THE SILENT WAYFELLOWBy Bliss Carman

To-day when the birches are yellow,And red is the wayfaring tree,Sit down in the sun, my soul,And talk of yourself to me!Here where the old blue rocksBask in the forest shine,Dappled with shade and lostIn their reverie divine.How goodly and sage they are!Priests of the taciturn smileRebuking our babble and haste,Yet loving us all the while.In the asters the wild gold beesMake a warm busy drone,Where our Mother at Autumn's doorSits warming her through to the bone.What is your afterthoughtWhen a red leaf rustles down,Or the chickadees from the hushChallenge a brief renown?When silence falls againAsleep on hill-side and crest,Resuming her ancient mood,Do you still say, "Life is best?"We have been friends so long,And yet not a single wordOf yourself, your kith or kinOr home, have I ever heard.Nightly we sup and part,Daily you come to my door;Strange we should be such mates,Yet never have talked before.A cousin to downy-feather,And brother to shining-fin,Am I, of the breed of earth,And yet of an alien kin,Made from the dust of the roadAnd a measure of silver rain,To follow you brave and glad,Unmindful of plaudit or pain.Dear to the mighty heart,Born of her finest mood,Great with the impulse of joy,With the rapture of life imbued,Radiant moments are yours,Glimmerings over the vergeOf a country where one dayOur forest trail shall emerge.When the road winds under a ledge,You keep the trudging pace,Till it mounts a shoulder of hillTo the open sun and space.Ah, then you dance and go,Illumined spirit again,Child of the foreign tongueAnd the dark wilding strain!Through the long winter dark,When slumber is at my sill,Will you leave me dreamfast there,For your journey over the hill?To-night when the forest treesGleam in the frosty air,And over the roofs of menStillness is everywhere,By the cold hunter's moon,What trail will you take alone,Through the white realms of sleep,To your native land unknown?Here while the birches are yellow,And red is the wayfaring tree,Sit down in the sun, my soul,And talk of yourself to me.

To-day when the birches are yellow,And red is the wayfaring tree,Sit down in the sun, my soul,And talk of yourself to me!

To-day when the birches are yellow,

And red is the wayfaring tree,

Sit down in the sun, my soul,

And talk of yourself to me!

Here where the old blue rocksBask in the forest shine,Dappled with shade and lostIn their reverie divine.

Here where the old blue rocks

Bask in the forest shine,

Dappled with shade and lost

In their reverie divine.

How goodly and sage they are!Priests of the taciturn smileRebuking our babble and haste,Yet loving us all the while.

How goodly and sage they are!

Priests of the taciturn smile

Rebuking our babble and haste,

Yet loving us all the while.

In the asters the wild gold beesMake a warm busy drone,Where our Mother at Autumn's doorSits warming her through to the bone.

In the asters the wild gold bees

Make a warm busy drone,

Where our Mother at Autumn's door

Sits warming her through to the bone.

What is your afterthoughtWhen a red leaf rustles down,Or the chickadees from the hushChallenge a brief renown?

What is your afterthought

When a red leaf rustles down,

Or the chickadees from the hush

Challenge a brief renown?

When silence falls againAsleep on hill-side and crest,Resuming her ancient mood,Do you still say, "Life is best?"

When silence falls again

Asleep on hill-side and crest,

Resuming her ancient mood,

Do you still say, "Life is best?"

We have been friends so long,And yet not a single wordOf yourself, your kith or kinOr home, have I ever heard.

We have been friends so long,

And yet not a single word

Of yourself, your kith or kin

Or home, have I ever heard.

Nightly we sup and part,Daily you come to my door;Strange we should be such mates,Yet never have talked before.

Nightly we sup and part,

Daily you come to my door;

Strange we should be such mates,

Yet never have talked before.

A cousin to downy-feather,And brother to shining-fin,Am I, of the breed of earth,And yet of an alien kin,

A cousin to downy-feather,

And brother to shining-fin,

Am I, of the breed of earth,

And yet of an alien kin,

Made from the dust of the roadAnd a measure of silver rain,To follow you brave and glad,Unmindful of plaudit or pain.

Made from the dust of the road

And a measure of silver rain,

To follow you brave and glad,

Unmindful of plaudit or pain.

