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As if they were not escort enough, X adds, usually, at our feet in the runabout old Ben, the woolly Airedale, whose brown eyes would yearn after us down to the hinges of hell; in my lap little black Burnie, the sad and comic Scotch terrier baby; and, coursing madly behind and before the wagon, Dolf, the great German shepherd, clumsy and mild as a calf, though as terrible to see as Red Riding-Hood's wolf.

So X, who has always liked circuses, arranges his own circus parade, even at the dull business of going in to the office, and never minds the penalty we pay of being shouted and stared at by an appreciative audience of back-street babies. Teresina, who thinks their shrill and swarming cries of 'Oh, look at the pony! Look at the pony!' indicative of feeble-mindedness, cracks her whip and skims by arrogantly, not realizing, as we do, that a child on a pony's back is a thing to be envied hopelessly as the moon by those who will grow up in a twinkling to their Fords and Reos. Ponies and dogs belong to childhood, maybe, and deserve to be gazed at in the manner that wins Teresina's bitterest aversion, 'As if they never saw an animal before!'— but I alone, going about my business sans pony, sans dog, sans everything but horse and wagon, have been pursued by sincerely astonished yells of 'Look! Look at the lady driving a horse!'

Ambiguous pleasure as it is to furnish comedy to such humble followers, we labor with a heavier handicap in our incapacity to get the pitch of modern life. 'Speed' is the pitch; we have no instrument tuned to reach it. Over and over, our friends realize our predicament and give us the lift that even checkered taxis cannot always supply. We have no recompense in kind to offer. An invitation to ride in the

yellow wagon, or to leap upon Allspice's back and canter away to the hills, would for the most part insult their sense of time and menace their garments. While we thank them humbly, we wonder if we are not becoming nuisances, like those people whose insistence upon living without a telephone keeps them eternally 'running in' to their neighbors for that convenience.

We, who are used to being independent, find that a world full of motors refuses to let us be so without one. Allspice and Stalky find no parkingspace on most of the streets of our little city. Even a country road may suddenly boil and buzz with a that sounds like seven submarines and tears our animals, rearing and snorting, from their moorings. We have found certain places of hospitality or entertainment actually inaccessible on foot or by horse-in fact, in any way but by a motor-car.

And yet it seems to us a feeble and tasteless thing to be coerced into buying a car. We like to buy our machines, as well as our animals, not from jealous necessity, but from a clear vision of delight. We must want our future Ford or Buick or Packard much as we wanted small Burnie, the Scotty-too much to live without it.

No doubt some day we shall want it for convenience, and hospitality, and wide journeyings. It is never wise to shave one's head in a vow-so to speak against any now despised commodity or relationship. But we are not yet eager to smother the good smell of hay and oats with gasoline fumes, or even to put them too closely side by side, supposing that the aforementioned income-tax collectors ever give us enough leeway to build a little dark garage beside our little white barn.

For who was ever choked to death by honest stable-whiffs, as by deadly

carbon-dioxide gas? Are wrenches and jacks ever such imaginative tools as currycombs and hayforks? Can batteries and spark plugs spell far adventure like a bridle on its nail and a saddle on its peg?

('Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'
'Oil, crank up, hop in, and away!')

Is any garage so thrilling a playground as a hayloft, dreamy with last summer's grassy ghosts, rustling with tiny mouse-feet, crooned over by doves?

We have yet to think the thin trickle of water over a bumping, overheated motor so sweet a sound as the long wet snuzzle and swoop of a thirsty horse's nose in a mountain spring. We never saw a Nash whiffle and prance on the first green days of April, or shake its head and snort and run if it was turned loose at frosty October sunset. We never knew even a Ford that could find its way home in the dark from any lost hill-road or wood-hollow in five townships. We never caught a little motor-cycle kicking and squealing and rolling and dancing in an ecstasy of new-fallen snow, like a shaggy Shetland muff of a pony.

And we have never heard even the most enthusiastic motorist claim that anything that toots a horn can be trusted with a small girl's fluttering whimsical self, to carry her safe up miles and miles of wood-trails; to teach her steadiness of care and lightness of hand and quickness of wit; to

straighten her back and shine up her eyes and stock her head with sundrenched memories that no dull city years can blur away.

