JOY IN WORK
 
 I expect to use it carefully and return It in good condition 
 without markings of any kind. 
 
 Flrt 
 
 Middle Room Date
 
 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 TEN SHORT STORIES OF TODAY 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED BY 
 
 MARY A. LASELLE 
 
 Editor of "Short Stories of the New America' 
 "The Home and Country Readers" 
 
 __ 
 ...ii a steady hand? 
 
 . ..vcs to be chaste, knightly, faithful, 
 -. word and deed? 
 
 e have to turn their courage from the toil of war 
 
 he toil of mercy; and their intellect from dispute of 
 
 jrds to discernment of things; and their knighthood 
 
 rom the erranty of adventure to the state and fidelity of 
 
 a kingly power." 
 
 m 
 
 2025678
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920 
 
 BY 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 May, 1928
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 Let us read what is said by men of vision in regard to 
 the joy in work: 
 
 TOHN RUSKIN; 
 
 " Ask the laborer in the field, at the forge, or even in 
 the mine; ask the patient, delicate-fingered artizan, or the 
 strong-armed fiery-hearted worker in bronze and in marble 
 and with the colors of light; and none of these who are 
 true workmen will ever tell you that they have found 
 the law of heaven an unkind one that in the sweat of 
 their face they shall eat bread till they return to the 
 ground ; nor that they ever found it an unrewarded obedi- 
 ence, if indeed, it was rendered faithfully to the command 
 
 Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy 
 might. 
 
 Can they (our youth) plow, can they sow, can they 
 plant at the right time or build with a steady hand? 
 Is it the effort of their lives to be chaste, knightly, faithful, 
 
 lovely in word and deed ? 
 
 We have to turn their courage from the toil of war 
 to the toil of mercy; and their intellect from dispute of 
 words to discernment of things; and their knighthood 
 from the erranty of adventure to the state and fidelity of 
 a kingly power." 
 
 m 
 
 2025678
 
 iv FOREWORD 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE; 
 
 " There is a perennial nobleness and sacredness in 
 Work. Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high 
 calling, there is always hope in a man who actually and 
 earnestly works; in Idleness alone is there perpetual de- 
 spair. 
 
 Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no 
 other blessedness How as a free-flowing channel, dug 
 and torn by noble forces through the sour mud-swamps 
 of one's existence, like an ever-deepening river there it 
 runs and flows; draining off the sour, festering water; 
 making instead of pestilential swamp, a green, fruitful 
 meadow with its clear-flowing stream." 
 
 " The modern majesty consists in work. What a man 
 can do is his greatest ornament." 
 
 " Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm." 
 " The reward of a thing well-done is to have done 
 
 ROBERT Louis STEVENSON : 
 
 " I know what pleasure is for I have done good work." * 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS: 
 
 " Whatever I have tried to do in my life, I have tried 
 with all my heart to do well. What I have devoted 
 myself to, I have devoted myself to completely. Never 
 to put my hand to anything on which I would not throw 
 my whole self, and never to affect depreciation of my 
 work, whatever it was, I find now to have been my golden 
 rules."
 
 X 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA, from QjtL.-af 
 Gloucester lames B. Connolly ... 3 
 
 One of the best descriptions of a master 
 painter of the joys and the nobility of spirit of 
 the fisher folk. 
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR, from 
 The Day of Glory Dorothy Canfield . 32 
 
 The splendid work of a wonderful woman is 
 here portrayed with beauty and sincerity. 
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN, from The 
 Boys' Life of Roosevelt Hermann Hage^ 
 
 dorn 66 
 
 The joy of Theodore Roosevelt's work upon a 
 western ranch. 
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION H. C. 
 f i Bunner 80 
 
 r Shows the possibilities of individual effort, 
 
 and pokes delicious fun at labor unions. 
 
 V THE THOUGHT AND THE STONE Mary 
 
 E. Waller in 
 
 The talk of the good Father Honore brings 
 out the nobility and dignityof th<^ wMk of .* 
 
 quarryman. 
 
 V
 
 i CONTENTS 
 
 VI THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 The son of a rich man learns the lumbering 
 business and " makes good." 
 
 VII THE LAST THRESHING IN THE COULEE, 
 from A Son of the Middle Border Harn- 
 
 Ijp Qfli-lanH | ^ ^6 
 
 A chapter from the autobiography of a fa- 
 mous author from the Middle-West. 
 
 VIII D&^GRENFEnJs PARISH Norman Duncan 147 
 
 A chapter from the life of a man whose work 
 has brought light and joy into very dark places. 
 
 IX THE MAKING OF A BASKET Kate T. 
 
 Fogarty 159 
 
 The Indian woman's ideals of beauty and of 
 tribal history as pictured in her work in basketry. 
 
 X FROM THE DEPTHS OF THINGS La3vrence_ 
 
 Eerrv 167 
 
 The spirited race of two antiquated ocean 
 " tramps."
 
 THE AUTHORS AND THE STORIES 
 
 JAMES BRENDAN CONNOLLY is a famous author of 
 sea stories. These tales are written with a power of 
 description, a realism and a sympathy for sea-going folk, 
 especially for fisher folk, that make them not only inter- 
 esting as sea stories but also authentic and valuable in- 
 formation in regard to all phases of sea-going life. 
 
 Mr. Connolly is a native of Boston, but inherits the 
 emotional qualities of the Celt and a love of the sea and 
 of sea-going occupations. / 
 
 This author had the honor of winning the first Olyjppic 
 championship of modern times at Athens in i9&_ He 
 also won the $5000 prize offered by Collier's for the best 
 taleTof the sea. This story was entitled The Trawler. 
 
 Some of Mr. Connolly's other tales of the sea are, The 
 U-Boat Hunters, Running Free, Wide Courses, Open 
 Water, The Crested Seas, The Deep Sea Toll and Out 
 of Gloucester, from which the beautiful story of The 
 Fisherman of Costla is taken for this book. 
 
 DOROTHY CANFIELD (Dorothea Frances Canfield 
 Fisher), the author of The Day of Glory, from which 
 France's Fighting Woman Doctor was taken, is not only 
 one of the most brilliant and convincing present-day writ- 
 ers of fiction, but she is also of international fame as a 
 writer upon educational subjects, and a noble, broad-
 
 viii THE AUTHORS AND THE STORIES 
 
 minded woman who worked indefatigably in rendering 
 help to soldiers made blind during the war in Europe. 
 
 Some of Dorothy Canfield's best known fiction is The 
 Squirrel Cage and The Bent Twig, and under her mar- 
 ried name, Dorothy Canfield Fisher, she has produced 
 several educational works. Among them are The Mon- 
 tessori Mother and Mothers and Children. 
 
 During her years of war work in France, Mrs. Fisher 
 secured from personal observation the material for two 
 books which have made a tremendous appeal to America. 
 These are Home Fires in France and The Day of Glory. 
 
 In France's Fighting Woman Doctor, Mrs. Fisher 
 gives an account of the wonderful work of Dr. Nicole 
 Girard-Mangin. She says of this physician, " She is a 
 human being of the highest type, giving to her country 
 the highest sort of service, and remaining normal, sane 
 and well-balanced." 
 
 Those who know of the work of Mrs. Fisher for 
 literature, for education, and for humanity feel that the 
 above characterization could be truthfully and aptly given 
 also of the author of The Day of Glory. 
 
 HERMANN HAGEDORN has described the joy of Theo- 
 dore Roosevelt's life upon a western ranch in a sincere 
 and sympathetic manner. 
 
 Mr. Hagedorn is an author and patriot who strives in 
 all his writing for the development of the highest Ameri- 
 can ideals. His first noteworthy literary effort was the I 
 splendid ode written for his Class Day at Harvard, A\ 
 Troop of the Guard Rides Forth To-day.
 
 THE AUTHORS AND THE STORIES k 
 
 Mr. Hagedorn says of Mr. Roosevelt's efforts to assist 
 him in securing material for The Boys' Life of Roosevelt: 
 " He has opened doors which only he could open: he has 
 turned over the diaries of his boyhood and of his later 
 hunting days; with a patience and good nature which 
 showed no abatement, he has allowed himself to be cate- 
 chized in person and by letter." 
 
 In the prologue to The Boys' Life of Roosevelt, the 
 author says, " Theodore Roosevelt was the epitome of the 
 Great Hundred Million; the visible, individual expres- 
 sion of the American people in this first quarter of the 
 twentieth century. He was the typical American. A 
 level-headed winner, a loser who could grin, his glory 
 was not that he was extraordinary, but that he was so 
 complete an expression of the best aspirations of the 
 average American. He was the fulfiller of our good 
 intentions; he was the doer of the heroic things we all 
 want to do and somehow don't quite manage to accom- 
 plish. 
 
 " He knew us and we knew him. He was humaji, he 
 was our kind, and, being our kind, his successes and his 
 fame were somehow our successes and our fame likewise." 
 
 The extract here given describes Mr. Roosevelt's ex- 
 periences in 1884. 
 
 H. C. BUNKER was a New York journalist, the edjtor_ 
 of Puck, the author of some very graceful, delicate verse, 
 and an excellent story teller. 
 
 Some of his best fiction is Jersey Street and Jersey 
 Lane, Love in Old Cloathes, Zadoc Pine and Othgr
 
 x THE AUTHORS AND THE STORIES 
 
 Stories, The Story of A New York House, and Short 
 Sixes. 
 
 In Zadoc Pine Mr. Bunner has taught the valuable 
 lesson of individual effort even if unskilled and he 
 makes delicious fun of the attempts of " union labor " to 
 dictate in regard to the work of our hero. 
 
 In Flams ted Quarries, MARY E. WALLER, the author 
 of the famous Wood-Carver of 'Lympus, has written a 
 story that is a powerful exposition of present-day condi- 
 tions of American social and industrial life, and has 
 emphasized very strongly the nobility and dignity of work 
 and its healing power. 
 
 In this narrative we watch the transformation of a 
 quiet back-country New England village into the life- 
 center of a great and far-reaching industry. 
 
 In a tale rich in entertainment and full of courage and 
 tenderness we make the acquaintance of good Father 
 Honore and other firmly drawn characters and we see 
 how the life problems of a half-dozen nationalities center 
 in their work in the granite quarries, which the good 
 Father interpreted to them as they clustered about him in 
 the meeting which this chapter records. 
 
 STEWART EDWARD WHITE is an authority upon out- 
 of-door life and the accomplishing of the great tasks upon 
 the rivers and in the forests that have entered into the 
 making of industrial America. 
 
 When Mr. White writes of the Northwestern timber 
 lands, of the Arizona deserts, of the silent places filled 
 with the mystery and poetry of the wilderness, the reader
 
 THE AUTHORS AND THE STORIES xi 
 
 feels that authoritative and fascinating tales are being un- 
 folded to him. 
 
 The Rules of the Game is a book big with the grandeur 
 of the gigantic forests and alive with the vitality of the 
 strong men in the forefront of the progressive industry of 
 America. 
 
 In the offices of the plant in which Bobby Orde was a 
 failure because of his inaccuracy, and in the forests of 
 Michigan and of the California Sierras where he finds his 
 place in the world, the story of his rise in the ranks of 
 the lumbermen is filled with keen outdoor interest and 
 spirited adventure. 
 
 Some of Mr. White's other books are, The Riverman, 
 Arizona Nights, The Blazed Trail, Blazed Trail Stories, 
 The Silent Places, The Adventures of Bobby Orde, The 
 Westerners, The Claim Jumpers, The Forest, The Moun- 
 tains, The Pass, Camp and Trail. 
 
 HAM LIN GARLAKD, author of The Last Threshing in 
 the Coulee from A Son of the Middle Border, is a well- 
 known American author and dramatist, who was born 
 and bred on a farm in Wisconsin, worked on his father's 
 farm, taught school, took up land in Dakota and found 
 his real life-work in authorship in Boston. Mr. Garland 
 now resides in New York City, where he has produced 
 fiction of high literary value. His greatest accomplish- 
 ment, however, has been to describe with realism and force 
 the life of the Middle West. 
 
 Some of his other best known books are Main-Traveled 
 Roads, Prairie Songs, The Long Trail, and Other Main 
 Traveled Roads.
 
 xii THE AUTHORS AND THE STORIES 
 
 NORMAN DUNCAN, author of Ur^Qrnjell's_ 
 has been characterized by Dr. Grenfell as " a high-souled, 
 generous idealist." He has written of many strange 
 lands and people, and always with a discerning eye but a 
 very tender touch. 
 
 Among his most powerful tales are those of the North- 
 land, as these are stories of life reduced to its elements. 
 
 One of his best known books is Dr. Luke of the Labra- 
 dor. 
 
 Whether he wrote of the immigrants of the East Side 
 of New York, of the rough lumberjacks of the North- 
 west, or of the deep-sea fishermen, he always saw the 
 human soul in every lowly person, and respected it. 
 
 In The Making of a Basket by KATE M. FOGARTY we 
 secure an insight into the charming fancies that are in 
 the minds of the Indian women as they picture their ideals 
 of beauty and the history of their tribes in their work in 
 basketry. 
 
 Nihabe, with her contempt of the buyer's gold, her 
 reverence for artistic workmanship and for the traditions 
 of her tribe, and her womanly love for her husband's 
 beautiful gift, claims our admiration and respect. 
 
 From the Depths of Things by LAWRENCE PERRY 
 gives us the spirit of high adventure which makes the race 
 of the two old tramp steamers through the Atlantic a 
 very fascinating tale. We may not sympathize with the 
 owners who would risk human lives for the sake of 
 evading the McKinley tariff, but the humor of the nar-
 
 THE AUTHORS AND THE STORIES xiii 
 
 rative, the " dreaming " of the engineer of the Climax 
 as he walks the oily passage in the interior of the old boat, 
 as contrasted with his indomitable spirit, all make a most 
 interesting story.
 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 Acknowledgments are made to the following publishers 
 and authors for permission to use the selections contained 
 in this book: 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons and Mr. James B. Connolly 
 for " A Fisherman of Costla " from Out of Gloucester. 
 (Copyright 1902 by Charles Scribner's Sons.) 
 
 Henry Holt and Company and Mrs. Dorothy Canfield 
 Fisher for " France's Fighting Woman Doctor " from 
 The Day of Glory. (Copyright by Henry Holt and 
 Company, 1919.) 
 
 Harper and Brothers and Mr. Hermann Hagedorn 
 for " The Work of the Ranchman " from The Boys' 
 Life of Roosevelt. (Copyright by Harper and Brothers, 
 1918.) 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons for " The Zadoc Pine Labor 
 Union," by H. C. Bunner. Second Series. (Copyright 
 by Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916.) 
 
 Little, Brown and Company and Miss Mary E. Waller 
 for " The Thought and the Stone " from Flamsted Quar- 
 ries. (Copyright 1910 by Mary E. Waller.) 
 
 Poubleday, Page and Company and Mr. Stewart Ed- 
 ward White for " The Rules of the Game " from the 
 book of that title. (Copyright by Doubleday, Page and 
 Company, 1911.) 
 
 xv
 
 xvi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 The Macmillan Company and Mr. Hamlin Garland 
 for " The Last Threshing in the Coulee " from A Son of 
 the Middle Border. (Copyright by The Macmillan 
 Company, 1917.) 
 
 Fleming H. Revell Company for "Dr. Grenfell's 
 Parish " by Norman Duncan. (Copyright by Fleming 
 H. Revell Company.) 
 
 Out West Magazine Company for " The Weaving of 
 a Basket " by Miss Kate M. Fogarty. (Copyright Out 
 West Magazine Company, 1906.) 
 
 Mr. Lawrence Perry for " From the Depths of 
 Things." (Copyright McClure's Magazine, 1908.)
 
 THE JOY IN WORK
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 
 
 From Out of Gloucester, by James B. Connolly. Copyright, 
 1902, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the pub- 
 lishers and the author. 
 
 The captain of the coast steamer almost laughed aloud 
 at the absurdity of the question. " Cross to Kilronan, in 
 the outer Arran Island, to-day? No, sir, not for all the 
 money your clients have in prospect. Even if my steamer 
 had not two loose plates forward, and her condenser all 
 out of gear, as my engineer says, I would not head her 
 out in the bay to-day not for all the money of one of 
 your American millionaires. No, sir." 
 
 " But consider the urgency," panted the stranger. 
 " Consider " 
 
 "Consider the urgency? Consider the steamer," re- 
 torted the captain. " Lord, you'd never need to say 
 you've just arrived from strange parts. If you'd been in 
 Galway for more than ten minutes, you'd have known 
 that this howling westerly gale that's sweeping in on this 
 coast would make a junk-pile in quick order of any old 
 iron steamer of the tonnage of mine. In quick order, 
 yes, sir up on the rocks she'd go it's all rocks on this 
 coast. And then where would my captain's papers be? " 
 
 " Name your price," persisted the stranger. He 
 ~ 3
 
 4 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 dropped his suit-case, put his hand to his inside coat- 
 pocket, and drew out a thick wallet. " Name your 
 price. I'll charter the steamer for a week, and you can 
 have her back at the end of twenty-four hours, and it's 
 only two hours' run to Kilronan, as you said yourself. 
 Two hours out and two hours back, four hours steaming 
 besides the waiting while I'm looking over the records 
 with your parish priest and parish clerk six hours all 
 told and my business will be done with. What do you 
 say? Name your price." 
 
 " No, no, I'm sorry, but I would not try it even if my 
 steamer was ready, for the value of the whole estate you 
 say may be at stake. No, no," replied the steamer cap- 
 tain. 
 
 " Then what am I to do? At the hotel I stopped just 
 long enough to make inquiries, and they sent me to you. 
 They told me that if you would not take me to Arran, 
 nobody out of Galway would take me, unless it were a 
 Claddagh fisherman across the harbor in one of their little 
 sailing-vessels. And then they added that if I could get 
 a fisherman ready to risk it, it is more than likely he 
 could not do anything against this storm it's a head 
 wind to Arran." 
 
 " They told you right. Lord bless you, no hooker 
 could ever beat out this gale. Kilronan bears about west 
 from here, and this wind's straight from the west-north- 
 west. If the wind was blowing from offshore now, why 
 you might speak of taking a hooker, if you would find 
 anybody crazy enough to try it. Though as for that part 
 of it, you'll find Irishmen crazy enough to try almost
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 5 
 
 anything I mean if you can show 'em a half-decent 
 reason for it. They won't do it just for the money, 
 remember no, sir, not for all the money that wallet 
 of yours'll hold but if you could work up their feel- 
 ings " 
 
 " If the wind were blowing from off-shore ? " repeated 
 the stranger absently. " But is there no place around 
 here on the coast from which the wind blows toward 
 Arran?" 
 
 " Ha! Why, that's so, too! There's the north shore 
 there's Costla. From Costla to Kilronan the wind 
 won't be behind you, mind, but it will be a fair wind 
 fair enough for a passage. But, my soul, think of the 
 risk." 
 
 "Risk? in the boat?" 
 
 "In the boat? yes crossing Galway Bay in this 
 gale." 
 
 " Would your fishermen here be afraid ? They told 
 me other tales of them, captain." The stranger smiled 
 in an exasperating way. 
 
 " See here," said the captain. " Don't you run away 
 with any notion that our fishermen hereabouts won't fish 
 when any other men on earth would go out and fish in 
 small boats. But let me tell you, it's one thing to fish 
 because the wife and children at home need the help, and 
 another thing here," the captain broke off with some 
 heat, " look here now, and I'll tell you. A while ago 
 you said you'd go to any labor and any risk to reach 
 Kilronan to-day, and be back here to-morrow morning? " 
 
 " Yes," said the stranger, " any labor and any risk so
 
 6 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 as to be back here and aboard the train that will connect 
 with the White Star steamer out of Queenstown to- 
 morrow morning. If I don't do this thing, and take 
 that steamer so as to be back in time, my trip over here 
 is of no avail. And it means more than a dead loss of 
 time and money to the firm. I'm a young lawyer in a 
 big office, and this thing means a lot to me. You tell 
 me what to do and I'll do it at any risk." 
 
 "You will? Well, you go to Costla that's on the 
 coast on the north side of Galway Bay, as I said. It's 
 the nearest place on the mainland to Kilronan. There's 
 a fair road from here to there; it's on the mail-car route 
 that goes out of the western side of Galway. You go 
 to Costla, First, of course, you go to the Royal Hotel 
 up the street that's where you just came from and 
 tell them you want a jaunting-cai, a fast horse, and a 
 good driver. Get Pat Kelley if you can, and have him 
 arrange to have a fresh horse for you at Spiddle. There's 
 always a fresh horse to be had at Spiddle, and that's half 
 way to Costla. You ought to be at Costla Bay in two 
 hours and a half. It's twenty-five miles. When you 
 get to Costla, ask for Gerald Donohue. Anybody will 
 tell you where to find him, though, there being two 
 Geralds, you want to ask for the right one. One has a 
 son in the Coast Guards. You don't want him he's 
 old and stays ashore now. You want the other Gerald 
 that's a fisherman and has no son in the Coast Guards. 
 He did have a son that would be old enough for that 
 now, but he lost him the time the last big wave swept 
 over Glasher Rock. Anyway, you tell Gerald what you
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 7 
 
 told me when you first hopped off that car a while ago. 
 Tell him that if you can't get those records with the 
 proper certification and be back aboard to-morrow morn- 
 ing's New York steamer out of Queenstown, your clients 
 a family of children, did you say ? well, tell him 
 they'll lose a fortune. Tell Gerald that and put it strong 
 to him. Tell him what you told me, that the fortunes 
 of those children, whose father was Kilronan born, may 
 be hanging on your getting to Kilronan and back by to- 
 night, and trust Gerald to put you across the bay to 
 Arran Island if any living man will do it. And if he 
 gets you across to Arran, then he'll make small work of 
 bringing you on to Galway afterward, for it will be a 
 fair wind from Arran back to Galway. He'll only have 
 to keep her from swamping on the way back. And if 
 Gerald won't do it, you can give it up no man on the 
 coast will do it." 
 
 "Thank you, thank you, I'm off. O jarvey " the 
 stranger leaped to the jaunting-car " to the Royal 
 Hotel ! Lash her now ! " 
 
 The captain gazed after him. " The Lord save us, I 
 wonder is there ever one of them American business men 
 that's got time to take a full breath." 
 
 II 
 
 It was at ten o'clock in the morning that the American 
 left the steamer-captain. At one in the afternoon he was 
 down by a small stone quay at an inner point of Costla 
 Bay talking to a fisherman of the place, Gerald Donohue, 
 the right Gerald Donohue, the one that had no son in
 
 8 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 the Coast Guards. Stout, bearded, and hardy-looking 
 was Gerald of the blue eyes and simple speech. 
 
 " Sure it's the moving tale you're telling me," he was 
 saying. " But do you think what it means if my little 
 vessel is lost? The wife and the small childer" 
 
 " Well, as to that, Mister Donohue, I can only say that 
 the heirs the people we're fighting for will see that 
 your family shall not want. When they hear the story, 
 as hear it they must, for I'll be with you and they'll nat- 
 urally make inquiries if we're lost then you can count 
 on it that your family will not be forgotten. It won't 
 be a hundred pounds, or two hundred, or three hundred 
 that they " 
 
 Gerald raised his hand. " We'll not speak of the 
 money. The man that would cross Galway Bay to-day 
 for money, and wife and childer behind him, would be 
 staining his soul with the black marks of a sin that the 
 fires o' Purgatory would never burn out never. But 
 for Dannie Costello's childer that has to fight for the 
 money he left behind sure 'tis a hard thing. The childer 
 that can't get their own father's money man, but it 
 is the hard nature that is fighting them. I knew Dannie 
 for ten years before he left Arran the one age we 
 were. And him the manager of a boy before he was old 
 enough to walk. And a fine, kind boy he was. And 
 only the year before last he sent fifty pound at Christmas- 
 time for the little stone church they're trying to build in 
 Kilronan. Yes, sir, the big heart had Dannie. And 
 now he's dead, you tell me, and they're schemin', the vil- 
 lains, to keep the poor childer out o' the money. Sure
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 9 
 
 an awful thing is law now, isn't it? Here, Tammie " 
 he turned to a twelve-year-old lad who was standing near 
 and watching the surf break over the rocks below him. 
 " Tammie, run up to the house like a good boy and get 
 the two suits of oil-clothes make haste now while I 
 will be reefing down the mainsail and taking in a bit of 
 the jib. Make haste, Tammie, for it's makin' the wind 
 is all the time. Yes, sir, it must be makin' when it isn't 
 going down. And it's big boots and plenty of oil-clothes 
 we'll need this day. And do yourself get into the hooker, 
 sir, yourself and your valise, while I do be reefin' down." 
 
 The " hooker " was a black-painted, or rather black- 
 tarred, jib-and-mainsail boat of perhaps twenty-five feet 
 on deck and eight feet beam. Forward she was decked 
 over but aft was merely an open space, wherein was a 
 lot of broken rock in her bottom for ballast. Having 
 been used at odd times for carrying peat to the islands 
 in the bay, a great deal of loose loam had managed to sift 
 down into the crevices of the stone, thereby giving more 
 than usual stability to the ballast. 
 
 The lawyer stood on the ballast and watched the fierce 
 surf as it broke over the rocks that edged the little bay. 
 He could not quite see the full glory of the surf of the 
 greater bay outside, the bay they were soon to attempt 
 to cross, but he saw enough to get a faint idea of what it 
 might be like, and as he pondered over the prospect he 
 began to experience his first slight sinking of the heart 
 since he left Galway and almost to wish that to some- 
 body else had fallen what now promised to be a hazardous 
 undertaking.
 
 io THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 While the lawyer was soberly meditating the fisherman 
 was rushing preparations. Three reefs were put in the 
 black mainsail, and the jib was taken in until not more 
 than half its original size was spread. The hatch to the 
 little hole forward was battened down and running 
 rrear overhauled. Gerald did not like the look of the 
 lib. " It's old, and a touch of rot in it. If there was 
 time, there's a bit of a storm-sail below I would put on 
 her by way of a jib instead of that old rag, but there's 
 not the time here comes Tammie, with his load of 
 boots and oil-clothes. 
 
 " Throw it aboard, Tammie. 
 
 " Ah, poor b'y, ye had a great load of it, sure enough. 
 Here, sir " he turned to his passenger " take off your 
 shoes and get into a pair of these boots, and put the oil- 
 clothes over your other clothes. Be sure but you will 
 need them." 
 
 They were soon ready. " Push off, Tammie," said the 
 fisherman to his boy. " Pole her off to the end of the 
 quay, and then go back and tell your mother I won't be 
 back for three days maybe, for I'll have to go to Gal way 
 to put the gentleman on his way. Go back now." 
 
 " Can't I go with you, father? " asked the boy. 
 
 "Go with me! The Lord forbid sure the hair 
 would rise off your head with the fright when you'd see 
 the waves out in the big bay." 
 
 " I wouldn't be afraid with you, father." 
 
 " Whisht ! and go along with you. 'Tis your mother 
 wouldn't sleep till you was back again. Go home now, 
 and tell her as I just told you to tell her "
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA u 
 
 " She knows where you're going. When I asked for 
 the big boots and oil-clothes, she asked me what you 
 wanted them for, and I told her." 
 
 " You did? And what did she say? " 
 
 " She said, ' 'Tis the foolish man your father is, Tam- 
 mie, but God speed him.' Can't I stay on the high rocks 
 and watch you sail across, father? " pleaded the boy. 
 
 " No, b'y, no. It's too windy and cold there." 
 
 " But I want to see you sail the hooker across the bay, 
 father. It's fast she'll sail in this wind, and I want to 
 see her go." 
 
 " Then go up to the Coast-Guard station and watch 
 from there with your cousin Malachi. 'Tis there you 
 will be able to see beautiful from the look-out up top. 
 Go now, Tammie, and say God-speed for us." 
 
 Under the fisherman's hands the little hooker was skil- 
 fully worked from out of this rock-strewn inlet of water 
 known as Costla Bay into the much larger body of water 
 known as Galway Bay. The American had only to 
 dodge the spray as it came aboard, and Gerald to dodge 
 with the hooker the rocks that stuck their sharp points 
 above the surface. 
 
 " Look across now," said Gerald they were clear of 
 the sunken rocks inside " that's Arran you see ahead. 
 Eleven mile from here just beyond where you see the 
 water all white. That's the surf breaking there if you 
 can see it." 
 
 " I think I can see it, but I'm not sure." From the 
 stern of the jumping hooker the lawyer was trying to see 
 things ahead and at the same time keep his feet.
 
 12 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 "Not sure, ye say? Faith, but it's the weak eyes a 
 man gets when he stops long ashore. That's Kilronan, 
 and the long stone wall there is the pier. That's where 
 we are going, if God is willing to the other side of that 
 pier. Now keep under the rail and out of the wet, if you 
 can, for we're fair into it now." 
 
 What the American knew of the practical workings of 
 the sea had been gained altogether from his recent trip 
 between New York and Queenstown. For one twenty- 
 four hours during that six days' passage there had been 
 enacted what the saloon referred to as " an awful storm." 
 Some spray had come aboard the main deck of the liner, 
 and most of the passengers lay in their berths while the 
 awful storm should go by. Our young lawyer had been 
 among the brave ones who had stuck it out in the smoking- 
 room. He remembered very well how he had been think- 
 ing of the future time when he should be reeling off the 
 details of that storm to home circles. But that steamer 
 was 600 feet in length, with a wall of sixty feet from 
 the water's surface to the top-rail, and, to preserve the 
 proportions, this little hooker was about the size of one 
 of the liner's deck-boats, with less than two feet of free- 
 board that is, when she stood on an even keel. To 
 preserve the proportions, this little vessel should be now 
 sailing in a mill-pond in a summer zephyr. Even that 
 something less than two feet of freeboard would have 
 been a most comforting thing were it there now, which 
 it was not, for the hooker by now, working clear of the 
 main shore, and the wind coming abeam, was taking a 
 great slant. At first she only rolled over to her deck
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 13 
 
 amidships, and the water did not bother them over-much. 
 Spray had come across her bows from the very first, but, 
 as they went on, sheets of spray began to come over bows, 
 midship, and quarter, and slap them from head to toe 
 even when they crouched back in the stern. Still, even 
 the lawyer did not mind that. He had some philosophy 
 in his make-up, and, having been warned by that surf 
 over the rocks of Costla Bay, he had made up his mind 
 to some discomfort. But it was not until the hooker had 
 worked out from the lee of the land for a mile or so, 
 and the real force of the wind from all the wide Atlantic 
 began to hit her, that the young man from the inland 
 region of a great continent began to see more clearly than 
 ever that he had embarked on an enterprise of some risk. 
 He derived his greatest pleasure, after they were well 
 into it, from discovering the rail when it showed above 
 the sea, as it did every now and then when the fisherman 
 held her up a trifle. 
 
 The fisherman seemed to read the young man's 
 thoughts. " I could make it a bit more pleasant," he ex- 
 plained, " but we would never make Kilronan if I did. 
 If we went to looard we'd never in this world work her 
 back in the wind." 
 
 " I see," said the lawyer, " but doesn't she lay rather 
 away over sometimes? Isn't there danger?" 
 
 " Danger? not a bit. Not yet, anyway. Don't you 
 worry now. So she shows the rail anywhere near the 
 level water you're safe as if you was in the Coast-Guard 
 station we left behind us. 'Tis when she puts that plank 
 above her rail under that plank that's used to hold the
 
 I 4 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 turf in her whenever we have a big load of it now when 
 that goes under water will be the time to say a quick 
 litany, especially if the ballast shifts." 
 
 "That plank under! Good Lord! wouldn't she turn 
 bottom up then ? " 
 
 " I couldn't say. I never tried her, but it is likely, 
 sir." 
 
 "And if she tips over, what shall we do?" 
 
 " Troth, and I couldn't say as to that, either ; but 
 swim, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "Swim! I'd have but a small chance, then, when I 
 can barely swim a hundred yards in the smoothest water." 
 
 " Faith, then we'd last the one as long as the other, 
 for sorra the stroke at all can I swim. But that's neither 
 here nor there, for it's the small chance we'd have if she 
 capsized here. Look at her now, sir." 
 
 The hooker was then lifting so that the lawyer, gazing 
 at her forward deck, could easily imagine himself looking 
 uphill; and when she pitched down and her bows went 
 clear under until she was all water to her mast, he 
 thought she was about to engulf herself. That was hap- 
 pening almost continuously, but she did have steady 
 streaks. When the wind was steady, she simply lay down 
 while the sea rushed over her side and swirled over the 
 feet of the two men in the stern. 
 
 " The Lord save us, but she's making great time, isn't 
 she, sir? Great speed, but maybe 'twouldn't do her no 
 harm if you was to keep the bailer going. That's the 
 bailer, that tin pail there by your valise. Man, but that 
 valise is catching it and a finer valise I never set eyes on.
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 15 
 
 I know it's a shame, too, to make a regular-paid passen- 
 ger work his way, but with yourself bailing you'll have 
 a better chance to make that same passage you'll be paying 
 for later, if you make it. 'Tis the great sport sailing when 
 you're sure you'll get home all right, isn't it, sir? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the lawyer, " it must be." His voice 
 had not the viking ring, but his bailing was all that could 
 be desired. 
 
