quite so. We round them up every spring and mark them.' 'Well, then,' I said, 'I wish to heaven you'd send some one over to America and round up our damned English sparrows.' He looked at me in a puzzled sort of way and said, 'How could we do that? Your Government would hardly permit it, I fancy.' But," reflectively added Seth Bullock, "that chap was all right; he was too good to be a lord or duke-yes, he was good enough to be an American.

"I was asked," continued Seth Bullock, "while over there, why the Colonel did not seem to care for kings, and I replied that I thought he preferred aces. And it seemed particularly to mystify one of Colonel Roosevelt's noblemen friends when, in answer to his question of how long I had known him, I replied,

From the tail of a chuck wagon (in the old round-up days) to the Court of St. James.'

He then told of the following incident which happened at Windsor Palace immediately following the burial of King Edward VII, at which Theodore Roosevelt was present as "chief mourner for the United States." The German Kaiser was present, and as they were leaving, the Kaiser called to him and said: "Colonel Roosevelt, I wish to see you before I leave London. If you will come to-morrow afternoon at two o'clock, I can give you forty-five minutes." And Mr. Roosevelt replied, "That is very gracious of your Majesty. I will be there at two, but, unfortunately, I can spare only half an hour."

"At the state functions in London I was always particularly amused at the major domos, or announcers, who would solemnly announce each distinguished. guest upon his arrival. The dress the announcer always wore seemed to me to be about eighteen feet high. They called him theBeetle,' or something that sounded like that. I always wondered how long he would last in that costume on a bad pony at a Western round-up. He certainly would have been the envy of every Sioux brave at an Indian dog dance.'

And then as the Captain paused I realized it was well after midnight, with a long day ahead, and I silently shook his hand as he said wistfully, and as though it explained it all-as it did so well"You knew Colonel Roosevelt too, didn't you ?

AS HE IS REMEMBERED

Let me quote here from a letter which I have just received from George Emlen Roosevelt, a favorite cousin of Colonel Roosevelt's, who knew Seth Bullock intimately:

"As I remember, I was about twelve years old when I first went out West with Ted [Colonel Roosevelt's oldest son] to Deadwood to go bear-hunting with Seth Bullock. He was a man with a reputation throughout all that section of the country as a huntsman and a dead shot, a very dangerous opponent in any kind of fight. He was our typical old-time cow

puncher and Western gun-fighter.. That did not seem to be the exact training to qualify a man to take care of two young boys, and yet I cannot imagine any one who would have, in every way, exercised a better influence. He never allowed profanity in the camp while we were there; he never permitted us to wander around in gambling halls and saloons, which were the natural rendezvous in all the small towns we visited; and although we were living in the mountains and riding a good many miles a day, with wonderful skill he saw to it that we did not get over-tired or into danger. Of course he had an endless fund of stories that he used to tell us in the evenings; and he knew all about the Black Hills, the mining prospectors, and game, and explained

SETH BULLOCK, MR. ROOSEVELT, CAPTAIN SELOUS Photographed at the Kensington Museum, London, in 1910. Captain Selous was the famous African hunter and explorer. He was killed in Africa during the war

it all to us in a way that was a real education. In losing Seth Bullock the country has lost one of its picturesque and truly great characters."

The Colonel's oldest son, LieutenantColonel Theodore Roosevelt, wrote me of his sorrow at the death of Captain Bullock, and with his permission I will quote in full:

"The death of Captain Seth Bullock was a real shock to the entire Roosevelt family. He was a fine type of character that has been produced so much by our West. He stood for the principles of law and order in times and under conditions where only robust righteousness was of avail. My last recollection of Seth was when as a boy of twelve or thirteen I went on a camping expedition with him. I never shall forget his silhouette as he rode forward through the moonlight one night across the Bad Lands, his rifle held over the pommel of his saddle. Seth combined courage and determination with gentleness and kindness. He typifies, to my mind, the men who built up the West."

Coming from one who knew Seth Bul

lock intimately, the following quotation from a letter received recently from Major-General Leonard Wood is of particular interest:

"When I last saw Seth Bullock he impressed me as being in good health and full of energy, with many years of useful life ahead of him.

"I really believe that Colonel Roosevelt's death hastened very greatly his own. He was devotedly attached to the Colonel, and from what he said to me at Deadwood I know he felt a very great interest had been taken out of his life.

"He was a sterling character-best type of old frontiersman; a man who stood for law and order and did what he believed to be right.

