently crude as a whole, but with 
 moments of drollery hardly to be surpassed; one was a 
 play of flying-machines, of which the last act took place 
 in the air; the third was a harrowing study of transmitted 
 insanity. It was during the month when the actresses 
 had their innings, and in new and old plays alike they were 
 chiefly to the fore. A geisha who was the finest aviator 
 of her school was the heroine of one play; while the last 
 afforded the heroine a chance to out-Bernhardt Bern- 
 hardt in her own line. 
 
 The Japanese are essentially imitative, and the French 
 models of the melodramatic plays wfere evident. Dis- 
 tortion and exaggeration made them a little ridiculous; 
 but the Japanese dramatists, far from meaning to satirize, 
 were certainly deadly in earnest. 
 
 The stage for "Heredity," the third play, was set as 
 the courtyard of a large farm-house. At the back, about 
 half the stage was occupied by a veranda a couple of feet 
 high, and coming a third of the way to the footlights. 
 To the right of it a wide gate-door gave on the open coun- 
 try, and in place of wings that side showed the front of 
 farm-buildings, with piles of rice-bags and agricultural 
 tools. The farm belonged to an old widower, an invalid, 
 who had three children: a son of twenty-five who has 
 just been drawn for the army, a daughter a couple of 
 years younger, and an idiot boy of twenty. The eldest 
 son is about to join, and while the play has its only cheer- 
 ful moment in a mock drill which a sergeant gets up with 
 the farm-laborers and the idiot, he confides to his sister 
 that he is leaving in great trouble. Mortgages on the 
 farm, which to soothe the mind of his sick father he has 
 represented as paid, have really fallen into the hands of 
 an enemy, who threatens to foreclose. He fears the 
 shock will kill his father. She is much overcome, but 
 promises to seek help from the man to whom she is be- 
 trothed. The act is interesting as giving a realistic pict- 
 ure of farm-life, and the idiot's clowning in the drill was 
 well done. 
 
 The second act, at evening, brings in the villain. The 
 sister receives him in the veranda, while the idiot sits on 
 the ground in the courtyard, sharpening a reaping-hook. 
 The villain comes directly to the point, and offers to sell 
 the mortgages for the girl's honor. She receives his 
 proposition with scorn, and he thereupon has out the old 
 father. Despite her entreaties, he discloses to the farmer 
 the truth about the mortgages. The old man begs that 
 he may be allowed to die on the place his family has owned 
 for generations, but the villain only repeats his vile pro- 
 posal. This is rejected by the father with indignation 
 m turn; and then the creditor plays his trump card. He 
 
 informs the farmer that he knows his family secret that 
 insanity is hereditary in the blood, and declares that if 
 the girl rejects him he will use the fact to break off an 
 advantageous marriage which has been arranged for the 
 elder son. 
 
 This is too much for the sick man, who thereupon 
 collapses, and is got away by the daughter and an attend- 
 ant. The idiot, who has been all this time at his task, 
 begins to take notice, but does not seem much moved. 
 When, however, his sister comes back to fling herself on 
 her knees to the villain only to be thrown brutally to the 
 ground, he drops the hook, and with one bound gains the 
 veranda. He springs at the other man's throat, and they 
 struggle, while the girl, with the idea of parting them, 
 puts out the light, leaving the stage in that state of partial 
 — perhaps one might more accurately say impartial — 
 darkness so madly dear to the heart of Mr. Russell, 
 late manager of the Boston Opera House. The idiot, 
 after a mighty tussle, is flung senseless to the ground. 
 Then the hereditary doom comes upon the unhappy sister, 
 and she goes furiously, shriekingly mad. She grapples 
 with the villain, they struggle, they wrestle, they fall, 
 they roll about, crash from the veranda to the ground 
 below, and for long harrowing moments thrash wildly 
 over the ground. The whole action was performed with 
 extreme realism, and was nerve-scraping to a degree. 
 At last the hand of the girl comes in contact with the hook 
 which her brother had been sharpening. She seizes it, 
 and begins insanely to slash the man. The struggle is 
 for some moments more mad than ever, as he makes a 
 desperate fight for his life, but in the end he succumbs. 
 Then she tears herself free from his dying clasp, with a 
 wild yell flings down the bloody reaping-hook, and dashes 
 into the house. 
 
 The pretty little Japanese maidens in the seat before 
 me had quite soaked their sleeves with their tears during 
 this harrowing scene, and we heaved a sigh of relief to 
 be at last done with its horrors. We felt that nothing 
 else could happen; but we reckoned without our dramatist. 
 The curtain for the third act went up on a garden wall, 
 between which and the spectator stretched a canal. A 
 gate in the wall opened slowly, and out crawled the 
 wretched villain, "blood-boultered" to an extent which 
 must have made the actor's expenditure for carmine 
 grease-paint a considerable item in his bills. Painfully 
 supporting himself by the gate-posts, he came in. In- 
 stantly a scream was heard inside. The heroine had 
 evidently gone to view the remains, and, not finding them, 
 had followed the blood-trail. She rushed furiously 
 after him, and a fresh wrestling-match ensued. It was 
 brief, for it did not now take her long to overcome the 
 wounded man, and -to fling him into the canal. She then 
 did a Lucia di Lammermoor scene by herself, marred 
 a bit by her feeling with her foot for the place on the 
 artificial bank of the canal which was to support her 
 when she followed him, and ended by precipitating her- 
 self in after her victim. For the second time we gave a 
 sigh of relief, and thought no more horrors could be 
 forthcoming. For the second time we were disappointed. 
 On her back, as if floating in the "raging canal," the mad 
 girl rose again to sight, and from her mouth spouted a jet 
 of water, much as a whale spouts when he comes up to 
 breathe. Then again she sank, and this time, to our great 
 relief, she remained below. 
 
 The sobs of the audience testified to the great effective- 
 ness of the play; but, contrasting it with the lovely old 
 classic which had preceded it, I was old-fashioned enough 
 to be inclined to feel that the land was selling its birth- 
 right for an extremely poor mess of pottage. a. b. 
 
 A sugaring off: a reconciliation of lovers. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 63 
 
 England and America. 
 
 Within a few days, one of our Boston morning news- 
 papers contained two large head-lines which tended to 
 increase irritation with England. One concerned the 
 advice of the Federal Reserve Board against investment 
 by banks in foreign securities; the other concerned the re- 
 fusal of the British government to grant safe-conduct to 
 the new Austrian ambassador to the United States. The 
 former may be considered as a general intimation of what 
 may conceivably come to pass; the latter is another of 
 those vexatious incidents which have accumulatingly re- 
 vived in this country the traditional resentments more or 
 less dormant here ever since the Revolutionary War. 
 
 In view of this, we may do well to remind ourselves of 
 the two chief wars in our national history — that Revolu- 
 tionary War in which our independence was asserted, and 
 the Civil War of half a century ago which finally secured 
 the Union. DiiTerent though we are apt to think them, 
 there can be no doubt that both were civil wars, or that 
 both were wars of secession. Had the Revolutionary 
 War gone the other way, we might still have been in fact 
 — as we remain both in language and in law — a part of the 
 British Empire. Had the Civil War gone the other way, 
 our country might now be under two distinct sovereignties, 
 — the United States, which had remained under the origi- 
 nal Constitution, and the Southern Confederacy. Even 
 so, these distinct sovereignties would inevitably have 
 had the same language, and historically the same law; 
 in other words, no matter how high feeling might have 
 run, they would have had in common, from the very facts 
 of their national origin, the same ancestral ideals. 
 
 Under such circumstances, if a completely foreign 
 power had threatened either of these sovereignties, the 
 other might well have found itself by this time instinc- 
 tively, if not consciously, aware that the ideals on which 
 it was itself based were threatened, too. It is not incon- 
 ceivable that even though North and South had been in- 
 dependent of each other for two generations, a common 
 danger might have brought North and South together, in 
 whole-hearted alliance, to defend the principles from 
 which the existence of both alike had sprung. Anything 
 else would have meant stupendous lack of historical 
 imagination. 
 
 Though unusual exercise of historical imagination may 
 be needful to perceive the conclusion involved in this line 
 of thought, there is no reason to suppose intelligent Ameri- 
 cans incapable of drawing it. At the moment, the 
 national existence of England, the mother of our language, 
 our laws, our literature, and our ideals, is tremendously 
 threatened. It is threatened by a system of which the 
 language, the laws, the literature, and the ideals^ — what- 
 ever their positive merit — are alien to those of England, 
 and therefore historically to ours. We of America are in 
 such historical relation to England as a Southern Con- 
 federacy might have been in to a Northern United States 
 threatened with completely alien conquest. Not a few 
 among us have realized this ever since the outbreak, in 
 1914, of the fiercest war in all European history. The 
 more of us who can be brought to realize it, the less danger 
 that our country may drift, as it drifted in 1812, into an 
 undesired war which would threaten throughout the 
 world, beyond anything yet recorded, the great principle 
 of popular government. Let us be patient. 
 
 Barrett Wendell. 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 XLII. 
 Into my whole old William went, 
 
 My first upon his finger; 
 Memories and dreams of long ago 
 
 Around his second linger. 
 
 Times are not as they were of old," 
 He mused, and sighed most sadly; 
 And on my first lay down to grieve, 
 The second went so badly. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 My first's a house, but not a home; 
 
 My ne.xt a stream men name in song; 
 My third restrains when feet would roam. 
 
 But gives men fame enduring long; 
 My fourth a hollow, but a thing not meant. 
 That with my third may mark a tent. 
 My whole should every people be; 
 And yet, alas! too much so we. 
 
 XLIV. 
 Without my first and my whole thread. 
 No cobbler could second to earn his bread. 
 
 XLV. 
 Soft was the first the setting sun 
 
 Threw over wold and lea, 
 .As toward my second I must run, 
 
 Lest four should wait for me. 
 
 Well knew I what sweet third would spy 
 
 To see me near the place; 
 That face would glad my lover's eye. 
 
 Fair with my whole's dear grace. 
 
 The Letter Bag. 
 
 [The writer quoted in the last number sent home this rhyme, which he found 
 in a deserted Belgian cottage which had been occupied by British officers.] 
 MR. ATKINS' PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 When you're sleepin' on the fire-step in a blanket soakin' wet, 
 
 When the mud is in your eyes, your mouth and in your 'air, you bet, 
 
 When the rain comes through your dugout roof and drips down on your 
 
 nose. 
 When your feet are blinkin' icebergs, and you 'aven't got no toes. 
 When the neighbours in your shirt are dancin' 'ornpipes on your chest, 
 When you've dug for 14 days on end and 'aven't 'ad no rest. 
 When the Corp'ril's pinched your rations and the Sarjeant's pinched 
 
 your rum. 
 Then never curse or swear, but simply smile — Remember Belgi-um. 
 
 When the Alleman blows off your 'at or 'elmet with a crump," 
 
 When the aerial torpedoes scarcely give you time to jump, 
 
 When you're always in the 'ottest part and never 'ave no luck. 
 
 When the whizz-bangs' come so quick you 'aven't got a chance to duck. 
 
 When trench-mortar bombs an' shrapnel seem to 'ave a love for you, 
 
 When in trying to retaliate your own guns shell you too. 
 
 When you 'ear the bullets singin' and your 'ead they nearly 'it — 
 
 Never mind, but just remember — you're a-doin' of your bit. 
 
 When your billet's in a cow-shed and the bloomin' roof all leaks. 
 When you're only paid ten francs for pretty well a dozen weeks. 
 When if sick the Doctor gives you M. and D.J and sends you back. 
 When you've lost your iron ration,'' your smoke 'elmet and your pack. 
 When your rifle's choked with mud and you get F. P. no. 2,' 
 When your pals all go to blightey," every bloomin' one but you. 
 When you've got to 'op the parapet' and courage is at zero — 
 Just remember '00 you are, my lad — a bloomin' British 'ero. 
 
 'Crump = high explosive shell. 
 
 ' Whizz-bang = small explosive shell. 
 
 jM. and D. = Medicine and Duty. 
 
 < Iron ration = emergency food in tins. 
 
 s F. P. no. 2 = Field Punishment no. 2, entailing dirty jobs. 
 
 * Blightey = home. 
 
 ' 'op the parapet = come out of the trench. 
 
 Little Bailey's nurse left, and for the first time he 
 slept alone. On waking, in the early morning, he kept 
 so still that his mother commended him. He replied 
 indignantly, "Well; I guess I'm not here to wake the 
 ladies." 
 
 Dr. Weir Mitchell once told of a man who had a set 
 of false teeth stuck in his gullet, and of the difficulty in 
 getting them out. "Could he talk just as well after- 
 ward.'"' asked his hearer. "Oh, after that," said the 
 doctor, "he spoke in a falsetto voice." 
 
64 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Rhymes of the Diamond. 
 
 I. 
 
 Three baseball men a-sliding went, 
 
 All on a summer day; 
 They slid for bases, with intent 
 
 To carry on the play. 
 The first slid for the first, and out; 
 
 The second second made; 
 Tile third had got the third, no doubt, 
 
 Had the ball been delayed. 
 
 II. 
 "Umpire," I said, "eggs are so dear. 
 
 Why can't you help us out.' 
 ^ ou're surely able to, 'tis clear. 
 
 With all your fouls about" 
 ""We might," he said, and gave a groan, 
 
 "And much indeed we'd like; 
 But every blessed foul we have 
 
 Is always on a strike." 
 
 III. 
 "Why is the plate called home.'" I asked. 
 
 "It has no homelike air." 
 "'It is because," the Umpire said, 
 
 ■"The balls are punished there." 
 
 IV. 
 
 "What public service do you do.'" 
 
 I to the Umpire said. 
 "We swat the fly," he made reply, 
 
 With knowing wag of head. 
 
 V. 
 ""Umpire," said I, "'tis in the day 
 
 All others sport about. 
 Why will the nines refuse to play 
 
 Until the bat comes out.'" 
 The Umpire marked me with his eye. 
 
 And then most rudely said: 
 '"The bats about your belfry fly; 
 
 Go home and soak your head!" 
 
 VT. 
 The champion game of all jhe season, 
 Ended unfinished, for the reason 
 Tom Grogan he stole all the bases. 
 And naught was left to mark their places. 
 
 VII. 
 A grind asked to play on the team 
 As short-stop, said; "Really, I deem 
 
 Men in college should seek 
 
 More exactly to speak. 
 It's comma, I think, that you mean." 
 
 VIII. 
 "Umpire," I said, "when strikers fan. 
 
 Of course it is that they are cool." 
 As if he had not heard, the man 
 
 Murmured but this: "I hate a fool." 
 
 IX. 
 "The centre-field," the Umpire said, 
 
 "'S a perfect strawberry-plant, no doubt." 
 I asked him why; he made reply: 
 
 "He throws so many runners out." 
 
