Tahke Chan do not make absence this day, his own eye will tell him trulier than stiff speech of tongue that cradle is not shrine, and Christ-child not blazon image of wooden stone, but great spirit of invisible which have much love for childrens. I learn those words out of book, but meaning come out my own heart, which I have the difficult to give childs.

Beginning time for morning march grow very near. Him not come, and the anxious so restless my body I run to big gate and view round and up.

Narrow street which walk by kindergarten house most lovely picture than all other countries of universe. It have many trimmings of flags and banners for greeting soon coming of New-Year. Even old plum-trees have happy to break pink flowers out full, and lay on gray roof to look at bright sun. The big love of my heart for this Japanese country make me so delightful I have little forget 'bout late of Tahke Chan till I hear spank of many feet on hard earth. I look, and see one of those pictures which never melt off my mind. That sound of feet belong' to soldiers company, and so quick they stop in long line and hold all hands to hat for salute, I think maybe Oyama San coming. I give piercing look, and my eyes see marching straight by those big mens a speck of blue all trimmed with gold braid. It was Tahke Chan. Same war clothes as his papa, even same number stripes on his sleeve, and twelve inch' of sword on his side, which make song on heel of shoe when they walk. Father's two soldiers servants walk close behind Tahke Chan, and flags and banners wave him much happy. War mens pass on in smiles. Everybody know that little boy, and everybody love his earnest. I have several feelings when he walk up to me and say: "New guest, have he come? I make ready to welcome with new clothes."

Ah, me! I have the yearn to convey the right understand'; but he look so glad to give the welcome, and his war clothes

so grand, the feeble fell on my heart. I not give correction.

One servant say: "Last night Tahke Chan very sick with evil spirit of cough. Mama say rest at home, but he say this great feast-day for new god. He must for certain come and offer pine-tree and have song with march." I hurry away with Tahke Chan, and take seat on circle of kindergarten room. A feel of anxious press' hard. First we have grand parade, and that little soldier boy in blue in front of all children have atmosphere same he was marching before emperor. My keen of eye see all time he have fight with swallow in his throat. After march come song 'bout cradle and star, but big cough catch Tahke Chan in middle, and when the strangle had left and tears of hot had wipe way, he heard childrens saying amen to prayer. His red lip have little shake, for he have great pride to say that prayer faster than any childs. He have hospitable of soul, too. But Tahke Chan son of great general of war, and he never cry, even though much disappoint' come to his mind. I was hunting speech to give him the comfort of heart when children give sound with mouth like storm breeze hurrying through leaves. I look. Where door of other room always lived was most beautiful Christmas-tree of any world, all light with flaming candles and gold and silver balls. On very tipmost top the lovely big surprise from foreign country. It wore dress of spangly stars and white. Big brown eyes and hair like rice-straw when sun shines through it. It held out. welcome arms. Every move of tree give sway to body. I know trulier, but surely, it have look of real life. Teacher rolled tree to middle of room in bare spot, which made glad to have it. Children laughed and clapped hands and call' many funny sayings. I forget the anxious in my happy of that day, and turn with glad eye on Tahke Chan. Then I forget all worlds and everybody 'cept that little Bamboo boy. Never I see such wonderful thing as the glory which arrive on his face when he gaze for first time on Christmas-tree with glad surprise at top. First he see only it, and give low tight whisper, "The offering." His eye fly to tip of top. He lean' way over like his body break with eager. Joyful speech come with long sigh, "Ah-the guest he is come!" For

one minute room very still, and just same as fairy give him enchantment Tahke Chan rose from chair and seem not to touch floor till he come right under tree. Other childrens make such merries. They have thought it play. But all sounds and peoples passes way from my vision. Nothing left but picture of one small blue soldier looking up through blazon flames of Christmas-tree to shining thing above. His cheeks so full of red with fighting cough, eyes so bright with wet of tears, he fold his hands for prayer, and soft like pigeon talking with mate he speak: "O most Honorable Little God! How splendid! You are real; come live with me. In my garden I'm a soldier; I'll show you

the dragon-flies and the river. Please will you come?" My heart have pause of beat. I think fever give Tahke Chan's mind delirious. Quick I uncement my feet from floor to go to him. "Tahke Chan," I say with lovely voice, "that is not a god nor even an image. Listen: it's only a big foreign doll which postman bring this morning as great surprise from America. Teacher put it up high so all childs could see it. Look what kindergarten give you-most beautiful kite, like dragon-fly you love more better. Come rest in your chair. We sing."

Ah, that little play soldier! Door of his ear all shut to my every speak of love. He just stand with eyes uplift' and plead: "Please come play with me. I know your song 'bout cradle and star. And I can march. See." But his body rock from

each side to other. Then I press my arms round and whisper with much tender: "I bring doll home with you." He look 'way up high on Christmas-tree, then he leave his conscious in kindergarten room.

