THE TWO GLASSES

ELLA WHEELER WILCOXELLA WHEELER WILCOX

The following poems of Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox are reprinted here by permission of the publishers from her copyrighted books, of which W. B. Conkey Co., Chicago, are the exclusive American publishers.

There sat two glasses filled to the brim,On a rich man's table, rim to rim.One was ruddy and red as blood,And one was clear as the crystal flood.Said the glass of wine to his paler brother:"Let us tell tales of the past to each other.I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth,Where I was king, for I ruled in might;For the proudest and grandest souls on earthFell under my touch, as though struck with blight.From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.I have blasted many an honored name;I have taken virtue and given shame;I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,That has made his future a barren waste.Far greater than any king am IOr than any army beneath the sky.I have made the arm of the driver fail,And sent the train from the iron rail.I have made good ships go down at sea,And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall;And my might and power are over all!Ho, ho! pale brother," said the wine,"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"Said the water glass; "I can not boastOf a king dethroned, or a murdered host,But I can tell of hearts that were sadBy my crystal drops made bright and glad;Of thirst I have quenched, and brows I have laved;Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.I have leaped through the valley, and dashed down the mountain,Slept in the sunshine and dripped from the fountain.I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,And everywhere gladdened the prospects and eye;I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,That ground out the flour, and turned at my will,I can tell of manhood debased by you,That I have uplifted and crowned anew.I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;I gladden the hearts of man and maid;I set the wine-chained captive free,And all are better for knowing me."These are the tales they told each other,The glass of wine and its paler brother,As they sat together, filled to the brim,On a rich man's table rim to rim.

Said the water glass; "I can not boastOf a king dethroned, or a murdered host,But I can tell of hearts that were sadBy my crystal drops made bright and glad;Of thirst I have quenched, and brows I have laved;Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.I have leaped through the valley, and dashed down the mountain,Slept in the sunshine and dripped from the fountain.I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky,And everywhere gladdened the prospects and eye;I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,That ground out the flour, and turned at my will,I can tell of manhood debased by you,That I have uplifted and crowned anew.I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;I gladden the hearts of man and maid;I set the wine-chained captive free,And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other,The glass of wine and its paler brother,As they sat together, filled to the brim,On a rich man's table rim to rim.

In the dawn of the day when the sea and the earthReflected the sun-rise above,I set forth with a heart full of courage and mirthTo seek for the Kingdom of Love.I asked of a poet I met on the wayWhich cross-road would lead me aright.And he said: "Follow me, and ere long you shall seeIts glittering turrets of light."And soon in the distance the city shone fair."Look yonder," he said; "how it gleams!"But alas! for the hopes that were doomed to despair,It was only the "Kingdom of Dreams."Then the next man I asked was a gay cavalier,And he said: "Follow me, follow me;"And with laughter and song we went speeding alongBy the shores of Life's beautiful sea.Then we came to a valley more tropical farThan the wonderful vale of Cashmere,And I saw from a bower a face like a flowerSmile out on the gay cavalier.And he said: "We have come to humanity's goal:Here love and delight are intense."But alas and alas! for the hopes of my soul—It was only the "Kingdom of Sense."As I journeyed more slowly I met on the roadA coach with retainers behind.And they said: "Follow me, for our lady's abodeBelongs in that realm, you will find."'Twas a grand dame of fashion, a newly-made bride,I followed encouraged and bold;But my hopes died away like the last gleams of day,For we came to the "Kingdom of Gold."At the door of a cottage I asked a fair maid."I have heard of that realm," she replied;"But my feet never roam from the 'Kingdom of Home,'So I know not the way," and she sighed.I looked on the cottage; how restful it seemed!And the maid was as fair as a dove.Great light glorified my soul as I cried:"Why, home is the 'Kingdom of Love.'"

And soon in the distance the city shone fair."Look yonder," he said; "how it gleams!"But alas! for the hopes that were doomed to despair,It was only the "Kingdom of Dreams."Then the next man I asked was a gay cavalier,And he said: "Follow me, follow me;"And with laughter and song we went speeding alongBy the shores of Life's beautiful sea.

Then we came to a valley more tropical farThan the wonderful vale of Cashmere,And I saw from a bower a face like a flowerSmile out on the gay cavalier.And he said: "We have come to humanity's goal:Here love and delight are intense."But alas and alas! for the hopes of my soul—It was only the "Kingdom of Sense."

As I journeyed more slowly I met on the roadA coach with retainers behind.And they said: "Follow me, for our lady's abodeBelongs in that realm, you will find."'Twas a grand dame of fashion, a newly-made bride,I followed encouraged and bold;But my hopes died away like the last gleams of day,For we came to the "Kingdom of Gold."

At the door of a cottage I asked a fair maid."I have heard of that realm," she replied;"But my feet never roam from the 'Kingdom of Home,'So I know not the way," and she sighed.I looked on the cottage; how restful it seemed!And the maid was as fair as a dove.Great light glorified my soul as I cried:"Why, home is the 'Kingdom of Love.'"

Under the snow in the dark and the cold,A pale little sprout was humming;Sweetly it sang, 'neath the frozen mold,Of the beautiful days that were coming."How foolish your songs," said a lump of clay,"What is there," it asked, "to prove them?""Just look at the walls between you and the day,Now have you the strength to move them?"But under the ice and under the snow,The pale little sprout kept singing,"I cannot tell how, but I know, I know,I know what the days are bringing."Birds and blossoms and buzzing bees,Blue, blue skies above me,Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees,And the great glad sun to love me."A pebble spoke next. "You are quite absurd,"It said, "with your songs' insistence;For I never saw a tree or a bird,So of course there are none in existence.""But I know, I know," the tendril criedIn beautiful sweet unreason;Till lo! from its prison, glorified,It burst in the glad spring season.

Under the snow in the dark and the cold,A pale little sprout was humming;Sweetly it sang, 'neath the frozen mold,Of the beautiful days that were coming.

"How foolish your songs," said a lump of clay,"What is there," it asked, "to prove them?""Just look at the walls between you and the day,Now have you the strength to move them?"