 X. 
 
 I said: "In winter, I suppose. 
 
 Unless my judgment greatly errs. 
 Pitchers, when outdoor seasons close. 
 
 Are pitchers for the orchestras." 
 "You err indeed," the Umpire said; 
 
 "With music they have naught to do: 
 They work to stop the seams, instead, 
 
 Of ships that sail the ocean blue." 
 
 XI. 
 
 "Umpire," I begged, "in English plain. 
 
 Pray tell why that last man they hiss." 
 The Umpire gave his scorn free rein. 
 
 And with simplicity said this: 
 "Three men on sacks, and with a tie 
 
 On the last half of ninth they hitch. 
 For a ground-hugging drive they cry, 
 
 And he foul-bunted a wild pitch!" 
 
 Peter Ha.ncock. 
 
 Answers to Correspondents. 
 
 Bridget. Yes, it is excellent play to trump your 
 partner's ace. The trick is probably a sure one, and 
 so you save your trump. 
 
 Tennison. When the game is at deuce, you may make 
 a telling coup by faulting and then serving the second ball 
 into the net. Your adversary cannot possibly return it. 
 
 Pacifist. You ask what the Peace Society is to do if 
 "war sounds her tocsin through the land." We speak 
 with no authority, but we suppose the Peace Society 
 would sound an Anti-toxin. 
 
 Myrtilla. If you find yourself unable to decide be- 
 tween two suitors, whom you say are equally handsome, 
 agreeable, and rich, you might do worse than to consider 
 what sort of a mother-in-law each would provide you with. 
 
 Amelette. The secret of dividing the lines in the 
 new poetry is known only to the elect. It has not, so 
 far as we know, been patented; but, like the receipt for 
 making the poisonous gas used in the trenches, it is care- 
 fully guarded. One important thing, however, is evi- 
 dently to begin a line with a preposition if possible, and 
 the closing line is hardly ever other than a prepositional 
 phrase. 
 
 Corpulence. We have never heard that the home- 
 opathists prescribe double quantity of food as a remedy 
 for corpulence. 
 
 Rosabel. Yes, it is, we believe, true that a foreign 
 actress has achieved a mild sensation by wearing a nose- 
 ring; but we do not on that account advise you to have 
 your nostril pierced, — or at least not at present. It is 
 possible that in a year or two the operation may be 
 necessary if you wish to be in the fashion; it may even 
 be that ladies will have holes made in their lips for lip- 
 rings. At present, however, you are quite safe with a 
 nose-jewel which fastens on with a clasp. 
 
 An Autograph Trap. 
 
 [Many are tlie wiles and many the ways of the autograph fiend, as all famous 
 men know. Thomas Bailey Aldricli had innumerable requests from these 
 people, but to them he naturally paid little attention. On the corner of the 
 letter of which a copy is given below, Mr. Aldricii has noted: "I copied for 
 him a sonnet." Persistence had done its work. — Ed.] 
 
 Pegswood, Morpeth, Northumberland, England. 
 20/1/94. 
 
 To T. B. Aldrich, Esq. 
 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 A favor I would ask. 
 And humbly hope that not a task 
 
 It is to you to grant it: 
 Will you your autograph bestow 
 On me, though me you do not know.' 
 
 The reason why I want it 
 Is to adorn a book with it; 
 One — need I say.' — that you have writ — 
 
 How I should prize and vaunt it! 
 
 This is the second note that I 
 Have penned to you, as, with a sigh, 
 
 Most likely you'll remember; 
 The former, couched in simple prose, 
 1 sent — me-ward you to dispose — 
 
 In the month of November, 
 Then waited with my cheeks aflame. 
 For answer. But no answer came; 
 
 Yet not expired Hope's ember. 
 
 So, sir, respectfully again 
 A begging note to you I pen, 
 Believing in your goodness; 
 And trust that you will pardon me 
 What may but insolence seem to be, 
 
 And eke my verse's crudeness: 
 Not for the world I'd have it said 
 That I had wittingly been led 
 Into an act of rudeness. 
 I am, 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 Thomas Hutchinson. 
 
i.By7i3(;f> 
 DEC 20 19(6 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 BOSTON,- TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1916 
 
 No. 9 
 
66 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Lament of the Cossack Ataman. 
 
 (Stamboul; 16—.) 
 
 It was springtime in the Saitch: 
 
 The steppe was freshly dight, 
 
 And all the Cossack Brotherhood 
 
 Made merry day and night. 
 
 Mead there was, and casks of vodka, 
 
 And talk that war would come; 
 
 The whiles you heard the horses neigh 
 
 Above the stir and hum. 
 
 But I shall never know again 
 
 My comrades who of yore 
 
 Rode with me on the Kutchman Trail, 
 
 When we went out to war. 
 
 For Didyuk, that was friend to me, 
 
 With seven others too. 
 
 Sat drinking deep and merrily; 
 
 And half the night was through 
 
 When Didyuk suddenly rose up, 
 
 And kicked his stool aside, 
 
 And beat upon the table 
 
 Till all were stilled, and cried: 
 
 "Who loves his freedom and his faith — 
 
 To horse, and follow me! 
 
 We nine shall ride to Baksh Serai 
 
 To o'erturn Tartary!" 
 
 The mead and vodka made our heads 
 
 Go spinning round and round. 
 
 We roared, and lurching got to horse, — 
 
 Each took the first he found. 
 
 Each for%vard in his saddle bent. 
 
 And rushed along the Trail 
 
 So swift the shrilling wind drowned out 
 
 The startled sentry's hail. 
 
 Morning was on us ere we paused 
 
 To breathe and draw the rein; 
 
 For no man wished to be the first 
 
 To turn back home again. 
 
 But as we nine stared through the steam 
 
 Smoking from every steed: 
 
 "Now tell me! Was it," Didyuk asked, 
 
 "The vodka or the mead.'" 
 
 His look was one of blank amaze. 
 
 Such that, with one accord. 
 
 For mirth each in his saddle rocked, 
 
 And held his sides and roared. 
 
 We faced our jaded steeds for home, 
 
 Still shaking with our mirth; 
 
 And followed slow the trampled track 
 
 Of hoof-marks in the earth: 
 
 But we had not gone above a league 
 
 When from the sedge drew out 
 
 A whole chambul of Tartars, 
 
 That ringed us round about. 
 
 A mace hung at my saddle-bow, 
 
 God knows I plied it well; 
 
 So that four Nogai dogs to-day 
 
 Howl loud my name in hell. 
 
 With a.xe and saire stanch we fought, 
 
 Till only I was left, — 
 
 Brave Didyuk was the last to fall. 
 
 From brow to chin clean cleft. 
 
 For one last blow I raised my arm. 
 
 And struck with all my force: 
 
 A noose drew tight about my wrist, 
 
 And dragged me from my horse. 
 
 So of the nine, alone I came 
 
 To pagan Baksh Serai; 
 
 God turned away His face from me 
 
 And would not let me die. 
 
 To Baksh Serai alone I came. 
 
 And left my Cossack brothers dear; 
 
 The dogs for tokens lopped their hands. 
 
 And me they sold to durance here. 
 
 The Soldan has a world of men, 
 
 Countless as Azoff's sands; 
 
 And they are quick, both horse and foot, 
 
 To do all his commands: 
 
 But I pray the dear I^ord Jesus, 
 
 Who wore the thorny crown. 
 
 That they march against our Saitch, 
 
 And be utterly crushed down! 
 
 And if ours took the Tartar Khan, ' 
 
 And drew him on a stake. 
 
 And I should live to hear of it. 
 
 My heart for joy would break! 
 
 Orsk 
 
 A Sheaf of War Memories. 
 
 (Continued.) 
 
 All that first winter we worked steadily, winding, 
 weighing, and giving out Boston wool to two hundred and 
 fifty women who knit it into socks for the soldiers, and 
 were paid with Boston money. In this way I saw scores 
 of peasants, and owe them many a laugh. In these days 
 a laugh is a precious thing, worth more than a passing 
 word. There was fat, jolly, untidy Julie Julienne, who 
 always had her joke ready. One of our great troubles 
 was making change; I could get plenty of five-franc 
 bills, but the francs, notwithstanding a bag containing 
 two thousand shining silver disks, fresh from the mint, 
 brought by my husband from Paris, and which melted 
 as if by magic, were almost impossible to obtain. Owing 
 three francs to Julie Julienne, I would hand her a five- 
 franc bill and say: "Can you give me forty sous in 
 change.'"' And she, with a wink and a chuckle of intense 
 enjoyment, would double up, putting her hands on her 
 fat knees, and exclaim, "Forty sous! If I had forty sous 
 would I be here slaving? No! I'd be on the spree in 
 Paris." Then there was the clean, sharp-nosed, hard- 
 working Prudence Pinceclou, whose desire to get her 
 fingers on her first payment was so keen that I asked my 
 factotum, the mere Marechal, the reason of her eagerness, 
 knowing that she was fairly well off. "Madame does 
 not know.'' He he! It is to offer to Saint Antoine if he 
 will keep her man at the war." "Keep him at the war.'' 
 I don't understand." "Madame must know, as all the 
 world does, that Prudence is not happy with her man; he 
 gives her a blow from time to time, and drinks his wages. 
 Well, if the good saint will help Prudence she will have 
 her freedom and a pension." Alas for Prudence, thus far 
 the good saint has been hard-hearted. 
 
 It was in the spring of 1916 that I was called to the 
 kitchen to speak to the Widow Gendron. I found her 
 standing outside the open window, a tall woman, with a 
 twinkling black eye in her sallow face. She was joking 
 with the cook when I entered, but as soon as she saw me 
 she assumed a lachrymose expression. "Madame knows 
 all about I'lle de Paques," she began. L'lle de Paques: 
 Easter Island. My geography at best is so sketchy, es- 
 pecially where islands are concerned, that I steer as clear 
 of them in conversation as if I were actually navigating 
 in unknown waters. A vague memory that Loti had 
 written something about this particular island came into 
 my mind, but I felt quite sure that the Widow Gendron 
 had no literary object in view. Seeing my perplexity, 
 she explained that knowing all Noirmoutier had heard 
 her story she had supposed that I was not ignorant of it, 
 and having anxiously inquired if I could read French, she 
 drew from some mysterious recess of her being a greasy 
 newspaper, in which I read a very interesting article. It 
 told that a Norwegian barque had lately brought into 
 Nantes the captain and eleven sailors of a Breton boat; 
 these men told a story of having been captured in the 
 month of October, 1914, in the Pacific by the Prinz Eitel 
 Friedrich. They were taken on board, but their cargo 
 was confiscated, and their little brig sunk. After being 
 kept as prisoners for several days, during which they 
 were not unkindly treated, although the Germans told 
 them that France was completely crushed, and Paris in 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 67 
 
 the Kaiser's hands (gloomy news for men who had not 
 even heard that there was a war), they sighted an island. 
 It turned out to be Easter Island, and as I promptly 
 looked it up in the Encyclopedia, I am capable of saying 
 that it belongs to Chili, is so far away that the arrival of 
 letters there is problematical, that there are colossal 
 statues at least one hundred feet high, to judge from the 
 illustration, carved in the cliffs, and the inhabitants, who 
 practise polyandry, have dwindled to insignificance. (I 
 must draw attention to the adroitness with which I have 
 avoided the Scylla of saying how many miles from the 
 continent it lies, and the Charybdis of giving the number 
 of its inhabitants. If my Encyclopedia were within 
 reach I could pose as a statistician, but it is far away.) To 
 return to our marooned crew, they were landed on the 
 island, and watched the smoke from their captors' funnel 
 lose itself in the horizon's haze, after which they made 
 themselves agreeable to the islanders, who were most 
 kind to them. After many months, one day a Nor- 
 wegian barque saw their signals, took them off, and 
 brought to France the captain and eleven of the crew; 
 but, and this 'but' is the point of my tale, three men re- 
 fused to leave their island loves, and one of these was 
 called Adolphe Gendron. I repeated the name aloud, 
 and looked up at the widow. Her wicked black eyes 
 were sparkling with a mixture of pride, shame, and 
 amusement. "Why," I said slowly, as the truth dawned 
 on me, "but he is a deserter." "Exactly," said she. 
 "What are you going to do about it.?" I asked severely, 
 wishing to suppress that mischievous twinkle. "It's 
 for Madame to do it." "For mel What can I do, my 
 friend .' " " You can write a word to my poor Adolphe, 
 and tell him" — here the twinkle became satanic — "tell 
 him that he has fallen heir to a tidy sum of money. That'll 
 bring him home, I warrant." "And who has left him this 
 legacy.'"' I demanded. Scorn and pity for my density 
 struggled for supremacy in her eyes, and were blended in 
 her voice. She spoke gently, as one explaining some- 
 thing to a child who may be naughty, and who is cer- 
 tainly stupid. "There is no money of course, nor is it 
 likely there ever will be any, but Madame must under- 
 stand that the poor lad will never come back unless he is 
 tempted, and he's my only one." She lifted up her pro- 
 fessional wail, but it stopped abruptly when I asked 
 what had become of Alexandre and Edouard, both most 
 annoyingly alive the week previous. I did promise, how- 
 ever, to write to the wandering sheep, the widow left us 
 with a comfortable stock of eatables in her apron, and for 
 all I know Adolphe is still studying archaeology in the 
 Pacific Ocean, for he has sent no reply to my severe letter, 
 which painted in glowing terms the shame he was pre- 
 paring for himself against the day of Victory. 
 
 To balance this story let me tell one of a difi'erent sort. 
 One day I went to see a neighbor we call the Rabbit 
 Woman. She deserves a chapter all to herself, but now 
 I can only say that she has had a long, uphill battle to 
 fight with poverty for many years, and has slowly won a 
 foothold. Her energy, courage, and never-failing good 
 humor make a chat with her a sure delight, and it is a 
 picturesque sight that she offers going about among her 
 rabbits, whose combed-out fur is sold to a factory where 
 it is made into delicious tissues. She has been able to 
 educate her son by her rabbit-money, and he is now an 
 officer of distinction. His regiment is composed of 
 "Les Joyeux," a name given to convicts allowed to work 
 off their sentences at the front, and on this day she read 
 me a letter from her son concerning one of them. He, 
 with a comrade who escaped later, bringing back the 
 story, were taken prisoners; they were led before a 
 group of German officers who, having demanded the 
 name of the one in question, told him that he was not 
 
 unknown to them by reputation, having very kindly 
 nursed several of their men when taken prisoners by the 
 French. "I'd have you know," retorted Le Joyeux, 
 "that I have killed more Boches than I have nursed!" 
 His audacity amused the officers, who laughed, and after 
 a moment's consultation said to him: "You are not a bad 
 fellow, and if you will cry Five I' AlUmagne! we'll let you 
 go." "Death before that! Vive la France!" his reply, 
 and in ten minutes nothing was left of Le Joyeux but this 
 little tale. When the Rabbit Woman had finished 
 reading her son's letter she lifted her wrinkled face to the 
 sky, and repeated as if she were praying, " Vive la France." 
 