Dear to the mighty heart,Born of her finest mood,Great with the impulse of joy,With the rapture of life imbued,

Dear to the mighty heart,

Born of her finest mood,

Great with the impulse of joy,

With the rapture of life imbued,

Radiant moments are yours,Glimmerings over the vergeOf a country where one dayOur forest trail shall emerge.

Radiant moments are yours,

Glimmerings over the verge

Of a country where one day

Our forest trail shall emerge.

When the road winds under a ledge,You keep the trudging pace,Till it mounts a shoulder of hillTo the open sun and space.

When the road winds under a ledge,

You keep the trudging pace,

Till it mounts a shoulder of hill

To the open sun and space.

Ah, then you dance and go,Illumined spirit again,Child of the foreign tongueAnd the dark wilding strain!

Ah, then you dance and go,

Illumined spirit again,

Child of the foreign tongue

And the dark wilding strain!

Through the long winter dark,When slumber is at my sill,Will you leave me dreamfast there,For your journey over the hill?

Through the long winter dark,

When slumber is at my sill,

Will you leave me dreamfast there,

For your journey over the hill?

To-night when the forest treesGleam in the frosty air,And over the roofs of menStillness is everywhere,

To-night when the forest trees

Gleam in the frosty air,

And over the roofs of men

Stillness is everywhere,

By the cold hunter's moon,What trail will you take alone,Through the white realms of sleep,To your native land unknown?

By the cold hunter's moon,

What trail will you take alone,

Through the white realms of sleep,

To your native land unknown?

Here while the birches are yellow,And red is the wayfaring tree,Sit down in the sun, my soul,And talk of yourself to me.

Here while the birches are yellow,

And red is the wayfaring tree,

Sit down in the sun, my soul,

And talk of yourself to me.

John was a very poor machine, indeed.—Page450.

Iwas early down at the bank that morning, as the day promised to be a sweltering one, and a little extra work in the cool of the forenoon would save a deal of discomfort later on.

So, by half-past eight, when Ted Lummis, the book-keeper, and Bill Ryan, who balanced pass-books and ran the appendix ledger, arrived, I had the safe open, and their ledgers, with fresh blotters, laid out ready for them on their desks.

But, as usual, they preferred to loiter and chat awhile in the president's office. After a few words to me, therefore, Ted comfortably settled himself in the big desk-chair, lit a cigarette, and commenced unfolding the morning paper. Bill, as his custom was, took up a post by the window and watched the loafers on the street corner.

I was wetting the teller's sponges at the sink, and speculating how long his mistakes in cash would keep us after hours that afternoon, when a great guffaw broke out in the office. I recognized the voice as Ted's, and, squeezing my sponges into their dishes, hurried into the banking-room, slopping a trail of water on the floor behind me.

From there I could see the backs of the two fellows, still shaking with laughter, bent over the president's desk, on which the open paper was spread.

"You didn't know he was going to have one?" Ted was saying, in a tone of superiority to which he apparently considered the possibility of asking this question entitled him.

"No. How should I?" replied Bill, evidently piqued; and then added, by way of subterfuge, "what's he or his family to me?"

When Bill spoke in this way it was pretty certain he was talking about John Makeator, our teller.

"Well," pressed the other, bound on making his point, "you knew he wouldn't take a vacation this summer. What did you suppose that was for?"

"Why? Good Lord, isn't he stingy enough?"

"Perhaps he wanted the additional salary to help pay for his mistakes in cash," I suggested, scarcely less uncharitably, but with the memory of yesterday's three hours' hunt for a balance rising again in my mind.

"Heis John, I presume," I went on, as the others turned around; "but what's up with him, Ted? What's he 'got?'"

"'Got!' You fellows are as blind as ifyou were locked up in the vault. 'Got!' Why, a baby, of course, Jim!"

Ted, with difficulty, repressed his emotions, reckoning, doubtless, on a more dramatic effect if my outburst should come unaccompanied. However, at the moment, the news struck me in quite other than a laughable light; and I must have disappointed Ted, for I only said:

"Well, it's mighty funny; but I'm sure we ought to be glad for poor old John."

Ted, who at heart is the kindest fellow in the world, instantly sobered.

