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of explosions of baffled wrath from the White Shirt and mild perplexity from the Blue Gingham. They ran across it, shouting; they walked across it, puzzled. They collapsed on it, to pant and rest. They called across it from opposite thickets to each other, to ask what luck. They stood in the middle of it and scratched their heads. And once in a long while, the horses crossed it-now a brown streak moving above the green leafage where the bushes were low, now cantering into the open, flicking their tails and having a very happy time.

They were n't his horses, said the Blue Gingham. They were the other man's. He just thought he'd give him a hand. The White Shirt had a great deal more to say. Not that he loitered to say it—in fact, he was generally running all the way across. But he somehow managed in passing to convey a great deal. He'd been after those horses since eight o'clock this morning, lady. He was tired out, running. He did n't know when he'd been so tired. He was winded. He'd like to know where the devil those horses went. He was to bring them in this morning, and here it was eleven o'clock, and his folks were moving to-day and he had to go home. He did n't know what he was going to do. Those horses were foxy. They were the coach-horses, and they'd always been here and knew every lane.

It had never occurred to me before to think of those horses as belonging to anyone. I had just thought of them as independent personalities roaming the woods at will within the limitation of certain fences, perhaps; we all have our barriers somewhere. And here they were flooded with a whole new light, creatures of duties, subject to a foreman, a boss to who knows what hierarchy of authority? maybe to Her maybe to Her in the end. Here they were shown as unreliable, sly, selfish, lazy - no con

sideration for anybody's comfort-no reasonableness-no gratitude-out on strike at present, for shorter hours and more time to eat, and who cares what becomes of the established social system! How little you really know the people you meet every day!

Well, White Shirt was winded. As he said, he'd been at it since eight o'clock this morning, and he was tired running all the time. He dropped on a stone under a tree. He mopped his face and his wide-open neck and chest. "They've nothing to do but run and eat,' he said. 'On our place you just hold out an apple and the horses'll come right to you. We don't ever tie the cows. Don't have to. Milk them right out in the open field, and they'll stand. Come right to you when you call them, and let down their milk. They know when it's milking-time. If they were my horses,' said White Shirt vindictively, 'I'd put them to the plough. I'd work some of the fat off 'em. Work 'em eight hours a day. Then I guess they would n't run! Keep 'em at it about two weeks!'

Once, for a long time, there was quiet, and I supposed the wicked were caught. But they were n't. White Shirt reappeared with a paper-bag under his arm and a hunk of bread and an apple in one hand. I supposed it was lure, but it was really lunch.

'It's hard to have to eat while you run,' he said. 'Have those horses been by?'

No, they had n't been by.

'I'm going down that way,' he said. 'If they come along, will you just let me know, please?'

I would, willingly. But this time White Shirt did loiter. With one foot on my rock just above where it slanted out of the grass, he hung, poised, and we exchanged the stories of our lives. All the while he fancied himself gone down that way, hotfoot after his horses mopped his brow at intervals and

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"They found us in the city,' he said; 'took us out there. I was seven years old, and there was my brother and my sister younger. Found us in New York City! My father and mother abandoned us. No, never heard anything about them. Don't know what became of them, or anything. I used to think - could n't go to sleep at night. Up to the time I was married-up to the time I was thirty years old - I used to stay awake at nights wondering if I'd ever see my parents, and wishing I knew who they was and what they was like and what became of them. My brother done me out of three hundred dollars. That was eighteen years ago. I never saw him since. Yes, I often wished I knew about my father and my mother. Fifty years ago. Left us here in this city.'

Again he asked me to let him know, please, if the horses passed this way, and again imagined himself gone. He was pretty tired running after those horses. He'd been weeding the grass this morning and hurt his finger. 'See!' Mathematics applied to his story would seem to make him out fifty-seven, but he might have been five when he held out his grubby forefinger to show me the long red cut across it.

'Cut it on a piece of wiregrass. It would n't be so bad, but the place all seems so run down - lots of weeds and everything. I've only been on the place a week.'

He keeps acquainted with his sister. She never done him out of anything, I judge. She has a big farm in Illinois. It is the next farm to the one they grew up on, where the cows stand and the horses are friendly and acquainted. I suppose she had married the farm, but did n't learn that, because he got interested in telling me about the butter.

He knows how to make butter without any buttermilk. There's a little whey, but not any buttermilk at all. He made fifteen dollars once. Some people said he could n't do it, and he said he'd show them, and they put up fifteen dollars, and he did do it. It's his receipt. Usually you take a pound of cream and you don't get a pound of butter out of it; but his way you get more than a pound. He knows all about raising vegetables - beans and tomatoes and corn and all the vegetables. You put in so much seed, and you get so many bushels back, and so many tomatoes to the plant; and so much money it's worth and so much to the acre. Of course, he was n't indefinite like that. He talked in figures; but I'm not an intelligent farmer as he is, so I don't remember. But he does n't forget it not any of it. Twenty years ago, and he goes over it in his mind now it's like going to school again. He does n't forget a thing about it.