 Ah, those three words, Vive la France! To us, living 
 in the stress of the war, they mean everything. You, dear 
 home friends, surrounded by peace and prosperity, 
 feeling the comfortable glow of generosity, so removed 
 that the noise and confusion of the turmoil does not 
 reach you, I pity you. We, who are suffering with France, 
 who work early and late, who have added ten years to 
 our lives since August, 1914, who are often sad and 
 worn, and sometimes frightened, tve are living! We 
 know how the men go forth from their firesides to meet 
 probable death so that their boys, when they are men, 
 may live in peace with their children; we know how sons 
 say a long good-by to their mothers, so that other mothers 
 in the days to come may have their dear ones near them 
 when it is their turn to go through the final door that 
 opens for us all soon or late. We know what it is to burst 
 the chains that bind us to this poor, tormented earth, if 
 only for a brief second, and feel that exaltation which 
 comes from contact with the eternal truths, the greatness 
 of sacrifice, and generosity and courage. One flash of 
 that super-life is worth years of easy existence. It comes 
 to us here. "Our own eaglets, aloft for the mastery of 
 the skies," are eternally saving us as we gaze upward 
 after them with yearning eyes. All that is best in us 
 responds to their magnificent deeds. The pride that 
 burns in our hearts is a godlike pride, and warms our per- 
 sonal, intimate grief until it loses its cold ache. We are 
 proud of our legionaries, we are proud of our ambulance 
 boys, we are proud of our aviators. 
 
 Vive la France! 
 
 Oh, grieve not that our loving care can raise 
 
 No monument for our heroic dead, 
 
 Who left their bodies in the soil of France! 
 
 Down echoing aisles no sad procession moved; 
 
 No chant of choir, no word of Holy Writ, 
 
 Commemorated the great hour their souls 
 
 Cast off their earthly trammels, and set forth 
 
 Unfettered on the eternal venture — Life. 
 
 Name me the stronger, chapels built by man. 
 
 Whose glittering windows filled with jewelled glass 
 
 And soaring spires in tracery of stone 
 
 Form glorious monuments whose end is Death: 
 
 (For crushed they will be by the slayer. Time, 
 
 Whose fatal hand falls on material things), 
 
 Or deeds of those who fell for great Ideals? 
 
 For such as they old Time is ever kind. 
 
 And lends soft lustre in the gathering years. 
 
 So let us cease our sighs and useless grief 
 
 That graves like theirs lie all unmarked by man. 
 
 God will take care of them; and poppies, grass, 
 
 .^nd gay cornflowers in generous rivalry 
 
 Will give their blending red and green and blue 
 
 In place of fragile glass. Their roof will be 
 
 The dome of heaven, and God's perpetual Mass 
 
 Will keep their deeds in lasting memory; 
 
 His incense, breath of violets; His altar lights, 
 
 The unforgetting stars; His hymns of praise, 
 
 The songs of little larks whose crystal notes 
 
 AH like clear beads upon a rosary 
 
 Drop down to find some rough-hewn cross that marks 
 
 An unnamed grave, thus linking earth with heaven. 
 
 Helen Choate Prince. 
 
 A sage cheese makes a wise rabbit. 
 
b8 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 contributing editors 
 William Dean Howells 
 Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Alice Brown 
 
 Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell 
 
 Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily is' issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
 Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
 sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar/ Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken ^t the booth. 
 
 y .' ■ ^ 
 
 / COPYRICBT, IO16, BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Special Daily Features of the Bazaar, 
 
 At the Cafe Chantant the Marimba Band and the 
 Hawaiian Band each day from 4 to 6 p.m. _ 
 
 In the basement: Pony Circus and Trained Cockatoo, 
 and the Punch and Judy Show free. The Movies, with 
 new and wonderful war pictures. 
 
 Golf Lessons. To-day in charge of Mr. Thompson, 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 Paul Revere Hall, 230.— Mrs. Hill will tell about the 
 Frontier Children and the work of the Association for 
 the Protection of Frontier Children; stereopticon pic- 
 tures. 
 
 3. — Dances; Solo Dances, Exhibition Dances, etc., by 
 Mrs. Wyman's pupils. 
 
 430. — The Russian Balaliaka Orchestra; Soloist, Mr. 
 Oulakanoff. 
 
 8. — Japanese Fencing and Jiu Jitsu. 
 
 Main Hall, 9. — Miss Ethel Barrymore will represent 
 Belgium. 
 
 9.30. — Madame Miura, Japanese Opera Singer. 
 
 To-day is the day of Russia and Japan, once enemies 
 so redoubtable, but now fighting the battle of freedom 
 side by side. The Lithuanians are also especially in- 
 terested in the success of this especial day, and will 
 attend in force. 
 
 The British Imperial Booth, No. 33, has received some 
 embroideries which are hardly less than wonderful. They 
 are charming in color and design and of a personal interest 
 not surpassed by any other of the goods in the Bazaar. 
 They were embroidered by the wounded soldiers in the 
 Red Cross Hospital, at Netley, England, near South- 
 ampton. Done by rough soldiers, some of them with 
 but one hand, in colors selected by the men themselves, 
 they show an aesthetic sense astonishing in men of this 
 class. We regret that space is lacking for a more de- 
 tailed description, but we commend them to attention. 
 
 Orders for bound copies of the Daily are being 
 received in gratifying numbers. Bound in cloth, with 
 leather back and corners, the volumes will cost $3 each. 
 They will be delivered as soon after the close of the 
 Bazaar as they can be obtained from the binder. 
 
 The Thistle and Shamrock entertainments are among 
 the most completely delightful things at the Bazaar. 
 Fresh, varied, and spontaneous, they would be notable 
 anywhere. On Tuesday afternoon come {a) the Colleens; 
 {h) Murray and Macintosh and Mr. Phillips; (f) M. 
 Sergei Adamsky and the Russian dancers. 
 
 To be dispassionate is to be inhuman. 
 
 An Insurance Scheme. 
 
 It is the earnest and sincere desire of the management 
 of the Daily that during its brief career it shall really 
 accomplish something for the lasting good of the com- 
 munity. In a recent issue it made, in the plea for the 
 establishment of a Society for the Suppression of Cruelty 
 to Neighbors, a suggestion which, if carried into effect, 
 must materially increase the happiness of many; it now 
 wishes to follow the same line of practical improvement 
 by urging warmly the advisability and wisdom of organ- 
 izing a new and beneficent branch of insurance. Many 
 persons, and especially single gentlefolk of both sexes of 
 limited incomes, would find grateful and much-needed 
 relief if at once were opened a company for Insurance 
 against the Burden of Wedding Gifts. 
 
 The principle of insurance is in Europe, with great 
 intelligence and most happy results, extended in many 
 ways unknown in our cruder civilization. It is well 
 known that tradespeople, who would suffer a diminution 
 of business in case a death in the royal family brought 
 about a period of official mourning, habitually carry 
 insurance policies on the lives of members of the reigning 
 family; and this is but an example of the many practical 
 methods by which through the insurance companies 
 economic questions are settled and losses distributed. 
 It is perhaps too much to say that in London a man may 
 insure against falling in love, against losing his hair, or 
 against changing his mind; but rates are quoted for 
 almost anything short of this. He is able to provide in 
 all sorts of contingencies a substantial pecuniary gain 
 as an offset against the loss or chagrin which they entail; 
 and he may also have, in any circumstances peculiarly 
 trying, the inner consolation of the cleverness which led 
 him to foresee and to provide for the calamity. The moral 
 effect in many cases is really more important than the 
 financial relief; but in the particular case with which we 
 are concerned here the monetary side would be of first 
 consideration. Everybody knows that weddings, like 
 English sparrows, come in flocks. If one wedding invita- 
 tion appears, any person of social experience says to 
 himself: "In the word of Scripture — Gad." This, as 
 every scholar knows, is not profanity, but simply the 
 name of the son which Leah bore to Jacob vicariously 
 through her maid Zilpah, and meant, as a taunt to less- 
 prolific Rachael, "A troop cometh." A troop of heavy 
 white envelopes is sure to come after the first. The person 
 of small means sees with dismay the list of gifts required 
 of him stretch longer and longer. However generous his 
 impulses, there is a limit to h's bank-account; and mar- 
 riages are made in heaven with no apparent reference to 
 the financial resources of the friends of the parties con- 
 cerned. Matings which to the recipient of invitations 
 might be matters of rejoicing become for him occasions 
 of doleful and perplexing endeavors to make his purse 
 stretch to cover requirements. Two and two will not 
 make five, and still less does he find it possible to persuade 
 two and two to make seven or nine. The mating season 
 ceases for him to be a period of tender sentiment, and 
 becomes a period of terror and distress. 
 
 If the company for Insurance against the Burden of 
 Wedding Gifts were properly organized and in good run- 
 ning order, a man whose policy was regular, and whose 
 premiums were paid, would in times of stress, when 
 invitations and announcements came upon him in a 
 cloud, while his account at the bank was almost at the 
 vanishing point, simply send to the company a list of the 
 gifts called for, their estimated cost, and the extent to 
 which he was able to contribute to the total sum needed 
 to cover the expense. If the price of the presents was 
 over the risk-limit of the policy and within the maximum 
 of liability, the company would of course at once provide 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 69 
 
 the balance. All would be smooth sailing, and the policy- 
 holder would be encouraged to take out a new policy to 
 cover future emergencies. It would be excellent business 
 on both sides. Nothing could be simpler, and how great 
 would be the relief to the beneficiaries. Hundreds of 
 persons who have been through a wedding-gift crisis will 
 at once cr}' out for joy at the mere outlining of the scheme. 
 It is wonderful that no enterprising insurance company 
 has already tried this plan; and yet, if we may make the 
 remark without seeming to overstep the bounds of 
 editorial modesty, — if such exist, — many obvious things are 
 strangely overlooked until they are pointed out by genius. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 ''So you think Americans are not well-bred as a rule," 
 Candus remarked. 
 
 "I am afraid few peoples as a rule are," the Editor re- 
 sponded. "I do think the lack is rather marked in America." 
 
 "But where is the standard then.'" 
 
 "Perhaps it is ideal," returned the Editor, smiling. 
 "The Chinese and the Turks perhaps come nearest to it. 
 The Japanese used to make a fair show, but they are 
 spoiled. In the Occident there is too much restles'sness, 
 too much self-consciousness, and too much self-seeking." 
 
 "But some of the best-bred people I have ever seen are 
 Americans." 
 
 "Amen. The world where there are none is not habit- 
 able by civilized man. What I mean is that in any 
 ordinary gathering, say at the theatre or a ball-game, or, 
 for that matter, at a ball, one cannot help wondering at 
 the ill-breeding which he sees on all sides." 
 
 "It is about time," Candus observed thoughtfully, 
 "for you to define what you mean by good-breeding. 
 The mass of folk are likely to pay no attention to my rights 
 or wishes of course, but I never thought much about that. 
 I expect it." 
 
 "By a well-bred person," was the Editor's answer, 
 "I understand one who considers other people out of 
 respect to himself." 
 
 " Considers other people, is all right, of course," Candus 
 responded; "but if he does it just to please himself — " 
 
 "Don't think I'm being cynical," the Editor went on 
 as the caller hesitated, "but is there any other ground so 
 likely not to fail.? I said out of respect for himself, 
 moreover. He may not please himself in the particular 
 thing he does, but he feels he must do it because it is 
 beneath his dignity to shirk it. Has any other social 
 standard ever worked better that noblesse oblige so long 
 as it was observed.' You may say it ignored the rights 
 of the lower classes, but it is fair to remember that in the 
 early eighteenth century few people even dreamed that 
 any such thing existed." 
 
 "Considering the causes of the French Revolution," 
 began Candus, "I should think — " 
 
 But the Editor put up his hand. 
 
 "Don't get into the feminine trick of confusing the 
 issue," he interrupted. "I just answered that. The 
 rights of the people hadn't been discovered. In any 
 case the real question is not so much how the code worked 
 as whether it worked. If it had but included recognition 
 of those then undiscovered rights of the lower classes, 
 it would have been the most excellent social working- 
 hypothesis the race has struck yet. Don't you see that 
 a man is not really well-bred who is held by considerations 
 outside of himself.' The moment he gets out of sight of 
 his peers, his acquaintances, he has nothing but habit 
 to keep him a gentleman, and that will not stand much 
 strain. In a railroad station at Oxford once, I saw one 
 of Boston's finest thrusting his way into a compartment of 
 a crowded train, to get the last seat before the lady he 
 pushed aside should take it. If he had dreamed that any 
 
 one who knew him saw, nothing would have induced him 
 to be so caddish. His monitor had to be outside himself, 
 and nothing inside held him up to a standard." 
 
 "I see; but how do you apply this to the thing we 
 started with, the behavior of people in a crowd.'" 
 
 "It applies itself. In a crowd an ill-bred man is gov- 
 erned by what is expected of him by the average person. 
 We are pretty lax about conduct which has to do with 
 strangers, so that he is at liberty to be a good deal of a 
 nuisance. I had on one occasion the arrangement of the 
 music for an important and serious Boston function. 
 I secured the services of one of the finest organists in 
 America, and between two dignified addresses I had him 
 play the Bach G minor fugue, — certainly one of the most 
 superb pieces of organ-music ever written. I had chosen 
 it as in key with the dignity of the occasion, and counted 
 on it. The stage was filled with distinguished folk from 
 various parts of the country. More than half of them 
 talked steadily through the music, so loud as even to dis- 
 concert the organist." 
 
 "They probably didn't care for the music." 
 "Of course they didn't. The point I make is that if 
 they had out of self-respect considered that others did, 
 or that those in charge could not but be troubled by 
 indifference so marked in sight of the audience, the ques- 
 tion whether they were personally interested would not 
 have been allowed to come up in their minds. I confess 
 that I felt them, despite their honors and attainments, to 
 be behaving like boors." 
 
 "You made a mistake in selecting music so far over the 
 heads of the crowd." 
 
 "What had that to do with the question.' Was it 
 well-bred to advertise that to the audience before which 
 they sat as distinguished guests?" 
 
 "But that sort of thing is so common that nobody 
 minds." 
 
 "That sort of thing is so common,"" the Editor repeated, 
 "that I ventured to lay down the proposition that Ameri- 
 cans are not as a rule well-bred." 
 "But that is a special instance." 
 
 "You just said that it is common. Do you in travelling 
 find that people do or do not consider your feelings.'" 
 
