UC-NRLF 512 P S 3531 P454 B3 1911 MAIN rk i0m? GIFT OF SCO fftern Most Rev. D.D., Rt. Rev. Th Rev. M. Rev. W. Rer.J.l Rev. P. E. n SCO Charles Phillips, Editor and Manager Sarsfield F. MacCarthy, Business Manager ~\ V BACK HOME BY CHARLES PHILLIPS Far off thou art, yet ever nigh: I have thee still and I rejoice: I prosper, circled with thy voice: I cannot lose thee tho I die! Tennyson. SAN FRANCISCO THE JAMES H. BARRY COMPANY 1911 Copyright 1911 By CHARLES PHILLIPS [Third Edition] IPs DEDICATION TO ALU WHO LOVE, AND LOVING U N DERSTAN D 255379 WHERE MOTHER IS, IS BEST." Sure as the winged arrow shoots, Straight as the crow flies west, Unerring as the eagle sweeps The heavens to his nest, My heart sends all its wishings home "Where Mother is, is best." When Fortune smiles in this fair land, And all the world is dressed In sunny garb, and all the skies Smile at my soul s glad zest, Oh, then would I go singing home "Where Mother is, is best." And when the gloom and shadows come, And, faltering in the test, I fail, and fain would lean upon Some heart for strength and rest, Ah, then my heart turns wearily, "Where Mother is, is best." Where Mother is, there Heaven is, There all the charms possessed Of peace and joy and dear content Await at love s behest Where mother is my heart would stay "Where Mother is, is best." Yes, I would bring my burdens home, And lay my head at rest In her dear lap; or singing bring The fairest fortunes guessed In our long dreams, to make her glad! "Where Mother is, is best!" God keep her safe among those scenes Of home so dear, so blest! O, long as love and mem ry live, And long as Faith s confessed, My heart will cry to all the world, "Where Mother is, is best." PART I Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest, Home-keeping hearts are happiest. The bird is safest in its nest: To stay at home is best! Longfellow. BACK HOME NO, I do not forget. For all my days Are thronged with thoughts of you, my evening hours Are filled with recollections. Day and night My comings and my goings all are sweetened And pleasant made with memories of you. Now even as I write to bring you near With chronicles of old home days, my heart Is sudden clamorous made with many thoughts As if, with yearning s eager, hurried hand I threw the door of all the past wide open And started all the trembling wings of memory To rushing flight and swift returning welcome. Ah, well they know me, these dear doves of memory, And clamorous they beat their wings around me, Till, in the soft onrushing music made By the attentive flutter of their wings, 12 BACK HOME I hear a strain of sweet familiar voices; Till, in the cloudy hypnos of their wing- ing, Mine eyes see visions of old scenes I love. If the drowsed solace of the dreaming pipe Were mine, how languorously now might I Lean back upon the soft surcease it brings And give the curling smoke free will to weave Its visionary pictures! But the sound Of memory s persistent wings is none The less inviting, tho I sit alone In smokeless solitude. Nay, but I sit Apart from all the life about me, living A part in other days. No little thing Here in this room, so far from home, but speaks Of home and you. Father, I never hear The sound of building and of saw and hammer, But am reminded of the days you built, And we, your boys, were early let from school To bring your dinner pail. I wonder now How often we took furtive "peeks" be neath The cover of that pail to see if doughnuts BACK HOME 13 Were tempting there, in brown, sweet, odorous richness? Even the table that I write upon Speaks of the little home-made desk of pine You made for us that wondrous treas ury Of slates, and pencils, and geographies, And, in the later years, repository Of "Poultry Heralds" and the "Bee Journal," And neatly stored-up housewife s handy things. Ah, but I love that little old pine desk, And many a time my heart goes longing back To the dark evenings when my little lamp The smallest lamp of all, the only one That had a pedestal showed me the way Thro Arden forest and Verona s streets, And lit the page of Lear s wild stormy story. For it was at that desk I, elbows crook d, And eager-eyed, and on the chair s sharp edge, First learned the lore of Shakespeare. Ah, what worlds Of wonder Avon s bard has shown me since 14 BACK HOME Those days of Charles and Mary Lamb! What desks Of night-hour study and of swift day toil I ve delved and scribbled at since those first hours Out in the kitchen. Then I never stirred Till from the living room the call, thrice given, Came for the evening prayer. And if, sometimes, I told my Rosary beads with thoughts far off In English lanes or on the bright Rialto, Twas but a child s rejoicing in discovery Of fairy worlds that he prayed Heaven to open. Softly! I hear them now those evening prayers, And