"Glad, why, of course, I'm glad, Jim! But——"

"You'll be damn glad, then, at three o'clock this afternoon," broke in Bill, testily, seeing the turn the conversation was taking. "Yesterday he kept us here till after seven; last night he had a baby, and to-day—oh, Lord! Well, stay and talk about it if you want to; and make out to rejoice with him when he comes in. I'm going to work," and he walked off irritably to his desk in the other room.

Ted looked after him and smiled.

"He hasn't forgiven John for speaking to Habinger about him the other day." Habinger was the president.

"John was right," I said. "Bill had no business to meddle with his cash, even if John is slow in counting it."

"Yes," assented Ted; and then he laughed again, so openly and frankly this time, that the merely comic element in the news came over me irresistibly, and I could not help joining him.

"Mr. Young!" shouted Bill from his desk, where he was making a show of sorting pass-books, but, in reality, was watching the door, so as to be the first to announce John's arrival. He then slipped to the teller's counter, pressed the button which springs the electric lock, and Mr. Young, the cashier, came in.

"Well, Mr. Young," asked Bill, "what time is John going to let us out to-day?" The question was put, even before the door had shut behind the cashier. The idea of working late into the evening was pleasanter to Bill than he would have cared to admit, or, perhaps, realized.

"Hello, Bill! Good-morning, Ted!—Oh, yes! I thought you'd have heard the news. And we'll have to make Margaret—that's her name—a present. I saw John early this morning. He'll be down soon, too."

The cashier briskly pushed the little swing door of the office, and came in to Ted and me. He was going to say something more, but, noticing that our looks were turned across to Bill, glanced over that way himself, and comprehending the situation quickly, cried good naturedly:

"I wouldn't tease him too much about it when he comes, Bill. He's sensitive, you know. Besides, it's his first one——"

"Well, it was time I hope," was the contemptible retort, which put into spiteful, bitter form the idea which to the rest of us was only reason for special satisfaction.

As Bill took up his perch again, the cashier walked into the banking room, and Ted and I followed him. Mr. Young sat down at a table and inspected the morning's mail, which I cut open for him.

"Oh, yes, he'll be down this morning," he began, as he rapidly and keenly went through envelope after envelope. "Ah, here's a draft on Potter, Jim—yes, his wife is doing nicely. No danger at all—Another on Smith and Weston, $2,600. Means a sweat for you, and don't——"

"We'll all sweat enough before the day's over," came from Bill.

"Look here, old man," laughed the cashier, with a sharp knitting of his brows, however; "I'll bet you half a dozen cigars" (two-fers were a stock wager among us) "that John makes fewer mistakes in cash to-day than you."

"And you only affect cash in the clearings," put in Ted.

"Don't want to bet," was the surly, almost inaudible response, and Bill wheeled his stool about again, and began making perfunctory scratches with his pen, the corner of his eye all the while on the door.

"John!" he cried suddenly in the tone of a look-out on board a man-of-war off a hostile harbor.

We all turned about and faced the door. Ted hastily folded up the morning paper, which was still in his hand, and put it behind him. Mr. Young gathered his letters into a pile before him and stood up, and Bill left his station, and took up a position back of the rest of us where he could spy without seeming to be interested.

"With his wheel polished clean, and a new pair of stockings," he snickered, peering, on tiptoe, over my shoulder.

This time no one offered to press the electric button, so John had to use his key. We could hear it click some time on the metal outside, before the bolt shot.

However, John was the first to speak as he entered. His voice was even higher than ordinary and more forced; but there was a clear ring to it, and it did not waver.

"Mornin', George," he said, simply, and then turned his attention to getting his wheel into the passage.

"Hello, John!" cried the cashier, cheerily. "Coming out to congratulate you again. How's everything?"

"Fine, George, fine!" answered the latter, straightening up to his full height, and with a firmer snap in his voice than ever.

Bill Ryan.

"Blacked his shoes," muttered Bill, turning away and suppressing a grin. "Oh, Lord! and a clean shave, too."

By this time the teller and the cashier had stopped hand-shaking, and the latter was pushing John in through the office door toward us.

"The rest of the fellows want to shake hands with you, John," said he, slapping the disconcerted father on the back.