But under the ice and under the snow,The pale little sprout kept singing,"I cannot tell how, but I know, I know,I know what the days are bringing.

"Birds and blossoms and buzzing bees,Blue, blue skies above me,Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees,And the great glad sun to love me."

A pebble spoke next. "You are quite absurd,"It said, "with your songs' insistence;For I never saw a tree or a bird,So of course there are none in existence."

"But I know, I know," the tendril criedIn beautiful sweet unreason;Till lo! from its prison, glorified,It burst in the glad spring season.

Of all the blessings which my life has known,I value most, and most praise God for three:Want, Loneliness, and Pain, those comrades true,Who masqueraded in the garb of foesFor many a year, and filled my heart with dread.Yet fickle joy, like false, pretentious friends,Has proved less worthy than this trio. First,Want taught me labor, led me up the steepAnd toilsome paths to hills of pure delight,Trod only by the feet that know fatigue,And yet press on until the heights appear.Then Loneliness and hunger of the heartSent me upreaching to the realms of space,Till all the silences grew eloquent,And all their loving forces hailed me friend.Last, Pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staffOf close communion with the over-soul,That I might lean upon it to the end,And find myself made strong for any strife.And then these three who had pursued my stepsLike stern, relentless foes, year after year,Unmasked, and turned their faces full on me.And lo! they were divinely beautiful,For through them shown the lustrous eyes of Love.

Of all the blessings which my life has known,I value most, and most praise God for three:Want, Loneliness, and Pain, those comrades true,

Who masqueraded in the garb of foesFor many a year, and filled my heart with dread.Yet fickle joy, like false, pretentious friends,Has proved less worthy than this trio. First,

Want taught me labor, led me up the steepAnd toilsome paths to hills of pure delight,Trod only by the feet that know fatigue,And yet press on until the heights appear.

Then Loneliness and hunger of the heartSent me upreaching to the realms of space,Till all the silences grew eloquent,And all their loving forces hailed me friend.

Last, Pain taught prayer! placed in my hand the staffOf close communion with the over-soul,That I might lean upon it to the end,And find myself made strong for any strife.

And then these three who had pursued my stepsLike stern, relentless foes, year after year,Unmasked, and turned their faces full on me.And lo! they were divinely beautiful,For through them shown the lustrous eyes of Love.

If all the end of this continuous strivingWere simply to attain,How poor would seem the planning and contriving,The endless urging and the hurried drivingOf body, heart and brain!But ever in the wake of true achieving,There shines this glowing trail—Some other soul will be spurred on, conceivingNew strength and hope, in its own power believing,Because thou didst not fail.Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow,If thou dost miss the goal;Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrowFrom thee their weakness or their force shall borrow—On, on! ambitious soul.

If all the end of this continuous strivingWere simply to attain,How poor would seem the planning and contriving,The endless urging and the hurried drivingOf body, heart and brain!

But ever in the wake of true achieving,There shines this glowing trail—Some other soul will be spurred on, conceivingNew strength and hope, in its own power believing,Because thou didst not fail.

Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow,If thou dost miss the goal;Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrowFrom thee their weakness or their force shall borrow—On, on! ambitious soul.

Let me today do something that shall takeA little sadness from the world's vast store,And may I be so favored as to makeOf joy's too scanty sum a little more.Let me not hurt, by any selfish deedOr thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend;Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need,Or sin by silence when I should defend.However meagre be my worldly wealthLet me give something that shall aid my kind,A word of courage, or a thought of help,Dropped as I pass for troubled hearts to find.Let me tonight look back across the span'Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience sayBecause of some good act to beast or man—"The world is better that I lived today."

I know not whence I came,I know not whither I go;But the fact stands clear that I am hereIn this world of pleasure and woe.And out of the mist and murkAnother truth shines plain:It is my power each day and hourTo add to its joy or its pain.I know that the earth exists,It is none of my business why;I cannot find out what it's all about,I would but waste time to try.My life is a brief, brief thing,I am here for a little space,And while I stay I should like, if I may,To brighten and better the place.The trouble, I think, with us allIs the lack of a high conceit.If each man thought he was sent to this spotTo make it a bit more sweet,How soon we could gladden the world,How easily right all wrong,If nobody shirked, and each one workedTo help his fellows along.Cease wondering why you came—Stop looking for faults and flaws,Rise up today in your pride and say,"I am a part of the First Great Cause!However full the world,There is room for an earnest man.It had need of me or I would not be—I am here to strengthen the plan."

I know that the earth exists,It is none of my business why;I cannot find out what it's all about,I would but waste time to try.My life is a brief, brief thing,I am here for a little space,And while I stay I should like, if I may,To brighten and better the place.

The trouble, I think, with us allIs the lack of a high conceit.If each man thought he was sent to this spotTo make it a bit more sweet,How soon we could gladden the world,How easily right all wrong,If nobody shirked, and each one workedTo help his fellows along.

Cease wondering why you came—Stop looking for faults and flaws,Rise up today in your pride and say,"I am a part of the First Great Cause!However full the world,There is room for an earnest man.It had need of me or I would not be—I am here to strengthen the plan."

There are two kinds of people on earth today;Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.Not the sinner and saint, for 'tis well understood,The good are half bad, and the bad are half good.Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,You must first know the state of his conscience and health.Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying yearsBring each man his laughter and each man his tears.No; the kinds of people on earth I mean,Are the people who lift and the people who lean.Wherever you go, you will find the earth's massesAre always divided in just these two classes.And, oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.In which class are you? Are you easing the loadOf overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?Or are you a leaner, who lets others shareYour portion of labor, and worry andcare?

There are two kinds of people on earth today;Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.

Not the sinner and saint, for 'tis well understood,The good are half bad, and the bad are half good.

Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,You must first know the state of his conscience and health.

Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.

Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying yearsBring each man his laughter and each man his tears.

No; the kinds of people on earth I mean,Are the people who lift and the people who lean.

Wherever you go, you will find the earth's massesAre always divided in just these two classes.

And, oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.

In which class are you? Are you easing the loadOf overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?

Or are you a leaner, who lets others shareYour portion of labor, and worry andcare?