the swift sounds of memory s wings become The mingled voices of the Rosary. First, mother s, low and even and the prayers From her dear lips sound now the sweet est music My ears will ever hear; then father s, low, And in his voice something of solemn chant. So one by one, with lowly reverence The sacred mysteries were told and proudly, BACK HOME 15 If I so hap was chosen to repeat Some of the prayers. Ah, vesper voices, calling Forever to me from the deathless past, I hear you and I heed your treasured message! Voices of by-gone days, where sound ye now? One is uplifted in the Eternal Chorus; One, of that Mary named for her whom, suppliant, We begged sweet intercession, still is breathing Prayers for us all, tho foreign bound aries sunder; One, of the little sister, lifts to-night A pleading prayer, upon the western plain; One is to-night with yours again com mingled In evening prayer. And one ah! since I know No blessing breathes there that I do not share in, With all the joy that being remembered brings, And all the sorrow separation makes, One voice, I cry to you across the moun tains, Is lifted up in prayer and blessing on you, In praise to God for all the gifts He s given; 16 BACK HOME And chiefest of those gifts the un measured bounty Of your dear love and care and constant blessing! No, I do not forget! You live and move in all my work and pleasure, And would that words could measure half the motive Of good you daily give me. Think you, father, That the long, weary days of toil and labor, Of sweat in sun-hot fields, of cold and hardship In winter days, were lost? And you, my mother! In one the truest wife, the dearest mother A home has ever hidden! Think you ever The burdens you have borne, the cares you ve carried, The sorrows you have hidden in your heart, Think you these all, my mother, have been only The weight of crosses? Nay! if on your soul They have perforce weighed down, upon your children They sit as crowns, with all the signal uplift BACK HOME 17 Of coronals! And in our hearts we carry The greatest heritage that man may claim Sonship to a great mother, a good father! No, I do not forget! There in that valley Named for the Holy Cross, I see in vision The little church you built, first monu ment To rise upon the plain in verity To prove the Risen Christ! Now two- score years Have put their marks of wind and weather on it, But still it stands, those hand-hewn tim bers firm Upon their base, those joists so staunchly joined That age and usage cannot shake their setting; Still from that cross-tipped spire the little bell Rings out its summons thro the parish bounds, To gather in the sons and children s children Of that far day when your strong voice commanded, And your still stronger arm lifted and guided 18 BACK HOME The last great beam of that first prairie chapel. And in they troop; and if, among them now, Few there may be who keep you in re membrance None but that dear and only sister left, And that one brother who remains to day, (And, in the choir loft, those who know your worth, And mingle thoughts of you in chant and hymnal) Still there is one, one unforgetting Friend, One Comrade of those early days whom time Can never change, whose loyalty is deathless, Whose love is Life itself, whose com radeship Has been your constant help aye, there is One Who never will forget. There on the altar, There in that tabernacle that your hands Built of the insensate, now all sacred, wood, He is, in plenteous grace. Your hands, my father, Built Him this roof; and He will still remember BACK HOME 19 There was a time when doors were closed against Him, "No room within!" Your skill, my father, fashioned This shelter and this little sanctuary, And He will not forget that time there was When He had not whereon to lay His Head. little church, on the Wisconsin prairie, Where the rich valley of the Holy Cross Pays tribute to the fruitful sun, you call me Many a time when thro the hurrying city 1 hasten on my way and hear bells ring ing You call me to your humble sanctuary; And many a time, tho plain and peak may sunder, I kneel within your hallowed quiet. There I entered first the portals of the chosen, When sacramental waters, given in baptism, Regenerated me. There first I heard The sweetly solemn music of the organ And listened to uplifted voices singing. I see you now, O little church, well named After that saint upon whose feast my father 20 BACK HOME First saw the light! St. Patrick, great Apostle Of Christ s unfailing Faith! Behold the tribute, My father, in his strong prime, paid his patron; True sign he loved and honored that fair name His natal day bestowed him. You, O saint Of Tara s Hill, whom Erin s sons re member With love and praise you brought to Druid Ireland The light of Truth, the bounty of God s presence. Behold! one son