 The hooker footed on, with the seas tossing her about 
 as a wooden bucket is tumbled in a beach surf. She went 
 down into the hollows until the lawyer thought she was 
 never coming up, and she went up on the heights until he 
 thought she would stay up altogether. The seas were 
 green and each had a crest of white that reminded the 
 landsman of the long teeth of an angry dog. The body 
 of the sea would rush on, and by its sheer weight throw 
 the hooker far and high, then the white teeth would leap 
 up and pounce down and make as if trying to tear her 
 planks apart. 
 
 The lawyer, to gather inspiration, would look up now 
 and then from his bailing to study the face of the fisher- 
 man. Once he fancied he saw a fleeting shade of worri- 
 ment in the blue eyes. With some trepidation he asked 
 if there were anything wrong. If this man of the sea 
 was disturbed, certainly it was time for himself, a lands- 
 man, to watch out. 
 
 " That jib there," answered the fisherman after a long 
 gaze forward; "I've been thinkin' it won't hold much 
 longer. Beginnin' to rip it is at the foot of it. Stand 
 up now and hold the tiller when I put her in the wind.
 
 16 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 Wait, wait until I put her into the wind. Have a care 
 now, and let me show you. By the Lord, but that was 
 a blast! Och, it's gone! May the divil go with it!" 
 The jib had ripped from the foot up, and was slatting 
 off in strips to leeward, like half a dozen long-tailed 
 burgees. 
 
 " Hold her as she is," said the fisherman. " She'll stay 
 there now while I dive into the hold for'ard for a bit of 
 storm-sail that we'll make a jib of. I always mistrusted 
 that old jib." 
 
 The hooker rode the waves so much more easily with 
 her head to the wind that the lawyer, though he had not 
 the slightest idea of how it was all brought about, won- 
 dered why they had not done something like this before. 
 Certainly this was better than to let her heel over until 
 she threatened to roll bottom up. 
 
 Forward the fisherman had got out a small triangle of 
 canvas, and was swiftly making ready to attach it to the 
 old jib sheet and halyards. To expedite matters he was 
 forced to lie out on the little bowsprit and allow himself 
 to be buried with that plunging stick every time a sea 
 came his way. He quickly made a pair of rough hanks 
 of a piece of old line, cut away such pieces of the old jib 
 as threatened to hamper operations, came back inboard and 
 hoisted away on his halyards. 
 
 " There," said he, jumping aft, beard, hair, and the 
 oil-skins running brine, " there. Now we'll go our way 
 again." 
 
 The hooker lay over again, and the lawyer resumed his
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 17 
 
 bailing, stopping only long enough to ask Gerald why he 
 could not have kept her as she was when he was putting 
 the new sail in place. " She was so steady then," he said, 
 " so steady that is, compared to what she is now." 
 
 " Steady, yes," said Gerald, grimly. " A pity she 
 wouldn't be half-way steady, and she hove-to. But let 
 her lay so long enough and think you where would she 
 be, or where would you be or me be? Look over the 
 rail at your elbow now. See where the sea breaks over 
 that ledge. Twenty feet high it spouts, and that ledge 
 runs far out from the shore into the bay. That's where 
 she'd drift, and we'd be fools enough to let her. How 
 long would you live, I'm asking you, sir, in that b'iling 
 if you was lucky enough not to break your bones in the 
 first smash ? " 
 
 " Oh," said the lawyer, " I didn't know." After a 
 pause he continued: "No, I didn't know. If I knew 
 what it was going to be I would never have dragged you 
 out here, nor come out here myself no, not for all the 
 reputation I ever expect to make. I didn't know." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the fisherman, "and Dannie's 
 childer dependin' on ye?" 
 
 " Oh, I forget them. Yes, I would come but what's 
 that awful place ahead ? " 
 
 " That's where the shoal makes out from Arran. 
 That's the bad spot tor us. 'Tis that we'll have to 
 weather if ever we make Kilronan. Man, but it's cruel 
 to look at, isn't it now ? There's where we'll have to let 
 her take the wind in full. All this time, d' y' see, we've
 
 18 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 been close-hauled, but we'll have to swing her off now if 
 we'd pass here. Watch out now and get a hold of some- 
 thing if you love life." 
 
 He put the tiller up into the wind, and around came her 
 head. The wind took her fairly, and over she went. 
 The lawyer thought she was going altogether, and the 
 fisherman said " Holy Mary! " Her solid rail went far 
 under, and the turf-board above that went clear under 
 also, and the water that rushed into the open part of her 
 aft seemed about to swamp her. 
 
 "She's going!" called the lawyer "My God, she's 
 going! " He grabbed the tiller in his excitement. 
 
 "Let be the tiller I'm steering! Take a grip of 
 my waist, or anything, but let be the tiller ! " 
 
 " I'm up to my knees," said the lawyer. 
 
 " To your knees, is it ! Man, but you'll be up to your 
 waist, maybe, before she stops, and then over your head, 
 maybe. Hold on now hold on yet. Holy Mary, but 
 she's getting it. But, by the Lord, she'll make it yet. 
 She's coming, by my soul, she's coming. 'Twas a blow 
 that, but she'll right yet. Give her a chance, give her a 
 chance now." 
 
 For a full two minutes she lay there, within an ace of 
 being hove-down before she showed signs of coming up. 
 Then slowly she began to right, with the fisherman nurs- 
 ing her. Slowly, slowly she came up. She was safe at 
 last. For a while she was logy as any old derelict with 
 the loose water that sloshed about in the open space 
 aft, but she had righted and that was the really important 
 thing.
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 19 
 
 "A bad little place that, sir," observed Gerald when 
 he had got her straightened away again. " A point makes 
 out from the shoals there, d' y' see? We had to shoot 
 around it like, y' see, and that made all the trouble. 
 'Twas that more than all the rest of the passage, though 
 the Lord knows 'tis rough enough it is but 'twas that's 
 been on my mind the last half hour. You didn't know 
 that? Why would you? but the Lord be thanked 
 we're by it now. There's been more than one vessel cap- 
 sized and more than one crew lost there, though 'twasn't 
 all of them had ballast that stood like ours. Man, but 
 the turf between the stones under our feet 'tis as good 
 as the pig iron and the melted lead they puts in the bot- 
 tom of the yachts. Yes, sir, every bit as good. When 
 it holds, I mean. Sometimes it don't hold. And maybe 
 it was the hand o' God that jib blowing out back 
 there. If it didn't go then, 'twould go that last time and 
 that was a bad place to be stopping to bend on a new sail 
 don't you think but it was, sir?" 
 
 " Yes," said the lawyer. Still bewildered, he stood 
 looking back at the boiling point they had passed. 
 "Awful, awful, wasn't it?" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, sir awful, you might say, but don't stop bail- 
 ing now because we're past it. She'll be a bit livelier, 
 d' y' see, with some of the water out of her. That's why 
 I have the stern of her with a few planks out so the 
 water that comes over the rail will go back in the sea 
 again." He grinned slyly. " She gets clear of a lot of 
 water that way. But keep bailing you're doin' fine at 
 the bailing, sir."
 
 20 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 The lawyer continued to bail, and Gerald held to the 
 tiller until the happy moment when they shot around the 
 end of the pier. " There," said Gerald, " we're in at 
 last, and here's Kilronan." He pointed the hooker up 
 for the pier, cast loose the halyards, let the sails run, and 
 dropped her gently alongside the pier steps. 
 
 " And are we here? " asked the lawyer, as if he could 
 hardly believe it. 
 
 "Here you are yes, sir Kilronan. Go up those 
 steps ahead, and from the top of the pier you can see the 
 parish priest's place. The parish priest and the parish 
 dark will have all the records you'll be wanting, I think. 
 And there's a notary or something like that who will do 
 the swearing the dark can't do. And while you're gone 
 I'll be eating some bread and fish and making a cup of 
 tea, for I've had no dinner this day and I'm fair famished. 
 When you get back, sir, we'll put for Galway. Make 
 haste, sir, and if the Lord is good, you'll be in time for 
 your Queenstown steamer in the morning." 
 
 In two hours the young lawyer came back, radiant. 
 " It's all right, it's all right," he sang out to Gerald. 
 
 " Is it ? Well that's fine. And now we'll off to Gal- 
 way. Come aboard, sir." 
 
 " Will it be bad going to Galway? Any more of those 
 bad shoal points to be passed ? " 
 
 " Not a bit. 'Tis only running we'll be going to Gal- 
 way in this wind. We have but to hold her up past the 
 light-house till we're well into Gregory Sound, and we're 
 all right. She'll make great dives with her head, but it's 
 hard to capsize her that way head first. 'Twill be
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 21 
 
 rough, maybe, till we're past the Sound, but after that 
 we'll put for the lee of the islands, and with a fair wind 
 and smooth water and Dan Costello's childer in mind 
 and we'll have you in Galway to-night, with the help of 
 God." 
 
 That night in his room at the hotel in Galway, and 
 while he was waiting for the porters to put his few pieces 
 of baggage in the jaunting-car, the American drew out 
 his thick wallet to settleAip^- with the fisherman. He laid 
 five 10 Bank of England notes on the table. " There, 
 Captain Donohue," said he, " there's your 50 as prom- 
 ised, and your work was worth it ten times over." 
 
 Donohue regarded him with wonder. " Fifty pounds ? 
 No, no " he pushed the money back across the table 
 "no, no; I'm not taking 50 out of you, sir. Let me 
 have two pounds, a pound for to-day, and a pound for 
 another day I'll be waiting here while the gale blows 
 by." 
 
 "Two pounds? Don't be foolish now, Captain. I 
 said this morning that I'd give you 50 to take me across 
 Galway Bay. And here are the fifty pounds that I said 
 I'd give you." 
 
 " Yes, yes, you said you'd give me it, but I never said 
 I'd take it. Put up your money. It isn't for the money 
 I'd be risking making a widder of Mora and orphans of 
 the childer. No, sir; two pounds is my price this day 
 one day to-day, and another day to-morrow when I 
 won't be able to get back to Costla, by the look of things 
 now. No, no, sir; I'm telling you now 'tis never for 
 money I'd do it. Forty years ago, when I was a little
 
 22 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 lad, I knew Dannie Costello. 'Twas Dan put me many's 
 the time in the way of makin' a shillin' with him now and 
 again. Dan Costello was good to me. And 'twas a long 
 ways a shillin' went in them days starvation days we 
 had then. Yes, 'tis true, we haven't too many comforts 
 now, but we manage to get along. When you see the 
 childer again, sir and if they are anything like their 
 father, sir, sure they'll be the fine childer when you 
 see them, give my respects to them, sir. A friend of their 
 father's, tell them. Tell them that, if you will, and I'll 
 thank you. Two pounds no more, no more. What ? 
 The sail? Well, put in a pound for the old sail. Troth, 
 and it was an old sail, and I'll be cheating you at that. 
 Three pounds I'll take. No more. I couldn't. Thank 
 you, sir, and hurry now if you would catch the cars for 
 Queenstown. Good-by, sir, good-by, and remember me 
 kindly to Dan Costello 's childer." 
 
 Ill 
 
 When the roar of the hurrying train had become no 
 more than one of a thousand other far-away echoes in the 
 night, the fisherman returned through the narrow streets 
 of the old city to the big dock, to the end of which was 
 tied his little hooker. He sloshed around with the tin 
 pail and bailed out such water as he could find by feeling 
 in the dark. He shook the reefs out of the mainsail, 
 hoisted it clear to the blocks, that it might have a chance 
 to dry, and then looked up at the shadow of it as it 
 hung. " There, that's off my mind, and now for a little
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 23 
 
 bit of comfort." He felt his way forward and dropped 
 through the hatchway into the little hole of a cabin. 
 
 Here he groped about in the extreme darkness until 
 his fingers rubbed against a piece of a candle and a card 
 of matches that protruded from somewhere up between 
 the deck-planking and a transverse beam. The matches 
 he struck one after the other until he got one that would 
 stay alight long enough to get the candle going. He 
 raked over the ashes on the little stone slab that served 
 him for a hearth, but found them all damp. " Man," 
 he murmured, " but the water surely came through her 
 old j'ints this day." He went to a locker, took out a 
 small piece of very soft wood, from which, after whittling 
 into shavings, he managed to get a tiny blaze. " The 
 very air has salt water in it," he whispered to himself. 
 After another while he felt hopeful of getting a kettle of 
 water to boil. "' 'Twas good the locker's half-way dry 
 with the wood in it. We'll have tea yet, by the Lord." 
 The thought gave him intense satisfaction. " A pot of 
 fine hot tea, yes, and something to eat with it. And 
 I'm fair famished." From the bottom of a tin box he 
 took out a sliver of salt fish and a scone of bread. 
 " Faith, but that's fine luck just enough for a bite for 
 myself. Not a great deal of it a child could eat it, and 
 Father Doherty himself wouldn't say it was too much 
 for a fast-day, but 'twill go fine after the wet, hard day 
 fine, fine." He shook out the last pinch of tea from 
 the caddy into the kettle. 
 
 The water was slow to boil, and the smoke of the fire 
 drove him to the hatchway for fresh air. " I'll have to
 
 24 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 get a little chimbly for this place another year the 
 smoke of it sometimes is fair overpowerin'." He gazed 
 out of the hatch and across the dark waters. " A wee 
 little bit more and I could see Costla Bay with the lights 
 in the Coast-Guard station yes. Mora, 'tis little is 
 the sleep you'll be giving yourself this night nor another 
 night till I'm home again. Sure the childer themselves, 
 the wee little ones, will be asking for their father when 
 they hear the wind scream over the rocks of Costla. 
 And off in America now what place was it that young 
 man said ? some saint city away, oh, far away, from 
 the coast. But never mind. ' If ever you come t' Amer- 
 ica, Captain Donohue ' says he. ' I'm no captain,' says 
 I. 'I'm master with one grown lad for a crew, of a 
 little black hooker a fisherman of Costla am I,' says I. 
 ' Well, captain or no captain,' says he, ' there's command- 
 ers in the R'yal Navy,' says he, ' and in every other navy,' 
 says he, ' that wouldn't crossed Galway Bay to-day for 
 all their hopes of promotion. And if ever you come to 
 St. Louis ' that's it, St. Louis, by my soul ' if ever 
 you come to St. Louis, be sure to come to me, and 'tis 
 myself and Dan Costello's children will have the warm 
 welcome for you yes,' he said that. Oh, oh, the poor 
 childer that's the thousands of miles livin* from where 
 their father was born. And havin' the law to fight with 
 it! Wirra, wirra, but the Lord needs to be good to 
 childer that's got the law to fight. Yes, indeed, yes." 
 
 He took another long look toward Costla ere he dropped 
 below. He noted the progress of the boiling kettle of 
 tea. " In a minute 'twill be done. A bite to eat, a sup
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 25 
 
 to drink, and my pipe, and then to a good sleep. My 
 pipe, where is it? Yes, yes, to be sure, where I left it on 
 the shelf in the bunk." He reached across the bunk and 
 began to feel about for the pipe. The weight of his arm 
 on the blankets caused him to disturb a small body that 
 was huddled deep among the bed-clothes. The body, 
 squirming, startled the fisherman. "My soul! what's 
 that!" 
 
 The bundle rolled over and spoke. " It's me, father." 
 
 " Tammie, Tammie, you scart me most to death. 
 How on earth came you here, Tammie?" 
 
 " I asked mother could I come, and she said yes, and 
 the driver of the mail-cart took me up. I wanted to be 
 sure you got to Galway. You know you said maybe the 
 gale would last so you mightn't be home for three days, 
 and I wanted to go back and tell mother in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Back to Costla in the morning? And if the mail- 
 car is full and no room for the likes of you ? " 
 
 " Then I can walk, father." 
 
 " The Lord save us, but it's little boys that makes us y 
 ashamed, with the faith they has," said Gerald. " Here, 
 come out of that bunk that's as wet as the wide bay, 
 till I put in it some of my old clothes from the locker 
 the locker, the only dry place in the hooker, and it isn't 
 over-dry at that. They'll be poor bed-clothes, but they'll 
 be half-way dry for you, alanna. And how did you come 
 aboard anonst to me ? " 
 
 " I was waiting for you since the mail-cart got in at 
 eight o'clock. I saw you when you came in the dock.
 
 26 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 and then I saw you and the American gentleman go to 
 the hotel. I knew you would be back here when I saw 
 you go to the station with him, so I came down here and 
 I was waiting for you here, but I fell asleep while I was 
 waiting, father." 
 
 " Oh, the poor b'y. And you're hungry, I'll be bound, 
 Tammie? " 
 
 "A little, father." 
 
 "'A little, father'? Come here by the fire. You're 
 fair famished. Don't try and hide it from me. Can't I 
 see it in the mouth and the eyes of you 'tis fair famished 
 you are. Here now, here's the fine dried hake, and the 
 fine scone your mother baked yesterday mornin', and the 
 fine hot tea. Eat and drink now and then go to sleep 
 with you." 
 
 " And won't you eat too, father? " 
 
 " Me eat? Sure, didn't me and the gentleman ate till 
 we almost busted at the hotel? " 
 
 "At the hotel? What did you have there, father? 
 Was it fine? and a lot of it? " 
 
 " ' Fine? and a lot of it? ' There was everything any 
 man could think of, and a lot some men could never think 
 of. There was turkey and duck and puddin' " 
 
 " Plum-puddin', father? " 
 
 " Plum-puddin' and three other kinds." 
 
 "Ooh!" 
 
 " And pasties and grapes and jellies and oranges and 
 bananas and cake oh, there was lashin's of everything, 
 things I don't know the names of at all."
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 27 
 
 " M-m-m but you did eat a lot for the little time 
 you was in the hotel, father." 
 
 "For the little time? Of course. We raced through 
 it so we wouldn't miss the cars. And how did you come 
 to know we was in the hotel only a little time? " 
 
 " Don't you remember me saying I was outside in the 
 road to see you come out and go up the street with the 
 gentleman ? " 
 
 " I forgot that. But you was outside all the time? 
 Watchin' your betters? Tammie, don't ever you do that 
 again. You don't know what private business they might 
 be wantin' to talk over. Don't ever you do that again, 
 Tammie. And have another mug o' tea now." 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 " And ate up the fish and bread." 
 
 " It's all eat up, father." 
 
 " Sure, and so it is. O Tammie, only all the shops is 
 closed, but 'tis we two, just the two of us down here, 
 would be having the fine supper now me, with pound 
 notes in my pocket. But there's a little droppeen o' tea 
 left, alanna. Take it and finish it up now, like a good 
 b'y." 
 
 " I'm full, father." 
 
 " And you're sleepy by the looks of you." 
 
 " A little, father. I was up at four o'clock this morn- 
 ing. I was up that time you left this morning to see 
 if the hooker was all right when you heard the gale com- 
 ing on. I saw you goin' out, though you didn't see me, 
 'cause it was dark ooh, wasn't it dark, m-m-m " He
 
 28 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 winked his eyes, rested his head against the edge of the 
 bunk, and suddenly went off to sleep. 
 
 The fisherman bent over him. " The poor b'y, tired 
 to death he is with his five-and-twenty mile and the mail- 
 car this evenin'. Well, well, the faith of a child! " He 
 gathered him up and laid him tenderly in the bunk. 
 " 'Tis old rags that's under you, poor b'y, but they're half 
 dry and maybe they'll save you from going back to your 
 mother with your lungs choked with the cold." 
 
 He turned to the fire. From the board that had served 
 as a plate for Tamlmie he swept off the crumbs and swal- 
 lowed them with relish. What was left of the tea he 
 poured out into a mug less than half a mug it made 
 and drank it off. " My soul, but that's fine." He 
 smacked his lips over it. He kept smacking while he 
 was making ready to light his pipe by a dying ember that 
 he coaxed from the hearth. With his pipe going, he 
 leaned back against the planks of the hooker's side, and 
 through the smoke and half light regarded the face of 
 the lad as it shone from among the pile of old clothes 
 in the bunk. 
 
 " And to think of him walking the twenty-five_mile 
 over the road to Costla in the mornin'. Many's the time 
 I walked it myself at his age, and I know what it is. But 
 it's a stout lad I was to him with his little thin legs, and 
 the little feet and toes blue with the cold, and maybe 
 nobody along the whole way to know how far he came, 
 and to ask him in to have a bite to ate and a sup to drink. 
 Glory be, but is that water?" 
 
 He shifted about and felt his back. " Water, no less
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 29 
 
 and there isn't a j'int in her old bones the sea didn't 
 squeeze through to-day. But she's the greatest little one 
 of them all out of Costla. I wouldn't give her for some 
 that's twice as young. Thirty-five year this summer. 
 Thirty-five year the prime of life. Many's the gale 
 my own father sailed her. And many's the gale myself 
 has sailed her, and many a gale I'll sail her yet, with 
 God's blessing. Sure I'd like to know the time she made 
 across the bay this day. My, but she fair leaped across 
 the bay. Ah, ah, but the bones of me is getting old. 
 They crack with every move I make with every move, 
 yes. And that young man from America, God-speed to 
 him. And the poor childer of Dan Costello the poor, 
 poor childer the Lord pity them ! If I was gone now, 
 'tis the hard time my own would have. You're a brave 
 little man, Tammie, but what could you do ag'in' the 
 world poor, poor Tammie poor, poor childer." 
 
 His eyes, turning from the figure in the bunk, regarded 
 intently the red glow of the fire on the hearth. The glow 
 became duller under his gaze and the air about him grew 
 colder. It occurred to him that a little more wood on 
 the fire would be a fine thing, but when he came to look in 
 the locker there was no more wood. " Glory be," he 
 said, softly, " but it went fast." He thought to close the 
 hatch, but, looking up, his eyes were caught and held by 
 the shine of the stars. "The blessed little stars!" he 
 whispered; "even when it's windy and cold it is, ye're 
 there to make the night fine. And the little bit of can- 
 dle " he strove to shield it for a moment from the 
 wind " 'tis no use, 'twill soon be out. And it's falling
 
 3 o THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 asleep anonst to myself I am and maybe the little lad cold 
 in the bunk." 
 
 He tucked the blankets more closely about the boy, 
 laid the tips of his fingers on the flushed cheek, and whis- 
 pering softly, " Tammie, alanna, is it asleep you are ? " 
 bent his head low for an answer. The boy's gentle 
 breathing was the best answer. " That's good, and now, 
 maybe, I'll get a bit of sleep myself 'twas the long wet 
 day this day yes, the long wet day." 
 
 But, tired as he was, he forced eyes and ears to do duty 
 for a while yet. He must make certain that all was well. 
 Listening, he made out that beneath the old hull the tide 
 was still running. He hearkened for some minutes to 
 the sound of it. Less noise there was now to be sure, 
 but wasn't that to be expected with the slack water com- 
 ing on? Once more he gazed up through the hatchway. 
 The stars were yet shining not so shiny maybe as a 
 while ago, but how else would they be and the gray dawn 
 coming on? The fire, dying a minute back, was dead 
 altogether now, but who could blame it with not so much 
 as the shaving of a match to put on it? Sure even a man 
 would die and he wasn't fed yes. And the candle, the 
 little bit of candle, going no, but gone out entirely. 
 And my own pipe gone out with it. 
 
 He lay quiet for a time before he moved a hand to 
 take the pipe from his lips, but somehow he couldn't get a 
 match to light. Well, there'd been smoking enough. 
 And, after all, why should the pipe be going when every- 
 thing else was gone? Sure all the light and heat was 
 gone. Pipe, candle, stars, fire all gone out. But
 
 A FISHERMAN OF COSTLA 31 
 
 Tammie listen yes, he was sleeping fine. The poor 
 boy, poor Tammie the poor, poor little Costello childer 
 the poor fatherless childer everywhere to all poor 
 childer may God be good may God be good 
 
 Gradually the weary head sagged until it was fairly 
 on the shoulder nearest the bunk ; gradually the legs, which 
 had been drawn up at the knees, straightened out until 
 they found a brace against the edge of the hearthstone; 
 unnoticed, the pipe slipped from the relaxing fingers; 
 softly the lips murmured beneath the beard " to all poor 
 childer may God be good " the shaggy head settled into 
 the peak of the hooker " may God be good " and this 
 fisherman of Costla, his day's work done, was off for his,*- \ 
 night's rest. The morrow would bring its own labors. ' 
 JAMES B. CONNOLLY.
 
 n 
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 
 
 The American public has just heard of Dr. Nicole 
 Girard-Mangin, the woman doctor who was mobilized and 
 sent to the front by__mistake, and who proved herself so 
 fearless and useful that she was kept there for two years 
 amid bursting shells and rattling mitrailleuses. She is 
 being cited spectacularly as a dramatic proof that women 
 can take men's parts, and do men's work, and know the 
 ( man's joy of being useful.) But she is much more than 
 a woman doing a man's work. She is a human being of 
 the highest type, giving to her country the highest sort of 
 service, and remaining normal, sane, and well-balanced. 
 
 Long before the tornado of the war burst over the 
 world, Paris knew her in many varying phases which now, 
 as we look back, we see to have been the unconscious prep- 
 aration for the hour of crisis. Personally I knew of her, 
 casually, as the.publiojrjiritej young doctor who was at- 
 tached to the Pansjycee^where^ my children go _to school, 
 and who was pushing the " fresh-air " movement for the 
 city poor. People who met her in a social way knew her 
 as an attractive woman with a well-proportioned figure, 
 lovely hair, and clear brown eyes, whom one met once ox 
 twice a week at the theater or in the homes of mutual 
 friends, and who enjoyed a hearty laugh and cheerful, 
 
 31
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 33 
 
 chatting talk. Other people who saw her every morning 
 . in her laboratory garb, serious, intent, concentrated, knew 
 her as one of those scientific investigators who can not 
 rest while the horrible riddle of cancer is unsolved. 
 
 Those who saw her in the afternoon among the swarm- 
 ing sick and poor of the clinique of the great Beaujon 
 Hospital, knew her as one of those lovers of their kind 
 who can not rest as long as the horrible apathy of public 
 opinion about tuberculosis continues. People who inves- 
 tigated cures for city ills and who went to visit the model 
 tenement house for the very poor, near the St. Ouen gate 
 of Paris, knew her as the originator and planner of that 
 admirable enterprise, whose energy and forcefulness saw 
 it financed and brought to practical existence. Observers 
 who knew her in the big international Feminist Con- 
 ferences in European capitals, saw an alert, upright, quick- 
 eyed Parisienne, whose pretty hats showed no sign of the 
 erudition of the head under them. Friends knew her as 
 the gently bred woman who, although driven by no 
 | material necessity, renounced the easy, sheltered, com- 
 fortable life of the home-keeping woman for an incessant, 
 beneficent activity, the well-ordered regularity of which 
 alone kept it from breaking down her none too robust 
 health. And those intimates who saw her in her home, 
 saw her the most loved of sisters and daughters, the most 
 devoted of mothers, adored by the little son to whom 
 she has been father and mother ever since he was four 
 years old. 
 
 No one dreamed of war, but if the very day and hour 
 had been known for years, Dr. Girard-Mangin could
 
 34 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 hardly have prepared herself more completely for the 
 ordeal. Unconsciously she had " trained " for it, as the 
 runner trains for his race. She was not very strong, 
 slightly built, with some serious constitutional weaken- 
 ing, but she filled every day full to the brim with exact- 
 ing and fatiguing work. She had two great factors in 
 her favor. One of them was that enviable gift which 
 Nature gives occasionally to remarkable people, the ca- 
 pacity to_live with very little sleep. The other is even 
 more noteworthy in a doctor in whom close acquaint- 
 ance with the laws of health seems often to breed con- 
 tempt. 
 
 Dr. Girard-Mangin is that rare bird, a doctor who be- 
 lieves profoundly, seriously, in the advice which she gives 
 to others, in the importance of those simple, humdrum 
 laws of daily health which only very extraordinary people 
 have the strength of mind to obey. Ngyei^jiever, she 
 says, as though it were a matter of course, has snTallowed 
 fatigue, or overoccupation, or inertia, or boredom to in- 
 terfere with her early morning deep-breathing and physi- 
 cal exercises, and her tonic cold bath. Never-never, no 
 matter how long or exhausting the day, has sHe rotteH into 
 bed, dead beat, too tired to go through the simple pro- 
 cesses of the toilet, which make sleep so much more re- 
 freshing. No matter how absorbed in her work, she has 
 always taken the time at regular intervals toj^lax, to chat 
 sociably with quite ordinary people, to go to the theater, 
 to hear music. She has always breakfasted and lunched 
 with her little boy, has steered him through his spelling 
 and arithmetic, has gone on walks with him, has been his
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 35 
 
 comrade and " pal." This has been as good for her as 
 for him, naturally. Every_j>ummer she has had the 
 courageous good sense to_take a^acation in the country. 
 In short, she is a doctor who takes to her own heart the 
 advice about rational life which doctors so often reserve 
 for their patients. 
 
 To this woman, tempered to a steel-like strength by 
 self-imposed discipline and by a regular, welt-ordered life, 
 came the great summons. And it found her ready to the 
 last nerve in her strong, delicate little hand. You have 
 read, probably, how on that " Day of Doom " when 
 France called out her men, a concierge received, among 
 mobilization papers for ajl^ the men in the big apartment 
 house, one sending Dr. Girard-Mangin (presumably also 
 a man, by the name) out to a military hospital in the 
 Vqsges mountains. The notice of mobilization was 
 handed to a woman, a patriotic woman who long ago had 
 heard the call to fight for France's best interests. She 
 had seen her brother go before her into the righting ranks 
 and she followed him, into danger and service. She said 
 a quick good-by to her friends, to her parents, to her son, 
 her only child, a fine boy of fourteen then, from whom 
 she had never before been separated. 
 
 Will every mother who reads these lines stop here and 
 think what this means? 
 
 There is no need to repeat in detail here what has al- 
 ready been told of the first three months of her service 
 her arrival at the field hospital, disorganized, submerged 
 by the terrible, ever-renewed flood of wounded men, of 
 the astonishment of the doctor in charge. " What, a
 
 36 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 woman! This is no place for a woman. But, good God! 
 if you know anything about surgery, roll up your sleeves 
 and stay ! " 
 
 There she stayed for three months, those blasting first 
 three months of the war, when French people put forth 
 >/ undreamed-of strength to meet a crisis of undreamed-of 
 horror. Out there in that distant military hospital, toil- 
 ing incessantly in great heat, with insufficient supplies, 
 bearing the mental and moral shock of the first encounter 
 with the incredible miseries of war, that modern, highly 
 organized woman, separated for the first time from her 
 family, from her child, fearing everything for them and 
 for her country, had no word, no tidings whatever, till 
 the 28th of August. Then no knowledge of her son, of 
 her parents, only a notice that the Government had 
 retreated from Paris to Bordeaux! Comforting news 
 that, for the first! Next they knew that Rheims was 
 taken. Then one of the men whose wounds she dressed 
 told her that he had been able to see the Eiffel Tower 
 from where he fell. This sounded as though the next 
 news could be nothing but the German entry into Paris. 
 
 All France throbbed with straining, despairing effort, 
 far beyond its normal strength, during those first three 
 months; and to do the man's part she took, the delicate 
 woman doctor, laboring incessantly among the bleeding 
 wrecks of human bodies, needed all her will-power to 
 pull her through. 
 
 Then the wild period of fury and haste and nervous, 
 emotional exaltation passed, and France faced another 
 ordeal, harder for her temperament even than the first
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 37 
 
 fierce onset of the unequal struggle the long period of 
 patient endurance of the unendurable. The miracle of 
 the Marne had been wrought; Paris was saved; the sting 
 and stimulant of immediate, deadly danger was past ; 
 the fatigue from the supernatural effort of those first 
 months dimmed every eye, deadened all nerves. Then 
 France tapped another reservoir of national strength and 
 began patiently, constructively to " organize " the war. 
 And that daughter of France bent her energies to help in 
 this need, as in the first. 
 
 A rough rearrangement of competences was attempted 
 everywhere on the front. Dentists no longer dug 
 trenches, bakers were set to baking instead of currying 
 horses, and expert telegraphers stopped making ineffectual 
 efforts to cook. It came out then that the real specialty 
 of the valiant little woman doctor who had been doing 
 such fine work in the operating-room was not surgery at 
 all. " I'm no surgeon, you know! " she says, and leaves 
 it to her friends to tell you of the extraordinary record of 
 her efficiency in that field, the low percentage of losses 
 in her surgical cases. If you mention this, she says, " Ah, 
 that's just because I'm not a born surgeon. I have to 
 take very special care of my cases to be equal to the 
 job." It was discovered that her_reat specialty was 
 contagious diseases. There was great need for a special- 
 ist of that sort out at Verjun, where, alas! a typhoid 
 epidemic had broken out. This was before the extra 
 precautions about inoculations, which were taken later. 
 
 Dr. Girard-Mangin was sent to Verdun on November 
 ist, 1914, and was there steadily for_ mojre than a year,
 
 38 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 until the 28th of February, 1916. She found her sick 
 men on mattresses, in tents, on such low ground that they 
 were often literally in water. Whenever there was freez- 
 ing weather, those who cared for them slid about on 
 sheets of ice. Above them, on higher ground, were some 
 rough old barracks, empty, partly remodeled, said to have 
 been left there by the Prussians in 1871. "Why don't 
 we move the sick up there? " she asked, and was met by 
 all the usual dragging, clogging reasons given by ad- 
 ministrative inertia. 
 