He can make maple syrup, too. That's another of his receipts. You put it on your cakes, and you'd say it was Vermont maple syrup. He'd give any man five dollars who could tell the difference. Nothing in it that would hurt you. It's one kind of bark he does n't know whether it grows in these woods or not, but it's a tree that grows back there. I took it that meant Illinois. You boil it in water and put in a chemical, and pebbles - that is, you strain it through pebbles and charcoal, and put in so much sugar to so much liquor, and when you get it the same

color as the maple syrup he'd give any man five dollars.

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As I was going home, I met him down where the path goes over the wall. He called to me as soon as I came in sight, to know whether they'd been up there in my direction; but they had n't. He'd mended the fence down here, and he did n't believe they could have got over he wondered if they could. I did n't believe they could, either, for the low place in the wall was so built up that I did n't recognize it, and there are new barbed wires across, besides.

And all this in New York City, just off Broadway, and three blocks from the subway station!

ASTRONOMY

After the sun has gone to bed,
The stars come out. All overhead
I've seen them twinkling. It was late,
For sometimes I stay up till eight.

If I stayed up till half-past ten,
I could n't count them, even then.
But when the moon is shining bright,
Most of the stars keep out of sight.

And one night, when the moon was gone,

I thought I saw them on the lawn,
As if from out my window I
Was looking right down at the sky.

But that was ignorant of me:
They were not stars at all, you see,
But little flies that fly at night,
Each carrying a tiny light.

A QUEER THING

I've got a shadow- and I think It looks like when I spilled the ink, And made a spot upon the floor That won't come off forevermore.

The first time that I noticed it, I was astonished, I admit.

I wondered what that thing could be That went along in front of me!

They tell me that because the sun Can't shine through me, or anyone, I make this shadow on the land. But how, I do not understand.

So when the sun is shining clear,
My shadow's always somewhere near;
And every little thing I do
My shadow goes and does it too.

And if my shadow's not in sight,
In front of me, or left, or right,
I quickly turn about and find
My shadow tagging on behind.

And sometimes it is thin and tall Along the grass or on the wall. And sometimes it is short and fat; And always it is very flat.

It never makes the slightest sound To let me know that it is round; And cloudy days I look in vain For it. I guess it fears the rain.

JOHN

On January 13, 1820, Keats wrote to his sister-in-law, in America, 'If you should have a boy, do not christen him John, and persuade George not to let his partiality for me come across. "T is a bad name, and goes against a man. If my name had been Edmund, I should have been more fortunate.'

Whether or not this was true about John Keats, the principle is true about many other names foisted upon defenseless children, who grow up embittered by a real malediction, a name disliked. We can learn to endure our own features and our other limitations, but a name cannot be lived down, it is always being spoken or written. Who can say what an incentive there might be in Edmund? Who knows what elements

of harmony contributed to make certain names famous? Possibly the sound of the author's name, rather than his merit, has won fame for many a writer.

Coleridge insisted that a woman's name should be a trochee. Is it, perhaps, by trochees that we measure the fame of Geoffrey Chaucer, Edmund Spenser, William Shakespeare, Walter Raleigh, Philip Sidney, Francis Bacon, Robert Herrick, Isaak Walton, William Wordsworth, Percy Shelley, Robert Browning, Walter Pater, and many others? A man or woman named in trochaic dimeter will

Climb the hill that braves the stars. Why did Keats long to be Edmund? There seems to be no special tradition of literary fortune among Edmunds. Edmund Spenser, of course, was the poet who gave Keats his first inspiration to achievement, and Edmund Kean aroused Keats to a profounder sense of Shakespearean tragedy. It would be easier to explain a preference

for William. It seems to be an axiom that a boy named William will succeed in literature. Will was the name for a poet, in the Middle Ages, as Bayard was the name for a horse. In a rapid glance over the annals of English literature I have found twenty-seven Williams who have won lasting fame.

Keats said: 'We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us.' With this quotation in mind let us consider the precedent of John in English literature.

John Gower was the great pedantic moralist; John Wyclif, the controversial first Protestant; John Skelton was tutor to Henry VIII; John Lyly launched Euphuistic platitudes; John Milton wrote Paradise Lost; John Bunyan, imprisoned, wrote an allegory (matchless, to be sure); John Dryden wrote two of the most childishly vapid odes in literature, for, in his own language, he was sequacious of the lyre;

John Locke pried into the Human Understanding.

It is easy to see why Keats did not care to be listed with the Johns.

