A454 UC-NRLF $B E73 bEl C\J en i -.;/ ^.\K..^^ ::£l JH' . •. ,y? - <.^<^..^'^;iA&^.:i^if^^. Price J 5 Cents $J.50aYear DECEMBER, 19J8 [p://www.a 'aiongroaauusariTrici r . '^i^/AT.' ( n^n -T ^w p mm r ^-' \0i i* "}w '^ ' f^' .. -^^ Along The ^oad Published by A. H. Rank 255 Natoma St, San Francisco, Cal. --i- V. XT^-V^" ^.* '^I "^^ ■^-— — Tr^---.'»'"w(?-"Sj;;^ eiFT *•,••••,•« • • ;• • •• t * • • * '. ^here are mant/ roads leading to nowhere. %yt must 6e terrible to have reached the end of the trail and find that one has come the ivrong way. ivil56302 THE CALL IMPERATIVE The white road stretches far away, Fair hills invite on either side, The white road calls, I must obey. It calls, and will not be denied. The white road reaches far, and oh, The sweet wind calls me by my name, Where it shall blow 1 long to go My starved soul answers plain. For neither love nor duty own So strong a claim upon my will As the consuming thirst to know What lies beyond that utmost hill. ACHIEVEMENT What a night it is! The rain pours down relentlessly, the gutters are rushing brooks and the street lights flare fitfully with the sud- den gusts. Yet if one had just awakened from a Rip Van Winkle sleep, with no idea of time, he would know it was Christmas eve, for through the storm comes the smell of fresh cut ever- greens, and in spite of the gusts the unmis- takeable Christmas "feel" is in the air. The sound of the driven rain in its fiercest bursts sends a thrill through one who listens undis- turbed by other thoughts. It can even compel the dismissal of other things iT one but yields to its insistence, and send a mad exhiliration through the blood. There are many merry people in the city to- night, people who find in the storm only a cause for congratulation that they are sheltered from its force. There are many too, who are sad, and to them the wild work outside is but an emphasis of their distress. Of all the people in this season of general goodwill, who is happiest? Is it, think you. 0ie <;jhiid who , faJis asleep exhausted with ex- citement, filled with almost delirious anticipa- tions for the morrow's dawn? Oh no, it is not the child. Is it the young mother whose early Christ- mas gift from God stirs faintly at her side where gentle hands have placed - it, — ^whose light breath, for which she has just paid so dearly, she feels upon her breast? It is not the mother, though hers is a won- derful joy. Nor is it the young father coming softly in with awe and reverence and studied careful- ness, to look upon his treasures; for possession is not the highest joy. It is not the succcessful man, hurrying home- ward in his carriage, almost buried in parcels, — notwithstanding that success is sweet, and that it is truly more blessed to give than to receive. It is not even the eager lover whose Christ- mas gift will be a bride; nor yet a maid who has today given and received her first kiss of love; it is not any of these, for love is only a part of life. Think you, who IS happiest? It is Lindo. Quiet young Lindo, a mere clerk for a small bookseller in a by-street, ob- scure, unknown, whose wages barely meet his pressing needs, with no future, no * "prospects," yet because of his youth, without a care. Lindo, in his little room up five Rights of stairs, next the roof, where now and then a chance drop of rain finds its way down the chimney and sizzles in the meagre fire. For Lindo has sat there alone hearing the storm, until the riotous delight of it got into his blood and he wrote with desperate eagerness a Song of the Rain. Then, reading it over, he adds a touch here and there, he-writes a verse — improving, per- fecting it, for he is a better critic than anyone dreams, and at last, seeing that it is good, he feels that high exaltation, the keenest joy given to mortals, the divine rapture of creation, which is the elixir of life. THE WORLD-WIDE GIFT If you had power, omnipotent power, to do your utmost wiU, to give to all the world what- ever gift you choose, — what would you choose to give? To all the world — whatever thing! Why, you would give each one happiness, of course. But to each soul a different thing means happiness. We wish each one a "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year" without a passing thought of what his special happiness may consist. It is easy to say, "I wish you joy." Yet the very conditions that bring joy to one may cause sorrow to another. The very gain of one is often loss to another. Individual happiness consists of each one doing and getting the thing he wants. In common justice each one may only do, and get, the thing he wants, provided it does not infringe upon the same privilege of another. At the present status of the world individual happiness might prove a terrible gift. Take thought again; this hour the nations of the world are demanding Peace. Why not give them their peace as a great universal gift? Because Peace is a vast word, so vast a word that no one yet knows its mean- ing. Peace is not a condition, it is a result. Peace is