ginia creeper as a riot of color contrast in the late autumn, or, again in the spring in strong outline against the white drifts of dogwood blossoms. The latter, a tree all our own, is of such ingratiating beauty that when Walter Crane, the English decorator, saw it in a design he was ravished at its charm and never ceased his quest for it until he saw it in full bloom against a Pennsylvania hillside in the gorge of the Wissahickon, lovelier than the Vale of Tempe itself, though confined within the bounds of a great city.

One would like to dwell on what some of the choice aspects of the picked places within this great ellipse reveal. There is Boston, that from the shade of its Common carries you out to Blue Hill, miles away, with ever-present greenery, and makes the whole countryside tributary to its parks and parkways. And that all this vast region has the most romantic possibilities is shown in the extraordinary beauty of the publications, out-of-door and garden books, magazines, and whatnot, that are devoted to the American countryside, the very advertisements in themselves telling a story of charm in house and surroundings unequalled any

where in Europe; and it is no insignificant thing that there is now coming out a series of photographic booklets devoted to the beautiful this and beautiful that, since the choice of beautiful scenery to photograph is bewildering as to quantity and quality. If, indeed, all the arranged and planted and protected areas of this great ellipse be linked together, if one will but add up all its beauty spots in the shape of the Berkshires and their approaches, the valleys of the Mohawk and the Hudson, the Susquehanna, the Juniata, the Delaware, and the Connecticut, it will be found that you will have an aggregate of loveliness, whether a panoramic beauty be your test or the more exquisite effects of the intimate countryside, the "paysage intime" of the French, that will more than equal in area the picked places of northwestern Europe or even of England itself. It is a delusion that all England is beautiful, and that all its vistas are worthy of a Constable or a Morland in painting or a Wordsworth or a Tennyson in poetry.

From Emerson on down through Irving, Hawthorne, Lowell, Richard Grant White, and Henry James, we have ever been sedulous in our admiration for those

lovely tranquil aspects of our old home. that reveal it as a smoothed and combed and cultivated garden. But in doing this to-day we must not forget that what we have achieved ourselves in the New World in this great population ellipse is almost a miracle. For we have taken the wild natural beauty in hand and have done wonders with it. A few kindly and keen foreign eyes have sensed all this, for it was Maurice Donnay, the Academician, though he was rushed through eastern America in seventeen days, who opined we had all that was necessary in the way of a romantic and historic humanized background for all cultural purposes. And is it not evident that even to the most casual the current use of such touring phrases as "The Mohawk Trail," "The Susquehanna Trail," conjures up an iridescent something by which the past haloes the present at every turn of the road? These suggested ideas are every where potent to-day, for, truly, landscape effects are as much matters of man's moods as of nature's moods, as Thoreau,

William Hamilton Gibson, and Burroughs have made clear, and to realize the beauty of any countryside one must see it in all seasons of the year and on all occasions, for every day has its variations of beauty, which are only realized by those who live in and with it. And as one to-day walks, or even moves autowise rapidly, through this familiar roadside beauty it is worth recalling that in this year of grace we come to the fiftieth anniversary of the first real revelation of "picturesque America," which came from the hands of William Hamilton Gibson, illustrator, artist, poet, a Gilbert White of Selborne, as well as a Ruskin at his best in the matter of singing prose, and a Thoreau and a Burroughs all in one, who knew this Eastern countryside as no other before or since and, knowing it, made his story of it a classic of pencil and pen. Gibson described it all serially, month in, month out, but if one were to mention one particular American contribution to landscape loveliness one would have to speak only of the "American Autumn" to evoke

a radiant vision of form and color that the Old World only knows by hearsay; while the glamour that is inherent in the words "Indian summer" tells another story of our contribution to the metaphors that sum up something olden and golden and mellow, that are, however, merely an outgrowth of our own every-day scenic effects of the late fall after the first frosts. That our own scenery has inspired poet and naturalist into ecstatic appreciation and has led to the triumph of the American landscape-painter is also not without an additional significance in that it has

equally inspired the American architect, who in developing an architecture suited to the climate and the vernacular of the scenic background, has also surpassed any contemporary effort in the line of architecture in European countries. That with whatever accessories of a high civilization, including splendid roadways, we have let our native trees speak their own poetic language is the reason why the beauty of the countryside in and about our great centres of population, that make this ellipse so notable, reaches such a significance and such a perfectitude.