"His loss is a very real one to all of us who believe in good citizenship, a decent private and public life, and unswerving loyalty."

THE DEDICATION OF MOUNT
THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Seth Bullock wrote me shortly before his death in answer to my letter on the subject: "There were about one hundred of us living when we formed the Society of Black Hills Pioneers. Colonel Roosevelt was made the first and only honorary member because he had always been a pioneer in fighting for the people's rights and in blazing a trail in the East as we were doing here in the West for the march of the Nation's progress."

And so it was that on January 30, 1919, a meeting of the Black Hills Pioneers Association, of which Captain Bullock was President, was held on his initiative in the assembly rooms of the Business Men's Club of Deadwood, South Dakota, and resolutions prepared by Seth Bullock were afterward placed upon a tablet and set into a monument erected by the Black Hills Pioneers" In Memory of Theodore Roosevelt, the American, upon the mountain to which they had given his name.

It is particularly fitting that through the effort of Captain Seth Bullock a mountain in the West the Colonel loved so dearly should have been dedicated to Theodore Roosevelt, and that at that ceremony the Colonel's lifelong friend, Major-General Leonard Wood, should have in his address so ably paid the Nation's tribute to the Great American, who, like Abraham Lincoln, in death lives but the more vividly in the hearts of American men and women.

The "silent places," as Stewart Edward White has so well named the magic forests and open plains, imprint their stamp of nobleness on the characters of the men who lived among them, learned their secrets, and in the battle of selfcontrol acquired those qualities which made them leaders of men in the peril fraught days of Indian uprisings and massacres, and a mighty power for good in the later period of forest reclamation and modern civilized settlement. Such a one was Seth Bullock, steadfast of spirit, clean of heart, true to his standards and ideals. Seeking the right, despising the

wrong, he clung to Colonel Roosevelt as the great and never-failing inspiration of his life. It seemed but yesterday, at the dedication of Mount Theodore Roosevelt, four miles north of Deadwood, South Dakota, on July Fourth of this year, that, with a look of infinite sadness, Seth

Bullock remarked of the all too untimely death of Colonel Roosevelt: "Why couldn't he have been spared to the Nation in its great hour of need, and I, who have run my race, have been taken in his stead?"

Born of the West, living for the West,

devoted throughout his life to the winning of the West, Seth Bullock was a man who stands conspicuous even among the pioneers of the West in bravery, conscientious endeavor and achievement, whose years were well spent in the fulfillment of duty.

BY CHASE S. OSBORN

FORMER GOVERNOR OF MICHIGAN

fire has started in Lynch's old pulpwood choppings between Joe Pork's shack and Gurnoe's camp. Notify everybody on this shore."

This alarming message was handed to me early one morning of the first week in August, 1919. It was signed, "Mrs. Nelson." She is the wife of a descendant of Eric the Red, who keeps the United States buoy station on the East Neebish shore of Sugar Island, in St. Mary's River. They are sturdy, fine, honest, and imperturbable Americans of Scandinavian extraction. Word from them is to be heeded, because it is reliable and more apt to be understated than overcolored. The boy who brought the note rode on up shore.

For days the air had been so full of smoke that I sometimes could not see Big Duck from Little Duck, although they are less than a hundred yards apart. The sun hung red in the sky. At night the moon looked like Jess Willard's face on July 4. Ashes and cinders floated everywhere on the bosom of the big crystal river. On Neebish Island they had been fighting fire. Across on the Canadian mainland a blanket of bluish-white smoke covered the landscape. Now and again dense clouds of greenish-black smoke would volcano upward through the opaque screen, showing where the conifers were on fire. On the American main shores the fire conditions for hundreds of miles westward were deadly. The head of Sugar Island was engulfed in smoke and flame. There was a bad fire in back of Hay Point at the center of the island. Up to this time the south half of the island had escaped. But all of us in this zone were nervously alert.

