IX

_Chicago_

What the foreigner thinks of the American Pullman, if he has to spend a

night in it, may be found in any volume of the extremely voluminous and

interesting literature upon the United States, written by visitors to

this country; but more interesting still would be what they have not

written about it, and that I have had frequent chances of hearing. The

most picturesque and exhaustive comments I ever heard were those made by

the Herr Director the evening we left Buffalo, and as he finally

determined not to retire at all, we spent the greater part of the night

in the smoking-room, much to the dismay of the porter who had no

prejudice against sleeping on a Pullman, and whom we cheated out of his

irregular but necessary naps.

One of the chief diversions of travellers the world over is to complain

against the particular transportation company over whose road they have

the ill luck to be going; so it happened that the Herr Director had

plenty of company during part of his vigil, and an opportunity to come

in touch with one phase of the American Spirit, where it was closely

related to his own; for "one 'kicker' makes the whole world 'kick.'"

The small room was so crowded that some of the men were sitting on the

wash-stands, and the rest were so close to each other as to make

conversation easy and general. This was an extra fare train supposed to

be unusually comfortable and speedy; although thus far it had been

losing time. It was natural under those conditions that the railroad

should come in for its share of blessings, couched in language such as

is often heard in smoking compartments of Pullman cars. Had all the

pious wishes expressed that night been fulfilled, that railroad and our

particular train would have travelled much more swiftly, but to a

destination not indicated in the time-tables.

The question under discussion was, which is the worst railroad in the

United States, and as some of the men were stock-brokers they knew our

roads from their most vulnerable side. The tales they told of the

manipulation of stocks and the fleecing of the public, with their

consequent effect upon the service, were as startling as they were

humiliating; because, in the last analysis, the railroads reflect the

general business ethics of the country.

I kept out of the discussion, for not only have I but a hazy notion of

economics; my mind was busy classifying the passengers' racial origin, a

very diverting exercise and one which always brings me in touch with

people on their really human side.

It happened that two of the men were Polish Jews from Cleveland, who had

risen from poverty to where they could travel in Pullman cars, and who

confessed that they knew as little of railroad stocks as I, although

they were engaged in as risky a business as stocks, that of

manufacturing women's cloaks. They were not far removed from the Ghetto

either in speech or ideals, and so were of little interest to me.

A third fellow traveller, who bore the hallmarks of the average

American, both in dress and behavior, told me his business without much

urging. "I am not selling stock, nor manufacturing women's cloaks, and I

am not a gambler. I have a sure thing; I am a bookie." Forced to confess

myself ignorant as to what "a bookie" is, he explained to me the

intricacies of his calling, the problems of evading the law, and if it

cannot be evaded, how it may be bought; incidentally showing what an

inveterate gambler and what an easy mark the average American is.

The Herr Director was all attention, to my great consternation; for the

conversation was as different from that which he had heard at Lake

Mohonk, or in our rounds of the Eastern colleges, as one could conceive.

As one by one the passengers sought their berths, the Herr Director

thanked me for arranging this uncomfortable night journey, saying that

though he was sure he could not sleep, he was "so glad to have come in

contact with the American Spirit as it is," and not as I had tried to

make it appear. With that kindly thrust he too retired, and I was at

liberty to do likewise.

It was not long before I had auricular evidence that the Herr Director

was asleep, so I was very much astonished to hear him say the next

morning that he had not slept a wink, and that the engineer must bear

him a grudge; for he tried to jerk the berth from under him, and "_Gott

sei dank_" that the most uncomfortable night of his life was over. I

certainly was as grateful as he. It was with no small satisfaction,

though, that upon reaching Chicago two hours late, I collected four

dollars from that much abused railroad, and handed the same to the Herr

Director, assuring him that even in a railroad office the American

Spirit of fairness is operative.

In Chicago as everywhere else the friend who owned an automobile was at

my command, and on a glorious May day when wind and sun had cleared the

air, and a night's rain had washed the streets, we were taken from

South Shore to North Shore and away out where the American city is at

her best, and Chicago is striving to excel them all in her wonderful

suburbs.

The Herr Director had seen Chicago over thirty-three years ago--a young,

thriving, daring, ambitious city in the making; he found her still

young, thriving, daring, and in the making. Unchastened by her great

disasters, undismayed by her vexing problems, defying the lake, she

reaches out into it and into neighboring states, leading and controlling

the whole Middle West. Babylon, Capernaum, Rome, her older sisters, her

ideal, and perchance her destiny. She is _par excellence_ the merchant

city, and the merchant princes rule her, although that rule is not

unchallenged.

