The work then moved along smoothly and Colonel Goethals was looking forward to the end of his labors, when one day an engineer on the Panama Railroad paid no attention to the signals and let his train run into the rear coaches of another train, killing the conductor.

This engineer was drunk, and it is against the rules of any railroad for an intoxicated person to be in its employ. Colonel Goethals had the engineer arrested and put in jail. However, the man belonged to a labor union, and this union sent a committee demanding that he release the engineer by seven o'clock that evening. If he did not, they would order all the men working along the canal to strike. This meant that the work on the canal would stop, and it might be weeks before it would be resumed. They would wait, they said, for his answer until seven o'clock that evening. Colonel Goethals listened to the committee, then shook hands with them and went to his home.

Seven o'clock came, then eight. The committee was worried. They telephoned Colonel Goethals and asked for his answer. He replied in surprise that they had it. They said it had not reached them. He reminded them that they intended to strike at seven o'clock if the man was not released, and then said, "It is now eight o'clock; if you call the penitentiary, you will find the man is still there."

The leaders did not want to strike. They had expected to make Colonel Goethals do what they wanted. Then they said, "Do you want to tie up the work down here, Colonel"?

"I am not tying it up," he told them. "You are. You forget that this is not a private enterprise, but a government job."

When asked what he was going to do, his answer was: "Any man not at work tomorrow morning will be given his transportation to the United States. He will go out on the first steamer and he will never come back."

There was only one man who had failed to report, and he sent a doctor's certificate saying he was too sick to work. There were no more strikes.

In May, 1913, a Congressman introduced a bill into the House of Representatives providing for the promotion of Colonel Goethals from Colonel to Major-General as a reward for his services in building the canal. At once Colonel Goethals wrote the gentleman saying he appreciated his kindness but he did not believe he should be singled out for such an honor. There were many men, he said, who had done great work in Panama, and they, as well as himself, felt repaid for their services not only by their salary but by the honor of being connected with such a wonderful task. He said also that the United States Government had educated and trained him so it was but right that it should have his services. The bill was withdrawn and Colonel Goethals was satisfied.

When we look at the life of this successful man it seems as if all the years before his going to the Canal Zone were but a preparation for the great feat that awaited him there. He was always eager to work, and when he was a little boy in New York City he earned his first money by doing errands. At that time he was eleven years of age, but by the time he was fifteen he was the cashier and bookkeeper in a market. Other boys spent their time playing ball, but he worked after school and every Saturday. He was paid five dollars a week. His first hope was to be a physician, but the steady indoor work had weakened his health and he decided to become a soldier. He thought the excellent military training would make him well and strong, so he passed the examinations for West Point Military Academy.

As he knew no one there, George Goethals' entry into the famous school was but little noticed. However, as the months and years passed, every one there was proud to claim him as a pupil or classmate.

There are three great honors to be won at West Point. Any man who wins one of these is called an honor man, and the entire school looks up to him. The first honor is to have the highest grade as a student. The second is to be named a leader and an officer over all the rest of the class. The third is to be chosen for an office by one's classmates because they like him. George W. Goethals won all three of these. He was an honor man in his studies; his teachers chose him as one of the four captains taken from his class; and this same class elected him president in his senior year.

With such a school record it is not at all surprising that Colonel Goethals made steady progress in the army and so was considered by President Roosevelt to be the one person who could build the canal. Since its completion, this able soldier has continued to serve his country, and when President Wilson declared we were in a state of war with Germany, Colonel Goethals was among the first persons summoned to help plan and supervise the great war program; for at the root of his success lies loyalty,—loyalty to his work, to his fellow men, and to the Government of the United States.

* * * * *

CHILDREN'S PLEDGE

I pledge allegiance to my Flag And to the Republic for which it stands; One Nation indivisible, With liberty and justice for all.



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

On one of the more modest streets of Indianapolis there lived, in 1916, an invalid. He was a man sixty-two years of age, with a genial face that had not been hardened by his years of suffering. This man, though living in a modest home and a confirmed invalid, had the rare distinction of being the most beloved man in America. While all classes loved him, the children loved him most; and fortunately they did not wait until he was dead to show their love. One of the nice things they used to do was to send him post cards on his birthdays. Sometimes he would get, on a single birthday, as many as a thousand cards from school children in all parts of the country.

While he could not answer all these cards, he did his best to let them know that he appreciated their kindly attention, as the following letter shows:

"To the School Children of Indianapolis:

"You are conspirators—every one of you, that's what you are! You have conspired to inform the general public of my birthday, and I am already so old that I want to forget all about it. But I will be magnanimous and forgive you, for I know that your intent is really friendly, and to have such friends as you are makes me—don't care how old I am! In fact it makes me so glad and happy that I feel as absolutely young and spry as a very schoolboy—even as one of you—and so to all intents I am.

"Therefore let me be with you throughout the long, lovely day, and share your mingled joys and blessings with your parents and your teachers, and, in the words of little Tim Cratchit: 'God bless us, every one.'

Ever gratefully and faithfully Your old friend, James Whitcomb Riley."



On one of his birthdays the school children of Indianapolis decided to march in a great throng by his house and greet him as he sat by his window in an invalid's chair. To their sorrow, when this birthday came it rained hard all day—so hard that they could not think of going out in the storm. But in the high school was a group of pupils who decided that no storm could keep them from showing their love. Accordingly, early in the evening, in the pouring rain, they gathered about his home and in clear, ringing tones sang several of his beautiful poems that had been set to music. So delighted was the great poet that he invited them in and they packed his large sitting room. And what an hour they had together! As they sang he forgot his suffering and was young again. Before they left he recited several of his poems in such a pleasing and impressive manner that I am sure those present will never forget it. One of these, and one which is a great favorite, is entitled The Old Swimmin'-Hole.

THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! Whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; But the merry days of Youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be— But never again will theyr shade shelter me! And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like, the old swimmin'-hole.

Though Mr. Riley is no longer with us, he still has the same big place in our hearts. Why do we love him so? Is it not because he was able to reach our hearts as few have done; because he was able in all his poems to speak the word that we needed most?

James Whitcomb Riley was born at Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His father was a lawyer and farmer combined. While he did the legal work of the village, he also owned a farm at the edge of town. As he was a good speaker he was in constant demand in that part of the state to speak on all kinds of occasions. Generally, on these trips, he took young James along; thus it was that the lad acquired a desire to travel that it took years of his after life to satisfy.

It was from his mother that James received his talent for writing poetry. Though never a poet, she was exceedingly apt, as were all her people, in writing rhymes. The beautiful tributes that Riley, later in life, paid his mother show that she always understood and helped him.

Greenfield, during the boyhood days of Riley, was not the kind of town we think of as producing poets. There were no mountains to kindle the imagination, and no babbling brooks to encourage meditation. In every direction were broad stretches of level land largely covered with forests that still remained untouched. Between these forest stretches were patches of land that were cultivated by hand; for at that time there was but little farm machinery. The greatest single task of the people was to clear the forests and bring the soil under cultivation. Greenfield was, therefore, in part an agricultural town and in part a lumber town. Like most small towns, it was slow-moving and uninteresting. The scenes most frequented were the loafing places.

As there was very little in Greenfield for a lad to do, James' father very often pressed him into service planting and cultivating corn, but he never liked it. While at first we are inclined to regret this, we wonder, had farm life appealed to him, whether he would have made a great poet.

Years later in speaking of his lack of experience in real farm life Mr. Riley says: "Sometimes some real country boy gives me the round turn on some farm points. For instance, here comes one slipping up to me, 'You never lived on a farm,' he says. 'Why not'? says I. 'Well,' he says, 'a turkey-cock gobbles, but he doesn't ky-ouck as your poetry says.' He has me right there. It's the turkey-hen that ky-oucks. 'Well, you'll never hear another turkey-cock of mine ky-ouckin,' says I. But generally I hit on the right symbols. I get the frost on the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; and I see the frost on the old axe they split the pumpkins with for feed, and I get the smell of the fodder and the cattle, so that it brings up the right picture in the mind of the reader."

James never enjoyed his earlier experiences in school. When he should have been studying his history and arithmetic lessons he busied himself with writing rhymes. Later in life he was very sorry that he had not persevered in his regular school work. There were some things in school, however, that he did exceptionally well. Few boys in that part of the state could recite poetry as well as he, and he was always called on to speak pieces at the school entertainments. Though some of his teachers were inclined to neglect him, he had one teacher who understood him and took a great interest in him. The name of this teacher was Mr. Lee O. Harris, and Mr. Riley never tired of saying good things about him. The fact that Mr. Harris loved literature and had some poetic ability of his own made it possible for him to see in James powers that others did not see, and to encourage him when others discouraged him.

After leaving school James had some experiences that were so unusual and yet so very interesting that I am sure we should be delighted to have him, in his own delightful manner, tell us about them.

