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been pointedly distinguished. I began or saffron-colored shawl over her head; to speculate about the wig as mental the Breton girl has the most immaculate furniture in the annals of the intellec- white muslin cap, according to the tual life. Lawyers, in England, still style in her village. I have suspected maintain their prestige by wearing the that the short story of Samson's hair wig. In Edinburgh, tourists flock to might be interpreted more accurately. the advocates' library, where they can Delilah undoubtedly desired a new see the young advocates strolling up head-dress. Women are driven to exand down, crowned, not by laurels, but pedients in every age when pocket by false, gray hair. Why did teachers money is scarce. But to-day the girl of abandon wigs to the legal profession?

America listens in wrath to a passage Probably the lawyer's habit of split- which I am fond of reading to my stuting hairs makes it essential for him to dents, yearly, telling – have access to an unlimited supply.

How he, Simplicius Gallus, lefte his wyf, Royalty, too, once wore wigs; Roman And hir forsook for terme of al his lyf, emperors and Egyptian potentates Noght but for open-heeded he hir say found them serviceable; Louis XIV re

Locking out at his dore upon a day. vived the fashion, preparing the way for As a result of my reflections, I think

a wigs — bag, bob, tie, bush, scratch; curl- favorably of grandfather's white bush ed, dyed, powdered, beribboned. wig. Was there not secrecy and safety

In the great epoch of Wigs and in this intellectual ambush? His pupils Whigs, even the author of Robinson could not see through his mental proCrusoe wore a wig! The hair-dressers of cesses. The very thought inclines one to the day evidently vied with one another revolt against the open mind. I shall for custom. One literary perruquier, who ignore the fashion of my own day; I wished to allure both sacred and pro- shall not dye ‘at the top'; I shall add, fane had a sign in his shop-window:- to my stature, a fair-haired counterfeit.

0 Absalom, O Absalom,
O Absalom, my son!

PIES AN ESSAY
If thou hadst worn a peri-wig
Thou hadst not been undone.

At our house pies were a real occasion After all, the fashion of wearing fraught with happiness, and everything

, wigs, ridiculous as it seems to us, is

was as it should have been. Mother, disonly one manifestation of the eternal tant far-away pretty mother, descende impulse to cover the head, to conceal it into the kitchen with a large redfrom the eyes of others. Protection checked gingham apron, which flowed from enemies (especially phrenologists), all over her pretty shoulders and gave warmth for this poll-ar region of the size and matronly proportions to her human body, decoration – all were de otherwise slim figure. Her face besired. Anubis (as pictured in the dic- came flushed with the happiness of tionary) wore a head-dress, fur-side manual labor. And I watched her with outside; the oriental veil, the monastic ecstasy as she handled the huge old cowl, the Turkish fez, the anonymous range, dexterously shutting a draft ringlets of modern times, belong with here, opening one there, until the stove the wig as a sort of surmounting alias. glowed in pride and a red heat of antici

Woman especially has been instructed pated pleasure. Mother allowed none to be covered, for her hair is a deadly of the servants in the kitchen when she snare to the observer. The peasant descended to make pies. That was what woman in Italy, to-day, wears her blue made the day one long day of satisfac

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tion-revealing mother to me intimate world, seemed to be a rolling pie-crust. ly, personally, as I saw her upstairs.

Back and forth it rolled, twisting grace You who have never had far-away fully, squeezing out from under the artist mothers can never know the long rolling-pin, farther and farther across lonesome days that glide into each the table. The whole room seemed other endlessly. You can never know suddenly to have become quiet, watchhow ravenously I watched and listened ing mother. The fire crackled less and smelled during these fragrant, spicy noisily, and the saucepans lowered their hours.

bubbling to a gentle simmer. They were After the fire-building came great watching mother and listening to her bowls from the pantry; and together humming snatches of the ‘Marseillaise' mother and I searched the dark, damp and gently thumping and coaxing endcellar for apples and jars of fruit. I less pie-crust into delicate crusty sheets. clung to her hand and felt well-nigh to Once in a while, she would pause and bursting as I thought how brave my would smile happily, dreamily at me. I pretty mother must be; for, while I was squirmed restlessly then, for I thought peering furtively at the dark places with a pang that to-morrow she would for spiders and black, crawly things, be my far-away mother again. mother walked lightly and assuredly,

I watched her pour the saucepans clasping her hand firmly over mine full of spicy fruit into deep cavernous when she felt me start. How I loved her crusts. I watched her fit the top crusts for that!