 "But Americans are so kind," Candus protested, with- 
 out answering directly. 
 
 " On the whole, Americans — what are left of them among 
 the mongrel hordes immigration has brought us — are the 
 kindest folk in the world. That means that they respond 
 to an appeal for pity, even in trifling matters. Their 
 emotion is easily touched, and then they act from an 
 inner impulse. When their real feelings come into play 
 in the line of considering others, of taking the other fel- 
 low's point of view and allowing for it, you have in the 
 American gentleman or gentlewoman one of the finest of 
 human products." 
 
 "I really wish," Candus said, looking up with a whim- 
 sical smile, "that you'd send me away feeling a little less 
 dissatisfied. I hate to think of my countrymen as worse 
 than the rest of the world." 
 
 "I didn't say that they are. The whole matter is the 
 inevitable consequence of the selfishness of human nature. 
 It is rather worse in these days of self-absorption which it 
 is the fashion to call individualism. My proposition 
 was that good-breeding is the overcoming of this instinct." 
 Candus rose. 
 
 "My dear fellow," he said, "I wouldn't hurt your feel- 
 ings for the world, but if you are starting out to give your 
 views on individualism, I prefer to go." 
 
 "That shows," laughed the Editor, "that you are 
 willing to illustrate American indifference to the feelings of 
 others, by refusing me the satisfaction of exhibiting a choice 
 stunt on the back of an especially fine breed of hobby." 
 
70 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Cup. 
 
 I am the cup my Lord has made 
 
 Out of the earth He made also, 
 
 When the whirhng wheel His hand obeyed 
 
 And the soft pervasive water's flow. 
 
 He called on earth and rain and fire 
 
 To set my shape as He designed, — 
 
 But I am not the orbed desire 
 
 That slept within His mind. 
 
 Smeared is Thy cup, O Lord, and marred. 
 
 I cannot mend it if I may. 
 
 No cunning now can fit the shard 
 
 Once broken to its curving clay. 
 
 The lees within, though love should pledge. 
 
 Drip turbid from its roughened edge. 
 
 Canst Thou not use me still, O Lord, 
 
 If I am not for Thy pure thirst. 
 
 Nor for the sacring of Thy word. 
 
 Nor antidote to woes accurst? 
 
 Or if I do not longer fit 
 
 The harmony of Thy first will. 
 
 Fling my poor fragments to the pit 
 
 Where dregs disused Thy law fulfil. 
 
 Yet in that last mischance and shame, 
 
 Leave me the imprint of Thy name. 
 
 Alice Brown. 
 
 Phillida and Corydon. 
 
 The scene is a green meadozv, not ten miles from Netv- 
 port, with trees, a little brook of clear water, and in the fore- 
 ground some sheep brozvsitig. Under a tree sits Corydon, 
 a painter, who for some reason has left easel and brushes 
 elsewhere, and is watching the sheep. To him. enters 
 Phillida, a maiden in fashionable attire, carrying a parasol 
 with a long curved handle. She has left her carriage on the 
 road, and com,es suddenly upon Corydon, whom the trees 
 have screened. She starts, with a little exclamation. 
 
 Phillida. Ah! A stranger. I — I thought there was 
 no one here. 
 
 Cory'don {rising, and bowing low). If you prefer, 
 Aladame, there shall be no one here, and that on the 
 instant. I am, however, a harmless creature, a mere 
 keeper of silly sheep. My name is Corydon, at your 
 service. 
 
 Phil. Corydon? A shepherd.' Why, then {smiling 
 a little) my name is Phillida. 
 
 CoR. I guessed as much. In truth, your crook {point- 
 ing to parasol) betrays you. Sit down, O Phillida, on 
 this grassy bank; and since your own sheep have strayed 
 elsewhere, we will together watch mine. This is friendly 
 of you, Phillida. 
 
 A Sheep. Baa-a-a! 
 
 Phil. Ah, the horrid creature! Do your sheep bite, 
 Corydon ? Drive it away, please. 
 
 Cor. Shoo! Go away, sheep! (What in thunder do 
 people say to sheep.' You say "boss" to a cow, and 
 "old fellow" to a dog; but you can't say "old fellow" 
 to a sheep.) Fear not, O Phillida! The kindly beast 
 but greets you in its simple fashion. Are your sheep wild 
 or mischievous, that you stand in fear of these? 
 
 Phil. Oh, no. Not — not particularly wild; but — 
 but they might nibble one, you know. Have you been 
 long a shepherd, Corydon? 
 
 Cor. Nay, truly; but it matters not. You come 
 from Golconda, the golden city, which lies beyond the 
 white dust of the road. Perchance you have been so- 
 journing there, or it may be that you went only to sell 
 your eggs or the wool that you have spun during the 
 week. You must be weary with your walk, Phillida. 
 I would that I had curds or clotted cream to offer you, 
 or berries with the dew still on them. Here are certain 
 comfits, however, made from the fruit of a southern 
 shrub, which may give you some small refreshment. 
 (Poor Dolly! She must go without her bonbons to-night; 
 but such is the fate of sisters.) 
 
 Phil. I thank you, Corydon. The comfits are 
 delicate, and with a draught of fair water from yonder 
 brook I could make a pleasant meal. {He goes for water.) 
 (Huyler's chocolates, and fresh to-day. He has been 
 in Newport, then. Who can he be? Ah, his handker- 
 chief. Finest linen. Now for the name. Ah! Only a 
 letter, C. — Provoking!) {She drops handkerchief as he 
 turns back from the brook.) 
 
 CoR. See, Phillida, what a fair goblet I have fashioned 
 from this sycamore-leaf. Drink, fair shepherdess; and 
 may the magic draught deepen in your heart the love 
 of Arcadia and all its pleasant things. So! For you the 
 water, for me the goblet. {Puts leaf in his pocketbook.) 
 Now tell me, when have you drunk so sweet a draught? 
 
 Phil. Truly, I know not, Corydon. It was sweet 
 indeed. It was a pity to spoil the pretty leaf-cup, though. 
 You can never use it again. 
 
 Cor. As a cup, no. Yet it has a value for me, since — 
 Phil, {hurriedly). You carried it so steadily, too, 
 without spilling a drop. Some men are so awkward. 
 Last night one spilled a whole glass of champagne over 
 the front of my gown. Odious wretch! And then he 
 said it was good luck, and hoped I didn't mind. 
 
 CoR. Had I been there, I should have struck him to 
 the earth with my good crook. The brute! No shepherd 
 he, I dare swear. 
 
 Phil. Not exactly. I do not see your crook, Corydon. 
 How do you manage your sheep without it? 
 
 CoR. They know my voice, Phillida. They love me, 
 the silly beasts, and would not leave me if I would leave 
 them. How, then, must your white-fieeced flock worship 
 the subtle silver of your tones, and joy to cluster round 
 you, or to lie in sweet contentment at your silver feet — 
 thus! It was at the Crcesus ball, was it, that this blatant 
 ass spoiled your gown? 
 
 Phil. How? You know the Croesuses, then? You 
 were not there, surely? 
 
 CoR. Question most strange! What should a simple 
 shepherd do with Crcesus, or Croesus with him? I know 
 them, Phillida, as the humble weed knows the gorgeous 
 sunflower that shoots its gold rays far above the garden- 
 bed. As to the ball, who did not know of it? Did not 
 some of my poor sheep yield up all their sweetbreads to 
 furnish forth the dainty banquet? (Do sweetbreads 
 come from sheep, I wonder, or is it from pigs, or. calves, 
 or what? Well, perhaps she won't know.) And were 
 you happy at the ball, Phillida? 
 
 Phil. Yes, before young Crcesus ruined my best 
 gown. 
 
 Cor. (It was he, then. I might have known it. 
 The clumsy, blundering cad!) But before that you 
 were happy. You, a shepherdess of Arcadia, under the 
 flaring gaslight, — the thing likes me not. Did sweet 
 airs blow over you, as here in the lonely fields? Did 
 the sky bend above you, and did any man sit at your 
 feet and tell you he loved you, as a man might well tell 
 you, did he sit there long? 
 
 Phil. Oh, hush! Well, yes! On the stairs, you 
 know. But I did not heed him. Why do I speak of 
 such things to you? 
 
 CoR. Why? Because you are in Arcadia! Because 
 you are Phillida, and I am Corydon. Because — On the 
 stairs, you say? O Mother Ceres, forgive the outrage! 
 I see the whole scene. The wide, glittering hall, a sea 
 of lace and silken fripperies, bare shoulders and glittering 
 locks, with black-coated crows stalking or hopping about 
 solemnly. For silver babble of this crystal brook, the 
 murmur of a thousand voices that say nothing. For this 
 green bank, a seat of scarlet velvet halfway up the broad 
 stairway, on which sits Phillida, the Arcadian, with pearls 
 in her hair, and at her side what passes for a man! He 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 71 
 
 But I say, where's 
 dollar, and go and 
 
 has sandy hair and white eyebrows; one eye is neatly 
 framed and glazed; his chin retreats, in noble emulation 
 of his polished forehead. His speech — 
 
 Phil. Oh, for shame! For shame! This is inexcus- 
 able, Corydon. 
 
 Cor. Nay, there is an excuse, believe me! It runs 
 pleasantly, in the words of an old song my nurse used to 
 sing: 
 
 "She was fair and he was young." 
 
 I'm not particularly young, though not so old but that 
 others are older. But you are fair, Phillida. You are 
 very fair, Phillida! Your eyes! what are stars — 
 
 Enter from different directions a shock-headed boy and a 
 footman in livery. 
 
 Boy. Here's yer matches, mister, 
 the sheep.'' 
 
 Cor. Hang the sheep! Take this 
 find the sheep with it. 
 
 Boy. And I say, mister, the red cow has been lickin' 
 your picture on the stand, and she's licked it all off. 
 
 Cor. Hang the cow also! Here's another dollar. 
 Go and see to the cow; who knows how paint will agree 
 with her.'' 
 
 Footman. If you please, miss, the blacksmith says 
 the kerridge is safe now; and Murdock says the horses 
 is uneasy, miss. 
 
 Cor. A shepherd's malediction on the smith! 
 
 Phil. Very well, James. Tell Murdock I am coming 
 at once. {Exeunt Boy and Footman.) So it is over, 
 Corydon. You have been most kind and entertaining; 
 and thank you for the chocolates; and — Arcadia is a 
 pleasant place. I am sorry — to leave it forever. 
 
 Cor. Ah, but you cannot leave it, fair lady! See 
 you not, do not my eyes tell you — Why do you turn 
 away from them? — that you will always be Phillida, and 
 that where Phillida is there is Arcadia and Corydon.'' 
 What though you masquerade in Golconda as Agatha 
 Dorimond, and I am known as Randolph Croydon — 
 you see I changed but one letter! — still you are fair, and 
 from Arcadia I go not while you remain. 
 
 Phil, {hesitating, then with a sweet shyness). If such 
 be the case, what is there to prevent Corydon from 
 accepting a seat in Phillida's carriage as far as Hart- 
 mann's.? 
 
 He bends to kiss her hand; then as he draws her arm 
 within his ozvn, the curtain falls. 
 
 Laura E. Richards. 
 
 Fifty Doggerel Charades. 
 
 XLVI. 
 Needy lovers, he reckoned, 
 
 Might be in a flurry; 
 He had gold in my second, 
 
 And so need not hurry. 
 So he first took my first, 
 
 And then went to his wooing; 
 But his fate was accurst, 
 
 And delay his undoing. 
 So a soldier he went, 
 
 Where the guns and drums rattle; 
 'Neath my whole sadly bent, 
 
 Till he fell in the battle. 
 
 XLVII. 
 O'er icy snow-fields gliding. 
 
 While stars gleamed overhead, 
 With first my fleet whole guiding, 
 
 Swift he to my second sped. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 Reverse my first and find a cunning snare; 
 
 My next reversed did Homer; by my whole, 
 So Ovid tells, once held a woman fair 
 
 Him whom she loved, where fearful billows roll. 
 My first a count, my next a grandee too. 
 My whole belongs to me, and yet belongs to you. 
 
 XLIX. 
 I stood with Kittie by my third, 
 
 Her second met my eye; 
 My first was on her slender hand, 
 
 I could but sigh and sigh. 
 "Your coldness, love," I desperate begged, 
 
 "Oh, whole, or I shall die!" 
 Her glances fell before my prayer; 
 
 A kiss was her reply. 
 
 L. 
 My first went down the garden path; 
 
 So white was she and fair 
 That every herb and flower breathed out 
 
 Fresh perfume on the air. 
 Within its bed she saw my whole 
 
 Bloom in the morning sun; 
 Its every leaf and petal bright 
 
 Fair shining one by one. 
 She looked and longed; she could not go 
 
 Without one fragrant spray; 
 She gave one second, and the prize 
 
 In gladness bore away. 
 
 The Letter Bag. 
 
 [So many prrsons were inlerrsled in llie tragic late o] Charles Homans 
 Priestley that vie print the following letter from his Lieutenant-Colonel 
 and- a portion of a letter which he himself wrote last summer to a Boston 
 cousin.] 
 
 B.E.F. France, gth September, 1916. 
 
 Dear Mr. Priestley: I want to write and tell you how much we all 
 sympathize with you in the great loss you have sustained. Your son 
 was acting as Machine Gun Officer and Bombing Officer to the Battalion, 
 and had been absolutely invaluable in carrying orders from Head- 
 quarters to the Companies in positions which had been captured a few 
 hours; there was constant shelling and rifle-fire all the time, but he 
 repeatedly got through with messages, and was killed instantaneously 
 by a bullet as he got back to Headquarters after delivering a very 
 important message on the afternoon of the 4th. 
 
 He had constantly volunteered for dangerous work, such as observ- 
 ing under heavy shell-fire during the past few da\'s, and it seems very 
 hard that he should have fallen just as complete success seemed, to have 
 been obtained. He showed himself absolutely regardless of danger 
 and was one of the most promising officers I have known. 
 
 We buried him close to where he fell, at a spot now well within our 
 lines. I hope it will be some consolation to you to know how gallantly 
 he died. He had made himself immensely popular in the short time he 
 had been in the Battalion. 
 
 Yours sincerely, H. L. Riley, 
 
 Lt.-Col. Comdg. I2th Bn. Rifle Brigade. 
 — July 7, 1916. 
 
 My dear Cousin. ... Of course we never remove our clothes in the 
 trenches. We get a kind of shave and wash in cold water, if we are 
 lucky, but nothing else. We all wear steel helmets covered with khaki. 
 They are rather heavy, and don't fit very well, but are undoubtedly 
 very useful. We also all carry gas helmets on us. ... A word as to 
 shells. They are awful. The kicks vary. The best known to me as 
 yet is the Whizz-bang. Like its name, it is quick and sharp. All 
 you hear is Whizz followed by a bang. Then there are the Air-Crumps 
 which are slower in movement, and more effective. Shrapnel bursts in 
 the air, and then you hear patter, patter as the shrapnel falls all around. 
 The heavier stuff you hear whistling over makes a noise like a train and 
 a rocket together. 
 