OHN slapped the light fall mist from his gray felt and entered the elevator marked "Employees Only." Salespeople crowded in, clerks, a buyer or two. "Have a good day yesterday, Mr. Horgan?" inquired a pale youth whose face seemed to have been pulled to an acquisitive point. He smirked hopefully at the furniture-buyer. "Yah, fair, but not up to my figgers. Late summer's holdin' us back. Don't look too good," and straightway a sadness descended on the elevator as it climbed silently. For in most large stores, so it seemed to Cramer, the key which pitched the spirits of the employees for the day was struck by the respective buyers. And the note was the sales of the day previous. Good sales, good spirits; falling off in sales, gloom and depression. Once behind his counter of half-hose on the men's furnishings floor, Cramer became the ideal "salesman of the old school," as the manager used to say. He knew his stock, never got an address wrong, had an excellent appearance, minded his business. And he never asked

"How about putting some of these in the window to-morrow?" he asked Schulteis, the window-trimmer, holding up some light wool hose. "Just in from England, nothing like 'em here." Schulteis eyed them without emotion. chance-shirts an' neckwear to-morrow. We got just as good socks made in this country, anyway. I seen 'em myself. You think anything bearin' a limey trade-mark is miles ahead of what we got

"Where did you see any like this?" interrupted Cramer. "I'd like to check up on 'em for price." The trimmer moved off, loaded with shirts and ties for his dummies. "Oh, I seen 'em, all right. An' just as good, or better, too. You think because-" His thick voice trailed off to a mumble around a corner. Cramer smiled, patted the "made in England" on the foot of the topmost pair, and began arranging them on the glass shelves. Schulteis was a disgruntled windbag, he reflected, with an unexplainable knack for his particular job. Almost totally devoid of taste, education, or refinement, he could

Their eyes met, lighted up with the quizzical spark so good to see in the eyes of men who thoroughly understand one another.-Page 378.

yet make the great Fifth Avenue windows breathe and glow with every quality which he lacked himself. And his salary was rumored to run into five figures.

"Well, if I had the right stuff in me I'd be on the other side of the counter by this time," sighed Cramer. He stepped around front and squatted to observe the arrangement, like a tall gray heron in a wellworn blue suit and wing collar. From across the broad aisle a voice came: "Get up and get to work, you loafer." He turned his long, thin head with a quick, inquiring way he had, and smiled at Benton. "You'd better requisition dynamite if you want to move those old sweaters off that counter before July," he rejoined. "Nobody but a blind man would have one, let alone be sold one by a third-rate salesman!" Their eyes met, lighted up with the quizzical spark so good to see in the eyes of men who thoroughly understand one another.

Benton's square teeth flashed in a broad grin. "Oh, I dunno, I dunno. Them socks you got there couldn't be sold to me, f'instance, by no less a person than the Prince of Wales. And durned if I see much chance o' him gettin' a job till you give the house some reasonable excuse for firin' you." Strange it was to hear the salty Gloucester vernacular up here in a Manhattan department-store. Benton's broad, stooped shoulders, square-cut chin, and rugged features bespoke the hardy fisherfolk from whence he came. But the wide blue eyes were not the eyes of the seaman. They were the eyes of the man who waits, resigned, to see what life will bring to him next. Gentleness and care lay in the deep lines etched in the face, and a weariness. Save when he crossed swords with his old friend, John Cramer. Then the years left him for a moment-one caught a flash of the stalwart boy hauling the nets in a forgotten fishing village.

"Meeting's begun, men; shake it up. Can't hold things for you fellows," and Easton, the head floorman, smiled sourly on his way to the reserve stock-room-a tall, dark man, who turned his toes out excessively when he walked. Easton harried the salesmen, stalking on them suddenly, never quite so happy as when some minor delinquency fell under his brooding glance.

Cramer and Benton exchanged a wink, then hurried after him. "That cuss sent up a mean note on me to the big boss yesterday," whispered Benton. "Been after my scalp ever since I told him what I thought of him for dockin' that check boy's pay." Cramer shook his head sympathetically. Easton gave each man his rating for the year-it was no joke to be in his bad graces.

The meeting opened with the salesmen tilted back in their chairs round the four walls. John Cramer watched them, especially the youngsters, the ghost of an understanding smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. One or two would, with hard, grinding work and a smile from fortune, become buyers after many years. And one of them would become, also after many years, a big boss in some store, somewhere. The rest would be—perhaps where he was, at fifty-nine.

It must be a pleasant feeling, thought Cramer, to be "sirred" and "mistered" by everybody. To speak at conventions and store gatherings, and even, holy of holies, to have a cut of oneself printed in a trade paper along with an article on retail conditions. That was success, or its most obvious symbols.

But to John Cramer, ultimate success was symbolized by a tiny gray farm nestling in the rolling green downs of Sussex. Sussex, which he had left, an orphan, at the age of twelve. The green of Chiswick village rose before him ringed with gracious elms. Serene, ivy-walled, a small white church at one end patiently awaited each Sunday. The weather-beaten inn, sunned and rained on for longer than any one in the village could remember, with its low, sweeping roof and broad gableends the stone horse-trough before it, larger than the largest coffin-and all about Chiswick the trim, busy farmhouses, strung along the winding white highway at ever-widening intervals. Quiet there, and green fields to rest the eye.

A scraping of chairs announced the end of the meeting. Benton hooked his long arm through Cramer's. "He took a swipe at you in passing, too, didn't he, John?” with a jerk of the head toward Easton, who was wrinkling his domed forehead at Mr. Bell, the big boss. Cramer drew mind and eyes back to reality. "Why, did