This was John's ordeal. Two emotions were visibly struggling in him. He knew perfectly, poor fellow, his incompetence, and the consequent slight estimate in which we (being only plodding accountants, with no very exalted criterion to judge men by) held him. Nevertheless, this morning it must have been plain to him a new factor had entered into his position among us—one, moreover, which, quite irrespective of his ability or inefficiency as a commercial automaton, entitled him to a positive measure of respect from us. Diffident, however, and totally lacking in self-confidence as he was, how was he to break through the old barriers of contempt and derision which we held out against him, and demand of us, and enforce from us the payment of this new obligation?

It was a task, truly, which seemed to require more courage and power over others than the little man possessed, and very much depended on an initial success. One could see that he felt this himself; for as he walked toward us (his knees perceptibly shaking, in spite of the unusual length of his strides) he shifted his eyes from side to side; and when they did rest on one of us for a moment, there was in their weak, watery blue an appeal rather than a command.

Ted was the first to meet him. He gripped his hand hard and cordially, and looked straight into his face.

"Mighty glad to hear it, John," he said.

John flushed, and his eyes brightened and he held on fast.

"Thanks, Ted, thanks!" he stammered, much moved.

But, as their hands parted, Ted smiled. It was not meant unkindly; but Ted, who was a cocky, self-assured chap, and something of a sport, too, never seemed able to look seriously at the affair for more than a second at a time.

John's courage, which had begun to rise, left him instantly; and he quite lost his self-control. He was white as he took the limp hand Bill stretched out to him.

"Congratulate you, John," the latter said, frigidly, and the "Thanks, Bill, thanks," of the reply was all of a tremble.

Suddenly, however, a new feeling seemed to come over John, and this was indignation—indignationat himself, and anger at the man before him. He reddened, and stood erect again, and dropped Bill's hand; and, without a word, turned to me.

I don't recollect what I said to John. Perhaps I said nothing. I remember only I was thinking, "You'd have lost that bet, Bill, if you'd taken it."

Shortly after, Al Williams, who was John's next in rank, came in; but I did not notice his greeting as I was busy over by the window filing checks. Then, at nine, we opened up, and the regular routine of work began.

Nine-thirty was my time for starting off with the morning's collections, drafts on tradespeople, post-office orders, protested checks and the like. I was very anxious that the president should arrive before I left, for I was particularly curious to see how John would take his congratulations, and in what spirit they would be offered.

John had entered the bank as clerk when the president was teller—almost twenty years ago—and had worked under him ever since. Both men at first sight impressed one as of a type very common in this bustling country of ours. Small, nervous men, with light, drooping mustaches, and excitable ways, they both were. To each of them the touch of silver, or the smell of dirty bills, or the holding of a pen between the fingers was but the signal for a certain set of reactions on the accuracy of which his claim to usefulness in this world depended. Mere machines one might call them both, but there was a vast difference between them nevertheless. For, while John's nervousness was the nervousness of dissipated force, the president's was that of concentrated alertness and precision and celerity. John was a very poor machine, indeed, and as like as not to go wrong and become tangled up in his own mechanism. Habinger, on the other hand, was a very perfect one, and it was a saying in the bank that he could foot a column with every wink of his eye. His every pen-stroke, too, was an ultimatum, and stood on the books as it was first written, without blot or erasure.

So John (who had no other standards to measure men by but those of the ledger and the time-lock) had made an idol of the president. In his worship he was not only sincere and fervent, but entirely without jealousy; for whatever egotism he might have had to start with must long ago have been knocked out of him by the successions of selfish and ambitious clerks he had seen pass beyond and above him; and, as Bill had so cruelly hinted, by his ten years of unfruitful married life.

It was, then, a real pleasure for John, on days when business was rushing, to have Habinger unceremoniously shove him aside at the counter, and in fifteen minutes dispose of a long row of customers whom the hapless teller had suffered to gather there.

At these times John would stand behind the president, and look over his shoulder with wonder like a little child's on his face; and when the work was finished, his "Thank you, sir; thank you!" was uttered in a tone of glad gratitude quite unalloyed, even by the consciousness of Bill's sneering whispers at his back, or by the sly smile of the next depositor, as he handed over his bills and checks.

So, as I said, I wished greatly to be in the bank when the president came; and with this purpose I lingered a moment over my time at the check-file, pretending to be very much occupied.

John's eye this morning, however, was as sharp as Habinger's; and, as the pointer of the clock above his head marked five minutes past the half hour, he called out brusquely,

"Hi, Jimmy! Time you were gone; and a heavy clearing this morning, too, so you want to be back early."