Ray Stannard Baker was born in 1870 at Lansing, Michigan, and came to St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin, with his parents at the age of five. Here he spent his boyhood and youth. He returned to the Agricultural College of his native state for study, and received his degree from that institution, afterwards attending the University for a short time. He then went into business with his father at St. Croix Falls, but the desire to write was strong upon him, and he began his career of authorship. During recent years his residence has been in Amherst, Massachusetts, but he visits Wisconsin every summer. He is one of the state's most voluminous writers. He has the habit of keen and sympathetic observation, and this quality, when combined, as it has been in his case, with extensive and judicious travel and reading, usually results in a considerable literary output. Those of us who have read Mr. Baker's magazine articles and books feel that the writer has seen a great many things,—that he has seen them with his own eyes, and that he has seen them intelligently. Aside from the fact that nearly all of his works grow rather from observation of men and things than from a study of philosophy or metaphysics, Mr. Baker's range of interest has been exceedingly wide. Perhaps he is best known as a writer on social, political, and economic subjects, but the selections given here from "The Boys' Book of Inventions," (I and II), indicate a field of interest that is entirely apart from politics.The editors feel bound, in justice to Mr. Baker, to say that he feared that our readers would think that we had erred in choosing the accounts of inventions which have progressed so immeasurably since his articles were written. The editors, on the other hand, desired to do precisely the thing that Mr. Baker feared to have them do. They desire to show what a keen, well-trained observer saw in these inventions, which now play so vital a part in our lives, when the inventions were new. Further, it is our desire that the name of Professor Langley, of Washington, D. C., should be properly honored in connection with the advance of the science of aviation. Indeed, but recently, when tried by an experienced aviator, his machine flew successfully. Professor Langley died as an indirect result of his untiring, unselfish, and heroic efforts in this then newcause. In spite of ridicule and contempt, in spite of lack of support, he went courageously ahead; and it is right that the boys of Wisconsin should know that a young man of their state has given due credit in his book to this heroic soul.

The editors feel bound, in justice to Mr. Baker, to say that he feared that our readers would think that we had erred in choosing the accounts of inventions which have progressed so immeasurably since his articles were written. The editors, on the other hand, desired to do precisely the thing that Mr. Baker feared to have them do. They desire to show what a keen, well-trained observer saw in these inventions, which now play so vital a part in our lives, when the inventions were new. Further, it is our desire that the name of Professor Langley, of Washington, D. C., should be properly honored in connection with the advance of the science of aviation. Indeed, but recently, when tried by an experienced aviator, his machine flew successfully. Professor Langley died as an indirect result of his untiring, unselfish, and heroic efforts in this then newcause. In spite of ridicule and contempt, in spite of lack of support, he went courageously ahead; and it is right that the boys of Wisconsin should know that a young man of their state has given due credit in his book to this heroic soul.

RAY STANNARD BAKERRAY STANNARD BAKER

From "THE BOYS' BOOK OF INVENTIONS," Chapter IX, by Ray Stannard Baker.Copyright, 1899, by Doubleday, Page & Co.

Probably no American inventor of flying machines is better known or has been more successful in his experiments than Professor S. P. Langley, the distinguished secretary of the Smithsonian Institution at Washington. Professor Langley has built a machine with wings, driven by a steam-engine, and wholly without gas or other lifting power beyond its own internal energy. And this machine, to which has been given the name Aerodrome (air-runner), actually flies for considerable distances. So successful were Professor Langley's early tests, that the United States Government recently made a considerable appropriation to enable him to carry forward his experiments in the hope of finally securing a practical flying machine. His work is, therefore, the most significant and important of any now before the public (1899).

The invention of the aerodrome was the result of long years of persevering and exacting labor, with so many disappointments and set-backs that one cannot help admiring the astonishing patience which kept hope alive to the end. Early in his experiments, Professor Langley had proved positively, by mathematical calculations, that a machine could be made to fly, provided its structure were light enough and the actuating power great enough. Therefore, he was not in pursuit of a mere will-o'-the-wisp. It was a mechanical difficulty which he had to surmount, and he surmounted it.

Professor Langley made his first experiments more than twelve years ago at Allegheny, Pennsylvania.... Professor Langley formed the general conclusion that by simply moving any given weight in plate form fast enough in a horizontal path through the air it was possible to sustain it with very little power. It was proved that, if horizontal flight without friction could be insured, 200 pounds of plates could be moved through the air and sustained upon it at the speed of an express train, with the expenditure of only one horse-power, and that, of course, without using any gas to lighten the weight.

Every boy who has skated knows that when the ice is very thin he must skate rapidly, else he may break through. In the same way, a stone may be skipped over the water for considerable distances. If it stops in any one place it sinks instantly. In exactly the same way, the plate of brass, if left in any one place in the air, would instantly drop to the earth; but if driven swiftly forward in a horizontal direction it rests only an instant in any particular place, and the air under it at any single moment does not have time to give way, so to speak, before it has passed over a new area of air. In fact, Professor Langley came to the conclusion that flight was theoretically possible with engines he could then build, since he was satisfied that engines could be constructed to weigh less than twenty pounds to the horse-power, and that one horse-power would support two hundred pounds if the flight was horizontal.

That was the beginning of the aerodrome. Professor Langley had worked out its theory, and now came the much more difficult task of building a machine in which theory should take form in fact. In the first place, there was the vast problem of getting an engine light enoughto do the work. A few years ago an engine that developed one horse-power weighed nearly as much as an actual horse. Professor Langley wished to make one weighing only twenty pounds, a feat never before accomplished. And then, having made his engine, how was he to apply the power to obtain horizontal speed? Should it be by flapping wings like a bird, or by a screw propeller like a ship? This question led him into a close study of the bird compared with the man. He found how wonderfully the two were alike in bony formation, how curiously the skeleton of a bird's wing was like a man's arm, and yet he finally decided that flapping wings would not make the best propeller for his machine. Men have not adopted machinery legs for swift locomotion, although legs are nature's models, but they have, rather, constructed wheels—contrivances which practically do not exist in nature. Therefore, while Professor Langley admits that successful flying machines may one day be made with flapping wings, he began his experiments with the screw propeller.

There were three great problems in building the flying machine. First, an engine and boilers light enough and at the same time of sufficient power. Second, a structure which should be rigid and very light. Third, the enormously difficult problem of properly balancing the machine, which, Professor Langley says, took years to solve....

Professor Langley established an experimental station in the Potomac River, some miles below Washington. An old scow was obtained, and a platform about twenty feet high was built on top of it. To this spot, in 1893, the machine was taken, and here failure followed failure; the machine would not fly properly, and yet every failure,costly as it might be in time and money, brought some additional experience. Professor Langley found out that the aerodrome must begin to fly against the wind, just in the opposite way from a ship. He found that he must get up full speed in his engine before the machine was allowed to go, in the same way that a soaring bird must make an initial run on the ground before it can mount into the air, and this was, for various reasons, a difficult problem. And then there was the balancing.

"If the reader will look at the hawk or any soaring bird," says Professor Langley, "he will see that as it sails through the air without flapping the wing, there are hardly two consecutive seconds of its flight in which it is not swaying a little from side to side, lifting one wing or the other, or turning in a way that suggests an acrobat on a tight-rope, only that the bird uses its widely outstretched wings in place of the pole."

It must be remembered that air currents, unlike the Gulf Stream, do not flow steadily in one direction. They are forever changing and shifting, now fast, now slow, with something of the commotion and restlessness of the rapids below Niagara.

All of these things Professor Langley had to meet as a part of the difficult balancing problem, and it is hardly surprising that nearly three years passed before the machine was actually made to fly—on March 6, 1896.

"I had journeyed, perhaps for the twentieth time," says Professor Langley, "to the distant river station, and recommenced the weary routine of another launch, with very moderate expectation indeed; and when, on that, to me, memorable afternoon the signal was given and the aerodrome sprang into the air, I watched it from the shore with hardly a hope that the long series of accidentshad come to a close. And yet it had, and for the first time the aerodrome swept continuously through the air like a living thing, and as second after second passed on the face of the stop-watch, until a minute had gone by, and it still flew on, and as I heard the cheering of the few spectators, I felt that something had been accomplished at last; for never in any part of the world, or in any period, had any machine of man's construction sustained itself in the air before for even half of this brief time. Still the aerodrome went on in a rising course until, at the end of a minute and a half (for which time only it was provided with fuel and water), it had accomplished a little over half a mile, and now it settled, rather than fell, into the river, with a gentle descent. It was immediately taken out and flown again with equal success, nor was there anything to indicate that it might not have flown indefinitely, except for the limit put upon it."

From "SECOND BOOK OF INVENTIONS," Chapter VII, by Ray Stannard Baker.Copyright, 1903, by Doubleday, Page & Co.

At noon on Thursday (December 12, 1901), Marconi sat waiting, a telephone receiver at his ear, in a room of the old barracks on Signal Hill. To him it must have been a moment of painful stress and expectation. Arranged on the table before him, all its parts within easy reach of his hand, was the delicate receiving instrument, the supreme product of years of the inventor's life, now to be submitted to a decisive test. A wire ran out through the window, thence to a pole, thence upward to the kite which could be seen swaying high overhead. It was a bluff, raw day; at the base of the cliff 300 feet belowthundered a cold sea; oceanward through the mist rose dimly the rude outlines of Cape Spear, the easternmost reach of the North American Continent. Beyond that rolled the unbroken ocean, nearly 2,000 miles to the coast of the British Isles. Across the harbor the city of St. John's lay on its hillside wrapped in fog; no one had taken enough interest in the experiments to come up here through the snow to Signal Hill. Even the ubiquitous reporter was absent. In Cabot Tower, near at hand, the old signalman stood looking out to sea, watching for ships, and little dreaming of the mysterious messages coming that way from England. Standing on that bleak hill and gazing out over the waste of water to the eastward, one finds it difficult indeed to realize that this wonder could have become a reality. The faith of the inventor in his creation, in the kite-wire, and in the instruments which had grown under his hand, was unshaken.

"I believed from the first," he told me, "that I would be successful in getting signals across the Atlantic."

Only two persons were present that Thursday afternoon in the room where the instruments were set up—Mr. Marconi and Mr. Kemp. Everything had been done that could be done. The receiving apparatus was of unusual sensitiveness, so that it would catch even the faintest evidence of the signals. A telephone receiver, which is no part of the ordinary instrument, had been supplied, so that the slightest clicking of the dots might be conveyed to the inventor's ear. For nearly half an hour not a sound broke the silence of the room. Then quite suddenly Mr. Kemp heard the sharp click of the tapper as it struck against the coherer; this, of course, was not the signal, yet it was an indication that somethingwas coming. The inventor's face showed no evidence of excitement. Presently he said:

"See if you can hear anything, Kemp."

Mr. Kemp took the receiver, and a moment later, faintly and yet distinctly and unmistakably, came three little clicks—the dots of the letter S, tapped out an instant before in England. At ten minutes past one, more signals came, and both Mr. Marconi and Mr. Kemp assured themselves again and again that there could be no mistake. During this time the kite gyrated so wildly in the air that the receiving wire was not maintained at the same height, as it should have been; but again, at twenty minutes after two, other repetitions of the signal were received. Thus the problem was solved. One of the great wonders of science had been wrought.

By Ray Stannard Baker, McClure's Magazine, VOL XIX. p. 152.Copyright, 1902, by S. S. McClure Company.

... Little groups of people were drifting by to the grand stand. Here and there, from the corner of his eye, as he bent to adjust the saddle-cinches, Turk McGlory caught the glint of a white skirt or of a flowing ribbon. Sometimes the girls stopped to discuss the contestants; he heard them talking of Bud Oliver, and Mason, and Buster Graham. Suddenly, as he tightened a latigo strap, a saucy, smiling face looked up at him. Her sister was evidently trying to pull her away, but she said, half teasingly:

"I'm wearing your colors, Mr. Texas. You must win."

He saw nothing but deep black eyes, and he felt the blood in his face. He couldn't have spoken if he hadknown that it was to save his life, and he knew that he was smiling foolishly....