There was not a drop of water between shores south of the center of the island, a stretch of eight miles or more. Every creek and well and spring had gone dry. Even the famous spring in the swamp at old John Joseph's, which had not failed for forty years that he could remember and possibly never before, was so dry that the sand in the bottom was not even damp two feet below, as I found when I dug to see if sinking deeper would yield water. It was as dry as Kalahari or Atacama, and there was not a single green water-hole or oasis. The very dust mixed with humus and ligneous substance would actually ignite more quickly than oldfashioned black powder. What seemed

dead cigarette ends would fires wherever dropped. I ordered all outdoor smoking stopped around the Ducks, confining it to within cabin doors or out on the water in a boat. One camper, a distinguished scientist, was as tricky as a boy learning to smoke. He would sneak his smokes. After he had started a number of incipient fires, all of which were discovered and put out and none of which seemed to give him a glimmering of sense of the danger, I had a gallon tin can tied around his neck. It hung on his breast under his chin and bore the legend, strange to him, of "Safety First." Into this he peacefully smoked. I patrolled Duck Lake and Lake George shores, admonished campers, and extinguished fires, and others were watchful too.

But, in spite of all we could do, the fire

came.

Pete Grizzon said that two young men from the Sault were on the trail Sunday afternoon. He met them while on his way from Goose Point to Shingle Bay. One was smoking a pipe and the other a cigarette. They asked for John Gee's place. This was 4 P.M. John Gee said that they didn't find him. So they must have wandered off on the Joe Pork trail. Between six and seven o'clock John Andrews and Polly Gates, his woman, trustworthy Polly Gates, his woman, trustworthy halfbreeds, were on their way down the Hay Lake shore to their shack behind the dike at the Middle Neebish. They saw smoke. About nine o'clock, as it was just getting dark, Bill Gates and his pick me up" Shannon woman, on their way home from Nine Mile Point, saw flames and smoke. By this time it was a big fire. The two city men with the white hats had knocked out a pipe or dropped ashes and had started an inferno.

66

I could tell you how Bill Gates got the Shannon woman and how John Andrews, whose name isn't Andrews at all, got Polly, and you would be interested, because it is a primitive sex problem worth while-a story of fire in the forest but not forest fire. It is only referred to here as bearing upon the psychological effect of frontier dangers. Although John Andrews had taken Bill Gates's wife and drews had taken Bill Gates's wife and was charged with the more serious crime of shooting Bill's big, valuable, husky sled dogs, the two men declared a moratorium -not a truce. Their accounts would be settled later; no fourteen points, just one big debt of life.

Margaret Buzno, of the Duck Cabins, was at Bill Gates's place when Bill got home. He was so excited that Margaret came back at once to tell about the fire, and Mrs. Shannon started to bundle up the meager household goods because Bill said the wind from the south would drive the fire onto them before morning. Those to whom Margaret gave her alarm paid no attention to her, and, anyhow, nothing could be done. It was not safe to backfire, because that could not be controlled and would only aid the main conflagration. I heard the news early next morn ing and started to investigate. It was while on my way down shore that I met the young Paul Revere bearing the tidings from Mrs. Nelson. The wind had backed up against the sun and was blowing briskly from the southeast. The fire had started near the center of the south end of the island and was sweeping northwest toward the Hay Lake shore and eating its way more slowly against the wind to the southward, also making some headway toward the east and northeast on the lateral front. This was the way it was when I got to the fire line at nine o'clock Monday morning. Long before I reached the fire I could feel the heat in the air, could see the rolling smoke waves on high, and could hear the crackle and the crashing and the crunching of falling tree-trunks. Birds in alarmed flight winged ahead of the danger. Small game, squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, and groundhogs, were getting out of the way and were heedless of man. There was even increased activity and excitement among the bugs. I never saw such swarms of Camberwell beauties, banded purples angle-wings, swallow-tails, tortoise-shell and dog-faced sulphurs. Deer clung to the shores, ready to take to the water. Bradshaw reported a big bull moose hanging out with his cattle, as if sensing comparative safety near to man. The fire caught a lot of pestiferous army worms and destroyed no end of vermin in its course.

Sugar Island is sixteen miles long, and the width varies between Lake George and Hay Lake. It is in reality an eskar upon which have gathered for centuries the woody substances of reeds, grasses, leaves shrubs, and dead tree-trunks. In some places are big stretches of water and ice borne clays, making fine farming lands Under the shallow covering of soil there are rocks showing glacial groovings and

strie, and at several places I have seen old quartzic slabs of the shores of the ancient Algonkian sea bearing ripple marks as perfect as when the waves made them, like so many waffle bands, resulting from perfect gravital consolidation.

