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lions a year, and out of that population maintaining a regular army which on a peace basis numbers a million and a quarter of men, such a country affords a field over which the liveliest imagination can play at will, and yet fail to grasp its full significance in future history. It has been a drowsy giant, but is now waking out of sleep, and ready to fight, play, or work with its smaller, but more highly developed, world companions.

It takes long for new ideas to penetrate throughout this vast empire, but within the last few years such progress has been made as renders comparisons possible. Nearly one hundred million dollars will be spent this year for public education, and six million Russian children are now at school. The effort to secure more extended local government is making strong headway. The present Duma is a practical working legislative body which plays a vital part in the government of the country. Railroads are being pushed into new territory, and natural resources are being developed. The long journey from Moscow to Vladivostok now presents a panorama familiar to those who took part in the development of western America. The Russian Government is moving every year a minimum of 250,000 people from western to eastern Russia, settling them upon farms, and lending them money to till the land.

With all this movement toward better things, the empire is still a land of strange contrasts and contradictory evidence, and the reasons for this lie in the vastness of the territory, the varied character of the population, and the tremendous difficulties of government administration. The old bureaucracy is tenacious in its hold upon the affairs of the people, and the laws that govern the modern city of St. Petersburg would prove of no avail among the Russian Mohammedans to the south or the Russian Mongols to the east. While in Moscow the factory whistles call thousands of skilled workmen to their daily tasks, the howls of arctic wolves still bring terror to the traveler crossing the plains. Between the northernmost ocean and the Black Sea live many races of men all calling themselves Russian, and the conditions under which they live are as varied as the strains of blood in their veins.

It will be many years before the Russian people cease to look abroad for the materials needed to develop their land and its resources and to adapt themselves to modern life. It is the greatest undeveloped market in the world for the products of skilled human labor. This development has, however, passed its beginning; it is even well on the way toward its promise for the future. America has played no small part in this awakening, and in turn the American people have profited largely, with apparently no limit to what might accrue from intelligent enterprise, which should keep pace with Russian development. Russian development. Americans were liked, and their wares were in high favor. The Russian Government was friendly, and treated American ventures with consideration. The first serious check to this state of affairs came with the termination of the treaty in 1911. As soon as the Russian people became really convinced that a serious and, as they viewed it, an unfriendly step had been taken, the whole attitude toward America and Americans underwent change. Competitors of Amercan firms were invited to come in where before they had little chance, and these same competitors have lost no opportunity to emphasize this anti-American spirit and lay permanent foundations for themselves.

The diplomatic strain is not the only evil which has resulted from the rudeness of the United States toward the Russian Government. Such strain could undoubtedly in time be relieved. But a direct and large financial loss has been inflicted upon American industry-a loss not to be measured by its obvious proportions at the moment, but rather in its relations to a future wherein the American people seeking outlet for the increasing product of their labor find that the Russian field has been prejudiced and intrenched against them.

Meanwhile the American Government apparently takes no notice other than to launch a scandal over the appointment of an American ambassador to St. Petersburg to fill a vacancy which has existed for many months. The American people are now asking those into whose hands they have given the appointive, legislative, and treaty-making powers of the nation, What about Russia?"



BY KATHARINE HOLLAND BROWN Author of "The New Nest," etc.

HAT you, Granny? Hist!" It was the voice of Peter, my eldest grandson, at the telephone, the deep, dark, shuddering note of the conspirator. "Listen. You need me badly to-day-to take you motoring. No, you don't feel any yearning need of me yet, but you'll get wise in a minute. This is the day, the awful day, that mother entertains her Amalgamated Association of High Brows up at Tower Hill-Sisters of the Signers, you know. She's giving her annual luncheon, and this time she has roped in Sir Christopher Lindley, the famous English playwright, to give them a spiel on "The Drama of To-day,' so it's a terrible frabjous occasion. Now, Granny love, won't you help me side step?"

"Side step?"

"Yes, side step, vamose, fade. Mother had promised me, parole d'honneur, that I could duck this time, for I 've helped her swing that shindy two years in succession; but this morning the heavens fell. You know dad is slated to feed the Breslau committee, those eight worshipful yellow-legs who came over for the International Engineering Society-"

"Yes, but Charles Edward's luncheon at Tower Hill is set for Thursday week." "For sure it was. Father had it all framed up for next Thursday, when the echoes of mother's hammerfest should have died away. But, alas! our little Deutsch brothers suddenly decided on a week-end run to Iowa to see the new Des Moines dam. With Teutonic calm they wired father that he might expect them for luncheon to-day instead of Thursday next."

