a termany tha, y'an rom

explain how this trap is avoided. Fortunately I had a conveyance: a It is very simple. I never indulge a trailer. I loaded the trash and drove matter-of-fact person with a sheer piece over crooked, cobbled streets, the junk of imagination, however elementary swaying and clashing behind me. It For example: our grocer, though hon- was a district of smokes and smells, est, writes an illegible hand, and all his foundries, can factories, glassworks, clerks have been trained likewise to machine shops. Spur tracks cut across concentrate upon the figures in the the streets, and dusty dumpy switch right hand column of his slips to the engines pushed freight cars by twos utter neglect of the appearance or and threes. legibility of the items for which the I had wondered about junk, and figures stand. I discovered once that an now I began to see. All these things article of our extremely simple diet that I was carrying away had once come happened to end in a 'y'was charged to out of a factory, new, bright, and shiny; us and added to our account as if the had been carefully shipped and sold 'y'had changed into a 'b' in the figure and paid for. It was alarming. How column, and this winning indifference much junk there must be! Here were had cost me six dollars.

a half-million people, consecrated to So I said we would have to cut from junk. Some sweated, in grimy overalls, our diet all foods ending in 'y' and we to make it. Some nailed it up in boxes, must try to avoid any that might be adding to its bulk. Some drove locowritten with a terminal flourish. The motives, pushcarts, lorries, drays, or response I got was genuine but disap- three-wheeled motorcycles to separate pointing. It was: “What foods endin y?' it, for the geometry of space would

otherwise choke off its production at

the factories. Then there were the JUNK

sailors, trainmen, and vegetable-pedTHERE was junk on my lot. How it dlers who brought it in from outside. sucks into empty spaces! Despite my And all of these people, every one of glaring and inhospitable sign, a rusty them, help to consume it. Consume? bed spring arrived between dark and What a foolish word! What of the condawn. A heap of rubbish gathered servation of energy? Are we not taught around the nucleus. I saw nothing that nothing can be created, and notharrive, but the heap grew silently, like a ing destroyed? Soon or late, all these crystal. Bottles, palm leaves, and old things become junk, and must be lawater tanks added themselves to the boriously carried away. ensemble and gave it character. An True, there are exceptions. There automobile body topped the mass: it are cigars, for instance, that practically was without seats, without leather, take care of themselves. And there without hardware. It had been effi- are gasoline and flash-light powders. ciently and ultimately plundered and But on the other hand, there are yeast, abandoned.

and dried apples Neighbors complained. I telephoned The evening grew dark; one-armed to the City, to the County, to the Gar- men at the railroad crossings changed bage Commission. My junk heap was their discs of tin for red and green an outlaw; no government would recog- lanterns. The gas works spouted fire. nize it. I inquired of friends. There An admirable commodity, gas. I had was a public dump, I learned vaguely, lost my way. somewhere by the Bay.

How wide a district this was, how

THERE to empty spa ble sign, a kuand


many factories! And this process had Government. He was economic. Po been going on for fifty years. Even licemen might quit, there would be a before that, Yankee traders had come few murders until we adjusted ourin with shiploads of ‘notions,' junk selves, but no serious derangement. these many years. Where did it go to? Even a mayor might go on a year's Why was the city not buried in it, with vacation. But the Master of the Dump only here and there a clock tower or an – let him once lift his hand against electric sign looming up out of chaos? the scavengers, and disease and death

Before me was a high wagon with would stalk into the city overnight. tubs behind. I slowed to the pace of A desperate, bold thought prompted the horses and followed. I looked over me. I had heard of wickedness in high my shoulder, and behind was another places. Aldermen were unprincipled, and another. I was in a procession, a even judges took bribes, and a Master slow-moving, serious, silent procession of the Dump? with a mighty purpose, a pilgrimage to 'For fifty cents, now -' an economic sacrament.

