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try's foes, and used German money to propagate his doctrines. To a fanatic who repudiates nationality and nationhood (except for one class) there was nothing derogatory in such a proceeding. To him all means were good provided he could achieve his end." One of the most conspicuous-not to say spectacular figures in the Russian Revolution was the moderate Socialist Kerensky, who entered the first Provisional Government as Minister of Justice, afterward became Minister of War, and finally, upon the retirement of Prince Lvoff, succeeded the latter as Premier. Mr. Wilton describes him as "a highly strung, somewhat hysterical young man, who was the son of a Russian schoolmaster and a German mother of Jewish descent. He passed his early manhood in comfortable surroundings in Tashkend, where his father was director of the local high school." Afterward he moved to Simbirsk, became a struggling lawyer, specialized in political" cases, and was finally elected to the Duma from the province of Saratof. He soon distinguished himself as a bold and fiery orator, and became the leader of the political faction known as the "Group of Toil." He had, however, very little knowledge of governmental affairs, and when, at the outbreak of the Revolution, "greatness was thrust upon him it reached far above his mental and moral caliber. He was not of gentle birth or upbringing, nor was he a statesman by genius or experience. Well-intentioned enough, he found himself torn by a thousand conflicting cares and interests. As Minister-President, uniting in his person the offices of Minister of War and Marine and Commander-in-Chief, he became more distracted and more crushed by his burdens." Mr. Wilton blames him for breaking down discipline in the army, first by abolishing the death penalty, and then by issuing the so-called "Soldiers' Charter," six or seven sections of which are wholly incompatible with military order and efficiency. He also accuses him of playing fast and loose with the Bolsheviki, and of betraying General Kornilov when the latter tried to help him by sending a force of cavalry to Petrograd. Kerensky, Mr. Wilton thinks, was, above all, irresolute and weak. Lenine, after overthrowing the coalition Government in November, 1917, said of him: "Kerensky is Kerensky is nobody. He has always hesitated. He has never done anything and is always vacillating. He was a partisan of Kornilov, and had him arrested. He was an opponent of Trotsky, and he allowed him his liberty. And, as he has not dared to defend himself, I firmly believe he did not dare to attack us." (Interview with a correspondent of the "Matin," November 10, 1917.)

Of all the military leaders who distinguished themselves in the revolutionary period Mr. Wilton thinks most highly of the Cossack Generals Kaledin and Kornilov. The latter, he says, "proved himself to be a great leader of men-I may say, one of the greatest military commanders of his time-as well as a clearsighted statesman." If Kerensky had followed his advice instead of ordering his arrest, the Bolsheviki would not have been able to overthrow the coalition Government in November, 1917, and the whole subsequent course of Russian history might have been different. Even Bourtsef, one of the oldest and most experienced of the Russian revolutionists, a man whom it was impossible to suspect of counter-revolutionary tendencies, advised Kerensky to arrest Lenine and Trotsky and imprison them in the fortress; but, as Lenine afterward contemptuously said, "Kerensky did not dare either to attack us or to defend himself."

The hope of Russia, Mr. Wilton thinks, is embodied in the Cossacks. "It was thanks to the Cossacks," he says, "that Russia did not go to pieces in the first weeks of the Revolution; they alone restored a semblance of order on the railways and kept desertion in check; they held the country against the inroads of Bolshevism. But they were only one hundred thousand horsemen scattered over a front of fifteen hundred miles and many more miles of railway. They were willing and able to support the Government, but they could not save Russia singlehanded against a coalition of Government and Soviet, both dallying with Bolshevism. Kerensky sought their aid when it pleased his fancy or suited his purpose. Then he turned on them to negotiate' with Lenine." It is the Cossacks, and only the Cossacks, who, under General Kornilov in European Russia and General Semeonof in Siberia, are still fighting the Bolsheviki and striving to save their country from anarchy and from German domination.

