Part 14

"Every code that I had--in government, in religion, in ethics--had been obliterated by the events of the last three years. But this novel showed me that there could be a code--that something coherent and true must come out of the chaos. Reading as many manuscripts as I do, I grow stale on ideas. I want to read out-and-out trash or else something that will give me a new philosophy of life. And Wells, at any rate, showed me that there could be a new philosophy.

"The great task before our writers to-day is to do for the individual what President Wilson's Declaration of War did for the nations of the world. This is the most important thing a writer can do--to make a new code for mankind. I can't think of any American writer able to do it. But did any of us expect Wells to write such a book as 'Mr. Britling Sees It Through'?

"One significant thing about President Wilson's message is that its author is absolutely sure of the hereafter. He is convinced that God is Eternal Goodness. All his utterances are the utterances of a man with a deep faith that never has been disturbed. And that sort of man is essentially the man for statesmanship.

"Religious fervor was the driving force of the fathers of our country. For an agnostic like myself to witness an exhibition of this force is to look wistfully at a power that cannot be understood. It is the spirit of the little red schoolhouse, of the meeting-house, of the town meeting--the spirit of American statesmanship and of American democracy.

"Human beings aren't big enough to get along without religion. Somehow or other we moderns have got to have some faith--as Lincoln had it, and Adams, and Washington--as Wilson has it. We need a new religion. For Wilson won't happen again very often.

"President Wilson's message formulates a new philosophy of government. His message came on Europe like a flash of light in the darkness of battle.

"President Wilson seems to have started his message with a definite conviction as to the existence of God. Mr. Wells must have started his novel with the hope of finding God through it. I size Wells up as a modern with the modern craving for God. Wells does not lead you to God, but he gives you the idea that God exists, and is just over beyond.

"But then religion is a favorite theme of the novelist. Winston Churchill's 'The Inside of the Cup' indicated that social service would take the place of religion. Well, maybe it would for some people. But nowadays most people need a religion that says that there is a hereafter.

"I think that I am the only human being in captivity who has read all of Holt's book on the cosmic relations. And what I got out of it was not a belief in spiritualism, but a realization of the fact that every one, high and low, rich and poor, educated and illiterate, has a craving for knowledge of life after death, has a craving for belief in life after death. And the war has raised this feeling to the nth power. We feel that we shall go mad if there is no hereafter. Mr. Wells leads us to believe that he will find that there is a hereafter. President Wilson shows us that he is sure there is one.

"This craving for conviction of the hereafter, increased by the war, inevitably makes our literature more spiritual. So we are seeing the last for awhile of the sex novel and of sordid realism. We no longer find people who believe that since you are an artist you should describe the contents of a garbage can. The soul of man as well as the body of man is coming into its own as the theme of the novelist.

"And the war is responsible. You can't stick out your tongue and make a face at God when a shell may momentarily hurl you from the earth. And who cares to read a sex novel now? What do the little bedroom scandals of the flimsy novels matter when the womanhood of Belgium has been despoiled?

"I am asked if our writers have deteriorated of late years. I think that the rank and file of our serial writers are way below those of forty or fifty years ago. Then our novelists were fewer and better. Look at the files of the old magazines and you will find that the novels that appeared serially in those days were much better than those that are appearing to-day. But one or two of our best novelists are just as fine as any of our writers of a bygone generation--Margaret Deland and Gertrude Atherton, for instance.

"And in other branches of literature I think we have improved on our forefathers. American poets have never before done such exquisite things as they are doing to-day, and one or two short story writers are doing better things than were ever done before in this country. If you compare the short stories in old issues of the magazines with those in the current issues you will find that the old short stories are as much inferior to the new short stories as the old novels--the serialized novels--are superior to the new ones."

A Field

_By Minnie Stichter_

Sometime I expect to turn a sharp corner and come face to face with myself, according to the ancient maxim, "extremes meet." For, did I not vow to the Four Great Walls that had imprisoned me for nine months, that I would fly to the uttermost parts of the earth so soon as vacation should open the doors? And did I not spend almost my entire summer within sight of my home, and in a field of a few acres dimension?