over the pies, closing the steaming When we came back laden with fruit into a prison of juicy fragrance. I apples and jars of fruit, I always watched her — oh, endlessly! It seemed climbed up on cook's huge, old chair to me I never could watch her enough right next to the tables — something I on these rare, glorious days when I never dared to do on other days, even really owned a real mother. when cook was in her most engaging As the brown crusty smell of baking mood. I watched mother empty jars crust mingled with the fruit and spices swiftly; plums and pears and peaches and filled the air with warmth and frasplashing gayly into saucepans. It

grance, my mother gathered me into seemed to me mother's hands never her arms. She drew up cook's old rocklooked daintier or more beautiful than er, and we traveled back together to when she took a pinch of this brown other days, when mother was a girl, spice or a pinch of that yellow, softer back to a tiny house in Southern France stuff from the spice-jars. She hesitated where there were sisters and sisters and and studied about each pinch. One sisters, and nobody ever got lonely, would think she was hesitating over the and mother's face grew very young and browns in one of her great pictures. gay; gay, wet curls fell over her eyes as

Soon the saucepans were bubbling she told about the grapes to pick, and merrily on the stove, sending out cin- the work to be finished before a day namons and spices from Araby, and was called a day; as she told me of mother was in the most delicious part of spankings and great holidays. We the pie-making - mixing the crust! I laughed recklessly! The young, pretty never asked to help roll. I did not want artist-mother of mine was warm and to miss one fraction of a minute watch- tender. How I loved her, and how I ing the delightful process in mother's longed for all days to be filled with hands.

large juicy pies and a warm regular Gradually the whole room, the whole mother!

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THE CONTRIBUTORS' COLUMN

won

Frank Tannenbaum leading a mob up erations been a famous teacher at Harvard Fifth Avenue, and Frank Tannenbaum University. Discussing popular fallacies graduating with distinction from Columbia about the Puritans, he writes not uncharUniversity, have attracted diverse expres- acteristically: ‘We should remember that sions of opinion. We quote an interesting something like ten per cent of mankind are editorial from the New York Globe.

constitutionally sour. How unfair it is to

pick out that ten per cent of Puritans and The shopworn adventure of the poor boy who became rich has been outdone by Frank Tannen

make them representative!' Vicente Blasco baum, although the latter's career has hardly be

Ibañez first attracted to himself the attengun. Mr. Tannenbaum got into the public eye in tion of Spain by a political sonnet which 1914, when, by leading an orderly little mob into

him applause and imprisonment. a church, he called attention to the pitiable condition of the unemployed. The method he used

More than thirty years later, though long did not appeal favorably to those who look upon

since famous in his native country, he atchurches as places of Worship, but it opened the tracted the attention of the world by his eyes of many people and the hearts of a few. As

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Born in for Tannenbaum, he found lodging on Blackwell's Island for a year. His history since then throws

Valencia, of Aragonese parents, he is now light upon America during one of the most event- living in Paris. Editorial writer, printer, ful lustrums in its annals. In 1914 most news- investigator, and practical philosopher, Arpaper readers probably considered him a dan

thur Pound lives in Flint, Michigan, where gerous radical, although in that golden pre-war age the man in the street, instead of going into

the Buick, Chevrolet, and other familiar hysterics, merely smiled in a superior and rather types of cars are made, and where there convincing way at the antics of the little band is detailed opportunity to study the effect of Utopians.

of automotive machinery on human charTwo years later, Tannenbaum was working in

acter. a shipyard and trying to stir his fellow workers to greater efforts to counteract the ravages of the German submarines; two years after that, he was

Wilbur C. Abbott has been a member of in the army, and by his patriotic zeal had earned the rank of sergeant; a year later he had resumed

the History Department of Dartmouth, his studies at Columbia University; and this

University of Michigan, University of week finds him graduating with highest honors Kansas, University of Chicago, Yale, and in history and economics,' a Phi Beta Kappa key

now, Harvard. He is a professor among in recognition of a brilliant record in his studies, and a scholarship which will enable him to take

professors — and something more. DuBose an advanced degree.

Heyward, a poet of North Carolina, makes There is another moral in this story than the his first appearance in the Atlantic. William mere conversion of a 'radical' to 'liberalism.'