For all these reasons X and I endure the patronage of Tom and Nils. Not for one instant would we exchange for their Fourth of July spent in burning up the Albany Road our fifteen miles of rough green brook-bed trail to Berry Pond, cupped on a fragrant hilltop to the west. There we hide and dream for a few hours: Allspice and Stalky champing the drowsy twigs of noonday rest; Ben and Dolf and Burnie snoring under their respective Jackin-the-pulpit leaves; Teresina fishing amazed and amazing turtles and newts from the enchanted pond, with little songs and ripples of laughter at their antics; X and I utterly at peace, far away from factory gates and perilous roads, thanking the Lord we are not as Nils and Tom, even if we are queer.

Why should we get anywhere else? We should like best to hang Time up in the great white-pine tree, gag him and bind him, and make him leave ageless for us, forever, Teresina in her slender scarlet breeches, Allspice, Stalky, Ben, Dolf, and Burnie Dolf, and Burnie - all in the high green woods that need no magic more than sunshine and silence.

Time will not do that little service for us, alas! So we must do all we can for ourselves.

Get somewhere! Why? We want only to stay where we are!

THE CONTRIBUTORS' COLUMN

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FIFTY-SEVEN years ago James Russell Lowell, writing for the edification of two continents his Atlantic essay 'On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners,' remarked that 'before our (Civil) war we were to Europe but a huge mob of adventurers and shopkeepers.' Since then the world has been turned upside down by another war, so that Agnes Repplier, in appropriating at our invitation - Mr. Lowell's title, has had to reverse its point completely. "Certainly it is no shame to a man,' says Lowell, 'that he should be as nice about his country as about his sweetheart. . . . Yet it would hardly be wise to hold everyone an enemy who could not see her with our own enchanted eyes.' Several years' residence and study in India discovered to L. Adams Beck (E. Barrington) the wonder of Oriental thought, whose 'high faith and philosophy' offered her the key of life. At this inspiration she has lately completed her life of Buddha, The Splendour of Asia. ¶ Following our acceptance of Carl Christian Jensen's manuscript came this personal note:

It has been my lot from the age of sixteen to labor in the darker places of our country-on the wharves, in the factories, in the stokeholds, before my college days; and afterwards in the criminal courts, the State hospitals for the insane, the schools for half-wits, in the prisons, and in the slums. My sketch might truly be called 'Darkest America.' I have seen no darker picture anywhere in our country. And I have seen the worst and the best.

F. Lyman Windolph, a lawyer practising in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, informs us that 'the first American Windolph settled in Germantown before the Revolution and was a private in Washington's army. There is a family tradition that he spoke French and German with equal fluency, but that, when greatly moved, he always swore in French, from which fact we infer that his deepest nature was French, rather than German.'

Emily James Putnam has gone far toward establishing a new genre of story-telling. From Herodotus and the classics, as from life, she has selected the elements of her live and audacious narratives, the first of which, 'Helen in Egypt,' appeared in the April Atlantic. For the satisfaction of our scholars we are glad to quote literatim the translated text from Herodotus which forms the basis of the present tale.

Clisthenes had a daughter called Agarista, whom he wished to marry to the best husband that he could find in the whole of Greece. At the Olympic games, therefore, having gained the prize in the chariot race, he caused public proclamation to be made to the following effect:

'Whoever among the Greeks deems himself worthy to become the son-in-law of Clisthenes, let him come sixty days hence—or, if he will, -to Sicyon; for within a year's time, counting from the end of the sixty days, Clisthenes will decide on the man to whom he will contract his daughter.'

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So all the Greeks who were proud of their own merit or of their country flocked to Sicyon as suitors; and Clisthenes had a foot-course and a wrestling-ground made ready to try their powers.

From Italy there came Smindyrides, a native of Sybaris. He was a man who in luxuriousness of living exceeded all other persons. Likewise there came Damasus, a native of Siris. . . . From the Peloponnesus came several: Leocedes, son of that Pheidon, King of the Argives, who established weights and measures throughout the Peloponnesus and was the most insolent of all Greeks - the same who drove out the Elean directors of the games and himself presided over the contest at Olympia; and Laphanes of Prus came, whose father entertained the Dioscuri and henceforth kept open house for all comers. From Athens there arrived Megacles, son of that Alcmæon who visited Croesus, and Tisander's son Hippoclides, the wealthiest and handsomest of the Athenians.