His friends called him, affectionately, 'Junkets'; and in this year of the centenary of his death, critics, interpreters, and readers have made amends for his John, for they have 'call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme.'

There are, however, cases of real hardship in names. I fear for the future of a beautiful child named Jabez. Whatever he does, he deserves forgiveness. Harsh unmelodious names ought to be taboo. No human being should be compelled to wear, not only inherited features and tendencies, but also inherited names. Here in New England many a disposition is wrecked by the possession of some such Biblical ancestral name.

And then there are the classical names. Why torment a boy by calling him Achilles, or a girl by naming her Calliope? There are tragedies and comedies of names Proper, or otherwise. Think of being called, aloud, 'Poe,' and think of surmounting this affliction by writing beautiful poems! Names have some occult influence over destiny.

Why did Cowley ruminate in the pastoral strain, in many of his writings? Was it not because he was Phineas, that Fletcher wrote his Piscatory Dialogues? What made Gay and Swift the fast friends of the Wicked Wasp of Twickenham? Is there a reasonable doubt of the suitability of the publication of Swinburne's poems by Chatto and Windus? Why was 'Fiona Macleod' preferred by the man who wielded a critical Sharp pen?

The moral is clear. Even if a last name is unchangeable, a first name may be bestowed wisely. Give a boy a name that has no predetermined character, no conspicuousness; let him make it have individuality - call him John.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS' COLUMN

When the World War broke out, Paul Dukes was living in Petrograd. Unable to pass the physical examination required by the army, he took advantage of his accurate knowledge of the Russian language and people, and volunteered for the British Secret Service. He was assigned to the place of a valuable agent recently murdered by the Bolsheviki, and for the better part of a year lived a life such as any master of detective fiction might profit by. Dukes served in a munition factory, and subsequently was drafted into the Red army itself. He organized an extensive courier service and sent out information of great value. Subsequently he was knighted for his services. This Atlantic article describes in detail the opening chapter of his extraordinary adventures. Dallas Lore Sharp is Professor of English at Boston University. Katharine Fullerton Gerould is, fortunately, a frequent contributor to these pages. Jean Kenyon Mackenzie is the well-loved author of Black Sheep, and the more recent Fortunate Youth, which we never cease from recommending to every Atlantic reader.

Laura Spencer Portor (Mrs. Francis Pope) is connected with a leading women's journal of New York. L. Adams Beck is an English scholar and traveler, now living in the Canadian West. William Beebe has returned from one of his most profitable sojourns at the Jungle Laboratory in Kartabo. The Atlantic is glad to announce that the second of the four gorgeous volumes of his monograph on the pheasant is now off the press. We call them 'gorgeous' advisedly, for there is, perhaps, no more intense beauty in nature than a pheasant's plumage; and in both text and pictures that beauty is caught and held to an extent which, to us, at any rate, seems quite incredible. Alfred G. Rolfe is senior master at the Hill School, Pottstown, Pennsylvania.

Belle Skinner, who has 'adopted' the village of Hattonchâtel, is an American who

has done much generous and self-sacrificing work in France. Harry Hubert Field is a young Englishman, who went from the public school into service in 1914, and served with distinction and continuously until his demobilization in April, 1919. After the appearance of the American divisions in France, he happened to be assigned as 'observer' to one after another of the successive detachments of raw troops. A friend of Captain Field writes to the editor: —

His mental attitude toward America from 1914 till April, 1917, was the attitude that 'the thin red line could scarcely escape. . . . [But] it was the acquaintance thus made with Americans in the flesh-coupled with the deepened and sober thoughts that four and three quarters years of war so extraordinarily developed in that remnant of England's best that yet lives that brought home to him personally the real significance of the Anglo-American relation. So, no sooner was he demobilized than, with a directness of action that showed the fundamental sincerity of the thought, he got straight to the job as he saw it: pushed aside any idea of a period of rest, came directly to America, and with a notion that the understratum of our structure might be the one to learn first, went to work as a day-laborer in one of the big factories in Buffalo. Day-work and piece-work among the common run of Poles, Hungarians, negroes, and what not - he stuck it out for seven months: learned, by sharing, the conditions under which the men lived and worked, visited their homes as one of them and was accepted by them as a comrade. All this, not from the point of view of an uplifter,' or a 'muckraker,' or a Socialist, but from that of an English gentleman, anxious to learn our domestic conditions and difficulties in order that he might sympathetically interpret, in some later time of need, America to England. Personally I think that I have rarely heard of any more unselfish and high-minded bit of service, or of one more difficult. . . . The name [Paul Zonbor] is the only bit of fiction in the narrative.

Grover Clark was born in Japan of American parents. He was educated in America, and is a graduate of Oberlin and Chicago universities. For the last three years he has been in Japan and China, engaged in teaching and research work along sociological and political lines. He now holds a chair in Government at the University of Peking.

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