ernment. It is a respectful appeal for certain urgent reforms. The Government is guilty of passing an unjust law. The Satyagrahi, who are lawabiding people, will disobey this law deliberately, because they consider it unjust. If their attitude does not convince the Government of the necessity of repealing the law, they will extend their disobedience to other laws, and eventually they may cease all coöperation with the Government. But how different is the meaning which India gives to this word from that which we in the West give to it! Such extraordinary religious heroism as is contained in it!

As the Satyagraha are not allowed to use violence in advancing their cause (the idea being that the adversary, too, is sincere, since what seems truth to one person may seem untruth to another, while violence never carries conviction), they must rely solely on the love-force that radiates from their faith and on their willingness to accept suffering and sacrifice joyously, freely. This constitutes irresistible propaganda. With it the cross of Christ and his little flock conquered the Roman Empire.

In order to emphasize the religious character of the people's willingness to sacrifice themselves for the eternal ideals of justice and liberty, the Mahatma inaugurated the movement by setting April 6, 1919, aside as a day of prayers and fasting, by imposing a Hartal of all India.

This first step went right to the heart of the people, stirred their inmost consciousness. For the first time all classes of India united in the same ideal. India found herself.

ances.

Gandhi set out to quiet them. But the Government had him arrested and sent him back to Bombay. The news of his arrest caused riots in Punjab, at Amritsar some houses were looted, and a few people were killed. In the night of April 11 General Dyer arrived with his troops and occupied the city. The fifteenth was a great Hindu feast-day. A meeting was to take place at an open space called Jallianwalla Bagh. The crowd was peaceful and numbered many women and children. The night before General Dyer had sent an order forbidding public meetings, but no one had heard about it. The general, however, came to Jallianwalla Bagh with his machine-guns and without warning opened fire on the defenseless mass of people. The firing lasted about ten minutes, till the ammunition was used up. As the grounds were surrounded by high walls, no one could escape. From five to six hundred Hindus were killed, and a much larger number wounded. There was no one to care for the dead and wounded. As the result of the massacre, martial law was proclaimed, and a reign of terror spread over the Punjab. Aëroplanes threw bombs on the unarmed crowds. The most honorable citizens were dragged to court, flogged, and forced to crawl on their knees, and subjected to the most shocking indignities. It was as if a wind of madness swept over the English rulers. It was as if the law of non-violence, proclaimed by India, stirred European violence to frenzy.

Owing to the rigorous military censorship, the news of the horrors of the Punjab did not leak out for several months. But when it did leak out a wave of indignation swept over India

and alarmed even English opinion. An investigation was ordered, and Lord Hunter presided over the Commission.

In the meantime, the National Indian Congress formed a sub-commission to carry on investigations independently of the Government, but along the same lines. It was to the obvious interest of the Government, as all intelligent Englishmen realized, to punish those guilty of the massacre of Amritsar. Gandhi did not demand as much as that. In his admirable moderation he did not ask for the punishment of General Dyer and the guilty officers. While denouncing them, he felt no bitterness and sought no vengeance. One bears no ill-will to a madman. But one must put him where he can do no damage. Gandhi, therefore, merely asked that General Dyer be recalled. But quos vult perdere. Before the results of the investigation could be published, the Government passed an indemnity act to protect official employees. The criminal officers were not only maintained at their posts, but were rewarded.

While India was still in effervescence after the Punjab affair, a second conflict aross between the Government and the people, a more serious one this time, because it implied a flagrant violation of solemn promises. The Government's attitude shattered whatever confidence India still had in the good faith of the English rulers, and brought on the great revolt.

The European war had placed the Moslems of India in a very painful dilemna. They were torn between their duty as loyal citizens of the empire and faithful followers of their religious chief. They agreed to help

England when she promised not to attack the sultan's or the calif's sovereignty. It was was the sense of Moslem opinion in India that the Turks should remain in Turkey in Europe and that the sultan should retain not only authority over the Holy Places of Islam, but over Arabia as delimited by Mohammedan scholars with the enclaves of Mesopotamia, Syria, and Palestine. This Lloyd George and the viceroy solemnly promised. When the war was over, however, all pledges were forgotten. And when the rumors of the peace terms to be imposed on Turkey began to circulate in 1919, the Moslems in India began to grow restless, and their discontent finally started the Khilafat or Califat movement.

It began October 17, 1919 (Khilafat Day), by an imposing peaceful demonstration, which was followed, about a month later (November 24), by the opening of an All-India Khilafat Conference at Delhi. Gandhi presided. With his quick glance he had realized that the Islamic agitation might be made into the instrument of Indian unity. The problem of uniting the various races in India was a most difficult one. difficult one. The English had always taken advantage of the natural enmity between Hindus and Moslems; Gandhi even accuses them of having fostered it. At any rate, they had never tried to conciliate the two peoples, who challenged each other childishly. To annoy the Mohammedans, for instance, the Hindus used to make a point of singing when they passed the mosques where silence should reign, while the Mohammedans lost no opportunity of jeering the Hindus' cow-worship. Mutual ill-will and persistent ani

From ahead comes the "high-ball signal." A few quick hand-shakes, a last recounting of orders from the general agent, who talks to his car manager until the last possible moment. A rear platform, crowded with strong-shouldered young men, milling and jostling. A cheer. The train is moving. Soon only the owner and his general agent remain there on the station platform, watching the red-andgold car as it travels far into the damp, cold haziness of the railroad yards, finally to disappear. The circus season has begun.