 The sheds were not ready to occupy; there were no 
 expert carpenters to get them ready; it would be impos- 
 sible to heat them ; no order for the change had come from 
 Headquarters furthermore, a reason not mentioned, 
 the sheds, being on higher ground, were mojje exposed to 
 shell-fire. Dr. Girard-Mangin had had some experience 
 with administrative inertia in her struggles for better 
 housing for the poor; and long before the war she had 
 known what it was to put herself voluntarily in danger 
 the scar from a bad tubercjjlar infection on her hand 
 is the honorable proof of that. She knew that the sick 
 men would be better off in the barracks on higher ground. 
 So she took them there. Just like that. 
 
 She was to have the entire care of the typhoid epidemic-, 
 and the only help which could be given her was to come 
 from twenty men, absolutely unassorted such a score 
 as you would gather by walking down any street and 
 picking up the first twenty men you met. There were 
 several farm-laborers, a barber, an accountant, miscel- 
 laneous factory hands. The only person remotely ap-
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 39 
 
 proaching a nurse was a man who had had the training 
 for a pharmacist, but as he had never been able to stay 
 sober long enough to take his examinations, you may not 
 be surprised that he was the least useful of them all. 
 
 These twenty casually selected human beings went 
 unwillingly up the hill toward the barracks, ironic, mock- 
 ing, lazy, indifferent, as human beings unelectrified by 
 purpose are apt to be. But, although they did not know 
 it, there marched at their head an iron will, a steel-like 
 purpose, and an intelligence which was invincible. They 
 took this to be but a smallish, youngish woman in uni- 
 form, and were all in great guffaws at the comic idea of 
 being under her orders. 
 
 Of course, to begin with, she did not know one of her 
 men from another, but she studied them closely as they 
 worked, driven along by her direction, setting up the 
 rough camp-stoves, stopping the worst of the holes in the 
 walls, arranging the poor apologies for mattresses, and 
 cutting off the tops of gasoline-cans for heating water 
 for our woman doctor was asked to take care of several 
 hundred typhoid cases and was not provided with so 
 much as a bowl that would hold water. Presently, as 
 they worked, she noticed that there were but nineteen 
 men there. All day she studied their faces, their bear- 
 ing, what was written on them for the seeing eye to read. 
 At night, at supper-time, there were twenty men. Those 
 clear brown eyes swept around the circle and pounced on 
 a mild-looking poilu innocently taking his soup with the 
 others. 
 
 " Where have you been all day ? " she asked him.
 
 40 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 He fairly turned pale with astonishment, " Why, how 
 did you ? I've been right here, working! " he tried to 
 bluster her down. 
 
 " No, you haven't. You haven't been here since a 
 quarter past ten this morning," she assured him. 
 
 He hung his head a moment, then looked an ugly de- 
 fiance. " Well, I've been in to Verdun to spend the day 
 with a friend. What are you going to do about it ? " 
 
 " I'm going to have you punished for disobeying an 
 officer," she said promptly, though so little military had 
 been her beneficent life, that she had no more idea than 
 you or I or any other woman would have of what pun- 
 ishment could be given in such a case. 
 
 "Officer's orders!" said the man. "What officer?" 
 All the men laughed. 
 
 " I'm your officer," she said, and went away to tele- 
 phone to the military authority in charge of such cases. 
 
 " I can't be expected to have discipline if I'm not 
 backed up," she said. " This is a test case. It's now or 
 never." 
 
 The answer was a non-com and a guard marching up 
 to the barracks, saluting the military doctor, and, with 
 all due military ceremony, carrying off the offender for 
 a week in prison. Dr. Girard-Mangin laughs still at the 
 recollection of the consternation among the nineteen who 
 were left. " I never had any trouble about discipline, 
 after that," she says. " Of course there were the utter 
 incompetents to be weeded out. For that I followed the 
 / time-honored army custom of sending my worst man 
 whenever the demand from Headquarters came for a
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 41 
 
 i good, competent person to be sent to other work! Be- 
 fore long I had reduced the force of nurses to twelve. 
 Those twelve I kept for all the time of my service there, 
 and we parted at the end old friends and tried comrades. 
 IJiave never Jpst track of_them since. They always write 
 me once in a while, wherever they are." 
 
 As soon as it grew dark enough, that first night, for 
 the ambulances to dash out through the blackness, over 
 the shell-riddled roads to the abris, close to the front, the 
 stricken men began to come in. Before dawn, that very 
 first night, there were fifty-five terrible typhoid cases 
 brought into the bare sheds. Then it was that Dr. 
 Girard-Mangin, working single-handed with her score 
 of crude, untrained helpers, needed all her capacity for 
 going without sleep. Then it was that her men, seeing 
 her at work, stopped laughing because she was a woman 
 and admired her because she was a woman doing won- 
 
 derful things; then, best of all, forgot that she was a 
 woman, and took her simply for the matchless leader that 
 she is, in the battle against disease. I think it was not 
 wholly the guard, marching away the disobedient man 
 to prison, who was responsible for the fact that our little 
 woman doctor had no further difficulty with discipline. 
 
 The condition of the typhoid patients was harrowing- 
 beyond words. A man going out with his squad to a 
 front-line trench would be stricken down with fever on 
 arriving. It was impossible for him to return until his 
 squad was relieved and he could be carried to the rear 
 on a comrade's back. There he was, there he must re- 
 main, for the three or four or five days of his squad's
 
 42 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 " turn " in the front lines. Can you imagine the condi- 
 tion of a man with typhoid fever, who has lain in a 
 trench in the mud for four days, with no shelter from 
 the rain or snow but an overcoat spread over him, with 
 no care beyond an occasional drink of water from a 
 comrade's flask? For your own sake I hope you can not 
 imagine it. And I will not go into details. Enough to 
 say that such men were brought in by the tens, by the 
 twenties, by the fifties, filthy beyond words, at the limit 
 of exhaustion, out of their heads with weakness and fever 
 and horror. 
 
 And there to stem that black tide of human misery 
 stands this little upright, active, valiant, twentieth-cen- 
 tury woman. I think, although we are not of her na- 
 tion, we may well be proud of her as a fellow-being wha 
 had voluntarily renounced ease to choose the life which 
 had made her fit to cope with the crisis of that night 
 and of the more than four hundred days and nights fol- 
 lowing. For cope with it she did, competently, resolutely, 
 successfully. " Oh yes, we gave them cold baths," she 
 says, when you ask for details. " We managed somehow. 
 They had all the right treatment, cold baths, wet packs, 
 injections, the right food everything very primitive at 
 first, of course, but everything you ever do for typhoid 
 anywhere. Our percentage of losses was very low al- 
 ways." 
 
 "But how? How? How did you manage?" you 
 ask. 
 
 " Oh, at the beginning everything was very rough. 
 We had only one portable galvanized-iron bathtub.
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 43 
 
 Since they were all so badly infected, there was less 
 danger in bathing them all in the same tub than in not 
 fighting the fever that way. And then, just as soon as 
 I could reach the outside world by letter, I clamored for 
 more, and they were sent." 
 
 " But how could you, single-handed, give cold baths 
 to so many men? It's a difficult matter, giving a cold 
 bath to a typhoid patient." 
 
 " I wasn't single-handed. I had my twelve soldier- 
 nurses." 
 
 " ' Nurses/ you say ! Farm-laborers, accountants, bar- 
 bers, drunken druggists! " 
 
 " But I got rid of that good-for-nothing pharmacist at 
 once ! And the others the twelve good ones they 
 learned what to do. They learned how to give the simple 
 remedies. They learned how to do the other things 
 enough to give me a report how to take temperatures, 
 how to give the baths at the right degree for the right 
 time, how to take the pulse." 
 
 " How could they learn all that ? " you ask, amazed. 
 
 " I taught them," says Dr. Girard-Mangin, slightly 
 surprised, in the simplest, most matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 You look past her, out there to that hand-to-hand strug- 
 gle with death which was carried on by the one in- 
 domitable will and the one well-trained mind, strong 
 enough not only to animate this woman's body before 
 you, but those other bodies and ignorant, indocile minds. 
 
 " They did it very well, too," she assures you, and you 
 do not doubt her. 
 
 That woman could teach anybody to do anything. V
 
 44 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 You come back to details. " But how could you get 
 enough water and heat it for so many baths, on just those 
 rough, small, heating-stoves?" 
 
 " Well, we were at it all the time, practically, day and 
 night. We cut the tops off those big gasoline-cans the 
 automobilists use, and stood one on every stove up and 
 down the barracks. There wasn't a moment when water 
 wasn't being heated, or used, or carried away." 
 
 "What could you do about intestinal hemorrhages?" 
 you ask. " You must have had many, with such ad- 
 vanced cases. Your farm-hand nurses couldn't " 
 
 " I never tried to teach them how to handle any real 
 crisis, only to recognize it when it came, and go quickly 
 to fetch me. I taught them to watch carefully and at 
 the first sign of blood on their patients' clothing or on the 
 mattress, to take the knapsack out from under the sick 
 man's head they had no other pillow, of course to 
 lay him down flat, and then to run and call me, from 
 wherever I was." 
 
 " You must have had almost no sleep at all." 
 
 " That was the greatest help I had, being able to get 
 along on little sleep. And I got more work out of my 
 helpers than any man could, for they were ashamed to 
 ask to sleep or rest, seeing that a woman, half their size, 
 could still keep going." 
 
 " But how jibout_Qur famous hygienic regularity, the 
 morning exercises and cold baths and " 
 
 " Oh, as soon as I saw I was in for a long period of 
 regular service, I took the greatest care to go on with all, 
 the things which keep one fit for regular service."
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 45 
 
 " Morning tubs? " 
 
 " Yes, morning tubs ! I slept what time I had to 
 sleep in an abandoned peasant's house in an evacuated 
 village near the hospital. I didn't take any of the down- 
 stairs rooms because people are likely to walk right into 
 an abandoned house, and part of the time there were 
 soldiers quartered in the village. Then there was usually 
 somebody in the house with me. The other times I had 
 it all to myself. I took a room on the second floor. It 
 happened to have a flight of steps leading up to it, and 
 another one going out of it into the attic. Of course, 
 I_jever had any heat, and the drafts from those two 
 open stairways well, it was like sleeping in the mid- 
 dle of a city square. Sometimes I used to take down a 
 bo_ttle filled with hot water, but the bed was so cold that 
 it was almost instantly chilled. Many a time I have 
 gone to sleep, all curled up in a ball, holding my feet in 
 my hands, because they were so_cpld, and wakened to find 
 them still as icy. Oh, the_cold ! That is the worst 
 enemy of all at the front, the most wearing, the most 
 demoralizing, the most dehumanizing, because it lasts so. 
 With other things hunger, wounds, danger either 
 it kills you, or it passes. But the cold is always there." 
 
 She loses herself for a moment in brooding recollection 
 and you wonder if Jeanne d'Arc ever did anything braver 
 for her country than did, jh is delicate, stout-hearted mod- 
 ern woman, sleeping alone for months and months in bit- 
 ter cold in a deserted house in a deserted village. 
 
 She comes back to the present. ' And it was there 
 that I took my morning tubs ! " she says with an amused
 
 46 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 smile. " Of course the water froze Jiard^ intCL a solid 
 lump. So I put carbonate de potasse into it. This not 
 only kept it from freezing, but made it alkaline, so that 
 it was an excellent jletergent and stimulant to the skin. 
 I assure you, after a night in which I had been incessantly 
 called from one bed to another, when I felt very much 
 done-up, my cold sponge-bath in that water was like a 
 resurrection. I was made over. Then, of course, no 
 matter how busy I was, I took care of my feet changed 
 my stockings and shoes every day. Feet are one's weak- 
 est point in a long pull like tKaV' 
 
 You venture to remark about a slight limp noticeable 
 when she walks. " Yes, it comes from a frozen foot_ 
 I have to admit it. But it's really not my fault. That 
 was later, at the time of the battle at Verdun. There 
 are always brief crises, when you have to give your all 
 and not stop to think. I went nine days then without 
 once taking off my shoes. I hadn't my other pair by that 
 time. The Boches had them, probably." 
 
 But we have not come to that terrific epic, as yet. Be- 
 fore that second tornado burst over the heads of the 
 French and of our woman doctor, there was a long, hard, 
 dull period of four hundred and seventy days of con- 
 tinuous service for Dr. Girard-Mangin, being a pioneer 
 woman, felt in honor bound to do more than a man would 
 do. In the three years and more of her war service, she 
 had just three weeks' furlough, seven days out of every 
 year to see her son, to see her family, to relax. Every 
 other day of that long procession of days, she has been on
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 47 
 
 duty, active, and, as befits a woman, constructively ac- 
 tive. 
 
 She did not continue resignedly to struggle with tin- 
 can drinking-cups, and one bathtub for two hundred men. 
 Neither did she rely on the proverbially slow mills of the 
 Government to grind her out the necessary supplies. She 
 was not only the army doctor in charge of the contagious 
 cases in the big sanitary section and hospital near Verdun, 
 she was also a figure of international importance, the 
 Presidente of the Hygiene Department of the Cornell 
 International des Femmes her predecessor had been 
 Lady Aberdeen ; she was high in honor at the big Beaujon 
 Hospital in Paris; she was well-known to the charitable 
 world in the Society for Hygienic Lodgings for the poor, 
 which owed so much to her; and she. had a wide circle of 
 friends everywhere. The little aide major sent out from 
 her bare shed-hospital, lacking in everything, a clarion call 
 for help for her sick men. With years of experience in 
 organization back of her, she set to work and, in the 
 midst of the fury of destruction all about her, built up, 
 item by item, a little corner of order and competent ac- 
 tivity. In November, 1914, there was nothing but a 
 windswept shed, with straw pallets and tin-can utensils. 
 By June of the next year_yjn^ would have found^ if you 
 had had the courage to go within two kilometers of the 
 front line, a very well-appointed contagious ward of a 
 military hospital, where nothing was lacking for the 
 men's comfort except a certainty that the whole thing 
 might not be blown to pieces by a shell. And by the
 
 48 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 end of 1915, when there began to be talk of a great Ger- 
 y/ man drive against Verdun, the men under our doctor's 
 supervision had as good care as they could have had any- 
 where, with laboratory and sterilizing facilities every- 
 v/ thing. Dr. Girard-Mangin knew what was the best to 
 / be had in hospitals and she did not rest until somehow, 
 Aladdin-like, she had made it to blossom, out there in 
 danger and desolation. 
 
 All during January of 1916 there was terrific tension 
 along that front. The monster German offensive against 
 Verdun was in the air. The month of January passed 
 with desperate slowness, such intent, apprehensive sus- 
 pense being torturing for human nerves, especially tired 
 human nerves which had already been through a long, 
 severe period of trial. 
 
 Everybody showed signsu-of ^nexyousness^ Our little 
 doctor stuck faithfully to her bedrock principles of health, 
 changed her shoes and stockings every day, took her 
 Spartan baths and rub-downs in her colder-than-freezing 
 water, went through her deep-breathing and her setting-up 
 exercises every morning. By such merely feminine re- 
 liance on everyday sanity in life, she kept herself in ex- 
 cellent physical shape, and did not succumb to the tempta- 
 tion, which is too much for so many doctors under strain, 
 of hypodermics of strychnin, and other stimulants. 
 
 February ist came. The great storm, looming 
 murkily, had not burst. 
 
 February inched itself along, and finally, because hu- 
 man nature can only stand about so much of strain, nerves 
 began to relax in utter fatigue.
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 49 
 
 On February 2ist, which was a Monday, it was fairly 
 clear, cold, with what passes for sunshine in that region. 
 Dr. Girard-Mangin stepped out in front of her shed- 
 hospital ward, after lunch, and made this remark to 
 herself: "I don't believe the Boches are going to pull 
 off that offensive at all. And to-day is almost sunny. 
 1 have a good notion to go over to the i65th and get my 
 hair washed." There was an ex^oiffeui. in that regiment 
 who kept on with his trade in his leisure moments. 
 
 As this singularly peace-time thought passed through 
 her mind, an obus screamed its way loudly over her head. 
 " That's near," she thought, " nearer than they generally 
 are." 
 
 Before she could get back into the hospital, the battle 
 of Verdun had begun. 
 
 The blow was delivered with astounding rapidity, and 
 with stunning force. Up to that time, nothing had ever 
 been conceived like the violence of the artillery fire. 
 There in the hospital, only two kilometers back of the 
 front, the noise was so great they could scarcely hear each 
 other's voices. Upon those men, and that woman, un- 
 nerved by six weeks of nerve-racking suspense, the great 
 crisis leaped with murderous fury. It was as though the 
 world were being battered to pieces about their heads. 
 Each one called up in himself all the reserve strength his 
 life had given him and, tight-lipped, clung as best he 
 could to self-control. 
 
 The first nerves to give way were in the bake-shop. 
 The bakers suddenly burst out of their overheated cell 
 and, half-naked in that sharp cold, clad only in their
 
 50 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 white-linen aprons and trousers, fled away, anywhere, 
 away, out of that hell. One of the doctors, seeing this 
 beginning of the panic, shouted out in an angry attempt 
 to stem the tide of fear, " Shame on you, men ! What 
 are you doing! What would happen if every one ran 
 away!" 
 
 One of the fleeing bakers, dodging with agility the 
 outstretched restraining arms, called out heartily, with a 
 strong Southern accent, " Right you are, doctor, perfectly 
 
 I right ! " and continued to run faster than ever. Which 
 typically Midi phrase and action was seized upon by those 
 gallant French hearts for the laugh which is the Gallic 
 coquetry in the face of danger. 
 
 But even they could not smile at what they next saw. 
 At four o'clock that afternoon began the spectacle, awful 
 to French eyes, of regiments of chasseurs fleeing toward 
 the rear. 
 
 " So inconceivable was this to me, that I repeated, 
 'Chasseurs! Retreating!'' 
 
 Dr. Girard-Mangin closed her eyes a moment as if 
 she saw them again. "Oh, yes, retreating and no 
 wonder ! All their equipment gone, no guns, no ammu- 
 nition, no grenades, no bayonets their bare fists, and 
 those bleeding, for weapons. Many of them were naked, 
 yes, literally naked, except for their lea_ther cartridge 
 belts. Everything made of cloth had been blown from 
 their bodies by the an^res^ur^^Lr^rn_explodi ng shells. 
 Many of them were horribly wounded, although they 
 were staggering along. I remember one man, whose 
 wounds we dressed, who came peeling up to the hospital,
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 51 
 
 holding his hand to his face, and when he took his hand 
 down most of his face came with it. Oh, yes, they were 
 retreating, those who had enough life left to walk. And I 
 they told us that Verdun was lost, that no human power I 
 could resist that thrust." 
 
 All that night, and all the next day and all the next 
 night, such men poured through and past the hospital and 
 during all that time there was no cessation in the in- 
 tolerable, maddening din of the artillery. When you 
 ask Dr. Girard-Mangin how she lived through those days 
 and nights, she tells you steadily, " Oh, that was not the 
 worst. We could still work. And we did. More than 
 eighteen^thousand wounded passed through the hospital 
 that week. We had too much to do to think of anything 
 else. It seemed as though all the men in the world were 
 wounded and pouring in on us." 
 
 On Wednesday afternoon, the tide of men changed in 
 character somewhat, and this meant that the end was 
 near. In place of chasseurs and the ordinary poilus, , / 
 quantities of brown Moroccans, those who fight at the '/ / 
 very front, came fleeing back, horribly wounded, most of 
 fhem yelling^ wild prayers to Allah, clutching at them- 
 selves like children and howling like wild beasts im- 
 possible to understand or to make understand. And yet, 
 somehow, the hospital staff, staggering with fatigue them- 
 selves, ministered to them, too, until this was where 
 they all touched bottom until, on Wednesday night, j 
 the electricity suddenly gave out and, in the twinkling of | 
 an eye, blackness fell on the great wards, shaken by the 
 incessant infernal scream ing -rush of the shells overhead.
 
 52 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 by the thunder of the cannon, and filled with the shrieks 
 of the agonizing wild men from Africa. Blackness like 
 the end of the world. 
 
 Messengers were sent hastily to grope their way down 
 to the nearest village for candles. But they returned 
 empty-handed. Long before that the soldiers had car- 
 ried off all the supply of candles. 
 
 " What did you do, all that night? " 
 
 Dr. Girard-Mangin makes no light pretense of belit- 
 tling the experience. 
 
 " It was awful beyond anything imaginable," she tells 
 you gravely. " The worst thing that can happen to a 
 doctor had come to be in the midst of suffering and 
 not to be able to lift a ringer to help. All that we could 
 do was to give them water to drink. We could feel our 
 way to the water-pitchers. The rest of the time we could 
 only sit, helpless, listen to the shells and to the wounded 
 men groaning, and wait for dawn." 
 
 Yes, it is a small, delicately fashioned woman, like 
 you, like me, who lived through those days and those 
 nights, and came through them morally and physically 
 intact, into an even greater usefulness. It will not be a 
 bad thing to remember her the next time we feel " tired " 
 in our ordinary round of small efforts. 
 
 On the next day came the order to evacuate the hos- 
 pital, bitter proof of the German success. Dr. Girard- 
 Mangin began sending off her sick men in relays of four 
 in tfa ply ambulance at her disposal. They were taken 
 down to the nearest little branch railroad, there put on
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 53 
 
 .he train, and sent nobody knew where, anywhere out 
 of the range of German guns. 
 
 All day Thursday the evacuation went on. By Thurs- 
 day evening there were left only nine men in her ward, 
 men practically dying, far gone with intestinal hemor- 
 rhages, too ill to move. Dr. Girard-Mangin spent an- 
 other black night beside her dying men, moving from one 
 to another in the intense obscurity, raising her voice 
 above the thunder of the artillery to comfort them, to 
 give them what small help she could without^ a light. 
 On Friday all the hospital staff, with a few exceptions, 
 was to leave. The hospital buildings and equipment 
 were to be left in the charge of a non-com and two 
 privates; and the men too ill to transport were to be left 
 with one doctor and two aides. The rule in the French 
 Sanitary Service for that case is that the youngest doctor 
 stays \vith the sick. Dr. Girard-Mangin was the yojiog- 
 est doctor. , 
 
 But at this, the good head-doctor, who had daughters 
 of his own in Paris, cried out that there was a limit, that 
 he would never forgive any man who left a daughter of 
 his alone in such a position, alone with dying men, alone 
 under fire, alone to face the Boches. No, no Frenchman 
 could be expected to do that. 
 
 Dr. Girard-Mangin appealed over his head to the 
 military authority in command, for permission to do her 
 duty as it fell to her. " I have not failed in my services 
 so far. It is not just to force me to fail now." 
 
 The military ruling was that the usual rule would
 
 54 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 hold. The little woman doctor stayed in danger, and the 
 men went back to the rear. The parting was a moving 
 one; those comrades of hers who had seen her working 
 hy their sides for so many months took her in their arms 
 and wept openly as they bade her good-by. 
 
 If you venture to ask her what were her own emotions 
 at this moment, she tells you with a shudder, " Oh, sor- 
 row, black, black sorrow for France. We all thought, 
 you know, that Verdun had fallen, that the Germans had 
 pierced the line. No one knew how far they had gone. 
 It was an awful moment." Apparently she did not think 
 of herself at all. 
 
 All day Friday, she was there with her stricken men 
 and with -two aides. Friday night she lay beside them in 
 the dark. On Saturday the_man left in charge of the 
 hospital buildings went mad from the nervous tension 
 they expected almost from hour to hour to see the Ger- 
 mans appear and from the hellish noise of the artillery. 
 
 I find myself cold as I try to think what another black 
 night meant in those conditions. Dr. Girard-Mangin 
 passed it and emerged into another dawn. 
 
 On Sunday morning the General in command of that 
 region, amazed to find that any one was still there, sent 
 peremptory orders that the premises must be evacuated 
 entirely, dying men and all. They would certainly be 
 killed if they were kept there. And more, there was no 
 longer anything to give them to eat. This was a military 
 order and so overrode the rulings of the Sanitary Service. 
 Dr. Girard-Mangin prepared to evacuate. She had at 
 her disposition a small camion in which she put the four
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 55 
 
 men best able to be carried, and her own ambulance in 
 which she packed the five worst cases, crosswise of the 
 vehicle. To try to give them some security against the 
 inevitable jolting, she bound them tightly over and over 
 to their stretchers. Then, with her little medicine-kit, 
 she got in beside them and told her chauffeur to take them 
 to Clermont-en-Argonne, and not by the safer route taken 
 by the ravitaillement convoys, because her sick men could 
 never live through the length of that trip, but by the 
 shorter road, leading along directly back of the front. 
 
 " I wonder that he was willing to take that dangerous 
 route," you say.p^SApFNA HTGH SCHOpU 
 
 " I didn't ask his opinion about it," says Dr. Girard- 
 Mangin with a ring of iron in her voice. 
 
 So began a wild ride of forty-three kilometers, con- 
 stantly under fire, with five men at the point of death. 
 The chauffeur dodged between the bursting shells, the 
 oman in the car watched her sick men closely and kept 
 
 em up with hypodermics of stimulants which are 
 not administered by a shaking hand ! 
 
 You ask respectfully, looking at the white scar^ on her 
 chejek, " It was then, during that ride, that you were 
 wounded, wasn't it?" 
 
 She nods, hastily, indifferently, and says, " And when 
 we finally reached Clermont-en-Argonne, my sick men 
 were no better off, for I found the hospital absolutely 
 swamped with wounded. I said I was there with five 
 mortally sick men from Verdun, and they answered, ' If 
 they were all Generals we could not take them in. You 
 are mad, Madame, to bring sick men here.' So we went
 
 56 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 on ten kilometers further to a little village called Froidos, 
 where my face-wound was dressed and where finally I 
 was able to leave my men, all alive still, in good hands." 
 
 " They didn't live to get well, did they ? " you ask. 
 
 At this question, she has a moment of stupefaction be- 
 fore the picture of your total incomprehension of what 
 she has been talking about; she has a moment's retrospec- 
 tive stare back into that seething caldron which was the 
 battle of Verdun ; she opens her mouth to cry out on your 
 lack of imagination; and she ends by saying quietly, al- 
 most with pity for your ignorance, " Oh, I never saw or 
 heard of those men again. There was a great deal too 
 much else to be done at that time." 
 
 Have you lost track of time and place in that adventure 
 of hers? It is not surprising. She was then in the 
 little village of Froidos, on the afternoon of Sunday, 
 February 27th, almost exactly a week after the battle 
 began and after almost exactly a week of unbelievable 
 horror after four nights spent without a light in a 
 great hospital full of wounded men after a ride of 
 nearly fifty kilometers constantly under fire, with mortally 
 sick men. And she now turned, like a good soldier who 
 has accomplished the task set him, to report at headquart- 
 ters for another. 
 
 Her headquarters, the Direction du Service Sanitaire 
 was at Bar-le-Duc. Without a moment's rest or delay, 
 she set out for Bar-le-Duc, she and her chauffeur, half- 
 blind with lack of sleep. They arrived there at mid- 
 night. She reported herself at the hospital, so large that
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 57 
 
 in normal times it holds three thousand wounded. " I 
 have just brought in the last of the sick from the military 
 hospital at Verdun," she said, to explain her presence. 
 They were astounded to hear that any one had been 
 there so lately. Every one had thought that certainly the 
 Germans were there by that time. 
 
 " Please, is there a place where I may sleep a few 
 hours? " she said. 
 
 But there was no place, not one. The great hospital 
 was crowded to the last inch of its space with wounded 
 halls, passageways, aisles, even the stairs had wounded 
 on them. Finally some one gave her a blanket and she 
 lay down on the floor in the little office of the head- 
 doctor and slept till morning five or six hours. Then 
 she went out into the town to try to find a lodging. 
 Not one to be had, the town being as full as the hos- 
 pital. She had not taken her clothes off, naturally, nor 
 her shoes. 
 
 " Oh, then I did feel tired," she says. " That morn- 
 ing, for the first time, I knew how tired I was, as I went 
 dragging myself from door to door, begging for a room 
 and a bed. It was because I was no longer working, you S' 
 see. As long as you have work to do, you can go on." 
 
 At last a poor woman took pity on her, said that she 
 and her daughter would sleep together on one narrow 
 bed, and let her have the other one. 
 
 " I was so glad, so glad," says Dr. Girard-Mangin, 
 " to know I was to have a real bed ! I was like a child 
 When you are as tired as that, you don't think of any-
 
 58 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 thing but the simple elementals lying down, being 
 warm, having something to eat all your fine, civilized 
 ideas are swept away." 
 
 She went back toward the hospital to get what few 
 things she had been able to bring with her, and there she 
 saw her chauffeur waving a paper toward her. " We 
 are to be off at once," he said, and showed her an order 
 to leave Bar-le-Duc without delay, taking two nurses with 
 them, and to go with all speed to the hospital at Vadelain- 
 court. They were crowded with wounded there. 
 
 " Then, at once, my tiredness went away," she says. 
 " It only lasted while I thought of getting a bed. When 
 I knew we were going into action once more, I was my- 
 self again." 
 
 By two o'clock that afternoon this was Monday 
 they were en route for the hospital, the doctor on the 
 seat by the chauffeur, the two nurses, hysterical with fear 
 over the shells, weeping inside. 
 
 "What a terrible, tragic, inspiring trip that was!" 
 she exclaims, and almost for the only time during her 
 quietly told narration her voice quivers, her eyes suffuse. 
 " We were going against the tide of fresh reserves, rush- 
 ing out to the front mile after mile, facing those 
 strongly marching ranks of splendid young Frenchmen, 
 all going out to suffer the unimaginable horrors from 
 which I had just come. I could not bear to look into 
 those eager, ardent faces. I was so proud of them, so 
 yearning over them! And they were so full of spirit, 
 hurrying forward to the supreme sacrifice. They shouted 
 out to us again and again, ' The battle isn't over, yet, is
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 59 
 
 it? Will we get there in time?' They laughed light- 
 heartedly, the younger ones, when they saw me and called 
 out, ' Oh, the women are fighting out there, too, are 
 they ? ' Wave after wave of them, rank on rank, the 
 best of my country, marching out to death." 
 
 They were delayed by an accident to a tire, being in- 
 stantly as is the rule on military roads, always crammed 
 to the last inch lifted bodily into a neighboring field 
 for repairs. No stationing for repairs is allowed on a 
 road where every one is incessantly in movement. While 
 the repairs were being made, the car sank deeper and 
 deeper into the mud, and it was a Herculean undertaking 
 to get it back in the main thoroughfare. As usual, a 
 crowd of good-natured poilus managed this, heaving to- 
 gether with the hearty good-will to which all drivers of 
 American ambulances can testify. 
 
 Delayed by this, it was nearly midnight when they 
 drew near their destination. The chauffeur turned off 
 the main road into a smaller one, a short cut to the 
 hospital, and sank at once in mud up to his hubs. From 
 twelve o'clock that night till half-past five in the morn- 
 ing, they labored to make the few kilometers which sep- 
 arated them from Vadelaincourt. Once the chauffeur, 
 hearing in the dark the rush of water against the car, 
 announced that he was sure that the river had burst its 
 banks, that they had missed the bridge and were now in 
 the main current. Dr. Girard-Mangin got down to in- 
 vestigate and found herself knee-deep in mud so liquid 
 that its sound had deceived the chauffeur. They toiled 
 on, the nurses inside the car wringing their hands.
 
 60 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 By the time it was faintly dawn they arrived at the 
 hospital, where the hard-worked head-doctor, distracted 
 with the rush of wounded, cried out upon her for being 
 a woman, but told her for Heaven's sake to stay and 
 help. The nurses were taken in and set to work, where 
 at once they forgot themselves and their fears. But 
 again there was no place for the new doctor to sleep, the 
 hospital being overflowing with human wreckage. She 
 did what all ambulance people hate to do, she went back 
 to the reeking ambulance, laid herself on a stretcher, wet 
 boots and all, drew up about her the typhoid-soakej 
 blankets of her ex-patients, and instantly fell asleep. 
 The chauffeur had the preferable place of sleeping under 
 the car, on another stretcher. 
 
 She had no more than closed her eyes, when came a 
 loud, imperious pounding on the car, " Get up quickly. 
 The medecin-en-chef sends for you at once; terrible lot 
 of wounded just brought in ; every hand needed." 
 
 She went back through the mud to the hospital, had a 
 cup of hot coffee and detail eloquent of the confusion 
 and disorganization of that feverish week some plum- 
 cake! By what freak of ravitaillement there was only 
 plum-cake, she never knew. 
 
 Then she put on her operating-apron and cap. She 
 went into the operating-room at half-past seven in the 
 morning. She operated steadily, without stopping, for 
 more than five hours. At one o'clock she felt giddy and 
 her legs failed her. She sat down flat on the floor, lean- 
 ing back against the wall. " Here it comes! " she said
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 61 
 
 to herself, fighting the faintness which dissolved all her 
 members, " Here comes womanishness ! " 
 
 But it did not come. She sat thus, setting her teeth 
 and tightening her will until she conquered it. A new 
 relay of doctors came in. She staggered off, had more 
 coffee, a piece of chocolate and another piece of plum- 
 cake! And was told that she would be "off duty" till 
 eight that evening. Where could she go to rest? No- 
 where. Snow lay on the fields, mud was deep in the 
 roads. There was not a bed empty. 
 