"I tried to read law with my father, but I didn't seem to get anywhere. Forgot as diligently as I read; so what was the use. I had learned the sign-painter's trade, but it was hardly what I wanted to do always, and my health was bad—very bad.

"A doctor here in Greenfield advised me to travel. But how in the world was I to travel without money. It was just at this time that the patent-medicine man came along. He needed a man, and I argued this way: 'This man is a doctor, and if I must travel, better travel with a doctor.' He had a fine team and a nice looking lot of fellows with him; so I plucked up courage to ask if I couldn't go along and paint his advertisements for him.

"I rode out of town without saying goodbye to anyone, and though my patron wasn't a doctor with a diploma, as I found out, he was a mighty fine man, and kind to his horses, which was a recommendation. He was a man of good habits, and the whole company was made up of good straight boys.

"My experience with him put an idea into my head— a business idea, for a wonder—and the next year I went down to Anderson and went into partnership with a young fellow to travel. We organized a scheme of advertising with paint, and we called our business 'The Graphic Company.' We had five or six young fellows, all musicians, as well as handy painters, and we used to capture the towns with our music. One fellow could whistle like a nightingale, another sang like an angel, and another played the banjo. I scuffled with the violin and guitar.

"Our only dissipation was clothes. We dressed loud. You could hear our clothes an incalculable distance. We had an idea it helped business. Our plan was to take one firm of each business in town, painting its advertisement on every road leading to town.

"You've heard the story about my traveling all over the state as a blind sign-painter? Well, that started this way: One day we were in a small town, and a great crowd was watching us in breathless wonder and curiosity; and one of our party said; 'Riley, let me introduce you as a blind sign-painter.' So just for the mischief I put on a crazy look in the eyes, and pretended to be blind. They led me carefully to the ladder, and handed me my brush and paints. It was great fun. I'd hear them saying as I worked, 'That feller ain't blind.' 'Yes he is; see his eyes.' 'No, he ain't, I tell you; he's playin' off.' 'I tell you he is blind. Didn't you see him fall over a box and spill all his paints?'

"Now, that's all there was to it. I was a blind sign-painter one day and forgot it the next. We were all boys, and jokers, naturally enough, but not lawless. All were good fellows, all had nice homes and good people."

When he had spent four years with "The Graphic Company" he accepted a position as reporter for a paper published at Anderson, Indiana. In addition to his reporting work he wrote many short poems in the Hoosier dialect that took well. So successful was his work on this paper that Judge Martindale of the Indianapolis Journal offered him a position on that paper. About the first thing he now did was to write a series of Benjamin F. Johnson poems. In speaking of this series Mr. Riley said, "These all appeared with editorial comment, as if they came from an old Hoosier farmer of Boone County. They were so well received that I gathered them together in a little parchment volume, which I called, 'The Old Swimmin'-Hole and 'Leven More Poems', my first book."

This book met with immediate favor. Speakers from east to west quoted from it. All wanted to know who the author really was. Modest as Mr. Riley was, he had to confess that he had written the book. Other books followed in close succession until when he died he had written forty-two volumes. But people were not satisfied with reading his books merely, they wanted to see and hear him. He, therefore, began in a modest way to read his poems before audiences in his native state. So delighted were these audiences, for he was a charming reader as well as a capable writer, that urgent calls came from every state in the Union to come and read for them. For a number of years he traveled widely and appeared before thousands of audiences, but this kind of life never appealed to him.

Though he never married, Mr. Riley was always fond of the quiet of a modest home. Accordingly, the closing years of his life were spent in semi-retirement in his cozy home on Lockerbie Street, Indianapolis.



HELEN KELLER

A little girl was traveling with her father and mother. They were going from a little town in Alabama to the city of Baltimore. The journey was long and, as the little girl was only six years old, she wanted toys and playthings with which to pass the time.

The kind conductor let her have his punch when he was not using it. She found that it was great fun to punch dozens of little holes in a piece of cardboard and she would touch each hole with one of her little fingers, but she did not count them because she had not learned how.

By and by a pleasant lady thought she would make a rag doll for the little traveler. She rolled two towels up in such a way that they looked very much like a doll, and the little girl eagerly took the new plaything in her arms. She rocked it and loved it; but something troubled her, for she kept feeling the doll's face and holding it out to the friends who sat near her. They did not understand what was the matter.

Suddenly she jumped down and ran over to where her mother's cape had been placed. This cape was trimmed with large beads. The little girl pulled off two beads and turning to her mother pointed once more to the doll's face. Then her mother understood that her daughter wanted the doll to have eyes; so she sewed the beads firmly to the towel and the little girl was happy.



Are you wondering why the little girl did not talk and tell what she wanted? She could not. Just think, she was six years old and could not speak a word! All she could do was to make a few queer sounds. Perhaps, too, you wonder why she was so anxious for the towel doll to have eyes. I think it was because although she herself was blind, she liked to fancy her doll had eyes that could see the beauties of the world. To be blind and speechless seems hard indeed, but besides lacking these two great gifts, this little girl was deaf. Think of it! She could not hear, she could not see, and she could not talk.

Yet this same little girl learned to talk. She learned to read, with her fingers, books printed for the blind in raised letters. She studied the same lessons that other children had in school, and she worked so hard that she was able to go to college.

Should you not like to hear Helen Keller, for that is the name of the little girl, tell about herself?

She says: "I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of Northern Alabama. I am told that while I was still in long dresses I showed many signs of an eager, self-asserting disposition. They say I walked the day I was a year old. My mother had just taken me out of the bath-tub and was holding me in her lap, when I was suddenly attracted by the flickering shadows of leaves that danced in the sunlight on the smooth floor. I slipped from my mother's lap and almost ran toward them. The impulse gone, I fell down, and cried for her to take me in her arms.

"These happy days did not last long, for an illness came which closed my eyes and ears and plunged me into the unconsciousness of a new born baby. The doctor thought I could not live. Early one morning, however, the fever left me, but I was never to see or hear again."

From the time of her recovery until the journey of which we have been reading, Helen Keller lived in silence and darkness. This journey was undertaken in order to consult a famous physician who had cured many cases of blindness. Mr. and Mrs. Keller hoped this gentleman could help their child, and you can imagine how sad they were when he said he could do nothing. However, he sent them to consult Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, who had taught many deaf children to speak. Dr. Bell played with Helen and she sat on his knee and fingered curiously his heavy gold watch. He not only advised her parents to get a special teacher for her, but told them of a school in Boston in which he thought they could find some one able to unlock the doors of knowledge for the little girl. This was in the summer, and the next March Miss Sullivan went to Alabama to be Helen Keller's friend and teacher.

Let us read how the little girl felt when this kind, loving woman came. "On the afternoon of that eventful day I stood on the porch, dumb, expectant. I felt approaching footsteps. I stretched out my hand, as I supposed, to my mother. Some one took it and I was caught up and held close in the arms of her who had come to reveal all things to me.

"The next morning my teacher gave me a doll. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into my hand the word d-o-l-l. I was at once interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I at last succeeded I was flushed with pleasure and pride. In the days that followed I learned to spell a great many words with my fingers, among them were pin, hat, cup, sit, stand, and walk.

"But my teacher had been with me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name."

Months and years of happy companionship now came to pass for Helen Keller. Every winter she and her teacher went to Boston where they had greater chances for study than in the little southern town. Here Helen learned about snow for the first time and all her memories of her studies in these years are joined with remembrances of the merry times she had after school riding on a sled or toboggan and playing in the snow.

It was when Helen was ten years old that she learned to speak. This was a great and wonderful experience. Her teacher took her to a lady who had offered to teach her. It was not easy for a deaf child to learn to talk, and Miss Keller says:

"The lady passed my hands lightly over her face and let me feel the position of her tongue and lips when she made a sound. I was eager to imitate every motion, and in an hour had learned to make the sounds of M, P, A, S, T, I. In all I had eleven lessons. I shall never forget the surprise and delight I felt when I uttered my first connected sentence, 'It is warm.' After that my work was practise, practise, practise. Discouragement and weariness cast me down frequently; but the next moment the thought that I should soon be at home and show my loved ones what I could do spurred me on and I thought, 'My little sister will understand me now.' When I had made speech my own, I could not wait to go home. My eyes fill now as I think how my mother pressed me close to her, taking in every word I spoke, while little Mildred kissed my hand and danced."

Now a new world was indeed open to the bright girl who was so anxious to learn. She finished studies similar to those taught in the eight grades of our schools and began to prepare for college. Miss Sullivan was still with her and, although she had for a tutor a kind, patient man who taught her algebra, geometry, and Greek, it was Miss Sullivan who sat beside her and talked into the girl's hands the tutor's explanations and made it possible for her to enter Radcliffe College in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

While at college Miss Keller, with Miss Sullivan, attended classes and followed the lessons through the help of this noble teacher who gave some of her best years to training her pupil. College life brought many pleasures and interests into Helen Keller's life, and when she finished her work there, it scarcely seemed possible that the bright, informed young woman had ever been kept a prisoner by darkness and silence.