While the Herr Director saw the city changed in many respects, larger,

and in places beautiful, her dirt not so apparent, her wickedness

subdued, and her rough corners rubbed off, she is still Chicago, a

synonym for boastful bigness and ostentatious wealth.

If it had not been for the Frau Directorin, I would not have taken them

where every man, woman and child is taken who visits Chicago, into the

largest department store in the world.

She entered with the joyful anticipation of engaging in that most

exciting occupation--shopping--aided and abetted by my wife. The Herr

Director followed with the martyr's air common to husbands who go along

to pay the bill.

That type of store is no longer a novelty to city dwellers anywhere, but

this one because of its size, the variety and quality of goods

displayed, the courtesy to customers and, above all, the provisions for

their comfort and convenience, were remarkable enough to call forth even

the Herr Director's commendation. The Frau Directorin was in the

seventeenth Heaven, the Biblical seventh not being an elevation high

enough to be used as a simile when she was shopping in a Chicago

department store.

Obliging clerks showed her plates which cost three hundred dollars

apiece, cut and etched glass at more fabulous prices; she walked

through miles of costly gowns, coats and millinery, and having made a

few purchases to her entire satisfaction--we were about to leave the

store with flying colors, figuratively speaking, when pride had a fall.

Unluckily remembering that a certain small boy needed summer underwear,

my wife led our party to the basement. When we left the elevator a

polite floor man directed us to aisle 16, Wabash Building. As we were on

the State Street side the cavalcade moved past what seemed like miles of

commonplace merchandise and commonplace buyers to aisle 16, Wabash

Building. At last we had reached our "Mecca."

"I should like to see boys' union suits," my wife said.

"Certainly. How old?"

"Twelve years."

"We have nothing here over eight years. You will find your size on the

sixth floor, Washington Street side."

I think it was the sixth floor; I know we walked (crestfallen) through

endless aisles and were shot up floor after floor. Landed finally, the

right counter was reached after numerous conflicting directions.

The Herr Director was puffing and panting, the Frau Directorin radiant

and happy, for she enjoys exercise, and my wife, her faith in the

efficiency of her favorite store not yet shaken, though wavering, asking

for "union suits for a twelve-year-old boy."

As the clerk reached for the desired article she asked: "Short sleeves

or long sleeves?"

"Short sleeves."

"Randolph Street side, second floor, for short sleeved union suits."

The Herr Director and I did not accompany the ladies on their further

voyage of discovery; we went to the rest room to avoid nervous

prostration.

My wife and the Frau Directorin, with the determination and endurance

which women alone possess, continued the chase to a victorious finish.

Fortunately an altogether satisfying luncheon followed this strenuous

experience, after which, rested and refreshed, we repaired to the Art

Institute.

The Chicago Art Institute, within a stone's throw of the most congested

business section, at the edge of its noise and rush, is by its very

being there a sort of triumph.

The Herr Director approached it somewhat condescendingly, expecting to

find it and its contents big, bizarre and "_nouveau richessque_." As

soon as he entered the building he felt the dignity and good taste of

its arrangement, and his manner changed. After he had looked critically

at some of the pictures and approved them, I knew myself for once on the

way to success; for his praise was as genuine as his criticism.

Knowing that money can buy both Old and New Masters, he expected to find

them; but he had not expected to see such discrimination as was shown in

choosing and hanging them. He was entirely unprepared for the excellent

work of our native artists, outside of that small but exalted sphere

occupied by Whistler, Sargent, Innes, etc.

My joy was complete when we were taken into the Art School by the

Director, Dr. French, whose death not long ago must always be deplored.

The rooms of the Art School were crowded by boys and girls of all ages

and varied nationalities and races, learning to develop their God-given

talents under the guidance of competent and sympathetic teachers. The

picture they made delighted me more than those they drew or painted; for

it seemed so thoroughly, generously, democratically and artistically

American.

I scored another victory for the American Spirit when I introduced my

guests to Lorado Taft, sculptor, and the guiding star in Chicago's

artistic firmament. In his rare personality, strength and purity,

idealism and practical good sense blend, and his art reflects the man.

He showed us some of his work and that of his pupils, and both elicited

unstinted praise from my guests.