The rule of Lenine and Trotsky, Mr. Wilton thinks, cannot

last long. "Bolshevism," he says, "is a destructive, not a constructive, agency. It has laid waste the country agriculturally and industrially, and it offers no practicable method of feeding and clothing the people. Thus, from an economic point of view, the continuance of the present régime is an impossibility. From a political standpoint it is equally absurd. Bolshevism is the deadliest foe of our civilization, and we may hope that the modern Huns who have launched this visitation will have cause to regret their foul work, as they already have deplored the application of poison gases. The Russians survived Tatardom. They are a great multitude, and they have not all succumbed to the German Bolshevist poison. The Revolution has stirred up the dregs and muddied the current of national life; but it effects have not been altogether unsalutary, nor have its lessons been lost upon the best elements of the nation. A new Russia is springing up amid the ruins of the old. The day of Lenine and destruction draws to a close. Do not believe outward aspects and appearances. Russia is not dead. Her agony, still upon her, is not the agony of death, but the agony of a living, breathing organism struggling to find expression, wrestling against the fiend of Bolshevism that has gripped her when she was at her weakest. . . . Three centuries ago Russia was afflicted, as she now is, with a' time of confusion.' Then Minir, a tradesman of Nizhni, aroused the people, and Count Pozharsky led them. In a week they had driven the Polish invader out of Moscow. History repeats itself."

Mr. Sack's book, "The Birth of the Russian Democracy," is, in a certain sense, complementary to the work of Mr. Wilton. It contains neither an account of personal experience nor a record of personal observation; but, on the other hand, it corers a much wider field than that with which Mr. Wilton deals. and gives a fuller and more consecutive account of the revolutionary movement, from the conspiracy of the Decembrists in 1825 to the usurpation of authority by the Bolsheviki in the fall of 1917. Thirteen chapters are devoted to "The History of the Russian Revolutionary Movement," and five more to the "Spiritual Leaders" by whom that movement was guided. No fuller or better account, probably, is to be found in the English language of the ideas, the men, and the events that finally brought about the overthrow of the Czar's Government in March, 1917. The biographical sketches of the great revolutionary leaders-Bakunin, Lavrov, Kropotkin, Breshkovsky, and Plekhanof-are accurate and interesting. and contain many details of personal experience and adventure that are little known-if known at all-to American readers.

To "The Birth of the Russian Democracy" Mr. Sack de votes thirteen chapters (300 octavo pages), but, unlike Mr. Wilton, he tells the story of the Revolution largely through original documents, connecting them by enough lucid narrative to show the circumstances or the sequence of events in which they had their origin. This collection of speeches, addresses. orders, proclamations, and resolutions comprises the whole documentary history of the Russian Revolution, and gives the political programme of almost every group or faction that has played a part in it, as well as the aims or opinions of every prominent leader who has influenced it. Even the speeches of Elihu Root in Russia and Ambassador Bakhmetieff in the United States are given in full. This feature of the book gives it great value both as a work of reference and as a compendium of revolutionary opinions and judgments.

The most striking difference between Mr. Wilton's book and Mr. Sack's is in the point of view. Wilton's position is that of a rather conservative British journalist, while Sack looks at events from the view-point of a moderate, thoughtful, and reasonable Socialist. Both are fair and both are uncompromisingly hostile to Prussianism and Bolshevikism; but Wilton would like to see a constitutional monarchy in Russia, while Sack favors a government in which there shall be no ruler except the sovereign people. With regard to many questions, however, the two writers are in almost perfect agreement. Wilton, for example, attributes the demoralization and disintegration of the Russian army largely to "Order No. 1" of the Workmen's Council and theSoldiers' Charter" of Kerensky. Sack expresses practically the same judgment when he says: "Kerensky's 'Declaration of Soldiers' Rights,' together with the famous No. 1,' may be considered as the most fatal acts of the Revolu

Order

tion. These decrees were probably psychologically inevitable, but their fatal rôle in the destruction of the Russian army cannot be overestimated." (Page 421.)

Mr. Sack's book is written in fluent, idiomatic English; it is profusely illustrated with portraits of revolutionary leadersmany of them rare and some of them excellent; and it has an

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admirable index in which may be found the name of almost every prominent Russian revolutionist who has lived since 1825. The two books—“ Russia's Agony " and " The Birth of the Russian Democracy "-taken together furnish the best history we have or are likely to have in the near future of the Russian Revolution, with its antecedents and its consequences.