"O Peter! and the Sisters of the Signers already under way! Oh, what a dreadful mix-up!"

But hark!

"Ain't it awful, Mabel? The worst is yet to come. Father, of course, was charmed. He and mother made some wild calculations, and figured that, by keeping them apart, both lunch

eons could be put through without bloodshed. Mother planned to give the Sisters an al-fresco spread on the front porch, while dad would corral his guests in the dining-room, then rush them back to town for the four-o'clock Chicago Limited. All was lovely; but this morning-whack! down came the fatal shears: father was summoned to Washington. He's leaving on the first train-Interstate Commerce grill, you know."

"O Peter! and desert his eminent guests! He must not. He can't."

"He can't do anything else, Granny. He's got to hearken to his country's call or else be cited for contempt. No, if I were you, I would n't try to condole with my dear eldest son. He's just finished blowing out a fuse, trying to tell his attorneys what he thinks of 'em. Now d you see? In the face of this calamity, mother has gone back on her word. Faithless jade she is; she says I 've got to stay right on the job. Says I must rattle around in dad's shoes as best I may. Therefore, Granny, command me. Asheville or Jersey City, Hackensack or Hurricane Mountain, 't is all the same as long as it 's forty-five minutes from Tower Hill A-ah!" A hiss of baffled fury. "Foiled again!"

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Then came the voice of Gwendolen, my daughter-in-law, alarmingly staccato, with no trace of its habitual velvet languor.

"Peter Wentworth, you would vex a saint. What nonsense have you been telling granny? I don't believe you gave her one word of my message. O Mother, I'm in the most dreadful straits! No, don't beg off, please; I must have you today. I can't possibly do without you. Yes, Peter will take his father's place as host to the Breslau committee. No, he can not take them to a club. We dare n't revoke our house invitation. Europeans are so fussy, anyway. Yes, I'm giving the Signers' luncheon at the very same minute, but I can carry it all through if

just I can get both sets of guests to Tower Hill without any more mishaps. They'll meet at our house at eleven. I must take the president of the Breslau committee in my own car. And you-now, Mother, you must take care of my other celebrity, the speaker for the Signers', Sir Christopher Lindley, the playwright, you know."

The receiver dropped from my palsied fingers.

"T-take care of Sir Christopher Lindley, that world-famous artist and author! Mercy on me, Gwendolen, I can't think of such a thing!"

Gwendolen did n't condescend to coax. "Put on your new gray chiffon, Mother. Peter is coming for you right away."

Up clicked her receiver. To my horrified ear it was the click of doom.

"Gwendolen grows too dictatorial for endurance," I scolded as Eliza hurried me into my gray chiffon and tied on bonnet and dust-cloak. "I've the greatest mind to stay at home. If only Peter would neglect to come! If only his car would break down!"

If there's anything that frightens me to panic, it's such a task as this. As a rule, I can maintain a decently conventional aspect at the children's grand affairs. As Peter proudly says, I 've never been caught drinking out of my fingerbowl yet; and thanks to the perennial stream of advice which my daughter, my daughter-in-law, my granddaughters, and my nieces pour into my listening ear, I manage to go about in seemly raiment. But as for entertaining their famous folk! The thought is consternation. The mere word genius brings always a daunting wonder, a thrill of awe. Yes, it's all very silly and early-Victorian of me, and those of the great that I have met face to face upon the narrow road of my days have been the least formidable of folk; never vainglorious, never puffed up; quiet, instead, and gentle, eager to serve those who are in need, to give happiness to little children. None the less, I can hardly lift my eyes to these, the light-bringers; for they seem always of such sublimer essence, loftier breed.

Peter's car did not break down; Peter was brutally prompt. Eight minutes later I got out, to find Gwendolen struggling

in one of those hideous quicksands that sooner or later entrap the most far-sighted hostess. The stars in their courses fought against poor Gwendolen that day. As for Peter Wentworth, I wanted to turn him over my knee. True, he loathes these functions, but that 's small excuse for the way he projected about, outwardly the suave young host, yet snatching every chance to fluster poor Gwendolen by some imp by-play. Presently, impeccably on the minute, Charles Edward's august guests arrived, eight grave, substantial German gentlemen, all in customary garb of solemn black, with black gloves and ceremonious silk hats. Oddly enough, they were almost of a height, and the eight, in their somber raiment, advancing two by two to greet their hostess, gave a rather startling effect. However, that was no reason why Peter should turn to his mother and ask in a hushed aside whether the friends were to take a last look, or should he dismiss the audience at once. Poor Gwendolen nearly lost what little self-command she had left.

