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15 December, 1918.

All was quiet when the few-worded message came of the signing of the Armistice. Of course, in a little neutral land there would be no official celebration. A crowd gathered quickly when the few-worded bulletin was put up, and some asked me, 'Can it be true?' And some said, 'God give it be truth!' and some wiped their eyes. And I said 'Gud ske Lov' (God be praised), and went away where I could see from afar that northern shore, where now I need not dread to look, fearing what I might find there. For the seas are to be clean once more! And then I went back to Kvisten and did my housework, and that was all.

15 January, 1919.

In December, for the first time since July, 1916, a real steamer entered Eide fjord. A shabby black old hooker, to be sure, but it was the 'Lucky Ship.' And now I can tell its name, the Cromwell, and the brave old skipper's name is Captain Gibb, of Aberdeen, and the ship belongs to the Iceland Shipping Co., Leith, Scotland. I wanted to go on board, but we are quarantined against the Spanish influenza and no one is allowed on deck. Only by going to windward can bags of salt be delivered to the freight rowboats, and oils and fish transferred to the steamer.

Thorshavn, 2 August, 1919. The breaking up of my life in Kvisten was a hard time. I was really ill with a'near-pneumonia'cold. Storms and heavy surf swept the village-front, making the launching of a boat impos

sible. Could I get to Thorshavn in tune to go on the Chaldur? Would she go to Scotland on her way to Denmark? Was my promised passage assured, when scores of passengers on the spot were clamoring to go? I dared not let myself think of the parting from those who had become so dear to me. Silence seemed the only way of getting through with it. Once I said shakily, 'Amalya, you know what is in my heart?'—'Yes, Nella, I know.' Then, just in time, the storm subsided.

Our boy at the last would not say good-bye. 'Nella was bad. Nella should not go to England. Nella should stay in Kvisten always.'

It was a small party that set forth in the tiny fishing motor-boat. Our housefather at the helm, a brother-in-law at the engine, two neighbors as assistants, Fru Kruse and I the passengers. The box-like pit where whelks for bait are kept had been cleaned out, and Fru Kruse and I sat down there, with our heads peering out 'above the rim. A piece of canvas stretched overhead kept out the rain. And so we chug-chugged southward, hour after hour, in the gently falling rain, toward Thorshavn, where I was to see a pony and a tree for the first time in five years. Part of the time we were between the islands, then on the open sea, past treacherous reefs and sucking whirlpools off the Stromo coast, where many a boat has 'gone away.' Then, as we rounded a point of land, we saw on the far southern horizon a faint smudge of smoke. That was our Chaldur, and she will take me south to Scotland.

ON BEING A SPORT

BY KATHARINE FULLERTON GEROULD

'between the bridge and the river there is time for an act of perfect contrition,' my pious French playmates used to tell me. I knew very little about 'acts' in the ecclesiastical sense, and the phrase puzzled me; but it stuck. It stuck like that other formula we were all brought up on, about remembering the whole of your past life as you rise for the third time before definitely drowning. I cannot, of course, verify the first, and verifications of the second are chancy. But there is no doubt that a deal of subconscious philosophy can be formulated in a few seconds, if the seconds are sufficiently uncomfortable. There is something about a brief sharp instant of fear, especially when there are no steps that can be taken, that makes one know a lot of things. The shock pieces together your hitherto random inferences, and you behold, with apocalyptic suddenness, a mental pattern. For example: —

The other evening I attended a carnival. The phrase, I know, is absurd; but in our village the only thing you can do with a carnival is to attend it — precisely as if it were a Chautauqua. We are not very riotous, and our vacant lots are very small. 'Carnival' is rather the name of our intention than of our achievement. The American Legion chose to call it a carnival, — having got used, in France, to a grand scale of doing things, — and we rather liked the term ourselves. We are too small for circuses, or band-concerts, or the

legitimate drama. Rummage sales for charity are about our size. So when we take over an empty lot and officially place a carnival upon it, — as if we were Paris or New Orleans or Honolulu, — we grow a little excited, especially if there are children in the family, whose natural bedtime is eight o'clock (daylight-saving).

We set out: two parents, a son, and a godfather. Of course, it was only the vacant lot opposite the old athletic field, but who knew what the Legion might have done to it? Both the male parent and the godfather belong to the Legion, but they had no idea. Son knew that there was a merry-go-round and a Ferris wheel. The grown gentlemen of the party were rather cynical: they were going,'to take the boy.' But I have found that the greatest moral advantage of living in a small academic town is to give one back some of the illusions of youth. You break your neck getting to see things that you would not turn your head for in New York or (I suppose, since the new census, one must say) Detroit.