The climax of our visit came when we returned to the entrance hall which

we found crowded by public school children, all listening to an

orchestra composed of certain of their number, and led by a young girl

about fourteen years of age. It seemed to me a remarkable and beautiful

combination. The marbles and pictures, the music, and, best of all, the

children happily wandering about the place. When the program ended there

was ice-cream for everybody, served by the teachers who accompanied the

children. It was a real party, an American party, and we might have

travelled long and far before I could have found anything which would

have better reflected for my guests the American Spirit at its best.

If I were an artist and a sculptor I should like to portray the spirit

of Chicago as one feels it in this museum. I would model a group, with

its central figure that same sculptor, the finely bred American, clean

and wholesome, who longs to create, not only the city beautiful, but the

city human. He should be surrounded by the children, happily looking at

pictures and listening to music as we saw them in the Art Institute that

day.

But there must be another prominent figure in my group: the heartless,

ruthless, twentieth century American, with clean-shaven face, jaws

strong as a vise, and a chin like the base of an anvil. He is the man

who "makes a good husband," and partly obeys the Scriptural injunction:

because he provides for his own. He too should be surrounded by

children; not his, but the children who work in his factories and have

to live in his rickety tenements. The two men would struggle mightily

for supremacy in the city's life; and I would set up my sculptured group

in the busiest place, where all who passed it by might see, and seeing,

help him who was struggling for beauty and for happiness.

Dr. French, the Herr Director and I had a long discussion about my

conception of the two natures contending within the city. The Herr

Director argued that the merchant spirit, so prevalent here, when

uncontrolled and uncurbed, is more dangerous to civilization and to our

democracy than the military spirit of Germany, and that it needs to be

overcome by a force greater and stronger than itself. The corrupting

element he said has always been this same merchant spirit, and where

ancient civilizations decayed, it was due to the fact that it debased

kings and enslaved them by luxuries.

"Business should not control, but be controlled, because business is

based entirely upon selfishness." When the Herr Director stopped for

breath, Dr. French, who was an ardent Christian and knew his Bible, took

from his pocket a New Testament, and pointed out a remarkable chapter in

the Book of Revelation (a chapter I was compelled to confess I had not

read) that bore out the Herr Director's statement.

"The kings of the earth committed fornication with her, and the

merchants of the earth waxed rich by the power of her wantonness.... And

the merchants of the earth weep and mourn over her, for no man buyeth

their merchandise any more; merchandise of gold, and silver, and

precious stones, and pearls, and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and

scarlet; and all thyine wood, and every vessel of ivory, and every

vessel made of most precious wood, and of brass, and iron, and marble;

and cinnamon, and spice, and incense, and ointment, and frankincense,

and wine, and oil, and fine flour, and wheat, and cattle, and sheep; and

merchandise of horses and chariots and slaves; and souls of men."

We urged Dr. French to read the rest of the chapter, which he did.

"And they cast dust upon their heads, and cried, weeping and mourning,

saying: Woe, woe, the great city, wherein were made rich all that had

their ships in the sea by reason of her costliness! for in one hour is

she made desolate," and then the voice of the angel crying into the

thick of their lament, "Rejoice over her, thou Heaven and ye saints, and

ye apostles, and ye prophets; for God hath judged your judgment on her."

It seemed as though the prophet had written the epitaph of all cities in

which the merchant was master and not servant.

When he had finished I knew the inscription for my sculptured group: the

twentieth verse of the eighteenth chapter of Revelation.

Altogether it was a remarkable day to be experienced only in America,

perhaps only in Chicago. To shop in the largest store in the world,

visit a picture gallery well worth while, and see art students at work;

hear classical music played by a children's orchestra, and watch the

same children enjoying the party which followed; to meet one of the

leading sculptors of America who shared with us his plans and hopes, and

to have as our guide the Director of the Art Institute, was a colossal

experience worthy of the city in which it happened.

The next day was given to the Juvenile Court, Public Play Grounds, the

University, and, finally, Hull House. The one great disappointment of

the Chicago visit for me and my guests was Miss Jane Addams' absence in

Europe. But the House was there--big, neighborly, homelike,

hospitable--and the residents were there, those who do the neighboring,

the healing and the helping, who are friends of the friendless, and know

no creed or race--except humanity.

My faith in Chicago springs largely from my contact with Hull House, The

Commons and like places with their defiant spirit towards evil, their

broad-mindedness and their brave attempt at remedying the wrongs of our

commercialized civilization.