 " I sat down in a corner, in a chair, quite a comfortable 
 chair," she tells you, " and took down my hair and 
 brushed and braided it. You know how much that rests 
 you ! " 
 
 Now, Dr. Girard-Mangin is the last person in the 
 world over whom to sentimentalize, and I swore before 
 beginning to write about her that I would try not to do it. 
 But I can not restrain myself from asking you here if 
 you do not feel with me like both laughing and crying at 
 the inimitable, homely femininity of that familiar gesture, 
 at the picture of that shining little warrior-figure, return- 
 ing in that abomination of desolation to the simple action 
 of a sheltered woman's everyday home life? 
 
 Then she went to sleep, there in the " quite comforta- 
 ble " chair, with her shoes unlaced but still on her feet. 
 
 I had lost my other pair somewhere along the route," 
 she explains, " and I didn't dare to take those off because 
 I knew I could never get them on again if I did." 
 
 There followed twenty days of this terrific routine.
 
 62 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 steady work in the operating-room with intervals of seven 
 hours' " rest," with nowhere to go to rest. " But the 
 food got better almost at once," she says, in explanation 
 of her having lived through it. " We couldn't have got- 
 ten along on plum-cake, of course ! " 
 
 For nine of those twenty days, she never took off her 
 shoes at all, and the foot was frozen there which now she 
 drags a little in walking. 
 
 On March 23rd, a month after the battle of Verdun 
 had begun, the medecin-chef-inspecteur came to Vadelain- 
 court, went through the usual motions of stupefaction to 
 find a woman doctor there, decided rather late that 
 it was no place for a woman, and sent her to Chalons. 
 For six months thereafter, she was in the Somme, near 
 Ypres, working specially among the tubercular soldiers, 
 but also taking her full share of military surgery. " Just 
 the usual service at the front, nothing of special interest," 
 she says with military brevity, baffling your interest, and 
 leaving you to find out from other sources that she was 
 wounded again in June of that year. 
 
 On the nth of October, 1916, a remarkable and note- 
 worthy event took place. For once a Governmental ac- 
 tion was taken with intelligence. The Government, 
 wishing to institute a special course of training for mili- 
 tary nurses at the front, called to its organization and 
 direction, not somebody's relation-in-law, not a politician's 
 protegee, but the woman in France best fitted to under- 
 take the work. Such an action on the part of any Gov- 
 ernment is worthy of note! 
 
 The hospital which had been built for charitable pur-
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 63 
 
 poses on the Rue Desnouettes was loaned to the Govern- 
 ment. What was needed for its head was some one who 
 knew all about what training was essential for nursing 
 service at the front. Any good military doctor could 
 have done this part. Also some one was needed who 
 knew all about what is the life of a woman at the front. 
 Any good nurse of military experience could have seen to 
 this. Also there was needed a person with experience in 
 organization, with the capacity to keep a big enterprise 
 in smooth and regular running. Any good business man 
 could have managed this. Furthermore there was needed 
 a person with magnetism who could inspire the women 
 passing through the school with enthusiasm, with ardor, 
 with devotion I needn't go on, I think. You must 
 have seen that only one person combined all these quali- 
 fications, and she is the one now at the head of the hos- 
 pital-school. 
 
 Dr. Girard-Mangin received a call summoning her 
 back to that " work at the rear " which is such a trial 
 for those who have known the glory of direct service at 
 the front. 
 
 This meant drudgery for her, long hours of attention to 
 uninteresting but important details, work with a very 
 mixed class of intelligences the women in her courses 
 of study vary from peasant girls to officers' widows; 
 bending her quick intelligence to cope with sloth and 
 dullness. It meant, worst of all and hardest of all, 
 living again in the midst of petty bickerings, little per- 
 sonal jealousies, mean ambitions. Nothing is more 
 startling for those who " come back from the front " than
 
 64 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 to find the world at the rear still going on with its tiny 
 quarrels and disputes, still industriously raking in its 
 muckheap. And nothing more eloquently paints our 
 average, ordinary life than the intense moral depression 
 which attends the return to it of those who have for a 
 time escaped from it to a rougher, more dangerous, and 
 more self-forgetful atmosphere. 
 
 For me, no part of Dr. Girard-Mangin's usefulness 
 is more dramatic than the undramatic phase of it in which 
 she is now faithfully toiling. Her coolness under fire, 
 her steadiness under overwhelming responsibilities, her 
 astonishing physical endurance do not thrill me more 
 than this prompt, disciplined ability to take up civilian 
 life again and quiet, civilian duties. 
 
 She has organized the hospital ingeniously along or- 
 iginal lines, as a perfect reproduction of what the nurses 
 will encounter at the front: a series of barracks, a ward 
 to each shed, with the nurse's little sleeping-cubicle at 
 the end with its rough but sufficient sanitary arrange- 
 ments. Another unit is given over to the operating-room 
 and its appendages, the sterilizing-room, anesthetic-room, 
 etc. Another is the administrative building, and contains 
 the offices of the medecin-en-chef ', the head-nurse, the 
 pharmacy, the bacteriological laboratory. At one side 
 are very simple but wholesome sleeping quarters and 
 study-rooms for the fifty and more nurses who pass 
 through the school every three months. For Dr. Girard- 
 Mangin only takes them in hand when they have already 
 completed a course of training in ordinary hospitals. 
 Even then she weeds out rigorously, in the middle of the
 
 FRANCE'S FIGHTING WOMAN DOCTOR 65' 
 
 short, intensive, concentrated, course, those who do not 
 show the necessary physical, mental, and moral qualities 
 to fit them for the grave responsibilities they will have at 
 the front, for nurses from this hospital go out to direct 
 and run the field hospitals, not merely to be nurses there. 
 
 The work for the doctor at the head is a " grind," 
 nothing less, monotonous, like all teaching an ever- 
 reiterated repetition of the same thing no glory, no 
 change, no bright face of danger. The clear brown eyes 
 face it as coolly, as undaunted, as they faced bursting 
 shells, or maddened soldiers. The clear-thinking brain 
 sees its vital importance to the country as well as it saw 
 the more picturesque need for staying with sick men 
 under fire. The well-tempered will keeps lassitude and 
 fatigue at bay, keeps the whole highly strung, highly de- 
 veloped organism patiently, steadily, enduringly at work 
 for France. 
 
 There, my fellow-citizens in America, there is a citizen 
 to envy, to imitate! 
 
 DOROTHY CANFIELD.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN 
 
 From The Boys' Life of Roosevelt, by Hermann Hagedorn; 
 copyright, 1918, by Harper and Brothers. By permission of the 
 publishers and the author. 
 
 Theodore Roosevelt went to Dakota straight from the 
 Chicago jcqnvention, arriving at Chimney Butte Ranch 
 about the middle of June. The country was at its best, 
 with the bright young grass in one unbroken carpet over 
 the prairie, and here and there in daubs of vivid green on 
 the dark red and purple of the buttes. 
 
 Roosevelt now entered with heart and soul on the 
 work of a ranchman. The most exacting work of the 
 season, the spring round-up, had been completed, but 
 there were other smaller round-ups nearer home and no 
 lack at any time of other work. He was in the saddle 
 from morning until night, riding among the cattle, hunt- 
 ing stray horses (and they were always straying), break- 
 ing ponies, cutting wood, varying the day's toil only by 
 an occasional excursion at dawn or dusk after water-fowl 
 or grouse, when salt pork became wearisome. 
 
 The vigorous outdoor life in a wild country amid 
 
 hardy men thrilled Theodore Roosevelt to the depths. 
 
 Beside it the life of politics and society seemed for the 
 
 moment unreal and utterly valueless. His double bercave- 
 
 66
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN 67 
 
 ment had made the very intercourse with acquaintances 
 and friends of the happy former times a source of re- 
 newed pain. His little daughter Alice was living with 
 " Bamie " in the house on Fifty-seventh Street. Soon 
 that house was to be closed. The old_ home and the 
 home that had been his during the first years of hisjmar- 
 ried life were both gone. He determined that he would 
 build a new home in surroundings that had no painful 
 memories. Forty miles north of Chimney Butte, where 
 the Little Missouri took a long swing westward through 
 a fertile bottom bordered along its mile or two of length 
 by sheer cliff walls, on a low bluff surmounted by cot- 
 tonwood-trees, he found the bleached interlocked antlers 
 of two great elk; and there he determined to build his 
 house. 
 
 He went East in the first days of July to take what 
 part he could in the Presidential campaign and to make 
 final arrangements with Bill Sewall and Will Dow, 
 whom he had urged as early as March to try their fortunes 
 in Dakota. 
 
 Sewall had come to New York late the same month, 
 elated at the prospect. On his return to the East, early 
 in July, Roosevelt wrote him once more: 
 
 Now, a little plain talk, though I do not think it 
 necessary, for I know you too well. If you are 
 
 V- afraid of hard work and privation, do not come 
 West. If you expect to make a fortune in a year or 
 two, do not come West. If you will give up under 
 
 I/ temporary discouragements, do not come West. If, 
 on the other hand, you are willing to work hard,
 
 68 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 especially the first year; if you realize that for a 
 couple of years you cannot expect to make much 
 v more than you are now making; and if you also 
 know that at the end of that time you will be in 
 y receipt of about a thousand dollars for the third 
 year, with an unlimited rise ahead of you and a 
 future as bright as you yourself choose to make it 
 then come. Now I take it for granted you will not 
 hesitate at this time. So fix up your affairs at once, 
 and be ready to start before the end of this month. 
 
 Sewall did not hesitate ; nor did Dow. They left New 
 York with Roosevelt the last_day_of July, arriving at 
 Chimney Butte the 5th of August. 
 
 Sewall's eyes gleamed at the wildness of the country, 
 but he turned that evening to Roosevelt with a troubled 
 look. " You won't make any money raising cattle in 
 this country," he remarked. 
 
 "Bill, you don't know anything about it!" retorted 
 Theodore the younger. 
 
 Bill laughed. " Well, I guess that's just about right, 
 too," he said. 
 
 They remained at Chimney Butte two days, and then 
 rode north forty miles to Elkhorn, the new ranch, driving 
 a hundred head of cattle before them, now following the 
 dry river-bed, now branching off inland, crossing the 
 great plateaus and winding through the ravines of the 
 broken country. There was already a shack on the new 
 ranch, a primitive affair with a dirt roof, which Sewall 
 and Dow now made their headquarters. 
 
 The cattle that Roosevelt and his friends from Maine 
 had driven down the river from Chimney Butte were
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN 69 
 
 intended to be the nucleus of the Elkhorn herd. They 
 were young grade short-horns of Eastern origin, less wild 
 than the long-horn Texas steers, but liable, on new 
 ground, to stray off and be lost in the innumerable coulees 
 round about. So each night the three men, aided by some 
 expert like Merrifield, " bedded " them down on the level 
 bottom, one or the other of them riding slowly and 
 quietly round and round the herd, heading off and turning 
 back into it all that tried to stray. This was not alto- 
 gether a simple business, for there was danger of stampede 
 in making the slightest unusual noise. Now and then 
 they would call to the cattle softly as they rode, or sing 
 to them until the steers had all lain down, close together. 
 And even then, at times, one of the men would stay on 
 guard, riding round and round the herd, calling and sing- 
 ing. 
 
 There was something magical in the strange sound of it 
 in the clear air under the stars. 
 
 The cattle had accustomed themselves to their new 
 surroundings by the end of the month, and Roosevelt 
 went south with Merrifield and the men from Maine to 
 attend a round-up in the great cattle country west of the 
 Little Missouri. They took the wagon, following the 
 oM Fort Keogh trail. Cattle had a way of straying far 
 in the summers in their eagerness for green grass, and the 
 search, in this case, carried Roosevelt and his party across 
 south-eastern Montana and half-way across Wyoming to 
 the very base of the Big Horn Mountains where eight 
 years previously Custer had been killed. Those moun- 
 tains offered Roosevelt a temptation not to be resisted.
 
 70 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 Sewall and Dow were off with the round-up, " cutting 
 out " cattle that bore the Maltese cross or the triangle 
 brand of the._Rooseyjelt^ ranches. His interests, therefore, 
 were in good hands. He left the wagon on the first ridge 
 of the Big Horn Mountains, and with Merrifield, and a 
 weather-beaten old plainsman " with an inexhaustible 
 fund of misinformation " as teamster of his pack-train, 
 started into the mountains for a fortnight's hunt. 
 
 They followed an old Indian trail, ascending through 
 the dense pine woods where the trunks rose like straight 
 columns, close together, and up the sides of rocky gorges, 
 driving the pack-train with endless difficulty over fallen 
 timber and along ticklish ridges. They pitched their 
 camp at last beside a beautiful, clear mountain brook 
 that ran through a glade ringed by slender pines; and 
 from there hunted among the peaks round about. The 
 weather was clear and cold, with thin ice covering the 
 dark waters of the mountain tarns, and now and again 
 slight snowfalls that made the forest gleam and glisten 
 in the moonlight like fairyland. Through the frosty air 
 they could hear the vibrant, musical note of the bull elk 
 far off, calling to the cows or challenging one another. 
 
 No country could have been better adapted to still 
 hunting than the great, pine-clad mountains, studded 
 with open glades. Roosevelt loved the thrill of the chase, 
 y but he loved no less the companionship of the majestic 
 trees and the shy wild creatures which sprang across his 
 path or ran with incredible swiftness along the overhang- 
 ing boughs. Moving on noiseless moccasins, he caught 
 alluring glimpses of the inner life of the mountains,
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN 71 
 
 It was long and weary traveling across the desolate 
 reaches of burnt prairie over which, day after day, Roose- 
 velt galloped now in this direction, now in that, on the 
 lookout for game, while the heavy wagon lumbered on. 
 At last, after many days, they reached a strange and 
 romantic region of isolated buttes of sandstone, cut by 
 the weather into most curious caves and columns, battle- 
 ments, spires, and flying buttresses. It was a beautiful 
 and fantastic place and they made their camp there. 
 
 The moon was full and the night clear, and the flame 
 of the camp-fire leaped up the cliffs, so that the weird, 
 carved shapes seemed alive. Outside the circle of the 
 fire the cliffs shone like silver under the moon, throwing 
 grotesque shadows. 
 
 It was like a country seen in a dream. 
 
 Roosevelt went East again late in September to do 
 what he could in an uninspiring campaign to help elect / $ ' 
 Blaine President. But Cleveland was victorious and 
 Roosevelt, resigning himself to a fact that no effort of his 
 could now alter, returned to Dakota. 
 
 Sewall and Dow were at Elkhorn, busy cutting the 
 timber for the new house, which was to stand under the 
 shade of a row of cottonwood-trees overlooking the broad, 
 shallow bed of the Little Missouri. They were both 
 mighty men with the ax. Roosevelt himself was no 
 amateur, but he could not compete with the stalwart back- 
 woodsmen. 
 
 One evening he overheard one of the cowboys ask 
 Dow what the day's cut had been, "Well, Bill cut
 
 72 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 down fifty-three," answered Dow, " I cut forty-nine, and 
 the boss," he added, dryly, not realizing that Roosevelt 
 was within hearing " the boss he beavered down seven- 
 teen." 
 
 Roosevelt remembered a tree-stump he had seen re- 
 cently, gnawed down by a beaver, and grinned. 
 
 Winter now settled down over the Bad Lands in earn- 
 est. There was little snow, but the cold was fierce in its 
 intensity. By day, the plains and buttes were dazzling 
 to the eye under the clear weather; by night, the trees 
 cracked and groaned from the strain of the biting frost. 
 Even the stars seemed to snap and glitter. The river lay 
 fixed in its shining bed of glistening white, " like a huge 
 bent bar of blue steel." Wolves and lynxes traveled up 
 and down it at night as though it were a highway. 
 
 Roosevelt was now living mainly at Chimney Butte, 
 writing somewhat and reading much, sharing fully mean- 
 while in the hardship of the winter work. It was not al- 
 ways pleasant to be out of doors, but the herds had to be 
 carefully watched and every day (which began with 
 1 breakfast at five three hours before sunrise j he or one 
 of his men was in the saddle from dawn to dark, riding 
 about among them and turning back any herd that seemed 
 to be straggling toward the open plains. In the open 
 country there was always a strong wind that never failed 
 to freeze ears or fingers or toes, in spite of flannels and 
 furs. The cattle suffered much, standing huddled in the 
 bushes in the ravines; and some of the young stock died of 
 exposure. . . .
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN 73 
 
 The ranch-house was completed in the late spring. It 
 was a spacious place for that region, and, in its plain 
 fashion, comfortable and homelike. It was, above all, 
 " fit for women folks," which was more than could be 
 said of the shack with a dirt roof at Chimney Butte. 
 Wilmot Dow was sent East in July " to fetch them out." 
 
 They came in early August, Will Dow with his newly 
 wedded bride, escorting Bill Sewall's wife and three- 
 year-old daughter. They were back-woodswomen, self- 
 reliant, fearless, high-hearted, true mates to their stalwart 
 men. Before Roosevelt knew what was happening they 
 had turned the new house into a home. 
 
 And now for them all began a season of deep and quiet 
 contentment that was to remain in the memories of all 
 of them as a kind of idyl. It was a life of elemental toil, 
 hardship, and danger, and of strong, elemental pleasures 
 rest after labor, food after hunger, warmth and shelter 
 after bitter cold. In that life there was no room for dis- 
 tinctions of social position or wealth. They respected 
 one another and cared for one another because and only 
 because each knew that the others were brave and loyal 
 and steadfast. 
 
 Life on the ranch proved a more joyous thing than 
 ever, after the women had taken charge. They demanded 
 certain necessities at once. They demanded chickens; 
 they demanded at least one cow. No one had thought of 
 a cow. So Roosevelt and Sewall and Dow between them 
 roped one of the range and threw her, and sat on her, 
 and milked her upside down, which was not altogether 
 satisfactory, but was, for the time being, the best thing
 
 74 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 they could do. There was now a new charm in shooting 
 game, with women at home to cook it. And Mrs. Sewall 
 baked bread that was not at all like the bread Bill baked. 
 Soon she was even baking cake, which was an unheard-of 
 luxury in the Bad Lands. Then, after a while, the buffalo 
 berries and wild plums began to disappear from the bushes 
 round about and appear on the table as jam. 
 
 " However big you build the house, it won't be big 
 enough for two women," pessimists had remarked. But 
 their forebodings were not realized. At Elkhorn nc cross 
 word was heard. They were, taken altogether, a very 
 happy family. Roosevelt was " the boss," in the sense 
 that, since he footed the bills, power of final decision was 
 his; but only in that sense. He saddled his own horse; 
 now and then he washed his own clothes ; he fed the pigs ; 
 and once, on a rainy day, he blacked the Sunday boots of 
 every man, woman, and child in the place. He was not 
 encouraged to repeat that performance. The folks from 
 Maine made it quite clear that if the boots needed black- 
 ing at all, which was doubtful, they thought some one 
 else ought to do the blacking not at all because it 
 seemed to them improper that Roosevelt should black any- 
 body's boots, but because he did it so badly. The paste 
 came off on everything it touched. The women 
 " mothered " him, setting his belongings to rights at stated 
 intervals, for he was not conspicuous for orderliness. He, 
 in turn, treated the women with the friendliness and re- 
 spect he showed to the women of his own family. And 
 the little Sewall girl was never short of toys.
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN 75 
 
 Elkhorn Ranch was a joyous_place those days. Cow- 
 boys, hearing of it, came from a distance for a touch of 
 home life and the luxury of hearing a woman's voice. 
 
 The summer days were for Roosevelt, as well as for 
 his men, full of vigorous toil, beginning before the stars 
 had fully faded out of the sky at dawn and ending in 
 heavy slumber before the last of the sunset had been 
 swallowed by the night. He was in the saddle much of 
 the time, working among the cattle, salvaging steers mired 
 in the numerous bogholes and quicksands, driving in calves 
 overlooked in the spring branding, breaking ponies, hunt- 
 ting. Meanwhile he was writing a Life of Thomas Hart 
 Benton for the " American Statesmen Series " and was 
 preparing for the press a remarkably entertaining volume 
 of hunting experiences called Hunting Trips of a Ranch- 
 man, which he had written the previous winter. 
 
 Much of the time he was away from the ranch on the 
 various round-ups, either alone or with as many of his 
 men as could be spared from the daily chores of the ranch. 
 He enjoyed enormously the excitement and rough but 
 hearty comradeship of these round-ups, which brought 
 him in touch with ranchmen and cowboys from hundreds 
 of miles around. The work was hard and incessant and 
 not without danger from man and beast. The cattle 
 never harmed him, but the ponies did. He was a good, 
 but not extraordinary, rider, and even extraordinary rid- 
 ers were at times sent over the heads of their ponies. 
 During the round-up that summer Roosevelt was bucked 
 off more than once. On one occasion the point of his
 
 76 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 shoulder was broken. There were no surgeons in that 
 round-up. The shoulder had to mend by itself as well 
 as it could while its owner went about his work as usual. 
 
 The day's work on the round-up commenced at three 
 in the morning with a yell from the cook, and lasted until 
 sundown or after, and not infrequently the whole night 
 through. All day Roosevelt remained in the saddle. The 
 morning and it was generally eight hours long was 
 given to " riding the long circle " in couples, driving into 
 the wagon camp whatever cattle had been found in the 
 hills. The afternoon was spent in " cutting out " of the 
 herd thus gathered the cattle belonging to the various 
 brands. This was difficult and dangerous work. Repre- 
 sentatives of each brand rode in succession into the midst 
 of the herd, working the animal they were after gently 
 to the edge, then with a sudden dash taking it off at a run. 
 The calves would follow their mothers and would then 
 be branded with the mark of the owner of the cow. 
 
 At night there was occasionally guard duty, a two 
 hours' slow patrol about the restless herd. It was mo- 
 notonous work, and in stormy weather no joy at all ; but 
 on clear, warm nights Roosevelt, sleepy as he was from 
 the day's exertion, was not sorry to lope through the 
 lonely silence under the stars, listening to the breathing 
 of the cattle, alert every instant to meet whatever emerg- 
 ency might arise from out that dark, moving mass. 
 
 One night there was a heavy storm. Fearing a 
 stampede, the night herders sent a call of " all hands out." 
 Roosevelt leaped on the pony he always kept picketed
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN 77 
 
 near him. Suddenly there was a terrific peal of thunder. 
 The lightning struck almost into the herd itself, and with 
 heads and tails high the panic-stricken animals plunged 
 off into the blackness. For an instant Roosevelt could 
 distinguish nothing but the dark forms of the cattle rush- 
 ing by him like a spring freshet on both sides. The herd 
 split, half turning off to the left, the rest thundering on. 
 He galloped at top speed, hoping to reach the leaders and 
 turn them. 
 
 He heard a wild splashing ahead. One instant he was 
 aware that the cattle in front of him and beside him were 
 disappearing; the next, he himself was plunging over a 
 cut bank into the Little Missouri. He bent far back. 
 His horse almost fell, recovered himself, plunged forward, 
 and, struggling through water and quicksand, made the 
 other side. 
 
 For a second he saw another cowboy beside him. The 
 man disappeared in the darkness and the deluge, and 
 Roosevelt galloped off through a grove of cottonwoods 
 after the diminished herd. The ground was rough and 
 full of pitfalls. Twice his horse turned a somersault, 
 throwing him. At last the cattle came to a halt and 
 after one more half-hearted stampede, as the white dawn 
 came, turned reluctantly back toward camp. 
 
 Roosevelt gathered in stray groups of cattle as he went, 
 driving them before him. After a while he came upon 
 a cowboy carrying his saddle on his head. It was the 
 man he had seen for a flash during the storm. His horse 
 had run into a tree and been killed. He himself had 
 escaped by a miracle.
 
 78 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 The men in the camp were just starting on the long 
 circle when Roosevelt returned. Only half the herd had 
 been brought back, they said. He snatched a hurried 
 breakfast, leaped on a fresh horse, and again was away 
 into the hills. It was ten hours before he was back at 
 the wagon camp once more for a hasty meal and a fresh 
 horse. 
 
 When he went to sleep that night he had been in the 
 saddle forty hours. The cow-punchers decided that " the 
 man with four eyes " " had the stuff " in him. 
 
 And so, quietly " doing his job " from day to day, 
 in no way playing on his position or his wealth, but 
 accepting the discipline of the camp and the orders of 
 the captain of the round-up as every other self-respecting 
 cowboy accepted them, Theodore Roosevelt gradually 
 made his place in the rough world of the Bad Lands. He 
 was not a crack rider or a fancy roper, but the captain 
 of the round-up learned by and by that if a cow persist- 
 ed in lying down in a thick patch of bulberry-bushes, re- 
 fusing to come out, Roosevelt's persistence could be relied 
 on to ojutlast the cow's. At the end of the day, as well 
 as the beginning, he could be counted on to do the un- 
 attractive task that fell in his way. That, the captain 
 decided, was of considerably greater importance for the 
 success of a round-up than any handiness with a lariat. 
 
 Theodore Roosevelt, twenty-six .years old, no longer 
 asthmatic now, but as hardy in body as he was fearless in 
 spirit, became, in less than a year from that early Septem- 
 ber rooming when he had first descended from the train
 
 THE WORK OF A RANCHMAN 79 
 
 at Medora, an important factor in the life of the Bad 
 Lands. Ranchmen as well as cowboys respected him_and 
 liked him and treated him as a comrade. They did even 
 more. They elected him president of the Little Missouri 
 Stockmen's Association because they admired his " gin- 
 ger " and knew that he was " square." 
 
 HERMANN HAGEDORN.
 
 IV 
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 
 
 From Zadoc Pine and other Stories by H. C. Bunner, copy- 
 right, 1891, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the 
 publishers. 
 
 When Zadoc Pine's father died, Zadoc found himself 
 alone in the North Woods, three miles from Silsbee's Sta- 
 tion, twenty-one years old, six foot one inch high, in per- 
 fect health, with a good appetite. He had gone to school 
 one summer; he could read and write fairly well, and 
 could cipher very well. He had gone through the history 
 of the United States, and he had a hazy idea of geography. 
 When his father's estate was settled up, and all debts paid, 
 Zadoc owned two silver dollars, the clothes he stood in, 
 one extra flannel shirt, done up in a bandanna handker- 
 chief in company with a razor, a comb, a toothbrush, and 
 two collars. Besides these things he had a six-inch clasp- 
 knife and an old-fashioned muzzle-loading percussion-cap 
 rifle. 
 
 Old man Pine had been a good Adirondack guide in 
 his time; but for the last six years he had been laid up, 
 a helpless cripple, with inflammatory rheumatism. He 
 and his son old Pine's wife had died before the boy was 
 ten years old lived in their little house in the woods. 
 The father had some small savings, and the son could 
 80
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 8l 
 
 earn a little as a sort of auxiliary guide. He got a job 
 here and there where some party needed an extra man. 
 Zadoc was an excellent shot; but he was no fisherman, 
 and he had little knowledge of the streams and ponds 
 further in the woods. 
 
 So, when the old father was gone, when Zadoc had 
 paid the last cent of his debt to the storekeeper at Sils- 
 bee's the storekeeper taking the almost worthless 
 shanty of the Pines in part payment when he had set- 
 tled with Silsbee's saw-mill for the boards out of which 
 he himself had made his father's coffin, Zadoc Pine stood 
 on the station platform and wondered what was going 
 to become of him, or, rather, as he put it, " what he was 
 a-going for to do with himself." 
 
 There was no employment for him at Silsbee's Sta- 
 tion. He might, perhaps, get a job as guide; but it was 
 doubtful, and he had seen too much of the life. It seemed 
 to him a waste of energy. To live as his father had lived, 
 a life of toil and exposure, a dreary existence of hard 
 work and small profit, and to end at last penniless and in 
 debt for food, was no part of Zadoc's plans. He knew 
 from the maps in the old geography that the whole Adi- 
 rondack region was only a tiny patch on the map of the 
 United States. Somewhere outside there he was sure he 
 would find a place for himself. 
 
 He knew that the little northern railroad at his feet 
 connected with the greater roads to the south. But the 
 great towns of the State were only so many names to 
 him. His eyes were not turned toward New York. He 
 had " guided " for parties of New York men, and he
 
 82 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 had learned enough to make himself sure that New York 
 was too large for him. " I wouldn't be no more good 
 down there," he said to himself, " then they be up here. 
 'Tain't my size." 
 
 Yet somewhere he must go. He had watched the young 
 men who employed him, and he had made up his mind 
 to two things: First, these young men had money; second, 
 he could get it if they could. One had jokingly shown him 
 a hundred-dollar bill, and had asked him to change it. 
 There was some part of the world, then, where people 
 could be free and easy with hundred-dollar bills. Why 
 was not that the place for him? "They know a lot 
 more 'n I do, " he said ; " but they hed to 1'arn it fust-off; 
 an' I guess ef their brains was so everlastin' much better'n 
 mine they wouldn't souse 'em with whiskey the wa> they 
 do." 
 
 As Zadoc Pine stood on the platform, feeling of the 
 two silver dollars in his pocket, he saw the wagon drive up 
 from Silsbee's saw-mill with a load of timber, and old 
 Mr. Silsbee on top of the load. There was a train of flat 
 cars on the siding, where it had been lying for an hour, 
 waiting for the up train. When the wagon arrived, Mr. 
 Silsbee, the station-master, and the engineer of the train 
 had a three-cornered colloquy of a noisy sort. The sta- 
 tion-master after awhile withdrew, shrugging his shoulders 
 with the air of a man who declines to engage further in a 
 profitless discussion. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Zadoc. 
 
 " That there lumber of Silsbee's," said the station- 
 master, who was a New England man. " The durned old
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 83 
 
 tantankerous cuss is kickin' because he can't ship it. Why, 
 this here train's so short o' hands they can't hardly run 
 it ez 'tis, let alone loadin' lumber." 
 
 "Where's it goin' to?" inquired Zadoc, "an' why's 
 this train short o' hands?" 
 
 " Goin' to South Ridge, Noo Jersey," said the station- 
 master, " or 'twould be ef 'twan't for this blame strike. 
 Can't get nobody to load it." 
 
 "Where's South Ridge?" was Zadoc's next inquiry. 
 
 " 'Bout ten or twenty miles from Noo York." 
 
 " Country? " 
 
 " Country 'nough, I guess. Ask Silsbee." 
 
 Zadoc walked after Mr. Silsbee, who was by this time 
 marching back towards the saw-mill, red in the face and 
 puffing hard. Zadoc got in front of him. 
 
 " Mornin', Mr. Silsbee," he said. 
 
 " Mornin' er who are ye ? Oh, Enoch Pine's boy, 
 hey ? Mornin', young man I hain't got no time " 
 
 " How much is it wuth to you to get them sticks to 
 where they're goin' to? " demanded Zadoc. 
 
 " Wuth? It's wuth hundreds of dollars to me, young 
 man it's wuth " 
 
 " Is it wuth a five-dollar bill?" Zadoc interrupted. 
 
 " Whatyermean ? " 
 
 " You know me, Squire Silsbee. If it's wuth a five- 
 Jollar bill to get them timbers down to South Ridge, New 
 Jersey, an' you can get that engineer to take me on as 
 an extra hand that far, I'll load 'em on, go down there 
 with 'em, an' unload 'em. All I want's five dollars foi 
 my keep while I'm a-goin'."
 
 84 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 "You don't want t' go to South Ridge?" gasped Mr. 
 Silsbee. 
 
 " Yaas, I do." 
 
 "Whut fer?" 
 
 " Fer my health," said Zadoc. The squire looked at 
 the muscular, sunburnt animal before him, and he had to 
 grin. 
 
 " Well," he said, " 'tain't none o' my business. You 
 come along, an' I'll see if that pig-headed fool will let 
 you work your way down." 
 
 One hour later Zadoc was rolling southward on a 
 flat car, and learning how to work brakes as he went. It 
 was a wonderful pleasure trip to him. He asked noth- 
 ing; he was strong as a bull moose; and he was sim- 
 ply enchanted to see the great world stringing itself out 
 along the line of the railroad track. He had never in his 
 life seen a settlement larger than Silsbee's, and when the 
 villages turned into towns and the towns into cities, he 
 was so much interested that he lost his appetite. He asked 
 the train hands all the questions he could think of, and 
 acquired some information, although they did not care 
 to talk about much except the great strike and the proba- 
 ble action of the unions. 
 
 It was about six o'clock of a cloudy May evening when 
 Zadoc Pine jumped off the car at South Ridge and helped 
 to unload Mr. Silsbee's cargo of timber. The brakeman 
 on his end of the train said, " So long! " Zadoc said " So 
 (ong!" and the train whirled on to New York. 
 
 Zadoc stood by the track and gazed somewhat dis-
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 85 
 
 mally after his travelling home. He was roused from 
 something like a brown study when the station-master of 
 South Ridge hailed him. 
 
 "Hi, country! where are you?" 
 
 " Is this New Jersey?" asked Zadoc. 
 
 "Yes. What did you think it was Ohio?" 
 
 Zadoc had heard something of the national reputation 
 of the State from his late companions. 
 
 " Well," he reflected, " I must be pretty mildewed 
 when a Jerseyman hollers ' country ' at me." 
 
 Zadoc made this reflection aloud. The station-master 
 walked off with a growl, and two or three gentlemen 
 who were talking on the platform laughed quietly. Zadoc 
 walked up to one of them. 
 
 " I brung that lumber down here, " he said; " I'd like 
 to know who owns it. Maybe there's more job in it fer 
 me?" 
 
 " I don't think so," one of the gentlemen said, in a 
 rather cold and distant way. " That is for the new 
 station, and the railway company has its own hands." 
 