 The night after I arrived we had a "straffe" on. Shortly after 
 dark our machine-guns started, and then our artillery started, and 
 then theirs. The noise was appalling. The men all sat in their fire- 
 bays, and trusted to luck. You feel perfectly helpless. The nearest 
 to me were two [shells] which scattered debris over me, and in my bay a 
 nose-cap fell against the parados, and into the trench. I have it as 
 a souvenir. We got it hot for an hour and three quarters. Then we 
 had a rest, and they stopped too. The rest of the night was quiet, while 
 we saw to casualties, and repairing of trenches. A shell landed in one 
 bay, and did in six fellows, two killed and the others wounded. They 
 looked none too pleasant a sight. Most of them were buried under the 
 debris, and had to be dug out. 
 
 The chief thing here is the longing for a small wound to take you 
 back to England. The part of the line here is very famous, and the 
 town near the line, which is an absolute byword, is like nothing on earth. 
 Hardly one house is left standing, and it is truly the abomination of 
 desolation. Here a house with one wall left proudly defying the enemy, 
 here all the walls have collapsed in a heap, here one sees a house with 
 all four walls standing, though riddled, with the whole interior a heap 
 of stones, and now, marvellous to relate, a house whole, but with shat- 
 tered windows. It is a sight never to be forgotten. This is a great 
 experience, and I would not have missed it for worlds; but for all that 
 it is not war, but as someone said once: "A spasm of human extermina- 
 tion." . . . 
 
72 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Child. 
 
 dear dead poets of the old lost lovely days! 
 How lavishly you plucked the undying word 
 None but your ear had heard, 
 
 For the rhymed need of praise 
 
 Of even the small violet 
 
 By April's dewdrop wet. 
 
 Look now on me. More dear to God am I 
 
 Than all the lilies of the field 
 
 Who ravishment of perfume yield. 
 
 1 am the child whom He has made 
 In His own image. Yet my dirt 
 And rags and hunger, the red hurt 
 
 His enemies have dealt me, well might make afraid 
 
 The little stranger soul in me, astray 
 
 In the world-tumult of a desperate day. 
 
 So dear is it, the dew-drenched violet's hue.' 
 
 To Him my tear-wet eyes are dearer still 
 
 Because my human will 
 
 Burns through their anguish, and demands to know 
 
 Why man has made me so. 
 
 Alice Brown. 
 
 Lowell's Table-talk. 
 
 [The following interesting notes on the talk of James Russell Lowell are from 
 the note-book of the late Thomas Russell Sullivan.] 
 
 Saturday, March 17, 1887. 
 
 Dined with Mrs. T. J. R. Lowell among tiie guests. 
 Lowell did most of the talking, delightfully, giving many 
 anecdotes of statesmen, poets, celebrities generally, and 
 life at foreign courts. When the Queen bade him good- 
 night after his last dinner at Windsor, she said: "In 
 common with all my countrymen, I deeply regret your 
 departure." Mrs. T. asked him what he did when a queen 
 said a thing like that. "Well, I wrote her a sonnet." 
 
 \\ ith FitzGerald he had a long and pleasant intercourse. 
 Once in writing him he forgot to read over F.'s last letter 
 a second time, and addressed him as usual, "Dear Mr. 
 FitzGerald." Afterward when FitzGerald was dead, he 
 refencd to this letter and found that F. had said, "Let 
 us drop this stiffness, and call each other Lowell and 
 FitzGerald." The correspondence had continued cor- 
 dially, but of course the prefix had never been dropped. 
 And F. went to his grave supposing that a closer intimacy 
 would be unacceptable to Lowell; he said; "I shall never 
 get over my remorse for this." 
 
 He saw much of General Grant in Spain, and con- 
 ducted Grant and his wife one day through the Escurial. 
 They came to a room where many bronze garlands, gifts 
 to the king, were heaped upon a table. Mrs. Grant said: 
 "Lyss, if you had all you deserved, I guess there would 
 be more than that." 
 
 He found always something fine in her self-possession. 
 She was "as good as anybody." Giving Grant a dinner 
 there came up the question of precedence. No ambas- 
 sadors would come if Grant were chief guest. So Grant 
 gave the dinner, and presided. His wife sat near two 
 Spaniards of high rank, who talked to her all the time 
 in French, of which she understood no word. But with- 
 out embarrassment she answered them in English as 
 best she might, and this curious conversation was kept 
 up for hours. In the Spanish Cortes, and before the 
 Academy, an address always ends with "He dicko," "I 
 have said." "I always enjoyed making an address in 
 Spanish," said Lowell, "particularly the 'He dicho.'" 
 
 N.B. His estimate of Shelley agrees with Lamb's; he 
 finds his longer poems wanting in substance, many of 
 them he has not cared to re-read. Wishes Shelley had 
 translated more from the Greek: his versions would 
 surely have been superb. Liked to read the "Cenci," but 
 found the representation of it too horrid to endure. "It 
 was like a bull fight: I went out. Yet in reading it, I 
 did not have this feeling. This seems to prove that the 
 characters want vitality." 
 
 Walking on the terrace with the Spanish king at the 
 
 royal country-seat, the monarch gave him a cigar. He 
 took it, thinking this must be the finest thing out of 
 Havana. It did not seem remarkable, and the next day 
 he saw the same br-and in a shop-window of the village. 
 Much inconvenience arises from our inappropriate court- 
 dress, rigorously prescribed, and like that of an upper 
 servant. "The first time I went to the palace I followed 
 up the stairs the ambassador from Paraguay, who wore 
 a handsome uniform with orders. The usher greeted 
 him with three blows of his staff upon the floor, but when 
 I passed, turned away and put the staflf in a corner. I 
 attacked him savagely for this want of respect. He 
 apologized, and gave me a tremendous salute; but when 
 I came to the door of the presence-chamber, I had to go 
 through this over again with the guards. You may say, 
 if you will, that our plain dress has a sort of distinction, 
 like Castlereagh's at Venice. 'Who is that distingue man 
 without orders?' The officials learn to know you, of 
 course; but until they do, you must expect to be slighted." 
 The cable has done away with diplomacy. "You are 
 always within an hour of your chief; of course you must 
 appeal to him in everything." In the Madrid Gallery, 
 Grant asked to have the famous pictures pointed out. 
 "But I found that he discovered them himself, and knew 
 perfectly well why he liked them. He expressed a marked 
 preference for the Dutch pictures." 
 
 The Dawn. 
 
 When the dawn like a dynamite bomb 
 In the red-hot east has burst; 
 
 And with forty-two horse-power tug 
 Tommy Atkins feels his thirst; 
 When Alandelay is a-roast, and Kalamazoo is a-freeze, 
 
 And the sergeants make their cursing boast 
 
 They can sleep in spite of fieas: 
 
 Then 'tis drill, and Billy be damned! 
 
 Do yc wake, Tommy .\tkins, wake.' 
 Do cramped legs ache when the red dawns break.' 
 
 March on till your grave be crammed! 
 
 When the bloomin' old sun parts the haze 
 .As the Black Tyrone breaks through; 
 
 When the bloomin' red dawn-fires blaze 
 On the mountains of Bungaloo; 
 When Mandelay is anear, and Kalamazoo is afar, 
 
 And the language spoke by the soldier men 
 
 Is theology mingled with tar: 
 
 Then 'tis drill, and Billy be damned! 
 
 Do ye wake, Tommy Atkins, wake? 
 Do stout hearts ache when the red dawns break? 
 
 March on till your grave be crammed! 
 
 Bailey was in his mother's room while she was dressing, 
 and when she had finished he said he was going out. 
 His mother said it was breakfast time, and that he 
 should have gone out sooner. 
 
 "Oh, no, mother, I couldn't ; I had to stay with you. 
 That is what God made me for, to take care of ladies. I 
 wonder what he made the ladies for!" 
 
 A boy of seven was given a sight of his new baby sister, 
 aged hardly as many hours. He looked at the small, 
 wrinkled, red morsel of humanity a moment, and then 
 exclaimed: "Gee! Wouldn't she make a dandy jack- 
 o'-lantern!" 
 
 "Doctor, what would happen to me if I fell into the 
 water and were drowned?" 
 
 "It would not seem, madame, as if much more need 
 to happen, of any sort; but in the interests of sanitation 
 I trust that your family would give you a funeral." 
 
 "But suppose I wasn't really drowned, only I seemed 
 so?" 
 
 "In that case, madame, I suppose your family would 
 have to be content with a mock funeral." 
 
QEC 21 1916 
 
 'ci.Binnno 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 10 Cents 
 
 BOSTON, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1916 
 
 No. 10 
 
 
 Products of Kultur. 
 
 1 . ..i-ij..-: :.jSi-si$Mp:is^'-^ 
 
74 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 A Military Funeral. 
 
 The muffled drums beat — beat — beat — beat; 
 While tramp — tramp — tramp go marching feet. 
 
 For hearse no catafalque with fret 
 Of gold and jet; 
 Only the dusty, red-blotched wheels 
 Have followed him o'er trampled fields. 
 Such is the pomp that now suits best, 
 When muffled drums throb rest — rest — rest, 
 
 Rest for the patriot; rest for the brave. 
 
 Down the long street as the gray day is closing, 
 Under the flag that he died for reposing. 
 Goes all that is left of a hero — save glory: 
 That to the unborn shall yet tell its story; 
 So goes the hero along to his grave. 
 
 And dusk comes down 
 In the streets of the town; 
 But the light of the deeds of the hero, unfailing, 
 Burns on, over darkness of evil prevailing; 
 Death for one's country of all deaths is best. 
 The muffled drums throb rest — rest — rest. 
 
 George Moorhead Gray. 
 
 On a Hillside in Paradise. 
 
 They lay side by side, stretched at full length on the 
 soft warm grass of a hillside of Paradise, and looked out 
 over the wide prospect. The light was the glow of an 
 afternoon in early autumn, with a sense of ripeness and 
 fulness, but with no suggestion of decay. Their view 
 took in a wide stretch of country, varied, well watered, 
 rich in growth, with thrifty farm-garths set among 
 clustering trees and fields green with herbage or golden 
 with harvest. From the nearer orchards below their 
 little hill they could catch glints of vivid color where 
 clustering apples crimsoned the branches. Pleasant 
 streams meandered here and there, and from them came 
 shining flashes where in some turning or ruffled spot the 
 current threw reflections of sunlight back to them on 
 the grass above. In the background of the landscape 
 were low, rolling hills; and above them the sky was of 
 turquoise blue, with here and there snowy flocculent 
 clouds passing with motion hardly perceptible. 
 
 The pair were still young; both with an air of refine- 
 ment; and both no less with a bearing which in all their 
 relaxation showed effectiveness and alertness. He had 
 been a captain in an English regiment in Flanders, and 
 she, his betrothed, a nurse in the hospital at a post fifty 
 miles away. They had known each other all their earth- 
 life. He was the second son of the Squire in the village 
 where her father held the living, and their attachment 
 dated from their childhood. They had been killed on 
 the same day; he leading an attack on the German 
 trenches, she in an explosion caused by bombs dropped 
 on the hospital where she was stationed. After that 
 they found themselves together in Paradise. 
 
 -"Isn't it wonderful.'" Harold said with a deep inhala- 
 tion, as if he could never drink in enough of the life-full 
 air. "Isn't it like dear old England.-"' 
 
 "It certainly is. I know a place down in Suffolk that 
 is exactly like it, only not so perfect," Marion answered. 
 
 Then she laughed softly. 
 
 "I wonder — " she began. 
 
 "Well, what do you wonder now, my dear.'" he asked. 
 "I've wondered at so many things since we came here 
 that I've hardly room for a new one; but let's have it." 
 
 "I was thinking that yesterday Sister Marie, who had 
 the ward next to mine, said that here it looked exactly 
 like Normandy, and that Sister Clarisse, who was with 
 her, declared that it was the picture of Auvergne. I was 
 wondering if to each of us it looked like home." 
 
 Harold picked a bit of thyme, and smelled it thought- 
 fully. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said. "It is certainly homelike." 
 
 "It makes each of them think of home-places, I sup- 
 pose," Marion rejoined thoughtfully, "because it has the 
 home-feeling. Though, of course, in reality it is exactly 
 like England." 
 
 "Of course it is." 
 
 Harold leaned over to stroke her fingers with the sprig 
 of wild thyme; she took it quietly, smelled it, and set 
 it in her dress. Then again she laughed very softly. 
 They both had fallen into a habit of quiet, hardly audible 
 laughter for sheer joy of the place. 
 
 "You would think me very silly if I told you what the 
 view suggests to me," Marion said. 
 
 "Then by all means tell me, my dear. Aiy idea of you 
 needs to be chastened a little. It is too h gh to be real 
 of any creature human-born." 
 
 She pinched his ear, and looked at him lovingly. 
 
 "It fills me with delight because it makes me so certain 
 that there are no snakes in the whole country." 
 
 "I knew you were not extravagantly fond of snakes, as 
 witness the thrashing I once gave my own older brother 
 for holding a harmless little garter-snake in your face; 
 but I had no idea that the mere notion of being free from 
 them could make a place a paradise." 
 
 ''From my childhood I've had a perfectly morbid fear 
 of snakes. It was born in me, I think. The first thing 
 I think of in seeing a view is whether it looks as if snakes 
 live there. That's why I like mountains. Snakes don't." 
 
 "You should delight in the scenery about the North 
 Pole; or why did you never emigrate to Ireland.'" 
 
 "The Arctic is too cold; and I never believed the Irish 
 legend. Here everywhere I look I have a certainty that 
 there isn't a single wriggle." 
 
 "There is where Paradise has the advantage of Eden." 
 
 "Poor Eve!" Marion said. "There must have been 
 something wrong about her in the first place, or she'd 
 have run away the moment the serpent came in sight." 
 
 "It would have saved a lot of trouble in the world if 
 she had. By the way, how long have we been here?" 
 
 Marion looked at him in silence a moment; then she 
 made an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 "Why, Harold, I must be losing my mind. I haven't 
 an idea. Really, now you ask me, I couldn't tell whether 
 it is months or weeks. It's dreadful!" 
 
 "Why is it.?" 
 
 "What.' Not to know anything about time.'" 
 
 He smiled, and reached over to possess himself of her 
 hand. Getting it, he stroked the fingers softly. 
 
 "You forget, my dear," he said, "that we have nothing 
 to do with time. We are in eternity." 
 