BOARDED the midnight express for Buffalo on Tuesday, April 24, on a tour that was mapped out by the National Service Section of the United States Shipping Board, Emergency Fleet Corporation, of which Dr. Charles A. Eaton is the head, to encircle the United States. My ticket measured five feet in length. It covered nearly nine thousand rail miles. My mission was to help speed up ship-building by addressing shipworkers in every shipyard from Buffalo to Seattle, from Seattle to San Diego, and from San Diego to the Hampton Roads.

I was not alone. Sergeant-Major Smith, late of the Marne, of Ypres, Salonika, and Gallipoli, and prior to that of Cluna, Tibet, and India-cockney-born, but known in the British army as Smith of America-bore me company. Smith had settled peacefully down to the idyllic occupation of growing grapefruit on the Isle of Pines-that treasure island out in the lazy Caribbean Sea-where war once more caught him. Metaphorically beating his plowshare into a sword and his pruning hook into a spear, he went over the top at fifty years of age, and, after three thrilling years on all the principal fronts, he came home with the one regret that he didn't get the Kaiser. However, he is doing the next best thing to that. He is stirring the men in the shipyards to build the bridge of ships over which the great armies of America can march to Berlin.

I had been inspired with the magnitude of the shipyards on the Atlantic seaboard, I had seen something of the keelways on the Pacific, I had heard of the great preparation of the Gulf ports not to be behind any other coast in the production of tonnage. But of the Great Lakes shipyards little was known to me, or is known to-day, I believe, to the general American public. Yet these Lakes shipyards are doing a great National work, and are doing it under singular difficulties. Ice-bound for the winter months, subject to a temperature of 40° below zero at times, and limited in their launchings by the Welland Canal, the Great Lakes do not, on the face of things, appear to offer great facilities for the output of ocean-going vessels.

Of all the disabilities under which ship production on the Great Lakes suffers, however, that of the limitations imposed by the Welland Canal is the greatest. The canal is the narrow neck to the great depressions that inclose an inland sea. Its locks limit the length and width of beam of the vessel that requires to pass through to the ocean beyond. A ship must not be longer than 261 feet, nor wider in beam than 42 feet 6 inches. This fixes somewhat definitely the tonnage that can be launched on the upper waters of the St. Lawrence.

To overcome this disability the Lakes shipyards have sometimes cut boats in halves, and this practice will, I understand, probably be resorted to in order to produce a more serviceable freighter than is now possible. The present type of ocean-going cargo carrier produced on the Lakes is uneconomical, inasmuch as the space taken up for boilers and crew leaves too small an area for cargo. The tonnage capacity of the present class of vessel which is being built in this district for the American Government approximates thirty-five hundred tons. It is possible to increase that tonnage probably to fifty-five hundred tons by cutting the ship in two and taking each part separately through the locks. Beyond that it would not be safe to go, because a good sea boat must be somewhat proportionate longitudinally to her width of beam and her depth, and these two latter factors are definitely determined by the Welland Canal.

Suggestions have been put forward for slicing ships in four and dovetailing the parts together in an assembling shop on the lower river; but this process involves considerable additional labor and time, and it is doubtful whether the extra space that

would thus be secured would warrant the delay in construction. One ship-builder, while expressing the belief that the idea was not impracticable, said: "We could build two smaller boats. probably quicker than we could quarter up the larger one."

That the Lakes shipyards can turn out mammoth boats is revealed in the great fleet of ore freighters which carry coal and iron ore between Superior and the shores of Lake Michigan. There is nothing more impressive on the face of the waters, unless it be a war-ship, than a long-nosed, black-hulled leviathan pushing its relentless way through the breaking ice or up against the ore bins, there to load up with a freight that shortly will be transformed into rails or roaring engines, into boiler plate or big guns, or into steel that will go screaming into the German lines in the form of shells.