Today Miss Keller often appears in public and tells to large audiences some of her thoughts and opinions. She is a pleasant-faced, rather serious woman and, while her voice has a hoarse sound, quite different from the usual tones of the human voice, it is possible to understand her very well indeed. Her teacher is still with her as a companion and it would be hard to say who has worked the harder in the past years of study, Miss Keller or her devoted friend.

Upon being asked what were her greatest pleasures Helen Keller named reading, outdoor sports, playing with her pet dogs, and meeting people. What she says about each of these pleasures is so interesting that you will surely be glad to read it and see, perhaps, if you and she, by any chance, think alike.

She says, "Books have meant so much more to me than to many others who can get knowledge through their eyes and ears. My book friends talk to me with no awkwardness, and I am never shut away from them; but reading is not my only amusement. I also enjoy canoeing and sailing. I like to walk on country roads. Whenever it is possible my dog accompanies me on a sail or a walk. I have had many dog friends. They seem to understand me, and always keep close beside me when I am alone. I love their friendly ways, and the eloquent wag of their tails. I have often been asked, 'Do not people bore you?' I do not understand what that means. A hearty handshake or a friendly letter gives me genuine pleasure."

But it has not always been easy for her to be cheerful and contented. She has had many struggles with sad thoughts when she thinks how she sits outside life's gate and cannot enter into the light; cannot hear the music or enjoy the friendly speech of the world. When these gloomy ideas come to her mind she remembers, "There is joy in self-forgetfulness," and tries to find her happiness in the lives of others.

* * * * *

"One flag, one land; One heart, one hand: One Nation over all."

—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.



WILBUR AND ORVILLE WRIGHT

There is a poem called "Darius Green and His Flying Machine." In this poem Darius, a country boy says, "The birds can fly and why can't I?" A Greek story, centuries old, tells how a certain man and his son made themselves wings of wax. They flew far out over the sea, but the warm sun melted the waxen wings, and the two flying men were drowned.

Today the aeroplanes cut through the air with great speed. There are many different designs, and daring young men are eager to manage these swift flying crafts.

However, it is but a short time since two American boys made the first successful flights in the United States and started a factory for building aeroplanes. Wilbur and Orville Wright lived in Dayton, Ohio. Their father was a minister, who spent his spare time working with tools. Once he invented a typewriter, but it was never put on the market. The boys were interested in his workshop, and while very young began to find their greatest pleasure in making things that would go.

It was in the year 1879, when Orville was eight years old, that his father brought home a toy that made a great impression on the boyish mind. It was called a heliocopter, but the Wright boys called it "the bat." Made of bamboo, cork, and thin paper, it had two propellers that revolved in opposite directions by the untwining of rubber bands that controlled them. When thrown against the ceiling, it would hover in the air for a time. They made many models of this toy, but after a time they became tired of it and wanted to build something more difficult.



Their first venture was a printing press; and when Orville was fifteen years of age, they were publishing a four-page paper called the Midget. They did all the work from editor to delivery boys.

Just about this time the bicycle craze passed over the country. Everyone rode a wheel. Automobiles were unknown, and the new machines, that could be ridden so fast along the highways, seemed a wonderful invention. The Wright brothers had no money to buy a bicycle, so they made one. You may laugh when you hear that they used a piece of old gas pipe for the frame, but nevertheless they succeeded in their undertaking and could ride as well on their home-made machine as their friends did on expensive, high-grade ones. No doubt they had many long rides and great sport with the bicycle they had built, but the Wright brothers always found their greatest pleasure in making things rather than in using them. Therefore, it did not seem strange to any one when they said they wanted something better than a bicycle; but when it became known that instead of riding rapidly over city streets and country roads they wanted to fly through the air like birds, the people were amazed and thought the two boys had lost their wits.

So to do this and buy materials with which to build their new machine, they opened a bicycle repair shop. It was in the shed back of this shop that they first made their models of air craft. They had no wealthy friends to back them with money. They had no chance to go abroad, where clever men were being urged by their governments to make experiments with what the world called "flying machines." They were not able to go to college or to any school where they could obtain help in working out their plan, so they started in to study by themselves what the German, French, and English inventors had to say about the art of flying.

Seemingly, nothing discouraged them. Everywhere the newspapers and magazines were poking fun at mad inventors who thought men would some day soar through the air as birds do. There was a Professor Langley, a man much older than the Wright brothers, who finished a machine in 1896. It flew perfectly, on the sixth day of May in that year. The flight was made near Washington, D. C., along the Potomac river for the distance of about three-quarters of a mile. He made another successful flight in November. Then the United States Government urged him to build a full-sized machine, capable of carrying a man. He completed this machine in 1903 and attempted to launch it on the seventh day of October in that year. An accident caused the machine to fall into the Potomac. The aviator was thrown out and came near drowning. Professor Langley tried to launch his machine again in December and the same accident occurred. The machine was broken. The newspapers made cruel fun of Professor Langley; he was criticized in the U. S. Congress; and overcome by grief at the failure of his great idea he tried no more. Two years later he died, crushed and broken in spirit.

But the Wright brothers did not let any such unkind comment hinder their work. They kept on studying the flight of birds. Lying flat on their backs they would watch birds for whole afternoons at a time, until at last they came to believe that a bird himself is really an aeroplane. The parts of the wings close to the body are supporting planes, while the portions that can be flapped are the propellers. Watch a hawk or a buzzard soaring and you will see they move their wings but little. They balance themselves on the rising currents of air. A hawk finds that on a clear warm day the air currents are high and rise with a rotary motion. That is why we see these birds go sailing round and round. When you see one poised above a steep hill on a damp, windy day you may be sure he is balancing himself in the air which rises from its slope and he will be able to glide down at will.

The Wright brothers were certain if they could balance a machine in the air they could make it go. To find out how to do this they made a difficult experiment with delicate sheets of metal balanced in a long tube. Through this tube steady currents of air were blown. The speed with which the currents were sent through the tube was changed often, as well as the angles of sending. Over and over they did this, until they were sure of the same results each time. They knew how to plan the shape of a surface that would do what they wanted it to in the air, and they were soon ready to make a trial flight with their aeroplane.

The United States Weather Bureau told them the winds were strongest and steadiest at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, and there they made their first test flights in 1900. That year they had only two minutes of actual sailing in the air. But they went back the next year and the next, learning more each time, and working untiringly.

One day Dr. Octave Chanute, the man who knew more than any one else in the United States about flying, appeared suddenly at Kitty Hawk. He watched them, and gave as his opinion that they had gone farther than any one else in this new art. Cheered by his words they began to work harder. Now that they could balance in the air they must make their machine go.

It took them a year to learn to turn a corner. During the years 1904 and 1905, they made 154 flights. At last they were ready, in 1909, to make a test for our government. The United States said it would pay $25,000 for a machine capable of going forty miles an hour. Every mile above this speed would be paid for at the rate of $2500 and for every mile less than this down to the rate of thirty-six miles an hour they would deduct $2500 from the purchase money. The flight was to be in a measured course of five miles from Ft. Meyer to Alexandria, Va. It was not an easy flight, and it was considered to be more difficult than crossing the English Channel, a feat then engaging the attention of Europeans.

Orville Wright with one passenger made the flight in fourteen minutes and forty-two seconds, a rate of speed a little more than forty-two miles an hour. Army officers then went to him to learn how to manage the machine, for even then it was believed the greatest use of the aeroplane would be in war.

When Orville Wright was succeeding in this country, Wilbur Wright went to France with one of their machines. At first the French people laughed, made cartoons of him and his machine, even wrote a song about his effort; but he soon rose above all such petty and silly things. The French people began to see the progress the Americans were making and took hold of the new invention more rapidly than any other nation.

On the same trip, Wilbur Wright visited Italy, Germany, and England, making many flights and winning a large number of prizes. When he returned to this country he was overwhelmed with dinners, receptions, and medals. He made a great flight in New York City, encircling the Statue of Liberty in the harbor and flying from Governor's Island to Grant's Tomb and return, a distance of twenty-one miles.

Not long after these successes Wilbur died, and his brother Orville was left to go on with their plans. Orville still lives in Dayton, Ohio, and has a large factory given over to building aeroplanes.

Long before the outbreak of the great war he had said warfare could be carried on extensively in the air, and that we were realizing but a few of the uses of this new invention. Although he believes air travel will become quite an everyday happening, he does not expect it to take the place of the railroad or the steam boat. However, he hopes to see the government carry the mails by an aerial route, and to go quickly and easily to out-of-the-way places.