bearing your noble name Gave of his best, his all, to lift the same Tri-signet cross above the prairie pines, Thus bearing on the undying fire you lighted On Tara s summit and all Ireland s hills; So praising God through you, his great Apostle! Pray for my father, O St. Patrick! Bles sings Ask the good Christ for him with every stroke Of that far prairie bell. Fill all the heavens With prayers and blessings for him, O good people, Kneeling to God beneath the roof he builded! BACK HOME 21 Mass over, surely you remember, folks, How the wide church-yard thronged with people! Sunday Was a long- week s event in those old days; Then neighbors met for friendly chat and gossip, Stored up, since last the whirring wheels of buggies And Sunday rigs and democrats and buckboards Broke rudely, with swift clouds of dust, upon The housewife s gossip, or new jelly recipe, Or youths and maidens all self-con scious silence, Or farmers talk of crops and cattle sales: O, all the world was centred there, and sorrow Was given sweet surcease in friendly words, The Sunday guest was greeted and made known To cousins and relations (by the dozen), The price of wheat was argued, and potatoes Were championed as next year s banner crop. The widow s tears sprung fresh upon the sight Of stalwart men who but a week before 22 BACK HOME Had borne her life-companion to the grave ; And by her smiled the new-made mother, proud To show her hushling baby to the women, While sage advice was poured into her ears, And questions asked and answered with that wisdom The heritage of mothers since first Eve Nursed Adam s sons. Life, pulsant and refulgent, Hummed in the churchyard, while the roses bloomed And filled the paths with all the sum mer splendor Of sunny June. And then all warningless A wind came stirring from the grove of oaks And blew the bending roses till the grass Was strewn with flowery snow. And so our eyes Follow the warning finger of the wind And seek the grave-yard s grassy slopes, where sleep Those who await us, yet whose memory Remains as living as the verdant sod That marks their corporal resting place. Beneath This slender marble shaft, all mellowed SACK HOME 23 And stained with age, the dust of loved ones lies, A father s mother, whom I never saw; A brother and two little baby sisters. How often have I knelt beside that plot And prayed for them, the while my won dering fancy Strove to make pictures of the might- have-been. These were the first graves I had known. Yet death Spoke never from them in its bitterness, For rest and hushed repose, among the roses, Or underneath the quiet of the snows, Breathed round about. Ah! graves have opened since To dull my heart and darken all my vision; Yet now, with some of life s long lessons learned, Those first graves ever seem to bring the truer And holier message. Rather this the thought Of them has helped me grasp the heavy meaning Of graves that hold hearts of my actual knowledge. No grave was ever opened to receive The silent dead that did not, too, enclose Some of the very heart-core of the living. 24 BACK HOME So runs the tale! Death in the midst of life! The living crowd all busy with its talk ing, Laughs in reply beside the sleeping throng; But even rarest gossip has an end, And tired young mothers must haste home again, And farmers to their stock, and lovers hurry To keep their tryst and widows, heavy hearted, Must turn their weary feet once more to hearths That coldly wait: "Up, Dick! Whoa, Jenny!" "Hurry!" The road resounds with voice and whirr of wheels, And all the world is for a little while A dust cloud! Down we go, with call ing voices, Along the rattling road, and leave be hind The church and churchyard, soon how well I know it To brood in strange and solitary quiet Through all the long, bright Sunday, and the days Of plow, or harvest, till the bell again Summons the prairie people to the altar. Yet, One remains; and, in the wondrous quiet BACK HOME 25 That broods about, that little church and churchyard Seem suddenly the land of heart s desire, The domain of the disenthralled, the gateway Of wide eternity itself. But down the road The spokes spin and the hoofs make merry clatter. I know the old road well. To-day re turning, I d look for Padden s store and once again Know the good smacking taste of ginger snaps: For many a time you bought us ginger- snaps On the way home from Mass. That I remember, And the white cottage hidden in the bushes Between the "Corners" and the church. And now I vaguely see the old bent bearded man Who greeted us from out the cottage gateway. One other memory of early Sundays I keep secure the days when fate de creed We children stay at home. But solemn service Was celebrated still, the round-turned legs 26 BACK HOME Of our toy-table, stately candlesticks, Cigar boxes our altar, and