His manner instantly changed. ‘AnyThe city glowed dirty red in the sky where,' he suggested graciously. “Wait behind. Before me was darkness, punc- - don't unhitch that trailer. Come tured by an occasional street-lamp. around here; you can turn and save Far ahead, a wagon turned, and the you the trouble. Don't unload it, I'll next and the next followed.

attend to that. One minute!' Irregular cluttered hills lined this He shouted. A bearded gnome arose side road. They were the great ter- as from the earth and came to help. minal moraine that the city pushes The two lifted off the bed spring, the ahead of itself. Fires burned and water tanks, the bottles, carefully scrusmoldered, and heavy smoke hung in tinizing each article as they set it down. layers. Ragged men climbed slowly Last came the automobile body. The through the wreckage, heads bent bearded man set it down gently and attentively downward. Occasionally stroked the rotten upholstery with one stopped, picked something up, ex- affection. I paid the fee and was foramined it, and dropped it. There were gotten. I contemplated the empty no quarrels over a prize. Who would trailer with a deep sense of relief. quarrel where there is so much?

On a low mound, silhouetted against A hand was raised in front of me, a the dull red of the fires, stood the two voice cried 'Stop!' and I stopped. men, one short, grave, and bearded, the

‘You can't dump that here,' said the other ragged, powerful, and austere. voice. “Take it away.'

They were bent over the old automobile ‘But the policeman told me – body.

“That's all right, he is the policeman; “Nice little buggy, nice little buggy,' what he tells you is his business. I am said the bearded man lovingly. Master of the Dump. Get out.'

The other grumbled: 'Fool — drag The man spoke as one having author- it out here — throw it away – good as ity, and my heart sank. Were all men's new. hands against me? Was I to be turned The gnome reached into a long away from every resting place, to wan- leathern wallet. Their hands met, coins der the earth forever, with a wagonload clinked, and the Master of the Dump of junk tied to my rear spring? I was strode off. awed at the man's power, his withering Cycle upon cycle! Perhaps, after all, scorn of policemen. He transcended I was wrong. Perhaps there is no junk!

smokemad and

water tan


It was in 1864 that Joseph Pulitzer, an eighteen-year-old Hungarian, jumped ship’ in Boston Harbor and swam ashore to a new world. After serving in the Federal Cavalry until the end of the Civil War, Mr. Pulitzer became a reporter on the Westliche Post of St. Louis. With hardihood he made his own way as a journalist, lawyer, and politician. In 1878 he bought the St. Louis Dispatch and united it with the Evening Post as the Post-Dispatch. In 1883 he bought the New York World which, under his direction, rose to prominent popularity. In 1887 his health was irrevocably broken by over-work. He died in 1911. Mr. Pulitzer was particularly successful in the selection and the loyalty of his assistants. With him for fifteen years served Don C. Seitz, as Business Manager of the World an office which Mr. Seitz has maintained since his old Editor's death. For more than a decade. Mr. Seitz has been gathering material for the biography of Mr. Pulitzer from which this portrait is taken.

In this and his other recent paper, ‘London - Forty Years Later,' A. Edward Newton proves himself the most brightly comparisoned of American travelers. He has always been the most brightly caparisoned.

which have never been overheard in the Atlantic -- are to be published in October by the Atlantic Monthly Press under the title My dear Cornelia. Ithat a spectre and a bad joke have been ridiculed to death by such a humorously wise Philosopher will be a comfort to every mother of married children. William Sidney Rossiter, president of the Rumford Press at Concord, New, Hampshire, and President of the American Statistical Association, knows a man who lost an umbrella. Alice Brown, long an occasional contributor of ours, is an accomplished novelist, essayist, poet, and playwright. (To fathers who pay bills and their college sons who run them up, a graduate of '90 speaks in mellow appreciation.

* * * With his accustomed understanding, Gamaliel Bradford has interested himself in a mild-mannered poet who had rather be damned than happy. IWe asked Elizabeth de Burgh to tell us something about her literary experiences. She replied:

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We were a nurseryful of scribblers, spurred on to constant effort by the example of an uncle who was --- to us, incomprehensibly — actually asked by grave and reverend editors for articles on Burmese life and character, and of a literary nursemaid — a far more dazzling personality — who had once received half-a-crown from Tit-Bits for an anecdote. With some of us the habit has stuck, that is all.