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Now, when they were all come, Clisthenes first of all inquired of each concerning his country and his family; after which he kept them with him a year and made trial of their manly bearing, their temper, their accomplishments, and their disposition, sometimes drawing them apart for converse, sometimes bringing them all together.

But the greatest trial of all was at the banquet table. During the whole period of their stay he lived with them and entertained them sumptuously. Somehow or other the suitors who came from Athens pleased him best of all, and of these Hippoclides was specially in favor.

When at length the day arrived which had been fixed for the espousals, and Clisthenes had to speak out and declare his choice, he first of all made a sacrifice of a hundred oxen and held a banquet, whereat he entertained all the suitors and the whole people of Sicyon. After the feast was ended the suitors vied with each other in music and in speaking on a given subject. Pres

Behind the red bricks of Beacon Hill, Alice Brown composes her verse, plays, and novels. ¶During her residence in Germany, Charlotte Burghes was introduced to the significant discoveries of Professor von Frisch and his pupils, some of whose results have already been announced in England. ¶By the light of Diogenes' lantern we need search inwardly for the answer to the question propounded by the Reverend Joseph Fort Newton, now Rector of the Memorial Church of St. Paul's, Overbrook. Frances Lester Warner, always a succulent essayist, proposes a

ently, as the drinking advanced, Hippoclides, delightful reply to that old query, 'What one

who quite dumbfoundered the rest, called aloud to the flute-player and bade him strike up a dance, which the man did; and Hippoclides danced to it. And he fancied that he was dancing excellently well, but Clisthenes, who was observing him, began to misdoubt the whole business.

Then Hippoclides, after a pause, told an attendant to bring in a table; and when it was brought he mounted upon it and danced, first some Laconian figures, then some Attic ones. After which he stood on his head upon the table and began to toss his legs about.

Clisthenes, notwithstanding that he now loathed Hippoclides for a son-in-law, still, as he wished to avoid an outbreak, had restrained himself during the first and even during the second dance; when, however, he saw him tossing his legs in the air, he could no longer contain himself, but cried out, 'Son of Tisander, thou hast danced thy wife away.'

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'What does Hippoclides care?' was the other's answer. And hence the proverb arose. Then Clisthenes commanded silence and spake thus:

'Suitors of my daughter, well pleased am I with you all, and right willingly, if it were possible, would I content you all. But as that is out of my power, seeing that I have but one daughter, I will present to each of you whom I must needs dismiss a talent of silver, for the honor that you have done me and for your long absence from your homes. But my daughter Agarista I betroth to Megacles, to be his wife according to the usage and wont of Athens.'

Then Megacles expressed his readiness, and Clisthenes had the marriage solemnized.

The issue of this marriage was the Clisthenes who made the tribes at Athens and set up the popular government. Megacles had likewise another son, who had a daughter Agarista, who married Xanthippus. When she was with child, she had a dream wherein she fancied she was delivered of a lion, after which, within a few days, she bore Xanthippus a son — to wit, Pericles. HERODOTUS, Book VI, chapters 126-131

book would you rather possess on a desert isle?' A cookbook. Professor of art at the University of Washington, Walter F. Isaacs has exhibited at the last autumn and spring Salons of Paris.

Recently, on passing through Hyannis, the Reverend Walter Samuel Swisher saw posted on a church bulletin a notice that the pastor was to preach on 'Regeneration or Evolution.' This set him thinking: "Why not "Regeneration and Evolution"? They both seem natural modes of growth to me, and I cannot see why they are mutually exclusive. Both are found in nature.' Dr. Swisher is minister of the Wellesley Hills Unitarian Church. While an undergraduate at Williams College, Kenneth Phillips Britton participated in his merry tale of disillusion. Next semester Robert Hillyer is to take up his duties as assistant professor of English at Trinity College, Hartford. ¶For several remarkable years Dr. Mary W. Griscom has worked among the women doctors and medical missions in China, India, and Persia. A pioneer and now a leader in his field, Earnest Elmo Calkins has been awarded the 1925 Gold Medal for 'distinguished personal service in advertising' in the Annual Harvard Advertising Awards founded by Edward W. Bok.