a towel, (The brighter-patterned and the deeper fringed The better) for our vestment. The re turn From Mass we watched with eager wish and wonder, Hoping for "goodies" or, far better still, Some cousin s visit. If the cousin came And truly then, "the more the merrier," What escapades we had in that red cart, Disk-wheeled, you made for us! And O, the wonder Of watching swallows build their dobe houses Under the barn eves; or the martens fly Out from the bird-house, and dart in again. And there were straw-piles for the wildest slides, Where only clouds of chaff could drown our shrieks, Of Indian-like delight; then hay-loft plunges, When from the dizzy rafters down we leaped Upon the prickly hay. That took more daring Than hunting eggs, or chasing little pigs BACK HOME 27 Unless a sharp-beaked setting hen defied us, Or angry sow snapped grunting at our heels. Out in the apple orchard, O what finds Of wind-fallen, juicy-hearted, golden crabs, Or mealy "winters"! Ah, how memory Revives the past; the world takes on the hues Of that bright portulaca bed, the pride Of all the women folks. O happy days! Sweet days of wild flowers, plucked when barefooted We went across the fields with dinner pails, Finding- wild roses and sweet-william by the furrow. O, what a thorny way it was when feet, All flower-belated, must make haste across The cruel stubble! Roses then had thorns; And life had lessons, tho we knew it not. The day returning from the fields, I saw A green snake dart between the sun- scorched stones Out in the trodden pasture, lives still vivid And makes the sight of crawling creat ures still 28 BACK HOME So sense-abhorrent that I shudder at it. And when, pray, will I ever mount a horse Without recalling that dread hour of terror When from the back of our old dapple, Fanny, Plodding her well-known way from bars to stable, I fell, amid the clatter of the harness, Into the mud and fairly died of fright? To-day she browses in Elysian pastures. Curly, the dog, whose dumb fidelity Made change of masters, death, is dead and gone These many years, and even his silky coat That made a cap for his new owners (O, How heartless that grim fate seemed then to me!), Has served its time. The little disk- wheeled cart, Whose red was faded by the rain to pink, Made kindling, with the little bird-house sharing It s axy fate. What tragedies those were! And time has never healed their poig nancy! BACK HOME 29 How memory beguiles me, on and on! The moving finger writes, the Past re lives In passing panorama. So it is Thro all my waking days there center round The thought of you, these pictures of the Past; Thirst brings me bending o er the well again; Hot city pavements lure my feet in wishing Down elm-green lanes, o er cool dark kitchen floors; And tempting pitchers of the lemonade That mother mixed so magically, tease My reminiscent taste with icy tinkle And beady sweat. O, once again to wear A big straw hat, with dripping rhubarb leaves Doused with the well s clear brew, packed in its crown! O, happy days of bird and brook and rose-leaf! O smiling days of boyhood, gone for ever! LOST LITTLE BOY. O little boy, how pure you are, how fair! And what a wonder in your big gray eyes, Like to the heavens, when sweet suns surprise The silver rains! I see you laughing- there Light-heart, so far away! No cloud of care Has crossed the sunny April of your skies. Ah, how the world has changed! My sore heart cries For one brief little day your joy to share! Lost little boy, I love you as of old, And all the dear companions of your day; But, ah, how futilely for you I sigh! Yet in the night my world-worn hands I fold And kneel me down to the Great Lord to pray For all that s good of me, sweet boy, is you, so fair, so high! PART II Faces and places are soon forgot In the pride of life s endeavor, But the home of the child, be it palace or cot, Lives on in the mind forever. James Riley. OW evening rested quietly and still Upon the dewy lawn! The moon came up Over the eastern groves, and silvered all The dreamy world, and made more sil very still The music of sweet horns we listened to, Played on by magic breath within the grove. Clear on the silence, falling when the horns Ceased their far cries and melody of bugling, Broke a shrill monotone from the still pond, The hymnal of the frogs. The sylvan town Scarce stirred within its shadowy shel ter. Stars Beamed steady in the great untroubled sky, The while the clear moon rode her wonted course. And now, perhaps, a cool wind, rising up, Makes mother and aunt Minnie draw their aprons Over their shoulders. "It is growing cool!" Still silence reigns. Then far along the night A warning engine cry, and soon the darkness 36 BACK HOME Is pierced and cloven with a meteor, The quiet shattered by the rumbling noise Of whirring steel across the