 She looked at him wide-eyed. 
 
 "But of course one must remember how long ago 
 things happened." 
 
 "Why.'" 
 
 "Why.' Because." Then in answer to his smile, she 
 added: "One always has." 
 
 " You haven't since we have been here. Has it bothered 
 you.'" 
 
 She considered a minute, knitting her brows in the 
 effort to think out this novel problem. 
 
 "I've never thought of it!" she said at last. "Now 
 that I have, it will bother me." 
 
 "Why should it.'" 
 
 "One is so used to it. I shall feel as if I were losing 
 my identity." 
 
 "I will convince you of your identity, if that s all the 
 trouble. You have been used to a good many other 
 things, — your work in hospital, the noise of the guns, the 
 terrible strain, and all the rest of it. You do not bother 
 to miss them." 
 
 A longer silence fell between them. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 75 
 
 "And to think I never thought of it!" she murmured 
 at last. 
 
 "You have told me \-our youthful terror," Harold 
 said, still stroking her fingers; "I'll tell you mine. I had 
 a perfect horror of eternity. Once when I was a kid, the 
 curate — he was a dreadful prig — heard me complain that 
 the time till Christmas was so lon^. He thought it a 
 fitting opportunity to plant a theologic seed. He hadn't 
 much sense. I don't fancy he was ever a boy. So he 
 asked solemnly; 'How will you stand eternity.'' That 
 goes on forever.' I did not see the connection, and I 
 don't yet; but somehow I got to brooding over the idea. 
 I began by hating eternity. Then I came to dread it, 
 and so on to a morbid fear which I never confessed while 
 I was alive, and which got so twisted into my fibres as a 
 youngster that as long as I lived I couldn't get rid of it. 
 That's why I thought of the question here." 
 
 "And you still dread it here.'" 
 
 "My dear," he answered with a happy little laugh, 
 "it came over me the other day when you said something 
 about time, that I needn't dread eternity any more. I'd 
 been in it ever so long, and didn't even know it. I've 
 gone about ever since like a man freed from a disease. 
 What is eternity.'' It is only now." 
 
 "But it is now forever." 
 
 "Well, you don't live forever all at once. You only 
 realize the noiv part of it. Besides, do we dread any- 
 thing now.? I am quite content that a now so happy 
 and so full of learning things should be extended forever." 
 
 "It is very confusing," Marion said; "but I suppose it 
 is all right." 
 
 "Now it is now, and now it will be forever," he rejoined, 
 kissing her fingers. "We can't be tired of it." 
 
 "It sounds as if you were trying to tangle me in what 
 I used to call your 'Alice logic' when you were at Oxford." 
 
 The sun shone on them on the hillside; the softest 
 breath of breeze came to them that had not wholly lost 
 the good smell of the heaped apple-trees in the orchards 
 below, and the odor mingled with the scent of the wild 
 thyme in the grass where they lay. Harold gave a sigh 
 of pure comfort and happiness. 
 
 "And the now that is to last forever is so good," he 
 said. "We are lucky folk, Marion. You can't tell how 
 surprised and delighted I was the day I came to find that 
 you had come too. It was more than any fellow had a 
 right to expect." 
 
 "Do you suppose," she questioned thoughtfully, "that 
 if one of us had come first, the waiting here would have 
 been blurred over because there is no time in Paradise .?" 
 
 He stopped caressing her fingers, and looked at her. 
 
 "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "that's a wonderful idea, 
 little woman. Perhaps it's so; and it's only the one 
 left behind that finds the separation so terrible. It would 
 be merciful. Though I am sure," he added with a shake 
 of his head, "that I should never have been able to get on 
 without you, and not know it." 
 
 She laughed happily. 
 
 "Oh, you are different from all other created men, my 
 lord Harold. Do you know, one of the most wonderful 
 things about being here is the way in which we've left 
 all hard feelings behind us. If I were alive, I should be 
 breathless with hate for the Germans that blew up our 
 hospital, now — well, now I don't think I feel anything 
 but pity. Somehow it isn't possible to hate in Paradise." 
 
 "I suppose it wouldn't be Paradise if it were. Any- 
 way," he went on with a whimsical smile, "it saves a lot 
 of energy." 
 
 He looked out over the lovely peaceful landscape where 
 the afternoon shadows were growing long. 
 
 "I have thought a good deal," he resumed, "about the 
 differences in the way we feel about things that stir us 
 
 tremendously on earth, and it seems to me something 
 like this. Down there we were too near things, too much 
 mixed up with them, too much influenced by personal 
 interests. We couldn't get any fair perspective, any 
 proper point of view. It was in one way better that 
 we couldn't, of course; for we had our work to do, and 
 we could do it more whole-heartedly, if we were passion- 
 ate over it. A demigod, perhaps, could go ahead and do 
 his job just the same without any feeling; but when it 
 comes to men, they must put their hearts into it, and 
 take sides with real passion." 
 
 "Yes," Marion assented thoughtfully. "Of course 
 that is true; but even then a man needn't lose his sense 
 of humanity." 
 
 "He needn't, and I don't think anybody could honestly 
 say that our side did; but I see now as I didn't use to how 
 it may come about that men do. Since we came here 
 we learn directly, and I think we learn even more by tak- 
 ing things in as we breathe, — as if we got them out of the 
 air. Don't you feel as you never dreamed of feeling, 
 what a big thing the universe is, and how magnificent 
 the progress of life is.? We know better than ever how 
 absolutely necessary it is that the evil thing shall be 
 crushed out, but we are so sure beyond all doubting that 
 it will be, that we look at it differently. I don't think 
 here we can hate men because they are fighting for the 
 wrong, any more than we could hate a snake for being a 
 snake, — the poor rascal can't help it." 
 
 "Well, I am not sure that even now I couldn't hate a 
 snake, if I gave my mind to it," she responded, answer- 
 ing his bantering smile with one as sunny. 
 
 "I doubt it. Here you couldn't hate one if you tried 
 as hard as the White Queen did to believe impossible 
 things." 
 
 "Perhaps," she broke in with whimsical irrelevance, 
 "that explains Eve. Eden was like Paradise then, so 
 she naturally couldn't hate the serpent." 
 
 "So Eye is rehabilitated at last. The point is so well 
 taken that it is a pity you didn't think of it while you 
 were alive." 
 
 The banter brought them to another pause. Then 
 with a sudden movement Harold sat up and waved his 
 arm abroad to the outspread lovely country and the blue 
 sky meeting the low blue hills. 
 
 "Oh!" he cried, "how wonderful it all is! Evil is evil, 
 and that means that it is something to be killed out; and 
 it means there on earth more pain than words have been 
 devised to express; but to be here, and to realize how it is 
 equally true that good is good, and that whatever happens 
 it is the one immortal thing on our old little round globe, — • 
 my dear Marion, it takes my breath. It is only the good 
 in us, little woman, that has won through to Paradise. 
 That is why we can't hate any more, or see things in a 
 selfish or one-sided way." 
 
 "Yes," she said gravely, nodding her head. 
 
 She sat up in her turn, and let her fingers stray among 
 the soft grasses beside her. She looked down in a reverie, 
 and he equally thoughtful, toward the distant hills. 
 
 "I have so much to learn," she said at last. 
 
 "So have all of us, — an immeasurable lot to learn. 
 That is the joy of it. We all learn so well, too, where 
 every single being is employed in doing what he is best 
 fitted for; and the best of it is that there is no end of the 
 wisdom to be gained. Oh, the unspeakable joy of it!" 
 
 He sprang up lightly, and stood reaching down his hands 
 to help her rise. 
 
 "My dear Marion," he said, smiling, "I have only one 
 trouble. I was afraid when I was a kid because eternity 
 was so long; now I begin to be afraid that it will be too 
 short!" 
 
 Egdqn Craige. 
 
76 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 Published in aid of the NATIONAL ALLIED BAZAAR 
 
 Editor, ARLO BATES 
 
 contributing editors 
 
 William Dean Howells 
 Alice Brown Robert Grant Kate Douglas Wiggin 
 
 Margaret Deland Barrett Wendell Owen Wister 
 
 The Daily is issued daily for the ten week-days of the Allied 
 Bazaar in Boston. Subscriptions, including postage, $1.50, may be 
 sent to the Editor, 4, Otis Place, Boston, or to the booth of the Daily 
 at the Bazaar. Orders for bound copies of the entire issue will be 
 taken at the booth. 
 
 COPVRir.HT, I0l6. BY ARLO BATES, BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 Merry Christmas and good-bye. 
 
 Subscribers who are without copies to which they are 
 entitled, may have these by application to the Editor. 
 
 Copies of the Boston Mother Goose that remain will be 
 put on sale at Butterfield's bookstore, 59 Bromfield St. 
 
 The linen, glass, and kitchen equipment of the 
 restaurant in Talbot Hall were generously provided by 
 Mr. Joseph J. Sheehan. 
 
 The Editor's Callers. 
 
 "Of course people tell all sorts of stories," Dorinda 
 said with an air of firmness, "and you may be as sceptical 
 as you please; but I know the story is true." 
 
 "If you know it is true," the Editor returned, "why 
 did you ask if I supposed it could be.'" 
 
 "What has that to do with it.'' I wanted to see how 
 it would strike you." 
 
 "It strikes me as an especially stupid slander." 
 
 "I might know you would stand up for Mrs. ffrench; 
 and she dyes her hair too." 
 
 "Stand up for her.? I detest the woman. She should 
 have been born in a melodrama or a sensational novel." 
 
 Dorinda nodded her head triumphantly. 
 
 "There," she said. "I knew you'd have to believe it." 
 
 "Believe what.'' This idiotic story.' Mrs. ffrench is 
 various kinds of fool, but she is not an imbecile. I no 
 more believe it than I believe she is entitled to the two 
 little f's at the beginning of her name." 
 
 "Hasn't she any right to them.'" demanded the visitor. 
 
 "Her husband was a perfectly respectable grocer with 
 plain 'French' on his sign." 
 
 "One can believe anything of a woman who would 
 change her name like that. You just have to believe it." 
 
 "As you please," the Editor said, smiling. "To the 
 masculine mind the proof is not entirely convincing. To 
 believe a thing is not to make it true. The truth is, that 
 most of the ill-natured tales afloat in society are believed 
 simply because folk wish to believe them. It is the com- 
 monest expression of 'the will to believe' of which we 
 hear a lot in theologic controversy. Any trifling hint 
 is enough to start a scandal on, and once started, it grows 
 like a cabbage, layer on layer. It's a wise scandal- 
 monger who can recognize his own invention after it 
 has been told by half a dozen mouths." 
 
 "I don't see what you are talking about," Dorinda 
 observed with a slightly injured air. "Of course people 
 are awfully vicious about spreading stories." 
 
 "Everybody but the charming Dorinda. Still, I 
 should like to know exactly the form in which you heard 
 the tale about Mrs ffrench which you have told me so 
 circumstantially. Oh, don't blush. I was merely going 
 to say, however, that as a rule the additions come from 
 the effort to make the story better. It is the art instinct 
 
 working to make a tale effective. We owe most that is 
 best in fictitious literature to the impulse." 
 
 "But of course if Mrs. ffrench's husband was a grocer," 
 Dorinda remarked, "people ought to know it." 
 
 "I am not sure that I see why it matters, and I cer- 
 tainly have never felt, Dorinda, that it was my business 
 to tell them. Perhaps it is yours. There's another 
 side to this artistic impulse, too, now I think of it. We 
 always tell a thing best when it is absolutely fresh and 
 new in our minds. Instinctively when we relate any- 
 thing we work up to effects by inventing details or addi- 
 tions. If a man tells an anecdote really well, it is safe 
 to assume that a good part of the details are his own." 
 
 "But you said she had no right to the double f." 
 
 The Editor leaned forward impressively. 
 
 "Dorinda," he said, "if your sex had powers of co- 
 ordination equal to their power of persistence, they 
 would run the Universe. I was imparting to you deep 
 psychical truths, and you are interested in nothing but 
 that rather cheap social pusher. By all means invent 
 something new about her. Did it never occur to you, for 
 instance, that her pearl eardrops are of the same pattern 
 as Mrs. Compton's.' Mr. Compton was devoted to 
 Mrs. ffrench at one time." 
 
 "I always supposed those pearls were false!" exclaimed 
 Dorinda, in evident excitement. "Oh, did he really 
 give them to her.'" 
 
 "Heaven forgive me!" cried the Editor. "I've loaded 
 that unfortunate grocer's widow with another scandal, 
 and I invented it on the spot." 
 
 "Perhaps you did," responded Dorinda, calmly. 
 "Perhaps you didn't realize what you were saying; 
 but now I think of it, I am sure it is true. How stupid 
 of me not to have seen it before!" 
 
 The Battlefield at Chambry. 
 
 When, a few years from now, American travellers 
 flock to France — and France is already looking forward 
 to the day, and preparing to receive them — there will be 
 very few places north and east of the capital which will 
 not have their tale to tell. From the outer fortifications 
 of Paris, with their trenches and wire entanglements, to 
 the frontier; from the lofty terrace of St. Germain and 
 the heights of Montmorency — whence the German out- 
 posts looked off to Paris, that Promised Land they were 
 fated, though so near, never to enter — to the long line of 
 trenches from Belfort to Lille — to be preserved and tree- 
 planted as the Holy Land of French heroism and sacrifice 
 — all France has become historic. 
 
 But most real pilgrimages will logically begin on the 
 scene of the thrilling "right about face" of the left wing 
 of the French army on the morning of September 5, 1914, 
 when the Battle of the Marne really began — the plains 
 of Chambry, two miles and a half north of Meaux. 
 
 It was eight weeks to a day after that trying Saturday, 
 when, from the hill on the south bank of the river, we had 
 watched the battle, that I first stood on its scene. The 
 impression was a strange one, as disconcertingly unlike 
 what I had anticipated as had been the distant view of 
 the battle. 
 
 The surprising thing was the utter inability to conjure 
 up any of the horror of the battle. Less than two months 
 had passed, yet fifty-six days had sufficed to wipe out 
 all but the inspiring, uplifting beauty of the scene. 
 Already the fields had been cleared, the grayes put in 
 order and marked, and the winter grain planted all about 
 them. Where they had fallen, alone or in groups, there 
 they slept, in the breast of the Motherland for which they 
 had died, with their faces to the frontier from which they 
 were no longer retreating. Each grave already had its 
 cross at the head and its tiny tricolored flag flapping in 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 77 
 
 the breeze at its foot, and, though the crosses were hastily 
 made of two rough bits of twigs from which the bark had 
 not been stripped, there was nothing ugly about it, and 
 no grave lacked its bunch of fresh flowers. 
 