Charlotte Kellogg, wife of Vernon Kellogg, the scientist, has the distinction of being the only woman member of the Commission for Relief in Belgium working in Brussels during the war. It was then that she and her husband became affectionate friends of Cardinal Mercier. ¶An English

publicist, Robert Sencourt has made his headquarters in Italy for the past five years, the better to observe those changes which are remodeling Europe. ¶A graduate of Yale and associate editor of the Independent, Charles Rumford Walker carries his skilled free lance into tumultuous fields.

Following close upon the heels of Oswald Villard's article in the March Atlantic comes this pertinent account of an impertinent letter.

DEAR ATLANTIC,

I have long wanted to keep a record of coincidences. I shall begin to-day with my last two, which may be of interest to the readers of the March Atlantic.

Yesterday, while waiting in the station of a university town in the Middle West, I turned my attention to the news-stand. Returned from a residence abroad of some years, I was not prepared for the galaxy of magazines that scintillated in brilliant colors above and below and upon a counter ten feet long. There I searched for a familiar cover through row after row of amazing periodicals of astonishing titles, finally to be rewarded by the sight of the Century, Scribner's, and the Atlantic, withdrawn - very properly!-in reserve upon a table at one

side.

With the Atlantic under my arm I boarded the train and opened it to find Oswald Garrison Villard's article, 'Sex, Art, Truth, and Magazines.' Here was Coincidence No. 1. There I read the inspiration and history of many of the new publications that had daunted me upon the news-stand. With especial interest I learned the story of Mr. Bernarr Macfadden's efforts to uplift his fellow countrymen.

Arrived at my destination, the article was read aloud in the evening by my host, a young clergyman, to whom the name of this philanthropist was as unknown as it was to me.

Now for Coincidence No. 2. This morning the post brought a large brown envelope which bore, beside the young clergyman's address, the medallion photograph of a smiling elderly man holding a baby, beneath which ran the following legend,

'Bernarr and Berwyn Macfadden have a message for you.'

We could hardly believe our eyes. What had we done, who were we, to be so favored? We breathlessly opened the envelope. We were met by the further announcement,

'The Bernarr Macfadden Family Greet You!' These words stood above a noble photographic

group consisting, presumably, of Mr. and Mrs. Macfadden and eight young Macfaddens ranging in age from seven months to twenty-one years. Below this interesting family was the autograph signature,

'Yours for Home-Building, Bernarr Macfadden.'

Did we understand aright? Was he at his great self-appointed task again? We opened the folder and were met by the slogan of what is to be a new 'uplift' movement, 'Glorify the Home!'

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Beautiful thought. And how? Read and you will learn. I quote. "The American home is a source of present progress and prosperity. . . . When we fail to glorify the home, we take the downward path. Glorify God in your bodies. . . . But many religious people fail to catch the proper vision of the bodily needs. Consequently they are unfortunately minus the vitality essential in the building of family life. They are wont at times to criticize severely those who find inspiration in the sculptured outlines of bodily beauty. . . . Let us hope that this sacrilegious attitude towards the body that was made in God's image will soon disappear. . . . Nearly all criminals are defective physically.

...

Marriages are decreasing, divorces are increasing. . . . The American home can only be stabilized and perpetuated by maintaining the vitality and vigor of our people. . . .

"TO GLORIFY THE HOME WE MUST FIRST GIVE DUE REVERENCE TO OUR GLORIOUS BODIES.' How shall this be done? By attacking one 'stupendous, insidious evil, and that is PRUDERY. The victims of prudery are inclined to class as vulgar and obscene all the great vital truths essential for self-protection along life's road. Consequently publishers of books and magazines are always fearful of being attacked even when they present, in various forms, articles, true-to-life stories, etc., information that they know would save the health, happiness, and even life of millions of misguided people.'

Now are you not piqued? Your appetite whetted? Will you not subscribe at once to one or more of the 'Macfadden Publications,' a list of which follows? They are 'home-builders all,' exerting, who can doubt, an uplifting influence 'mentally, morally, and spiritually.' Moreover, will you not sign the stamped and addressed postcard which is headed, 'Will you join this "Back to the Home" movement?' If you sign and return it to Mr. Macfadden you will be enrolled as a member of the proposed national 'Committee of 1000 for the Preservation of the Home.'

Won't you? But how can you refuse?
K. W. D. F.

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