His manner was authoritative, and I rose hastily, and reluctantly commenced sorting out my collections and memoranda. But just then Habinger came in, and with a quick brush of my arm, I swept my papers on the floor directly behind John.

I don't know whether John fathomed my design or not; but he was down by me on the floor in an instant; and before I had touched one of them, the papers were gathered up and stuffed into my pocket-book.

"Now, off with you!" he cried, and gave me a shove, and then turning, met the president's outstretched hand.

Ted comfortably settled himself.—Page447.

"Mr. Makeator," the latter began, and this was all I heard, for I was heartily ashamed of my impertinence.

However, those two words and the glance I could not help throwing back were enough. John's face was flushed again, but this time with joy and pride; for never before had the president thus publicly called him by his last name. Indeed, of all the shrewd things Habinger ever said, I believe this was the shrewdest, and I would have given Bill ten to one on that bet had I thought he would take it.

I made a mess of my work that morning I know—was fined two dollars at the clearing for a wrong subtraction; forgot to call for a couple of drafts I had left at Shan's—the liquor dealer—the day before; mislaid a registered letter; and entered Boston remittances in the New York book. My thoughts while out of the bank were on John, and while in the bank my eyes were on no one else.

Indeed, there was a fascination in watching the little teller work. He never made more mistakes, perhaps, in his life; but he detected every one of them instantly. He had squeezed his sponges dry in two hours, and, not thinking to have me moisten them again, simply wet his fingers in his mouth, and thumbed his bills and scraped his silver all unconscious of any inconvenience.

He was perpetually on the go, dabbling in everyone else's work, but never losing his head. He ordered us around as if he were president and directors all in one. Once, I recollect, when a ten-dollar roll of quarters fell and split on the floor, he told Bill peremptorily to pick them up, without so much as a "please," or turning around to see if he were obeyed—which he was, and promptly, too.

As for Bill, at first he simply sat dumfounded on his stool, and watched John open-mouthed. But John found him out in a jiffy, tossed him a handfulof pass-books, which Bill took without a remark and proceeded to balance forthwith.

John's conversation over the counter was of a line with his actions.

John would stand behind the president.—Page450.

"Mornin', Mr. Bemis, mornin'! Hot day? Yes, I should say so. Good deposit this morning. Business picking up? Yes?—Eh?—Ah.—Yes!—yes, thanks, sir! yes, doin' splendid sir, splendid!—Coughlin to pitch this afternoon?—yes, going to call her Margaret, sir—my wife's name—Ah, this check here, sir? Call & Co. $123.75. Well—Eh—Hi, Jim!" (this in a whisper to me, and handing me the doubtful check under the counter). "Telephone down to the 'Third' and see if that's good—yes, ten pounds seven ounces, sir. Let's see, $443 in bills I make it only."

Then, as I came back from the telephone, "All right, Mr. Bemis. Wanted to make sure, you know; $123.75? Born at half-past two exactly. Good-morning——

"But, Mr. Bemis!Oh, Mr. Bemis! Wait a moment, please. Forgot to indorse this, I guess? Yes? All right. Feeling fine myself, sir—first rate. Yes. Good-morning."

Mr. Young insisted on John's leaving early for lunch, and staying as long as he pleased.

"Well, George, I will," said the latter, "because my work's all done up ahead of time—B & A bills counted" (and he pointed to a heap of vile-smelling green-backs, neatly sorted into little packages, and lying at one side) "and pay-rolls all made up. And I'll stay, too, if they want me."

However, he was back sharp at half-past one; and came in with two packages of dry goods under his arm. These he hurriedly secreted in a cupboard under the counter, though from the solicitude with which he handled them, I judged that he would almost have preferred to lock them up in the vault. Bill (and the occurrence did not seem strange then) made no comments of any sort during this proceeding.

Then he went out back, put on his linen jacket, and in a moment replaced Al at the counter, and the hustling commenced again.

