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railway, rates, differential rates, wharfage, steamboat facilities, crops—everything from apples to cotton-mills. Back of that Cham-. ber of Commerce there was one man as active as any man. He was :an alert, blueeyed little individual who never wore an overcoat and who went about'the streets with a twinkle behind his spectacles and a hand surreptitiously snatching from right coat pocket to mouth a supply of raisins.

Raisins are Charles M. Cpx's dissipation. He eats raisins when he is nervous; he eats raisins when he is about ,to make a speech; he eats raisins,before meals and after meals, for breakfast and at bedtime. He does not smoke; he does, not drink. He goes blithely along his busy way with a smile on his face and his hand in his right coat pocket. . One found him, and still.finds hifh, entertaining at the City Club. . One finds him in conference with Louis D. Brandeis. and-other members of the Public Franchise, League doing big things for Boston and New. England; aiding* for instance, the.Consolidated Gas Company to adopt a sliding, scale whereby it is allowed to increase its. dividend in the measure that it decreases its price'for gas. Gas isn't a dol- • lar in Boston now—it .is eighty cents, and the Company is paying a nine,per cent dividend; it is getting richer; the consumers are getting gladder.. ;

In Melrose Highlands,.a little suburb at the edge of Boston, one asks the station- . master if he knows Charles' M. Cox. The station-master takes his pipe from his mouth and wags his thumb over his shoulder at a house high up on a crag. •

"Charles M. Cox," he says, " is the first citizen of Melrose Highlands. I guess I do know Charles M. Cox 1 Good Lord, he's State Senator now 1"

Everybody in Melrose Highlands knows Charles M. Cox. He built a swimming-pool for the kiddies; he supplied the ground for a playfield; he's the friend of every native from Geraldine Farrar to the station-agent. He eats raisins, drives about in his automobile, makes friends. He doesn't champion raisin-eating; but he is opposed to whiskydrinking. He admits that raisins have not "made" him; he insists that, if all intoxicants were abolished, more employers would understand more employees.

"Hard work and poverty make men drink," he says, earnestly, "and I don't much blame them ; but. just the same, the fact that they do drink holds them back, and it's

a great big factor—a rock in the stream of co-operation. . ■"-«.>'

"Co-operation, isn't charity," he goes on. "You've got to feel the joy of being friends with your employees". The employer-who's with them in spirit has no trouble; -but'-flfc proud employer who look's down on his men will catch it if he doesn't watch out, even hVhe pays the best wages in the world. Co-operation is the remedy for our industrial ills, and co-operation carries with it/. honest'' goodfellowship. It's a poor system of civilization anyway wherein a person; born rich "-coffceives himself superior to jthe oner,jvfap works; we've got to reverse that—we ought to reverse it—and consider the worker HllNf above the unworker." ,. 1 ?jm

Every day into New England cornsfr a train-load of grain consigned to the co-operative company of Charles M. Cox. But one would not think, to go boundingvovem the hills with him in the Co-operative Corporation touring car, that Charles M. Cox is president of three or four corporations, one of thera<tiie biggest of its kind east of the Erie. He chats about the . sunsets; he- suggests that he saw the day before a landscape by Tarhellwatha tree larger ten feet from the. base _fhaa_at the base. "Strange," he- suggests,-"»«jt not?" He side-steps talk about,Cox. He is a very modest corporation president. • < He is a very modest Senator. He does "riot say anything about having taken his co-workers and helped them all he could. He would rather talk about the peculiar shade of azure beyond the pines that climb the opposite hillside; he would rather snatch at a note-book and show skillfully how to " get " the br of a pine bough on canvas.

He is fifty-four years old; he is as young as he feels, as young as he looks, good deal younger than he thinks looks. At his Ipswich camp he wiggle canoe paddle skillfully. He suggests thai it would be good fun to shoot the flimsy canoe over the sluiceway of the dam; he strips off his clothes and hops, like a big bulltrog, into clear water. Then he goes tramping: '0e tramps like Rudyard Kipling up and down the dusty roads and chats all the way Bke' David Grayson himself. ■ -->

If there is an undistinguished citizen in Boston who has been a> constructive social worker, who has doctored and directed and fostered all the good that there is in his corporation family, who has done his share for his community and town and State, that




1 This business teacher had suddenly harvested a group of revolutionary business ideas. . . . He is fifty-four years old; he is aa young as he feels, as young as he looks, and a good deal younger than he thinks he looks. . . . Efficiency for him means what it is going to mean to all American business men—happiness"

man is Charles M. Cox. He is a worthy social worker. He is an exemplar to business men all over the country. He has shown that the" tired business man" is a puzzling individual with more enterprise than judgment, who is pushing ahead so fast that he is kicking the ground from under his feet and standing still—a self-pitying individual who does not know enough to rest when he is tired or to play when his day's work is done. Efficiency to Charles M. Cox is qualitative and not quantitative. Simply to do things and make the dirt fly is to him the youthful stage— the foolish stage. Efficiency means for him the getting of the biggest conceivable result, and the biggest result comes only from the biggest man. He is not a philanthropist; he is not a publicist; he is not a preacher. He is a pleasant little man with raisins in his right coat pocket, who is calmly going his way, trusting his subordinates, entertaining