I caught sight of some flowers, just inside the barbed wire fencing the track, that were fairer than any I had yet gathered for my vases. As the old song has it, "O, brighter the flowers on the other side seem!" No one saw me get under that six-stranded barbed-wire fence, and I am not going to tell how I did it. But when I got through I felt as well guarded as though attended by a retinue of soldiers. And I found myself in another world--a dream-world!

It was a large field rosy with red clover and waving with tall timothy. A single tree glistened and rustled invitingly. In its shade I rested, refreshing myself with the field sights and sounds and fragrances. It was delightful to be the center of so much beauty as circled round about me. Then I had only to rest on the rosy clover-carpet at the foot of the tree, and the tall grass eclipsed all things earthly save the tree, and the sky overhead, and the round mat of clover under the tree which the grass ringed about. I had often wished for Siegfried's magic cloak. Well, here was something quite as good, which, if it did not render me invisible to the world, made the world invisible to me. Who of you would not be glad to have the old world with its "everyday endeavors and desires," its folly, its pride and its tears, drop out of sight for a while, leaving you in a flowery zone of perfect quiet and beauty, hedged in by a wall of grass!

There were many "afterwards." And the marvel of it all was that, for all I could do, the field retained its virgin splendor and kept the secret of my goings-in and comings-out most completely.

After the daisies, there came a season of black-eyed Susans. That was when the grasses were tallest and the feeling of mystery did most abound. I know I had been there many days before I discovered the myriads of wild roses near the crabtree thicket--those fairies' flowers so exquisite in their pink frailty that mortal breath is rude. Only when I reached the hedge, bounding the remote side of the field, did I enter into my full inheritance. Along a barbed-wire fence had grown up sumac, elderberry, crabtrees and nameless brambles, while over all trailed the wild grapevine, bearing the most perfect miniature clusters, fit to be sculptured by Trentanove into immortal beauty. And this hedge was the source of ever increasing wonder the whole summer long. I depended on it alone for sensational denouements after the grass was cut for hay. When the field lay shorn, like other fields about it far and wide, I could not have been lured hitherward but for the hedge. There the hard green berries of a peculiar bramble ripened into wax-white pellet-sized drops clustered together on a woody stem by the most coral-pink pedicles ever designed by sea-sprites.

In its time came the elderberry bloom, and its purple fruit; the garnet fruit of the sumach and its flaming foliage; the lengths of vines and their purple clusters--all these and more also ministered to my delight.

About goldenrod time, the school-bell rang me in from the field, but I managed to take recesses long enough to behold the kaleidoscopic views brought before me by the turning of nature's hand. The smooth velvety green of the field with its border of gold and lavender--great widths of thistle and goldenrod following the line of fence--was like the broidered mantle of some celestial Sir Walter Raleigh, spread for the queens of earth. I was no queen; but I did not envy royalty, since I doubted if it had any such cherished possessions as my field in its various phases.

In the November days, the brightness of the fields seemed to be inverted and to be seen in the opalescent tints of the sky. Then, the clearness of the atmosphere, the wider horizon, the less hidden homes and doings of men, had this message for the children of men: "If there is any secret in your life, leave it out."

When it is December and the fields are too snowy and wind-swept for pleasure-grounds, where the only bits of brightness are the embroideries of the scarlet pips of the wild-rose, it is good to nestle by the cozy fireside and conjure it all up again, and nourish a feeling of expectancy for the spring and summer that shall come. Again, the flowers and waving grass and drowsy warmth of the summer day; again, the songs of flitting birds, the scented sweets of the new-mown hay. Again the work of the fields goes on before me like a play in pantomime! Again, with my eyes, I follow home the boys with their cows, to the purple rim of the hill beyond which only my fancy has ever gone. Again I quit work with the tired laborer. Again I dream of the open, free, unfettered song that life might be if it were lived more simply, with less of artificiality. And again, for the sake of one patient toiler in the town, whose life-task admits of no holiday, I have the grace to return thither and begin where I left off--the life common to you and to me, the life ordained for us from the beginning.

