THE men who hold high places in the social and governmental system of the British Empire are so often credited with the virtues of paragons and the abilities of Napoleons that the general public seldom learns their real worth; and, instead, comes to regard almost all of them as over-rated gentlemen traveling through the world on the credit of their ancestors and their social position.
COLONEL COPP was a little man with a benevolent head of white hair, a red cherubic countenance, and one of the astutest minds in the city. The dinners which he was in the habit of giving at the Hotel Cecil, where he had a suberb suite, were absolute epochs in lavish hospitality and gastronomic excellence.
TWO thousand miles away the grain starts to ripen, and He starts to come. At first it is only a restlessness, then an uneasiness, then discontent. And finally, when he goes to the village with the big mare to get the mail and swap a bit of conversation with the other fellows loafing outside the post office, he sees the big yellow posters which the railway company has posted all over the village, inviting him to come, telling him how cheap the fare is and how much money he will earn in the Western harvest fields.
MOST of those who have attained success of any kind, have been able to speak the language of the country wherein their energies were put forth. Most men, planning for the future of their children, believe in teaching the said children the language of the country in which they are to live.
THIS is the story of a man—half boy and half man—who set out to build himself a great castle, and when he had pulled great stones together ready for the raising of the walls and the towers of the building, and when he had even raised some of the walls to a height which showed how great a castle it was to be—he suddenly left off at his castle-building and went away with men who told him that there was a greater work to be done; who told him of a land of dragons, and who said that it would be much better work to go in for killing the dragons than for finishing the walls of the castle.
Sunshine is the land where blossoms blow, Nodding their graceful bonnets to and fro; Where buttercups and sweet white dasies grow, Slender and green. Sunshine is the land where butterflies, Through the scented gardens, dip and rise. And o'er the streamlet flutter, as it lies In the silver sheen.
HIS name was Clamour—Cyril Clamour— and he was a Man. If Mr. Clamour was specially proud of anything, it was of being a man. In his secret soul he spelled the word with a capital letter. Yet it may be confessed that, judged by masculine standpoints, he fell short.
Life is too short that we should walk apart, Who’ve walked together o’er familiar ways. I cannot still your music in my heart— I cannot banish dear, remembered days! Life is too short that we should waste our hours In silent grieving, striving to be brave,— In piling high, with sadly faded flowers The place within our hearts we call a grave.
HOW important a part windows play in human life is evident from the constant references to it to be found in the literatures of all ages. It was from a window in the ark that Noah sent forth the raven and the dove and his family beheld the waters recede from the face of the earth.
While wandering in a dream-filled space, Where ghosts from dead old years pass by, And in the midst from whence they came Are swallowed up, nor leave a name, We met—this haunting form and I— And paused a moment, face to face. The stirring depths of memory Held such a man.
The dogs! The dogs were closing in. Nearer and nearer they drew, headed by a fierce Mackenzie river bitch. They wondered why their master did not wake; they wondered why the little tent was so still; why no plume of smoke rose from the slim stovepipe.
TO be able to ride free on a railroad train is one of those blissful sensations which is probably more enjoyed in imagination by people who do not have passes than it is in reality by those who do. It is such a commonplace to the man with a pocketful of annuals to travel around for nothing, that he soon ceases to enjoy the experience.
Light loves and lighter laughter, Let kisses break the song— Though sorrow follow after We while the world along. We never deal with Reason, Nor speak the tongue of Trade; To barter were a treason For us, the unafraid. All cheerful in disaster, We smile at every fate.
BETWEEN the world of politics and the atmosphere of diplomacy a wide gulf seems fixed. The one is a reality and obvious to the common man, because in the political world the common man has a voice. It is a game he understands and it is to a great extent played in the open: the politician seeks the platform where all the world may hear him and acclaim his genius.
THIRTEEN, black, odd and second dozen!” The group gathered around the black and red painted table broke into a nervous laugh at the sound of the number condemned by usage as unlucky. “I can’t buck thirteen! She’s a repeater to-night.” A jovial, red-faced drummer counted a few five and ten-cent pieces, all that was left of his pile, and laughingly made his way toward the door.
THE other day a poet friend of mine, who had lived in close communication with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor. It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
'THE trouble with you, Morley, is you’re not keen!” “In what particular, dear Betty?” queried the young man with the respectful gravity in which he usually accepted her occasional lectures. “Well, you never seem to consider anything worth while.”