After dinner I "toted" my guests all over the House, from the

reading-room on the first floor to the Boys' Club on the third, and back

again. I have done it frequently, and always with zest and pride, in

spite of the fact that I have had no active share in the work.

In Bowen Hall we came upon a dancing party. Some one of the social clubs

had been gracious enough to invite its parents to come. We were

introduced to Mrs. Frankelstein from Roumania, and Mrs. Flynn from

Ireland, Mrs. Ragovsky from Russia, Mr. and Mrs. Feketey from Hungary,

Mr. and Mrs. Rocco from Italy, and many others whose picturesque names I

do not remember.

We also met a young business man, the son of a millionaire, with sundry

other young men and women of the type one likes to meet and introduce,

whom one would be proud to know anywhere. They had charge of the

affair. The Herr Director and the Frau Directorin caught the spirit of

the occasion and entered into it with zest. When the orchestra began to

play, he led the Grand March with Mrs. Rocco and she followed with the

young millionaire. At the close of the festivities, as we were leaving,

they vowed they had had the best time since they left home.

Chicago, big, blundering, materialistic Chicago had a new meaning to the

Herr Director. He praised everything and everybody, and as we parted for

the night, he said: "'Almost thou persuadest me to' believe in the

'American Spirit.'"

X

_Where the Spirit is Young_

To the average European there are two things American which have not yet

lost their romantic quality: The prairies and the West.

Anticipations of seeing both, filled the breast of the Frau Directorin

with mingled feelings of fear and pleasure, as she discussed with her

husband the fate of the children they had left behind them--in the event

of our being captured by the Indians. However, the probability of our

safe return and her consequent opportunity to tell envious friends her

experiences in the prairies and the West outweighed all fears.

Among her friends were those who had braved the perils of the ocean and

gone as far as New York; some of them had even been in Chicago--but

beyond, still hidden in the romance woven about them by Bret Harte (her

favorite American author), were those two things she was about to see,

and of which they had only dreamed.

The Herr Director, as he repeatedly reminded me, had crossed the plains

when I had known them only through Cooper's fascinating Indian stories,

and he was eager to throw off the leadership I had assumed, which, to a

dominant nature like his, proved exceedingly irksome.

He soon discovered that he was travelling through territory entirely new

to him. The little towns he had known had grown into cities, and the

further west we travelled, the greater and more impressive were the

changes.

Omaha and Kansas City he did not recognize at all. Not only was there

this new growth, "rank growth," he called it, of sky-scrapers,

post-offices and railroad stations with Doric pillars--the men and women

he met had a new outlook upon life. While they still boasted of this and

that thing in which their city was like Chicago or was unlike some

lesser city than their own, they were critical of themselves and eager

to learn; they had grown more masterful and at the same time were more

refined.

The prairies were not at all what the Frau Directorin had imagined them

to be. She was chagrined to find nothing but farm lands and great

fields, not so well groomed as those we had seen in the East, but with

no Indians or buffaloes, no wild horses or wilder looking men.

She saw no trace of the toil, the struggle and the brave resistance

through which these farms had been rescued from the prairies. She could

not know of the loneliness of women and the hardihood of men, of the

season's drought and famine, of bitter disappointment, the pangs of

bearing and rearing children in utter isolation, and the struggle for

education.

No trace of all this was apparent in the sort of settled, middle class

prosperity which stretched out in the unvaried, thousand mile panorama

through which we journeyed.

In a town of about four thousand inhabitants we stopped; the name of the

place is of no significance, for there are hundreds of just such towns

in the West. We were met by the superintendent of schools, himself a

product of the prairies. Having grown up among the cattle, he is

consequently shy of men. He drove his automobile as if it were a

broncho, and we all uttered a prayer of thanksgiving when he deposited

us, with no bones broken, at the hotel. In a short time we were ready to

go with him to his school, which was the objective point of our visit.

It goes without saying that the superintendent boasted of the youth of

the town, even as under like circumstances in the East, he would have

boasted of its age.

Ten years before it was nothing except a railroad station, miles of

sage-brush, rattlesnakes and prairie dogs. Now there are business

blocks, embryonic sky-scrapers, a pillared post-office, a

hundred-thousand-dollar hotel, a Grand Opera House, neither big enough

nor good enough to boast of, numerous churches and this schoolhouse. It

is not only a place in which boys and girls learn the "three R's," but

has a finely equipped gymnasium, a chemical laboratory and a Domestic

Science department. It is a center of education and recreation, not only

for that town, but for the surrounding country.