Me and two soldier servants convey Tahke Chan and foreign doll to his home. I stay in honorable house with them. One day go by, and 'nother night come. Sick boy's mama have look of ivory lady as she rest her tired, and maid girl make tea. I watch

by side of bed on floor. Big ache in heart clutch' me when I look round room and see blue soldier's suit hang' near. It have look of empty and lonely, dragon-fly kite in corner have broken wing. But when I bring gaze back to Tahke Chan, loveliest

sight of all visit me. That little child reach out and find hand of foreign doll. He hold very tight, and give it look of love. Such heaven light come on his face! I suspend my breath and listen his low speech which come in broken pieces: "You are my Tomidachi. Do not go; I soon be well. I come play in your garden. Dragonflies-cradle-star- Ah, Little Godyou grow so big!"

Something made me open shoji quick. Old priest make big bell sing. Lovely star hang its light over mountain. All things have great stillness. Not even leaf tremble in white moonlight. Strange feel hold me. Then I know. have gone to play in Christ-child's garden. Ah, me! Tears of my heart are many for that little Bamboo. But I have the joyful, Now he have the right understand'.

too.

Tahke Chan

FOR

OR those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, I think there can be no question that the world is not as skeptical about spiritual things as formerly,—as it was ten years ago, for instance, or even five years ago. I have among my acquaintance, indeed, many who used to be skeptics. These are now willing to admit that there is an aspect of this extraordinary age which cannot be accounted for in their philosophies, an essence which transcends. figures and mechanics and sense impressions. And it is just this essence which the foremost minds are finding interesting and vital.

Judging this essence by its many manifestations (and we may judge it in no other way), by its concrete achievements in science and politics, philosophy, literature, and art, it must be described as power, -a power as real, in its own realm, as the physical energy radiated by the sun. If we needed an authority, other than that of our common sense, we might turn to the works of the most serious contributors to the philosophy of our time, to find that there are two kinds of power. The physical power that raises, stone by stone, a great cathedral to its completion is one variety. But there is another power, and a greater power, behind the physical; a power which springs from the inarticulate longings of the masses of the people, and which finds its expression through their statesmen and their artists, and through

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their architects, who embody these aspirations in lace-like stone, in pinnacles and spires pointing to the skies.

One interpretation of history is that this spiritual power rises and falls like the waves of the sea, and that, paradoxically, both the crests and the troughs of it have their values for mankind. I spoke of skeptics; I hope not slightingly, for we have. learned to respect honest doubts, to realize that the truth is not won by a lazy credulity, but by earnest and painful search. Agnosticism and pessimism have their uses in checking extravagant optimism; and who shall declare that Darwin and Spencer have not brought us nearer to God? Were it not for the loathing brought about by sheer materialism, by the making of money and by thinking in terms of money, by the mad pursuit of material pleasures alone, how should we be able to arrive at length at the lasting worth of the spiritual?

A characteristic sign of the rise of one of these spiritual waves in history is an extreme restlessness. It may be called a "divine discontent." And are there, I wonder, many who read these words to-day so spiritually numb as not to feel within them something of the driving power of that mysterious energy which is abroad? That same driving power produced the Renaissance, produced Shakspere, produced the Reformation, since which the world has gone steadily forward. And it

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is now preparing to produce a greater age than history has ever witnessed.

Some of you, perhaps, have had the experience of looking at a great work of art which at the time you did not quite comprehend, and the meaning of which came to you later with an overwhelming significance. Many years have passed since I first beheld Michelangelo's picture, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel at Rome, of the creation of man. It made an impression on me for the moment, and then sank-to lie dormant for years-into that part of my being which some philosophers have called the subconscious, and others the "greater self." In the meantime, as my life unfolded, I was drawn by a series of apparent accidents into the vortex of a national movement which had for its conscious object the purification of our politics. One hot night, as I was seated on the platform waiting to address an audience which filled a large hall in a town of the Middle West, that picture of Michelangelo's vividly rose before me, and suddenly I grasped the meaning of it. The artist, I saw then, had not depicted a physical creation but a spiritual awakening. You recall the picture; the finger of God pointing to Adam, and the expression of bewilderment, of yearning, of the pain. of nascent conflict on his face.

Well, as I looked at that audience, at the thousand or more people of all kinds who sat there in the heat, listening to the speaker, who was expounding a serious subject; as I looked at the working-men, at the tired women and mothers with children in their laps, it seemed to me that if the composite expression on all those upturned faces could somehow have been caught, it would have resembled very closely that on the face of the awakening man in Michelangelo's picture.

So, then, there is in us all a force driving us on to struggle. And some, the most fortunate, I think are shoved by apparent accidents into the conflict raging about us, and find relief in action; discover the amazing fact that in working for a cause we are at once raised to higher levels of existence. But most of us are like boys with cold hands looking on at a game. We are sick of eating candy, but we don't understand the game. Perhaps it appears ridiculous to some of us. Yet we have the feeling of being at cross-purposes with

life, of being at the mercy of any misfortune which may strike us and bowl us over. Of having no anchorage of love in anything permanent and abiding.