WATERFRONT swore vengeance with a flow of language that would have done credit to a mule-skinner, then begged the makings. As he rapidly twisted the tobacco into a cigarette I noticed the marks of recent dissipation but made no comment.
FROM the front verandah of the summer boarding house the scene was just varied enough to avoid being exciting. On the stretch of sand, ladies with extensive hats and white parasols coquetted with the sun, but dodged its tan. Figures in bathing suits rolled about on the beach, or occasionally caused a flutter of interest by taking a dip in the lake, only to crawl out and he prone where the sun could dry them and scorch blisters on their arms.
Ah, ye who know, but do not know, Who see, but do not see, Come where the faded roses blow; Here, at last, you may see and know, Here, at the grave of mem’ry, lo! You may find the golden key. A wistful violet or two, of books a score or so— Then spake the soul of the Man who Knew, As he plucked the petals, wet with the dew, “Thus doth the flower grow, Thus do the blossoms go; Thus and thus,” said the Man who Knew, “There be few,” quoth he, “who know.”
I REMEMBER now that I was tired that night and slept heavily. I had been out with the dories and we had just come home in the morning from the banks, so that, being a city-bred man from inland, and unaccustomed to the ways of the fishing fleets, I went into my room in Jack Loubet’s house early after supper, and, blowing out my lamp, went asleep.
THAT poetic old doctrine of hell-fire which is so much ridiculed nowadays had in it at least one praiseworthy element. It taught men to model their every-day lives on considerations of future weal or woe. Without carrying this idea into the speculative region of future existence, a striking counterpart is to be found in the physical, and incidentally the mental and moral, life of the present generation.
A NOTABLE article on this subject has been contributed by Ex-Chief Croker, of the New York Fire Department to the World’s Work. He summarizes his experience at the outset. In the twenty-seven years of my service the number of men and the equipment of New York City’s force of fire fighters was increased more than 500 per cent.
AN interesting sidelight on the American man of affairs is afforded in a sketch of John C. Stubbs, who, as director of traffic of the Harriman lines, was that financier’s right-hand man for several years. The sketch appears in Munsey’s Magazine, and is written by Isaac F. Marcosson.
SOCIETY was horrified at first at the idea of a woman riding a bicycle, then rode it to death. It shuddered at the idea of a woman driving an automobile; now the woman who owns a car and isn’t her own chauffeur on occasion, is not only hardly smart, but gets a reputation for timidity.
THOUGH written before the announcement of his appointment to succeed Sir Eldon Gorst as British Agent in Egypt, the following little sketch of Lord Kitchener in The Organizer will prove timely: When Lord Kitchener returned to England from India, where he had been for seven years Commander-in-Chief, the popular opinion prevailed in Great Britain at that time that an appointment would be speedily found for him, enabling him to control, as far as it is given to mortal man to control, the military destiny of the nation.
A STRONG article on the smallness of the salaries paid to clergymen appears in Hampton’s Magazine, from the pen of Dr. Thomas E. Green, which will set many people thinking. He takes first a typical case. The Reverend Charles Wesley Bradley is pastor of the Methodist Episcopal church in a thriving Wisconsin town of twentyseven hundred inhabitants.
In a burst of penitence little Freddie was telling his mother what a wicked boy he had been. “The other day, mama,” he said, “I found the church door unlocked and I went inside. There wasn’t anybody there and I—” “You didn’t take anything away, did you, son?” she asked.
HAMILTON, situated at the head of navigation on Lake Ontario, is the leading manufacturing city of Canada. Not only is it noted as a manufacturing centre, but as a city of homes. Lying in the very garden of Canada, living is comparatively cheap as the fruit and vegetable districts of the Niagara Peninsula are on its eastern boundary.
If one were to form an opinion from the number of helpful, inspiring and informing articles one sees in the public press and magazines, the purpose of which is to increase our efficiency, he must believe that the entire American Nation is striving for such an end— And this is so.
This magazine has received recently a number of letters from officials of the Churches in Canada, and a formal resolution from a Methodist District meeting, in regard to an article which the September issue contained. The points raised are grave ones and ones in which the reading public of Canada cannot fail to be interested.
OVER forty years ago a rosy-cheeked, chubby and very gentlemanly French-Canadian lad, dressed in Lower Canada homespun, climbed one morning onto a stool, at a desk in the book-keeping department of a wholesale dry goods house in Montreal, and began the career of Louis Joseph Forget.