made up of many things — but three great elements. Three inexorable conditions: 1 St. A world wide peace can only be when all the world is fed and clothed. There can be no true peace while there is yet one starving, ragged child. ^ 2nd. A world wide peace can only be when the sacredness of Love is made inviolate. There is no peace while any woman has to sell herself for bread, either in the marriage bond or out of it. 3rd. A world wide peace can only be when all work is made universal. There never will be peace while some must always toil, and others always play. All must work, and all must play, in perfect balance, not only for peace, — but for health and sanity. Until these three conditions have been met, we shall have bloody wars and revolutions re- curring with irregular periodicity. They call for peace now because they are weary of killing, not because they have learned what peace means. When they do learn, they will make it for themselves. Peace can not be given, it must attained. Well then, — why not erase these soiled pages of history, with the hands of omnipo- tence, and give the world at one stroke, — heaven 7 What is heaven? Where is heaven? A newspaper writer of this city has been busy for several weeks with a symposium on the subject of heaven, gathered from many minds, among both clergy and laity. It makes strange reading. There are as many opinions as there are personalities. But through them all, no matter how widely they differ, runs one identical item, remoteness. Some say heaven is a place, some say it is a condition. A place, not here, — a condition, not achieved. Because we are not happy here, and heaven means happiness, then heaven must be remote. Some said, "Heaven is here and now," — if certain conditions are met. The widely varying ideas of heaven, — the widely differing ideas the many religions de- scribe as heaven, — together with the unani- mous decree of remoteness, all go to prove that heaven is a word used to describe briefly a state of happiness and peace forever. But Christ said: "The kingdom of heaven is within you." Then heaven must be a consciousness posi- tively attainable now, and not remote. If the kingdom of heaven, which is peace and happiness, is within us, — then we may have it at any time. Christ said the law was Love, and laid down rules of conduct in consistence with that Law, — rules which we have never followed. The message of Christianity has been taught, but never adopted. 10 What greater gift to all the world could there be than to decree that into every heart there should come a new dawn, a new awaken- ing to the eternal truths, an awakening so keen, so strong, so sure, that at once we begin to build a new world with our latent conscious- ness? A world where there can never be an- other wrong, or another injustice in the heart of man*. A new world where all are fed and clothed, where all are free, where all share the work and play. A world where the consciousness that Christ embodied, is born, to live forever in every soul. A world on which, when looking down, — the angels can truly sing of "Peace on Earth, good-will to men." This is the World-wide Gift. V 11 It is great to serve. * * * Pain grows on the summit of pleasure. Often the height of freedom is to be found in bondage. All the world belongs to him who claims the least. ^ ^ ^ Your desire tells you what you shall do. The "fall of man" occurs daily, but also "his resurrection." A man is what he has realized himself to be. He who went from hell to heaven is purer than he who never left his high estate. 12 ' MEIELI Chapter I. Dear Herald: When leaving you at the office the other day I did not go home at once to answer those let- ters as should have been my duty, but took a stroll into nature upon one of the highest points in our beloved city of San Francisco, that I might have a talk with the heart of humanity ere taking any decided step into the future. And as 1 stood and overlooked the bay and surrounding mountains, the little island Alca- traz, and the city and wondered about the in- terior of the different buildings, who their in- habitants might be, arid how they lived, there arose from it all the gentle air of noon and a church bell pealed from somewhere, and then I knew that now for a little while the many would lay down their work, and so I too sat down upon the bench of stone before me to eat my sandwich. And as 1 ate there came to my vision two hungry looking faces. One of them belonged to Meieli Mevis, a big-eyed, frail little girl in a far away country, and the other to a small boy of the Latin race whom I saw this morning 13 at the Juvenile Court waiting for his sentence. I never heard what the complaint against him was, but when his mother led him back to his seat the tears rolled down his small white cheeks like rivulets. Would they send him away from home, like others of his kind, to some asylum, or to work on a farm? "He is really too small for any task. Just a babe who needs a lot of love and care and wise direction," I told myself, and