I had never seen the Herr Director as enthusiastic over anything as he

was over this cowboy school superintendent, with his program of reaching

every man, woman and child in the county through his educational and

recreational program, his annual budget of some seventy-five thousand

dollars, and a faculty of men and women college bred, and citizens of

the town. They are not merely educated tramps, but are there to stay,

and they take pride in the town in which they make their home.

The Herr Director was no less amused than I was when we were told by one

of the teachers that the superintendent, at one of the school board

meetings had pulled off his coat and threatened to thrash one of the

members who refused his vote on an important measure. As we looked at

this six foot three, erstwhile cowboy, his broad shoulders and strong

arms which seemed reluctantly confined in a coat, and as we saw his

square, determined jaw,--we knew that the unruly member voted _aye_.

Both the Herr Director and I were asked to speak to the boys and girls.

As soon as they entered the room the air became electric with their high

school yell; they "rah rahed" us individually and collectively, and

"what's the matter withed" everybody, and indulged in all those academic

and classical performances which every high school now seems to consider

an essential part of preparation for college.

The Herr Director told them that among all the things he had seen thus

far in America he liked their high school the best; which remark of

course elicited thunderous applause. This was most gratifying to him,

and all day he was in high spirits. He thought the most hopeful

characteristic of the American is this faith in education, the

practical, far-reaching methods employed, and the daring all sorts of

educational experiments. At the same time he severely criticized our

lack of unanimity, and the evident disadvantages of such communities as

have no cowboy superintendent to lick a conservative or stingy school

board member into conformity with his plans.

We visited an agricultural college where we were told of farmers who

came to study soil fertility, and farmers' wives who studied kitchen

chemistry, farmers' children who tested seeds, and to whom these

prairies, to which they were being bound by an intelligent knowledge of

their environment, were beginning to speak a new language.

We saw a teacher's college which one with the prophet's vision had

planted in the desert. The sage-brush ridden prairie had been

transformed into a glorious campus, and uncultured boys and girls into

enthusiastic teachers. More than twelve hundred of them come back each

year to get better equipment for their difficult task.

The cities in which we stopped interested the Herr Director less than

the towns, and we did not tarry long except in one of them, where we had

to stay because of an engagement I had made to address a certain club.

I did this because it gave me a fine chance to introduce that particular

American institution, a combination of eating and speaking club, which

meets once a month and whose program is as ambitious as are most things

Western.

We were met at the station by a committee of men and women in

automobiles of course, and found the finest rooms in the hotel reserved

for us. Big, high, generous rooms, in which the Herr Director and the

Frau Directorin openly rejoiced.

The committee awaited us in a private dining-room where luncheon was

served. There were three other guests who were to speak during the

evening. One of them, a most brilliant woman, a well-known social

worker. The second a United States Senator, and the third an explorer

who had just returned from a voyage into some less known parts of South

America.

The luncheon was sufficiently elaborate and artistically served to

satisfy both the Herr Director and the Frau Directorin, but he

protested when after the meal, without even a chance at a nap, we were

escorted to waiting motor cars, and a long cavalcade of us started on a

sight-seeing expedition.

The city was worth seeing, with its boulevards, parks and playgrounds;

its schoolhouse, churches, and clubs. We heard much of its prospects,

always so great an asset in the life of our Western cities.

Amusing and remarkable to the strangers was the evident pride of this

committee in the city, to which they had come from all parts of the

country if not of the world; yet they spoke of it with a lover's

affection.

The one thing underneath all this civic pride, and finer than anything

visible to us, was the fight for decency, law and order, and the health

and happiness of children, which has been waged there and is not yet

won. It is as exciting as, and more valorous than, many a battle in

which men fight with powder and bullets.

It was an exhilarating experience to shake the hand and look into the

face of a woman who had defied the monied interests of her state, who

had jeopardized her comforts and her position, even her life, to loosen

the hold of graft from the schools of the state.

It was inspiring to hear from a mild mannered, unaggressive looking man

how he had helped wipe out brothels and evil dance halls, broken up the

connivance of the police with the criminal element and put through a

positive program of rational, clean amusements for the people.