The fire had to cross a broad trail between Shingle Bay and the buoy station before it could proceed northward to join the Hay Point fires and the big one at the north end. If it crossed this trail, the entire island was doomed unless heavy rains came, and there was a dry moon and no sign of rain. So we tried to stop it on this fire lane. At first there were about thirty of us, including Bradshaw, an old fire fighter, John Gurnoe, John Andrews, Bill Gates, Jim Jonsting, Joe Corbiere, Alice Captain, Archie Hall, Mrs. McElevy, Pete Goddard, Polly Gates, John Gee, Tom Joseph, James S. Dunstan, and Alice Dunstan, and others with a woodsy assortment of names. Mr. Dunstan and daughter, of New York, and I were the only non-residents of the island. The fighters had brains and willingness and courage and resource, but we had nothing to fight the fire with. There wasn't a drop of water nearer than the shore. The main fire front was over two miles long. It would take an ocean to conquer it. The trail was rocky. We had shovels, picks, hoes, rakes, and axes. We could not get a shovelful of noncombustible soil. All we could do was to whip at the fire with bundles of green withes. Bradshaw said that it would not run through a certain big green alder swamp, which would help check it. When the fire reached those alders, there was a hissing of a million serpents' tongues, and then a frying, sizzling sound as of the broiling of countless earth demons, and the alder swamp became blackish ashes on the ground. On came the fire. It consumed every particle of the covering of the rocky land, leaving it as bare, except for ashes, as when it left the bosom of the glacier that bore it. When it got to the trail, we could make only a brief resistance, that was more futile than the prattle of babes. Then we had to run for it or roast. Long before the ground fire got to the trail the aerial flames and cinders had passed over us, igniting the forest beyond. There was nothing to do but pray, and there was a mighty lot of praying. The Indians said if Chief Mendoskong were alive and White Loon, the medicine man, was not dead they could make rain. Even Greensky, who had been a famous rainmaker, bad gone to the land of crippled leer and tame beaver. There was no hope.

On my way to the fire front I had edged into Joe Pork's place. Burned ground everywhere. Horrors! Prone on the ground near the cabin door was an nconscious woman. At first I thought she was dead. My pointer dog Bones poked his nose in her face before I got to where she was. She did not move. I turned her over and raised her. She was exhausted, but not dead. All night

long she had fought with green brush brooms to save her humble wild woodland home. It was Charlotte Kukush, sister of Joe Pork. She was there alone. Joe was up the Lake Superior shore behind Michipicoten. The Pork shack was directly in the fire pathway. There was a small clearing, Smoke and heat and small clearing Smoke and heat and flames and cinders enshrouded the place. Charlotte fought wildly. Then she gave up and tried to move her clothing and bedding and her dogs. There was her stuff scattered all the way for a mile to the Hay Lake shore. On her last trip to the shack she fell exhausted and unconscious. Then the miracle occurred. The fire burned a circle around her, to within two feet of her, and stopped. It burned to within a palm's width of the shack. Then it stopped. There I found her alive and the cabin untouched. The stable had burned to fine ashes. In every direction for a mile was devastation-smoldering embers, hot rocks, blackish-gray ashes. The poor squaw and her camp were

saved.

This has been a year of terrible losses from forest fires. The loss of life has not been as great, but the loss of property has been more perhaps than ever before. When Peshtigo was burned, hundreds of people perished. More hundreds were roasted and suffocated in the awful fires in the Michigan "Thumb" region, where the Red Cross first manifested its mercy in a domestic catastrophe. The Hinkley fire in Minnesota took a terrible human toll. Last year in the Cloquet district of Minnesota more than a half-score of settlements were destroyed with big casualties. This year the fires have run over parts of Michigan, Wisconsin, Idaho, Montana, Ontario, and other areas.

Just now there is a lull. Rains have come; not enough to extinguish the fires, but sufficient to check them. In the Lake Superior region they will not be put out until the deep winter snows come. I have even seen them burning under more than a foot of snow, like an uncanny fumarole semblancing Hades. In the Dakota Bad Lands fires persisted in the lignite veins for centuries, resulting in a weird land of death with fretted and frenzied topography.

How do forest fires start? Perhaps in a thousand ways. First, the season must be dry. There must be subnormal rainfall. When conditions are perfect for ignition, sparks from a locomotive or steamboat, or coals and ashes let fall by smokers or careless campers, or settlers clearing land, or cruisers, and even heedless fire and forest wardens, and broken glass focusing the sun's rays, and spontaneous combustion. One year some United States Coast Guardsmen landed on one of my islands. One of the fellows, in his pride of knowledge to show a rookie how birch bark would burn, lighted a piece, and as it consumed the fragile coals fell to the earth. Thinking, no doubt, that there was no danger, or perhaps, more likely, not thinking at all, they returned to their boat. Fortunately I happened alongshore soon afterwards. A bad fire

was well started and running. It was not a very dry time either. In this instance men whose duty it is to protect property placed it in jeopardy.