"At least I'm thankful they 're safely here, without any breakage," gasped Gwendolen. "If only Sir Christopher arrives on time, and Mrs. Sutphen Sands-"

"His lordship may be prompt, but Mrs. Sands will be late. Sands will be late. She's always late. 'Tis the prerogative of a Signers' founder," said Peter, cheerfully. But Gwendolen's eyes had flown to the door.

"There is Sir Christopher!" With a sigh of heartfelt relief she swept away. Perhaps I looked a little wild-eyed, for Peter laid a soothing hand on my arm.

"Calm yourself, Granny. He'll be dead easy." He nodded reassuringly toward the tall, stooped, gray-haired man who was coming inexorably toward me. "If he acts aloof and silent, break the ice with a few cheery questions. Ask him why is a genius, and what does it feel like. Tell him you have a dear little grandson at home who wants to know. Ask him if it 's true that his father was a pit boss, and used to come home soused, and did he, at the age of four, actually sell matches on the street corners, and of what touching contrasts life is made. Ask him-"

I did n't catch Peter's last question, but it was no great loss. Sir Christopher was already bowing over my hand. did his devoirs with a clumsy carefulness,


drolly like a big, overgrown boy at his I added, with inward vim.) "Statuary? first dancing-school. There was something boyish, too, in his square, dark face, with its heavy features, its dark, tired eyes. Past my terrified boggles at light conversation I caught Gwendolen's low, staccato

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"And large cotton gloves-"

But Gwendolen had borne her recreant son away. Two minutes later she came trailing back.

'Mrs. Sands sends word that she will be half an hour late," -Gwendolen smiled, ineffably serene, -"so we must wait. But Sir Christopher may enjoy a glimpse of the city. Will you drive with him half an hour, Mother, then join us on the Tower Hill road? Yes, the car is ready."

I quailed, but Gwendolen's eye did not beseech; it commanded.

"And, say, Granny,"-Peter, deftly dodging his mother's grasp, caught my arm. All his mischief vanished. His laughing face grew eager and intent, "if you love me, show him the Farragut statue. Don't let him miss that. See?" I nodded reassuringly. Peter and I share certain things, just as Frederic, my husband, and I used to share things, and our most prideful possession is the Farragut statue. To Peter it stands for his young life's idol, the lordly commander, the pirate-slayer, the strategist, the allglorious conqueror. To me it pictures not a conqueror, but a man; one of the world's great gentlemen, though I don't believe I've ever told Peter that story.

We swung away down the avenue. It was a superb spring morning. The car ran as smoothly as a carpet of the jinn. That was a relief to my mind, for Gwendolen's new and impressive French chauffeur was driving, and I'd felt doubtful as to his seamanship.

"St. Patrick's Cathedral on your left," I intoned conscientiously, like the bottlegreen gentleman on the sight-seeing car. "The library on your right. Yes, those are lions. (And much more convincing than your homely old lions at Trafalgar,"

Yes, I'm just about to show you the one monument that, to my mind, outranks all other sculpture this side of the world. Turn into Twenty-sixth Street, Benoit, and stop, please."

The car halted at the northwest corner of Madison Square. Sir Christopher looked with sober interest at the great memorial: the stately bench, with its carved waves in low relief; the bold, heroic figure that stands above, alert, intent, the steady eyes forever gazing to the west. Then he glanced at the dim inscription, a part of which read:





"A very noble memorial," remarked Sir Christopher in his slow, absent voice.

I looked up at him quickly. Somehow the note in his voice, his quiet, lifted glance, brought a far-away memory glimmering like a shadow-picture across my mind. But before I could grasp the association that this look of his had brought the memory had flown.

"Yes, it is a very noble memorial to a very noble gentleman-my own particular hero."