We visited a business plant, the architecture and equipment of which are

as unique as are its owner's business methods. We were told the story

(not by himself) of how a brave and good man, single handed, struggled

against bosses, political cliques and large financial interests in

league with them, and all but freed the city from its most dangerously

decent foes.

We were shown hills which the citizens had faith enough to remove and

the hollows into which they had cast them; a raging river which they

meant to control, and ugly, sickening slums which were doomed to go, and

that none too soon; the old things which were to become new, and

crooked things which were to be made straight.

Thirty-three years before the Herr Director had heard stories of

vanishing buffaloes and the last struggles with the Indians. He had met

scouts, hunters and soldiers. This was a new type of fighters, much less

picturesque, but fit successors to those valiant pioneers. I rescued my

guests from a visit to the stock-yards (why any one should care to show

off stock-yards I do not know), and the committee released its hold upon

us so that we might make our toilettes for the reception which preceded

the banquet.

If there is anything more conducive to creating a barrier to real human

contact than a reception, I have not seen it, unless it be a reception

with orchestral accompaniment; this was such an one, and its chief

function seemed to be to drown conversation.

The ladies of our party were happy because this was one of the few

occasions on our trip when they could wear evening gowns.

The Frau Directorin was astonished beyond measure when she heard that

some of the women on the reception committee of this club were mothers

(to a limited degree, it is true), that they had, at the most, two

servants, and that some of them had none; that they were interested in

Literary Clubs and civic affairs, served on school boards and church

committees, and were doing various other things to help the Creator

manage His universe.

The German woman, who has adhered to the program marked out for her by

the Emperor, the "three K's," "_Küche, Kirche und Kinder_" stands aghast

at the strenuous lives many of our women lead. The Frau Directorin, who

has servants for the kitchen and the children, upon whom the third K,

the Church, lays no burden in the way of missionary meetings, fairs and

suppers, who does not have to reduce her flesh to be in the fashion, and

whose social position is determined by her husband's station in life,

may well wear an unruffled smile and keep an unfurrowed brow.

At the banquet, the waiters and the orchestra vied with each other in

noise making, and it was a relief when, with the bringing of the black

coffee, they all disappeared, and the toast-master rose and began

unbottling his stock of stories. Nowhere in the world is there such a

thirst for stories as in America, and a group of men after a banquet has

an unlimited capacity for absorbing and enjoying them.

There were four scheduled speakers and a few who expected to be called

upon unexpectedly, among them the Herr Director; a Glee Club was to sing

before, between and after the speeches; so the toast-master did not stop

telling stories any too soon.

The first speaker of the evening was a woman who well deserved the

cheers which greeted her appearance. Her address on Workmen's

Compensation was so clear, so aptly put, so well reasoned through and so

within the limit of time assigned her, that when she finished, the

enthusiastic Herr Director shouted: "Bravo! bravo!" loud enough to be

heard above the less euphonious sound of hand clapping, in which form of

applause the American audience indulges.

The address was an eloquent but unemotional plea for fair play for the

working man, an arraignment of present practices, cruelly sickening in

detail, and frightful as a revelation of the attitude of large

industrial interests towards labor. It showed the fair-mindedness of the

men there, that they listened so approvingly, in spite of the fact that

a large number of them was in similar relationship to labor, and that

the proposed law for which she pleaded would be against their own

interests.

After the lady's address, the Glee Club sang and then the United States

Senator was introduced. I have forgotten his subject, but that does not

matter, for it had no relation to what he said. It was the kind of

address which could be delivered with equal propriety at a Grangers'

picnic or a political meeting.

There were two things which the senator did not know: First, that his

audience had outgrown that particular kind of address, and second, when

to stop. When his final finally was finally spoken, the Glee Club sang

again, after which the Herr Director was called upon to speak. He was

listened to most attentively as he told how German cities are built,

governed, provisioned and lighted.

There were at least four speeches beside my own, and it was long past

midnight when the Glee Club sang its last glee, and the club adjourned

to meet again the next month, when it would receive other more or less

distinguished guests, eat a six course dinner and listen to half a dozen

speakers, each one of them eager to right the wrongs of this universe.

When the Herr Director had said good-bye to the hundred or more people

who told him how much they enjoyed his address, he retired in a most

happy mood. I found him chuckling as he untied his cravat.

"It was lovely, perfectly lovely," he said; "but what children they

are."

"Yes," I replied, "they are children; and, like children, are eager to

learn."