The most exciting moment of the great war was not August, 1914, or April, 1917, or November, 1918. It was about 10.30 P.m. of that hot Sunday in July, 1918, when the Crown Prince, with all his staff and three hundred thousand German soldiers, had surrendered to the Allies. They had not surrendered in Europe, unfortunately, — only in Princeton, — but I assure you neither fake nor real armistice could compare with it. So I confess that the music of the merry-go-round, unmistakable wherever heard, and the illumined outline of the Ferris wheel (quite the smallest and youngest of the Ferris family) stirred the blood. They would have been almost inaudible and invisible elsewhere; but they were a portent in the Princeton twilight — even as the Handley-Pages or the Capronis that buzz gigantically over our garden, carrying the mail from capital to metropolis, give one no sensation comparable with that evoked by the quick rise of a 'flivver' of an air-plane off the little fair-ground at Prattsville, New York — hard by the jellies, the sweet-grass baskets, the crocheted bedspreads, and the prize ox.

'Sweetheart, the dream is not yet ended,' as the ominous words run in the fairy-tale.

We eschewed the merry-go-round for ourselves, but watched the boy sitting very straight on his more than mortal steed. A steed that goes up and down vertically while he also goes round and round in a circle is not exactly mortal — especially when he is a lion or a zebra or a rooster. We tried our luck at the gambling booths — you can hardly call them anything else, those wheels and bagatelle-boards and rifle-galleries. To others the sofa pillows and red-glass vases, the boxes of candy and the wicker tea-sets: our skill brought us nothing but chewing-gum. You cannot take chewing-gum away from a child who has won it himself; so in the interest of public moral s we followed the crowd.

There the serried bunches of children warred with members of the Legion as to who should be let through the gate next. When they sneaked in at the side, the Legion shoved them back, in impeccable good-humor, but with military finality. The wheel sprang a leak, and youths ran back and forth saggingly,

with buckets of gasoline for the defrauded engine. The crowd grew: half of Naples and two thirds of the black belt, with an aggressive sprinkling from Jewry, surged waist-high about the demobilized guardians of the gate. But finally the lath-like mechanism was pronounced in order, and boy and godfather climbed into the last empty car. We stood and watched their revolutions, eyes fixed, it seemed, on the zenith, while Naples prodded and Lithuania kicked our ankles. Atlantic City would not have known there was a wheel there; but to me it took on the matured shape of Adventure. My husband was as gallant as on the verge of Molokai or Halemaumau; he did not prophesy, he did not warn, he did not frown. 'All right, if you want to' — and as son and godfather got off, we leaped into the empty car.

And this is what I was coming to, in all these weary paragraphs: my bit of bridge-and-river, third-time-rising-andsinking philosophy. We rose, we attained the height, we swung on in the downward loop — once and once only. I do not know how many revolutions they give you for your money; but I knew that one was all I could bear. I said, 'Do you think they would stop and let us off?' — and left the rest to G. I knew that he would get me off if possible, and that he would not say, 'I told you so.' These are good things to be able to count on. After one unnatural glimpse of the dim New Jersey plain beneath us, I had shut my eyes — I who like heights. I was not sick, I was not giddy, I was physically quite comfortable; but I found myself hesitant to intrude upon the stars at their own front doors. I like to lie on a rock ten thousand feet in air and feel that, if I blew hard, I could blow a planet clean out of place, or disarrange Orion's belt. I am always hoping to double the ten thousand; then, for one instant, I shall have the illusion of a supreme decision: whether or not to lift my hand and grope for the lost Pleiad. It is not the nearness of the stars I mind; simply, I like a back to my chair when I greet them. I would rather pull them down than have them pull me up. I wanted to get off the Ferris wheel — and did.

What I had possessed for fifteen cents was one priceless moment of fear. It is not often, in one's padded life.that one is stark afraid, primitively, for one's own skin. Under the revealing shock of it, I did a lot of emotional algebra, finding with astonishing speed what x equals. The equation slid through its paces to the solution. In the mere instant of eye-closing I compared myself, on my modest wheel, with those who brave the ether. Yes: but they are fastened in; if I were fastened in, I should not mind; in fact, what I mind most is this fearful detachment from anything like solidity. Think how many people go round on far bigger wheels than this. Yes, but the heart knoweth its own wheel. Besides, the bones of the baby are flimsier than those of the grown-up. This thing is made of string and papiermdche, and even at Coney Island they have horrid accidents. All these contraptions are unsafe. We know it when we are on the ground, and are very wise over the accidents, in headlines, once a season. But see the children swarming; and did n't your own boy actually squirm about to look behind him, in mid-air? Ah, children are fearless through ignorance. But grown-ups like it, too: remember that at all pleasureresorts you find the most uncomfortable and dangerous devices the most popular. They like to walk through rolling barrels, they like to shiver along the heights of the roller-coaster, they like to stand on the slippery whirling cone and. be flung off irresistibly into a padded precinct. They like looping the loops, and bumping the bumps. They like it.