Rather, the first physical demonstration of a beginning has taken place. In reality, for the show-owner, the season begins when the season ends. Paradoxical? Not a bit. To circus-goers the circus season concludes in the autumn. To circus

makers the next season begins at the same time. A big show does n't just go on the road. Circuses, to their makers, are an exact science. When the show comes home in the autumn, they begin their preparations to send it forth again in the spring. They know what wagons to repair, what painting is necessary, how many railroad cars must be discarded and new ones bought to take their places; whether the "big top," or main tent, will stand another season, and where the show is to travel in the summer days to come. It does n't "just happen" that a circus goes to a certain town. The reason why has been studied out long in advance, and the show arrives for one or two reasons; either there is a surety of sufficient money to make a profitable day's business, or it is necessary to play the town in order to reach one farther on, where the crowds are sure and the money certain. Circuses don't "take all the money out of a town"; neither do they always play at a certain place just because it's a good show town. Often it is n't, and the big organization loses money, leaving more cash in the village than it took away. But a show-train can only travel about one hundred and fifty miles a day, and if there is n't sure money within three hundred miles, it must take the best

it can get, and be satisfied. I have seen "canvas op❜rys" exhibit in places where the traveling population of the show was greater than that of the village itself. It is all carefully figured out in advance, with every possible condition taken into consideration: crops, money conditions, hard or good times, floods, forest fires everything that can affect a pocket-book. If Jonesville and Thomasville lie within twenty miles of each other, and Jonesville has had a disastrous flood in its surrounding country while Thomasville has escaped, the circus is routed to Thomasville. How does the circus know? It must know, for knowing is part of its life. There is no other business organization that pays more attention to the various local conditions of the United States. The informants are the owners of the bill-board privileges in each town along the proposed route, playing a good business policy by telling the truth about their community. Often a circus general-agent has the news of a crop failure even before the Department of Agriculture. So every town is picked, every town is known. If a state capitol has only a small population, when does a circus play it? When the legislature is in session and the town is crowded! Does a circus play a college town in July? Hardly, but it will be glad to pay a visit in April, May, or late September. The students are there at those times; in July they have gone home. The circus knows. More, the circus prepares; long before the snows begin to melt even the size of the show has been decided upon, according to the money conditions of the country, starting its season in the south before the snow has left the ground of the

north, and following the warm weather until summer comes. "Bigger than ever" is a fable. A circus is a business proposition, in spite of its romance. It adjusts itself to conditions. Does the dry-goods store carry a larger stock in bad times than in good?

So the departure of the "bill car," or advertising car, is a carefully thought-out, preconceived thing. It is to arrive at a certain town in the far south on a certain day, stay there so many hours, and depart at a certain time. All season it must live up to a schedule, that of being three weeks ahead of the show. If it loses a day through storm or accident, its men must do double work, a "brigade" of bill-posters being dropped at one town to look after the bill-posting, banner-tacking, country routes, and "programing," while the car, shorthanded, hurries on to the next town and overtakes its schedule, leaving the brigade to catch up as best it can.

For the circus accepts no outside assistance; it depends upon nothing but itself and its own finely attuned organization. A theatrical company leaves its bill-posting to local concerns. It has the time to do so. A circus must move day by day; consequently it has its own railroad cars, its own equipment, its own men for everything. The bill car carries its own boiler for making paste; its lockers are filled with "paper," or billing, sufficient to last two months at a time. Above these are berths where sleep the twenty or twenty-five men who make up the car, the bill-posters, "tackspitters," or banner men, the lithographers, the "squarers," or men who obtain permission for the posting of paper or the tacking of banners, and the manager. It costs a big show

and they catch up as best they can. There are three such cars with the big shows, one three weeks ahead, one two weeks, and the last one only a week. The job of the last two is to do everything that has n't been accounted for before, to renew billing that has been torn by wind or washed by rain, and to fight.

For circuses quarrel. It is a battle to a business death once one circus crosses the trail of another. Every big show carries in advance what is known as an "opposition brigade," with no other duties save to fight like brigades of other shows. As fast as one circus puts up a piece of billing, the opposition attempts to cover it. The result is flying paste brushes and buckets, faster flying fists, broken noses, black eyes, police, jail, bail, and the same thing over again until one side tires and quits, or circus day arrives to end the war of the opposition crews. This part of the advance knows no schedule-nothing, in fact, except to fight until a battle is won or lost. Sometimes a bill-board will bear as many as ten or twelve layers of posters, each alternate layer representing a different show; the last and winning layer slapped into place a bare

twelve hours before the arrival of the contending circuses.

Then there are the press-agents who flit here and there, doubling on their tracks, dropping in at a newspaper in one town during the morning, appearing at another newspaper office fifty miles away in the afternoon, and still a third or perhaps a fourth farther on that night, according to the flexibility of train schedules. To say nothing of the "checkers-up," who inspect the work of the various cars and the "opposition brigade," and send each night a report of good or bad work to the general agent. And after all these are gone

There comes the twenty-four-hour

man.

They originally called him that because he came to town twenty-four hours before the circus arrived. A better reason might be because he works nearly twenty-four hours of the day. His is the task of seeing that every contract is ready to be fulfilled, that the fire department will have a man stationed at the fire-plug nearest the circus lot to provide water for the sprinkling carts, horses, elephants, and lemonade, that the circus grounds itself is in shape to receive the big