William L. Chenery, until recently editor of the New York Telegram-Mail, will quell many diatribes with his fair-minded consideration of Tammany. Mr. Chenery wrote us: —

I have long believed that journalism - in New York, at any rate — would be much sounder if editors or, better, owners, understood why it is. Tammany has never been divorced from the affection of the people.

Stuart P. Sherman is enjoying Continental relaxation before assuming his critical habit on the New York Herald Tribune. We know of no friendship that has achieved so happy an expression as that of Cornelia and Professor Sherman. A volume of their conversations - many of

Archibald MacLeish, poet of Boston and Paris, has deliciously described a tea party somewhat different in spirits from the only other tea party that matters. Ludwig Stein, distinguished German professor, philosopher, and publicist, is an associate editor of the Ullstein papers, whose foremost journal is the Vossische Zeitung.

Reading A. Cecil Edwards's account of Omar Khayyam's tomb many will envy the stimulating simplicity of the poet's life.


A veteran, Willard Cooper, was for- It is interesting to note that the fathers merly a reporter for the Springfield Daily of poets are the same the world over. News. On his return from overseas, he

Poona, INDIA. joined the executive staff of the American

DEAR ATLANTIC, — Legion and was one of its publicity experts Sir Bezenji Mehta of Nagpur, a very old in the battle of the Bonus. William friend of our family, seems to be a subscriber to Henry Chamberlin has been in Russia for the Atlantic. He happens to be in Poona for the the last two years as Moscow correspondent present and sent us a copy of the May number, of the Christian Science Monitor. JAnother which contains my ‘A Pianoforte Recital' and traveler. Ralston Hayden, gathered the that original little notice of yours in which you material for his article during eighteen

describe me as an 'East Indian' – and why not?

Sir Bezenji sent the Atlantic to my father pointmonths' residence and journeying in the

ing out my'arrival' as an event of family interest Orient as exchange professor of political

- almost. It was as if he regarded me as fulscience in the University of the Philippines. filling the traditions of our family as writers.

Many important letters, well deserving albeit, so far, in our own language, Gujerati. print, have come to us concerning Dr. My father who has hitherto studiously avoided Inman's paper, but we have thought best giving me encouragement, moral or practical, in to continue the discussion of our relations my various literary experiments, was that with Latin America in articles published in evening actually moved to read and criticize the the magazine itself. This month the

the poem in our little family public! So you see what

the Atlantic can do for a struggling aspirant at Honorable Sumner Welles, Commis

this distance overseas! FREDOON KABRAJI. sioner to the Dominican Republic, a man

* * * of great experience in Latin-American affairs, writes in sharp disagreement with

Applicants for joy apply at Heaven or Dr. Inman's contribution. It is mere justice

Greenwich Village. to add that Dr. Inman's purpose was far

CLEVELAND, Ohio. other than that ascribed to the demagogue DEAR ATLANTIC, — in Mr. Hughes's Amherst speech.

I have tried every prescribed ‘source of joy'

ever printed on paper or shouted from a plat* * *

form only to find that joy consists in such a A CORRECTION

number of things. I'm sure we should all be as IN Dr. Samuel Guy Inman's much

happy as kings if we could only find the things.

Because 'the victim's' particular hunger-need discussed paper, 'Imperialistic America,'

was filled by giving out to others in the environthe statement is made that 'the United

ment in which she happened to live, does not Fruit Company and other American finan- signify that Priscilla Dalton could find the same cial interests have secured control of the source of joy in the New England village in railroads, which now become a part of the which she lives. She is in the wrong environInternational Railways of Central America ment and can no more find a source of joy there

the largest American owned railway than a sea gull can find a source of joy in a enterprise outside of the United States.'


I do not believe the Bible teaches that the The authority for this statement was a

Christian religion is in itself the source of joy. detailed article in the New York Times

I believe the Bible teaches that the Christian for March 26 last. We are now informed

Ve are now informed religion is the source of wisdom that will, if that the United Fruit Company owns no understood, bring conditions that produce joy. shares or securities in this railroad, nor has Does it not teach us to seek first the kingdom of a lien upon it in any way whatsoever. We God and all these things shall be added, for the are glad, therefore, to make this correction, Father knoweth we have need of all these things? and since Dr. Inman's specifications were

in Dr Inmon's specifications were Of 'all these things' none is so important as a made carefully and after consideration, to

knowledge of one's individual hunger-need.