Then I stopped short, with a shamefaced gulp, and turned away. It's the eternal, blue-nosed old Puritan streak in me, I suppose, the tight-mouthed AngloSaxon, that can never speak out its deep enthusiasms, its lifelong reverence, but must forever choke up, instead, and keep still. "This is the best that we can do with our half-hour, Sir Christopher. We must go on to Tower Hill."

We sped back up the avenue, threaded the park, all green and amber in the sunshine, then on to the drive. As we whirled away up the beautiful river road, my spirits rose. I need not keep up my hospitable prattle. Obviously Sir Christopher was enjoying this respite from being entertained. His heavy face was unchanging; but his dark, meditative eyes lighted

as he gazed from blue, shining river to
climbing, emerald hills. Even world-
famous playwrights may like to draw a
free breath now and then.
At last he spoke:

"Where are all the children?"
"The children?"

He motioned up toward the velvet sweep of lawns, the blossomy vistas. I understood. These radiant gardens were meant for children's feet. Then I remembered that of Sir Christopher's ten lovely romance-plays five have been fairy-plays for children, and I felt an odd pulse of kinship with this gray, quiet, famous man.

"You'll see a-plenty children in a minute or so," said I. We had turned from that royal highway, and were spinning through fields and market gardens. "This field road is a short cut to Tower Hill, and I love it. Somehow the snug little houses look so neighborly. Dear me, what can be wrong?"

For our carpet of the jinn was flying slowly, slowly. Even as I spoke, with a long, weary sigh it stopped-stopped dead.

We need not make inquiry of the jinn, for Gwendolen's haughty new chauffeur was expressing his emotions in West-Indian French that sounded like sandpaper rubbed on a new-plastered wall. Some unspeakable menial had neglected the petrol; therefore we were marooned in this desert until he himself could return two entire miles to the village store, which we had skimmed past a moment since, and procure a supply.

"Surely some of Gwen's party will happen along," I said anxiously as we watched the irate chauffeur stalk up the dusty road, "else we 'll be late to luncheon. However," I added to myself, "Gwen won't say a word. One calamity more or less can't mar this unearthly day."

Not a car was in sight. Manifestly Manifestly Gwen had chosen the longer and more picturesque drive.

"If we could telephone-"

Sir Christopher made a spy-glass of his hands.

"Not a wire near," he said cheerfully. "Shall we not beg leave to wait upon this cottage porch? This sun is too hot for you."

He lifted me to the ground, gently, but rather awkwardly. Then for the first time

I saw that he was not only slow of movement, but a little lame.

"The gardeners must be away in the fields," said I when we had jangled the bell at the nearest trim yellow door for several minutes. But as I spoke we heard the occupant of the house approaching. Not his footsteps; his voice. Inside the screen door appeared a small, square child of three, dewy pink from his nap, adhesive with molasses, and shrieking at the top of his powerful infant lungs.

"Oh, poor lamb! We 've waked him, and frightened him cruelly." I snatched the roaring cherub into my arms. he wake up all scared to death? there!"

"Did There,

Never in my experienced days have I heard any child yell like that one. Charles Edward, in early youth, had what Gwendolen would call a flair for stubbing his toe, and his wails used to rend high heaven. But against this baby's howls Charles Edward's bravest efforts were as a penny whistle to a siren.

"Mercy, what a tempest! Come, Sonny Boy, tell us what you want, and we 'll get it for you, and get it quick.”

Sonny Boy obliged. Between vast, but ebbing, sobs, he explained that while he slept his family had basely deserted him for the strawberry patch. Furthermore, he desired not only his kinsfolk, but his Noah 'n' dark and his bread and 'lasses at once. Luckily, Gwendolen's emergency hamper proved to hold a packet of small, but efficient, sandwiches. The sobs ceased as if the first mouthful had pushed some merciful button. In the heavenly lull that ensued Sir Christopher sat down on the porch step and viewed the littered floor.

"I predict, Mrs. Wentworth, that this calm will last as long as the sandwiches will. That gives one minute, flat, to prepare for the next squall. Let us see: one shoe-box, one newspaper, three lead soldiers, one toy horse. Listen, Sonny Boy. Let's make fairy-land."

The last fat tear vanished from Sonny Boy's pudding cheek. He sat on my knee, wide-eyed, rapt. He almost forgot to munch the last sandwich. And I looked on, more rapt, more enchanted, for Sir Christopher had set the shoe-box on end, and was hanging strips of paper before it, like curtains before a dais. He had sta

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