Your Lad, and My Lad

_By Randall Parrish_

Down toward the deep blue water, marching to the throb of drum, From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come; The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim appeal, While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished steel. With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks advance; And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.

A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by, Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great ships lie; The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned bugle call, With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a khaki wall. Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every glance; For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to France.

Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or blue, Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in proud review; The same old Flag, the same old Faith--the Freedom of the World-- Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks unfurled. Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's advance, As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to France.

Peace and Then--?

_By Detlev Fredrik Tillisch_

_Suburb of London. Three months after declaration of peace. Time: Noon._

CAST

Mrs. Claire Hamilton--about 35 years of age--portly--simply dressed.

Master Hal Hamilton--her son--about 10 years of age--full of life--dressed in Boy Scout uniform.

Mr. John Hamilton--soldier--botanist--about 39 years of age--tall--well built.

Sergeant, soldiers and pedestrians.

Claire Hamilton is seen fixing her corner flower stand and endeavoring to sell her plants to passers-by, but after three futile attempts she becomes tired of standing and takes seat on wooden bench in front of her stand. Takes letter from pocket--sighs and begins to read letter aloud.

_Mrs. Hamilton (reading)._ "Dearest Love and Hal Boy--We are still in the bowels of hell--but even this would be nothing if I but knew my loved ones were well and happy. (_She wipes away a tear and continues reading._) Nothing but a miracle can end this terrible war. Give my own dear Hallie boy a kiss from his longing papa." (_She lays letter on her lap and meditates._) Peace (_shakes her head--looks at date of letter._) February 16th--six months past and now it's all over--three months ago--Oh, God, bring him back to me and my boy. (_She goes back of flower stand and brings out box of mignonettes. Hal comes running in with bundle of newspapers and very much excited--his sleeve is torn. He stands still and looks at mother rather proudly and defiantly._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal Boy--what's the trouble?

_Hal._ I licked Fritz.

_Mrs. Hamilton._ What for?

_Hal._ He said it took the whole world to lick the Germans.

_Mrs. Hamilton._ But, Hal, my boy--the war is over--you mustn't be hateful--be kind and forgiving.

_Hal._ Make them bring back my daddy then.

_Mrs. Hamilton._ You still have your mother--(_Hal runs to mother and embraces her tenderly._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Whose birthday is it to-day? (_He thinks--pause._) This is the 20th of August--now think hard. (_She awaits answer--silence--then takes box of mignonettes._) Whose favorite flower is the mignonette?

_Hal._ Papa's! Papa's! (_Claps his hands boyishly._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes, Hal--it's papa's birthday and mother is remembering the day by decorating our little stand with the flowers your papa has grown. (_He caresses the mignonettes tenderly._)

_Hal._ Dear daddy--dear flowers--aren't they lovely, mother?

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes, Hal. (_She wipes away a tear, trying to conceal her emotions from her son._)

_Hal._ Maybe some day I'll be a famous botanist like papa and then you'll have two boxes. (_Mother is silent trying to keep back the tears and Hal notices it._) Papa is coming home soon, isn't he, mother? (_She just shakes her head._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ We must be brave.

_Hal._ When I get big I'm going to be a soldier and be brave like daddy.

_Mrs. Hamilton._ That won't be necessary any more--it isn't the people who want to fight.

_Hal._ But daddy did and you bet if anybody makes me sore I'll fight too.

_Mrs. Hamilton._ No, my boy--daddy didn't want to fight----

_Hal._ Then why did he go?

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal, you're a little boy and wouldn't understand--but just remember what your mother tells you: Don't be selfish--be tolerant, honest and charitable to all the peoples of the world, the big and the small alike. (_Enter passer-by who stops to look over plants. After Mrs. Hamilton has shown several and given him prices, he picks up the box of mignonettes._)

_Man._ I'll take this box.