From now on, until a quarter to four, John did all the talking. The rest of us were too much occupied in obeying his orders. I never knew him so voluble. He must first tell us about the state of affairs at home. Everything was doing finely; baby lusty and thriving, wife in good spirits, and "almost strong enough to get up," nurse scarcely needed, doctor still less. Then a list of his congratulations, and an account of Mrs. Makeator's visitors during the morning; and finally, as the choicest bit of news, and typical of the generally satisfactory condition of things, his wife's declaration that he must not bother about her and the baby, but go up to the park with the rest of us and see the ball-game.

All this was gone over a dozen times to us; and once, at least, to every customer whom he knew. While telling it, too, he thumbed his bills, checked off deposit tickets, received telephone messages from me, and directed the answering of them; bossed Bill, Ted, and Al about, as he had never done before, and never once asked the cashier's or president's advice on any topic—a circumstance entirely new in our experience of him.

At a quarter to four we were ready tostrike a balance. Al, with the result of his half of the figuring (with which John's counter-book should agree), stood peering over the little man's shoulder. Bill, by force of habit mainly (for he looked forlorn enough), was behind John on the other side. Ted and I pressed up close, too; and Mr. Young sat at his table quietly, watching the group of us.

At these times John was generally very nervous; and frequently the mere consciousness of having all of us at his back flustered him so that he could not make his last deduction correctly. But his hour of triumph was now at hand, and he knew it and rose manfully to the occasion. He worked imperturbably and without the slightest trace of annoyance; nor was there the least hesitancy in the rapid tappings of his pen; and he made his footings with a decision which showed how thoroughly confident he was of the correctness of his calculations.

When he was done he said, "All right, Al. How is it?" and Al read off his balance.

John jotted it down in pencil beside his own, and subtracted.

"847.43," he said.

"Over?" asked the cashier from his table.

"No; short, George," and without waiting to prove his own work, John jumped over to Bill's clearing-books, and began footing them.

Bill and Ted and Al (Bill in front) pounced on John's book; but they had barely time to put pencil to it before John cried out:

"Seven less on the credit!" and Bill had the pleasure of correcting his own mistake on John's book.

He knew perfectly, poor fellow, his incompetence.—Page449.

"Footing?" he queried, moodily.

"Yes," said John, without looking up, as he ran his pencil down another row of figures.

"Seven cents on the 'first' footing," he called again, almost immediately. "More on the credit this time, Bill. Makes it just 850.50, doesn't it?"

Bill, however, did not answer, but edged out between Ted and Al, and went to work on his own pass-books, errors in which did not appear "in cash."

Then John called to me to check the listing while he read off the clearings. Here, again, we found two mistakes, an inversion and another, which reduced the discrepancy to about fifty dollars.

This time John did not announce the mistake (for, with his growing assurance, all desire for public vindication and acquittal had left him), but went and "fixed" it himself.

Ted and Al had, long since, given up the search at the counter; and the latter, who was entering into the fun of the moment, cried laughingly, after going over my draft-registers,

"All right, Jim!" and then to Mr. Young, "Bill didn't take your bet, did he, George?"

"No," laughed the cashier in his turn, and added, "Better help us on 'cash,' Bill. Your books will wait."

Bill, crestfallen, marched over to his clearing-books, and gazed sheepishly at the corrections on them in John's handwriting.

John then discovered an error in Al's "Redemption" letter, which Al good-humoredly acknowledged; and, shortly after, one "on" Mr. Young himself.

This left us only a few cents out, so the cashier cried, "All right, boys. Let her go. You'll see seven innings of the game if you hurry."

John jotted it down.—Page453.

"Why, aren't you going, too, George?"exclaimed John with evident disappointment. "I wanted to treat you this afternoon," and he pulled out of his pocket one of the new bank-notes which had come in just a few days ago.

It was too hot for talk.—Page455.

"Sorry, John, but I've got some back work I must make up. And I want you to stay, too, Jim, and slice the rest of these green-backs. Habinger was late in signing them, you know."

This was, in some measure, a fresh disappointment to John (as it was a very great one to me), for I could see he wanted to take the whole of us. Al and Ted had already accepted.

Finally he went up to Bill and asked timidly and expectantly: "You're going, too, aren't you Bill?"

But Bill refused the offer snarlingly, and mumbling something in a priggish tone about playing golf, left the bank without another word.

Five minutes later the others had gone, too. As they went out, John cried:

"I'll stop in on the way back to get my wheel. You'll be here, George?"

"Yes. See you later, John. Good luck to you."