These great ships, with their smoke-stacks astern, are in some instances 625 feet long, 60 feet in beam, 20 feet draught, and, with their 2,000 horse-power and averaging 10 knots, carry as much as 13,000 tons of ore in a single haul. It takes only two and a half hours to fill up all the holds of such a ship with the red iron ore, and a little longer to unload, such is the character of the labor-saving machinery installed at the inland ports of America. A boat of 10,000 tons will pull alongside a wharf, say, at Cleveland or Toledo at ten in the morning, empty herself of 10,000 tons of iron, load up with coal, and be steaming out by five o'clock in the afternoon.

Duluth Harbor claims to be the second port in the world in point of tonnage shipped. It has long since outdistanced Liverpool's total.

In July last year it was estimated that 700 tons of freight was loaded or unloaded at the Duluth-Superior wharfs and docks every minute of the twenty-four hours per day. Upon the Great Lakes themselves is borne a commerce of 100,000,000 tons annually, and there is no place in the world that approaches the Lakes for cheapness in the handling and hauling of its water-borne commerce. Ore and coal were hauled in pre-war days to and from Superior to Lake Erie ports, one thousand miles away, the round trip costing a dollar a ton, or one-twentieth of a cent per mile.

The tonnage now under construction in the Great Lakes shipyards on behalf of the Emergency Fleet Corporation is an everincreasing one. Old yards are expanding as though the wand of the magician had been waved over them. New yards are being improvised along inland waters whose quietude was never before disturbed by the whiffing rattle of the riveting machine. Still further yards are projected in placid upper river reaches that till now have launched no other boat than the Indian canoe. Of Canadian ship-building activity I have seen nothing but ships being launched along the Canadian shore at Toronto and other river cities. On the United States side we spoke in the yards of Buffalo, Cleveland, Lorain, Toledo, Detroit, Chicago, Manitowoc, Superior, and Duluth. We missed only Sturgeon Bay. At present more than twenty-two thousand men are here employed in actual ship construction, while probably an equal number are engaged in the manufacture of parts in lake shore cities. These figures necessarily take no cognizance of men working in steel mills, in coal and iron mines, and in other callings more or less incidental to the building of ships. Within a few months not less than sixty thousand men will be engaged in launching these lifeboats of liberty.

There is undoubtedly a shortage of skilled ship-builders here, as there is in every other part of America. Riveters are being trained in specially devised schools, but practical experience cannot be secured in a day. Men's muscles must be hardened

and adjusted to the work. As one of the most successful shipbuilders remarked to me: "If it needs six months to train a soldier to endure the rigors of the trenches, it may be taken for granted that it requires a few months to enable a man to stay for hours in all sorts of positions and weather fastening steel plates on the side of a ship."

There is a shortage of skilled turners and fitters, of engineers and other craftsmen, and these, again, cannot be produced in a week or two.

The building up of the executive of a yard also calls for time and experience. In all these directions the ship-building corporations of the Great Lakes have had to face difficulties which called for patience, persistence, and a big faith in themselves.

Here is the story in brief of one Duluth shipyard as handed to me by the management:

Where this shipyard now is there was land under water in September, 1917. Since then the new land was made, the new shipyard established, and we have built four steel ships while ice formed thirty-eight. inches thick. After cutting away six thousand tons of ice the first ship was launched February 25, 1918, others following ten days apart.

In the first six months we built the plant and four steel hulls and had three others forty per cent made.

In four months, on vacant land, fifty houses and three hotels for our men were built-all steam-heated from a central plant. Also a faithful, contented crew of 1,200 ship-building men was collected. We have a happy community here, including a small academy where young men are taught the arts of shipbuilding.

We now make our own engines, and soon will have our boiler shops finished, when we hope to make one complete ship every three weeks, or in less time. We have lots of room, to expand, and intend to do so.

That they have succeeded so well is in itself a fine tribute to their organizing skill and their patriotism.

They have succeeded in some of the yards in providing two shifts, thereby utilizing the machinery of manufacture for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four. Riveting is not done in such cases by night, but the plates are bolted into position under powerful overhead lights which are fixed on the crane and elsewhere, and which turn night into day. The riveting gauges are then concentrated on this job in the daylight hours.

I saw women working at some of the lathes in an engine shop at Buffalo, and the manager was perfectly satisfied with his experiment. For lathe and similar work women are admirably suited. They are painstaking and efficient, and do not seem to tire at the job. Woman has not invaded the keelways themselves, but for the lighter industrial jobs the American girl should prove as efficient as her English sister.