 Zadoc looked all about him. There was no town to 
 be seen. He was among the foot-hills of the Orange 
 Mountains, and on all sides of him were undulating 
 slopes, some open, some wooded. He saw old-fashioned 
 farm-houses, and many more modern dwellings, of what 
 seemed to him great size and beauty, although they 
 were only ordinary suburban cottages of the better sort. 
 But nowhere could he see shops or factories. There was 
 a quarry high up on one of the slopes, but that was all. 
 It looked like a poor place in which to seek for work.
 
 86 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 " Well," he remarked, " maybe there's somewheres 
 where I can put up fer to-night." 
 
 "What sort of place?" the gentleman asked. 
 
 " Well," said Zadoc, " some sort of inn, or tavern, or 
 suthin', where I c'n get about ten cents' wuth o' style 
 an' ninety cents' wuth o' sleep an' feed." 
 
 Two of the gentlemen laughed ; but the one to whom 
 Zadoc had spoken, who seemed a dignified and haughty 
 person, answered in a chilly and discouraging way: 
 
 " Go down this street to the cross-roads, and ask for 
 Bryan's. That is where the quarrymen board." 
 
 He turned away, and went in the other direction with 
 his companions. Zadoc Pine shouldered his rifle, picked 
 up the handkerchief which held his other belongings, and 
 trudged down the road under the new foliage of the 
 great chestnuts. He came in a little while to the cross- 
 roads, where there were four huddled blocks of shabby 
 square houses. There was a butcher's shop, a grocer's, a 
 baker's, three or four drinking-places, and Bryan's. This 
 was the forlornest house of all. There was a dirty at- 
 tempt at an ice-cream saloon in the front, and in the rear 
 was a large room with a long table, where the quarrymen 
 took their meals. When Zadoc arrived, the quarrymen 
 were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the house with 
 their feet in the gutter. They were smoking pipes and 
 talking in a dull way among themselves. By the time 
 that Zadoc had bargained for a room, with supper and 
 breakfast, for one dollar, supper was announced, and they 
 all came in. Zadoc did not like either his companions or 
 his supper.
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 87 
 
 He did not know enough of the distinguishing marks 
 of various nationalities to guess at the nativity of these 
 men, but he knew that they were not Americans. He 
 tried to talk to the man nearest him, but the man did 
 not want to talk. Zadoc asked him about the work and 
 the wages at the quarry. 
 
 " It's a dollar-twinty-five a day," the quarryman said, 
 sullenly; "an* it's a shame! The union ain't doin' 
 nothin' fer us. An' there ain't no more quarrymen 
 wanted. There's Milliken, he owns the carrts; mebbe 
 he'll take a driver. But if ye want a job, ye'll have to 
 see McCuskey, the dilligate." 
 
 "What might a dilligate be?" inquired the young 
 man from the North Woods. 
 
 " The mon what runs the union. Ye're a union mon, 
 ain't ye? " 
 
 " Guess not," said Zadoc. 
 
 " Thin y'd best be out of this," the man said, rising 
 rudely and lumbering off. 
 
 " Guess I won't wake McCuskey up in the mornin'," 
 Zadoc thought ; " dollar-'n-a-quarter's big money ; but I 
 don't want no sech work ez quarryin', ef it makes a dead 
 log of a man like that." 
 
 He finished his meal and went into the street. Bryan 
 was leaning against the door-jamb, conversing with a tall 
 man on the sidewalk. It was the gentleman whom Zadoc 
 had seen at the station. 
 
 " You can't get him this week, Mr. Thorndyke," said 
 Bryan. " Bixby's ahead of you, and the Baxters. They 
 been waitin' three weeks for him. Fact is, Andy don't
 
 88 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 want to do no more th'n two days' work in a week." 
 
 "Can't you think of any other man?" Mr. Thorn- 
 dyke queried, irritably. " Here I have been waiting for 
 this fellow a whole fortnight to dig a half-dozen beds in 
 my garden, and I don't believe he intends to come. 
 There ought to be somebody who wants the job. Can't 
 some of these men here come after hours, or before, and 
 do it? I pay well enough for the work." 
 
 There was no movement among the quarrymen, who 
 were once more sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, with 
 their feet in the gutter. 
 
 " I don't know of no one, Mr. Thorndyke," said 
 Bryan, and Mr. Thorndyke turned back up the road. 
 
 " Diggin' garden-beds? " mused Zadoc. " I ain't never 
 dug no garden-beds ; but I hev dug fer bait, 'n I guess 
 the principle's the same on'y you don't hev to sort out 
 the wums." He walked rapidly after Mr. Thorndyke, 
 and overtook him. 
 
 " Don't you want me to dig them beds fer you? " he 
 inquired. 
 
 "Can you dig them?" Mr. Thorndyke looked sur- 
 prised and suspicious. 
 
 " That's what I'm here fer." 
 
 " Do you know where my house is? The third on 
 the hill?" 
 
 " Third she is," said Zadoc. 
 
 " Come up to-morrow morning." 
 
 Zadoc went back to Bryan's and went to bed in a 
 narrow, close room, overlooking an ill-kept back yard. 
 It was dirty, it was cheerless; worst of all, it was air-
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 89 
 
 less. Zadoc's mind was made up. " Ef this suits quarry- 
 men, quarryin' don't suit me." 
 
 He had a bad night, and arose at five the next morning. 
 At six he went to a breakfast that was worse than the 
 supper had been. Zadoc had been used to poor and 
 coarse fare all his life, but there was something about 
 this flabby, flavorless, greasy, boarding-house food that 
 went against him. He ate what he could, and then 
 walked up the road toward Mr. Thorndyke's house. As 
 he went higher up the hill he saw that the houses at the 
 cross-roads were very much unlike their surroundings. 
 To a man born and brought up in the skirts of the 
 North Woods, this New Jersey village seemed a very 
 paradise. The green lawns amazed him ; the neat fences, 
 the broad roads, the great trees, standing clear of under- 
 brush, were all marvels in his eyes. And besides the 
 comfortable farm-houses and the mansions of the rich 
 and great, he saw many humbler dwellings of a neat and 
 well-ordered sort. From one of these a pretty girl, 
 standing in the doorway, with her right arm in a sling, 
 looked at him with curiosity, and what Zadoc took to be 
 kindly interest. It was really admiration. If Zadoc had 
 ever thought to enquire, he would have learned that he 
 was not only big, but good-looking. 
 
 He lingered a little as he passed this place, to admire 
 it. The house had two stories, of which the lower was 
 of rough stone, brightly whitewashed. In front was a 
 bit of a garden, in which green things were sprouting. 
 In the little woodshed, to one side, a neat old woman,
 
 50 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 with pretty, white hair, was cutting kindling-wood. The 
 girl in the doorway was very pretty, if her arm was in 
 a sling. Zadoc looked it all over with entire approval. 
 " That's my size," he thought. 
 
 He found no one awake at Mr. Thorndyke's house, 
 and he sat on the front steps until half-past seven o'clock, 
 when Mr. Thorndyke himself came out to get the morn- 
 ing paper, which had been left on the front porch. Zadoc 
 had read it through already. 
 
 " You are early," was Mr. Thorndyke's greeting. 
 
 " I was earlier when I come," returned Zadoc. " Been 
 here more'n an hour. Awful waste o' God's sunlight, 
 when there's work a-waitin." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Thorndyke coldly, as he led the 
 way around the corner of the house, " here are the beds. 
 The lines are pegged out. I suppose there is about a day's 
 work on them, and I will pay you at the usual rate for 
 gardeners' work, hereabouts a dollar and a half." 
 
 " Yaas," said Zadoc, as he looked over the territory 
 staked out, " I see. But if this job's wuth a dollar-V- 
 a-half to you, I'd ruther take it ez a job, at them riggers. 
 I can fool away a day on it, ef that'll please you better; 
 but I'd ruther git through with it when I git through, ef 
 it's all the same to you." 
 
 " I don't care how you do it," Mr. Thorndyke said, 
 " so long as it is done, and done properly, when I come 
 home to-night at six." 
 
 " You needn't put off coming home for me," was Za- 
 doc 's cheerful assurance. 
 
 Then he proceeded to ask Mr. Thorndyke a number
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 91 
 
 of questions about the manner in which the beds were 
 to be dug. Mr. Thorndyke knit his brows. 
 
 "Haven't you ever dug beds before?" 
 
 " I never dug no beds fer you. When I do work fer 
 a man I do it to suit him, an' not to suit some other 
 feller." 
 
 " How do I know that you can do the work at all? " 
 
 " You don't," said Zadoc, frankly ; " but ef 'tain't sat- 
 isfactory you don't hev to pay. Thet's cheap fer a hole 
 in the ground." 
 
 "Have you a spade?" Mr. Thorndyke demanded, 
 and his manner was depressingly stern. 
 
 " No, I ain't," said Zadoc, " but I'll git one." 
 
 Zadoc walked up to the next house on the hill, which 
 was a large and imposing structure It belonged to the 
 richest man in South Ridge, and the richest man was sit- 
 ting on his front porch. 
 
 " Got a spade to lend? " Zadoc asked. 
 
 "What do you want it for?" the richest man de- 
 manded. 
 
 " Fer a job down there to Squire Thorndyke's, next 
 door," Zadoc informed him. 
 
 " Did Mr. Thorndyke send you?" 
 
 " No, I come myself." 
 
 The millionaire of South Ridge stared at Zadoc for 
 a moment, and then arose, walked around the house, 
 and presently reappeared with a spade. " When you 
 bring this back," he said, " give it to the man in the 
 stable."
 
 92 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 " Much obliged ! " said Zadoc. 
 
 The beds were all dug before three o'clock, and Mrs. 
 Thorndyke came out and expressed her approval. Zadoc 
 took off his hat and bowed, as his father had told him 
 he should do when he met a lady. 
 
 " I see," he remarked, " you've got some mornin'-glories 
 set out alongside o' the house. Ef you'll get me a ladder 
 an' some string, an* nails an' a hammer, I'll train 'em 
 up fer yer." 
 
 Mrs. Thorndyke looked doubtful. 
 
 " I don't know what arrangement my husband has 
 made with you," she began ; but Zadoc interrupted her. 
 
 " There ain't nothin' to pay fer that, ma'am. One 
 pertater on top 'f the measure don't break no one, and 
 it kinder holds trade." 
 
 The ladder and the other things were brought out, 
 and Zadoc climbed up and fastened the strings as he had 
 seen them arranged for the morning-glories that climbed 
 up the walls of Squire Silsbee's house. 
 
 While he was on the ladder, the rich man next door, 
 whose name, by the way, was Vredenburg, came down 
 and leaned on the fence and talked to Mrs. Thorndyke. 
 
 " Getting the place in good trim, aren't you ? " 
 
 " Trying to," said Mrs. Thorndyke. " There are ever 
 so many things to do. I've sent to three men already, to 
 cart my ash-heap away, and they won't come. There's a 
 wandering gardener here who has just dug my beds; if 
 it hadn't been for him, I should have gone without flowers 
 all the summer." 
 
 Zadoc heard this and grinned; and then he began to
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 93 
 
 think. He had been looking over toward the quarry 
 during the day, and he had noticed that the horses stood 
 idle a large part of the time. There was one tall gray 
 hitched to a cart, whose business it was to remove the 
 small stones and waste, and who did not make one trip 
 an hour, resting for the greater part of the time under a 
 huge tree. 
 
 " That horse ain't too tired," thought Zadoc, " to 
 give a feller a lift after workin' hours." 
 
 By four o'clock the strings were up for the morning- 
 glories. Mr. Thorndyke would not return before six. 
 Zadoc strolled down to the quarry and found Milliken. 
 He asked Milliken what would be a proper charge for 
 the services of the big gray horse for two hours after six 
 o'clock. Milliken thought fifty cents would pay him 
 and the horse. Then Zadoc continued his stroll, and 
 found out that the dumping-grounds of South Ridge 
 were near the river, among the tailings of an abandoned 
 quarry. 
 
 After that he went back to Bryan's and got a couple of 
 eggs cooked for his private supper. He had had his din- 
 ner at the noon hour, and it was worse than the break- 
 fast. The eggs were, as he told Mr. Bryan, " kinder 
 'twixt grass and hay." He felt that he had had enough 
 of Bryan's. 
 
 Going up the road to Mr. Thorndyke's, he came to 
 the neat little house that he had noticed the night before; 
 he looked at it for a minute, and then he went in and 
 asked the white-haired old woman if she did not want 
 to take him as a boarder. She said that she did not ; she
 
 94 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 was a lone widow-woman, and she had all she could do to 
 pay her way with doing washing, and she didn't want no 
 quarrymen fooling around her house; she knew what 
 quarry men were. 
 
 Zadoc explained to her that he was not a quarryman. 
 He told her all about himself, and about his dissatisfaction 
 with Bryan's arrangements; but she only shook her head 
 and said that she didn't want him. He was going out of 
 the door, when the young girl who had smiled on him 
 yesterday, and who had been listening in a corner, came 
 forward and spoke earnestly to the old woman. 
 
 " He looks good, mother," Zadoc heard her say; " and 
 it's to his credit that he don't like Bryan's. If he's a 
 decent man, we oughtn't to send him back to a place 
 like that. It's a shame for a young man to be left among 
 those people." 
 
 The old woman wavered. " We might try him," she 
 said. 
 
 Zadoc came back. 
 
 " You try me, and you'll keep me," said he. " An' ez 
 fer you, young woman, ef you use ez much judgment 
 when you pick out a husband ez you do when you choose 
 a boarder, you'll do first-rate." The young woman 
 blushed. 
 
 Then they talked about the proper price of Zadoc's 
 board, and they all agreed that two dollars a week would 
 be fair. Zadoc paid down the two dollars in advance, 
 and was without a cent in the world, for Bryan had 
 taken his other dollar for the two bad meals. But Zadoc 
 did not mind that and within fifteen minutes he had
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 95 
 
 moved his possessions into a clean little whitewashed 
 room in the second story of the widow Dadd's house. 
 The widow was much troubled at the sight of his rifle; 
 but she finally consented to let it hang on his white wall ; 
 and Zadoc ate his supper, although he had eaten one al- 
 ready, and made the meal as cheerful as he could to Mrs. 
 Dadd and her daughter, which was not difficult to him, 
 for it was a good supper. A little before six he marched 
 off to Mr. Thorndyke's. 
 
 Mr. Thorndyke paid him his dollar and a half; and 
 Zadoc broached a new project. 
 
 " There's that there ash-heap o' yourn," he said, " why 
 can't I cart that off fer you?" 
 
 " But you haven't a cart," Mr. Thorndyke objected. 
 
 " I'll have one," Zadoc said. " What's the job 
 wuth ? " 
 
 " I've always paid a dollar." 
 
 Zadoc rubbed his chin and mused. " I'll call on ye 
 for thet dollar when I've earned it," he said. 
 " Evenin'! " 
 
 Zadoc had been at the back of the house during the 
 day, and had sized up the ash-heap, as well as one or two 
 other things. He walked down to the quarry and got 
 the big gray and his cart, and drove up to the Thorn- 
 dykes' back yard. There he shovelled the ash-heap (the 
 shovel went with the horse and cart) into the vehicle. 
 There was just one load. There had been a heavy rain 
 during the night, and the ashes were packed close. The 
 cart held a cubic yard, and it was not overloaded when 
 Zadoc drove it down the road toward the old quarry.
 
 9b THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 As he drove he looked ahead, and he noticed that the 
 sidewalks, or raised paths to right and left of the road, 
 were made of ashes pounded down not cinders from the 
 railroad, but ordinary hard-coal ashes, beaten into a com- 
 pact mass. Before he had driven half a mile he saw, 
 some hundred feet in front of him, a broad break in the 
 sidewalk to his right a gully washed out by the rain. 
 He stopped his horse behind a clump of trees, alighted, 
 and walked forward to the gate in front of a comfortable 
 house. The owner was pottering about, looking at the 
 vines that were beginning to climb up the wires on his 
 veranda. Zadoc accosted him. 
 
 " Evenin' ! You've got a bad hole in that there path 
 o' yourn." 
 
 " Are you a road-inspector ? " asked the man of the 
 house, in a disagreeable tone of voice. 
 
 " No," said Zadoc, "I'm a road-mender. You've got 
 ter fill that hole up. S'pose I fill it up fer you fer fifty 
 cents?" 
 
 " Yer ain't going to drive out here and mend that walk 
 for half a dollar, are you ? " the man asked, incredulously. 
 
 " I'm a-goin' to take it on my reggleler rowt," replied 
 Zadoc. " Does she go? " 
 
 The man looked over the fence at the big hole. " She 
 goes," he said. 
 
 It was just one hour later, when some light lingered 
 in the sky, that the householder with the broken sidewalk 
 paid Zadoc Pine his fifty cents. He paid it with a dazed 
 look on his face; but Zadoc was as bright and airy as 
 usual as he pocketed the money and drove back to the
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 97 
 
 quarry-stables. His cubic yard of ashes had filled the 
 gap and left a little over, with which he had patched a 
 few smaller breaks. 
 
 When Zadoc arose on the morrow and stepped out 
 of doors to breathe the morning air, he saw the white- 
 haired widow chopping kindling-wood in the shed. 
 
 " That ain't no work fer you," he said. 
 
 " Who's to do it? " the widow asked; " my darter, her 
 arm's lame. She lamed it snatchin' a child off the rail- 
 road-track in front of the engyne. The engyne hit her. 
 It was one o' them delegate's children, an' no thanks to 
 nobody. Who's to chop kindlin' if I don't ? " 
 
 " I be, I reckon," said Zadoc. He took the hatchet 
 out of her hands and split up a week's supply. It was 
 sharp work on an empty stomach; but he took it out of 
 the breakfast, a little later. 
 
 After breakfast he walked down to Centre, the nearest 
 large town, and spent an hour in a paint-shop there. He 
 asked a great many questions, and the men in the shop 
 had a good deal of fun with him. Zadoc knew it, but he 
 did not care. " Amooses them, don't hurt me, an' keeps 
 the derned fools talkin'," he said to himself. 
 
 He returned to South Ridge in time for dinner, and 
 in the afternoon sallied out to look for a job. Remem- 
 bering the Bixbys and the Baxters, and the fact that 
 " Andy " did not care for more than two days' work in 
 the week, Zadoc thought he would offer his services to 
 the two families. " Thar' ain't no room in this world," 
 he reflected, " for two-day men. The six-day men has 
 first call on all jobs."
 
 98 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 ' The Bixbys gave him the work, and paid him a dol- 
 lar for the afternoon's work; but he could not come to 
 terms with the Baxters. They wanted him to take fifty 
 cents for half a day's work. 
 
 " But you'd 'a' had ter pay that there other feller a 
 dollar," Zadoc objected. 
 
 " But that's different," said Mrs. Baxter; "you aren't 
 a regular gardener you know." 
 
 "The job ain't different," replied Zadoc; "and ef 
 Andy c'n get a dollar fer it, I'm a-goin' to let him have 
 it." And he shook his long legs down the road. 
 
 He loomed up, long and bony, before Mr. Thorn- 
 dyke just after dinner. 
 
 " You've come to cart the ash-heap away, I suppose ? " 
 Mr. Thorndyke said. 
 
 " That ash-heap moved out of town last evenin'. Ef 
 you've got time, though, I want yer to step around to 
 the back o' the house. Got somethin' to show yer." 
 
 The " something " was Mr. Thorndyke's barn. He 
 kept no horse; but the small building that goes with 
 every well-regulated cottage in New Jersey he utilized 
 as a play-room for his children and a gymnasium for 
 himself. 
 
 " That there barn," Zadoc told him, " is jest a sight to 
 look at. It stands to the north o' the house, an' takes 
 all the weather there is. The paint's most off it. Look 
 at these here big scales ! I took one of those there fer a 
 sample, and here's the color, the way it ought to be, on 
 this here bit o' shingle." Zadoc pulled the sample out of 
 his pocket. " Now you wanter let me paint that barn
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 99 
 
 for yer. I've figgered thet it'll cost yer jest twenty-five 
 dollars. Thet's a savin' for you, an' I c'n take my time 
 about it, and put in a week on the job an' do some other 
 \vork round the town at the same time." 
 
 "Have you other engagements?" Mr. Thorndyke 
 asked. 
 
 "No," was Zadoc's answer; "but I'm goin' to hev 
 'em." 
 
 " But do you know how to paint? " 
 
 " Anythin' the matter with my gardenin'?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " All right on ash-heaps, ain't I? " 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Well, you jest try me on paint. Same old terms 
 no satisfaction, no pay. I can't make that there barn 
 look wuss'n it does now; an' I'm goin' ter make it look a 
 heap better." 
 
 The next afternoon Zadoc was painting the Thorndyke 
 barn. He worked there only in the afternoons; in the 
 mornings he hunted up odd jobs about the town, and the 
 money he got for these he took to Centre and invested in 
 paint and brushes. As he paid cash, he had to buy in 
 small quantities ; but when the barn was painted and 
 it was painted to Mr. Thorndyke's satisfaction Zadoc 
 found himself something more like a capitalist than he 
 had ever been in his life. 
 
 But there was one unpleasant incident connected with 
 this job. He was sitting one afternoon in the children's 
 swing, which he had borrowed to use in painting those 
 parts of the barn which he could not reach with a ladder:
 
 ioo THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 he tied the ends of the ropes around the cupola, twisted 
 himself up to the ridge-pole, and untwisted himself as he 
 painted downward. He was slathering away on his 
 second coat, whistling cheerily to himself, when a man 
 in overalls and a painty jacket came up and made some 
 remarks about the weather. Zadoc told him that the 
 weather was a good thing to take as it came; and then 
 the man inquired: 
 
 " Do you belong to the union ? " 
 
 " What union? " asked Zadoc; " I ain't no Canuck, ef 
 thet's what yer mean." 
 
 " The house-painters' union," said the man. 
 
 " Well, no," said Zadoc, still slathering away, with 
 his head on one side. " Guess I'm union enough, all by 
 myself. I'm perfectly united, I am all harmonious 
 and unanimous an' comfortable." 
 
 "What are you a-paintin' for, then?" demanded the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Fer money," said Zadoc. " What are you a-foolin' 
 around here for? " 
 
 " Have you ever served an apprenticeship to this busi- 
 ness? " the man asked. 
 
 " Hev you ever served an apprenticeship ter rollin' off 
 a log?" Zadoc asked, by way of answer. 
 
 The man muttered something and moved away. 
 Zadoc communed with himself. 
 
 " Ap-prenticeship ter sloppin' paint ! Well, I be 
 derned! Why, fool-work like thet's born in a man, 
 same's swimmin'."
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 101 
 
 As Zadoc became known to the community he found 
 that work came right to his hand. The laboring native 
 of South Ridge was the sort of man who said, when a 
 job was offered to him, "Well, I guess I'll take a day 
 off some time week arter next and 'tend to it." This en- 
 ergetic person from the North Woods, who made en- 
 gagements and kept them, was a revelation to the house- 
 holders of the town. He mended fences and roads; he 
 cut grass and sodded lawns; he put in panes of glass and 
 whitewashed kitchens ; he soldered leaky refrigerators and 
 clothes-boilers; he made paths and dug beds; he beat car- 
 pets and pumped water into garret tanks in short, he 
 did everything that a man can do with muscle and intelli- 
 gent application. He was not afraid to do a thing be- 
 cause he had never done it before. 
 
 Moreover, he made his services acceptable by doing, 
 as a rule, more than his contract called for. He was not 
 above treating his employers as so many fellow human 
 beings. When the doctor prescribed wild-cherry cordial 
 for Mrs. Thorndyke, Zadoc put in a whole afternoon 
 in scouring the country for wild cherries, and brought 
 back a large basketful. He would take no pay. 
 
 " Them's with my compliments," he said. " They 
 growed wild, an' I guess they growed wild a-puppus. 
 Knowed thar was sick folks a-needin' of 'em, mebbe." 
 
 But it was not to be all plain sailing for Zadoc. One 
 evening he went home to the widow Dadd's, and found 
 the widow in tears and her daughter flushed and indig- 
 nant. They told him that a " boycott " had been de-
 
 102 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 clared against him for doing union men's work, and 
 against them for harboring him. The butcher of the 
 town, who was also the green-grocer, would sell Mrs. 
 Dadd nothing more until she turned Zadoc out of doors. 
 Centre was the nearest town from which she could get 
 supplies, and Centre was three miles away. 
 
 Zadoc walked over to the butcher's shop. The butcher 
 was a German. 
 
 "What's this here, Schmitzer?" he demanded. 
 "Ain't my money good enough fer you?" 
 
 " I ken't help it, Mr. Pine," said Schmitzer, sullenly. 
 " If I don' boygott you, dem fellis boygott me. I got 
 noddin' against you, Mr. Pine, but I ken't sell you no 
 mead, nor Mrs. Tatt neider." 
 
 " Runnin' me out of town, are ye?" Zadoc said. 
 " Well, we run men out whar I come from. But we 
 don't run 'em out unless they've done suthin', an' they 
 don't let 'emselves be run out unless they've done suthin'. 
 1 ain't done nothin' but what I ought, an' I'm a-goin' ter 
 stay here." 
 
 He went back to the widow Dadd's, and told her that 
 he would take charge of the commissariat. That night 
 he got a large packing-case, which Mr. Vredenburg was 
 quite willing to give hem, and a barrow-load of saw-dust 
 from the waste-heap at the saw-mill. After an hour's 
 work he had a fairly good ice-box, and by the next night 
 he had that box filled with ice from Centre and with 
 meat and vegetables from New York. Zadoc read th<. 1 
 papers; he had seen the market reports, and now he was 
 able to determine, by actual experiment, the difference
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 103 
 
 between South Ridge prices and New York market prices. 
 He discovered that the difference was very nearly forty 
 per cent. The express company's charge for transporta- 
 tion was forty cents for an ordinary flour-barrel well 
 packed. 
 
 Zadoc saw a new vista opening before him. He called 
 on Mr. Thorndyke, and proposed to do that stately per- 
 son's marketing, and to divide the forty per cent, profit 
 evenly between them. Mr. Thorndyke was at first 
 doubtful and suspicious. He cross-examined Zadoc, and 
 found out what had started the young man on this new 
 line. Then his manners changed. Mr. Thorndyke was 
 not in the habit of carrying himself very graciously toward 
 those whom he considered his social inferiors. But now 
 he grasped Zadoc's hand and shook it heartily. 
 
 " I'm glad to know this, Pine," he said. " If you've 
 got the pluck to fight those cowardly brutes and their 
 boycott, I'll stand by you. You may try your hand at 
 the marketing, and if you suit Mrs. Thorndyke, all 
 right. If you don't, we'll find something else for you 
 to do." 
 
 Zadoc went in town on the morrow with a list of Mrs. 
 Thorndyke's domestic needs. He had, on his previous 
 visit, sought out the venders who dealt in only one quality 
 of goods, and that the best. To these, in his ignorance 
 of the details of marketing, he thought it best to apply, 
 although their higher prices diminished his profits. In 
 this way he was able to send home a full week's supply 
 of the best meat and vegetables in the market. They 
 proved to be better than Schmitzer's best- and Mr. Thorn-
 
 104 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 dyke paid a bill smaller by one-fifth than he had ever re- 
 ceived from Schmitzer. Zadoc was only forty-three 
 cents to the good; but he had made his point. Within 
 one month he was buying for ten families, and receiving 
 the blessing of ten weary housewives, who found it easier 
 to sit down of a Friday night, lay out a bill of fare for a 
 week, and hand it to Zadoc Pine with a tranquil dismissal 
 of all further care, than it had been to meet every re- 
 curring morning the old, old question, What shall we 
 have for dinner to-day? And Zadoc found his profit 
 therein. 
 
 . One warm evening in September, Zadoc Pine sat in 
 the front yard of the widow Dadd's house, whittling a 
 plug for the cider-barrel. He looked up from his whit- 
 tling and saw a party of a dozen men come up the road 
 and stop at the gate. He arose and went forward to 
 meet them. 
 
 " Good-evenin', friends! " he said, driving his jack-knife 
 into the top rail of the fence and leaning over the pickets : 
 " Want to see me, I s'pose? What c'n I do fer ye? " 
 
 One man came forward and put himself at the head 
 of the party. Zadoc knew him by sight. It was Mc- 
 Cuskey, the " walking-delegate." 
 
 " You can get out of this town," said McCuskey, " as 
 fast as you know how to. We'll give you ten hours." 
 
 " That's friendly-like," said Zadoc. " I ain't had a 
 present o' ten hours' free time made me since I wuz a boy 
 at school." 
 
 " Well," McCuskey broke in, annoyed at some sup-
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 105 
 
 pressed laughter in his rear, " you can take them ten 
 hours and use them to get out of South Ridge." 
 
 " Ken, eh? " said Zadoc. " Well, now, ef I've gotter 
 go, I've gotter go. I ain't got no objection. But I jest 
 wanter know what I've gotter go fer. Then maybe I'll 
 see if I'll go or not." 
 
 " You have got to go," McCuskey began, " because 
 you have interfered with the inalienable rights of labor; 
 because you have taken the bread out of the mouths of 
 honest toilers " 
 
 " Sho! " Zadoc interrupted him, "don't talk no sech 
 fool-talk ez that! I ain't taken no bread outer no man's 
 mouth. I ain't got down to that yet. S'pose you tell 
 me in plain English what I've done to be run outer town 
 fer?" 
 
 There was more hushed laughter in the spokesman's 
 rear, and he set his teeth angrily before he opened his 
 lips again. 
 
 " You have no trade, and you have taken jobs away 
 from men who have trades. You took away a painter's 
 job when you painted that barn on the hill." 
 
 " I didn't take away no painter's job. It wasn't no- 
 body's job it wasn't no job at all until I made a job 
 of it. Ef the painter wanted it, why didn't he go an' 
 get it?" 
 
 " You've took away Andy Conner's gardening-work all 
 around the town." 
 
 " That's so ! " from Andy Conner, at the back of the 
 crowd. 
 
 " Where was Andy Conner when I took his jobs away
 
 io6 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 from him ? " Zadoc asked, and answered himself : 
 " Drunk, in Bryan's back yard. Andy Conner works 
 two days in the week, an' I work six. I ain't got no 
 time to be sortin' out Andy Conner's jobs from mine." 
 
 Then there came a husky howl from out the thickest 
 of the crowd. 
 
 " Veil, you take avay my chob, anyhow ! You take 
 my bissness avay you take my boocher bissness." 
 
 "Ah!" said Zadoc, "that's you, Schmitzer, is it? 
 Yes, ye're right. I'm takin' yer job away the best I 
 know how. But I didn't take it away until you took the 
 food outer my mouth thet's what ye did, an' no fancy 
 talk, neither an' outer the mouths o' two helpless wim- 
 min. An' under them circumstances, every time, I'd 
 take your job away, ef you was the President of the 
 United States." 
 
 This was a solemn asseveration for Zadoc. He respect- 
 ed the office of the President of the United States. But 
 it was lost on his hearers. No man in that crowd re- 
 spected the President of the United States. There came 
 a low, growling murmur from the group: 
 
 " Kill him ! Hang the scab ! Kill him 1 " 
 
 "Kill?" 
 
 Zadoc let out a voice that only the Adirondack hills 
 had heard before. Then he checked himself, and talked 
 quietly, yet so that every man on the street heard him. 
 
 " I came from the North Woods," he said. " They 
 make men whar I came from. I ain't wronged no man 
 in this town. I come here to make my livin', an' here 
 I'll stay. Ef you wanter fight, I'll fight yer, one at a
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 107 
 
 time, or the hull gang! Ye can kill me, but ye've gotter 
 kill me here. An' ef it comes ter killin', I c'n hold my 
 end up. I c'n kill a rabbit at forty rod, an' I own my 
 rifle yit. But I know ye won't give me no fair fight; ye 
 want to crawl up behind me. Well, I'm a man from 
 the woods. I c'n hear ye half a mile off, an' I c'n smell 
 ye a hundred yards." 
 
 He made an end, and stood looking at them. He had 
 picked up his big jack-knife, and was jabbing its blade 
 deep into the top rail of the fence and picking it out 
 again. A silence fell upon the crowd. Zadoc Pine was 
 a large man and a strong man. He had a knife, and 
 in the doorway behind him stood the widow Dadd's 
 daughter with his rifle, held ready for him. 
 
 Zadoc broke the silence. 
 
 " Boys," he said, " I ain't no hog. I want you to un- 
 derstand thet I'm goin' to earn my own livin' my own 
 way. I take what work I c'n get; an' ef other folks is 
 shif'less enough ter leave their work fer me ter do, that's 
 their business. I've took one man's job away from him 
 fer cause. But I ain't got no spite ag'in him. He's on'y 
 a fool-furriner. Thet's you, Schmitzer. An' ter show 
 you that I aint' got no spite agin yer, I'm a-goin' ter 
 make you an offer. I'll take yer inter partnership." 
 
 There was a derisory laugh at this from the whole 
 delegation, but Zadoc checked it. 
 
 " Schmitzer," he said, " you come inside here and talk 
 it over with me. I ain't goin' to hurt ye, an' yer friends 
 here'll go down street ter Bryan's an' take a drink. 
 They've been a-talkin', an' I guess they're thirsty."
 
 io8 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 After a moment of irresolute hesitation the delegation 
 moved off. The men were puzzled. The exiling of 
 Zadoc Pine seemed no longer a simple matter, and they 
 felt the need of discussing a new situation. Zadoc and 
 Schmitzer were left together in the little stone house. 
 