II

Ah, my dear defensive Interlocutor, — Spirit of the Wheel, or what not, — you touch one of the most pathetic and vital facts of human nature. To each of us it is natural to crave danger, since a dash of danger is necessary to make, out of an act, an adventure. To prepare yourself for that danger, in the right way, to meet it when prepared, in the right spirit, is to be a good sport. To be a good sport, it is not quite enough to face the danger bravely when it comes: you must, to some extent, welcome it. Yet, to welcome danger, to go to look for it — is not that being merely rash, or foolhardy?

There are distinctions, my child (so spoke the Interlocutor). It is all a matter of the quid pro quo. Nothing for nothing, in this world. The danger pays for something else — knowledge, or a new sensation. Is the knowledge worth it? Is the new sensation worth it? You must decide.

But that is not being a sport, I protested. A sport takes his chances.

Exactly, replied the Spirit of the Wheel. And a good sport must also be a good appraiser of quid pro quo. Ninety times out of a hundred he must make a good guess at whether or not the adventure is going to be worth the risk. Othenvise men write him down, if overhesitant, a coward; if over-willing, a rash idiot.

Is it worth my while, I asked, to open my eyes, to be afraid for several revolutions more, to repeat the horrid sensation I have just been having at the very top of our career — is it tcorth while? Am I failing to be a sport if I ask, in a few seconds more, to be allowed to get off? This has become a purely moral matter, good Wheel.

Of course it is a moral matter, the Spirit of the Wheel replied. Show me anything that is n 't. It is even a moral matter that wheels of my sort are so flimsy. Those who make them count heavily, and not in vain, on the desperate desire, in drab lives, for adventure. Drab lives must take adventure where they can find it. A new sensation for a dime — and any man is lifted from the crowd, is gloriously individual, while he is experiencing a new sensation. He stands on a peak in Darien. If there is danger added, he is not only a discoverer, but, for his instant, a hero. Perhaps the folk who make these things so badly as to increase the danger are really benefactors — are really acting morally; since, if you incur no risk at all, you have no chance of being a sport. I should be interested to know what you think. Nothing is so comforting to the soul as the memory of past perils well met and lived through. Does a man ever get over narrating a hair 's-breadth escape? You talk about being tied in. But if you were tied in, you would not be afraid. Where would be the glory? It is time, by the way, if you want to get off, to say so. Your car will presently be at the bottom. Then we are really off. We shall go faster next time. I had only one instant left, under the empire of this my fear, to decide. As I have said before, I decided to alight. But I knew that I was deciding much more than that, and that I had been very near the wavering line which divides good sports from bad. 'Only let me get off this thing,' I said to myself, 'and I promise to be a normal creature again, able to smile and split hairs with jest. Give me ground under my feet, and I reenter my personality. Since it is not necessary that I should be again thus hideously lifted up, I cannot bear it. If it were inevitable — but that is a whole other problem, and I refuse to consider it.' So I got off, careless of comparisons between myself and the desirous ones who rushed to fill our places.

In mid-flight, I had come near to solving my own problem: x is what you get in payment for the discomfort you endure, the risk you run, the fear you feel. You must always determine x. Algebra is the most human of abstract sciences, since life is perpetually put to you in the form of a quadratic equation. The adventurer must be, above all, a half-way decent mathematician. He cannot afford to make mistakes as to the value of x. The whole point, I had said to myself, — or the Spirit of the Wheel had said to me, — is whether it is worth it. I shall hate going round and round, faster and faster; I shall be afraid, and 'fear is more pain than is the pain it fears.' What shall I get out of it that will preponderate over that terror? Indeed, will not my fear inhibit any aesthetic sense that might operate? The part of straight common sense is to end this adventure here and now. On this I acted. But not without knowledge that some temperaments would have seen it through none the less, equation or no equation. Were those the real sports, and I no sport at all? Perhaps. And yet — there was nothing at stake: neither pleasure, nor knowledge, nor reputation. I should hate it; it would teach me nothing; no one had dared or challenged me to the act. Common sense certainly told me to do as I did, as much as to come in out of the rain if I had no umbrella and no business out of doors.

But is there not something beyond common sense, very necessary to the world? something that is indifferent to the value of x, and says, 'I don't care to solve it beforehand, thank you'? Common sense has a deal of caution in it; and do we not, somewhere in the world, need rashness? If your adventures are to be many, or successful, you must bring your algebra into play. We still pity the person who did not at first glimpse see, from the mere look of the

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