shuddering bridge. Out from the engine s throat the smoke and sparks Belch forth, lit by the sudden livid glow Of fireman s open door as sudden closed; And like a frightened terror, on and on The night Express speeds on its way, soon lost Behind the echoing hills. Tis bed time now. The days grow shorter and the wind more cool, Till evenings in the open air give away To fireside hours. The frost comes, and the snow, And winter rules in bitter winds that drift The snow against the window-panes, and frost That paints the glass fantastic with its scrolls. When with warm breath we blow upon the pane And clear away the feathery congeal- ment To peer into the night, behold a world BACK HOME 37 Brought to a wondrous pause upon its way All still beneath the mystic witchery Of winter! Blue and pale it lies en thralled, Dumbly submissive to the buffet-breath Of polar blasts, yet strangely beauti ful In all its utter hush. Turn we again Back to the fire, the reading lamp, the books, Or mayhap to the puzzling strategy Of checker-board. Dear evening hours at home! Ah! many a world-worn heart would give, to-night, A brilliant barter of triumphant nights For one brief hour of your good, peace ful quiet. The checker-board life wrought in miniature, With wisdom s slow reward made ac tual In king-rows man s resources kept intact, And folly s giddy way brought to con fusion. The victory was never mine! but I Learned more than checker playing at the game. Study there was and books always al lured me. ("Only this page to finish," was the cry 38 BACK HOME At bedtime always). So now, best of all, I like to think of that small reading cir cle Our household made, when, gathered all together, We laughed at Peter Pepper s wild ad ventures In Ireland read aloud. But over all The books, and better even than my Shakespeare, Were those old tales you told of Ireland, father! You have forgotten them, perchance, nor mind the telling; But not so I! Those stories still live on In memory, a constant source of pleas ure, And all the wondrous land of glens and fairies Of moonlit abbey ruins and of bridges Built by the "good people" Ballyhader- een, Loch Gara, with its fiddling lads aferry- ing The lassies over, the "Big House," the rooks And owls that made the abbey tower dreadful With ghostly portent; all, all this re mains, The land I mapped all clear in my young mind s eye BACK HOME 39 While eager ears were hearkening to your stories; "Pis just as fresh and green in my imag ining As in your youthful memory. Nor ever Can heavy winds go soaring thro the night But I, almost in childish terror, live The "Night of the Big Wind" over again; I hear the scream and booming of the tempest, The rattle of the flying slate-roof shin gles, The roar of all the wild, unearthly tu mult That sails along the gale, as if old ocean Himself in anger, came to sweep your threshold. "An awful night at sea!" I hear you say. "Great shipping scattered and de stroyed." All Ireland Was filled with fugitives from off the sea, And ballad singers were abroad, recount ing The havoc of the wind. Now, thro the black And shivering night, I see the men out, tying The oat stacks down, and fastening the house roofs 40 BACK HOME To save them. Then a wilder, fiercer crying Comes on the wind s voice, and a sud den crash! And tumbling from the chimney falls a stone! It struck "Aunt Peggy" on the head: see! I remember! Do you remember this? A little lad, Sudden awakening in the night-stilled house And finding himself utterly alone. Out, terrified, he leaped, and sped away Across the fields, white, naked, like a fairy, And frightening all the rabbits in the furze, Crying his grief and terror to the winds Till loving arms the arms he sought secured him! Now, far at sea, a sailing ship appears, With precious freight one of those ar gosies Of hope and sorrow, bitterness and joy, Poor stricken Ireland set upon the sea To find their way to "rainbow s end!" The storms Lash the loud sea to yawning rage; the wind Blows every way but journey s way; the stars And all the heavens are blotted out in darkness. BACK HOME 41 Sick and despairing grow the once brave exiles, j So pitiless the power of Heaven seems turning Against their every hope and prayer. Yet one, A young lad, busy with his tools of trade When need finds use for them, makes hearts look up And smile and take new courage from the lesson Youth teaches. Friends he makes, and cheer he brings Wherever his light steady step and eyes Of smiling candor go. The same lad grows In strength and sinew (honoring the calling Of Nazareth s good Saint), till man hood s years Are won. The days speed on; the New West calls And so the far Wisconsin prairie wins The best of Canada. O men and women Who braved the frontier, never counting cost Of ease and comforts given for the ma king Of hearts and homes! O pioneers! What poem Can tell your worth! What song can sing the courage Of tender women, out upon the prairie! 