Only one thing can prevent forest fires education of the people to a point where they can appreciate the danger and will practice adequate care. I have known careful woodsmen to start a tea fire on a rocky shore covered with fibrous roots and dusty ligneous substance and use plenty of water in an attempt to put it out before they proceeded. But the fire had eaten its way inch by inch between rock and soil where it was hidden and where the water did not reach it, only to burn through later and destroy miles of growth. So one must be very, very careful where he builds a fire in a dry time and more careful still about putting it out.

When forest fires reach their maximum, they are more than terrible in their fury. The very air seems afire. There are those who believe that the air decomposes at a certain heat and that the gases ignite, forming an atmosphere of liquid flames. In the Peshtigo fire the flames appeared to jump forty miles through the grimy air. In that holocaust a queer thing transpired difficult of physical explanation. A new house, partially completed and in course of construction, located near the center of the town, was not even scorched. Not an ember was otherwise left. Some sort of a cold air zone formed around the house, like the air pockets encountered by aviators or something similar. Anyhow, there was this freak case.

There is such a thing as the air being so filled with carbon that it burns in advance of a gale of fire. I have seen and have run before forest fires that were advancing with hurricane swiftness through the tops of trees. The tops half-way to the ground would melt in the sea of flame like soft lead bars in a furnace. These would intensify the more slowly advancing ground fire until everything in its path would be consumed and melted, even the rocks themselves. Once some of my men, in my absence, took refuge on the summit of a bare mountain of stone. They were suffocated by the hot air. During the historic fires in the "Thumb" of Michigan people descended into wells to escape, only to be caught like rats and asphyxiated. Dozens of corpses were pulled out of wells.

Nothing is so terrible as a fire in a great forest in a dry time. More timber has been burned than has been lumbered. There never was a greater menace to the only great fringing forests remaining in North America. These great zones of wild life are on the way to becoming treeless, birdless, and waterless unless we save the forests at least in spots. Not flood, nor storm, nor famine, nor earthquake, nor volcano, is more destructive than wild fires. We must become a Nation of fire wardens.

Will you help?

Duck Island, Chippewa County, Michigan. August 22, 1919.

IT

square

T was in the market of a little city in Nevada that I saw him. He stood beside a wagon which was freighted with fat bronze turkeys. He, too, was bronze, with a golden-freckled skin and eyes just a little darker than hazel. Thanksgiving was almost upon us; but the weather was mild, as it is wont to be in this southernmost county, and the boy's chest was bare, nor did he wear stockings or shoes. Strange that such a figure should be commanding, yet so it seemed to me as I watched him.

"On foot, thirty-five cents; dressed, forty cents!" I heard him call out in the alternately gruff and wheezy voice of about fourteen years. Then, were the order "dressed," as calmly as most boys whittle a stick he demolished life and prepared the bird for human feasting. I strolled over to where he stood. They are beautiful fowl," I said. fowl," I said. "Where is your farm ?"

66

He threw a gesture over his shoulder. "Fifty miles due north."

"Oh!" I continued, "across the desert. Well, it is a great country for turkeys. No end to their range!" He looked bored, but I persisted, ruthlessly. "How long were they on the train ?”

A possible buyer came in sight and my question fell on unhearing ears. "Yes, sir; he weighs twenty-five pounds as he stands." The bargain completed, the boy lapsed into silence. Apparently I was obliterated from his consciousness.

"How long was the journey?" I repeated.

He shifted his body and spoke as if in a superlative effort to get rid of me. "We live up on the ridge more'n forty miles from the branch road. Never saw a locomotive myself till six months ago. We drove in the wagon across the desert."

"And that took how long?" "Three days. We camped at night to rest the team.'

"Who's 'we' ?"

"Me and Sister.-Thirty-five cents on foot-"

As the familiar exegesis was resumed I moved away, but happened as I did so to bump into a girl whom I instantly recognized as the boy's sister. She looked like him, except that instead of being stolid, she was vibrant. Her golden color tones flashed, her red-brown hair was alive.

I apologized for walking into her. "No harm done, ma'am,' "" she responded. Then, turning to her brother: "I just met Miss Berry. She went to the hotel with me and made me acquainted with the manager. He wants three turkeys. Take them over, and I'll wait by the wagon."