At present his greatest interest lies in making an aeroplane that is simple enough for any one to manage and at the same time can be sold at a low enough price for the average person to own. This may not seem possible to you, but remember no one ever believed the Wright boys would be able to fly, so it would not be strange if before many years aeroplanes were used as much as automobiles are today. In fact, Orville Wright says: "The time is not far distant when people will take their Sunday afternoon spins in their aeroplanes precisely as they do now in their automobiles. People need only to recover from the impression that it is a dangerous sport, instead of being, when adopted by rational persons, one of the safest. It is also far more comfortable. The driver of an automobile, even under the most favorable circumstances, lives at a constant nerve tension. He must keep always on the lookout for obstructions in the road, for other automobiles, and for sudden emergencies. A long drive, therefore, is likely to be an exhausting operation. Now the aeroplane has a great future because this element of nerve tension is absent. The driver enjoys the proceeding as much as his passengers and probably more. Winds no longer terrorize the airman. He goes up except in the very bad days."

Concluding he says: "Aeroplaning as a sport will attract women as well as men. Women make excellent passengers. I have never yet taken up one who was not extremely eager to repeat the experience. This fact will, of course, hasten the day when the aeroplane will be a great sporting and social diversion."

* * * * *

"Life affords no higher pleasure than that of surmounting difficulties, passing from one step of success to another, forming new wishes and seeing them gratified. He that labors in any great or laudable undertaking has his fatigues first supported by hope and afterwards rewarded by joy."

—DR. JOHNSON.



ROBERT E. PEARY

Robert E. Peary was born at Cresson Springs, Pennsylvania, May 6th, 1856. When he was but three years of age his father died and his young mother moved back to her old home at Portland, Maine. Here his boyhood days were spent in fishing and swimming in the bay, or in roaming over the hills and through the forests. True, the fields with their birds and flowers interested him to some extent, but the mighty ocean, heaving with its mysterious tides and beset with treacherous gales, interested him most. Never did he tire of the stories of danger and hardship as told by the sturdy, adventurous fishermen. So eager was he to learn the mysteries of the mighty deep that he would sit for hours at a time listening to the sailors as they explained the tides and shifting winds. Little did he realize in those early days that this was precisely the knowledge that he would later need in his work as an arctic explorer.

But the fishermen were not his only teachers; for so faithful was he in his regular school work that, at the age of seventeen, he was ready to enter college. Bowdoin, the oldest and best known college in the state, was chosen. Upon his graduation, at the age of twenty-one, he was ready to start in life. But where should he go and what should he do? Odd as it then seemed to his friends, he chose the little village of Fryeburg, away back amid the mountains of Maine. Here he hung out his sign as land surveyor. As practically no one in that little town wanted land surveyed, he had much leisure time which he spent in long hikes over the mountains and along the trout streams. This experience further fitted him for his tasks as an arctic explorer.

That he had always been an energetic student was shown by his success in passing the United States Civil Service examination which he took at the age of twenty-five. This examination, given by the Navy Department, was for the purpose of choosing civil engineers. Out of forty who took the examination only four passed, and Mr. Peary was the youngest of the four.

As soon as he had won the rank of Lieutenant, his first task was to estimate carefully the cost of building a huge pier at Key West, Florida. When the estimate was handed in, the contractors said that it could not be built for that amount. Since Lieutenant Peary insisted that it could, the government told him to engineer the building of the pier himself. This he did so skillfully that he saved for the government thirty thousand dollars.

So brilliant was this success that he was sent to Nicaragua to engineer the survey for the Inter-Oceanic Canal. Here his experience in equipping an expedition, and in managing half-civilized men, further fitted him for his great work in the north land.

Prior to this time he seems never to have thought of arctic explorations, for he writes: "One evening in one of my favorite haunts, an old book store in Washington, I came upon a fugitive paper on the Inland Ice of Greenland. A chord, which as a boy had vibrated intensely in me at the reading of Kane's wonderful book, was touched again. I read all I could upon the subject, noted the conflicting experiences of the explorers, and felt that I must see for myself what the truth was of this great mysterious interior." Then it was, as he tells us later, that he caught the "Arctic Fever" which he never got over until he had discovered the North Pole. As a result of this fever he has made nine trips into the north land, and these expeditions have consumed so much time that, though he had been married twenty-one years when he reached the Pole, only three of these years had been spent in the quiet of his home with his family.

Interested as we are in all these expeditions, we are most interested, I am sure, in the one in which he reached his goal.

Embarked on the good ship Roosevelt, his expedition had no trouble in reaching Etah Fiord on the north coast of Greenland. This place interests us because it is the northernmost Eskimo village and is within seven hundred miles of the Pole.

In speaking of these Eskimos, Mr. Peary says: "There are now between two hundred and twenty and two hundred and thirty in the tribe. They are savages, but they are not savage; they are without government, but they are not lawless; they are utterly uneducated according to our standard, yet they exhibit a remarkable degree of intelligence. In temperament like children, with a child's delight in little things, they are nevertheless enduring as the most mature of civilized men and women, and the best of them are faithful unto death. Without religion and having no idea of God, they will share their last meal with anyone who is hungry. They have no vices, no intoxicants, and no bad habits—not even gambling. Altogether they are a people unique upon the face of the earth."

In his journeys into the far North Mr. Peary enjoyed many a walrus hunt. How should you like to hunt walruses? Before you answer read the following description of a walrus hunt:

"Walrus-hunting is the best sport in the shooting line that I know. There is something doing when you tackle a herd of fifty-odd, weighing between one and two tons each, that go for you whether wounded or not; that can punch a hole through eight inches of young ice; that try to get into the boat to get at or upset you,—we could never make out which, and didn't care, as the result to us would have been the same,—or else try to raise your boat and stave holes in it.

"Getting in a mix-up with a herd, when every man in the whale-boat is standing by to repel boarders, hitting them over the head with oars, boat-hooks, axes, and yelling like a cheering section at a football game to try to scare them off; with the rifles going like young Gatling guns, and the walruses bellowing from pain and anger, coming to the surface with mad rushes, sending the water up in the air till you would think a flock of geysers was turned loose in your immediate vicinity—oh, it's great!"

The Roosevelt after leaving Etah Fiord was able to go as far north as Cape Sheridan, about 500 miles from the North Pole. Here, on February 15, 1909, the little party left the ship for the long journey over a wide waste of ice. The army that was to fight the bitter polar cold was made up of six white men, one negro, fifty-nine Eskimos, one hundred forty dogs, and twenty-three sledges.

For the first hundred miles after leaving the ship they were forced to cut their way through vast stretches of jagged ice. After twenty-four days of struggle, only twenty-four men remained; all the others having been sent back. These twenty-four, however, were the freshest and strongest. On they battled, always sending back the weakest. Finally, when but two degrees from the Pole, only the negro, four Eskimos, Mr. Peary and forty dogs remained.

Suppose we ask Mr. Peary, in his own language, to describe the final dash to the pole.

"This was that for which I had worked for thirty-two years; for which I had trained myself as for a race. For success now, in spite of my fifty-three years, I felt trim-fit for the demands of the coming days and eager to be on the trail. As for my party, my equipment, and my supplies, I was in shape beyond my fondest dreams of earlier years. My party was as loyal and responsive to my will as the fingers of my right hand. Two of them had been my companions to the farthest point three years before. Two others were in Clark's division, which had such a narrow escape at that time, and were now willing to go anywhere. My dogs were the very best. Almost all were powerful males, hard as nails and in good spirits. My supplies were ample for forty days.

"I decided that I should strain every nerve to make five marches of fifteen miles each, crowding these marches in such a way as to bring us to the end of the fifth long enough before noon to permit the immediate taking of an observation for latitude."

Usually these marches were for ten or twelve hours, and the distance covered averaged about twenty-five miles. The dangers encountered are suggested by the following: "Near the end of the march I came upon a lead which was just opening. It was ten yards wide directly in front of me, but a few yards to the east was an apparently good crossing where the single crack was divided into several. I signaled to the sledges to hurry; then, running to the place, I had time to pick a road across the moving ice cakes and return to help teams across before the lead widened so as to be impassable. This passage was effected by my jumping from one cake to another, picking the way, and making sure that the cake would not tilt under the weight of the dogs and the sledge, returning to the former cake where the dogs were, encouraging the dogs ahead while the driver steered the sledge across from cake to cake, and threw his weight from one side to the other so that it could not overturn. We got the sledges across several cracks so wide that while the dogs had no trouble in jumping, the men had to be pretty active in order to follow the long sledges."

Luckily at the end of the fifth march they were less than two miles from the pole. Should you like to know how Mr. Peary felt at this eventful hour?

"Of course, I had many sensations that made sleep impossible for hours, despite my utter fatigue—the sensations of a lifetime; but I have no room for them here. The first thirty hours at the Pole were spent in taking observations; in going some ten miles beyond our camp, and some eight miles to the right of it; in taking photographs, planting my flags, depositing my records, studying the horizon with my telescope for possible land, and searching for a place to make a sounding. Ten hours after our arrival the clouds cleared before a light breeze from our left, and from that time until our departure on the afternoon of April 7th the weather was cloudless and flawless. The coldest temperature during the thirty hours was thirty-three degrees below zero, and the warmest twelve below."