The afternoon was broiling. The sun came in, scarcely checked by the yellow shades; fell on and soaked into the smooth, varnished surfaces of the desks and tables, and turned the iron of the big vault into a sort of storage battery of heat. Even the electric fan in the president's office, which we had placed on top of the telephone closet (as near us as its length of wire would allow), gave but little relief.

Both of us were working in our shirt-sleeves, but the sweat stood on our brows, and my fingers were so sticky I could scarcely handle my bills. It was too hot for conversation even; so the only sounds in the room were the snipping of my shears, the crisp fluttering of the fresh, new bills as they fell one by one on the table; and the snapping of rubber bands as the cashier went over bundle after bundle of the bank paper, on the security of which all our positions depended.

As I said, it was too hot for talk; and besides, I had plenty to engross me in my own thoughts—which were about John, of course.

I began by thinking how profitable it would be to the bank if John might only have a baby every day; and then, as this was out of the question, fell to calculating how long this one that had just arrived would continue to work the same beneficial influence on her father's actions.

Presently, however, my ideas became more serious; and at last so serious that they brought about a reaction in the shape of a suspicion that perhaps I hadbeen making too much out of the incident, after all. So I determined to get Mr. Young's opinion on the subject, if I could; and was just framing my first interrogatory, when the telephone rang.

"Claflin National?" said the voice.

"Yes."

"The cashier in? Young, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, he's in."

"See him a moment?"

"Yes."

I was certain that the voice did not belong to any of the bank employees in town; and yet it was familiar.

"Someone to see you, sir," I said, trying all the while to place the voice; and then, the resemblance suddenly dawning on me,

"Is Spencer John's family physician?"

"Yes. Why?" and the cashier started.

"I think it's he at the 'phone."

The cashier was in the telephone closet almost five minutes. When he came out he was white, and it was plain he had been undergoing very strong emotions, though the worst of them was evidently passed.

He began hurriedly gathering his notes together.

"Put up your work, Jim," he said. "We must lock up as soon as possible. John's baby's dead."

The news hardly took me by surprise. I foresaw from the first that it was something pretty bad. So I simply commenced doing as I was told.

"He wants me to tell him," began the cashier after a moment.

"The doctor?"

"Yes, and," looking at the clock, "he'll be back any minute now, and, perhaps, Jim——"

"I'd best be going?"

"Yes. I'll fix up, and—My God, it's sad!—and be down early to-morrow, Jim."

"John won't be here, I suppose."

"I hope not; but there's no telling. At any rate he won't—hustle—to-morrow as—he did to-day. I was thinking of that."

So, as I left the bank, I found that the question I was going to put the cashier as the telephone rang, had been answered, after all.

A Stork's Nest, Dordrecht, Holland—12-inch Lens.

Stork's Nest—Telephoto Lens.

JUST when the telescope was invented is not known, but it is certain that Galileo was the first to direct his toward the heavens early in the seventeenth century. His instrument consisted of a long tube with a convex lens at one end and a concave ocular at the other. A modified form of this instrument still obtains in the ordinary opera and field glasses, which are binocular Galilean telescopes; and a single barrel of a field-glass is practically the telephoto lens of to-day.

Whenever anything is so far away that we cannot see it distinctly, we make use of a field-glass or telescope, which produces a magnified image of the object so that we are able to perceive what the unaided eye could not. In a similar manner the telephoto attachment enlarges the image formed by the ordinary lens in the camera. To produce on a photographic plate an image that fairly resembles what our eyes see, requires a lens of much longer focus than is generally used, and a camera that would permit the use of such a lens would be unwieldy and too cumbersome for a peripatetic photographer, and simply impossible for a mountain-climber. The telephoto lens overcomes this difficulty by producing the effect of a lens of long focus in a very compact camera.

It would be interesting to know who first applied this form of lens to a camera for the purpose of photographing distant objects. In 1890, while experimenting with the lenses from an old field-glass, I discovered that a dim yet distinct image of St. Patrick's Cathedral spires was formed in my camera, although the Cathedral was eighteen blocks away. After making several exposures with this combination of lenses I became convinced that with lenses of the best possible optical construction wonderful results might be attained. Having previously purchased a telescope with a three-and-a-half inch lens of sixty inches focus (with the idea of attaching it to a long box-camera as aphotographic lens for the purpose of making photographs of distant terrestrial objects, as astronomers photograph heavenly bodies). I found that the field-glass combination of lenses yielded an image nearly as large as that produced by the telescope lens, and that too with a camera only one third the length of the other.