_Mrs. Hamilton (confused, not knowing whether to tell stranger about that particular box of flowers or sell it, as she sorely needs money. Then she picks up another plant to show it.)_ Here's a very sturdy plant, sir.

_Man._ But I want this one. (_Pointing to box of mignonettes._) How much is it? I'm in a hurry.

_Hal (goes to stranger and takes box from his hands)._ You can't have them--they're daddy's.

_Man (pushing him to one side)._ Get away from here, you little ruffian.

_Mrs. Hamilton._ That's my son, sir--he's not a ruffian. His father has not returned from the front and that----

_Man (interrupting)._ Oh, yes--yes--we hear those stories every day now on every corner--it's the beggar's capital. (_He walks away hurriedly, but Hal starts after with clenched fist._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Hal! Hal! What did mother tell you a few moments ago?

_Hal (coming back)._ But he made me sore.

_Mrs. Hamilton._ What's the news--(_Hal hands her a paper, kisses her and starts up street._)

_Hal._ Paper--extra--paper! (_He disappears._)

_Mrs. Hamilton (is attracted by headlines in paper and begins to read aloud)._ "Fifty men return to-day from the front to be placed in the asylum." (_She buries her face in her hands._) Better that he were dead. (_Sound of footsteps is heard. Enter detachment of ten men in uniform in charge of a sergeant. They swing corner of flower stand and Mrs. Hamilton watches every man and there is a tense silence. Suddenly Mrs. Hamilton rushes toward them._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ John! John! My boy! (_They halt. Mrs. Hamilton swoons. Sergeant goes to her and assists her to bench in front of stand. She becomes calm and goes toward husband with out-stretched arms._) Don't you know me? Claire, your wife! (_He stares at her, but shows no signs of recognition._) You remember Hal--Hal, your own boy--our little boy--John! (_He just looks at her and smiles foolishly. Sergeant takes her gently by the arm to lead her away, thinking her hysterically mistaken as many others have been._)

_Sergeant._ Are you quite sure, madam, that he is your husband?

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Yes--John Hamilton--have you no record----

_Sergeant._ Not yet. But time will clear away any doubts----

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Time--time! I've waited long enough on time. He's mine and I want him. (_Turns toward husband._) You want to stay here with me and our boy--don't you, John? (_Pause._) Sergeant, let me have him.

_Sergeant (trying to hide his emotion)._ You're quite sure, madam--(_Mrs. Hamilton nods and sergeant takes John from ranks. John just stares. Mrs. Hamilton leads him tenderly to seat. Sergeant starts others to march._)

_Sergeant._ I'll return for him after delivering these men. (_Mrs. Hamilton takes no notice of his remarks and they march off._)

_Mrs. Hamilton (kissing his hands tenderly and giving him all signs of love and affection)._ Doesn't it seem good to be with us again? (_He smiles foolishly._) And our boy Hal--He is so large now--You'll see him soon. Think of it--he's ten years old. (_Hal enters and without noticing father rushes toward his mother, holding a package in his hand. His father sees him and notices his uniform--rises quickly and rushes toward him but mother grabs his arm and holds him back. Hal remains standing._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ That's Hal--your own boy. Hal--your son.

_Mr. Hamilton (looks at Hal fiercely)._ Attention! (_Hal looks perplexed._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ This is your own papa--my boy. (_Hal runs toward him but stops._)

_Mr. Hamilton._ Attention! (_His hands grab his pocket for revolver but finds none._) You scullion--this is my girl! (_Turns and puts arms around Mrs. Hamilton._) Aren't you, Sissy? (_Mrs. Hamilton realizes situation and plays her part--leads him to seat--strokes his hair and caresses him._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ What have you, Hal?

_Hal._ I sold all my papers and brought you a little cake for daddy's birthday.