I shivered at the idea that the brothers of the little girl in the fadr-away country were sent away from home, at that same age, not for punishment but because it was the custom of those people, and made to take care of cows and goats, to peel potatoes after their day's work was done and to get up with the sun and gather thistles and dandelions before the day's work of others had begun. Meieli herself never had to leave home to serve among strangers, for she was too frail and timid, and besides mother needed her for the smaller children and father would have missed her companionship, even though she had very little to say at any time. You see. Herald, her father was ill, not al- ways, but often, and usually in the fall of the year after a summer's hard labor. Then she would stand at the foot of his couch and watch the movements of his face, which sometimes twitched in pain and sometimes smiled at her. Or, when he was asleep she would come closer 14 and chase the flies away and pick up the book or paper that had slipped from his hands, wish- ing that she might be able to read those big stories. And once she gathered iip enough courage to tell daddy about it, and he stroked her yel- low curls and said: "I believe that you will be a story writer yourself some day, and you will earn so much money and be such a big lady that you won't know your poor old daddy any more." These last words were said teasingly, but the child took them to heart and for some time was very serious and sad. How could daddy think that of her? Oh, if she could only earn lots of money she would take him to the famous Carlsbad, which the doctor said would bring about his cure! He then would not have to work hard any more, not carry the heavy sacks of potatoes into the cellar, or stand all day in the hot sun and mow, and he could eat white bread even on week days and not have to be content with the heavy rye-loaf that was so hard to digest. Yes, and she would do much more for him, she thought, but said never a word. Thus time went on and the days grew colder. The leaves in the garden that had chased each other about for several days lay very still. The swallow had forsaken its nest by the window to take her offspring to Italy, and the sparrow had made himself at home in 15 the empty dwelling, and he would quarrel with his neighbor, the starling, because the latter did not pack up fast enough to follow the swal- low on her southern journey. Then one morning all of the leafless trees in the village looked very dark, as if laden down with new foliage and a great noise was hearrd above the houses, and Meili hastened to tell her father that the starlings were now holding council about selecting a leader, and that they soon would start their flight homeward and give him peace. The father, however, did not reply with the expected smile, but motioned to his little girl to come closer to the couch. "Little one," he said, "I am afraid that I shall have to go with the starling. I have prayed, prayed faithfully that I might remain with you, but it seems as if I have to go even ere mother comes from back the city-?" "But, daddy, you cannot walk. Where will you go to?" Meieli wished to know. And the father smiled through pain. "Where you cannot follow," little daughter. "Give my love to mother and your sister and brothers, and take care of them, and tell mother not to buy me a costly monument." Then he lay very still, but Meieli wept and prayed and hit the table with her small fist. "You must not take daddy away!" she de- manded of the Lord of heaven and earth, "You shall not take my daddy!" 16 And she ran out into the woods where she always went in time of distress and where the forester once found her when she was searching for a dream which she had thought was a real ©vent. Deep in the forest she imagined there were ruins of some old castle, and and upon one of those white walls a fox hung by his hind legs. Of course she felt sorry for the fox, but he had not felt sorry for their little chicks and had caused father and mother to be very sad over their loss. Thither she went that morning, not in search of the ruins, not to weep about the sudden downfall of her own airy castles, but to tell the fairies of the trees, who were supposed to be kin to the old man in the long white beard who lived on top of a ladder and to whom one must stretch one's neck so dreadfully, the old man whose picture her big brother had shown her when he studied his lesson, called "Joseph's Dream," to tell those fairies that she would not permit him to take her daddy away. Then she would go to the station to wait for mother, who had gone to the city to see the doctor and bring home some medicine. By this time sister Karoline too would be back from school and build a fire and cook daddy some milk-soup, and later in the day when she and sister came back from the pas- ture and the goats were milked and the geese had their water for the night, he might even be well enough to sit up and play the accordion 17 as he always did when