 " Schmitzer," said Zadoc, " I'm makin' most as much 
 clean profit outer my ten families ez you're makin' out 
 of yer whole business, an' I don't have no rent t' pay. 
 Here's my riggers look 'em over. Now, Schmitzer, 
 thar's no end of business hereabouts thet you ain't worked 
 up. These farmers all around about are livin' on salt 
 pork, an' eatin' butchers' meat wunst a week. We've 
 gotter get their trade and teach 'em Christian livin'. 
 These here quarrymen ain't eatin' meat like they oughter. 
 S'pose we show 'em what they c'n get for a dollar? " 
 
 Schmitzer looked carefully over Zadoc's figures. He 
 knew the risks of carrying perishable stock. He saw 
 that people bought more when the opportunities of the 
 great markets were offered to them. Before he left the 
 house he had agreed to work with Zadoc, and to follow 
 his leader in the new scheme for supplying South Ridge 
 with meat and vegetables. 
 
 "An' what'll yer friends down street say?" queried 
 Zadoc. 
 
 " I don' care vot dey say," responded Schmitzer; " dose 
 fellus ain't no good. I got better bissness now. If dey 
 don' like it, dey go down to Cendre un' bring deir meat 
 home demselfs." 
 
 Zadoc retains his share in the Pine & Schmitzer Supply
 
 THE ZADOC PINE LABOR UNION 109 
 
 Company ; but after he had drummed up the local trade on 
 the new basis, and broken Schmitzer into the routine 
 work, he branched off for himself in a new line. 
 
 He had found an amateur electrician among his cus- 
 tomers, and with this gentleman's aid he organized the 
 South Ridge Fire Department and Protective Association. 
 Thirty-six householders paid him ten dollars for the plant 
 and ten dollars for yearly service ; and he connected their 
 houses in an electric circuit, of which his own bedroom 
 was the central station. In each house was a combined 
 bell and alarm; and if a citizen awoke at night to find 
 his chimney on fire or to hear a stranger within his 
 chickenhouse, he rang a wild tocsin in thirty-five other 
 houses, and then sounded a signal-letter by dot and dash 
 to proclaim his identity. Then the whole town turned 
 out, and Zadoc drove a small chemical engine behind 
 Schmitzer's horse. If the cause of the disturbance was 
 a chicken-thief, and the cause was caught, Zadoc played 
 upon him. 
 
 "Can't bring out that engyne fer nothin'," he said; 
 " she's gotter serve a moral purpose somehow." 
 
 Two years and a half have passed since Zadoc left the 
 North Woods. He is an employer now, and an owner 
 of real-estate, in a small way, and he still has South Ridge 
 under his protecting wing, and keeps her yards clean and 
 her lawns trim or his men do. Moreover, he is the 
 husband of the girl whose smile first welcomed him to the 
 Ridge. 
 
 " Man must earn his bread in the sweat of his brow," 
 he has said ; " but some men sweat inside o' their heads
 
 I io THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 an' some outside. I'm workin' my brain. I could 'a' 
 done more with it ef I'd 'a' had edication. When that 
 there boy o' mine gets a few years on top o' the six weeks 
 he's got now, I'll give him all he wants, an' he c'n do the 
 swaller-tail business ef he wants to. That goes with ed- 
 ication." 
 
 " You have done much for the town Mr. Pine," the 
 Dominie once said to him, " and I am glad to say that 
 your success has been due to the application of sound 
 principles those principles on which true success has 
 ever been founded." 
 
 " Yaas," said Zadoc, meditatively, " an' then I'm ar 
 Amerikan, an' I guess thet goes fer suthin'." 
 
 H. C. BUNNER
 
 V 
 
 THE THOUGHT AND THE STONE 
 
 Used by permission of the publishers, Little, Brown and Com- 
 pany. 
 
 Copyright, 1910, by Mary E. Waller. 
 
 At a quarter past seven Father Honore made his ap- 
 pearance on the platform. The men settled at once into 
 silence, and the priest began without preface: 
 
 " My friends, we will take up to-night what we may 
 call the Brotherhood of Stone." 
 
 The men looked at one another and smiled. Here was 
 something new. 
 
 " That is the right thought for all of you to take with 
 you into the quarries and the sheds. Don't forget it!" 
 
 He made certain distinct pauses after a few sentences. 
 This was done with intention; for the men before him 
 were of various nationalities, although he called this his 
 " English night." But many were learning and under- 
 stood imperfectly; it was for them he paused frequently. 
 He wanted to give them time to take in what he was 
 saying. Sometimes he repeated his words in Italian, in 
 French, that the foreigners might better comprehend his 
 meaning. 
 
 " Perhaps some of you have worked in the limestone 
 quarries on the Bay? All who have hold up hands." 
 
 A hundred hands, perhaps more, were raised, 
 in
 
 112 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 "Any worked in the marble quarries of Vermont?" 
 
 A dozen or more Canucks waved their hands vigor- 
 ously. 
 
 " Here are three pieces limestone, marble, and 
 granite." He held up specimens of the three. " All of 
 them are well known to most of you. Now mark what 
 I say of these three : first, the limestone gets burned 
 principally ; second, the marble gets sculptured principally ; 
 third, the granite gets hammered and chiselled princi- 
 pally. Fire, chisel, and hammer at work on these three 
 rocks; but, they are all quarried first. This fact of their 
 being quarried puts them in the Brotherhood of La- 
 bor." 
 
 The men nudged one another, and nodded emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 " They are all three taken from the crust of the earth ; 
 this Earth is to them the earth-mother. Now mark 
 again what I say: this fact of their common earth- 
 mother puts them in the Brotherhood of Kin." 
 
 He took up three specimens of quartz crystals. 
 
 " This quartz crystal " he turned it in the light, 
 and the hexagonal prisms caught and reflected dazzling 
 rays " I found in the limestone quarry on the Bay. 
 This," he took up another smaller one, " I found after 
 a long search in the marble quarries of Vermont. This 
 here," he held up a third, a smaller, less brilliant, less 
 perfect one "I took out of our upper quarry after a 
 three weeks' search for it. 
 
 " This fact, that these rocks, although of different 
 market value and put to different uses, may yield the
 
 THE THOUGHT AND THE STONE 113 
 
 same perfect crystal, puts the limestone, the marble, the 
 granite in the Brotherhood of Equality. 
 
 " In our other talks, we have named the elements of 
 each rock, and given some study to each. We have 
 found that some of their elements are the basic elements 
 of our own mortal frames our bodies have a common 
 earth-mother with these stones. 
 
 " This last fact puts them in the Brotherhood of 
 Man." 
 
 The seven hundred men showed their appreciation of 
 the point made by prolonged applause. 
 
 41 Now I want to make clear to you that, although 
 these rocks have different market values, are put to 
 different uses, the real value for us this evening con- 
 sists in the fact that each, in its own place, can yield 
 a crystal equal in purity to the others. Remember this 
 the next time you go to work in the quarries and the 
 sheds." 
 
 He laid aside the specimens. 
 
 44 We had a talk last month about the guilds of four 
 hundred years ago. I asked you then to look upon your- 
 selves as members of a great twentieth century working 
 guild. Have you done it? Has every man, who was 
 present then, said since, when hewing a foundation stone, 
 a block for a bridge abutment, a cornerstone for a cathed- 
 ral or a railroad station, a cap-stone for a monument, a 
 milestone, a lintel for a door, a hearthstone or a step for 
 an altar, ' I belong to the great guild of the makers of this 
 country ; I quarry and hew the rock that lays the enduring 
 bed for the iron or electric horses which rush from sea to
 
 114 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 sea and carry the burden of humanity ' ? Think of it, 
 men ! Yours are the hands that make this great track of 
 commerce possible. Yours are the hands that curve the 
 stones, afterwards reared into noble arches beneath which 
 the people assemble to do God reverence. Yours are the 
 hands that square the deep foundations of the great bridges 
 which, like the Brooklyn, cross high in mid-air from shore 
 to shore! Have you said this? Have you done it? " 
 
 " Aye, aye. Sure. We done it." The murmuring 
 assent was polyglot. 
 
 " Very well see that you keep on doing it, and show 
 that you do it by the good work you furnish." 
 
 He motioned to the manipulators in the gallery to 
 make ready for the stereopticon views. The blank blind- 
 ing round played erratically on the curtain. The entire 
 audience sat expectant. 
 
 There was flashed upon the screen the interior of a 
 Canadian "cabin." The family were at supper; the 
 whole interior, simple and homely, was indicative of 
 warmth and cheerful family life. 
 
 The Canucks in the audience lost their heads. The 
 clapping was frantic. Father Honore smiled. He tapped 
 the portrayed wall with the end of his pointer. 
 
 " This is comfort no cold can penetrate these walls ; 
 they are double plastered. Credit limestone with that ! " 
 
 The audience showed its appreciation in no uncertain 
 way. 
 
 "The crystal can any one see that find that in 
 this interior? "
 
 THE THOUGHT AND THE STONE 115 
 
 The men were silent. Father Honore was pointing 
 ro the mother and her child; the father was holding 
 out his arms to the little one who, with loving impatience, 
 was reaching away from his mother over the table to 
 his father. They comprehended the priest's thought in 
 the lesson of the limestone : the love and trust of the 
 human. No words were needed. An emotional silence 
 made itself felt. 
 
 The picture shifted. There was thrown upon the 
 screen the marble Cathedral of Milan. A murmur of 
 delight ran through the house. 
 
 " Here we have the limestone in the form of marble. 
 Its beauty is the price of unremitting toil. This, too, 
 belongs in the brotherhoods of labor, kin, and equality. 
 Do you find the crystal ? " 
 
 His pointer swept the hierarchy of statues on the roof, 
 upwards to the cross on the pinnacle, where it rested. 
 
 " This crystal is the symbol of what inspires and glori- 
 fies humanity. The crystal is yours, men, if with believ- 
 ing hearts you are willing to say ' Our Father ' in the face 
 of His works." 
 
 He paused a moment. It was an understood thing in 
 the semi-monthly talks, that the men were free to ask 
 questions and to express an opinion, even, at times, to 
 argue a point. The men's eyes were fixed with keen ap- 
 preciation on the marble beauty before them, when a voice 
 broke the silence. 
 
 " That sounds all right enough, your Reverence, what 
 you've said about ' Our Father ' and the brotherhoods,
 
 ii6 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 but there's many a man says it that won't own me for 
 a brother. There's a weak joint somewhere and no 
 offense meant." 
 
 Some of the men applauded. 
 
 Father Honore turned from the screen and faced the 
 men; his eyes flashed. The audience loved to see him 
 in this mood, for they knew by experience that he was 
 generally able to meet his adversary, and no odds given 
 or taken. 
 
 "That's you, is it, Szchenetzy?" 
 
 " Yes, it's me." 
 
 " Do you remember in last month's talk that I showed 
 you the Dolomites the curious mountains of the Tyrol ? 
 and in connection with those the Brenner Passf^" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, something like seven hundred years ago a poor 
 man, a poet and travelling musician, was riding over that 
 pass and down into that very region of the Dolomites. 
 He made his living by stopping at the stronghold-castles of 
 those times and entertaining the powerful of the earth by 
 singing his poems set to music of his own making. Some- 
 times he got a suit of cast-off clothes in payment; some- 
 times only bed and board for a time. But he kept on 
 singing his little poems and making more of them as he 
 grew rich in experience of men and things; for he never 
 grew rich in gold money was the last thing they ever 
 gave him. So he continued long his wandering life, sing- 
 ing his songs in courtyard and castle hall until they sang 
 their way into the hearts of the men of his generation. 
 And while he wandered, he gained a wonderful knowledge
 
 THE THOUGHT AND THE STONE 117 
 
 of life and its ways among rich and poor, high and low; 
 and, pondering the things he had seen and the many 
 ways of this world, he said to himself, that day when he 
 was riding over the Brenner Pass, the same thing that 
 you have just said in almost the same words: 
 ' Many a man calls God " Father " who won't acknowl- 
 edge me for a brother.' 
 
 "I don't know how he reconciled facts for your 
 fact seems plain enough nor do I know how you can 
 reconcile them; but what I do know is this: that man, 
 poor in this world's goods, but rich in experience and 
 in a natural endowment of poetic thought and musical 
 ability, kept on making poems, kept on singing them, 
 despite that fact to which he had given expression as 
 he fared over the Brenner; despite the fact that a suit 
 of cast-off clothes was all he got for his entertainment 
 of those who would not call him ' brother.' Discouraged 
 at times for he was very human he kept on giv- 
 ing the best that was in him, doing the work appointed 
 for him in this world and doing it with a whole heart 
 Godwards and Christwards, despite his poverty, despite 
 the broken promises of the great to reward him pecu- 
 niarily, despite the world, despite facts, Szchenetzy! He 
 sang when he was young of earthly love and in middle 
 age of heavenly love, and his songs are cherished, for 
 their beauty of wisdom and love, in the hearts of men to 
 this day." 
 
 He smiled genially across the sea of faces to Szchenetzy. 
 
 He turned again to the screen. 
 
 " What is to be thrown on the screen now in rapid
 
 ii8 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 succession for our hour is brief I call our Marble 
 Quarry. Just think of it! quarried by the same hard 
 work which you all know, by which you earn your daily 
 bread ; sculptured into forms of exceeding beauty by the 
 same hard toil of other hands. And behind all the toil 
 there is the soul of art, ever seeking expression through 
 the human instrument of the practised hand that Quarries, 
 then sculptures, then places, and builds! 1 shall give a 
 word or two of explanation in regard to time and locality ; 
 next month we will take the subjects one by one." 
 
 There flashed upon the screen and in quick suc- 
 cession, although the men protested and begged for an 
 extension of exposures, the noble Pisan group and Niccola 
 Pisano's pulpit in the baptistery the horses from the 
 Parthenon frieze the Zeus group from the great altar 
 at Pergamos Theseus and the Centaur the Wrestlers 
 the Discus Thrower and, last, the exquisite little 
 church of Saint Mary of the Thorn, the Arno's jewel, 
 the seafarers' own, that looks out over the Pisan waters 
 to the Mediterranean. 
 
 It was a magnificent showing. No words from Father 
 Honore were needed to bring home to his audience the 
 lesson of the Marble Quarry. 
 
 " I call the next series, which will be shown without 
 explanation and merely named, other members of the 
 Brotherhood of Stone. We study them separately later 
 on in the summer." 
 
 The cathedrals of York, Amiens, Westminster, Col- 
 ogne, Mayence, St. Mark's a noble array of man's 
 handiwork, were thrown upon the screen. The men
 
 THE THOUGHT AND THE STONE 119 
 
 showed their appreciation by thunderous applause. 
 
 The screen was again a blank; then it filled suddenly 
 with the great Upper Quarry in The Gore. The granite 
 ledges sloped upward to meet the blue of the sky. The 
 great steel derricks and their crisscrossing cables cast 
 curiously foreshortened shadows on the gleaming white 
 expanse. Here and there a group of men showed dark 
 against a ledge. In the center, one of the monster der- 
 ricks held suspended in its chains a forty-ton block of 
 granite just lifted from its eternal bed. Beside it a work- 
 man showed like a pigmy. 
 
 Some one proposed a three times three for the home 
 quarries. The men rose to their feet and the cheers were 
 given with a will. The ringing echo of the last had not 
 died away when the quarry vanished, and in its place stood 
 the finished cathedral of A. the work which the hands of 
 those present were to create. It was a reproduction of 
 the architect's water-color sketch. 
 
 The men still remained standing; they gave no out- 
 ward expression to their admiration ; that, indeed, al- 
 though evident in their faces, was overshadowed by 
 something like awe. Their hands were to be the in- 
 struments by which this great creation of the mind of 
 man should become a fact. Without those hands the 
 architect's idea could not be materialized; without the 
 " idea " their daily work would fail. 
 
 The truth went home to each man present even 
 to that unknown one beneath the gallery who, when the 
 men had risen to cheer, shrank farther into his dark 
 corner and drew short sharp breaths. The Past would
 
 120 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 not down at his bidding; he was beginning to feel his 
 weakness when he had most need of strength. 
 
 He did not hear Father Honore's parting words : 
 " Here you find the third crystal strength, solidity, 
 the bedrock of endeavor. Take these three home with 
 you : the pure crystal of human love and trust, the 
 heart believing in its Maker, the strength of good char- 
 acter. There you have the three that make for equality 
 in this world and nothing else does. Good night, my 
 friends." 
 
 MARY E. WALLER.
 
 VI 
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 For a year Bob worked hard at all sorts of jobs. He 
 saw the woods work, the river work, the mill work. 
 From the stump to the barges he followed the timbers. 
 Being naturally of a good intelligence, he learned very 
 fast how things were done, so that at the end of the time 
 mentioned he had acquired a fair working knowledge of 
 how affairs were accomplished in this business he had 
 adopted. That does not mean he had become a capable 
 lumberman. One of the strangest fallacies long prev- 
 alent in the public mind is that lumbering is always a 
 sure road to wealth. The margin of profit seems very 
 large. As a matter of fact, the industry is so swiftly 
 conducted, on so large a scale, along such varied lines ; the 
 expenditures must be made so lavishly, and yet carefully; 
 the consequences of a niggardly policy are so quickly 
 apparent in decreased efficiency, and yet the possible leaks 
 are so many, quickly draining the most abundant re- 
 sources, that few not brought up through a long ap- 
 prenticeship avoid a loss. A great deal of money has 
 been and is made in timber. A great deal has been lost, 
 simply because, while the possibilities are alluring, the 
 complexity of the numerous problems is unseen. 
 
 At first Bob saw only the results. You went into the 
 121
 
 ia* THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 woods with a crew of men, felled trees, cut them into 
 lengths, dragged them to the roads already prepared, piled 
 them on sleighs, hauled them to the river, and stacked 
 them there. In the spring you floated the logs to the mill 
 where they were sawed into boards, laden into sailing 
 vessels or steam barges, and taken to market. There was 
 the whole process in a nutshell. Of course, there would 
 be details and obstructions to cope with. But between 
 the eighty thousand dollars or so worth of trees standing 
 in the forest and the quarter-million dollars or so they 
 represented at the market seemed space enough to allow 
 for many reverses. 
 
 As time went on, however, the young man came more 
 justly to realize the minuteness of the bits comprising this 
 complicated mosaic. From keeping men to the point of 
 returning, in work, the worth of their wages; from so 
 correlating and arranging that work that all might be 
 busy and not some waiting for others; up through the 
 anxieties of weather and the sullen or active opposition of 
 natural forces, to the higher levels of competition and 
 contracts, his awakened attention taught him that legiti- 
 mate profits could attend only on vigilant and minute 
 attention, on comprehensive knowledge of detail, on ex- 
 perience, and on natural gift. The feeding of men 
 abundantly at a small price involved questions of buying, 
 transportation and forethought, not to speak of concrete 
 knowledge of how much such things should ideally be 
 worth. Tools by the thousand were needed at certain 
 places and at certain times. They must be cared for and 
 accounted for. Horses, and their feed, equipment and
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 123 
 
 care, made another not inconsiderable item both of ex- 
 pense and attention. And so with a thousand and one 
 details which it would be superfluous to enumerate here. 
 Each cost money, and some one's time. Relaxed atten- 
 tion might make each cost a few pennies more. What 
 do a few pennies amount to? Two things: a lowering * 
 of the standard of efficiency, and, in the long run, many 
 dollars. If incompetence, or inexperience should be added 
 to relaxed attention, so that the various activities do not 
 mortise exactly one with another, and the legitimate re- 
 sults to be expected from the pennies do not arrive, then 
 the sum total is very apt to be failure. Where organized 
 and settled industries, however complicated in detail, are 
 in a manner played by score, these frontier activities are 
 vast improvisations following only the general unchange- 
 able laws of commerce. 
 
 Therefore, Bob was very much surprised and not a 
 little dismayed at what Mr. Welton had to say to him 
 one evening early in the spring. 
 
 It was in the " van " of Camp Thirty-nine. Over in 
 the corner under the lamp the sealer and bookkeeper was 
 epitomizing the results of his day. Welton and Bob sat 
 close to the round stove in the middle, smoking their 
 pipes. The three or four bunks belonging to Bob, the 
 sealer, and the camp boss were dim in another corner; 
 the shelves of goods for trade with the men occupied a 
 third. A rude door and a pair of tiny windows com- 
 municated with the world outside. Flickers of light from 
 the cracks in the stove played over the massive logs of the 
 little building, over the rough floor and the weapons and
 
 124 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 snowshoes on the wall. Both Bob and Welton were 
 dressed in flannel and kersey, with the heavy German 
 socks and lumberman's rubbers on their feet. Their 
 bright-checked Mackinaw jackets lay where they had been 
 flung on the beds. Costume and surroundings both were 
 a thousand miles from civilization ; yet civilization was 
 knocking at the door. Welton gave expression to this 
 thought. 
 
 " Two seasons more'll finish us, Bob," said he. " I've 
 logged the Michigan woods for thirty-five years, but now 
 I'm about done here." 
 
 " Yes, I guess they're all about done," agreed Bob. 
 
 " The big men have gone West; lots of the old lumber 
 jacks are out there now. It's our turn. I suppose you 
 know we've got timber in California? " 
 
 " Yes," said Bob, with a wry grin, as he thought of 
 the columns of " descriptions" he had copied; " I know 
 that." 
 
 " There's about half a billion feet of it. We'll begin to 
 manufacture when we get through here. I'm going out 
 next month, as soon as the snow is out of the mountains, 
 to see about the plant and the general lay-out. I'm going 
 to leave you in charge here." 
 
 Bob almost dropped his pipe as his jaws fell apart. 
 
 " Me! " he cried. 
 
 " Yes, you." 
 
 " But I can't; I don't know enough! I'd make a mess 
 of the whole business," Bob expostulated. 
 
 " You've been around here for a year," said Welton, 
 " and things are running all right. 1 want somebody to
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 125 
 
 see that things move along, and you're the one. Are you 
 going to refuse? " 
 
 " No ; I suppose I can't refuse," said Bob miserably, 
 and fell silent. 
 
 To Bob's father Welton expressed himself in some- 
 what different terms. The two men met at the Audi 
 torium Annex, where they promptly adjourned to the 
 Palm Room and a little table. 
 
 " Now, Jack," the lumberman replied to his friend's 
 expostulation, " I know just as well as you do that the 
 kid isn't capable yet of handling a proposition on his 
 own hook. It's just for that reason that I put him in 
 charge." 
 
 " And Welton isn't an Irish name, either," murmured 
 Jack Orde. 
 
 " What? Oh, I see. No; and that isn't an Irish bull, 
 either. I put him in charge so he'd have to learn some- 
 thing. He's a good kid, and he'll take himself dead ser- 
 ious. He'll be deciding everything that comes up all for 
 himself, and he'll lie awake nights doing it. And all 
 the time things will be going on almost like he wasn't 
 there! " 
 
 Welton paused to chuckle in his hearty manner. 
 
 " You see, I've brought that crew up in the business. 
 Mason is as good a mill man as they make; and Tally's 
 all right in the woods and on the river; and I reckon it 
 would be difficult to take a nick out of Collins in office 
 work." 
 
 " In other words, Bob is to hold the ends of the reins 
 while these other men drive," said his father, vastly
 
 126 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 amused. " That's more like it. I'd hate to bury a green 
 man under too much responsibility." 
 
 " No," denied Welton, " it isn't that exactly. Some- 
 body's got to boss the rest of 'em. And Bob certainly is 
 a wonder at getting the men to like him and to work for 
 him. That's his strong point. He gets on with them, 
 and he isn't afraid to tell 'em when he thinks they're 
 1 sojering ' on him. That makes me think: I wonder 
 what kind of ornaments these waiters are supposed to be." 
 He rapped sharply on the little table with his pocket- 
 knife. 
 
 " It's up to him," he went on, after the waiter had 
 departed. " If he's too touchy to acknowledge his igno- 
 rance on different points that come up, and if he's too 
 proud to ask questions when he's stumped, why, he's 
 going to get in a lot of trouble. If he's willing to rely 
 on his men for knowledge, and will just see that every- 
 body keeps busy and sees that they bunch their hits, why, 
 he'll get on well enough." 
 
 " It takes a pretty wise head to make them bunch their 
 hits," Orde pointed out, " and a heap of figuring." 
 
 " It'll keep him mighty busy, even at best," acknowl- 
 edged Welton, " and he's going to make some bad breaks. 
 I know that." 
 
 " Bad breaks cost money," Orde reminded him. 
 
 " So does any education. Even at its worst this can't 
 cost much money. He can't wreck things the organ- 
 ization is too good he'll just make 'em wobble a little. 
 And this is a mighty small and incidental proposition, 
 while this California lay-out is a big project. No, by my
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 127 
 
 figuring Bob won't actually do much, but he'll lie awake 
 nights to do a lot of deciding, and " 
 
 "Oh, I know," broke in Orde with a laugh; "you 
 haven't changed an inch in twenty years and ' it/s not 
 doing but deciding that makjgs a man,' " he quoted. 
 
 " Well, isn't it? " demanded Welton insistently. 
 
 " Of course," agreed Orde with another laugh. " I 
 was just tickled to see you hadn't changed a hair. Now 
 if you'd only moralize on square pegs in round holes, I'd 
 hear again the birds singing in the elms by the dear old 
 churchyard." 
 
 Welton grinned, a trifle shamefacedly. Nevertheless 
 he went on with the development of his philosophy. 
 
 " Well," he asserted stoutly, " that's just what Bob 
 was when I got there. He can't handle figures any bet- 
 ter than I can, and Collins had been putting him through 
 a course of sprouts." He paused and sipped at his glass. 
 " Of course, if I wasn't absolutely certain of the men 
 under him, it would be a fool proposition. Bob isn't the 
 kind to get onto treachery or double-dealing very quick. 
 He likes people too well. But as it is, he'll get a lot of 
 training cheap." 
 
 Orde ruminated over this for some time, sipping slowly 
 between puffs at his cigar. 
 
 " Why wouldn't it be better to take him out to Cali- 
 fornia now?" he asked at length. "You'll be building 
 your roads and flumes and railroad, getting your mill up, 
 buying your machinery and all the rest of it. That ought 
 to be good experience for him to see the thing right 
 from the beginning."
 
 128 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 " Bob is going to be a lumberman, and that isn't lumber- 
 ing; it's construction. Once it's up, it will never have to 
 be done again. The California timber will last out Bob's 
 lifetime, and you know it. He'd better learn lumbering, 
 which he'll do for the next fifty years, than to build a 
 mill, which he'll never have to do again unless it burns 
 up," he added as a half-humorous afterthought. 
 
 " Correct," Orde agreed promptly to this. " You're a 
 wonder. When I found a university with my ill-gotten 
 gains, I'll give you a job as professor of well, of Com- 
 mon Sense, by jimminy! " 
 
 Bob managed to lose some money in his two years of 
 apprenticeship. That is to say, the net income from the 
 small operations under his charge was somewhat less than 
 it would have been under Welton's supervision. Even at 
 that, the balance sheet showed a profit. This was prob- 
 ably due more to the perfection of the organization than 
 to any great ability on Bob's part. Nevertheless, he ex- 
 ercised a real control over the firm's destinies, and in one 
 or two instances of sudden crisis threw its energies defin- 
 itely into channels of his own choosing. Especially was 
 this true in dealing with the riverman's arch-enemy, the 
 mossback. 
 
 The mossback follows the ax. When the timber is cut, 
 naturally the land remains. Either the company must 
 pay taxes on it, sell it, or allow it to revert to the state. 
 It may be very good land, but it is encumbered with old 
 slashing, probably much of it needs drainage, a stubborn 
 second-growth of scrub oak or red willows has already
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 129 
 
 usurped the soil, and above all it is isolated. Far from 
 the cities, far from the railroad, far even from the cross- 
 road's general store, it is further cut off by the necessity of 
 traversing atrocious and in the wet season bottom- 
 less roads to even the nearest neighbor. Naturally, then, 
 in seeking purchasers for this cut-over land, the Company 
 must address itself to a certain limited class. For, if a 
 man has money, he will buy him a cleared farm in a 
 settled country. The mossback pays in pennies and gives 
 a mortgage. Then he addresses himself to clearing the 
 land. It follows that he is poverty-stricken, lives frugally 
 and is very tenacious of what property rights he may be 
 able to coax or wring from a hard wilderness. He dwells 
 in a shack, works in a swamp, and sees no farther than 
 the rail fence he has split out to surround his farm. 
 
 Thus, while he possesses many of the sturdy pioneer vir- 
 tues, he becomes by necessity the direct antithesis to the 
 riverman. The purchase of a bit of harness, a vehicle, a 
 necessary tool or implement is a matter of close economy, 
 long figuring, and much work. Interest on the mortgage 
 must be paid. And what can a backwoods farm produce 
 worth money? And where can it find a market? Very 
 little ; and very far. A man must " play close to his 
 chest " in order to accomplish that plain, primary, simple 
 duty of making both ends meet. The extreme of this 
 virtue means a defect, of course; it means narrowness of 
 vision, conservatism that comes close to suspicion, illiber- 
 ality. When these qualities meet the sometimes foolishly 
 generous and lavish ideas of men trained in the reckless
 
 130 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 life of the river, almost inevitably are aroused suspicion 
 on one side, contempt on the other and antagonism on 
 both. 
 
 This is true even in casual and chance intercourse. 
 But when, as often happens, the mossback's farm extends 
 to the very river bank itself; when the legal rights of 
 property clash with the vaguer but no less certain rights 
 of custom, then there is room for endless bickering. 
 When the river boss steps between his men and the back- 
 woods farmer, he must, on the merits of the case and with 
 due regard to the sort of man he has to deal with, decide 
 at once whether he will persuade, argue, coerce, or fight. 
 It may come to be a definite choice between present delay 
 or a future lawsuit. 
 
 This kind of decision Bob was most frequently called 
 upon to make. He knew little about law, but he had a 
 very good feeling for the human side. Whatever mis- 
 takes he made, the series of squabbles nourished his sense 
 of loyalty to the Company. His woods training was 
 gradually bringing him to the lumberman's point of view ; 
 and the lumberman's point of view means, primarily, tim- 
 ber and loyalty. 
 
 " By Jove, what a fine bunch of timber! " was his first 
 thought on entering a particularly imposing grove. 
 
 Where another man would catch merely a general 
 effect, his more practised eye would estimate heights, 
 diameters, the growth of the limbs, the probable straight- 
 ness of the grain. His eye almost unconsciously sought 
 the possibilities of location whether a road could be 
 brought in easily, whether the grades could run right. A
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME . 131 
 
 fine tree gave him the complicated pleasure that comes to 
 any expert on analytical contemplation of any object. It 
 meant timber, good or bad, as well as beauty. 
 
 Just so opposition meant antagonism. Bob was nat- 
 urally of a partisan temperament. He played the game 
 fairly, but he played it hard. Games imply rules, and any 
 infraction of the rules is unfair and to be punished. Bob 
 could not be expected to reflect that while rules are gen- 
 erally imposed by a third party on both contestants alike, 
 in this game the rules with which he was acquainted had 
 been made by his side ; that perhaps the other fellow might 
 have another set of rules. All he saw was that the an- 
 tagonists were perpetrating a series of contemptible, petty, 
 mean tricks or a succession of dastardly outrages. His 
 loyalty and anger were both thoroughly aroused, and he 
 plunged into his little rights with entire whole-hearted- 
 ness. As his side of the question meant getting out the 
 logs, the combination went far toward efficiency. When 
 the drive was down in the spring, Bob looked back on 
 his mossback campaign with a little grieved surprise that 
 men could think it worth their self-respect to try to take 
 such contemptible advantage of quibbles for the purpose 
 of defeating what was certainly customary and fair, even 
 if it might not be technically legal. What the mossbacks 
 thought about it we can safely leave to the crossroad 
 stores. 
 
 In other respects Bob had the good sense to depend ab- 
 solutely on his subordinates. 
 
 " How long do you think it ought to take to cut the 
 rest of Eight? " he would ask Tally.
 
 I 3 2 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 " About two weeks." 
 
 Bob said nothing more, but next day he ruminated 
 long in the snow-still forest at Eight, trying to apportion 
 in his own mind the twelve days' work. If it did not 
 go at a two weeks' gait, he speedily wanted to know 
 why. 
 
 When the sleighs failed to return up the ice road 
 with expected regularity, Bob tramped down to the 
 " banks " to see what the trouble was. When he re- 
 turned, he remarked casually to Jim Tally: 
 
 " I fired Powell off the job as foreman, and put in 
 Downy." 
 
 "Why?" asked Tally. "I put Powell in there be- 
 cause I thought he was an almighty good worker." 
 
 " He is," said Bob; " too good. I found them a little 
 short-handed down there, and getting discouraged. The 
 sleighs were coming in on them faster than they could 
 unload. The men couldn't see how they were going to 
 catch up, so they'd slacked down a little, which made it 
 worse. Powell had his jacket off and was working like 
 the devil with a canthook. He does about the quickest 
 and hardest yank with a canthook I ever saw," mused 
 Bob. 
 
 "Well? "demanded Tally. 
 