"We're betting on you, Bud Oliver," came other shouts. The Texas men were not over-popular in Arizona, and yet it was a sportsmanlike crowd.

The babel of voices ceased sharply. A wiry little steer, red and white, shot into the field as if catapulted. Turk McGlory observed how like an antelope it ran—long-legged and as easily as the wind blows. The flag fell, and Bud was off; the judges riding after him were blurred in his dust. There was no roper like Bud. He waited long before raising his rope, bending close to his saddle and riding hard; then in what curious, loose, slow coils he swung it! Would he ride clean over his steer? There! he had reached out as if to catch the steer by the tail, and the rope had gone over his head like a hoop, horns and all. Now he was paying out to trip up the steer. How they were running! Turk McGlory rose suddenly in his saddle.

"Look out for the fence," he roared.

But Bud had seen it, too, and the little roan squatted like a rabbit. The steer, reaching the rope's end, doubled up and fell—but fell against the fence. There had not been quite room enough. Bud was off saddle, and the little roan, knowing well what was going on, walked away like a man, pulling hard on the rope to keep the steer down. If it had been a larger steer or a fatter one, there would have been no trouble; but this one fought like a cat, now on its knees, now on its feet. Bud seized it by the tail, and with a single fierce toss he laid it flat, then he tied—and arms up. Turk McGlory waited with hands clenched to hear the time.

"Fifty seconds."

So Bud was beaten by a second, and beaten because he didn't have a fair field. How the crowd howled for the Arizona champion. Bud came up smiling and unconcerned.

"Now, McGlory," he said, "you must make a showing for Texas."

"What am I offered on Turk McGlory against the field?" shouted the pool-seller. "Now's your last chance."

"Hurrah for the kid from Texas!" shouted other voices.

Turk McGlory was at the line, astonished to find himself coiling his rope with so much ease. He felt that he wasn't doing it himself, but that some one else was working in him. The sun blazed hot on the field, but everything seemed dim and indistinct. To him all the voices kept shouting:

"Turk McGlory, Turk McGlory, Turk McGlory."

"Hurrah for Texas and the calico horse," came a shout from the grand stand.

"Wait till they see you run, Pinto," Turk said between his teeth, and the pinto stirred nervously under him.

"Ready," called Turk McGlory, though not in Turk McGlory's voice. He gave one glance behind him. The grand stand was a picture of a girl in blue and white; she was the picture, all the rest was frame.

There was a clatter at the pen, and the steer shot past him. Instantly he saw all its points—horns, legs, tail—and they spoke to him with the meaning of familiarity. So might the old knight have looked for the points of his adversary's armour. Now that he was off, Turk'shead cleared to his work. The steer ran with hind feet swinging sideways, hog-like. He remembered a steer in the Lazy A outfit that had the same habit, and a bad one it was, too. How strange that he should think of such things at such a time! The steer was swerving swiftly to the left. The pinto, nose forward and dilating, instantly slackened pace, swerving in the same direction and cutting off distance. It was much to have a horse, pinto though he be, that knew his business. Turk's rope began to swing, but he was wholly unconscious of it. He seemed now to see only the legless body of a steer swimming on a billow of dust. The fence! He saw it with a throb, and he was yet too far off to throw. And there was the grand stand above it, the men rising, half in terror, and a color of women. The steer had swung almost round. It was a low rail fence, and between it and the grand stand lay the racing track. Dimly McGlory heard shouts of warning. Would the steer plunge into the stand? Dimly, too, glancing back, he saw the other cow-men charging after him to the rescue. There was a crash; the steer had gone through the fence as if it were pasteboard, and the pinto was now close behind. There was all too little room here in the track. The steer would evidently plunge full into the crowd. Turk McGlory's arm shot forward and the rope sped. The pinto sat sharply back, throwing McGlory well over the pommel. To those in the grand stand it seemed as if the steer, all horns and eyes, was plucked out of their faces. When they looked again, McGlory was tying, and the judges and the other punchers were swarming through the gap in the fence. Hands up; and the pinto easing away on the rope! It was all lost, McGlory felt. The fence had been in the way. Why couldn't they provide an openfield, as in Texas? These Arizona men couldn't conduct a contest. The timer lifted his hand, and the shouting stopped.

"Thirty-six seconds," he announced.

"What a fool of a timer," thought Turk McGlory. "It can't be so."

Then he saw Bud Oliver stride up with outstretched hand, and a lump came in his throat.

"Good boy!" said Bud. "You've saved the day for Texas."

And then the crowd pounced on him and hooted and shouted, "McGlory! McGlory!" until he was dizzy with it all. It was not as he thought it would be. Two hundred dollars won! And he, Turk McGlory!

And then a saucy, flushed face looking up at him.

"I knew you would do it, Mr. Texas," she said.

And with that she pinned a blue and white ribbon on his vest, and he looked off over her head, and trembled.

Surprised as many of our readers will no doubt be to find how wide has been the field of interest covered by Mr. Baker under his own name, the surprise of most of them will be still keener when they know that the delightful pastoral sketches in prose which have appeared in our magazines from time to time under the name of "David Grayson," are all written by this same young son of Wisconsin. Who would have thought that the author of "Adventures in Contentment," "Adventures in Friendship," "The Friendly Road," and the novel called "Hempfield," was the same as the frequently truculent writer of social and political exposures?One likes Mr. Baker better knowing this fact. One sees that his interests and ideals are wide, tolerant, and kindly. The editors of this book are proud to be among the first to introduce David Grayson and Ray Stannard Baker publicly as one and the same man. Mr. Baker has also written under the pen name of Sturgis B. Rand.

One likes Mr. Baker better knowing this fact. One sees that his interests and ideals are wide, tolerant, and kindly. The editors of this book are proud to be among the first to introduce David Grayson and Ray Stannard Baker publicly as one and the same man. Mr. Baker has also written under the pen name of Sturgis B. Rand.

From "ADVENTURES IN CONTENTMENT," Chapter VII, by David Grayson. Doubleday, Page & Co.

An Argument With a Millionaire.