_Mrs. Hamilton (smiles and shakes her head. She takes box of mignonettes and shows them to Mr. Hamilton.)._ You surely remember these--your own mignonettes--your prize? (_She is silent. He smells flowers--she anxiously awaits any signs of recognition--long pause--a slight spark of intelligence comes over him as he fondles the flowers--Mrs. Hamilton very tense but says nothing. Hal remains standing as if rooted to the spot. Enter sergeant._)

_Sergeant._ I must deliver him with the others, madam. (_No reply._) It's my duty. (_He goes to take Mr. Hamilton by the arm, but Mrs. Hamilton interferes._)

_Mrs. Hamilton._ Duty! Duty! It has been my duty to slave and starve--my husband has done his duty--he volunteered his services--I willingly let him go--for what? For whom? (_Pause._) Now it's all over. This is the result to me--to thousands, but now--(_stands between Mr. Hamilton and sergeant_)--God has brought him back to me and God will keep him with me!

_Mr. Hamilton (in a whisper)._ God--(_rubs hands over eyes_)--God---- (_Smells fragrance of the mignonettes. He takes Mrs. Hamilton's hand and Hal runs to him and kneels beside him._) My mignonette. (_Smiles to Mrs. Hamilton and Hal._) My mignonettes.

Semper Fidelis

_By Addie B. Billington_

When free from earthly toil and thrall of pain, Time's transient guest, One large of heart and finely quick of brain Found early rest. Kind friends ordained that on his coffin lid, Bedecked with flowers, His last Romance should lie, forever hid From sight of ours. Th' unfinished page no other hand might press, Where his had wrought, Nor Fancy weave strange threads--to match by guess The strands he sought. The motives worthy and the action grand, In faithful trust, To bury what they could not understand, With fleeting dust. And if within the years there treasured lies, 'Neath Memory's trance, Wreathed in forget-me-nots, my sacred prize-- A life's Romance-- Heav'n grant no ruthless hand the pages turn, When I am gone, Striving its inmost meaning to discern; 'Tis mine alone.

Our Bird Friends

_By Margaret Coulson Walker_

Lovers of birds will doubtless be pleased to know that some of the most agreeable and interesting legends of the past were centered about these guests of our groves, whose actions formed the basis of innumerable fancies and superstitions. An acquaintance with the literature as well as with the life history of our feathered friends will not only increase our interest in the bird life about us but it will broaden our sympathies as well.

Birds exercised a strong influence on prehistoric religion, having been worshipped as gods in the earlier days and later looked upon as representatives of the higher powers. The Greeks went so far as to attribute the origin of the world itself to the egg of some mysterious bird. To others, these small creatures flitting about among our trees, represented the visible spirits of departed friends. The Aztecs believed that the good, as a reward of merit, were metamorphosed at the close of life into feathered songsters, and as such were permitted to pass a certain term in the beautiful groves of Paradise. To them, as to all North American Indians, thunder was the cloud bird flapping his mighty wings, while the lightning was the flash of his eye. The people of other countries believed that higher powers showed their displeasure by transforming wrong-doers into birds and animals as a punishment for their crimes.

In all lands birds were invested with the power of prophecy. They were believed to possess superior intelligence through being twice-born, once as an egg, and again as an animal. Because of their wisdom, not only they, but their graven images also, were consulted on all important affairs of life. Many nations, notably the Japanese, are still believers in the direct communication between man and unseen beings, through birds and other agents. In their country, birds are regarded as sacred, and for this reason the agriculturist gladly shares with them the fruit of his toil.

While we of to-day attach no supernatural significance to the presence of these feathered songsters, and even though to us they possess no powers of prophecy, we can find a great deal of pleasure in observing these beings whose boding cries were regarded as omens by the greatest of earth--beings whose actions in Vespasian's time were considered of vital national importance.

Aside from their historic and literary interest, these multitudinous, and often contradictory, legends and superstitions are of interest to us as a part of the faith of our fathers, much of which, combined with other and higher things, is in us yet. These beliefs of theirs, like many of what we are pleased to think are original ideas and opinions to-day, were hereditary and largely a matter of geography.