Milan Cathedral from Opposite Corner of Piazza.

Becoming deeply interested in this line of investigation I called upon a celebrated lens maker in London and learned that he had manufactured what he called a "Compound Telephoto Lens" consisting of a portrait lens with a small negative or concave lens adjusted at a suitable distance back of it. This instrument was too large and cumbersome for my small camera, and shortly afterward a negative lens, with a rack and pinion mounting, was manufactured of such a size that it could be attached to any fine rectilinear lens of suitable focus, although in some cases special corrections are necessary.

This is called the "Telephoto Attachment," and was employed in making the telephoto illustrations here shown. The tube is 3¼ inches long and 1½ inch in diameter. When this lens is attached to the ordinary lens the time of exposure is necessarily increased, because only a few of the rays of light which diverge from the positive or ordinary lens pass through the negative lens to the plate. This is a serious drawback, for it not only debars one from using it upon moving subjects, but also increases the liability of the image to be blurred by vibrations of the camera. In order to obtain the best results the camera must be very rigid. Most of the cameras and tripods of to-day are too light and unstable for telephotography.

The method of using the telephoto attachment is very simple, but requires very great care, particularly in the matter of focussing. Suppose that an exposure has been made in the ordinary way upon a certain object; the lens is then removed from the camera front and screwed into the tube of the telephoto attachment, forming a small telescope; the whole combination is then put back on the camera as if it were the ordinary lens. Upon the ground glass or focussing screen will be seen an enlarged image which may be made sharp or distinct by adjusting the focus by means of the rack and pinion movement on the telephoto tube, just as a field glass is adjusted to suit the eyes of the observer. Ifgreater amplification be desired it is obtained by moving the front of the camera, holding the lenses farther from the ground-glass and then readjusting the focus as before. It will be seen from this that the attachment forms a lens of variable focus, changeable at the pleasure of the operator within the limits of the camera.

Roof and Dome, Milan Cathedral—Telephoto Lens, from Same Corner of Piazza.

Some of the attachments on the market require a camera with a very long bellows, because the difference between the foci of the negative and positive lenses is not great enough to give ample power unless the combination is several feet from the plate. With my own attachment, eight inches from the plate the image is equal to that formed by an ordinary lens of twenty-four inches focus; while at twenty-four inches from the plate it is equivalent to that of a lens of sixty-four inches focus.

The camera used in making the accompanying illustrations takes a plate measuring four by five inches, and the bed allows an extension of twenty-four; and when closed for transportation the box measures seven by seven by six-and-a-half inches.

Of all my experiences in photography none were so unsatisfactory as my attempts on mountain scenery with an ordinary lens. This was especially true of the photographs of the Alps made while tramping through that heavenly tramping ground, Switzerland. The small camera made the mountains look like little humps of rocks and snow, and all the views made from a great elevation seemed to be like photographs of the waves of the ocean, smoothed out flat. These results caused me to experiment in the direction of telescopic work with the camera.

It is often the case that grand mountains appear at their best only from some point so distant that the ordinary lens can produce little or nothing of the desired effect.

One of the most charming views in Switzerland is the evening view of the Jungfrau as seen from the Höheweg or promenade at Interlaken, about sixteen miles from the mountain. With her robes of dazzling white she rises majestically above the Lauterbrunnen Thal to a height of nearly fourteen thousand feet. Upon several former occasions I had endeavored to photograph this queen of the Bernese Oberland, but did not succeed until I used the telephoto attachment.The two illustrations of this view [pp.462-63] were made from the same standpoint on the Hoheweg, one with the ordinary lens, the other with the telephoto attachment added to the lens, no change being made in the camera at all. It is a pleasure to note the wonderful detail in the telephotograph, and not only that, the mountain seems to rise, giving the impression of abruptness which rarely if ever is obtained with an ordinary lens. I suppose something of this result might have been obtained with the ordinary lens had I been up in a balloon at an elevation of about four thousand feet and about three miles from the Jungfrau. The pictures of this mountain taken from the Wengern Alp do not give this beautiful effect.

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