Beebe is a household word in the Atlantic This is that youth, enthusiasm, and a degree of ignorance sufficient to make a youngster a noisy

Dictionary. Emma Lawrence (Mrs. John and irrational objector to the existing order may S. Lawrence) is a Bostonian whose first cover up the most admirable qualities and the story appeared in the Atlantic two months highest abilities. Probably Mr. Tannenbaum has found out that if the world is to be made better,

ago. it must be done by prolonged hard work and painstaking preparation; but probably he does

Rufus M. Jones, the author of many valnot regret that, before this was quite so clear to

uable studies of the Quaker faith, is Profeshim, he flung his gauntlet blindly in the face of what he thought injustice and a cruel indifference

sor of Philosophy at Haverford College, and to human suffering.

editor of the Friends' Review. Edward Carrington Venable, a member of the Flying

Corps during the war, lives in Baltimore. George Herbert Palmer, Professor Emer- Anne Winslow (Mrs. E. E. Winslow) is a itus of Philosophy, has for nearly two gen- contributor new to the Atlantic.

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Lieutenant-Colonel Charles à Court ish naval critic, of recognized attainments. Repington saw early and brilliant service in At the Atlantic's request, he writes this judiIndia, Afghanistan, Burma, the Sudan, and cious and important comparison of the relaother British outposts of Empire. Subse- tive strength of the American and Japanese quently he was Military Attaché at Brus- navies. Admiral Sims gives, in another sels and The Hague. After leaving the column, a highly interesting estimate of Mr. army, he became military critic of the Lon- Bywater's views. don Times, where his articles (we quote from his most bitter critic) 'are almost News from Russia is more voluminous models of their kind; clear, sprightly, tell- than authentic. Our readers will be intering — almost classical journalism.' Leav- ested in this record of the actual experiing the Times under dramatic circum- ences of a Russian lady, whose name, for stances, he joined the Morning Post. Every prudence' sake, we do not reveal. reader who has followed the war is familiar

PETROGRAD. with his subsequent record, and all students

DEAR ATLANTIC, with his Diaries of the First World-War.

We are alive, but our existence can hardly be To all interested in Colonel Repington's called living. We are buried alive: no news from adventurous and dramatic life, we recom

the outside world, no new books, papers, or magmend his autobiography, published under

azines. 'They' have their own publications, in

which they can lie to their hearts' content. I the title of Vestigia. His competence never read them. to discuss the present subject will not be We suffered from hunger and cold, especially in called in question. Walter B. Pitkin, who

the winters of 1919 and 1920. I had the scurvy,

but am better now. This last winter we suffered has devoted much time to the study of the

less, but our life is still hard to bear. We subsist Far East, writes in the belief that ‘American

on rations which are distributed to us, and conreaders have heard too much about the sist of black bread of inferior quality, smoked Open Door in China and too little about soy

herring which I cannot swallow, frozen potatoes, beans in Manchuria, coal in Shensi, cotton

and sometimes meat; also a little butter and a

few apples; no genuine tea, coffee, or cocoa. We in South China, and a hundred other con

depend mostly on porridge (cereal) and a few crete matters that cannot be disposed of other things such as we can buy; for although it by fine generalities.'

is illegal to trade, almost everyone ‘speculates.' We cannot keep servants, and do our own work. I don't find that so very hard, but it is hard

to witness Russia's complete annihilation; that J. O. P. Bland knows China, if anybody is painful, indeed. A country without trade is does. For years he was Secretary to the

dead. Municipality for the Foreign Settlements in

You would not recognize Petrograd – it is deShanghai, and representative in China of

populated. The former millions have shrunk into

hundreds! No traffic in the streets, no izroshthe British and Chinese Corporation. More zhiks; most of the horses have been killed; only a recently, he has served as a distinguished few wretched conveyances, which are so crowded correspondent of the London Times. A

that an old woman like myself dare not venture

to use them. world-traveler and carefully trained ob

We live in a wild country, among savages who server, Mr. Bland may be definitely classed rule by terror. Lies, devastation, famine, conas a realist in his discussions of political and tagious diseases, and privations of all kinds are social questions. E. Alexander Powell has

common.