I’ve striven hard for timeliness, But just as sure as fate Some other fellow writes the stuff And mine’s a trifle late. I think I’ll beat him out this time, I fancy he’ll be vexed When he reads these timely verses on The summer after next.
Being an impressionistic, but not unfriendly, view of Canada’s great men
H. Franklin Gadsby
THE Autocrat of the breakfast table calculates that there are three John Smiths—the real John, known only to his Maker, John as he thinks he is himself, and John as he appears to the world at large. The Autocrat was under rather than over the estimate, for the last John, the one that other people see, is capable of infinite subdivision.
All day the clouds have hung in sombre stillness, And falling rain has wept among the trees, And lonely, haunting winds in bitter shrillness, Have bade the world list to their memories. While Autumn’s veiling haze has draped the woodlands, In tender pity for their mourning song, Sung to the curled brown leaves upon the hill-lands, That mock their sadness as they dance along!
THIS being a beautiful day, and the sunshine more brilliant than is usual on a September morning in this part of the world, we unanimously agreed to dedicate its hours to one of the most interesting of the neighboring chateaux. The most important question upon which we were not unanimous was whether Chenonceaux or Chinon should be the goal of our pilgrimage.
Olden and exquisite, verily fair, Untouched of time, unmarred by mad desire, Pure as a tear—yet radiant as a smile In open meadows ’neath the sun’s own fire! ’Twas Love’s own hand laid Love’s own colors there; Love smiles within thy pictured eyes And smoothes thy lovely hair.
LIGHT flashed out from the cabin: Aunt Zarepta had set all in order there, and lit the fire. Hearne Lusk lifted his seventeen-year-old, stolen bride down over the wagon-wheel and drove on to the small log shed, to put up his team. Florida hesitated shyly at the gate where she had been left, childishly timid lest the old woman linger still in the house.
Spooks! Don’t talk o’ spooks when you’re runnin’ up the stair! What am crouchin’ in the shadow of that doorway, over there? What am peekin’ round that corner, as you steal apast the door? What am making that there creakin’ of a loose board in the floor?
THIS magazine has been vigorously criticized for having published. in the September issue excerpts from an article which appeared in Hampton’s Magazine, and which was entitled “What is to become of the Preacher?” The underlying idea in the article was to hold up to view the inconsistency of sending Missionaries out to the Heathen when the preacher at home does not get sufficient salary upon which to live decently.
YES ’m, Miss Deacon, Pete Bruffey were a bad man. Why, the whole Blue Ridge mountains knowed that when he sot eyes on a gander at the ganderpullin’s, thar weren’t no more popularity nor pullin’ for that thar gander. It was Pete’s,—for he weren’t no more ’feard of a gun than you be of a button-hook, an’ all that skeers anybody ’bout’n ary button-hook as I ever knowed is that it be agoin’ to slip behind the beereau to be lost to the world twell next spring-cleanin’.”
HE looks fifty, does this erect, vigorous, Canadian business man and when he tells you that he is sixty-seven past, you feel inclined to gaze at him incredulously; but the twinkle in his eye does not betoken guile, only amusement at your obvious astonishment, and then you remember his family and at length realize that he must be as old as he says he is.
A weary God, with trembling hand Had traced the Yukon to the strand. “Here shall the wolf and big deer range,” said he. “Man shall not trouble thee.” Between her, and Man’s World, he put A hidden pitfall, every foot. “This is the land where life is death,” he cried.
FROM Wainwright westward to the Battle River as the line runs is twelve miles; twelve miles of a steady unbroken drop in grade. Leaving Wainwright for perhaps two miles the line is over fairly level plain, then strikes a high sandy range of hills which lie for many miles along both sides of the river.
NO man really loves just one woman! You had voiced it to the men themselves and they ridiculed it, denied it, defied it and laughed at it, according to their mental attitude. Then you promptly cast it forth into a feminine circle—and immediately became unpopular.
At last, at last we had climbed over the divide, and left behind us forever the vampire valley. Oh, we were glad! But other troubles were coming. Soon the day came when the last of our grub ran out. I remember how solemnly we ate it We were already more than three-parts starved, and that meal was but a mouthful.