Thus it was that after the nations of the world had sent out over five hundred expeditions in search of the North Pole, an American, educated in Old New England, schooled in hardship in the United States Navy, planted "Old Glory" at the northernmost point of this mighty world. To Admiral Peary, then, is conceded the greatest scientific triumph of the century and April sixth, 1909, is a memorable day in the history of America and the world.

* * * * *

THE AMERICAN'S CREED

I believe in the United States of America as a government of the people, by the people, for the people, whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed; a democracy in a republic; a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States, a perfect Union, one and inseparable; established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice, and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes.

I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it; to support its Constitution; to obey its laws; to respect its flag, and to defend it against all enemies.

—WILLIAM TYLER PAGE.



WILLIAM JENNINGS BRYAN

In the summer of 1880 three speakers were advertised to deliver democratic addresses at a farmers' picnic to be held in a grove near Salem, Illinois. When the eventful hour arrived, the only person present to hear the speeches was the owner of the grove. For an hour the speakers waited but no one else came. While each was disappointed and humiliated, it was a crushing blow to the young man who was to speak third on the list. This was his home community, and his own neighbors and townsmen had thus ignored him.

For six years he had been away to school, and during all that time he made a special study of public speaking. So good was he in the art of speaking that his college had heaped many honors upon him. He was chosen one of the speakers on graduation day, and most important of all, he had been chosen to represent his college in the annual oratorical contest with the other colleges of the state. Now, after all these honors, he had come back to his home vicinity, and for some mysterious reason the people would not hear him. Surely this was enough to dampen the ardor of any ordinary young man and put an end to his speaking career.



It was a hot August day in 1914. On every road entering a beautiful Indiana city, strings of automobiles were seen hurrying to the city. Farmers, busy as they were, forgot their work and hastened to the city. Merchants, too, had locked their stores and refused to sell goods. Why all the excitement? At the edge of the city, in a huge steel auditorium that seated thousands, the people were gathering—and such a multitude—people as far as the eye could see. Soon the speaker of the afternoon was introduced. For two hours he held that vast throng as no other man in America and possibly in the world could have done. So magnetic was his personality and so genuine his appeal that the people forgot the heat and gave him the closest possible attention.

Odd as it may seem, the speaker before this vast Chautauqua throng was the same man that, years before, had tried to speak near Salem when no one would hear him. Why the difference? What had he done that had made the people so eager to see and hear him?

To answer these questions it will be necessary to study his life. Mr. Bryan was born at Salem, Illinois, March 19, 1860. Though he is of Irish descent, his ancestors have lived in this country for more than a hundred years. Through all these years the Bryans have belonged to the middle class. While none of them have been very rich, on the other hand none have been extremely poor. Though members of the family have entered practically every profession, more have engaged in farming than in all the other professions combined.

Fortunately for Mr. Bryan, most of his boyhood was spent on a farm. When he was but six years of age his father purchased a farm six miles from Salem. It was indeed an eventful day for young William when they moved to the large farm with its spacious farm house and broad lawns. From the first the animals interested him most. William's father, seeing this, built a small deer park. Here the deer, unmolested by dogs or hunters, became so tame that the lad never tired of petting and feeding them.

With the abundant, nutritious food of the farm, with plenty of fresh air, sunshine, and exercise, William soon grew into a sturdy, broad-shouldered, deep-chested lad. Those who knew him best say that while the other boys always had their pockets filled with keys, strings, and tops, his were sure to be filled with cookies and doughnuts.

William's first day in school was indeed eventful. Ten years old and large for his age, he seemed out of place in the first grade where the pupils were so much younger and smaller. Soon, however, the teacher discovered that he did not belong in this grade. Though he had never been at school, his faithful mother had taught him to read so well that he at once took his place with pupils of his own age.

After five years in the public school of Salem he was sent to Jacksonville, Illinois, where he attended Whipple Academy. From the Academy he entered Illinois College, also in Jacksonville. Mr. Bryan says that the thing that most impressed him in college was his tussle with Latin and Greek. From the first these dead languages did not appeal to him. Again and again he pleaded with his parents to be permitted to drop these studies but they insisted on his taking the "Classical Course."

Though he was of ideal size and build for football and baseball, neither appealed to him. The only forms of athletics that he liked were running and jumping. Only once was he able to carry away a prize. This was when he won the broad jump with twelve feet and four inches as the distance covered.

It was in speaking contests of all kinds that young Bryan took the deepest interest. When he was but a green freshman in the Academy, he had the courage to enter the declamatory contest. No one worked harder, but in spite of his best efforts he was given a place next to the foot of the list. Unwilling to yield to discouragement, he tried again the next year. This time he got third place.

The following September he entered college, and during his freshman year took part in two contests, getting second place in each. During his sophomore year, he had the satisfaction of winning first place in declamation. Then it was that he made his boldest effort. He delivered an oration that he himself had written, and again won first place. After these successes it was not to be wondered at that his college elected him to represent the school in the intercollegiate oratorical contest. Pitted against the ablest contestants of the other colleges of the state, he was able to win second place, for which he received a prize of fifty dollars.

Suppose Mr. Bryan had decided when he lost his first three contests never to try again, thus yielding to defeat, do you think he ever could have become the famous orator that he now is?

From Mr. Bryan's picture we see that he is a large, good-natured, friendly man. Should you like to know how he looked when he was a young fellow? If you should, the following from the pen of the lady who afterward became his wife will interest you.

"I saw him first in the parlors of the young ladies' school which I attended in Jacksonville. He entered the room with several other students, was taller than the rest, and attracted my attention at once. His face was pale and thin; a pair of keen dark eyes looked out from beneath heavy brows; his nose was prominent, too large to look well, I thought; a broad, thin-lipped mouth, and a square chin, completed the contour of his face.

"He was neat, though not fastidious in dress, and stood firmly and with dignity. I noted particularly his hair and his smile, the former black in color, plentiful, fine in quality, and parted distressingly straight; the latter expansive and expressive.

"In later years his smile has been the subject of considerable comment, but the well rounded cheeks of Mr. Bryan now check its outward march. No one has seen the real breadth of his smile who did not see it in the early days. Upon one occasion a heartless observer was heard to remark, 'That man can whisper in his own ear,' but this was a cruel exaggeration."

Upon his graduation from Illinois College at the head of his class, he entered the Union College of Law in Chicago where he was graduated at the age of twenty-three. Immediately he hung out his shingle in Jacksonville, and waited for clients. Month after month he impatiently waited until finally it dawned upon him that among the old established lawyers of Jacksonville there was no room for an ambitious beginner. Then it was that he remembered the advice of Horace Greeley, "Young man, go West."

Accordingly, with his talented young wife he went to Lincoln, Nebraska. Here fortune smiled upon him, for so rapidly did he make a place for himself that at the age of thirty he was chosen to represent his district in Congress.

If any of you have ever seen the United States Congress in session you will realize that Mr. Bryan must have been very much younger than most of the congressmen. Keen, quick, and eager to learn, the young Congressman made the most of every opportunity during the four years he was in Congress.

In 1896, or when Mr. Bryan was thirty-six years of age, his greatest opportunity came. Then it was that the Democratic party conferred upon him the highest honor within its power by selecting him as its candidate for president. Though defeated in 1896, so great was the confidence the party had in him, that twice afterward his party asked him to run for president. Since he was defeated every time, it is only natural to ask what there is about him, after all, that is so great. Though the American people differ widely in their answers to the above query, most of them admit that he towers above the rank and file of American politicians in his pronounced Christian integrity, in his willingness to sacrifice for the sake of principle, and in his ability to move men with speech, for no doubt he is one of the greatest orators this continent has ever produced.

* * * * *

"You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns. You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold."

—W. J. BRYAN'S CROSS OF GOLD SPEECH.



HENRY FORD

In the year 1879, there was a sixteen year old boy living in the country near Detroit, Michigan. He was not fond of farm work but nevertheless he did his share in helping his father, who was a thrifty farmer. Day after day, this boy trudged back and forth two and one-half miles each way to the school house. In his spare hours when he was not farming, he had fitted up a work shop for his own use. There was a vise, a bow-string driven lathe and a rudely built forge. He had made these tools himself and was very proud of them. When he was only a small boy, he had made his first tool by taking one of his grandmother's knitting needles, heating it red hot and plunging it into a bar of soap as he bent it into shape. Then he added a wooden handle that he had whittled and the tool was done.

As soon as he had something with which to work, he began to take to pieces all manner of things just for the fun of putting them together again. He says: "I must have taken apart and put together more than a thousand clocks and watches." He thought it would be a fine thing to be able to make many good watches, and to make them all alike. He never realized this dream, but in later life he did make a good automobile, he made many of them, and he made them all alike.