They are not organizers, but destroyers. The corresponded for the papers round the world

greater part of the forests have been cut down, and back again. A veteran in the service, but still we have no wood to keep us warm. A he has devoted a great deal of time to in- great many wooden houses have been demolished, vestigating the questions centring on the

and hardly a summer home remains standing. It

will be a desert soon. It is impossible to describe western shores of the Pacific. Herbert Side

the misery we have suffered. One has to live in botham, who succeeded to the post left va- the midst of it to understand. The despotism of cant by Colonel Repington, under dramatic the Tsars was nothing in comparison. We cannot circumstances, as military critic of the Lon

move, we cannot go anywhere without leave, and

to obtain leave is well-nigh impossible. One must don Times, has just severed his connection

negotiate for weeks, and even months; andat preswith that paper. Hector C. Bywater is a Brit- ent the railways can hardly be said either to be town,' the man replied. “Those people are a poor DEAR ATLANTIC,

a

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safe for travel or to function satisfactorily. (Les vestigate. I found in a crevice a magazine. Judge chemins de fer sont presque annihilés; ils sont de- my surprise when I discovered it to be an Atlantic puis longtemps dans une position catastrophique.) Monthly published in 1867, two years after the

It is three years since we have been able to buy Civil War. Although the cabin is almost a ruin, any wearing apparel or footwear. Nothing is ob- the print is in first-class condition and also the tainable, not even pins and needles. I am old and paper, although it has lain here for fifty-four need but little, and what I have may last me years. I think it is a unique find, and if you are until I die, but the young people are almost des- interested, write to titute — dans une position incroyable. Every

PATRICK H. FOESSLER. thing has been stolen from our country-house, even our library and we had been collecting books for fifty years! The trees in the park on the estate have been all cut down; everything has

‘Our Street,' we agree, is open to further been desolated (saccagé); but we only share the

discussion, and to friendly traffic of every general fate.

sort. For this little thoroughfare, not less Wells could not have been allowed to see much, than ‘Main Street' and 'The Drive,' is as he was conducted' most of the time, and saw only what they chose to show him. He may have

found on the road-map of every American heard the truth, however, from Pavlof (the well

town. And for some of us it is the familiar known professor of physiology, who received the road toward home. Nobel Prize).

We are in almost total ignorance as to what DEAR ATLANTIC, happened in the years 1918, 1919, and 1920. Never before have I wished to usurp the edi

Although the salary of as Professor is torial prerogative -- but why could n't there fifty thousand rubles a month, the money has no have been more of 'Our Street'? Why could n't value and prices are monstrous. An egg costs a the Atlantic have sent it back with a request for a thousand rubles, a pound of bread three thousand, little more detail, a little wider vista, perhaps for a pound of butter seventeen thousand, and a a larger, more comprehensive canvas? For there pound of meat ten thousand and more.

is more of it, a great deal more of it, in spite of Cherish no illusions about our higher schools, Masters and Mencken and Sinclair Lewis. universities, or polytechnic institutions: they are Let me confess that for me 'Our Street' is not flourishing, they are only shadows of their making the most effective assault possible upon former selves. There are few students, and those the so-called realists — it is so real, and at the who atttend cannot study with any degree of same time so permanent, like Truth and Progress comfort. The buildings are not heated, and it is and Human Charity. Its reality and its fine perimpossible to study in a temperature of six de- manency speak to me every day through all my grees below zero (Réaumur). There is neither wa- windows and my open doors, with the wafted ter nor gas in the laboratories.

odors of my neighbor's baking and the strong It is the same everywhere. In such conditions young voices of her children. We are plain peoyou would not think that life was possible! ple, working-people all, with barely a college de

gree to go around. But there are no fences be

tween our houses; our green corn and our new One used to believe that the names of biscuits find their way to more than one table; the great and celebrated should not suffer when one of us gets to hear Rachmaninoff, he abbreviation. According to the following brings the programme home for the rest to see.

We exchange paper patterns and opera records letter, however, the Plague of Abbreviation

and Atlantics; for how could one have all these is no respecter of rank.

things at once? And quite often we go shopping DEAR ATLANTIC,

for a new dining-room rug and come home with

books. Your article on the Plague of Abbreviation called to mind some correspondence with a

Periodically, usually in the spring, some of us brother clergyman, who always signed himself

wonder if we should n't try to find a house ‘yours in the faith of O.B.L.' It took me a good

on the Drive — for the children's sake, you while to find out what 0.B.L. really meant.

know. But somehow we never do. The soil seems Yours truly,

to suit us, here on Our Street, and moving might FRANK DURANT.

very well destroy in us something native and nat

ural to that homely environment. It took us a good while, too.

I have heard, somewhere, the story of a Quaker who overtook a man traveling with a van-load of

household goods. Old Atlantics are carefully kept. Note 'Is thee moving, Robert?' asked the Quaker. this curious instance.

“Yes, and I'm glad to get away from that

lot; not a decent soul among them.' While walking in the Adirondack Mountains, 'Friend,' said the Quaker, 'thee will find the I came across an old log-cabin and went in to in- same wherever thee goes!'

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