42 BACK HOME Armies win martial glory, statesmen live In stirring words on history s bright pages, But Fame s far splendor, nor the soldier s glory Can ever measure all the honor due The pioneer the quiet men and women Who made the new land home! You were the builders! Church, spire, and many a roof attest it! Yet In our old home are prizes far more precious That tell one s skill in Joseph s goodly trade, And speak the magic of a mother s pres ence. No need to tell your father was before you A carpenter and cabinet-maker, deft In all the arts of his important trade That made the builder, in his day, the carver Of bed as well as beam, of chair and table As well as roof and floor. Nor need to say The gentle art of making home was learned, The nimble ringer trained in needles art, Dear mother, long before the prairie won you. BACK HOME 43 For there the little farm-house in the trees Stood as a landmark for all travelers "The house that has the curtains"; and the guest Found a sweet gentlewoman s magic spell Making "a garden in the wilderness." St. Patrick s day again! The winter, passing, Gives glimpses of the green beneath, as if A pledge that Ireland s shamrocks still are growing. Come, then, pin on your green, and let us go Out to the "Corners" for the celebration. Rich oratory rings along the rafters, And from the organ-loft the stirring notes Of "Patrick s Day," "The Wearing of the Green," "Faith of Our Fathers" and then, "God Save Ireland" Sweep thro our Irish hearts! And lo, once more The best thoughts of the past return, the years Long fled, renew, the world grows young 44 BACK HOME Then "God Save Ireland" say we all of us, And God save you and bless you boun tifully! St. Patrick s rarest blessings all be yours. O may the sorrows of your heart be few, And always like the sorrows of old Ire land, With Hope s bright rainbow ever shin ing thro , And may your joys and blessing be as many And all as beautiful as all the sham rocks In all of Ireland, with the dew upon them! St. Patrick s day again, God bless us; surely This is the night then for potato cake Potato Cake! Ah, surely, one forgets The sharp points of this life when creamy patties, Swimming in golden butter, piping hot, Melt in one s mouth. Potato cake! There s not In all of Ireland, nor the whole world over One who can make potato cake like you, Mother, no Irish blarney this, I tell you! Only a little of the dear old story Have I reviewed. Thoughts throng with memory, BACK HOME 45 Words rush to picture all the past, and heart Warms and beats higher in remembering. Now comes the blessed Christmas time again, The time when all hearts hark them back to home, When families gather if God be so kind And sons and daughters, parents and their children, Assemble round the board. I count the days Till I may be beneath the old home roof With you once more, making the present time Better than best of "olden times." God grant We ll keep our Christmas and our New Year, too, As now we plan, together, happy, glad Of blessings many, and so light of heart That "Merry Christmas" is the only word Can tell our story. Until then, "Good night" I call across the country, knowing well That all my thoughts, wherever I may roam, Will be for you, the dear old folks back home. A VOICE IN THE CITY. Draw the veil closer, closer! I would fain, Forever in the vision land remain! There is a shielding sense of peace I crave, Of shelter from the bruising world. The grave Alone, perhaps, can truly give it me; For then my spirit, freed, may range the sea And, love-attended by unfettered dreams, Know the sweet Truth beyond May-be and Seems. Draw the veil closer! Take me quickly now O pilot on the dream-ship s starlit prow! Save me, I cry! The iron is entering in, And soon my soul will only hear the din Of black machinery. For all too soon My life-pulse throbs to this discordant tune, Beating so tirelessly, my dulling sense Will yet mark music in its clashing tense, And, deafened to the song of star and flower, Bend and be broken in its crushing power. Draw the veil closer! Save me from the day That dreadfully impends, when, far away, The waves of my dear sea in vain will weave The song I love so well. O let me leave This alien place before I utterly die! For even now my soul makes feeble cry! [Written for the eightieth birthday of my father, Patrick Phillips, March 17, 1908. First published for private circulation, De cember, 1908; reprinted August, 1911; third edition, November, 1911.] THIS BOOK IS DUB ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 5O CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. 1938 ** 0/657 U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 255379