We want a religion. Perhaps we are waiting for a new one. We'd plunge into life, into usefulness, if only we knew what life were; but we don't know. It may be, as is often the case to-day, that the conception of Christianity given us in our youth has failed to satisfy us, to give us an effective sanction. We are unable to say, with the conviction of our fathers, "This is the absolute truth." For one thing, it may seem to us that the science and the agnostic critics of the age just past have riddled that religion.

We desire to know. These words express the dominant yearning of the age. Whither shall we turn for a religion, a sanction, a guide to life? And thus we start off on our modern Pilgrim's Progress, to seek after God, if haply we may find Him.

It is a curious fact that there are some who look with longing eyes at the church which still stands for external, or what may be called supernatural, authority. "What a comfort," such weary souls exclaim, "to be able to have life solved for one in this simple fashion, to accept the teachings of a church which still claims in a special sense to be the guardian of the keys of heaven itself, to stop this buzzing in our heads, this attempting to think for ourselves!" But we find we can't enter such a church. Perhaps we do not grasp at once the significance of this fact. It is only after a little that the reason becomes plain. We look around us, and we perceive at length that every institution in our modern government, every discovery in our modern science from the telegraph which encircles the globe to the cure and prevention of disease, has been accomplished against the principle for which that church still stands, the principle of having our thinking done for us.

of government ever devised under the sun there is a form of religion which fits it and inspires it. Despotism had its religion of superstition and fear; democracy has its religion of universal education and of individual responsibility, which means that there must be no organization or intermediary between ourselves and our God. If we don't believe in democracy, we shall have difficulty in finding for ourselves a country in God's world as He is shaping it to-day.

We turn, therefore, reluctantly from this ancient church of an imposed authority, and continue our quest. And when we behold the multitude of modern cure-alls offered, as many as there are advertisements in the backs of magazines, we are bewildered indeed. "There are no such things in the world," cry the advocates of one of these, "as evil and pain. Deny them, and they disappear." You may have the presence of mind to test the logic, the capacity for hard and sound thinking, of these advocates. "In denying evil and pain," you ask, "did you not really acknowledge their existences, and fight them?" And suddenly, perhaps, there comes into our mind the sorrowful and sublime figure of Abraham Lincoln, and we exclaim: "Why, evil gave us Lincoln! In fighting evil he became what he is to us, and ever shall be. Evil and pain must have their uses in the scheme of Reality."

Should we have the time and the patience and the courage to read what is best in modern philosophy, we should learn indeed something of the use of evil in the world, as a part of reality's logical construction. And how, paradoxically, out of evil comes good. We should learn the value of the hard kind of thinking as distinguished from the soft kind. And we should discover something else which is of vital importance to us in our search, that from Plato onward philosophers have lived and toiled, and what was false in the teachings of each has died, and what was true has been added to the slowly accumulating treasure, which has grown like a coral reef. And this body of truth all the more reputable schools of modern philosophy hold in common. Hence the very process which has made philosophy valuable has been a democratic process, a process of free minds working against each

other. In our century, as freedom and education have spread, this process has become extraordinarily magnified in extent, until we shall soon arrive at a time when thousands will be thinking clearly where one thought before.

It is of this process we must take account in the working out of our own solution.

If we turn back, now, for a glance at the presentation of Christianity given some of us in our youth, I think we shall be struck by the fact that the righteousness which it contained seemed to us a negative righteousness; that is, one which did not appear to enter vitally into life. Dogmas and doctrines are nothing whatever unless they are formulas of experience, unless we are able to try them out under practical conditions and see how they work. Now the age in which we live is a positive, dynamic age. There are conflicts going on

all about us against greed and selfishness, for the benefit (on a national scale, mind you) of ignorant and suffering humanity.

There are some good people who decry this struggle. An eminent minister of the gospel is quoted recently as saying that fighting is the wrong way to go about the bettering of conditions. Let our reformers, he said in effect, like precious lumps of radium, sit still and emanate virtueparticles. Now I am very far from denying that the very essence of righteousness is that it can be radiated, is radiated; but how, it may be asked, is righteousness acquired. Is it acquired by one's sitting still and absorbing it? Is it to be achieved by practising a long list of "thou shalt nots"?

Righteousness, I believe we must all agree, is potential energy, to be won, and to be won only, by buffeting one's way up a toilsome slope against enemies, against that terrible power, incarnate in mankind, which is called, for lack of a better name, evil. Righteousness is growth. The moment fighting stops, growth stops, and righteousness has ceased to radiate because it is dead.

Which are the men who, like powerful electric generators, have radiated it so that all mankind is stirred and energized? Are they not those who were most hated and vilified in their day by the evil-minded and the closed minded, because they set their faces resolutely against complacent customs which wronged humanity and against