REX DE VOE was the first to see her. Having spent the early part of the night in whacking at mosquitoes, he was sleeping the heavy, dreamless sleep of the weary, when, just as the sun’s rim appeared above the eastern horizon, the monotonous sound of a cowbell struck on the still, dew-bathed air.
IT is a far cry from Windsor Castle or Buckingham Palace to Rideau Hall. The contrast is immense. With an Aberdeen, or a Minto, or a Grey in the gubernatorial chair, Canadians did not mind so much that Government House should be so markedly inferior to the residences of royalty, but when a scion of the royal house arrives on the scene to take his place as tenth Governor-General of this expansive Dominion, there is just a tinge of shame that he and his, accustomed to the luxuries of palaces, should be housed so comparatively poorly.
IN my Bartlett’s “Quotations” I find several lines upon “autumn,” but none upon “fall”—save “by dividing we fall,” “fain would I climb yet fear to fall,” “pride will have a fall,” “what a fall was there,” etc. Yet, after all, why not that last—eh?
TIME-WASTING in modern business routine may seem almost an impossibility, but it is safe to say that the average business man in Canada burns up enough time in useless interviews with every Tom, Dick and Harry, who sends in his business card, as would enable him nearly to double his working capacity.
I mind the day I sailed away From Mary Ann Magee. “I’ll shure remimber you,” she says, “Mind you remimber me.” I mind the kiss she give me, too, That all the folks might see Young Tim Malone was all her own, An’ she, my Ann Magee. I mind the day I sailed away To Mary Ann Magee.
SOMEWHERE along the boundary line between British Columbia and Washington the frosts of September nights were fast clothing the vegetation in the flaring reds and yellows of late autumn and the highest hills were putting on their caps of snow.
A flowerless path, a path of gloom, I tread alone each weary day; Where shadows fall and dangers loom, And all is grey. It winds o’er rocks and arid plains, Where ev’ry step is fraught with pain, And leads where desolation reigns, And naught to gain.
MONEY for cigarettes?” quavered the old banker. “Money for card debts!” shouted his great-nephew, making a last superhuman effort to be heard. “Shut up, sir! Don’t yell so!” snapped the old gentleman. “Anybody would think I was deaf.”
These are my blooms I send to you, I kiss them ere they start. My love is singing where they grew, Deep down within my heart. Unlike the blossoms bought and sold, That live but for a day, You cannot purchase them for gold, Nor give one flower away.
THERE are two psychological stimulants under which a man may go up as a passenger in a flying machine should he he lucky enough to meet the opportunity. These are Courage and Confidence. Of the comfort and support to be had from the former I know little or nothing, but of the latter I can speak with authority, for it was under the sole support of confidence in the man that took me that I made — a long flight!
"I am the Road; the Road am I! Earth is my bed, my roof the sky— So come, little Brother, come!” On and on, and over the hill. Ran the Road, but the Man stood still. And pondered awhile, as every Man will. 'Ere he lists to the calls that come— "I am the Road; the Road am I!
JOHN ROMALEES was starving. A man of education, by no means a fool, not thirty years of age, tall and well looking, he was walking London’s streets for the third day since his last meal. He had tried to enlist, but his eyesight was defective; he had tried the labor exchanges, but no one wanted a man who could merely speak four languages and write B.A. after his name.
When first she came, the month was May, A robin whistled far away; She stood beside the door a while, Her lips half parted in a smile; My shabby room, I feared, looked gray. I hardly knew just what to say,— My study was not meant for style, The books lay round in many a pile, When first she came.
A fascinating little story touching international politics, and one incidentally which is all the more interesting in view of the continued strained relations between France and Germany, is told in the English Review. People have often asked, says the article, why Germany ever departed from her attitude of watchful aloofness towards that country.
IF people are sufficiently courageous they may wish to see themselves as others see them. But it would take courage to face some peoples’ opinions of some of us. It is especially so in the certain instance we have in mind wherein, as shown in the article which we reprint herewith, an East Indian tells how he saw the United States.
IF a man were to spend year after year of his life endeavoring to perfect a certain device, or some great product—if he had spent almost all his energy in studying, the means of overcoming the problems of making a certain article—and if, after he had done this, he invited men and women to see the work, only to have them look at it hurriedly and pass out without half understanding the cunning workmanship, the unwearying endeavor, the everlasting patience of the man who perfected the article, it would be one of the usual ironies of life.