ephemeral impulse, but rather enduring types to which he has imparted the benison of grace and beauty. They are satisfying and convincing mainly because of their physical veracity, which is one of their strongest claims to permanent value.

"The Boy Scout," unsophisticated, insouciant, and brimming with youthful buoyancy, belongs in a measure to the athlete group so far as physique and attitude are concerned, but in the felicitous treatment of the clothing the sculptor has justified his wonted avoidance of the tyranny that hideous modern habiliments so mercilessly impose.

One of McKenzie's finest achievements in low relief, a branch of activity even more prolific than his modeling in the round, is "The Joy of Effort" (1912), set in the wall of the Stadium at Stockholm. The three figures, "Americans all" in type, driven with impetuous eagerness, present a very whirlwind of dashing muscular play. The treatment of facial expression, too, is exceptionally fine and shows the unmistakable result, in this matured work, of the physiognomical experience and finesse inevitably acquired in the production of numerous portrait reliefs. His versatility of conception and felicity of technic in this respect are interestingly shown by contrast in the playful composition of children's faces of the highrelief group for the Malley memorial. fountain.

Of the low reliefs in general-portraits, medals, and athletes-it may be said that they show an adroit and highly effective management of planes, a degree of salience almost astounding at times, a catholic sense of appreciation, ingenuity, and imagination fertile in contributing interest, balance, and diversity to his backgrounds by the disposition and forms of lettering, by the introduction of heraldry, and by sun

dry small decorative details of great enhancing value.

The war has affected every one's life. For the nonce it has stayed Dr. McKenzie's further realization of his cherished ideal the interpretation of the American athlete, even as Meunier interpreted the toiler. It has, however, called forth, among other works, two that are of enduring worth and disclose a new phase of his talents, "Blighty" and "Guy Drummond," the Canadian Highlander killed in action. Both reveal a singular touch of sympathetic handling and a ripe capacity of spiritual perception. "Guy Drummond," the young warrior with the air of a modern Sir Galahad, a figure equally satisfying from whatever angle it is viewed, embodies the lofty ideal of race tradition and chivalrous sense of duty in the visible form of a memorial-a memorial such as thousands of mothers might cherish of their sons fallen on the fields of France.

Since the outbreak of the war Dr. McKenzie has devoted much of his time to work for which he is peculiarly fitted. In 1915 he was instrumental in organizing in England the Command Depots for the remaking of men who were either physically unfit or else suffering from chronic, but curable, forms of disablement, to the end that they might be returned to the front or, failing that, be better fitted for their return to civil life. He has also accomplished notable results in the fashioning of masques to supply the place of features torn away or hopelessly mutilated by shell-wounds, a work demanding imagination as well as sculptural dexterity and judgment. When he can again return to his modeling, the promise of all his former performance warrants the expectation that his work will display breadth and powers of execution even deeper and more comprehensive than in the past.

T was a hill village on the stage road midway between

and Stage roads in the year 1840 varied with the seasons from

bad to worse. In the spring they were rivers of mud, through which the jaded horses dragged the coach wearily; in the summer the passengers were choked with dust, and in the autumn, by reason of the ruts and holes in the road, they were tossed about like dice in a box; in winter the roads were blocked with snow, but the stage, when there was a stage, always came into our village with a clatter of galloping horses and sounding horn. Its round body, swung on leather straps, its gallant driver, its four smoking horses, and its merry horn were followed by shouting boys, who swung from the straps. of the boot or fell off in a cloud of

dust. The stage-driver was a personage in every village that depended on his arrival for the daily mail and the latest news from the outside world. He was gazed upon with awe by the children as a sort of hero of romance, who never worked, but drove galloping horses back and forth through a perpetual holiday. He was an expert with the reins whose reputation was counties wide. As he whirled up to the tavern porch, the leaders of his team, which, it was whispered, had been sold to the stage-company by the farmers because of their vicious tricks, walked around to the stable with drooping heads and into their familiar stalls as soon as their traces were unhooked, as innocentlooking as if they had never kicked a farmer's boy or picked up a groom by the collar.

How we admired the driver in his great

coat and buckskin gloves and traveled air as he strolled into the tavern, turning his back on the stable-boys, who trotted out his fresh horses, and how, when everything was ready, he mounted to his throne, gathered up the four reins, and dashed away to the sound of the horn!

Travel was at the parting of the ways. The passenger-packets were disappearing from the canals as the first railway trains were making their appearance on the new iron tracks, but the stage-driver, who cracked his whip at the one and snapped his fingers at the other, was still the king of the road.

At that time the county town or the nearest city afforded a local market for the produce of the surrounding community, which was a community of contentment and prosperity, hardly aware of dependence on the outside world. The fruits and spices of the tropics and the food from the sea found their way to these inland markets, the oysters in wooden kegs and tin cans, the ginger in ginger-jars swung in a network of rattan, and the white sugar in a tall, conical loaf wrapped in blue paper, which on state occasions was taken down from an upper shelf in the store-room and lumps were broken from it with a knife and a ham

mer.

The spinning-wheel was busy in every farm-house, where the wool was carded and spun and dyed for the men's socks and mittens. In every neighborhood was a loom for weaving rag-carpets, and in the winter evenings, and in the long summer days as well, old garments were cut into strips, sewed together, and wound into balls for the loom. Buyers came from a distance to bargain for the apples and for the wheat and the wool, and they chewed straws and whittled until the deal was completed. The tin peddler made frequent calls, driving a one-horse box-wagon, festooned with shining tin, ready to trade for paper, rags, dried fruit, or any other portable farm product; and if he "put up" for the night, he expected to pay for his keep in tinware.

The children on their way to school

carried baskets of eggs at ten cents a dozen and pails of butter at a shilling a pound to exchange for calico or tea or sugar at the village store. The districtschool-teacher, a young man in the winter and a young woman in the summer, "boarded around," stopping at each farmhouse two weeks at a time. There was another itinerant boarder for two or three days at a time, the old cracker baker, for whom the Dutch oven was made ready and the flour-barrel uncovered. The flourbarrel was an extra piece of coopering, with a cover that fitted over the top to keep out the dust, and stood in a dry chamber with an extra sack or two of fine flour when the cracker baker was due, ground and bolted at the nearest water mill. The traveling baker was a gruff old Norwegian with one white eye, who traveled in a wide circuit, for he came but once a year, and for fifty cents a day and his "keep" he left behind him a whole barrel of round crackers, dented with his elbow and stamped with his name, not to mention a half-barrel of gingersnaps.

I was born on the fourth of September, in the year 1840, in my great-grandmother's house in our village, which, with its surrounding farms, constituted just such an independent community as I have described. The village was dominated by a white church with a tall steeple, and most of its houses were strung out along the stage road like beads on a string. The church was a chapel of old Trinity, and the people were all Episcopalians. There was the tavern where the stages stopped, and opposite it stood an unused store, with a stairway on the side leading up to a study where a well-known historian was busy writing his first books. The tavern. and the empty store and the church faced three sides of a little square where the boys played ball on week days, and which in a larger form extended back and around the church. On the tavern side of the square and facing the side wall of the church were two white houses, with lilac-bushes flanking the gates and flowerbordered walks to the front doors, and behind the church was the handsome house