 " Oh," said Bob, " I told him if that was the kind of a 
 job he wanted, he could have it. And I told Downy to 
 take charge. I don't pay a foreman's wages for canthook 
 work; I hire him to keep the men busy, and he sure 
 can't do it if he occupies his time and attention rolling 
 logs."
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 133 
 
 " He was doing his best to straighten things out," said 
 Tally. 
 
 " Well, I'm not paying him for his best," replied Bob, 
 philosophically. 
 
 But if it had been a question of how most quickly to 
 skid the logs brought in by the sleighs, Bob would never 
 have dreamed of questioning Powell's opinion, although 
 he might later have demanded expert corroboration from 
 Tally. 
 
 The outdoor life, too, interested him and kept him in 
 training, both physically and spiritually. He realized his 
 mistakes, but they were now mistakes of judgment rather 
 than of mechanical accuracy, and he did not worry over 
 them once they were behind him. 
 
 When Welton returned from California toward the 
 close of the season, he found the young man buoyant and 
 happy, deeply absorbed, well liked, and in a fair way to 
 learn something about the business. 
 
 Almost immediately after his return, the mill was closed 
 down. The remaining lumber in the yards was shipped 
 out as rapidly as possible. By the end of September the 
 work was over. 
 
 Bob perforce accepted a vacation of some months while 
 affairs were in preparation for the westward exodus. 
 
 Then he answered a summons to meet Mr. Welton at 
 the Chicago offices. 
 
 He entered the little outer office he had left so down- 
 heartedly three years before. Harvey and his two as- 
 sistants sat on the high stools in front of the shelf-like 
 desk. The same pictures of record loads, large trees, mill
 
 134 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 crews and logging camps hung on the walls. The same 
 atmosphere of peace and immemorial quiet brooded over 
 the place. Through the half -open door Bob could see 
 Mr. Fox, his leg swung over the arm of his revolving 
 chair, chatting in a leisurely fashion with some visitor. 
 
 No one had heard him enter. He stood for a moment 
 staring at the three bent backs before him. He remem- 
 bered the infinite details of the work he had left, the 
 purchasings of innumerable little things, the regulation of 
 outlays, the balancings of expenditures, the constantly 
 shifting property values, the cost of tools, food, imple- 
 ments, wages, machinery, transportation, operation. And 
 in addition he brought to mind the minute and vexatious 
 mortgage and sale and rental business having to do with 
 the old cut-over lands; the legal complications; the ques- 
 tions of arbitration and privilege. And beyond that his 
 mind glimpsed dimly the extent of other interests, con- 
 cerning which he knew little investment interests, and 
 silent interests in various manufacturing enterprises where 
 the Company had occasionally invested a surplus by way 
 of a flyer. In this quiet place all these things were cor- 
 related, compared, docketed, and filed away. In the 
 brains of the four men before him all these infinite details 
 were laid out in order. He knew that Harvey could an- 
 swer specific questions as to any feature of any one of 
 these activities. All the turmoil, the rush and roar of the 
 river, the mills, the open lakes, the great wildernesses 
 passed through this silent, dusty room. The problems 
 that kept a dozen men busy in the solving came here also, 
 together with a hundred others. Bob recalled his sight
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 135 
 
 of the hurried, wholesale shipping clerk he had admired 
 when, discouraged and discredited, he had left the office 
 three years before. He had thought that individual busy, 
 and had contrasted his activity with the somnolence of 
 this office. Busy! Why, he, Bob, had over and over 
 again been ten times as busy. At the thought he chuckled 
 aloud. Harvey and his assistants turned to the sound. 
 " Hullo, Harvey; hullo Archie! " cried the young man. 
 " I'm certainly glad to see you. You're the only men I 
 ever saw who could be really bang-up rushed and never 
 show it." 
 
 STEWART EDWARD WHITE.
 
 VII 
 
 THE LAST THRESHING IN THE COULEE 
 
 Extract from A Son of the Middle Border by Hamlin Garland, 
 used by permission of the Macmillan Company, publishers. 
 
 Life on a Wisconsin farm, even for the women, had its 
 compensations. There were times when the daily routine 
 of lonely and monotonous housework gave place to an 
 agreeable bustle, and human intercourse lightened the 
 toil. In the midst of the slow progress of the fall's plow- 
 ing, the gathering of the threshing^.cjrW_y^as a most 
 dramatk_eyent to my mother, as to us, for it not only 
 brought unwonted clamor, it fetched hejJirothers William 
 and David and Frank, who owned and ran a threshing 
 machine, and their coming gave the house an air of 
 festivity which offset the burden of extra work which fell 
 upon us all. 
 
 In those days the grain, after being brought in and 
 stacked around the barn, was allowed to remain until 
 October or November when all the other work was fin- 
 ished. 
 
 Of course some men got the machine earlier, for all 
 could not thresh at the same time, and a good part of 
 every man's fall activities consisted in " changing works " 
 with his neighbors, thus laying up a stock of unpaid 
 labor against the home job. Day after day, therefore, 
 father or the hired man shouldered a fork and went to 
 136
 
 LAST THRESHING IN THE COULEE 137 
 
 help thresh, and all through the autumn months, the 
 ceaseless ringing hum and the bow-ouw, ouuf-woo, boo-oo- 
 oom of the great balance wheels on the separator and the 
 deep bass purr of its cylinder could be heard in every 
 valley like the droning song of some sullen and gigantic 
 autumnal insect. 
 
 I recall with especial clearness the events of that last 
 threshing in the coulee. I was eight, my brother was 
 six. For days we had looked forward to the coming of 
 " the threshers," listening with the greatest eagerness to 
 father's report of the crew. At last he said, " Well, 
 Belle, get ready. The machine will be here to-morrow." 
 
 All day we hung on the gate, gazing down the road, 
 watching, waiting for the crew, and even after supper, 
 we stood at the windows still hoping to hear the rattle 
 of the ponderous separator. 
 
 Father explained that the men usually worked all day 
 at one farm and moved after dark, and we were just 
 starting to " climb the wooden hill " when we heard a 
 far-off faint halloo. 
 
 " There they are," shouted father, catching up his old 
 square tin lantern and hurriedly lighting the candle 
 within it. " That's Frank's voice." 
 
 The night air was sharp, and as we had taken off our 
 boots we could only stand at the window and watch 
 father as he piloted the teamsters through the gate. 
 The light threw fantastic shadows here and there, now 
 lighting up a face, now bringing out the separator which 
 seemed a weary and sullen monster awaiting its den. 
 The jnen's voices sounded loud in the still night, caus-
 
 138 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 ing the roused turkeys in the oaks to peer about on their 
 perches, uneasy silhouettes against the sky. 
 
 We would gladly have stayed awake to greet our be- 
 loved uncles, but mother said, " You must go to sleep 
 in order to be up early in the morning," and reluctantly 
 we turned away. 
 
 Lying thus in our cot under the sloping raftered roof 
 we could hear the squawk of the hens as father wrung 
 their innocent necks, and the crash of the " sweeps " be- 
 ing unloaded sounded loud and clear and strange. We 
 longed to be out there, but at last the dance of lights 
 and shadows on the plastered wall died away, and we 
 fell into childish dreamless sleep. 
 
 We were awakened at dawn by the ringing beat of 
 the iron mauls as Frank and David drove the stakes to 
 hold the " power " to the ground. The rattle of trace 
 chains, the clash of iron rods, the clang of steel bars, 
 intermixed with the laughter of the men, came sharply 
 through the frosty air, and the smell of sizzling sausage 
 from the kitchen warned us that our busy mother was 
 hurrying the breakfast forward. Knowing that it was 
 time to get up, although it was not _yet_lifiht, I had a 
 sense of being awakened into a romantic new world, a 
 world of heroic action. 
 
 As we stumbled down the stairs, we found the lamp- 
 lit kitchen empty of the men. They had finished their 
 coffee and were out in the stack-yard oiling the machine 
 and hitching the horses to the power. Shivering yet 
 entranced by the beauty of the frosty dawn we crept out 
 to stand and watch the play. The frost lay white on
 
 LAST THRESHING IN THE COULEE 139 
 
 every surface, the frozen ground rang like iron under 
 the steel-shod feet of the horses, and the breath of the 
 men rose up in little white puffs of steam. 
 
 Uncle David on the feeder's stand was impatiently 
 awaiting the coming of the fifth team. The pitchers 
 were climbing the stacks like blackbirds, and the straw- 
 stackers were scuffling about the stable door. Finally, 
 just as the east began to bloom, and long streamers of 
 red began to unroll along the vast gray dome of sky 
 Uncle Frank, the driver, lifted his voice in a " Chippewa 
 war-whoop." 
 
 On a still morning like this his signal could be heard 
 for miles. Long drawn and musical, it sped away over 
 the fields, announcing to all the world that the McClin- 
 tocks were ready for the day's race. Answers came back 
 faintly from the frosty fields where dim figures of lag- 
 gard hands could be seen hurrying over the plowed 
 ground, the last team came clattering in and was hooked 
 into its place, David called " All right ! " and the cylinder 
 began to hum. 
 
 In those days the machine was either a " J. I. Case " 
 or a " Buffalo Pitts," and was moved by five pairs of 
 horses attached to a " power " staked to the ground, round 
 which they traveled pulling at the ends of long levers 
 or sweeps, and to me the force seemed tremendous. 
 " Tumbling rods " with " knuckle joints " carried the 
 motion to the cylinder, and the driver who stood upon 
 a square platfrom above the huge, greasy cog-wheels 
 (roundL which the horses moved) was a grand figure in 
 my ej;es.
 
 140 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 Driving, to us, looked like a pleasant job, but Uncle 
 Frank thought it very tiresome, and I can now see that 
 it was. To stand on that small platform all through the 
 long hours of a cold November day, when the cutting 
 wind roared down the valley sweeping the dust and 
 leaves along the road, was work. Even I perceived that 
 it was far pleasanter to sit on the south side of the stack 
 and watch the horses go round. 
 
 It was necessary that the " driver " should be a man 
 of judgment, for the horses had to be kept at just the 
 right speed, and to do this he must gage the motion of 
 the cylinder by the pitch of its deep bass song. 
 
 The three men in command of the machine, were set 
 apart as "the threshers." William and David alter- 
 nately " fed " or " tended," that is, one of them " fed " 
 the grain into the howling cylinder while the other, oil- 
 can in hand, watched the sieves, felt of the pinions and 
 so kept the machine in good order. The feeder's position 
 was the high place to which all boys aspired, and on this 
 day I stood in silent admiration of Uncle David's easy 
 powerful attitudes as he caught each bundle in the crook 
 of his arm and spread it out into a broad, smooth band 
 of yellow straw on which the whirling teeth caught and 
 tore with monstrous fury. He was the ideal man in 
 my eyes, grander in some ways than my father, and to 
 be able to stand where he stood was the highest honor 
 in the world. 
 
 It was all poetry for us and we wished every day were 
 threshing day. The wind blew cold, the clouds went 
 flying across the bright blue sky, and the straw glistened
 
 LAST THRESHING IN THE COULEE 141 
 
 in the sun. With jarring snarl the circling zone of cogs 
 dipped into the sturdy greasy wheels, and the single- 
 trees and pulley-chains chirped clear and sweet as 
 crickets. The dust flew, the whip cracked, and the men 
 working swiftly to get the sheaves to the feeder or to 
 take the straw away from the tail-end of the machine, 
 were like warriors, urged to desperate action by battle 
 cries. The stackers wallowing to their waists in the 
 fluffy straw-pile seemed gnomes acting for our amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 The straw-pile ! What delight we had in that ! What 
 joy it was to go up to the top where the men were sta- 
 tioned, one behind the other, and to have them toss 
 huge forkfuls of the light fragrant stalks upon us, laugh- 
 ing to see us emerge from our golden cover. We were 
 especially impressed by the bravery of Ed Green who 
 stood in the midst of the thick dust and flying chaff 
 close to the tail of the stacker. His teeth shone like a 
 negro's out of his dust-blackened face and his shirt was 
 wet with sweat, but he motioned for " more straw " and 
 David, accepting the challenge, signaled for more speed. 
 Frank swung his lash and yelled at the straining horses, 
 the sleepy growl of the cylinder rose to a howl and the 
 wheat came pulsing out at the spout in such a stream 
 that the carriers were forced to trot on their path to and 
 from the granary in order to keep the grain from piling 
 up around the measurer.-- There was a kind of splendid 
 rivalry in this backbreaking toil for each sack weighed 
 ninety pounds. 
 
 We got tired of wallowing in the straw at last, and
 
 I 4 2 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 went down to help Rover catch the rats which were 
 being uncovered by the pitchers as they reached the 
 stack bottom. The horses, with their straining, out- 
 stretched necks, the loud and cheery shouts, the whistling 
 of the driver, the roar and hum of the great wheel, the 
 flourishing of the forks, the supple movement of brawny 
 arms, the shouts of the men, all blended with the wild 
 sound of the wind in the creaking branches of the oaks, 
 forming a glorious poem in our unforgetting minds. 
 
 At last the call for dinner sounded. The driver began 
 to call, " Whoa there, boys! Steady, Tom," and to hold 
 his long whip before the eyes of the more spirited of the 
 teams in order to convince them that he really meant 
 " stop." The pitchers stuck their forks upright in the 
 stack and leaped to the ground. Randal, the band-cutter, 
 drew from his wrist the looped string of his big knife, 
 the stackers slid down from the straw-pile, and a race 
 began among the teamsters to see whose span would be 
 first unhitched and at the watering trough. What joyous 
 rivalry it seemed to us! 
 
 Mother and Mrs. Randal, wife of our neighbor, who 
 was " changing works," stood ready to serve the food as 
 soon as the men were seated. The table had been 
 lengthened to its utmost and pieced out with boards, 
 and planks had been laid on stout wooden chairs at either 
 side. 
 
 The men came in with a rush, and took seats wherever 
 they could find them, and their attack on the boiled po- 
 tatoes and chicken should have been appalling to the
 
 LAST THRESHING IN THE COULEE 143 
 
 women, but it was not. They enjoyed seeing them eat. 
 Ed Green was prodigious. One cut at a big potato, fol- 
 lowed by two stabbing motions, and it was gone. Two 
 bites laid a leg of chicken as bare as a slate pencil. To 
 us standing in the corner waiting our turn, it seemed that 
 every " snitch " of the dinner was in danger, for the 
 others were not far behind Ed and Dan. 
 
 At last even the gauntest of them filled up and left 
 the room and we were free to sit at " the second table " 
 and eat, while the men rested outside. David and Wil- 
 liam, however, generally had a belt to sew or a bent 
 tooth to take out of the " concave." This seemed of 
 grave dignity to us and we respected their self-sacrificing 
 labor. 
 
 Nooning was brief. As soon as the horses had finished 
 their oats, the roar and hum of the machine began again 
 and continued steadily all the afternoon, till by and by 
 the sun grew big and red, the night began to fall, and 
 the wind died out. 
 
 This was the most impressive hour of a marvelous 
 day. Through the falling dusk, the machine boomed 
 steadily with a new sound, a solemn roar, rising at in- 
 tervals to a rattling impatient yell as the cylinder ran 
 momentarily empty. The men moved now in silence, 
 looming dim and gigantic in the half-light. The straw- 
 pile mountain high, the pitchers in the chaff, the feeder 
 on his platform, and especially the driver on his power, 
 seemed almost super-human to my childish eyes. Gray 
 dust covered the handsome face of David, changing it
 
 144 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 into something both sad and stern, but Frank's cheery 
 voice rang out musically as he called to the weary horses, 
 " Come on, Tom! Hup there, Dan! " 
 
 The track in which they walked had been worn into 
 two deep circles and they all moved mechanically round 
 and round, like parts of a machine, dull-eyed and covered 
 with sweat. 
 
 At last William raised the welcome cry, " All done ! " 
 the men threw down their forks. Uncle Frank began to 
 call in a gentle, soothing voice, " Whoa, lads ! Steady, 
 boys ! Whoa, there ! " 
 
 But the horses had been going so long and so steadily 
 that they could not at once check their speed. They 
 kept moving, though slowly, on and on till their owners 
 slid from the stacks and seizing the ends of the sweeps, 
 held them. Even then, after the power was still, the 
 cylinder kept its hum, till David throwing a last sheaf 
 into its open maw, choked it into silence. 
 
 Now came the sound of dropping chains, the clang 
 of iron rods, and the thud of hoofs as the horses walked 
 with laggard gait and weary down-falling heads to the 
 barn. The men, more subdued than at dinner, washed 
 with greater care, and combed the chaff from their beards. 
 The air was still and cool, and the sky a deep cloudless 
 blue starred with faint fire. 
 
 Supper though quiet was more dramatic than dinner 
 had been. The table lighted with kerosene lamps, the 
 clean white linen, the fragrant dishes, the women flying 
 about with steaming platters, all seemed very cheery 
 and very beautiful, and the men who came into the
 
 LAST THRESHING IN THE COULEE 145 
 
 light and warmth of the kitchen with aching muscles 
 and empty stomachs, seemed gentler and finer than at 
 noon. They were nearly all from neighboring farms, 
 and my mother treated even the few hired men like 
 visitors, and the talk was all hearty and good tempered 
 though a little subdued. 
 
 One by one the men rose and slipped away, and father 
 withdrew to milk the cows and bed down the horses, 
 leaving the women and the youngsters to eat what was 
 left and " do up the dishes." 
 
 After we had eaten our fill Frank and I also went out 
 to the barn (all wonderfully changed now to our minds 
 by the great stack of straw), there to listen to David and 
 father chatting as they rubbed their tired horses. The 
 lantern threw a dim red light on the harness and on the 
 rumps of the cattle, but left mysterious shadows in the 
 corners. I could hear the mice rustling in the straw of 
 the roof, and from the farther end of the dimly-lighted 
 shed came the regular strim-stram of the streams of milk 
 falling into the bottom of a tin pail as the hired hand 
 milked the big roan cow. 
 
 All this was very momentous to me as I sat on the oat 
 box, shivering in the cold air, listening with all my ears, 
 and when we finally went toward the house, the stars 
 were big and sparkling. The frost had already begun 
 to glisten on the fences and well-curb, and high in the 
 air, dark against the sky, the turkeys were roosting un- 
 easily, as if disturbed by premonitions of approaching 
 Thanksgiving. Rover pattered along by my side on the 
 crisp grass and my brother clung to my hand.
 
 I 4 6 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 How bright and warm it was in the kitchen with 
 mother putting things to rights while father and my 
 uncles leaned their chairs against the wall and talked 
 of the west and of moving. " I can't get away till after 
 New Year's," father said. " But I'm going. I'll never 
 put in another crop on these hills." 
 
 With speechless content I listened to Uncle William's 
 stories of bears and Indians, and other episodes of fron- 
 tier life, until at last we were ordered to bed and the 
 glorious day was done. 
 
 Oh, those blessed days, those entrancing nights! How 
 fine they were then, and how mellow they are now, for 
 the slow-paced years have dropped nearly fifty other 
 golden mists upon that far-off valley. From this distance 
 I cannot understand how my father brought himself to 
 leave that lovely farm and those good and noble friends. 
 HAM LIN GARLAND.
 
 VIII 
 DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH 
 
 When Dr. Grenfell first appeared on the coast, I am 
 told, the folk thought him a madman of some benign de_- 
 scription. He knew nothing of the reefs, the tides, the 
 currents, cared nothing, apparently, for the winds ; he 
 sajled with the confidence and reckless courage of a 
 Labrador skipper. Fearing at times to trust his schooner 
 in unknown waters, he wejit about in a whale-boat, and 
 so hard did he drive her that he wore her out in a single 
 season. She was capsized with all hands, once driven out 
 to sea, many times nearly swamped, once blown on the 
 rocks; never before was a boat put to such tasks on that 
 coast, and at the end of it she was wrecked beyond repair. 
 Next season he appeared with a little steam-launch, the 
 Princess May her beam was eight feet ! in which he 
 not only journeyed from St. Johns to Labrador, to the 
 astonishment of the whole colony, but sailed the length of 
 that bitter coast, passing into the gulf and safely out 
 again, and pushing to the very farthest settlements in the 
 north. Late in the fall, upon the return journey to St. 
 Johns in stormy weather, she was reported lost, and many 
 a skipper, I suppose, wondered that she had lived so long ; 
 but she weathered a gale that bothered the mail-boat, and 
 triurnphantly made St. Johns, after as adventurous a
 
 148 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 voyage, no doubt, as ever a boat of her measure sur- 
 vived. 
 
 " Sure," said a skipper, " I don't know how she done it. 
 The Lord," he added, piously, " must kape an eye on 
 * that man." 
 
 There is a new proverb on the coast. The folk say, 
 " This'll bring Grenfell!" 
 
 Often it does. He is impatient of delay, fretted by in- 
 action ; a gale is the wind for him a wind to take him 
 swiftly towards the place ahead. Had he been a weak- 
 ling, he would long ago have died on the coast; had he 
 been a coward, a multitude of terrors would long ago 
 have driven him to a life ashore; had he been anything 
 but a true man and tender, indeed, he would long ago have 
 retreated under the suspicion and laughier of the folk. 
 But he has outsailed the Labrador skippers outdared 
 them done deeds of courage under their very eyes that 
 they would shiver to contemplate, never in a foolhardy 
 spirit; always with the object of kindly service. So he 
 has the heart and willing hand of every honest man on the 
 Labrador and of none more than of the men of his 
 crew, who take the chances with him; they are wholly 
 devoted. 
 
 One of his engineers, for example, once developed the 
 unhappy habit of knocking the cook down. 
 
 " You must keep your temper," said the doctor. " This 
 won't do, you know." 
 
 But there came an unfortunate day when, being out of 
 temper, the engineer again knocked the cook down.
 
 DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH 149 
 
 " This is positively disgraceful ! " said the doctor. " I 
 can't keep a quarrelsome fellow aboard the mission-ship. 
 Remember that, if you will, when next you feel tempted 
 to strike the cook." 
 
 The engineer protested that he would never again lay 
 hands on the cook, whatever the provocation. But again 
 he lost his temper, and down went the poor cook, flat 
 on his back. 
 
 " I'll discharge you," said the doctor, angrily, " at the 
 end of the cruise ! " 
 
 The engineer pleaded for another chance. He was 
 denied. From day to day he renewed his plea, but to no 
 purpose, and at last the crew came to the conclusion that 
 something really ought to be done for the engineer, who 
 was visibly fretting himself thin. 
 
 "Very well," said the doctor to the engineer; "I'll 
 make this agreement with you. If ever again you knock 
 down the cook, I'll put you ashore at the first land we 
 come to, and you may get back to St. Johns as best you 
 can." 
 
 It was a hard alternative. The doctor is not a man to 
 v give or take when the bargain has been struck ; the en- 
 gineer knew that he would surely go ashore somewhere on 
 that desolate coast, whether the land was a barren island 
 or a frequented harbor, if ever again the cook tempted him 
 beyond endurance. 
 
 "I'll stand by it, sir," he said, nevertheless; "for I 
 don't want to leave you." 
 
 In_the course of time th*. Princess May was wrecked
 
 150 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 or worn out. Then came the Julia Sheridan, thirt^five, 
 feet long, which the mission doctor bought while she yet 
 lay under water from her last wreck; he raised her, re- 
 fitted her with what money he had, and pursued his ven- 
 turesome and beneficent career, until she, too, got beyond 
 so hard a service. Many a gale she weathered, off " the 
 worst coast in the world " often, indeed, in thick, wild 
 weather, the doctor himself thought the little craft would 
 go down; but she is now happily superannuated, carrying 
 the mail in the quieter waters of Hamilton Inlet. Next 
 came the Sir Donald a_stout shjpj which in turn disap- 
 peared, crushed in the ice. The Strathcona, with a hos- 
 pital amidships, is now doing duty ; and she will continue 
 to go up and down the coast, in and out of the inlets, 
 until she in her turn finds the ice and the wind and the 
 rocks too much for her. 
 
 " 'Tis bound t' come, soon or late," said a cautious 
 friend of the mission. " He drives her too hard. He'vt 
 a right t' do what he likes with his own life, I s'pose, 
 but he've a call t' remember that the crew has folks t' 
 home." 
 
 But the missiojijdacJor is not inconsiderate; he is in a 
 hurry the coast is long, the season short, the need such 
 as to wring a man's heart. Every new day holds an op- 
 portunity for doing a good deed not if he dawdles in 
 the harbors when a gale is abroad, but only if he passes 
 swiftly from place to place, with a brave heart meeting 
 the dangers as they come. He is the only doctor_to_yjsit 
 the Labrador shore of the Gulf, the Strait shore of New-
 
 DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH 151 
 
 foundland, the populous east coast of the northern pen- 
 insula of Newfoundland, the on]y _doctor Joiown_to tfie_ 
 Esquimaux and poor " liveyeres " of the northern coast of 
 Labrador, the only doctor most of the " liveyeres " and 
 green-fish catchers of the middle coast can reach, save the 
 hospital physician at Indian Harbor. He has a round OJL 
 three thousand miles to make. It is no wonder that he 
 " drives " the little steamer even at full steam, with all 
 sail spread (as I have known him to do), when the fog 
 is thick and the sea is spread with great bergs. 
 
 " I'm in a hurry," he said, with an impatient sigh. 
 " The season's late. We must get along." 
 
 We fell in with him at Red Ray in the Strait, in the 
 thick of a heavy gale from the northeast. The wind had 
 blown for two days; the sea was running high, and still 
 fast rising; the schooners were huddled in the harbors, 
 with all anchors out, many of them hanging on for dear 
 life, though they lay in shelter. The sturdy little coastal 
 boat, with four times the strength of the Strathcona, had 
 made hard work of it that day there was a time when 
 she but held her own off a lee shore in the teeth of the 
 big wind. 
 
 It was drawing on towards night when the doctor 
 came aboard for a surgeon from Boston, a specialist, for 
 whom he had been waiting. 
 
 " I see you've steam up," said the captain of the coastal 
 boat. " I hope you're not going out in this, doctor! " 
 
 " I have some patients at the Battle Harbor Hospital, 
 waiting for our good friend from Boston/' said the doc-
 
 152 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 tor, briskly. " I'm in a hurry. Oh, yes, I'm going 
 out! " 
 
 " For God's sake, don't! " said the captain earnestly. 
 
 The doctor's eye chanced to fall on the gentleman from 
 Boston, who was bending over his bag a fine, fearless 
 fellow, whom the prospect of putting out in that chip of 
 a steamer would not have perturbed, though the doctor 
 may then not have known it. At any rate, as though be- 
 thinking himself of something half forgotten, he changed 
 his mind of a sudden. 
 
 " Oh, very well," he said. " I'll wait until the gale 
 blows out." 
 
 He managed to wait a day no longer; and the wind 
 was still wild, the sea higher than ever; there was ice in 
 the road, and the fog was dense. Then out he went into 
 the thick of it. He bumped an iceberg, scraped a rock, 
 fairly smothered the steamer with broken water; and at 
 midnight the most marvelous feat of all he crept 
 into Battle Harbor through a narrow, difficult passage, 
 and dropped anchor off the mission wharf. 
 
 Doubtless he enjoyed the experience while it lasted 
 v and promptly forgot it, as being commonplace. I have 
 heard of him, caught in the night in a winter's gale of 
 wind and snow, threading a tumultuous, reef-strewn sea, 
 his skipper at the wheel, himself on the bowsprit, guiding 
 the ship by the flash and roar of breakers, while the sea 
 tumbled over him. If the chance passenger who told 
 me the story is to be believed, upon that trying occasion 
 the doctor had the " time of his life." 
 
 " All that man wanted," I told the doctor subsequently,
 
 DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH 153 
 
 " was, as he says, ' to bore a hole in the bottom of the ship 
 and crawl out.' " 
 
 " Why ! " exclaimed the doctor, with a laugh of sur- / 
 prise. " He wasn't frightened, was he?" 
 
 Fear of the ea is quite incomprehensible * *hfr ff**?- 
 The passenger was veryjtnuch frightened ; he vowed never 
 to sail with " that devil " again. But the doctor is very 
 far from being a dare-devil ; though he is, to be sure, a man 
 altogether unafraid; it seems to me that his heart can 
 never have known the throb of fear. Perhaps that is in 
 part because he has a blessed lack of imagination, in part, 
 perhaps, because he has a body as sound as ever God gave 
 to a man, and has used it as a man should ; but it is chiefly 
 because of his simple and splendid faith that he is an 
 instrument in God's hands God's to do with as He 
 will, as he would say. His faith is exceptional, I am sure 
 childlike, steady, overmastering, and withal, if I may 
 so characterize it, healthy. It takes something such as 
 the faith he has to move a man to run a little steamer at 
 full speed in the fog when there is ice on every hand. 
 It is hardly credible, but quite true, and short of the 
 truth : neither wind nor ice nor fog, nor all combined, can 
 keep the Strathcona in harbor when there comes a call for 
 help from beyond. The doctor clambers cheerfully out 
 on the bowsprit and keeps both eyes open. " As the Lord 
 wills," says he, " whether for wreck or service. I am 
 about His business." 
 
 It is sublime expression of the old faith. 
 
 Doctor Grenjelj jppearsjp have a peculiar affection for 
 the outporters of what is locally known as the " French
 
 154 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 Shore " that stretch of coast lying between Cape John 
 and the northernmost point of Newfoundland : it is one 
 section of the shore upon which the^ French have fishing 
 rights. This is the real Newfoundland ; to the writer 
 there is no Newfoundland apart from that long strip of 
 rock against which the sea forever breaks: none that is 
 not of punt, of wave, of fish, of low sky and of a stalwart, 
 briny folk. Indeed, though he has joyously lived weeks 
 of blue weather in the outports, with the sea all a-ripple 
 and flashing and the breeze blowing warm, in retrospect 
 land and people resolve themselves into a rocky harbor and 
 a sturdy little lad with a question the harbor, gray and 
 dripping wet, a cluster of whitewashed cottages perched 
 on the rocks, towards which a tiny, red-sailed punt is beat- 
 ing from the frothy open, with the white of breakers on 
 either hand, while a raw wind lifts the fog from the black 
 inland hills, upon which ragged patches of snow lie melt- 
 ing; the lad, stout, frank-eyed, tow-headed, browned by 
 the wind, bending over the splitting-table with a knife in 
 his toil-worn young hand and the blood of cod dripping 
 from his fingers, and looking wistfully up, at last, to 
 ask a question or two concerning certain old, disquieting 
 mysteries. 
 
 " Where do the tide go, ztir, when 'e runs out ? " he 
 plainted. " Where do 'e go, zur? Sure, zur, you is able 
 t' tell me that, isn't you ? " 
 
 So, in such a land where, on some bleak stretches of 
 coast, the potatoes are grown in impor ted_jEnglisJi jml , 
 where most gardens, and some graveyards, are made of
 
 DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH 155 
 
 earth scraped from the hollows of the hills, where four 
 hundred and nineteen bushels of lean wheat are grown in 
 a single year, and the production of beef-cattle is in- 
 significant as compared with the production of babies 
 in such a land there is nothing for the young man to do 
 but choose his rock, build his little cottage and his flake 
 and his stage, marry a maid of the harbor when the spring 
 winds stir his blood, gather his potato patch, get a pig and 
 a goat, and go fishing in his punt. And they do fish, have 
 always fished since many generations ago the island was 
 first settled by adventurous Devon men, and must con- 
 tinue to fish to the end of time. Out of a total male pop- 
 ulation of one hundred thousand, which includes the city- 
 folk of St. Johns and an amazing proportion of babies and 
 tender lads, about fifty^e^thousandjiynj^ & r ? w p *> n Y* 
 catch fish for a living. 
 
 " Still an' all, they's no country in the world like this ! " / 
 said the old skipper. " Sure, a man's set up in life when 
 he haves a j>ig^an' a j^unt an' a potatoj?atch." 
 
 " But have you ever seen another? " I asked. 
 
 " I've been so far as Saint Johns, zur, an' once t' the 
 waterside o' Boston," was the surprising reply, " an' 
 I'm thinkin' I knows what the world's like." 
 
 So it is with most Newfoundlanders: they Jove their 
 land with an intolerant prejudice; and most are content 
 with the life they lead. " The Newfoundlander comes 
 back," is a significant proverb of the outports; and, 
 " White Bay's good enough for me," said a fishwife to 
 me once, when I asked her why she still remained in a 
 place so bleak and barren, " for I've heered tell 'tis won-
 
 156 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 derful smoky an' n'isy 't Saint Johns." The life they 
 live, and strangely love, is exceeding toilsome. Toil be- 
 gan for a gray-haired, bony-handed old woman whom 1 
 know when she was so young that she had to stand on 
 a tub to reach the splitting-table; when, too, to keep her 
 awake and busy, late o' nights, her father would make 
 believe to throw a bloody cod's head at her. It J:>egan_for 
 that woman's son when, at^ five ^L six .years old, he was 
 just able to spread the fishjto^lry on the flake, and con- 
 tinued in earnest, a year or two later, when first he was 
 strong enough to keep the head of his father's punt up to 
 the wind. But they seem not to know that fishing is a 
 hard or dangerous employment: for instance, a mild-eyed, 
 crooked old fellow he was a cheerful Methodist, too, 
 and subject to "glory-fits" who had fished from one 
 harbor for sixty years, computed for me that he had put 
 out to sea in his punt at least twenty thousand times, that 
 he had been frozenjto^ the_ seat__of. J}js_j^iU_many times, 
 that he had been swept to sea with the ice-packs, six limes, 
 that he had weathered si* hundredftgles, great and small, 
 and that he had been wrecked more times than he could 
 " just mind " at the moment; yet he was the^nly^old man 
 ever I met who seemed honestly to wish that he might 
 .livejiis life ov^ragain! 
 