 This is third All Saints' Day since the battle, and the 
 French have a real cult for the dead. Crowds of pil- 
 grims .are tramping across the muddy battlefield (for 
 rains have been heavy this year), and already each grave 
 has its new flag at its foot, while a wealth of chrysan- 
 themums and asters — the only flowers that withstood 
 the sudden early frost of October 21 and 22 — make the 
 field a garden of color. 
 
 With each season the scene takes on a new look, but 
 it is always a look of beauty, something finer, something 
 more significant than mere sadness, though that may de- 
 pend on the point of view. 
 
 I saw it when the freshly ploughed soil was brown 
 about the graves, and when the primitive crosses were 
 still in place. I saw it when the young green of the 
 winter grain was sprouting tenderly to the very edge of 
 the mounds on which the turf was beginning to grow. 
 I saw it after the soldiers on "home leave" had replaced 
 the rude crosses with tall white ones, encircled each 
 grave or group of graves with a post-supported barrier, 
 and cut about each a narrow foot-path, and when the 
 flowers were beginning to bloom. I saw it when the 
 grain was tall and ripening, and when the white crosses 
 appeared and disappeared, as the yellowing wheat undu- 
 lated in the breeze like the waves of the ocean. I saw it 
 when the wheat was being cut, and when, in places, 
 groups of white crosses stood at the «nd of long vistas, 
 between golden walls of the yet unmowed stretches, and 
 then I saw it again after the harvest, when the ploughs 
 were moving slowly across the plain. But at no season 
 has it ever seemed to me anything less than inspiring, 
 marking, as it does, for all eternity, the outer rampart 
 which saved Paris. 
 
 I remember it perhaps most vividly on a late June 
 afternoon in 1915, when I looked over it from the cross- 
 roads between Barcy — the nearest hamlet to Paris that 
 was practically destroyed — and Chambry, in the tiny 
 walled cemetery from which the Zouaves made one of 
 the most brilliant charges of the second day of the 
 battle. There, at the cross-roads, already rose the 
 monument which marks the limit of the German in- 
 vasion. As I stood there, with my back to Paris, looking 
 across the grave-sown plain, to where, wide-spaced 
 against the sky, on the horizon line, the little tricolored 
 flags were like tiny flowers, only the red being visible, 
 it was the quiet animation of the scene which touched 
 me, for everywhere, across the level fields, groups of the 
 living were moving about the last homes of the dead, — 
 women pushing baby carts, children with their hands 
 full of flowers, boys and girls running at play, and here 
 and there a convalescent soldier from the ambulance at 
 Meaux marched, erect and serious, from grave to grave, 
 standing a moment at "salute," at the foot of each, and 
 carefully averting his eyes as he strode by a black disk 
 with its number in white which said, "Here among the 
 noble dead lies one of the invaders." 
 
 The traveller will see more amazing sights than the 
 graves on the plain at Chambry when he visits France 
 after the war, — sights which will smell more of battle, 
 that will tell more realistically the terrible story of 
 horror and devastation and destruction, — but he will 
 see nothing more symbolic. There is many a cemetery 
 in France which will call for bitterer tears, but no spot 
 will stir the imagination like this grave-gemmed plain. 
 There the sons of France sleep in the midst of the 
 homely scenes of rural life. The every-day labors of the 
 people for whom they died will every day and eternally 
 
 go on about them. The crops will be planted and 
 tended and harvested, and the stir of labor and the mur- 
 mur of life be always with them. There is something 
 compelling as well as beautiful in the idea that there 
 where they fell they sleep forever, each in the very bit of 
 his Motherland which he saved — for it is Motherland, 
 not Fatherland, to the French soldier. Most consoling 
 of all — since Death is inevitable — not one of them who 
 sleeps on that plain lived or died in vain. Here where 
 he made his stand life is already normal. Even the 
 hamlets which suffered from bombardment, though sad, 
 are not unpretty. Just as the humble people wear their 
 grief with a smile, so nature has already sown green 
 things on falling walls so that destruction has already its 
 beauty and a certain nobility. It bears witness to what 
 has passed that way, but it wears the sign like a decora- 
 tion. 
 
 Mildred Aldrich. 
 
 The Frightened Prayer. 
 
 The prayers of the wounded and the dying fluttered up 
 through the choking smoke of the battlefield, through the 
 reek of smells too horrible to be thought of, up through 
 the scalding gas, ultimate expression of humanity's 
 possibilities of inhuman cruelty. Across the wide, cool 
 stretches of space they went winging to Heaven, like 
 white birds; but with them went no taint of the foulness 
 from which they had risen. 
 
 In the flying throng was one so small, so weak, so 
 timorous, that hardly could it be possible for it to cross 
 that great void. It had come, only a single phrase, 
 from lips that had never spoken prayer before; but that 
 now, in the last agony of mangled, suffocating dying, 
 spent their last breath in this appeal. Many of its 
 flocking companions outstripped it, and the winds of 
 space buffeted its doubtful flight. It was full of terror; 
 the fear of a heart passionately aware of unworthiness, 
 and despairing to be heard; yet somehow it went on, and 
 at last, timid and painfully fluttering, it won to the 
 battlements of Heaven. 
 
 And on the battlements of Heaven stood joyous 
 young angels to welcome these supplications, and to bring 
 them into the court where they must be heard. Like 
 flocking doves the white prayers came flying up, and the 
 angels held out their arms for them, so that they should 
 light there. They lighted, too, on the shoulders, and 
 even on the hair of the shining ones. Then the little 
 prayer fluttered affrighted, and dared not settle to the 
 gracious resting-place; but wavered and faltered. 
 
 "Oh, the poor little, feeble, frightened prayer!" the 
 youngest angel cried pityingly. 
 
 Slowly she moved toward it as if it were a shy nestling; 
 and when at last she had persuaded it to settle tremblingly 
 on her hand, she softly lifted her hand to her throat, and 
 let the frightened thing nestleunder her chin; and when 
 it was warm, and had ceased to tremble, she coaxingly 
 won it to her caress; till at last she could place it in her 
 bosom. There it lay snuggled and secure, while she took 
 other incoming petitions until they clustered all about 
 her arms and neck. Then she went delicately and joy- 
 ously into the court of Heaven. 
 
 There when she had presented all the other prayers 
 which out of the terror of the battlefield had come soar- 
 ing up to the peace and mercy of Heaven, she put her slim 
 hand into her bosom, and drew out the little prayer. 
 And, lo! it was white like the whiteness of her own angel- 
 robes, and it shone with the rainbow sheen of a tear of 
 penitence. And the other angels, seeing it, clapped their 
 hands for joy. 
 
 Egdon Craige. 
 
78 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 The Knitter. 
 
 What do you do, Little Sister, 
 
 Murmuring there in the sun? 
 "If you please, I am counting my stitches. 
 
 My new knitting is just begun." 
 
 What do you knit, Little Sister? 
 
 A scarf for your shiny gold head? 
 "Oh, no! let my hair go uncovered. 
 
 1 knil for a lad instead." 
 
 And who is the lad. Little Sister? 
 
 Your own lad by love and by right? 
 "Oh, no, if you please, it is any dear lad, 
 
 Barefooted there in the fight." 
 
 When I saw your bowed head. Little Sister, 
 And your moving hand on your knee, 
 
 I thought you were slipping along the beads 
 In Our Father and Hail Mary. 
 
 "Oh, yes, if you please, I pray as I count. 
 And the stitches and prayers make the sum. 
 
 Two is for England, four is for France, 
 And six is for Belgium. 
 
 "And all the great fellowship follows. 
 Woven in, row after row. 
 I pray as I knit and I knit as I pray. 
 Binding oif with Amen at the toe." 
 
 Alice Brown. 
 
 The Friendly Tinker. 
 
 The word "tinker" is not in good favor; it carries 
 with it an idea of pettiness; it used to be associated with 
 Gypsies and thieves. Not even the pious Bunyan lifted 
 it entirely from its disrepute. The typical tinker swore, 
 too, and the "tinker's damn" was synonymous with 
 something weak and futile, and expressed the disfavor of 
 his fellow-men. 
 
 In the little Maine village where I grew up, the tinker 
 bore a name which rhymed with Tennyson, and he was of 
 equally aristocratic lineage. Tennyson was merely the 
 son of Dennis and Kennyson was equally the son of 
 Kenneth, harking back to the day when patronymics 
 sufficiently indicated relationship and family. 
 
 Our tinker was a farmer on a small scale; his house 
 was a tiny cottage such as are to be seen by thousands 
 dotting the hillsides of New England. He kept a lively 
 barking dog which inspired far less fear than a huge 
 barking turkey-gobbler left loose and ready to attack any 
 passing or encroaching tramp or small boy. He had the 
 traditional steed, and made periodical rounds, coming 
 about when he was expected like the January thaw or the 
 line-storm. The farmers' wives generally collected against 
 his appearance all the pots and pans that needed his 
 loving attentions. I can see as vividly as if the scene 
 were here and now his beguiling paraphernalia: the 
 snake-headed tool which grew red-hot in the fire; his 
 little pot full of lumps of solder, which as they felt the 
 flames began to manifest signs of life, sending out little 
 streams of silvery liquid like arms: it was not hard to 
 imagine that they had much the same feelings as live 
 lobsters when they from "black to red began to turn." 
 I can still smell the sizzling rosin. It was a fascinating 
 operation — that of stopping holes in dish-pans and coffee- 
 pots, far more entertaining than to watch the darning of 
 holey socks. 
 
 Our worthy tinker dealt in tinware, which might cause 
 one to imagine that the word had something to do with 
 that valuable metal; but it has not: it was suggested 
 rather by the tinkle of the glittering commodities that he 
 carried to sell or exchange. Piers Plowman associates 
 peddlers and tinkers, and undoubtedly a good many 
 tinkers gradually dropped the mechanical part of their 
 
 vocation and took on a wider range of trade, even to re- 
 nouncing the travelling store to settle down in some grow- 
 ing town or city, and ultimately acquiring wealth, posi- 
 tion, and the accompanying pride, to be handed down to 
 their descendants. Such was not the case with Tinker 
 Kennison. He had no inordinate ambition or acquisitive- 
 ness: he was satisfied with his humble profits, just as the 
 village housewives were satisfied with the milk-pans and 
 baking-tins which they bought of him to replace those 
 that had been repaired too many times. 
 
 Tinker Kennison had a brother who was a deacon in 
 the Congregational church and had been a semi-invalid all 
 his life, although he was a volunteer in the Civil War and 
 came back minus a leg, and it was generally supposed 
 that he was going to die sometime of consumption. He 
 coughed terribly, even during "Divine service," until 
 one day he coughed up a straw-halm or the serrate dart 
 of a grain of oats which, like the spear of African tribes, 
 goes in easily and cannot be drawn out. This had lodged 
 in his lung. It was like getting rid of the last of his wild 
 oats; he got well and a second wife. His example was 
 contagious. The tinker who had lived alone and forlorn 
 decided to go and do likewise. 
 
 In the village lived at the poorhouse an orphan girl. 
 He had seen her there while engaged in his trade. He 
 went to the town authorities and made them an offer so 
 tempting that it was irresistible: he would take the girl 
 off their hands on condition that his taxes should be re- 
 mitted. He married her, and she made him a devoted 
 wife. To use a Maine idiom, it was "a fruitsome place," 
 and every year there was a new little Kennison to share 
 in the tinker's humble lot. 
 
 It used to annoy him when his patrons asked him ques- 
 tions about his growing family. He would never answer 
 verbally, but when the inquisition began he would take 
 off his ragged old cap, which had done service in winter 
 and summer, in rain and in sun, for many years, and 
 mutely hand it to the questioner. There, written in 
 pencil, with many excellent examples of decorative 
 spelling, would be found all that he had decided it was 
 meet for inquisitive gossips to know about his family. 
 He himself was never a gossip. Naturally he knew many 
 things about the various homes where he went; the 
 women on the farms lived lonely lives — for it was before 
 the day of the rural telephone — and were wont to pour 
 their troubles into his outcropping ears. He listened 
 patiently, made few comments, and never repeated what 
 he heard. In that respect, at least, he was a gentleman. 
 He was also absolutely honest. He never attempted to 
 take advantage of any of his customers either in his work 
 or in his sales. He was an odd-looking man, outlandishly 
 dressed, small and weazened, with ragged trousers 
 flapping around his thin legs; but he had a pleasant smile 
 and when he spoke he spoke to the point. He was 
 weather-wise, like a sailor. "Weather-breeder" was his 
 favorite word when the skies were particularly blue and 
 the distant mountains (so thickly covered with huckle- 
 berry-bushes that they, too, assumed the tint of the 
 abundant fruit) seemed only a few miles away. "Good 
 weather comin'," he would say when the storm was at 
 its height. And he was generally right. 
 
 That was many years ago, and he and his wife both (I 
 suppose) are sleeping peacefully in the little graveyard 
 at the side of the road which was once so valiantly guarded 
 by the ferocious turkey-cock. Below, half hidden by tall 
 pines, flows the same old Kennebec — the same and yet 
 never the same. Since his day much water has flow^ed 
 under the covered bridge whose rails are adorned with 
 multitudes of initials; but I always cherish a kindly 
 memory for Tinker Kennison. 
 
 Nathan Haskell Dole. 
 
BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 79 
 
 The Wry-Necked Nora. 
 
 The male pensioners of the Dartbank poorhouse sat 
 in a forlorn group in the sun outside the porch-door, like a 
 bunch of sea-wrack left by the retreating tide of time. 
 They were enjoying what was one of their chief dissipa- 
 tions, the hearing of a tale by Tim Calligan. 
 
 "So it was the Widdy Nora Collins I was courtin','' 
 he said; "not that I was in earnest, as ye might say, but 
 Nora she was a broth of a girl, and all the boys was that 
 jealous of me that they couldn't sleep nights. The 
 Widdy an' me, ye must know, didn't see things single- 
 eyed, as ye might say; for it was another weddin'-ring 
 she was hankerin' for, an' I not so anxious to be tied up 
 for good an' all, an' hopin' at the back of my head that 
 Brig t Carney would be that put about that she'd come 
 round, and say yes to me herself. 
 