"Let the mighty and greatRoll in splendour and state,I envy them not, I declare it.I eat my own lamb,My own chicken and ham,I shear my own sheep and wear it.I have lawns, I have bowers,I have fruits, I have flowers,The lark is my morning charmer;So you jolly dogs now,Here's God bless the plow—Long life and content to the farmer."

"Let the mighty and greatRoll in splendour and state,I envy them not, I declare it.I eat my own lamb,My own chicken and ham,I shear my own sheep and wear it.

I have lawns, I have bowers,I have fruits, I have flowers,The lark is my morning charmer;So you jolly dogs now,Here's God bless the plow—Long life and content to the farmer."

—Rhyme on an old pitcher of English pottery.

I have been hearing of John Starkweather ever since I came here. He is a most important personage in this community. He is rich. Horace especially loves to talk about him. Give Horace half a chance, whether the subject be pigs or churches, and he will break in somewhere with the remark: "As I was saying to Mr. Starkweather—" or, "Mr. Starkweather says to me—" How we love to shine by reflected glory! Even Harriet has not gone by unscathed; she, too, has been affected by the bacillus of admiration. She has wanted to know several times if I saw John Starkweather drive by: "The finest span of horses in this country," she says, and "did you see his daughter?" Much other information concerning the Starkweather household, culinary and otherwise, is current among our hills. We know accurately the number of Mr. Starkweather's bedrooms, we can tell how much coal he uses in winter and how many tons of ice in summer, and upon such important premises we argue his riches.

Several times I have passed John Starkweather's home. It lies between my farm and the town, though not on the direct road, and it is really beautiful with the groomed and guided beauty possible to wealth. A stately old house with a huge end chimney of red bricks stands with dignity well back from the road; round about lie pleasant lawns that once were cornfields; and there are drives and walks and exotic shrubs. At first, loving my own hills so well, I was puzzled to understand why I should also enjoy Starkweather's groomed surroundings. But it came to me that after all, much as we may love wildness, we are not wild, nor our works. What more artificial than a house, or a barn, or a fence? And the greater and more formal the house, the more formal indeedmust be the nearer natural environments. Perhaps the hand of man might well have been less evident in developing the surroundings of the Starkweather home—for art, dealing with nature, is so often too accomplished!

But I enjoy the Starkweather place and as I look in from the road, I sometimes think to myself with satisfaction: "Here is this rich man who has paid his thousands to make the beauty which I pass and take for nothing—and having taken, leave as much behind." And I wonder sometimes whether he, inside his fences, gets more joy of it than I, who walk the roads outside. Anyway, I am grateful to him for using his riches so much to my advantage.

On fine mornings John Starkweather sometimes comes out in his slippers, bare-headed, his white vest gleaming in the sunshine, and walks slowly around his garden. Charles Baxter says that on these occasions he is asking his gardener the names of the vegetables. However that may be, he has seemed to our community the very incarnation of contentment and prosperity—his position the acme of desirability.

What was my astonishment, then, the other morning to see John Starkweather coming down the pasture lane through my farm. I knew him afar off, though I had never met him. May I express the inexpressible when I say he had a rich look; he walked rich, there was richness in the confident crook of his elbow, and in the positive twitch of the stick he carried: a man accustomed to having doors opened before he knocked. I stood there a moment and looked up the hill at him, and I felt that profound curiosity which every one of us feels every day of his life to know something of the inner impulses which stir his nearest neighbor. I should have liked to know JohnStarkweather; but I thought to myself as I have thought so many times how surely one comes finally to imitate his surroundings. A farmer grows to be a part of his farm; the sawdust on his coat is not the most distinctive insignia of the carpenter; the poet writes his truest lines upon his own countenance. People passing in my road take me to be a part of this natural scene. I suppose I seem to them as a partridge squatting among dry grasses and leaves, so like the grass and leaves as to be invisible. We all come to be marked upon by nature and dismissed—how carelessly!—as genera or species. And is it not the primal struggle of man to escape classification, to form new differentiations?

Sometimes—I confess it—when I see one passing in my road, I feel like hailing him and saying:

"Friend, I am not all farmer. I, too, am a person, I am different and curious. I am full of red blood, I like people, all sorts of people; if you are not interested in me, at least I am intensely interested in you. Come over now and let's talk!"

So we are all of us calling and calling across the incalculable gulfs which separate us even from our nearest friends!

Once or twice this feeling has been so real to me that I've been near to the point of hailing utter strangers—only to be instantly overcome with a sense of the humorous absurdity of such an enterprise. So I laugh it off and I say to myself:

"Steady now: the man is going to town to sell a pig; he is coming back with ten pounds of sugar, five of salt pork, a can of coffee and some new blades for his mowing machine. He hasn't time for talk"—and so I come downwith a bump to my digging, or hoeing, or chopping, or whatever it is.

Here I've left John Starkweather in my pasture while I remark to the extent of a page or two that I didn't expect him to see me when he went by.

I assumed that he was out for a walk, perhaps to enliven a worn appetite (do you know, confidentially, I've had some pleasure in times past in reflecting upon the jaded appetites of millionaires!), and that he would pass out by my lane to the country road; but, instead of that, what should he do but climb the yard fence and walk over toward the barn where I was at work.

Perhaps I was not consumed with excitement: here was fresh adventure!

"A farmer," I said to myself with exultation, "has only to wait long enough and all the world comes his way."

I had just begun to grease my farm wagon and was experiencing some difficulty in lifting and steadying the heavy rear axle while I took off the wheel. I kept busily at work, pretending (such is the perversity of the human mind) that I did not see Mr. Starkweather. He stood for a moment watching me; then he said:

"Good morning, sir."

I looked up and said: "Oh, good morning!"

"Nice little farm you have here."

"It's enough for me," I replied. I did not especially like the "little." One is human.

Then I had an absurd inspiration: he stood there so trim and jaunty and prosperous. So rich! I had a good look at him. He was dressed in a woolen jacket coat, knee-trousers and leggings; on his head he wore a jaunty, cocky little Scotch cap; a man, I should judge, aboutfifty years old, well-fed and hearty in appearance, with grayish hair and a good-humored eye. I acted on my inspiration:

"You've arrived," I said, "at the psychological moment."