The Lakes yards have attracted some of the best ship-building brains in America. There is no camouflage here about the business of building ships; that is reserved for the ship itself before it heads its way down-stream. The executives of the yards know their job, and in nearly every instance are away ahead of their schedule. The men are putting up records for rivet-driving that will call for a big spurt in other districts if they are to be beaten. They are in most instances one hundred per cent loyal Americans, if one may judge on a Liberty-bond basis.

Necessarily there is still some room for improvement, particularly in sticking to the job and working six days a week. On Saturday afternoon in one yard we found the iron-workers absent, owing to some mistaken interpretation of their agreement with the authorities at Washington. If those men only realized how many lives that laying off for Saturday afternoon involved, they would not only forego that half-holiday, but would put in extra time to make up for it. It is our task to bring such things

home to them.

When these men are told of the great dependence of our Navy upon an adequate number of colliers, and that Pershing's army is dependent for shells and guns upon the store provided by France and Great Britain for their own use, and that this condition of affairs exists solely because of the lack of ships, they respond by expressed determination to make up the leeway. When it is brought home to them that the world's immediate shortage of ships amounts to 7,500,000 tons, without allowing for submarine sinkings, and that the Allies built only 3,000,000

tons last year against 6,000,000 tons sunk by U-boats, they take a grip of the situation and hold up-both hands to the appeal to stand by their mates at the front.

Strikes are happily now unknown in these shipyards. The man who talked strike would be regarded as an agent for the Kaiser, and he would probably be tipped into the ice-cold lake waters, to get out as best-he could.

That the Lakes are destined to become a great center of ship-building activity is, I think, assured.

Mr. Ford, whose gift for organization has made him world famous, selected Detroit. as the best location for the production of the Eagle the new standardized type of submarine chaser. A huge Eagle factory is in course of construction at present on the Detroit River. Its size may be gauged from the statement made to me by one of Mr. Ford's chief assistants, that it was. three-quarters of a mile from either end to the center of the plant.

It is anticipated that 40,000 men will be engaged in the construction of Eagles. The output is expected to reach one ship per day. Even if this be an over-sanguine estimate, and I am inclined to think it is, the production of three ships in two days will be a mighty answer to the submarines of the Kaiser.

The Eagle type of chaser, one of which is erected in the Ford Motor Works, has lines so fine that she would cut a ship in halves without feeling much shock from the impact. I mounted the decks, and the thought came to me that, as Mr. Ford himself has suggested, this is a war of tool power, and there lay the answer of a peace-loving manufacturer to the military power of Germany.

Another reason for belief that these Lakes shipyards will prove themselves valuable, even when peace comes, rests upon a geographical basis. Iron lies at their gates. Great steel works flourish in their midst. At Gary, Indiana, Chicago, Duluth, Detroit, and other Lakes ports the glow of the blast-furnace burns a hole in the night and tall chimneys smoke the face of the sun by day. Truly a pillar of cloud by day, of fire by night. The scene expresses, as it were, the very incarnation of American energy.

To take the ore from the great mines of Lake Superior; to convert it into steel; to fashion that steel into plates and beams; to assemble those into the form of a ship; to launch that ship upon the adjacent waters; to fill it there and then with the food grown out in the Western prairies or with the goods that pour out of the great factories of those roaring cities along the Lake fronts-all this seems logical and predestined.

A line of great cities stand as trade sentinels on either shoreToronto, Fort William, and other Canadian centers to the north; Buffalo, Cleveland, Toledo, Detroit, Chicago with its three million people, Milwaukee, Duluth, and a dozen smaller centers on the United States shore.

What cities they are, vigorous with young life, stretching their giant limbs, and facing the future with indomitable confidence in themselves!

Their civic aspirations are expressed in those words cut into the granite base of the statue to the late Tom L. Johnson, Mayor of Cleveland:

"He found us groping,

Leaderless and blind. He left a city

With a civic mind. He found us striving, Each his selfish part. He left a city

With a civic heart."