 "But there I was carryin' on with Nora Collins for all 
 I was worth, an' all the boys mad jealous; an' I was after 
 buildin' a new fishin'-boat. But the boat was a broth 
 of a boat when I built her, an' bein' one evenin' 
 at Timmy Finnegin's wake with a drop too much in me, 
 ow!n' to Brigit's bein' so contrary and the Widdy so 
 pressin', an' me gettin' mixed up like, I told Nora I'd 
 name me new boat for her; an' she goin' around the night 
 tellin' it, thinkin' that I'd be committed like. An' the 
 real sore boy was Timmy Calligan when I thought it 
 over, an' the wee drop had gone out o' me, and the cold 
 daylight of to-morrow was puttin' the chills down me 
 backbone. 'The Widdy's fooled ye, Tim, me boy,' says 
 I to myself. 'It won't be long but she'll be Mrs. Cal- 
 ligan,' says I, 'if you don't get your wits to work lively.' 
 An' blessed be the handiworks of God, if at the very 
 minute I was thinkin' what would I do, who should come 
 down the road but Brigit Carney herself, lookin' like the 
 rose of the world with the blessin's of angels on it fresh. 
 'Mornin', Brigit,' says I. 'You be a sight for sore eyes,' 
 says I. 'Timmy,' says she, holdin' up a finger, 'now 
 you're engaged to the Widdy — ' ' Engaged to the Widdy, 
 is it?' says I; 'I'm engaged to nobody but yer own self, 
 an' you not ownin' to it, an' me heart all in smithereens 
 kickin about me insides,' says I. 'She says you're to 
 name yer fine new boat for her,' says Brigit. 'Begorra 
 an' sorror o' me life,' says I, scratchin' me head an' not 
 knowin' which way to look, ' may the devil fly away wid 
 the woman, but she got a promise for that out of me when 
 the poteen was in an' me wits all up the chimney,' says 
 I. 'An' it'd never have been,' says I, 'but for you 
 lookin' that sweet to squint-eyed little runt of a Pat 
 O'Harrigan,' says I, 'that looks like a thing the cat brought 
 in.' 'His neck's straight, at least,' says she. An' with 
 that she took her foot in her hand, an' off she went. 
 But her last words give me an idea, an' off I goes down to 
 the shop, an' before the sun took his blessed red face out 
 of sight that night I had the name put on that boat in 
 big red letters, as tall as yer arm. An' it was the 'Wry- 
 necked Nora' I'd be after callin' her; by the same 
 token that before mornin' there wasn't a soul to the 
 smallest wee bit of a spalpeen in the whole place that 
 wasn't laughin' over the joke of it." 
 
 " It was the very next night as ever was," continued Tim, 
 taking up his parable, "that all of us, boys an' girls an' 
 the whole caboodle of us, was down to Patsy Macgraw's, 
 an' I see the W iddy confabin' with Pat O'Harrigan, an' 
 he rufflin' himself up, tryin' to get the courage in him to 
 do some contraption she was puttin' him up to; an' at 
 last, just by way of cornerin' him, in that sweet way a 
 woman has when she's that mad she could bite a spike 
 into splinters, and is bound the man she has her hand on 
 shall do her revengin' for her, up spoke the Widdy, an' 
 says she: 'Tim Calligan,' says she, 'Pat's got that he 
 wants to say to yer.' 'Faith,' says I, 'lucky is Pat to have 
 
 a lady to let folks know when he's after wantin' to speak,' 
 says I, 'for he's a little backward himself,' says I. Wid 
 that she give Pat a shove that came near to knock the 
 wind out of him, an' there he was close foreninst me', the 
 poor little runt that had ought by good rights to been kep' 
 in a bottle on a doctor's shelf, an' not let to run round 
 showin' what a poor job was made when he was born. 
 'Did yer name that boat of yourn.^' says Pat. 'I did,' 
 says I; 'who else would be doin' hi' 'You've insulted 
 a lady,' says Pat. 'Now will ye be after a-listenin' to 
 that.^' says I to all the boys an' girls, makin' as if surprise 
 was takin' the very heart out of me. 'How'll I be after 
 insultin' a lady, Pat O'Harrigan,' says I, 'me that is 
 known to be that fond of the sweet creatures that I'm 
 ready to eat the very ground they're blessin' by trampin' 
 on it.^' says I, makin' eyes at the girls outrageous. 'The 
 name of yer boat's a flat insult,' Pat says he. 'Holy 
 Mother of Mercies,' says I, 'did ever the ears of man hear 
 the like of that! How could that be an insult?' says I. 
 'Sure it couldn t insult a fly,' says I, 'without the creature 
 had a wry-neck,' says I, as innocent as a new-born just 
 scattered down from heaven. An' all the time the girls 
 was laughin' fit to split, and the Widdy with her cheeks 
 the color of the liver of a pig. An' Pat that beside him- 
 self with rage that he knew no more what he was lettin' 
 on to say than a blessed baby knows its father till it's 
 been told, an' then not always bein' certain, owin' to the 
 oncertainties of the flesh; only that he was bound would 
 he beat me at the argufyin' if he died for it, and me only 
 argufyin' for the sake of gettin' beat. Oh, it was a dandy 
 Donnybrook Fair of a time, and many's the day the fun 
 of it was told over agin. 'Ye know right well,' yells me 
 Patsy, frothin' at the mouth till the eyes of him was like 
 a red runnin' stream with the mad of him, 'that the 
 Widdy's neck ain't straight,' say's he, all unconscious-like 
 what word he was spittin' out between his teeth. 'Bless 
 the mother that bore me!' says I, with a surprise that 
 would have deceived an angel, 'do you mean to tell me, 
 Pat O'Harrigan, an' shame to yer for the blackguard 
 thought, that Nora CoUins's neck is a wry one?' An' 
 with that I turned an' looked at the Widdy, and all the 
 gatherin' screamin' wid laughter till 'twas only by the 
 mercy of the blessed saints that none of 'em fell down an' 
 choked to death that day. 'Well,' says I, most deliberate 
 and considerin'-like, 'to see how an honest boy may be 
 cheated!' says I. 'Now you will call me attention to it, 
 though I think shame to ye for doin' the dhirty trick, the 
 Widdy's neck ain't altogether accordin' to a plumb-line. 
 But love is blind,' says I, raisin' my eyes to heaven, 
 by the same token that one of 'em winked at Brigit on 
 the way up, an' she stranglin' wid the deviltry of it. 'To 
 think I never seen that afore,' says I. 'Sure I must have 
 been in love with Mrs. Collins, owin' to which I couldn't 
 see any defect in her more'n in an angel. Now I see there 
 is a sort of a lean-over to the left in the Widdy's neck.' 
 'There ain't!' screeched the Widdy. 'You're a liar an' a 
 slanderer, an' if Pat has the heart of a louse, he'll tear 
 the lyin' tongue out of that mouth of yourn,' says she. 
 An' with that she kind o' hove Pat at me like a blind kitten, 
 an' I was that big an' strong in those days that I made 
 nothin' of takin' him up by the scruff of his neck, and 
 settin' him in the Widdy's lap. 'You'd better keep yer 
 puppy to yeself,' says I, cool-like, ' ef yer don't want the 
 fur roughed up,' says I." 
 
 Tim had by this time exhausted his breath, and so did 
 not go on with particulars of the scrap that followed, and 
 .of how the girls as well as the boys bore part in it. That 
 portion of the tale had dropped away as he grew older; 
 but when he had related it in his prime, his auditors found 
 it easy to believe that long was the memory green of the 
 Wry-necked Nora. b. 
 
80 
 
 BAZAAR DAILY 
 
 A 
 
 To a Floor-Cloth 
 Painfully knit from the Selvedge of Bandage-Cloth. 
 
 Rough, ravelled, wrinkled as you are, 
 
 I gaze on you with pride; 
 The finest lace you outshine far. 
 
 Its uselessness deride. 
 I wronged you lately as I knit, 
 
 And thought myself absurd; — 
 You triumph of inventive wit. 
 
 Economy's last word. 
 
 Aly fingers masculine, I know, 
 
 Were clumsy as I worked; 
 I bungled painfully and slow, — 
 
 But not one stitch I shirked. 
 Sleep, who knits up Care's ravelled sleave, — 
 
 Whatever that may be, — 
 May now completely vanquished grieve, 
 
 Her laurels come to me! 
 
 Upon the ragged edge I've stood 
 
 On many a painful day; 
 But never had discerned it could 
 
 Be useful any way. 
 Now when I see your sturdy mesh, 
 
 I stand with hat in hand, 
 And honor wisdom in the flesh 
 
 Of him your texture planned 
 
 Go on your way. May all success 
 
 Your cleansing course attend; 
 To help men on toward godliness 
 
 Your best assistance lend. 
 Go, fight the insinuating germ 
 
 That lurks in filth and grime. 
 Your mission, — lengthy be its term, — 
 
 Though humble, is sublime! 
 
 
 
 Answers to Charades. 
 
 
 ,, 
 
 Noitarotser. 
 
 iS. 
 
 Ycnamorcen. 
 
 35- 
 
 Liatruc. 
 
 2. 
 
 Lec.ie. 
 
 19- 
 
 Nostej 
 
 ?6. 
 
 Otamot. 
 
 3- 
 
 Yponac. 
 
 20. 
 
 Etnarugif. 
 
 37- 
 
 Ratrat. 
 
 4- 
 
 Nacaep. 
 
 21. 
 
 Esuaceb. 
 
 38- 
 
 Tunlaw. 
 
 5- 
 
 Ekatsim. 
 
 22. 
 
 Rereviled. 
 
 39- 
 
 Kcormahs. 
 
 6. 
 
 Nairadeceba. 
 
 23- 
 
 Ycnellecxe. 
 
 40. 
 
 Egamad. 
 
 7- 
 
 Tnatabmoc. 
 
 24. 
 
 Noisnam. 
 
 4'- 
 
 Atnalata. 
 
 8. 
 
 Tnaromroc. 
 
 25- 
 
 Ytidereh. 
 
 42. 
 
 Egattoc. 
 
 9- 
 
 Edahsthgin. 
 
 26. 
 
 Niartauq. 
 
 43- 
 
 Tnednepedni. 
 
 10. 
 
 Odod. 
 
 27- 
 
 Tnemeganam. 
 
 44- 
 
 Osla. 
 
 1 1. 
 
 Eramthgin. . 
 
 28. 
 
 Tunaep. 
 
 45- 
 
 Ytilimuh. 
 
 12. 
 
 Nacnac. 
 
 29. 
 
 Etaunet.xe. 
 
 46. 
 
 Kcaspank. 
 
 '}■ 
 
 Nacuot. 
 
 3°- 
 
 Ydrat. 
 
 47- 
 
 Reednier. 
 
 14. 
 
 Petsni. 
 
 31- 
 
 Noitanodnoc. 
 
 48. 
 
 Nodnet. 
 
 IS- 
 
 Eruces. 
 
 32- 
 
 Etarutasrepus. 
 
 49. 
 
 Etagitim. 
 
 16. 
 
 Xificurc. 
 
 33- 
 
 Suolebil. 
 
 50- 
 
 Pintac. 
 
 17- 
 
 Noitaicossa. 
 
 34- 
 
 Ytud. 
 
 
 
 Read backward, and my first you find 
 Controls all human jo\' and fear; 
 
 My ne.xt to trouble all mankind. 
 
 Then forward read, — mv whole is here. 
 
 After Sir Thomas Lipton had lost three races in this 
 country, the American yachtsmen presented him with 
 a loving-cup. It was decorated with the figures of the 
 bison, the beaver, and the Indian, these being selected 
 as typically American. The comment of a gentleman of 
 Philadelphia was: " How appropriate. Three lost races." 
 
 Old Mrs. McGinn is as deaf as a pin. 
 And she's mad to go gadding about; 
 
 She's bought her a tin that's a car when she's in, 
 And an ear-trumpet when she gets out. 
 
 Mr. X. was in the middle of a marital explanation, and 
 rather inclined to lose his temper. "I do wish," he ex- 
 claimed at last, "that you'd pay a little attention to 
 what I say." "I'm paying as little as I can," responded 
 Mrs. X., amiably. 
 
 Howlers. 
 
 [These are all genuine, and are taken from e.xamination-books written by 
 the students of a leading Massachusetts school.) 
 
 The unearned increment was a kind of plow used in the 
 Middel Ages. 
 
 Sidney lost his life in the defense of Poetry. 
 
 The drama in the Middle Ages was held by the tenants 
 of the church to be something opposed to the church 
 doctrines. 
 
 The Romans were a brand of Celts, but did not use 
 stone weapons. 
 
 C. Marlowe was one of the most important novelists 
 of the Elizabethan era. 
 
 Tennyson's work ranged widely. He was not chosen 
 to any one particular sphere. He has two prominent 
 lyrics, and also a some considerable dramatic. 
 
 "The Idylls of the King" contains many beautiful 
 poems, such as "The Vision of Sir Launfall," and "The 
 Holly Grale," and "The Knight's Tale." 
 
 Spencer was married, and wrote a poem to his wife, 
 "Astrabeller Steller." 
 
 Grocyn was the name of the young lady Spenser was 
 in love with. 
 
 Shakespeare never knew that Bacon was writing his 
 plays because he was so interested in producing them. 
 
 "Casterbury Tales" was written by Edward Spenser. 
 Its plan is that of an allagory, and possibly Hawthorne 
 got from this poem his idea for his "Tales of a Wayside 
 Inn." 
 
 Dryden's nature was so sensitive that he probably 
 would not have published his poetry had there been 
 then a poet greater than he. 
 
 "Absolom and Achitophel" is an Arabic poem, and 
 treats of the Bedouin nomadic life, giving an exceedingly 
 vivid picture of two Arabians and the attachment of 
 one of them to his horse. ^ 
 
 The Roman Catholic church invaded Great Britain 55 
 
 B.C. 
 
 Columbus discovered America because when news- 
 papers were started they told how this might be done. 
 
 Columbus would have discovered America sooner, 
 but he was uncertain where it was, because he could 
 not trust the charts of that day, and the course was 
 not marked on them right. 
 
 Social economics is how you get into good society. 
 
 A chemical reagent is an agent that sells chemicals, 
 but not at first hand. 
 
 [By a Chinese student.] Because when Chliorne per- 
 form we find oxygen are a considerable amount of it 
 contain as uses bleaching agent there are the amount 
 of O. from a compound is work much better O get from 
 air. 
 
 Shakespeare's plays were in blank verse, and his 
 other poems were in poetry. 
 
 At the Reformation Europe cast ofF the Catholic 
 Church, and became largely Christian. 
 
 "Canterbury Tails" were plays that could not be 
 acted because they were in prose. 
 
 "The Daflfodils" was written by Wordsworth. The 
 subject came to him one day in walking in the fields; he 
 saw a daffodil and the poem is an elaborate description of 
 the bird and its wonderful song. 
 
 Defoe was a born liar, but he was a poet as you could 
 tell because he wrote " Robinson Crusoe," but when he 
 was old he reformed, and was known as Dean Swift. 
 
 Amphibious means to beat the devil round the bush. 
 
 [By a Chinese boy.] Tendril is the tip of the mustache 
 of an insect. 
 
 Drake on his voyage home from the Pacific sailed round 
 the Cape of Good Hope to avoid the Suez Canal and the 
 desert. 
 
 W92 
 
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