them, hobnobbing in daytime with big business men, entertaining at evening time celebrities and salubrities who have ideas. He has been known to have F. Hopkinson Smith to dinner one evening, and the next evening a group of settlement workers from the Civk Service House in the North End of Boston. Efficiency for him means what it is going v< mean to all American business men—-happiness. "The happy man is the efficien: man." says Charles M. Cox. "If your efficiency, make your men happy. Give! what you want yourself. Ethically this is the right thing to do because it is the square thing to do; commercially it is the right thing to do because it is the profitable thing to do It pays. From the time that I reorganixed the company we have made money faster. Our business has grown by leaps, and business has become something closely; pleasure. We like to do business our A



OF course it was the Mater who announced that she was going to the coronation of the new Pope. We —Patricia and I—might do as we pleased, but she was going to see the triple crown placed upon the head of Benedict XV, Vicar of Christ.

We were in Rome, so was the Pope, so was Cardinal Gibbons; so why shouldn't we go? Thus did the Mater argue. First we laughed at her, then marshaled our reasons for disbelief. We told her that it was impossible—that it was not only impossible, but absurd. Of course she couldn't go! We informed her that, owing to the unrest prevailing in Europe, the ceremonies were to be held in the comparatively small Sistine Chapel, instead of in the unbelievable vastness of St. Peter's, the largest church in Christendom. These ceremonies were to be as simple as a Papal coronation could be. A foreboding of disaster lay upon Italy like a vast shadow. Invitations were as scarce as were Germans in Rome, which made them very scarce indeed. All this we emphasized, but it availed not. Come what might, the Mater was going to the coronation.

It seemed but yesterday that the loud


voiced newsboys had startled announcing the death of Pius Xrt venerable ceremony of the Camerlingo bad been observed—a ceremony in which a chase:! cardinal, a small silver hammer in hand, deals three symbolic taps upon the brow of the dead Pontiff, three-times calling him by hiChristian name, and, after an impressive pause, turning to the assembled pr"! pronounces the simple words, "The Po dead."

Pius X was an unostentatious, kindly High and low grieved at his passing mourned him sincerely. Half Rome wore black to honor him, some only a sable band about the arm. On the walls were placard* on which, between two wide black mar the people testified their loss.

At such a time how could days We had moved, penniless at times, against a somber background of war and rumors of war. made appallingly real by the endless reginfflfcs marching through the streets—thousand* upon thousands of strong, manly fellows, fiSet) with the vitality of Italian youth. Night after night, fifes and drums awakened us from steer to rush to our balconies to behold numberless soldiers passing in the streets below, to hear



"He lias oooe of the simp licity of his predecessor. H e is an aristocrat, a believer in the power of rulers, both temporal and spiritual. ... It will be interesting: to see what he will do"

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"For one entire day and part of another she had stood on the Piazzi of St. Peter's awaiting the announcement of the election of a new Pope

the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching men, or the clatter of cavalry and the rumble of heavy gun carriages; and often there had been the stirring martial music of a distant band.

It was not surprising that the days had marched by at double-quick, and the coronation of the newly elected Pope was upon us almost before we realized that his predecessor was dead.

The Mater, with theatric foresight, chose the pension table d'hote as the most fitting opportunity to announce openly her determination to be present at the Papal coronation. We had discussed the war, the invasion of France and Belgium, until we were sick at heart, and this new subject was seized upon with a grim effort to make the most of it, shoving, if we could, the war momentarily aside.

The Mater, having dropped her verbal bomb, sat back complacently to watch the effect. This effect was all she could have desired. The Americans promptly said, "Impossible." The Italians gave her to understand that they had tried for invitations and failed, and so, of course, a foreigner had no chance whatsoever. The lady from Boston remarked that she had a friend who knew Cardinal O'Connell's secretary, but apprehended that this would be of meager help

to her. The English said that it had been a charming day, and that in all their Roman experience they had never seen the Pincio so beautiful.

Patricia and I kept silent, wondering what card the Mater had up her sleeve. We recalled her vital interest in the Conclave and its ultimate decision. For one entire day and part of another she had stood on the Piazza of St. Peter's awaiting the announcement of the election of a new Pope, which is first made by the rising of a slender column of white smoke from a pipe on the roof of the Vatican, visible to the watching throng— a column of smoke made by the burning of the ballots. For one whole day the crowd had waited patiently, swaying this way and that, and the Mater had waited with it, and we had waited with the Mater. On this, the second day of the Conclave, the piazza had been thronged until the sun set in golden glory behind the largest temple in Christendom, and Michael Angelo's dome floated above the church like a bubble blown by some giant child. But night came on at last. No longer did the setting sun tip the fountain's spray with prismatic colors. The lights began to tremble in the twilight of Bernini's colonnades that hold in their encircling arms the vast piazza. Then we knew that there would

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