"How's that?"

"Take hold here and help me lift this axle and steady it. I'm having a hard time of it."

The look of astonishment in his countenance was beautiful to see.

For a moment failure stared me in the face. His expression said with emphasis: "Perhaps you don't know who I am." But I looked at him with the greatest good feeling and my expression said, or I meant it to say: "To be sure I don't: and what difference does it make, anyway!"

"You take hold here," I said, without waiting for him to catch his breath, "and I'll get hold here. Together we can easily get the wheel off."

Without a word he set his cane against the barn and bent his back; up came the axle and I propped it with a board.

"Now," I said, "you hang on there and steady it while I get the wheel off"—though, indeed, it didn't really need much steadying.

As I straightened up, whom should I see but Harriet standing stock still in the pathway half way down to the barn, transfixed with horror. She had recognized John Starkweather and had heard at least part of what I said to him, and the vision of that important man bending his back to help lift the axle of my old wagon was too terrible! She caught my eye and pointed and mouthed.When I smiled and nodded, John Starkweather straightened up and looked around.

"Don't, on your life," I warned, "let go of that axle."

He held on and Harriet turned and retreated ingloriously. John Starkweather's face was a study!

"Did you ever grease a wagon?" I asked him genially.

"Never," he said.

"There's more of an art in it than you think," I said, and, as I worked, I talked to him of the lore of axle-grease and showed him exactly how to put it on—neither too much nor too little, and so that it would distribute itself evenly when the wheel was replaced.

"There's a right way of doing everything," I observed.

"That's so," said John Starkweather, "if I could only get workmen that believed it."

By that time I could see that he was beginning to be interested. I put back the wheel, gave it a light turn and screwed on the nut. He helped me with the other end of the axle with all good humor.

"Perhaps," I said, as engagingly as I knew how, "you'd like to try the art yourself? You take the grease this time and I'll steady the wagon."

"All right," he said, laughing, "I'm in for anything."

He took the grease box and the paddle—less gingerly than I thought he would.

"Is that right?" he demanded, and so he put on the grease. And oh, it was good to see Harriet in the doorway!

"Steady there," I said, "not so much at the end; now put the box down on the reach."

And so together we greased the wagon, talking all the time in the friendliest way. I actually believe that he was having a pretty good time. At least it had the virtue of unexpectedness. He wasn't bored!

When he had finished, we both straightened our backs and looked at each other. There was a twinkle in his eye; then we both laughed. "He's all right," I said to myself. I held up my hands, then he held up his; it was hardly necessary to prove that wagon-greasing was not a delicate operation.

"It's a good, wholesome sign," I said, "but it'll come off. Do you happen to remember a story of Tolstoi's called, 'Ivan the Fool?'"

("What is a farmer doing quoting Tolstoi!" remarked his countenance—though he said not a word.)

"In the kingdom of Ivan, you remember," I said, "it was the rule that whoever had hard places on his hands came to table, but whoever had not must eat what the others left."

Thus I led him up the back steps and poured him a basin of hot water—which I brought myself from the kitchen, Harriet having marvelously and completely disappeared. We both washed our hands, talking with great good humor.

When we had finished I said: "Sit down, friend, if you've time, and let's talk."

So he sat down on one of the logs of my woodpile: a solid sort of man, rather warm after his recent activities. He looked me over with some interest and, I thought, friendliness.

"Why does a man like you," he asked finally, "wastehimself on a little farm back here in the country?"

For a single instant I came nearer to being angry than I have been for a long time.Wastemyself! So we are judged without knowledge. I had a sudden impulse to demolish him (if I could) with the nearest sarcasms I could lay hand to. He was so sure of himself! "Oh, well," I thought, with vainglorious superiority, "he doesn't know." So I said:

"What would you have me be—a millionaire?"

He smiled, but with a sort of sincerity.

"You might be," he said; "who can tell!"

I laughed outright; the humor of it struck me as delicious. Here I had been, ever since I first heard of John Starkweather, rather gloating over him as a poor suffering millionaire (of course millionairesareunhappy), and there he sat, ruddy of face and hearty of body, pityingmefor a poor unfortunate farmer back here in the country! Curious, this human nature of ours, isn't it? But how infinitely beguiling!

So I sat down beside Mr. Starkweather on the log and crossed my legs. I felt as though I had set foot in a new country.

"Would you really advise me," I asked, "to start in to be a millionaire?"

He chuckled: "Well, that's one way of putting it. Hitch your wagon to a star; but begin by making a few dollars more a year than you spend. When I began—"

He stopped short with an amused smile, remembering that I did not know who he was.

"Of course," I said, "I understand that."

"A man must begin small"—he was on pleasant ground—"and anywhere he likes, a few dollars here, a few there. He must work hard, he must save, he must beboth bold and cautious. I know a man who began when he was about your age with total assets of ten dollars and a good digestion. He's now considered a fairly wealthy man. He has a home in the city, a place in the country, and he goes to Europe when he likes. He has so arranged his affairs that young men do most of the work and he draws the dividends—and all in a little more than twenty years. I made every single cent—but, as I said, it's a penny business to start with. The point is, I like to see young men ambitious."

"Ambitious," I asked, "for what?"

"Why, to rise in the world; to get ahead."

"I know you'll pardon me," I said, "for appearing to cross-examine you, but I'm tremendously interested in these things. What do you mean by rising? And who am I to get ahead of?"

He looked at me in astonishment, and with evident impatience at my consummate stupidity.

"I am serious," I said. "I really want to make the best I can of my life. It's the only one I've got."

"See here," he said, "let us say you clear up five hundred a year from this farm—"

"You exaggerate—" I interrupted.

"Do I?" he laughed; "that makes my case all the better. Now, isn't it possible to rise from that? Couldn't you make a thousand or five thousand or even fifty thousand a year?"

It seems an unanswerable argument: fifty thousand dollars!