His first step towards this great business undertaking happened before he was seventeen years of age, when he left his father's farm and went to Detroit to work as a mechanic in a shop. He never returned to the farm, although for a time he lived on some land his father had given to him, and conducted a lumber business. All the time he was experimenting, and he wanted to make something that would go. By the time he was twenty-one years of age, he had built a farm locomotive mounted on cast-iron wheels taken from a mowing machine. It was not designed for any particular use, but was to serve as a general farm tractor, and he had great sport running it up and down the meadow while the cows fled in terror.

From that time his chief interest was in building wagons to be run by motors. His health was always good, he worked unceasingly, and slept just as little as possible, and at last, in 1893, he made what people called then, a wagon driven by gas; today we call it an automobile. It ran but was not a great success, and the public made fun of the inventor. This wagon driven by gas was the first Ford automobile and the man who invented it was Henry Ford. He had married and lived in a little house in Bagley Street, Detroit, Michigan. He was employed by the Edison Company, but he had a workshop of his own in his barn. There he built his first motor car. For material he used nothing but junk, as he had no money with which to buy costly materials for experiments.

Henry Ford does not know the word discouragement, so after his first failure he built another car and in 1898 placed it on the road. It was better than the first one, but there were still difficulties to be overcome. People laughed more than ever, and Detroit thought him mildly insane on the subject of "little buggies driven by gas," as the newspapers called them. Then one day, when no one was paying any especial attention to him, Henry Ford made a car that would run on level ground, would run up and down hill, and go backward and forward. His problem was solved, and he began to make automobiles. Today he is the head of the Ford Motor Company which has its largest factory in Highland Park, a suburb of Detroit, Michigan, not more than fifteen miles from his birthplace.

At the Highland Park plant, one thousand times a day a newborn car pushes open a door by itself and goes out into the world. At once these cars are loaded on trains and sent away, for the plant has no storage and there are always more orders than can be filled. The Ford cars are used by many persons, they are all made alike and they are made in large numbers. Henry Ford's old dream about making watches has come true, only he makes automobiles instead of timepieces.

In his great factory the most improved machinery is used, and the business is run on a profit-sharing plan, which means that the daily pay of the men in his employ increases as the profit of the plant increases. A just amount is paid to each workman and Mr. Ford says: "If a man can make himself of any use at all, put him on, give him his chance and if he tries to do the right thing, we can find a living for him any way." Eight hours is the length of the working day with extra pay for overtime work. The wages in the Ford factories have always been above what is generally paid so there are always many persons who want to work there.

However, Henry Ford has two other great interests besides automobiles. They are boys and birds. His only child is a bright and earnest boy but Mr. Ford does not forget other boys in doing for his own. There are always a dozen or more boys that he is training and helping to prepare for life, thus giving to the world strong, helpful citizens.

As for birds, he has built two hundred bird houses in the grounds of his home. They are heated with electricity in winter so as to keep the birds' drinking water from freezing, and by a clever arrangement of tubes, food can be sent electrically to each little house. Recently Mr. Ford brought from England three hundred and eighty song birds not native to the United States. They settled down and built nests in his trees and shrubbery. He hopes to have them increase and add to the beauty of our natural life.

His interest in birds and out of door life has been strengthened by his long friendship with John Burroughs, the naturalist, and the two have had many tramps and camping trips together. These excursions are Mr. Ford's vacations and he likes to take them with this great nature lover or with his other good friend, Thomas A. Edison, with whom he is most congenial.

Having no bad habits, perfect health, never being tired, willing to listen to others, able to decide quickly, and world-wide in his interests, Henry Ford is one of the twentieth century's greatest public-spirited business men. No better illustration can be found than the fact that although Mr. Ford did not believe in war and was a man of peace, yet when the United States entered the World War, he hastened to Washington, offered his great factory to the government to make war supplies, and began running night and day to furnish our country with war-time necessities. If some one wished to choose for him a coat of arms they should select, "A file and hammer crossed, a warm, glowing heart placed above them," while the words,

"I love, I build, I give."

should be written underneath. This should be sufficient to describe the nature of the kindly, frank and unassuming man, who, with a large amount of money coming in each month, cares nothing for it as money but wishes to use it to promote the good will of the world.



BEN B. LINDSEY

Late one afternoon a tired judge was seated at his bench in the city of Denver. The docket showed that the next case to be brought before him was one for stealing. Anxiously he waited for the hardened criminals to be brought in, when lo and behold! three boys hardly in their teens were brought before him.

When asked what they had stolen, they replied, "Pigeons." Beside the boys stood the old man whose pigeons had been stolen. To say that he was angry was putting it mildly.

As the boys described the pigeon loft and how they came to steal the pigeons, the judge became very absent-minded; for his mind went back to the time when he himself was a boy and had been in a crowd that had stolen pigeons. Odd as it may seem, the judge's old gang had, years before, visited this same pigeon loft and stolen from this same old man. Little wonder then that the judge had a warm place in his heart for the boys who were now in trouble.

But the old man had been annoyed for months, had watched hours to catch the boys, and now that he had caught them, surely they should be punished severely. He was sure the boys should be sent to prison.

What should the judge do under the circumstances? Certainly he must see that the pigeons were protected, for they were fancy stock and the old man made his living by raising them.



Would sending the three boys to prison protect the old man and his pigeons? No, for no doubt the boys belonged to a gang, and unless the whole gang were caught, the thefts would continue. For a long time the judge studied the matter until finally he told the boys, that if they would go out and bring in the other members of the gang, he would be "white" with them; he would give them a square deal.

The boys eyed the judge critically. Did he mean what he was saying? The boys liked his looks, for he was young and not much larger than themselves. Then, too, he did not talk down at them from the bench, but had left his bench, sat among them, and talked like one of them.

It wasn't long before the boys were convinced that the judge was their friend. He understood them, and his heart was in the right place, as they put it. Accordingly, they went out and brought in the other members of the gang. In his talk with the gang, the judge was as kind and frank as he had been when talking with the three boys the day before. He told the boys how the old man made his living by raising pigeons, and he asked them whether they thought it was square for them to steal his pigeons. They agreed that it was not.

Then he told the gang how the old man and the police had caught the three boys stealing the pigeons, and he asked them whether they thought it would help matters to send the boys to prison. As this remedy did not appeal to the gang the judge asked what should be done. After some discussion, the members of the gang agreed that the best thing to do was to give the judge their word of honor that they would never molest the pigeon loft again. Thus it was that the old man's rights were protected and at the same time the boys were saved from the disgrace of a prison sentence.

The above is but one among hundreds of instances in which Judge Ben B. Lindsey of Denver has shown that he is indeed the boy's friend. Since he is the boy's friend, all boys are interested in his life.

Since he was born in Tennessee in 1869, it is not difficult for us to figure that he is now in the prime of life. As he looks back over his boyhood days he admits that he can recall little else than hardship. His father, who had been an officer in the Confederate army, died when Ben was about eighteen years of age. Before the war the Lindseys had been in comfortable circumstances, but so great were the ravages of war that at its close the family had lost everything. Ben, therefore, was born in poverty. So severe were the hardships in the South that the Lindseys came north and finally settled in Denver, Colorado. When Ben was twelve, the family was so poor that the lad could not go to school. Forced to work while yet so young, he had to pick up any odd jobs that came his way. For a time he was messenger boy, and then he managed a newspaper route. Since he was once a newsboy, is it any wonder that he understood newsboys? It is also interesting to know that he afterward became a judge in the same city in which he used to peddle newspapers.

Though Ben could not attend day school, he did go to night school regularly. As he was not robust, it was difficult, however, for the lad after delivering messages all day to settle down to hard study in a night school. But Ben liked books and was not afraid of hard work.

A little later he secured employment in a real-estate office. Here he had some leisure time. Can you guess what he did with it? Did you know that about the best way to learn whether or not a boy is destined to become a great man is to find out what he does with his leisure hours? Ben, now a young man, spent his time in studying law. To play games or go to shows would have been much more interesting than studying great law books, but he was determined to climb regardless of the cost. Accordingly, at the age of twenty-four, he was made a "full-fledged" lawyer.

In his practice of law there was nothing exceptional until at the age of thirty-two he was made county judge. For weeks he discharged the usual duties connected with his office until one evening a case came before the court that changed his entire life. The story is as follows:

"The hour was late; the calendar was long, and Judge Lindsey was sitting overtime. Weary of the weary work, everybody was forcing the machinery of the law to grind through at top speed the dull routine of justice. All sorts of cases go before this court, grand and petty, civil and criminal, complicated and simple. The petty larceny case was plain; it could be disposed of in no time. A theft had been committed; no doubt of that. Had the prisoner at the bar done it? The sleepy policeman had his witnesses on hand and they swore out a case. There was no doubt about it; hardly any denial. The law prescribed precisely what was to be done to such 'cases,' and the bored judge ordered that that thing be done. That was all. In the same breath with which he pronounced sentence, the court called for the 'next case,' and the shift was under way, when something happened, something out of the ordinary.