The only thing to do with unhappiness is to add in response to individual inquiries that,

solve it, each for himself. The source of Wisdom in his subsequent allusion to ‘banana in

guides us into but does not give us joy. If Pristerests' in Costa Rica, no reference to

cilla Dalton would let her Source of Wisdom lead the United Fruit Company was made or her to Greenwich Village I 'll wager her a romp intended.

in the snow, and no questions asked, she'd

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' — first prize awarded to Paul Green.'

'S' had better look out for his own head!


Another wood-alcohol tragedy! S's letter gave this reader the sensation that either he or S had been 'taking something. One checked the first impulse of resorting to the simple and easy explanation – 'none so blind' — Sober second thought suggested the caution that one should be extremely careful in the selection of his private stock for the five-foot shelf; for 'none so blind' as those who, wittingly or otherwise, absorb an overdose of wood-alcohol. Obviously S's humor is moist, but his wit is not very dry it he considers 'Cornelia and Dionysus' one of the 'most subtle and convincing articles against prohibition'!

Mr. Sherman set such a full table – or shall I say such a line of mixed drinks? — with arguments for every taste, wet and dry, and S so enjoyed the arguments for drink, imbibed them so freely, that he had no taste for the cold-water arguments which flowed even more freely. So one may be pardoned for setting these points by themselves:

First: -- The necessity which put through the Volstead Act was the war ... the necessity of maximum production ... the necessity of a workman sober seven days in the week.

econd: - The war-necessity having passed. the release of the workmen from ruinous drink. expenditure has given opportunity for the creation and gratification of other tastes – homebuilding, autos, baby bonds, victrolas, education, which men and their wives are not ready lightly to surrender, in order to return to a state of 'per. sonal liberty.'

Third: Drinking and automobiling don't go together. We have fifteen million cars ... onc out of every six or seven ‘souls' drives a car, is an engineer on the highway. In one city we killed some seven hundred people last year with cars . . . we are all private engineers nowadays and must submit to the same regulations as governed – long since - engineers on the railways. And the argument is pointed by the dramatic illustration of the mother and son run down at that very moment by the intoxicated son of the cynical worshiper of Dionysus.

To what other conclusion could such arguments lead an intelligent man than advocacy of the strictest possible enforcement of the prohibitory law? If S cannot see the point he may


I do not know Paul Green as an author, but I want to congratulate you on the publication of a 'true story.' It is seldom that one reads a story of folk-life that rings as true as the 'Devil's Instrument.' I happen to be rather familiar with the author's type of characters and setting, and I find his accuracies in the use of dialect, and in the portrayal of the characteristics and idiosyncrasies of this phase of life to be unusual; and what is still more remarkable is that such events as he describes actually occur now, and not so far from the so-called civilized haunts of men, as some of your readers might suppose.

I have lived in the Georgia mountains and been on friendly terms with many of our mountaineers, and I am sure that the incidents of the ‘Devil's Instrument' have happened there many times. I may never have witnessed an actual replica of the 'meetin'' scene, but I have seen occurrences that were strongly tinged with the fervor and excitement that he describes. I shall never forget at a revival meeting in a small mountain town seeing a woman mount a bench, wave her arms, and scream at the top of her voice, ‘Hurrah for Jesus! I'm saved!'

The dialect too of the story gives Mr. Green away. Some of the expressions that he uses I have never seen before in print. Mr. Green either formally one of them, or he has sneaked in and played a part at it — no casual observer could get such a slant.

It is a good story, and tells of a phase of American life which is becoming more and more





From one who knew to ‘A Boy Who Went Whaling.'


The hero of those adventures, Len Sanford, was known to me as a quiet, dignified, elderly man, and the story was told me by his brother a few months after his death.

Mr. Hawes's article left the boy swinging by his arms from the topmost branches of a lofty dead pine-tree, and directly under the eagle's

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