"I suppose I might," I said, "but do you think I'd be any better off or happier with fifty thousand a year than I am now? You see, I like all these surroundings better than any other place I ever knew. That old greenhill over there with the oak on it is an intimate friend of mine. I have a good corn-field in which every year I work miracles. I've a cow and a horse and a few pigs. I have a comfortable home. My appetite is perfect, and I have plenty of food to gratify it. I sleep every night like a boy, for I haven't a trouble in this world to disturb me. I enjoy the mornings here in the country; and the evenings are pleasant. Some of my neighbors have come to be my good friends. I like them and I am pretty sure they like me. Inside the house there I have the best books ever written and I have time in the evenings to read them—I meanreallyread them. Now the question is, would I be any better off, or any happier, if I had fifty thousand a year?"

John Starkweather laughed.

"Well, sir," he said, "I see I've made the acquaintance of a philosopher."

"Let us say," I continued, "that you are willing to invest twenty years of your life in a million dollars." ("Merely an illustration," said John Starkweather.) "You have it where you can put it in the bank and take it out again, or you can give it form in houses, yachts, and other things. Now twenty years of my life—to me—is worth more than a million dollars. I simply can't afford to sell it for that. I prefer to invest it, as somebody or other has said, unearned in life. I've always had a liking for intangible properties."

"See here," said John Starkweather, "you are taking a narrow view of life. You are making your own pleasure the only standard. Shouldn't a man make the most of the talents given him? Hasn't he a duty to society?"

"Now you are shifting your ground," I said, "from the question of personal satisfaction to that of duty.That concerns me, too. Let me ask you: Isn't it important to society that this piece of earth be plowed and cultivated?"

"Yes, but—"

"Isn't it honest and useful work?"

"Of course."

"Isn't it important that it shall not only be done, but well done?"

"Certainly."

"It takes all there is in a good man," I said, "to be a good farmer."

"But the point is," he argued, "might not the same faculties applied to other things yield better and bigger results?"

"That is a problem, of course," I said. "I tried money-making once—in a city—and I was unsuccessful and unhappy; here I am both successful and happy. I suppose I was one of the young men who did the work while some millionaire drew the dividends." (I was cutting close, and I didn't venture to look at him.) "No doubt he had his houses and yachts and went to Europe when he liked. I know I lived upstairs—back—where there wasn't a tree to be seen, or a spear of green grass, or a hill, or a brook; only smoke and chimneys and littered roofs. Lord be thanked for my escape! Sometimes I think that Success has formed a silent conspiracy against Youth. Success holds up a single glittering apple and bids Youth strip and run for it; and Youth runs and Success still holds the apple."

John Starkweather said nothing.

"Yes," I said, "there are duties. We realize, we farmers, that we must produce more than we ourselvescan eat or wear or burn. We realize that we are the foundation; we connect human life with the earth. We dig and plant and produce, and, having eaten at the first table ourselves, we pass what is left to the bakers and millionaires. Did you ever think, stranger, that most of the wars of the world have been fought for the control of this farmer's second table? Have you thought that the surplus of wheat and corn and cotton is what the railroads are struggling to carry? Upon our surplus run all the factories and mills; a little of it gathered in cash makes a millionaire. But we farmers, we sit back comfortably after dinner, and joke with our wives and play with our babies, and let the rest of you fight for the crumbs that fall from our abundant tables. If once we really cared and got up and shook ourselves, and said to the maid: 'Here, child, don't waste the crusts; gather 'em up and tomorrow we'll have a cottage pudding,' where in the world would all the millionaires be?"

Oh, I tell you, I waxed eloquent. I couldn't let John Starkweather, or any other man, get away with the conviction that a millionaire is better than a farmer. "Moreover," I said, "think of the position of the millionaire. He spends his time playing not with life, but with the symbols of life, whether cash or houses. Any day the symbols may change; a little war may happen along, there may be a defective flue or a western breeze, or even a panic because the farmers aren't scattering as many crumbs as usual (they call it crop failure, but I've noticed that the farmers still continue to have plenty to eat) and then what happens to your millionaire? Not knowing how to produce anything himself, he would starve to death if there were not always, somewhere, a farmer to take him up to the table."

"You're making a strong case," laughed John Starkweather.

"Strong!" I said. "It is simply wonderful what a leverage upon society a few acres of land, a cow, a pig or two, and a span of horses gives a man. I'm ridiculously independent. I'd be the hardest sort of a man to dislodge or crush. I tell you, my friend, a farmer is like an oak, his roots strike deep in the soil, he draws a sufficiency of food from the earth itself, he breathes the free air around him, his thirst is quenched by heaven itself—and there's no tax on sunshine."

I paused for very lack of breath. John Starkweather was laughing.

"When you commiserate me, therefore" ("I'm sure I shall never do it again," said John Starkweather), "when you commiserate me, therefore, and advise me to rise, you must give me really good reasons for changing my occupation and becoming a millionaire. You must prove to me that I can be more independent, more honest, more useful as a millionaire, and that I shall have better and truer friends!"

John Starkweather looked around at me (I knew I had been absurdly eager and I was rather ashamed of myself) and put his hand on my knee (he has a wonderfully fine eye!).

"I don't believe," he said, "you'd have any truer friends."

"Anyway," I said repentantly, "I'll admit that millionaires have their place—at present I wouldn't do entirely away with them, though I do think they'd enjoy farming better. And if I were to select a millionaire for all the best things I know, I should certainly choose you, Mr. Starkweather."

He jumped up.

"You know who I am?" he asked.

I nodded.

"And you knew all the time?"

I nodded.

"Well, you're a good one!"

We both laughed and fell to talking with the greatest friendliness. I led him down my garden to show him my prize pie-plant, of which I am enormously proud, and I pulled for him some of the finest stalks I could find.

"Take it home," I said, "it makes the best pies of any pie-plant in this country."

He took it under his arm.

"I want you to come over and see me the first chance you get," he said. "I'm going to prove to you by physical demonstration that it's better sport to be a millionaire than a farmer—not that I am a millionaire; I'm only accepting the reputation you give me."

So I walked with him down to the lane.

"Let me know when you grease up again," he said, "and I'll come over."

So we shook hands; and he set off sturdily down the road with the pie-plant leaves waving cheerfully over his shoulder.

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