"A cry! an old woman's shriek, rang out of the rear of the room. There was nothing so very extraordinary about that. Our courts are held in public; and every now and then somebody makes a disturbance such as this old woman made when she rose now with that cry on her lips and, tearing her hair and rending her garments, began to beat her head against the wall. It was the duty of the bailiff to put the person out, and that officer in this court moved to do his duty.

"But Judge Lindsey upheld the woman, saying: 'I had noticed her before. As my eye wandered during the evening it had fallen several times on her, crouched there among the back benches, and I remember I thought how like a cave dweller she looked. I didn't connect her with the case, any case. I didn't think of her in any human relationship whatever. For that matter, I hadn't considered the larceny case in any human way. And there's the point: I was a judge, judging 'cases' according to the 'law,' till the cave dweller's mother-cry startled me into humanity. It was an awful cry, a terrible sight, and I was stunned. I looked at the prisoner again, but with new eyes now, and I saw the boy, an Italian boy. A thief? No. A bad boy? Perhaps, but not a lost criminal.

"'I called him back, and I had the old woman brought before me. Comforting and quieting her, I talked with the two together, as mother and son this time, and I found that they had a home. It made me shudder. I had been about to send that boy to a prison among criminals when he had a home and a mother to go to. And that was the law! The fact that that boy had a good home; the circumstances which led him to—not steal, but 'swipe' something; the likelihood of his not doing it again—these were 'evidence' pertinent, nay, vital, to his case.

"'Yet the law did not require the production of such evidence. The law? Justice? I stopped the machinery of justice to pull that boy out of its grinders. But he was guilty; what was to be done with him? I didn't know. I said I would take care of him myself, but I didn't know what I meant to do, except to visit him and his mother at their home. And I did visit them, often, and—well, we—his mother and I, with the boy helping—we saved the boy, and today he is a fine young fellow, industrious, self-respecting, and a friend of the Court.'"

So deep was the impression that this case made upon Judge Lindsey that he could not keep from thinking about it. As he thought, he made up his mind that boys and girls should not be tried in the same court with grown people. He also concluded that in trying a boy the important thing was not what he had done, but why he had done it. To discover and remove the cause of the crime was of much greater importance than punishing him after the crime had been committed.

Furthermore, he thought it very wrong to put a boy in a prison with hardened criminals. He looked upon the prison not as a place where men are made better but as a school of vice. To send a boy to prison, then, must be the last resort.

While it was not hard for Judge Lindsey to see all these things, it was difficult indeed for him to make the people of Denver see them. Gradually, however, he carried on his campaign of enlightenment until today Denver is pointed out as one of a few cities that knows how successfully to handle its boys. With its excellent juvenile court and its sane probation laws it has blazed the path for other cities to follow.

And to whom are these changes due? We answer, to the man who by dint of hard work struggled all the way from newsboy on the streets to judge on the bench—Ben B. Lindsey.



FRANCES WILLARD

Two sisters and a brother lived with their parents in the country near what is now the town of Beloit, Wisconsin. They had many pleasures in their free, healthy life, and they were all fond of writing down in diaries accounts of their plays, their hopes, and their plans. One day the older of the two girls wrote:

"I once thought I should like to be Queen Victoria's maid of honor; then I wanted to go and live in Cuba; next I made up my mind that I would be an artist; next that I would be a mighty hunter of the prairies—but now I suppose I am to be a music teacher, simply that and nothing more."

She never became any of these things, but she did grow into such a wise and noble woman that the entire world recognized the good she did and was glad to honor her. The little girl's name was Frances Willard, and the great office that was hers in later life was the presidency of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union.

Frances' father and mother moved to Wisconsin from the State of New York when their children were very small. Then the new home seemed to be in the wilderness, and the family were indeed pioneers. Frances had a genius for planning the most exciting games. She was always the leader of the three, and delighted in organizing her willing playmates into Indian bands, or into daring sailors of unknown seas. The other two children called her Frank, and were glad to have her "think up" wonderful plays.



One day long before Frances was twelve years of age her sister wrote in her journal, "Frank said we might as well have a ship if we did live on shore; so we took a hen coop pointed at the top, put a big plank across it, and stood up, one at each end, with an old rake handle apiece to steer with. Up and down we went, slow when it was a calm sea and fast when there was a storm, until the old hen clucked and the chickens all ran in and we had a lively time. Frank was captain and I was mate. We made out charts of the sea, rules about how to navigate when it was good weather and how when it was bad. We put up a sail made of an old sheet and had great fun, until I fell off and hurt me."

So you see they must have had many daring adventures. Frances longed for a horse to ride, but there was none the children could have. This did not discourage her in the least. She wanted to ride and so she decided to train their pet calf. The calf's name was Dime, and Frances said, "Dime is an unusually smart calf, she can be trained so we can ride her." So she proceeded to do it and the children rode Dime to their hearts' content.

But all of their play was not out of doors. Mr. and Mrs. Willard had brought with them from their old home many books, and the children liked to spend hours reading in their library. The father and mother taught them and encouraged them to study. Frances liked to write, and, as she was a neat and orderly girl, she did not want her books and papers disturbed. In her sister Mary's journal we read how she managed to have her belongings untouched:

"Today Frank gave me half her dog Frisk that she bought lately, and for her pay I made a promise which mother witnessed and here it is:

"I, Mary Willard, promise never to touch anything lying or being upon Frank Willard's writing desk which father gave her. I promise never to ask either by speaking, writing, or signing, or in any other way, any person or body to take off or put on anything on said stand and desk without special permission from said Frank Willard. I promise never to touch anything which may be in something upon her stand and desk. I promise never to put anything on it or in anything on it; I promise if I am writing or doing anything else at her desk to go away the moment she tells me to. If I break the promise I will let the said F. W. come into my room and go to my trunk or go into any place where I keep my things and take anything of mine she likes. All this I promise unless entirely different arrangements are made. These things I promise upon my most sacred honor."

As Frances grew older she longed to travel. She had a great desire to take a large part in the work of the world; but this did not seem possible for two reasons. First, she had no money, and in the second place, she lived in such an out of the way settlement that a journey to the great cities of the world seemed to be nothing but a pleasant dream that would never come true.

Once in one of these moments of longing, she wrote,

"Am I almost of age, Am I almost of age, Said a poor little girl, And she glanced from her cage. How long will it be Before I shall be free, And not fear friend or foe? And I some folks could know I'd not want to be of age, But remain in my cage."

This was her first poem, and she grew very fond of writing and then reading aloud her own efforts. The children printed a paper, and Frances was the editor. While writing articles to appear in it she would often retire to a seat high up in a favorite tree. On the tree she hung a sign,

"The Eagle's Nest Beware."

You may be sure the other children left her undisturbed until her important writing was finished.

But it was not long before Frances went out into the world of which she dreamed and wrote, for she was not eighteen years old when she began teaching. This experience gave her great pleasure. She liked her pupils and was earnest and enthusiastic. There were two questions that she kept always before her pupils: "What are you going to be in the world, and what are you going to do?" Every one who ever had Frances Willard for his teacher heard these two questions many times, and numerous young people were influenced by her to lead earnest, helpful lives.

During one of her summer vacations, she made the acquaintance of a warm-hearted, generous girl who became one of her closest friends. This young girl, of about the same age as Frances Willard, had no mother. Her father, who was exceedingly wealthy, was deeply immersed in his business, so his daughter was glad to have her new friend with her often.

One day she thought, "How splendid it would be for us to go abroad." To think was to act with her, and almost before Frances knew it they had started for Europe. They remained there three years and during that time visited many remote places seldom seen by the average person traveling in foreign lands. Frances Willard wrote many accounts of their experiences which were published in American magazines.

Upon her return to the United States she lectured about her journey and became such an excellent public speaker that every one wanted to hear her on any subject she chose, so she continued to lecture after she ceased giving her travel talks. It is estimated that she spoke on an average of once a day for ten years.

Meanwhile, she was made president of a college for young ladies in the town of Evanston, Illinois. Later she became a member of the faculty of Northwestern University in the same community. Here she brought wonderful help to her students, and they said of her that she was so interesting "she turned common things to gold."

But her life was not to be given entirely to teaching, and after a few years she was drawn into the temperance work. This was then in its beginning. Liquor was sold freely in every state, and there were no laws regulating its sale or distribution.

Miss Willard saw the sorrow and suffering caused by intemperance and she determined to war against this great evil. Her first work was done with what was called the Woman's Crusade. Bands of women met and prayed in front of saloons. Often they asked to hold brief services in the saloons and then they urged men to give up drinking. Going to these places and praying in public was distasteful to her, but Miss Willard felt she must do so.