But the people of the Great Lakes are thinking not in terms of peace nor of a narrow civic freedom. Theirs is the larger vision. The precious freightage they are speeding down-stream are their sons, who will carry with them to France the spirit of the Declaration of Independence. And the ship-builders are doing their part in this great world crisis.

For ships are the key to victory. Liberty calls to us acros the waters to

"Launch our Mayflower and steer boldly
Through the desperate winter's sea,
Nor attempt the future's portal

With the past's blood-rusted key."

So one by one the strong young eagles fall,
Yet day by day new eagles take the sky,
Beating with eager pinions at the wall

Where those who live are those who dare to die.

So one by one the strong young eagles fall
With broken wings but with unconquered souls,
Leaving to those who follow where they call
A flaming, far-flung vision of their goals.

"OU'D treat children that way?" asked old Evans, slowly. "Certainly, if their parents carried them into danger."

“You'd throw them into the cold sea?"

"It wouldn't be my lookout."

"And women, you'd-you'd—” Old Evans stopped, lacking words.

A low, coarse laugh answered him.

"War is war," said another voice. “It's not a tea party, like your war.'

In the vast cylindrical room there was after this complete stillness. From without not a sound carried through the unbroken walls, and within there was not even the buzzing of a fly, since old Evans pursued flies as relentlessly as he had once pursued Confederates. Even the birds which twittered under the lofty roof were for the moment still.

The Cyclorama of the Battle of Gettysburg was at this moment at its best. The sun was close to setting, and the brilliant ight, reflected from a clear sky, shone from above upon the undreds of square feet of painted canvas with which the walls were covered. Time had softened the bright colors, but the light seemed now to restore the yellow of the wheat, the blue and red of the waving banners, even the scarlet of the blood-stains. The eruel scene was presented in a romantic glow which brightened and glorified.

Old Evans was a little man in a blue suit, with a saber cut cross his face and a grotesquely twisted leg. The saber cut nade him appear indescribably ferocious, the crooked leg indeeribably ridiculous. Facing him stood three men, heavy, soft of esh, and elegantly dressed. All four were angry; old Evans ith the white heat with which one contemplates some outageous wrong, the others with the annoyance with which one reards an insect before the moment of smiting. Old Evans moved step backward, his limp more than ever ridiculous to the visiors. One of them laughed again. At that a gleam which was lnost insane came into Evans's eye. He moved still farther away. Even in war time visitors throng to Gettysburg. They come a automobiles and in trains, in the most elegant of limousines nd in the most plebeian of Fords. They drive about, the indiferent idly glancing at that which does not particularly concern hem, the others gazing with the eager attention of those who ave within them springs of imagination or patriotic emotion at hat which thrills and stirs them. They visit the Jenny Wade House, where fell the one woman slain in a three days' battle; hey visit East Cemetery Hill, where the Louisiana Tigers were hurled back, broken; they visit the Angle behind which ose a living and impregnable breastwork; they visit the scene of Pickett's charge and look across the wide fields once strewn with the defenders of a Lost Cause; they stand at last-the most lull a little awed-before the Cyclorama. There some refuse to give more than a glance, not now from lack of interest, but from right—from stubborn unwillingness to look at war.

At the Cyclorama they see also old Evans, whose youth was lorious and whose old age is happy. Old Evans received both aber cut and shell wound at the Angle on the third day, and Fell, yelling defiance, to know no more for many weeks. Once

out of the hospital, he was, to his great disgust, invalided, and his military appearances were thenceforth limited to an absurd hopping in military and Memorial Day parades, where, laughed at and applauded, he kept bravely up with more fortunate comrades who had two sound legs.

In his old age Evans was made guardian of what he believed to be the treasure of the world, the Cyclorama of the Battle of Gettysburg, which, after many journeys and long sojournings in great cities, had found at last a permanent home. Evans had seen few paintings in his life, but he did not need any extensive knowledge of art to tell him that this was a great painting. Here was Gettysburg-could one not distinguish the Seminary, dim but unmistakable, in the distance; could one not see the very trees which Pickett's men made their desperate goal, the very Angle in the stone wall which was bathed in blood? Here were the generals, Hunt among his staff, Hancock magnificent on his great horse, Armistead reeling backward, the heroic symbol of splendid defeat. Here were flying banners, here were smoke clouds, here was a caisson bursting volcanically into red flame and spreading ruin, here were injured men in tortured positions, here were surgeons at their sad work, here was even an old Gettysburg doctor, pressed into service and painted to the life! Here was, moreover, ripe wheat, exactly the proper color for July 3 in Gettysburg-Evans had observed it since fifty-two times here were red poppies in the wheat, here were the distant hills with Jack's Mountain plainly to be seen, there in the distance was even a dim suggestion of Emmittsburg!

Old Evans met visitors with the enthusiasm of a child. He loved to talk, he could talk almost all day.

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'Well, friends, you've come to see the painting. A treat's in store for you. Before taking you into the main room I'll tell you what you're going to see. A colossal work, friends. A battle. This is a great day for you, children. Have you been over the field? Well, there's no choice between going over the field before you see the Cyclorama or after you see the Cyclorama, just so you see it, friends. Yes, a quarter. A quarter may seem large now, but it's a small price for what you're going to get. Now, look!"

When Evans had said his speech, he accompanied his guests to the door and gave them a benediction.

"Up the street now, friends, to the graves of the unbeknownst."

Evans not only adored the picture but defended it. "You say there ain't any poppies in Gettysburg wheat? You drive to Pen Mar and you'll see poppies in the wheat. There's nothing to prove that there weren't poppies here then. French haystacks? That's a small matter to fuss about. It might be that a Gettysburg farmer made a haystack like that for a change."

Evans even feared the Cyclorama. In the twilight, when he looked about, the masses of smoke seemed to move, to roll forward on the battle-lines, the dying and even the dead to stir. On moonlight nights one rider seemed to Evans to urge his white steed forward, and Evans thought of Death on his pale horse. Then Evans heard shouts and screams and the roar of cannon, and quickly closed the door of the tall iron grating

between the Cyclorama and the vestibule, and then the outer door itself.

Old Evans had many friends. Among his intimates were the blacksmith, John Byers, who was the largest man in Gettys burg; Alec Dimmet, a carpenter, who was six feet two and of powerful frame; and John Potter, the Burgess, who was only a little smaller than John Byers.

Evans lived with the Burgess, a silent man who liked to hear Evans talk. Seen together they suggested a giant and his familiar. Agreement between them was complete, both about their manner of living and about the affairs of the world. Especially did they now agree about what Evans called "the contemporary war," and their comments took the form of a lengthy recitative in Evans's tenor with comments in Potter's deep bass. The recitative recounted the events of each day as reported in the newspapers, the bass added such expressions as hellish butchery," "execrable," and occasionally "damnable." When Alec Dimmet and John Byers were present, there were three harmonious basses.

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It was the summer of 1916 when the three stout strangers came to Gettysburg. Obese and rich, they were motoring from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia, and stopped against their will. The ride was dull. For them nature had few charms; they wished only to get on to their business appointment the next evening. They saw neither blossoming rhododendron nor swift little streams nor the unbounded prospects spread before them at each descent of the mountain ridges. Here and there enormous signs, already disfiguring the Lincoln Highway, caught their eye, and they pointed them out to one another as the one notable feature of the landscape.

The three talked steadily, moved by a strange obsession. A red flower had blossomed in the world from an ancient root long thought dead and done with, and this blossom they meditated upon and loved. They were soft and pampered creatures who could not have stood for an instant against a good-sized and strong-armed boy, yet they glorified physical power. They were Americans, speaking only English, knowing only-as far as they knew any literature-English literature, living under English laws, partaking of the blessings of a free spirit which was also English, and still by some strange perversity allying themselves with the Germany from which their fathers had fled. Of its efficiency in peace and war they talked at length and loudly, of the satisfaction of brutal instincts which a world has striven to inhibit they spoke in lower tones but with a deeper pleasure.

In the early afternoon they reached Gettysburg, and there were told by their chauffeur that their car could not go on until the next day. Meanwhile he would have to go by train to Harrisburg for a broken part.

The three were angry. The history of America did not interest them. Gettysburg looked to them like a poor town, and to them, by some obscure analogy, the battle was a poor battle. To the soliciting of the guides at the hotel they were deaf.

"This is a one-horse show. We'll wait and see France and England when Germany's licked them."

After an early supper the three walked ponderously up and down the hills of a long street and came at last to the Cyclorama. Because they were tired they went in.

Old Evans hopped to meet them, his eyes twinkling. He had had that day only a few visitors and his soul longed for expression. All the comparisons invented could scarcely describe the need of old Evans for frequent communion with his kind. Tomorrow he expected to be away, and there was therefore all the more reason why he should talk to-day.

"Well, friends"-thus had he spoken aloud to himself several times during the long afternoon, hearing, as he spoke, the usual comments-" Wasn't it awful?" "How did they live through it?" "I tell you those were brave men!" He expected, as he went forward to meet this group of visitors, a repetition of his little triumphs. He moistened his lips, he heard himself saying, "Now, friends, a general look first ;" he heard his climax, "There I fought, friends!"

Kindly old Evans was so poor a judge of human character of a certain sort that he shook hands with his three visitors.

"Sit down, friends, here in the vestibule. This is a warm evening. I'll tell you here what you're going to see, then we'll go inside. Now, friends, to do that I must go back a little before

the battle. You see, friends, it was this way. For two years, friends, war had been proceeding, and our folks hadn't been successful. You know all about that. Lee, he conceived a great plan. If he could get north of Mason and Dixon's line and attack the capital of the Keystone State, which was Harrisburg, he wouldn't have much trouble-so he thought with Philadel phia, and after that Baltimore and Washington would be easy marks. So, having whipped our folks bad at Chancellorsville, he made his plans for to go north, and he did go north, friends. clear to sight of Harrisburg. But then, friends, he got impor tant word that set him thinking. Our folks was after him. Bu he thought that General Stuart could easily tend to them with his cavalry, and he goes on. He-"

Old Evans found himself interrupted.

"Say, friend," said a harsh voice, "we haven't got all time. We've got to be in Philadelphia to-morrow evening."

Evans made pleasant answer, as though to a witticism. H had not yet surmised that there might be human beings whe were not interested in what he had to say.

"I haven't got all time either," said he, cheerfully. “I'n going to East Berlin this evening to stay till to-morrow evening I have a little farm there. I-"

"It's a town near here. My friend the Burgess is going to take charge of this place for me to-morrow."

"I'm glad you're good Germans in this neighborhood." Old Evans did not hear. He took a long breath, as for a plunge into the deep water.

"So Lee went on, friends. But it wasn't long till he learne the sickenin' news—that is, sickenin' to him-that Stuart hai not been successful in bafflin' Hooker, and that Hooker ha outgeneraled Stuart. What did this make Lee determine to d friends? To give up his nefarious plan of attacking the capita: of the Keystone State--from which it had a narrow escape, 1 can tell you-and get his folks first together, and then out the narrow valley where they was, which would have been the same as a prison trap. So, friends—”

The largest of the three men rose and walked toward the iro grating which divided the vestibule from the Cyclorama. Insidand well within the cylindrical room there was still another grating.

"You'd better show us what you got. We can look while you talk."

Evans held out a pleading hand.

"You'll be glad when you get in to understand a little. It very confusing if you don't understand." The stranger sat down.

"All!" repeated Evans. He laughed at the stranger's jok guess this is enough!"

"Go on with your story," commanded another.

Evans took his long wand, and again filled his lungs with air. Now, friends, you see—

"Ain't we to sit down?" asked one of the strangers. "You won't want to sit down-that is, not yet. Now, friendsOne man reached suddenly a climax of irritation. He nocke Evans in a low tone, as though Evans were a sheep. But stil Evans did not hear.

"So, now, friends, as I have told you, the first day was a tory for the Confederates; the second day was, one might say so to speak, a drawn battle, and it was left to the third day t decide that God was still in his heaven, friends, if I might spea in such strong terms. It was on the third day that the gre question was decided, friends. Here at this point "—the le wand rested upon the thickest of the carnage" here gover ment of the people, by the people, and for the people did perish from the earth-"