I

When Brother was out of the way, went back to talk with his more gracious sister.

"You seem to be selling them fast, yet there are a lot left," I remarked.

A TRUE STORY

"We brought in sixty-four birds," she vouchsafed. And what do you think? Joe and I hatched them from only four hens. One hen hatched all of twenty-two eggs; another hatched seventeen out of eighteen. We only lost three birds out of sixty-eight, and one of those was stolen just after we'd spent five dollars in grain to fatten them for Thanksgiving. After that Joe slept right out by the turkey house every night.'

"Blessed be a woman's tongue!" thought I. Here was a whole story in a few sentences, and a story punctuated by the brightest eyes and the most flashing smiles imaginable.

"You see," she continued, "we've had a turkey project in the county. The State College certainly sent us a dandy poultry woman. What she doesn't know about blackhead and turkey culture has never been written, been written, I guess. The home demonstration agent got interested, too. She's Miss Berry, and she arranged to have us come in to this market and made us acquainted with the hotel manager and other folks."

What do you think about this county agent and home demonstration agent work, which is costing Washington and the States so much money?" I asked.

She turned upon me with a most curious expression in which amazement, pity, and temper flashed alternately. "Costing so much money!" she cried." Why, you don't understand! It's saving money. Just the culling of our poultry flocks this year has saved, in feed given to hens that weren't laying, more than the extension work costs in our county. And then think of the food preserved by canning! Why, the Government is saving money! Do you think we'd accept charity from Washington or the College? Why, we just form our own programmes of work, and the College is so grateful to us for all the waste we're getting rid of that it sends home demonstration agents and specialists to us to help along. And-and-and-why, we're giving money to the Government !" "I hope you will say just that when you are Representative from Nevada," I exclaimed.

Fancying herself teased, her face grew dark.

"You know we had a woman Representative," I explained, “and by the time you grow up I hope there will be many of them. I'm one of the women who trusts her own sex. Don't you ?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I like Brother better than any one, and he's a boy-of course.'

We fell into silence and her face dreamed. Evidently she was not the salesdreamed. Evidently she was not the salesman that Joe was.

"You and your brother must be very near of an age," I remarked.

66

'Why, we're twins!" she answered in the surprised tones of one who had seldom met anybody unacquainted with this

fact. "That's why we're raising turkeys. I mean, we're both ready for high school, and we can't get there unless we have horses to ride. The money we make we're going to buy two with and the feed. You see, Joe wouldn't go without me nor I wouldn't go without him, so we've got to make money enough for two horses." She dropped her voice, as if awed by what she was about to say. "We think we may make a profit of more than a hundred and seventy-five dollars. We've got to go on doing it, too, every year, or we can't go to college. Joe's been reading figures about how much more college men make than men who don't go to college. so we've decided on that, as well." She nodded her head with perfect assurance as if with them to resolve were the same. as to perform.

I looked at her with an admiration which would have embarrassed her had she noticed it. But I was a thing of no consequence. Beneath her animation lay, in truth, the same impersonality, the same aloofness, which spoke out in the surly manner of her brother. But what a sense of power they gave me, those two youngsters! No man of the world. could go about his particular task with more dignity, precision, and confidence than Joe showed. And Joanna (so I called her, never knowing her true name) had brains, and a beauty that expressed them. She had arrived just by clearness of intellect at a sound economic vision of extension work as it is carried on by the Federal Department of Agriculture and the State colleges co-operating in two thousand and three hundred of the two thousand nine hundred and thirty-six counties in the United States. She had perceived at least the material values rendered again by the scientific production of foods, their preservation and balanced use. Did she have also, however unformulated, a sense of the characters and the standards which the work is developing among the people-characters and standards of which she herself was so beautiful an expression?

In the distance I saw Joe returning, and I knew that my hour had tolled. Was there no crystal-gazing gypsy in this market-place who would read to me the future of Joe and Joanna? As I walked away with scarcely the amenity of a good-by, so absorbed was Joanna in Joe's approach, it seemed to me that I must know in what paths life was going to lead those two children.

And then a great faith overtook me Always they would be under the guardianship of this movement, this extension education, whose class-room is as large as experience and gathers all ages together to study what never is completely learned; a school where pupils are also teachers and teachers pupils and where Joes and Joannas are continually growing wiser themselves and instructing others