Soon, because of her zeal, the Chicago branch of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union gave her an office. From that time she rose rapidly from office to office in the great organization until she was made World President of the International W. C. T. U. in 1879. She brought the necessity for temperance before the people of the United States as they had never seen it before, and always she said to them with tongue and pen, "Temperance is necessary for God and Home and Native Land."

She went over the entire country speaking to thousands of persons and turning their thoughts toward the great cause. Little by little she gained ground, made progress, and could say of the spread of interest: "It was like the fire we used to kindle on the western prairie, a match and a wisp of dry grass was all that was needed, and behold the magnificent spectacle of a prairie on fire, sweeping across the landscape swift as a thousand untrained steeds and no more to be captured than a hurricane."

Today the results of Frances Willard's work are seen in the great and growing interest in prohibition. What was to her a dream is coming to pass; what she hoped for will, in all probability, soon be a reality, and her great achievement lies in having made the question, "Shall we permit our homes and our country to be ruined by intemperance?" one of national importance, a question that every citizen of the United States must answer.

In Statuary Hall of our Nation's Capitol, where stand the statues of those persons whose deeds have earned them the right to fame and honor, there is only one statue of a woman. That woman is Frances E. Willard.



JANE ADDAMS

Not so many years ago a little girl, living in a small Illinois town, had a strange dream. She was quite a little girl; just old enough to be in the second grade at school, nevertheless she always remembered that dream. She says, "I dreamed that every one in the world was dead excepting myself, and that upon me rested the responsibility of making a wagon wheel. The village street remained as usual, the village blacksmith shop was 'all there,' even a glowing fire upon the forge, and the anvil in its customary place near the door, but no human being was within sight. They had all gone around the edge of the hill to the village cemetery, and I alone remained in the deserted world. I stood in the blacksmith shop pondering on how to begin, and never once knew how, although I fully realized that the affairs of the world could not be resumed until at least one wheel should be made and something started."

The little girl dreamed this dream more than once, but she never made the wagon wheel. However, when she was a grown woman she founded and built up something that has become a great force for good in the largest city of her native state.

Perhaps you are wondering what she did. She went to live in one of the poorest and most wretched parts of Chicago. There she furnished her house exactly as she would if it had been in some beautiful street. She called her home a Settlement, and invited her neighbors to come in daily for comfort and cheer.



In her description of the street in which she lived she says,

"Halsted Street is thirty-two miles long, and one of the great thoroughfares of Chicago. Polk street crosses it midway between the stock yards to the south and the ship building yards to the north. For the six miles between these two industries the street is lined with shops of butchers and grocers, with dingy and gorgeous saloons, and places for the sale of ready-made clothing. Once this was the suburbs, but the city has grown steadily and this site has corners on three or four foreign colonies."

It was in the year 1899 that Jane Addams, for that is the name of the little girl who dreamed she was to make a wagon wheel and help start something in the world, began living in Halsted Street, and named her home Hull House after the first owner.

In those early days people asked her over and over why she had come to live in Halsted Street when she could afford to live among richer people.

One old man used to shake his head and say it was the strangest thing he had ever known. However, there came a time when he thought it was most natural for the settlement to be there to feed the hungry, care for the sick, give pleasure to the young and comfort to the aged.

From the very first Miss Addams and her helpers made their neighbors understand that they were ready to do even the humblest services. They took care of children and nursed the sick. They even washed the dishes and cleaned the house for some of the poor foreign women who had to work all night scrubbing big office buildings.

Besides helping in true neighborly fashion, they brought many joys to the people about them. Some of these were quite by chance, as once when an old Italian woman cried with pleasure over a bunch of red roses that she saw at a reception Miss Addams gave. She was surprised, she said, that they had been "brought so fresh all the way from Italy." No one could make her believe they had been grown in Chicago. She had lived there six years and never seen any, but in Italy they bloomed everywhere all summer.

Now the sad thing about this story was that during all the six years of her stay in Chicago she had lived within ten blocks of a flower store, and one car fare would have been enough to take her to one of Chicago's beautiful public parks. No one had ever told her about them, and so all she knew of the city was the dirty street in which she lived.

Miss Addams learned that most of the foreigners were as helpless as this woman in finding anything to bring them pleasure. So Hull House became a place where hundreds of persons went. Some joined classes and studied, but at first it was for social purposes that the Settlement was used the most.

The people lived in tiny, crowded rooms and the only place they had to gather in celebration of weddings and birthdays, and meet each other was the saloon halls. These halls could be rented for a very small sum with the understanding that the company would spend much money at the saloon bar. Because of this custom many a party that started out quiet and orderly ended with great disorder. So you can see that every one would be glad to have Hull House where they could go and enjoy themselves comfortably with their friends.

A day at Hull House is most interesting. In the morning come many little children to the Kindergarten. They are followed by older children who come to afternoon classes, while in the evening every room is filled with grown persons who meet in some form of study, club or social life.

But if you should go there now you would find instead of one building, with which Miss Addams began, thirteen buildings and forty persons living there to help to teach anyone who may come to Hull House.

There are classes in foreign languages, and one may study in the night classes almost any subject that is taught in a high school. Besides these classes there are concerts and plays. Hull House has a theater of its own, and the boys and girls of the neighborhood act out their favorite dramas there. One story that has been told frequently shows the kind of plays the boys and girls make. Almost every one thinks this play was given in the Hull House Theater but Miss Addams writes:

I have told the story you have reference to several times. It is about a settlement boys' club, not at Hull House, who were asked to write a play on the origin of the American flag. They were told the climax must come in the third act, etc., but were given no outline.

The play was as follows: The first act was at "the darkest hour of the American Revolution." A sentry walking up and down in front of the camp, says to a soldier: "Aint it fierce? We aint got no flag for this here Revolution." And the soldier replies: "Yes, aint it fierce?" That is the end of the first act. Second act: The same soldier appears before George Washington and says: "Aint it fierce? We aint got no flag for this here Revolution." And George Washington replies: "Yes, aint it fierce?" and that is the end of the second act. Third Act: George Washington went to call on Betsy Ross, who lived on Arch Street in Philadelphia, and said: "Mistress Ross, aint it fierce? We aint got no flag for this here Revolution," and Betsy Ross replied: "Yes, aint it fierce? Hold the baby and I will make one."

I sometimes tell this with a little more elaboration but I have given you what the boys actually wrote. Of course, it has always been detailed in the line of a funny story and cannot be taken too seriously.

Very sincerely yours, JANE ADDAMS

Is it not wonderful what Miss Addams has done for the people who had no comfort or care? Perhaps she has but kept a promise she made to her father when she was only seven years of age.

They were driving through the poor, mean streets of her native town of Cedarville, Illinois. She had never seen this particular part of the town before, and asked her father many times why persons lived in such dreadful places. He tried to tell her what it meant to be very poor. She listened eagerly and then exclaimed, "When I grow up, I am going to live in a great, big house right among horrid little houses like these."

In her "big house" on Halsted Street many lives have been brightened and thousands have found the help that started them upon useful careers.

Jane Addams is one of the noblest women our country has had, and she has been honored by Chicago and the entire United States for her life of service.

A member of the English Parliament called her "the only saint America has produced," while an enthusiastic Chicago man, when asked to name the greatest living man in America, answered, "Jane Addams."

When in Chicago, try to go out to Hull House and visit for an afternoon or evening. There are so many kinds of activities going on all the time you can see what you like best, whether it be gymnastics, acting, music, pottery, carpentery, or any of the literary or industrial pursuits.

Later on you will want to read the book Miss Addams has written of her experience called, "Twenty Years of Hull House."

* * * * *

"The union of hearts, the union of hands, and the flag of our Union forever."

—G. P. MORRIS.



JOHN MITCHELL

Have you ever thought how common it is for the persons who work for others to think that they do not have enough pay for what they do? The boy who mows the lawn wants more than the landlady is willing to pay. Thus it was in 1902 when thousands of coal miners in Pennsylvania became dissatisfied with their wages and started a great movement to force their employers to pay them more.

On one side were the rich men who owned the mines. They, eager to make as much money for themselves as possible, were not willing to pay the miners fair wages. Furthermore, they would not spend money to make the mines safe for the men who worked in them. Accordingly, the living conditions among the miners were wretched indeed. Poorly paid, they were forced to dwell in houses that were little more than huts, and were required to live on the coarsest fare. So dangerous were the mines that accidents were of almost daily occurrence; yet nothing could be done as the miners were without a leader. True, labor agitators came and with silver speech aroused the miners, but they did not tell them what to do.

For a long time the battle cloud grew darker until finally the whole nation became alarmed. So grave was the situation that Theodore Roosevelt, then president, was asked to help avert the crisis that seemed inevitable. At once the president left Washington for the scene of conflict. Day after day he sought among the sullen, half-crazed men for some solution of the difficulty, until finally he discovered a man big enough to bring order out of confusion.