his breast wasn't so sore, and perhaps brother Karl would get an hour's leave of absence from the place where he worked and they would sit together by the fireside and be very happy. And Meieli always followed her dreams, and carried them out, but she often forgot facts, and when she met her mother at the station there was not a word said about jthe monu- ment, but many questions were asked about Carlsbad, how much it would cost to go there, and how long it took to make the journey, and if one could go wading in the big "bath" as in the small village brook and could catch little green frogs that would tell you all about the weather. When the forest was behind them and they crossed the meadows the noon bell rang and Meieli's mother stood still to say her prayer and the people in the fields laid down their work and folded their hands, and so Meieli folded hers, and looking back over the woods, said firmly, "Tell him that I won't have daddy taken anywhere but to Carlsbad." But the mother paid no attention to that and hastened homeward. She had often looked at this strange child and wondered what she wfls thinking about and why she stood and looked on silently when her sisters and broth- ers passed a joke or were laughing about their play. She was not an imbecile and she had a loving disposition, nevertheless she caused her 18 mother much anxiety. **I am sure she ia not taking after me, John," she had often said to her husband. "We never had the likes in our family." "No," the father had then replied, "she re- minds me of my big sister Christine." Meieli, however, was not very fond of her aunt Christine, because she always had to take off her shoes in rainy weather when she and father were shown up to the little room where the aunt sat by the small wood and coal stove, and where everything was so orderly that one had to sit very quiet in the corner of the sofa until aunt and father got through talking, and they nearly always talked from noon until sun down. Besides, aunt Christine was not at all gen- erous, Meieli thought, and would never shake the tree for you at Christmas, or those in the garden when they were heavy with fruit. In- stead she told Meieli and her smaller brother Felix to run as fast as they could and thus create enough wind to cause the apples and pears to fall. And Felix ran and ran and when he got home no apples were seen lying on the ground, and aunt Christine stood under the door and laughed. All of that was forgotten, however, a year later when two weeks before Christmas aunt had carried a heavy basket to town. "The walk had made her tired and hot," mother had said when narrating the facts, "and 19 so she drank a glass of cold beer at the station, drank it somewhat hastily perhaps, and when she reached her destination her whole body seemed to be on fire, and she had to go to bed. Of course they at once called the doctor, but he said that the condition is serious." Then father had gone to the city and re- mained there until auntie felt better, and when he came home mother went once more, for be- sides seeing aunt Christine she had to have a talk with Santa Claus, as the boys needed shoes and mittens and the girls some new aprons. Meieli noticed that her father was very silent during those days, that he never touched his accordion any more and did not tell the chil- dren any Christmas stories when they gathered about him on the sofa after supper. Mother came back from the city on Christ- mas Eve. Sister Karoline had scrubbed the floors to a snowy white and father had set up a nice fir tree to be trimmed that night. The oldest boys who had come home for the winter as soon as the ground began to freeze, and there was no longer any pasture for the cattle, had gone to meet mother at the station. It had already grown dark when they came in laden with baskets and bundles. Yet father did not seem to notice the presents, but held a light up to mother's face to see the news that she would bring. Then, even ere she said a word, he murmured, "Oh, the dear old sis- 20 ter! Good old Christine.*' And he wept. And mother too got a corner of her apron into her eyes and said that aunt Christine was to be buried the day after Christmas. Since then MeieH's feelings toward her aunt had changed, and she told herself that she would gladly sit Sunday after Sunday in the quiet corner of the sofa if only daddy could talk again to **dear old sister." But, Herald, it is getting late and I have du- ties awaiting me, so I shall say goodbye and tell you more about the little girl in my next letter, how they got home and found father. I also will go to see my little sad-eyed sweet- heart from the Juvenile Court. I heard that he lived somewhere on Fell Street, and since it is only a month until Christmas and there are boxing gloves, tin soldiers and picture books to be had in the stores, I believe that there are some happy hours before him. Your sincere, GERALDINE. (To be continued) 21 wr^::*- !vil5630*^ n^^ A^^^^ THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY