THE post-election question in Canada is not “Was there any money?’ but “how much?” and “where did the money come from?” J. Israel Tarte said, as everybody knows, that “elections are not won with prayers.” A statement similar in substance, but somewhat different and perhaps a trifle more striking in the wording, is ascribed to Sir John Macdonald.
THE cliff stands a hundred feet high about mid-way in the valley. The mountains—the Rockies, that form the walls of the valley, look down upon it from all around and a little lake, little by comparison with the height of the cliff, lies at the foot of it.
THERE is doubtless a great deal of worldly success won by men who are not reliable as far as righteousness goes. But such success has its drawbacks. It works for a while, but is apt to break down like an unreliable engine. The unscrupulous man gains power or position, but not the respect of the better elements of the community; and in the long run, his life breaks down.
SUPPOSE that there had been a misunderstanding among the storks as to the order in which people were to be let into this world. I mean, suppose there had been a mix-up in the tickets of admission so that some people were let into the nice, warm, cheery glow of this world, out of the gloomy atmosphere of prenatal eternity, before their turn.
THE great unfinished Canal lay baking in the sun while half the ships in the world went traipsing around Cape Horn and twice the length of South America out of their way, and — while. Lyon and I stood at the top of the bank of the Calicut Ditch, and gazed down at our protege—young Grey.
WHAT IT IS WHENCE IT CAME SHALL WE HAVE A NATIONAL STYLE? HOW WILL IT BE DEVELOPED?
THE very modest array of questions set forth in the heading of this article was given me as something about which an interesting article might be written. I quite believe the answer to these questions would be very interesting, if anyone could be sure he knows what they are, or could condense them into a reasonably long article.
IT is trite to speak of the Romance of Steel. Everybody knows what steel and concrete and electricity have meant in modern industry. And yet steel is the most romantic of the three. A great generator in a hydraulic power house purrs softly like a dozing cat, seemingly motionless and vet lighting and energizing whole cities.
THE ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold, cold. They were alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of Fifth Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet, looked at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had evicted them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues.
My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips, The love that shall fade no more.
WHEN Earl Grey cast his eyes about him at his “drawing-room” of a few weeks ago—the last such function of his term — he beheld a brilliant sight. He beheld fair women, in wondrous, bejewelled gowns with great V’s in the back. He beheld brave men, nay heroes, who suffered in silence collars of exceeding height, and vast, arid stretches of spotless and effulgent shirt-front.
If I were God, Death’s wind should not destroy Men’s happiness, and none should sigh adieu, And tears should flow, but only tears of joy, Si j'etais Dieu. If I were God, the city’s saddened child Should smile in meadows fresh with summer dew, And none should fall, life-wearied and defiled, Si j'etais Dieu.
IT was a case of love at first sight, love open, eager, pursuing, on Warren’s side: love that disguised itself, was afraid, and so appeared to be bitter and resentful on the part of the woman. Charmian Leslie was—her friend Mrs. Brooks used to declare, a vestal virgin by choice up to a certain point.
Heavy with heat the murky sky hangs low; The slopes of pasture-land are bare and seared; A few rank burdocks, gaunt lone guards, are seen Within the hollows. Ragged willow trees— Whose leaves scarce shiver when a scorching breeze Quivers and dies—stand by the parching stones That like a narrow trail of bleaching bones, Mark where the streamlet died.
I HAVE been here ten years. I don’t know why. The people back at home vote the same way every year. They ask me to do nothing for them, and I do it— nothing I mean. I never could make a speech in all my life except at nomination meetings, and nine times out of ten I forget what time of year it is and wish everybody a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, probably in mid-summer.
It comes with early morning, The moment that I bless, When the new-born day is dawning At the end of storm and stress; And the honey-bees a-drumming Round the flower-beds are humming, Not a sweeter “daylight’s coming!” Than the droning of the press.
Another week had gone and we were still on the trail, between the head of the canyon and the summit of the Pass. Day after day was the same round of unflinching effort, under conditions that would daunt any but the stoutest hearts. The trail was in a terrible condition, sometimes well-nigh impassable, and many a time, but for the invincible spirit of the Prodigal, would I have turned back.
YOU have watched them set off one of the big set pieces in a display of fireworks. The chain of light flashes hither and thither around and across the framework, until all the outlines are filled in; then, with splutterings and shootings, the little connecting lines are completed; finally the blazing figure in all its perfection of outline stands forth brilliantly before the eye.
I have always thought a good deal of “The Sirdar", I believed that he was born to play “the lead,” In anything from pitch-and-toss—to murder, But now it seems he’s running fast to seed; I argued that the brain that planned and plotted Such strategy as won the Empire fame
This has nothing whatever to do with the tariff. The tariff is like some of the things man has discovered—radium, electricity, evolution, morals, hobble skirts and technical education commissions. It opens up a matter so large that there’s no grasping it.
LORD ROSEBERY carries a candle well. Some time ago he produced his book on Napoleon in exile. It illuminated the latter days of Napoleon wonderfully. It revealed angles and facets of Napoleon which had not been revealed before that time. He explained many of the influences which, acting as they did, upon a man of Napoleon’s temperament, produced much that had been misunderstood in Bonaparte.
JAPAN is now performing an experiment which is, from one point of view, new in the history of the world. Western nations have assumed political control of Eastern peoples in a number of cases. This has been done in turn by each of the great western nations.
ONE of the most interesting discussions of “War” is contained in the address of President David Starr Jordan, of Stanford University, before a gathering in Berlin recently. The address appears, translated from the German, in the Popular Science Monthly and is so refreshing in its treatment of the subject that we reprint it with as little condensation as was consistent with the exigencies of space.
THERE is a delightful optimism and convincing logic in the work of George Bourne, writing on the subject which is the heading of this article. It appears in the Forum for January. He points out that many of the reforms which have been brought about in England, and which are loosely called "Socialistic” are in reality the result of nothing more than a growth of a larger spirit of humanity in the country, rather than the result of Radical Propaganda.
DESPITE the frequent recurrence of archaeological discoveries which confirm the historical trustworthiness of Biblical narratives, with many persons these all count for little so long as they regard the Bible as a book abounding in stories of miracles.
FIRST thought sees no connection between haunted houses and the great white plague. But second thought knows there is some connection in many instances. And, by the way, Mr. Man-of-Slow-Belief, is your house haunted? Are you sure that it isn’t?
THERE'S a new confidence game, and it’s a big one, for it takes whole communities to play it. Within the next few years every municipal community with an ounce of progressiveness in its cosmos will be playing it. Municipalities like old Amsterdam and London and Vienna and Berlin, and even Christiana under the Northern Lights, are already alive to it, and asking New York pease to teach them the rules.
TO you who have lived in a day when wireless leaped trackless oceans and made continents talk with each other as men talk across a table; who have heard aeroplanes clatter out of misty obscurity and become appliances of human flight—to everyone possessing imagination and grasping the scope of man’s present-day triumphs there will still be a surprise in learning that human genius has wrested a secret from Death; the secret of restoring life to dead bodies; of calling man back from the dead.
"OUR clerks are getting stale,” admitted the junior partner, snapping a rubber band round a pitifully small bundle of sales slips. He was store superintendent, and part of his job was to keep the clerical force “up to concert pitch.”
TIMES come in every credit man’s experience when the old methods fail. Hard-shell debtors manage to pass every guard of precaution, and set themselves down with seeming immovability upon the firm’s books. Chronic delinquents persist in trifling at the very border-line of credit.
CAN a man be imagined buying stocks without inquiring what the stocks represent, or a housekeeper ordering a basketful of groceries and not seeking to learn the contents of the basket? Yet something rather like this takes place when the average buyer exchanges his cash for a ton of coal.
NOT many years ago any factory employing more than half a hundred workers possessed a sign, more or less battered, reading “Men Wanted.” Most any Monday morning, and always on the day after a holiday, you could find this sign swinging on the street side of factory walls all over the country.
MR. BLANK, begins Herbert L. Towle, writing in Recreation, has made up his mind to buy an automobile. Can we help him out with some advice? Well, maybe. But first we must ask some questions, doctor fashion, before we can prescrible. What does he wish to pay for car, equipment and extras complete?
Bolivar was very unhappy. One of his cherished schemes had fallen through, and the man he had counted on to pay his dividends had gone away. “Oh, well, never mind, Bolly,” said Bunker. “What if Slithers did get away from you? There’s just as big fish in the sea.”