 The hook-and^Tme man has a lonely time of it. From 
 earliest dawn, while the night yet lies thick on the sea, 
 until in storm or calm or favoring breeze he makes harbor 
 in the dusk, he lies off shore, fishing tossing in the lop 
 of the grounds, with the waves to balk and the wind to 
 watch warily, while he tends his lines. There is no jolly
 
 DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH 157 
 
 companionship of the forecastle and turf hut for him 
 no new scene, no hilarious adventure; nor has he the ex- 
 pectation of a proud return to lighten his toil. In the 
 little punt he has made with his own hands he is for- / 
 ever riding an infinite expanse, which, in " fish weather," t 
 is melancholy, or threatening, or deeply solemn, as it may 
 chance all the while and all alone confronting the 
 mystery and terrible immensity of the sea. It may be 
 that he gives himself over to aimless musing, or, even less 
 happily, to pondering certain dark mysteries of the soul; 
 and so it comes about that the " mad-house 't Saint 
 Johns " is inadequate to accommodate the poor fellows 
 whom lonelytoil has befeit" ~ol "their senses melan- 
 choliacs, idiots and maniacs " along o' religion." 
 
 Notwithstanding all, optimism^ persists^ everywhere on 
 the coast. One old fisherman counted himself favored ( 
 above most men because he had for years been able to * 
 ifford the luxury of cream of tartar; and another, a 
 >>_rawny giant, confessed to having a disposition so pej:- ' 
 tinaciously happy that he had come to regard a merry 
 heart as his besetting sin. Sometimes an off-shore gale 
 puts an end to all the fishing; sometimes it is a sudden 
 gust, sometimes a big wave, sometimes a confusing mist, 
 more often long exposure to spray and shipped water and 
 soggy winds. It was a sleety off-shore gale, coming at the 
 end of a sunny, windless day, that froze or drowned thirty 
 men off Trinity Bay in a single night ; and it was a mere 
 puff on a "civil" evening but a swift, wicked little 
 puff, sweeping round Breakheart Head that made a 
 widow of Elizabeth Rideout o' Duck Cove and took her
 
 158 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 young son away. Often, however, the hook-and-line mat 
 / fishes his eighty years of life, and dies in his bed as cheei 
 fully as he has lived and as poor as he was born. 
 
 NORMAN DUNCAN. 
 
 \l 3 ^
 
 IX 
 
 THE MAKING OF A BASKET 
 
 One afternoon as the sun was sinking over the distant 
 mountain top, two Indian women, one old, the other very 
 young, came slowly down a mountain trail, carrying on 
 their backs great bundles of grasses. They had been gone 
 since early morning, searching for materials for tV* r 
 basketry. The day had been full of intense pleasure for 
 the young girl, for, like her grandmother, she was a great 
 lover of nature, and now she was being trained by the old 
 woman to take up the art of her ancestors, which was 
 fast threatening to become extinct. 
 
 Interesting, Sally found it, especially the searching for 
 materials, but it was none the less fatiguing, and she gave 
 a little sigh of satisfaction as they came in sight of the 
 Indian village, which was camped at the edge of a wood. 
 
 As they drew near, a woman came out of a lodge and 
 lifted from their backs the heavy burdens, carried them 
 in and found a safe place for them within the lodge. The 
 grasses were very j?recious. In only onjLSgpt were they 
 to be found, and that a most jjgaccessihlfc_pQijaJt almost at 
 the top of a mountain peak. Nevertheless, not a year 
 went by that Nihabe was not there, just at the right sea- 
 son, to gather the harvest. 
 
 Sally's mother busied herself about the supper, while 
 159
 
 160 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 the two told her the adventures of the day. They had 
 taken the ridge-trail very early in the morning, and had 
 continued quite to the top, climbing over large rocks and 
 across deep ravines. It had been a hard trip and a long 
 one, and they both felt glad now to rest on the soft skins 
 of the lodge and talk over the day's work. 
 
 Soon Sally left the conversation to the older women, for 
 her thoughts had roamed to the collection of baskets over 
 in one corner of the lodge. These were the most prized 
 possessions of Nihabe, for they told the story of past events 
 in family history, and of thoughts and fancies of her youth 
 and womanhood. Sally had always been fond of these 
 baskets; she not only took a family pride in them, but she 
 enjoyed making up stories about them, and occasionally 
 getting from Nihabe herself the real stories. Each one 
 had a special significance, and, partly for their beauty, 
 but more for their association, Sally had selected her fav- 
 orites. She was especially fond of the little ceremonial 
 basket, which was wrought with such exceedingly fine 
 stitches and made of this very sort of grass which they had 
 to-day been gathering. The feathers, too, with their gay 
 colors, which decorated the edge, had a history. Many 
 times had Sally been told the story of the pair of beau- 
 tiful little birds who made their home each year in the 
 wood near the Indian village how one had one day 
 been killed by a hawk, and the other drooped and died in 
 its grief. Nihabe had loved the little birds and wove the 
 feathers into this basket as a sort of memorial. 
 
 Then there was the buffalo basket, which Nihabe had 
 made when she was not much older than Sally herself
 
 THE MAKING OF A BASKET 161 
 
 It was in the days of the buffalo, and Nihabe had felt 
 very proud to be selected by the older women to go with 
 them to the hunt to assist the men in the preparation of 
 the meat and skins. It was a long journey into the 
 home of other tribes and was full of danger and great 
 adventure. Oftentimes when in a hostile land they had 
 lain down at night in the brush with no lodge covering, 
 and as she lay and gazed at the stars she planned ajwsket 
 decoration which was a chronicle of this great event in 
 her life. There were zig-zags and curves to represent 
 the mountains, valleys and streams, and other figures for 
 the buffalo, arrows, hunters and hostile tribes, and at the 
 top, as a border, the moon and stars which had helped her 
 to work out the design. 
 
 Another favorite was one which had the rattleanabe 
 design. Sally had watched that one in the making. 
 Nihabe had confided to no one the meaning of the design, 
 but it was at a time when one of her sons was hunting in 
 a rattlesnake-infested land. All the members of the fam- 
 ily realized that this basket was a prayer to the Great 
 Spirit to bring her son home in safety. He returned be- 
 fore the basket was completed, and the spirit of joyfulness 
 with which the border was put in was a thanksgiving in 
 itself. 
 
 Sally remembered the day that the basket-collector vis- 
 ited the village. Many of the younger women sold some of 
 their baskets, and arranged to make more for sale. Great 
 was the indignation in Nihabe's lodge. She had little to 
 say, but her actions plainly showed her feelings. She 
 came from a family of basket-makers, and she herself
 
 162 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 was the head weaver of her tribe, and, like her ancestors, 
 / she would as soon have thought of selling a papoose as a 
 basket. They were a part of her life, of herself; they 
 expressed her poetic fancies, her hopes and prayers, all 
 her brooding thoughts, as well as being picture-stories of 
 events in her life. What the collector would have given 
 to know the story of that jewel basket in yonder corner! 
 The first of Nihabe's beautiful baskets ! She was no older 
 than Sally when it was completed, and, as in some tribes, 
 so in hers, the completion of a girl's first beautiful basket 
 was a great event in the village. Among others who saw 
 it was Black Eagle, a young brave, a member of an allied 
 tribe who was a visitor in the village. His family was 
 also a great basket-making people, and he appreciated the 
 worth of this beautiful work of art. He determined to 
 win this maiden for his wife. Later, among the gifts 
 which he brought when he came to seek her hand in mar- 
 riage, was a beautiful necklace which he himself had 
 carved of pieces of bone, to be one of the jewels for the 
 basket. 
 
 But the collector did not hear the story, nor any other, 
 from Nihabe, for she could not appreciate his attitude in 
 the matter. 
 
 " Why comes the white man here? " she had exclaimed. 
 " Only to laugh at the Indian woman. They know not 
 our ways. They have taken our lands, now they want 
 our other treasures. Let other squaws make and sell. I 
 want not the gold." 
 
 The other squaws did make and sell. Soon they found 
 that from the agency they could get the dyes and so save
 
 THE MAKING OF A BASKET 163 
 
 themselves hours of labor. The collectors looked with 
 admiring eyes (when they had the opportunity) at the 
 beautiful dyes of Nihabe's baskets, for never would she 
 stoop to accept the cheap dyes. It was her pride that no 
 white man had ever had a share in the making of her 
 baskets, or of those of any member of her family. She 
 herself had gathered and prepared, often with great labor, 
 the roots, twigs and bark, until she had suitable materials 
 to weave the beautiful creations. With certain leaves 
 and roots she concocted the enduring dyes that far sur- 
 passed anything the trader could offer. 
 
 Sally, roused from her revery, ate her evening meal as 
 any healthy girl would who had spent the day in the open 
 air. Leaving the Indian women thus occupied, let us 
 take a look about their lodge. 
 
 It had not the dirty, smoky appearance that so many 
 Indian lodges have. Articles not in use were rolled into 
 bundles or baskets and set into corners. The earth-floor 
 was covered with gaily colored rugs; soft skins and 
 blankets invited one to rest as though they covered the 
 softest of couches. Everywhere were baskets, some crude, 
 others fine, some large, some small, and all were put to 
 some use. In one corner was an immense one, large 
 enough to hold a person. In this was kept the basketry 
 material as it was prepared for use, wrapped in dampened 
 blankets at first, to be kept flexible until it could be made 
 into suitable material for weaving, then rolled into. coils, 
 tied up with strips of bark or bright-colored strings, and 
 stowed away until the weaving. The little papooses en- 
 joyed tumbling in and out of this big basket when it was
 
 164 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 empty. They called it the Black Robes' basket, for its 
 design told one of the stories which the Black Robes had 
 told the Indians about the Son of the Great Chief who 
 came down to earth to show all men the way to the Happy 
 Hunting Grounds. The twelve figures on the basket 
 represented the twelve men chosen by the Chief's Son to 
 tell the story after He had gone back to the Great Chief. 
 One of the figures was placed on a line below the others, 
 for he was found to be a bad man, not what the Chief's 
 Son had meant him to be. One was set a little apart 
 from the others, for he was different from them; in one 
 way he was the best loved of the Twelve. 
 
 To have seen Nihabe sitting there eating, no one would 
 have thought she was the maker of all this beautiful handi- 
 work; no one would have attributed to her the beautiful 
 thoughts and sentiments which were the underlying charm 
 of her baskets. The collector no doubt found her a 
 very unattractive and ignorant-looking old woman, and 
 not at all communicative. Her face was shriveled and 
 shrunken from age and long exposure to weather and 
 hardships, her body was bent from hard work and heavy 
 burdens, and she had long been schooled to hide her emo- 
 tions and keep to herself her inmost thoughts. No white 
 person could ever hope to break the wall of her confi- 
 dence, but in the privacy of the lodge she often told 
 stories of her past life, and Sally was especially favored, 
 because of her devotion to her grandmother, and her in- 
 terest in the old woman's life and work. But there were 
 some things she never revealed ; these, Sally, with unusual 
 discernment, seemed to divine, and often while Nihabe
 
 THE MAKING OF A BASKET 165 
 
 brooded, the young girl was dreaming of things untold. 
 
 Sally had had her share in the making of the family 
 baskets, but so far she had attempted only the cruder ones 
 or those with no special design mere household uten- 
 sils. But now her grandmother was planning with her 
 the making of a basket which was to prove her fitness to 
 take up the family industry. 
 
 The fact that this basket was to be a work of art was 
 not the only inspiration which was moving Sally. Nihabe 
 had offered as a prize, to the first one of her grand- 
 daughters who would make a basket fine enough to hold 
 it, the beautiful necklace which Black Eagle gave to her 
 when he came to claim her for his bride. 
 
 Nihabe intended that her granddaughters should keep 
 up the family reputation and do every part of the work 
 themselves. She was now taking Sally with her on long 
 expeditions after materials, in order to teach her the 
 different plants used for the work. Every morning found 
 the two wending their way through the sweet woods, com- 
 ing home with dew-bedraggled skirts, laden with heavy 
 bundles of bark, twigs and roots. Occasionally Sally's 
 older brother was pressed into the service, when roots 
 were to be dug from the bed of a stream, but all the other 
 work was done by the two themselves, one day searching 
 in the woods, another in the swamps and another on the 
 hillsides. Thus the spring and summer passed, each 
 season calling for a different part of the work. 
 
 On stormy days was discussed the subject of a suitable 
 design for the maiden effort. As each design was planned 
 it was sketched on to the skin walls of the lodge, but
 
 166 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 none seemed to meet the girl's fancy. One day as they 
 were in the woods, an idea came to her. She had been 
 musing on the beauty of the spring flowers and wishing 
 she could weave them into a design, for nothing did she 
 love as she did the flowers. Then in her imagination 
 she saw it all pictured: first the brown earth, then here 
 and there patches of green, and, to represent the different 
 flowers, were rows of yellow, light purple and white, 
 and, as a climax, to top it off was a row of flaming scarlet. 
 Nihabe was well pleased with the idea. She showed how 
 it could be set off by rows of the natural color so as to 
 make all blend. 
 
 Sally was eager to begin the basket at once now that 
 she had the design. The work grew from week to week, 
 the mother and grandmother offering suggestions as it 
 progressed. With characteristic Indian reticence she 
 would let no one see her finish the last few rows, and 
 when she emerged from her retirement with the beautiful 
 work of art, Nihabe was the first to meet her and gaze 
 in admiration. While the others were examining and 
 admiring it, the old woman was groping among her 
 treasures. She soon appeared with the carved necklace. 
 Before the eyes of the adoring family she placed the jewel 
 in the basket. 
 
 KATE T. FOGARTY. 
 
 J 1>
 
 X 
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS OF THINGS 
 
 We were all proud of MacAllister the day he came 
 out from the Board room after three days of examination, 
 with a broad grin of triumph on his face and his hard- 
 won certificate as chief engineer in his hand. Only ten 
 years before he had been a vagrant in Brooklyn's great 
 marine hospital, the Erie Basin, where the sick ships 
 come in from the Seven Seas to be made strong and well 
 again. Thence it had been a steady climb for the am- 
 bitious youngster; first the Gourock, a rusty British 
 tramp, with a set of Scotchmen aboard who never let pass 
 opportunity for a kick or a cuff directed at the little 
 Yankee " monkey," as greasers are called ; then five years' 
 shop-apprenticeship in Liverpool for his engineer's certifi- 
 cate; and then the joy of his first berth when he went to 
 the Climax in the place of McGill, the third engineer, 
 who had missed his footing on the companion-ladder in 
 the rush for the engine-room when the main feed-valve 
 broke. 
 
 Now he was fresh from twelve months' sea-service on 
 the Castle Hill, and his owners, Bolton and Perkins, 
 had promised him the command of the Climax's en- 
 gine-room when he should have passed the Board. 
 
 " She's not such a great thing," said the head of the 
 firm; " but ye'll be glad of her to begin on." 
 167
 
 168 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 Glad indeed was MacAllister, and proud, hurrying to 
 the dingy offices on Water Street, though Bolton had 
 spoken something less than the truth. For even in the 
 days when MacAllister was a greaser, the Climax was 
 nothing to brag about, but by the time she was offered 
 to him, a rustier old hooker, or more sluggish, or with 
 more rickety engines, never wheezed down the Mersey. 
 Yet it was the best Bolton and Perkins could offer at that 
 time. As the young chief entered the office waving his 
 certificate, several portly, placid, and bald old clerks 
 looked up and smiled mildly. " There's wark for ye, 
 Mac," whispered one of them, nodding toward the private 
 office. " They want to see ye." The partners were 
 peering over the London Times and occasionally glancing 
 from its pages to a long trade report, or perhaps more 
 frequently to a calendar. 
 
 " Hello, Mac, it's all right, is it? " said Perkins, glanc- 
 ing at the certificate in young MacAllister's hand. " Ye 
 heard the Castle Hill's out of commission for two 
 months' repairs, have ye not?" he added anxiously. 
 " Well, the Climax finishes loading to-night, and what 
 with new tubes in that boiler what d'ye think of her, 
 Mac? what'll she do?" 
 
 " Five knots, I should think. It depends." 
 
 " She'll do more than that. She's got to. Ye must get 
 six or seven knots out of her, MacAllister," interjected 
 Bolton. " Here it is September gth, and the MjcKinley 
 Bill goes into effect in America at jpMrjjghf, on October 
 th. We have Sumatra tobacco on board, the duty on 
 which will be advanced a dollar and twenty-five cents a
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS OF THINGS 169 
 
 pund, and cutlery from Sheffield with an increase almost 
 as high, and thousands of punds of other dutiable stuff 
 in the bargain, that is going to be increased beyond all 
 reason. Space on all the big liners due to reach New 
 York before the act goes into effect has been filled at 
 seven times the usual rates, and there's the devil to pay. 
 Now they've come down on us. We've got the Climax 
 filled full, aye, and a deck-load amidships. An' ye can 
 get over in time, we are rich MacAllister, what say 
 ye?" 
 
 "Six knots, eh?" mused MacAllister. "Six knots 
 out of the Climax." 
 
 " She has some new boiler tubes, MacAllister." 
 
 "Well, we can try," said MacAllister; " if it's in her, 
 I'll get it out of her, certain." 
 
 " Ye start at sunrise to-morrow, then," said Bolton. 
 " Spare nothing. Remember, October 4th, at midnight. 
 We have had Captain McWilliams here. At sunrise to- 
 morrow; and, Mac, one thing more: the Gourock, of 
 Jones and Fry, leaves to-morrow at the same hour, with 
 the same class of cargo and on the same mission as the 
 Climax. Ye may as not beat her, but she mustn't beat 
 ye, MacAllister." 
 
 MacAllister closed his mouth tight. He remembered 
 the Gourock, and he remembered the Scotch captain 
 and Scotch chief engineer and the crew, all of whom had 
 made it so hard for him years ago when he was a greaser 
 on her who made it so hard for him because he was a 
 Yankee. No; the Gourock would not beat him! 
 not while his engines held together. But what a race
 
 170 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 the old Gourock and the old Climax; a great race 
 between two iron pots with clockworks. This figure so 
 pleased MacAllister that he uttered it aloud to the part- 
 ners, who snorted and waved him out of the office. 
 
 " Remember, October 4th, at midnight," they said. 
 
 " Aye," said MacAllister. " Good-by." 
 
 So it was that next day's sun, risen scarce five hours, 
 found the rusty, bluff-bowed Climax approaching 
 Daunts Rock with the greasy, blood-red flag of Britain 
 dimly showing through the pall of black smoke driving 
 straight aft from the funnel. About a mile ahead wal- 
 lowed the Gourock, with the water line hiding her 
 Plimsoll mark. 
 
 When MacAllister was not in the engine-room, he was 
 on the bridge with Captain McWilliams. He was in 
 the engine-room most of the time, and slept about four 
 hours out of the twenty-four. At her best, the Cli- 
 max had never done the trip in less than sixteen days, 
 and that was twenty years ago. This time she had twen- 
 ty-four days, little enough leeway, considering the possi- 
 bility of delay by storm or through breakage in the ancient 
 machinery. Yet MacAllister had faith in these old en- 
 gines; he was something of a dreamer, and he played 
 with strange fancies that the spirit of all machinery was 
 something tangible, and that to it his spirit had spoken of 
 the need of more power, of more speed, and of what it 
 all would mean. There is nothing like the dark engine- 
 room of a snoring old tramp to make you feel things. It 
 was in the Climax tunnel that he felt these things 
 most strongly, that long, dark passageway in the bowels
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS OF THINGS 171 
 
 of the vessel where the shaft, turning on its bearings, 
 runs out from the engines through the stuffing-box to 
 the screw outside. Hourly trips must be taken through 
 this tunnel to see that the bearings have not become red- 
 hot, and MacAlliste/ had found a greaser asleep here 
 the night of the second day out. This coming as a climax 
 to his overwrought mind, he thenceforth allowed no one 
 to tour the tunnel but the second and third engineers. 
 But most of the time he did the tour himself, because 
 somehow he loved to be there groping along the dark, 
 damp, oily passageway, with his lantern swaying in front 
 of him, feeling the bearings and listening to the noises 
 which, among the multitude of the Climax's sounds, 
 he loved the most. The spirit of his engines he heard in 
 there in the dark, and alone. There were noises, too, 
 in that tunnel-shaft that he did not understand. Music 
 it sometimes seemed to be, at other times the monotone of 
 a sighing spirit. Again, there was joy expressed, and 
 sadness and wailing grief. Then there were sounds that 
 no human being ever will understand, whisperings, mur- 
 murings, low cries undefinable, mysterious, and vague. 
 Sometimes he would hear something that would cause him 
 to stand transfixed in the sloughing half light of his lan- 
 tern, wondering, fearing, half tempted to raise his voice 
 in answer but in what language, in what way ? Very 
 often, through all the sounds, a voice would ring out 
 loud and clear only the screw racing ; who knows ? 
 but to MacAllister it was a paean of triumph voicing the 
 realization of all his hopes and dreams. 
 Thus MacAllister lived with his engines, his spirits
 
 172 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 ^actuating with their every mood and temper. Hour hy 
 hour he would work among them, thanking God for the 
 great steady, powerful pushing of the connecting-rods 
 and pistons, and the irresistible whirl of the cranks and 
 throws. Sometimes they would hobble slowly, but on 
 the whole they were doing their work well. They were 
 averaging at the best six knots hourly, and each night 
 when MacAllister had finished his log for the day's work 
 of his engines, he would spend long, wakeful hours won- 
 dering wondering whether it was because of good luck, 
 American coal, and the new tubes, or whether things 
 he had heard down in that narrow tunnel heard or 
 dreamed might not have something to do with it. For 
 there was received down there an impression of force and 
 of understanding that had taken captive his imagination. 
 When these thoughts came very strongly, he would go 
 up on the bridge and talk sense with Captain Me- 
 Williams. 
 
 The night of the twelfth day, and everything was 
 going, looking forward. Far astern could be seen the 
 dim, plunging lights of the Gourock, and despite a 
 northwest September gale, the hearts of the skipper and 
 the chief engineer were light. 
 
 " I think that we'll make it, boy," said McWilliams, 
 holding to the bridge rail with one hand and using the 
 other as a trumpet to carry his voice into MacAllister's 
 ear. " She drops a little time once in a while, but I 
 think we'll make it." 
 
 " Aye, maybe," replied the chief ; " it's a racketing 
 they're getting this night, though, those engines. It's
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS OF THINGS 173 
 
 a mighty stiff racketing they're getting. Hear that 
 screw race." 
 
 It was a racketing those engines were getting, truly, 
 for the Climax was in a jumping seaway that would 
 racket anything. The two men, with their sou'westers 
 drawn tight down and their yellow slickers glistening in 
 the rain, peered anxiously into the darkness. How black 
 it was! The great waves rolling toward the Climax 
 were indefinite fantastic, rocking shadows, they 
 seemed, let loose from the enshrouding veil to do their 
 harm. Occasionally the vessel's few lights would quiver 
 along the water on the uproll, lighting a foam-crested 
 wave for an instant; then a sidelong plunge, and all 
 was blank again. 
 
 " Umph," said McWilliams, " a nasty night, Mac- 
 Allister. If the engines " 
 
 He stopped and gripped the engineer's arm. Mac- 
 Allister's face had gone a sickly yellow. 
 
 A sound was roaring up from the very soul of the ship, 
 like the sound of a great oak riven by lightning and 
 falling. The next instant came the frightful whirr of 
 the engines, released from their strain of pushing the 
 steamship and racing free. 
 
 " The shafjMKas^one," shouted MacAllister, jumping 
 for the ladder as the Climax fell off into the trough 
 of the sea. In ten seconds he was in the engine-room 
 shouting to his assistants, who had stopped the engines 
 an instant after the break. As MacAllister had said, the 
 tunnel-shaft had snapped ; snapped clean, right in the 
 middle of the tunnel, and the two ends were battering
 
 174 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 the floor, as the vessel fell off and rolled in the sea 
 hollows. It would be death to venture in there before 
 the ship's head had been brought up into the seas. For 
 two hours she wallowed, while MacAllister cursed and 
 mourned, by turns. Then, slowly, she swung up, under 
 the control of a sea-anchor which McWilliams and his 
 crew had succeeded in streaming. The Captain came 
 down into the engine-room. 
 
 " Well, it's over, I should say, Mac," he groaned. 
 " We're a log in the sea, until we get a tow." 
 
 " I don't know," said MacAllister ; " we're going to 
 try to fix it." Try! He was going to fix it; they were 
 racing the Gourock. 
 
 He already had his men passing chains under the two 
 broken ends; the chains were then suspended from the 
 roof of the tunnel, bringing the two ends to a level. No 
 sooner was this done than MacAllister, in spite of the 
 plunging of the ship and the probability of the chains' 
 letting go their burden, crawled in under the break and 
 began to take hurried measurements. 
 
 " My God," ejaculated the Captain, " come out of 
 there, Mac. It ain't worth it." 
 
 But MacAllister couldn't hear him; it would have 
 made no difference if he had heard. He was under there 
 half an hour until he completed his measurements for 
 a collar to be fastened over the break. The rest of the 
 night he spent in making the collar, and when it was 
 finished at ten o'clock the next morning, he went up on 
 deck to sec the Gourock go by. How she bit the 
 waves as she plunged by, and what a triumphant scream
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS OF THINGS 175 
 
 of her siren was flung back as a jeer at the poor 
 old Climax! White with rage, Captain McWilliams 
 seized the whistle cord and jerked it until even the roar 
 of the storm was shattered by the volume of sound pour- 
 ing out of the Climax's brazen whistle. The Gourock 
 replied with several small toots ; it was as acri- 
 monious a dialogue as two vessels ever indulged in. 
 MacAllister went down to his work with a grim smile. 
 Twelve hours he spent on his back underneath the two 
 swaying ends of the broken shaft, and four hours, cramped 
 in a squatting position in the narrow space. At the end 
 of forty-eight hours he had bolted the jacket into place, 
 and then he emerged from the tunnel and toppled over 
 on the engine-room floor, asleep even as he fell. When 
 'he came to, he was in his bunk, and the first impression 
 he had was of a vast groaning and clanging down in the 
 Climax's vitals, which told him his engines were per- 
 forming their work once more. 
 
 Thus the Climax went on her way, the collar hold- 
 ing, and the engines doing all the work that MacAllister 
 could expect, and more, too. From this time there were 
 few minutes that he was not among them, sometimes in 
 the tunnel, but more often now that the shaft might 
 break again with his ear against the bulkhead door, 
 listening to the sounds within, almost pleading with the 
 great shaft to be strong and do its work. 
 
 Five days later the Captain called him to the bridge 
 to look at a strange object dead ahead. The hull re- 
 sembled that of the Gourock, but there were points 
 of dissimilarity which rendered the matter uncertain.
 
 176 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 " It must be the Gourock" said McWilliams, strain- 
 ing his eyes through the battered binoculars. " But 
 she looks queer. Take another look. Mac. She ought 
 to be somewhere ahead." 
 
 MacAllister pressed the glasses to his eyes, took a long, 
 hard look, and then uttered a howl of joy as the glasses 
 fell with a crash. 
 
 " Whoop, aye, it's the Gourock/' he screamed, " and 
 she's lost her funnel. Rolled it clean overboard. Look." 
 
 It was even so. Evidently the storm of the two days 
 back had swept it overboard, and there she lay gasping 
 and wheezing like a stranded whale. 
 
 " I'll sympathize with them," said McWilliams, grimly 
 seizing the whistle cord. 
 
 As the Climax passed the hooker, the insults all came 
 from her. The Gourock's whistle had gone with the 
 funnel. 
 
 " Now for it," muttered MacAllister, going below. 
 
 Now for it, indeed. Sandy Hook was four days away, 
 and the Climax had but a few hours to spare. Even 
 at that, the old vessel must keep pushing. So she did 
 until nine hours after the Gourock had been left as- 
 tern, and then MacAllister began to detect a new note 
 in the chorus of the engine-room. He couldn't tell what 
 it was, but the spirit of his engines, was clear. Hope- 
 less, pessimistic, jarring, it rose and grew, an alien note 
 for those brave, clattering old engines to send up. So 
 MacAllister was not surprised to find that most of the 
 push was going out of the Climax. She was logging 
 miserably, and the screw seemed to be putting barely
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS OF THINGS 177 
 
 sufficient power in her kick to whiten the water. 
 
 For twenty-four hours the Climax did not average 
 more than three knots hourly, and the time limit was 
 rapidly drawing to a close. Once fall behind, and it 
 would make little difference whether or not she reached 
 port at all. MacAllister was aging rapidly. He had 
 his suspicions as to what the matter was, but said nothing 
 until he had investigated thoroughly. What he discov- 
 ered confirmed his worst fears, and it was two hours be- 
 fore he made up his mind to report the facts to the Cap- 
 tain. When he decided, he called his staff together, gave 
 several orders, and then went up on the bridge. In an- 
 swer to McWilliams' questioning look, the engineer 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I have had the fire pulled out from under the main 
 boiler." McWilliams uttered a heavy oath and kicked 
 out a section of the hand-rail. 
 
 " Tubes? " he finally asked. 
 
 " Aye, leaky tubes," said MacAllister. " Ye might 
 well curse 'em the Climax, her boilers, and every- 
 thing else." 
 
 " But we can't lose now," cried McWilliams. He 
 groaned. "Can't we do anything?" 
 
 " We're a-goin' to try," replied the engineer. " I'm 
 a-goin' into that boiler. If it can be fixed, we'll fix it, 
 all right. Were ye ever in Hell, McWilliams?" 
 
 McWilliams stared at him as he made his way from 
 the bridge, and then turned his gaze astern as though he 
 expected to see the Gourock rushing up over the ocean. 
 Hut she was nowhere in sight.
 
 178 THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 Half an hour later, MacAllister, wrapped from head 
 to foot in a coating of asbestos, approached the maniole 
 of the boijer. He put in his hand, holding it there for 
 five minutes. 
 
 " Not so hot. I guess I can stand it. When I come 
 near the opening, stand by to haul me out," he said to 
 his assistants. 
 
 Then, with hammer and chisel in hand, he went into 
 that hellish boiler and began tearing out the defective 
 tubes. He worked for a minute, holding his breath in 
 the meanwhile a single lung-full of that hot, rust- 
 laden air would have killed him. Then he came out. 
 Seven minutes later he went in again. He cut away 
 two tubes before he was hauled out. The next time 
 foujjtubes were removed, and then he tooj^ji. ten minutes' 
 rest. He had cut out all the defective tubes, and now 
 new tubes to replace them must be reamed in. In doing 
 this, he was obliged to enter the boiler five^times. stay- 
 ing in each time a full minute. As the last tube was 
 fixed, he was hauled unconscious from the manhole and 
 carried on deck. He did not know that the Gourock 
 had passed three hours before, with a funnel rigged up 
 out of sheets of tin and pieces of junk, held together by 
 wisps of old sails, twine, and rope-ends, and stayed by 
 lines made fast to the mast rails, such a wonderful 
 sight that Captain McWilliams' whistle forgot to swear 
 as she waddled past like a slatternly old woman. 
 
 So MacAllister was carried to his bunk, where he 
 lay for many hours, raving and declaring that he was 
 toasting in a fiery furnace. But his work was done.
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS OF THINGS 179 
 
 Now it was for McWilliams to carry it through to con- 
 clusion. Fires were started again under the repaired 
 boiler, and fat and oil were mixed with the coal. It 
 seemed as if the engines would kick their way out through 
 the bottom of the ship. They got her up to eight knots, 
 and they held her there, and when she passed the Gou- 
 rock between Fire Island and Sandy Hook, McWilliams 
 ran down from the bridge and carried the chief engineer 
 on deck to see the fun. 
 
 Up the bay she clattered, pausing just long enough at 
 quarantine to report no contagious disease and to be 
 passed by the health officer October 4th, and one 
 hour and five minutes before midnight. Events followed 
 swiftly ; a plunge up to the Statue of Liberty, a tug 
 hurrying alongside in response to continuous whistling, 
 the Captain's leap to the deck with his papers in his 
 pocket; a dash for the Battery landing, a hack tearing 
 for the Custom . Hqyse; a bustling of sleepy clerks; and 
 then Captain McWilliams sighing and lighting a cigar 
 with trembling hands one minute before midnight, and 
 his entire cargo swojri_jn. The Gourock's skipper 
 came in time to qualify under the new duties of the Mc- 
 Kinley Bill. 
 
 A cable despatch to Captain McWilliams the next day 
 announced the gratitude and appreciation of Bolton and 
 Perkins, and when the details of the passage were 
 learned, MacAllister received one himself; and that jyas 
 all there ever_was; but then, what could he expect? 
 
 ^lacAllister is chief engineer on one of the finest trans- 
 Atlantic liners now, where the shaft-tunnel is brilliant
 
 i8o THE JOY IN WORK 
 
 with electric lights against white walls and tiled flooring 
 where the sounds ever constitute a grand symphony. 
 Yet, when MacAllister closes his eyes and thinks of that 
 oily, mysterious little tunnel of the Climax he feels 
 that he has lost something. But that is always the way 
 with dreamers. 
 
 LAWRENCe-'PERRY. 
 
 THE BND
 
 iiiiiiiiinni 
 
 A 000024233