a human life been lost by fire in any of the the old slough is the difference between day and night. We still hear the cry for hundred-and-odd-thousand houses for lack playgrounds, and not in the time of any one now living will it be silenced; but the school department alone operated two hundred and twenty-two playgrounds last year, with an aggregate attendance of nearly six millions of children in the summer vacation, not counting its fifty-odd evening recreation-centers, its seven or eight hundred clubs, and thirty-odd vacation schools. And now the showing of the small parks that have sprung up, the number of which is increasing year by year, the provision made for children's play by the park department and by private effort, and something of what it all means to the city, and must increasingly mean, may be gleaned from the mere statement that in 1911 the accidents of traffic in New York streets cost 270 lives and the injury of 10,577 persons. Bath-houses we have, and the reproach of "the great unwashed" has been proved a slander. There never is sufficient room, summer or winter, for all who desire to bathe, but in those schools alone that are fitted with shower-baths nearly a million children bathed last year. The single kindergarten once maintained by the city has grown into nine hundred kindergartens; commodious and beautiful school buildings have taken the place of dark and stuffy houses overrun with rats, and are becoming social neighborhood centers. The city superintendent of schools tells us in a report just made public that "New York is using her public-school buildings outside of the regular school hours to a greater extent than any other city in the country," and adds that he hopes the end is not yet. Into the homes of the people light and air have penetrated, and they have acquired legal claims. The first census taken under the new tenement-house law found 361,000 dark and airless rooms in houses, unfit to live in, half of them without any windows at all. There are still more than sixty thousand windowless rooms left in Greater New York; but they are going. When the last of them is gone, we shall be able to fight tuberculosis, and win. The dark halls have been lighted. Life in the tenements has been made measurably endurable and safe. Not in the ten years since the new law was passed has of means of escape or other faults of construction. In the ten years preceding 1894 two hundred and fifty-six persons perished in tenement-house fires, not counting the firemen who died in efforts to save them. The thousands of vaults and cesspools that were a constant menace to us all are gone. On the whole of Manhattan Island only seven are left, and they are not used in connection with tenement-houses. The power to remove them, once hotly contested, has been so buttressed by the courts that it stands for all cities and all time. The tenement-house law itself, which was weak and tottering, stands secure against assault. The cry that it would wreck the builder has been proved false. He has built more tenements than ever. To sum up, a million and a quarter of souls, or more than one third of the tenement-house population that was steeped in the environment which made for all unrighteousness, have been housed decently and safely, and the rest will be. Have we, then, solved the housing problem in New York? No, we have not. We have not realized the ideal of the little house with cheap rent, and we never shall realize it. Instead, rents have risen, and are rising yet. We have not less crowding, but more. We know now that the cliff-dweller in New York has come to stay, at least in the old city. The problem now is how to bar the cliff-dweller from crossing the bridges into the New York of the future. Since the point of saturation was reached in the crowded region south of Fourteenth Street, and the exodus thence began, the tenement-builder has been busy in the boroughs. It is easy to foresee that the time may come when the conditions of Manhattan will be reproduced in the newer regions, without the defense of Manhattan that it is pent between two rivers. How to prevent this is the nightmare of social reformers, of congestion committees. Like men fighting a fire, we must get in front of it. A stern chase is a vain chase in dealing with this trouble. Can we hold our ground there? The answer applies to every growing city: we can, if we begin at the beginning. City-planning is New York's remedy. Like every other American city, it has grown as it could grow, which was not as it should. The old city-below Central Park, at any rate-is made; we must begin. planning a city that shall have broader streets and lower houses; parks and playgrounds provided ahead of the population, not on the heels of it; a city of zones, determined for twenty years or more, as in the well-governed cities abroad, in which factories may or may not be built, with transit lines laid out to suit the plan. There is nothing chimerical or impracticable in this. That city governments may regulate the height of houses in selected districts is a point that has been decided by the Supreme Court of the United States. There is no reason why tenements in the outlying boroughs should not be restricted to, say, three stories. The legislature might authorize the board of estimate to create a commission to report on a scheme of city-planning, and after public hearings the plan might be carried out without other authority. A short cut to this end would be for the city to buy up the outlying land, of which the speculating builder is now getting possession, and keep it to sell under certain restriction; but that it cannot do. Perhaps some day it may acquire the power of excess condemnation enabling it to do it, if, indeed, it is for other reasons desirable. But whether New York adopts belated city planning or a land-tax system to discourage congestion, it has one imperative duty to perform to its tenement-dwellers which no building law can meet: it must prohibit home manufacture among them. The disclosures of factory investigation have made this abundantly plain. Poverty and greed combine to make a definite peril of the practice of letting contract tailoring work be done in tenements. The chance of contagion that stalks abroad among rich and poor from homes that may harbor diphtheria, scarlet fever, or infantile paralysis, and the fact that home work in tenements in the busy season inevitably tends to increase the crowding and to break down child-labor laws, are not the only serious points to consider. Of what use are playgrounds to children who "never play at all," but toil in half-dark rooms from sunrise till ten or eleven o'clock at nightchildren of tender years who, when they drop asleep, are shaken and beaten by their parents that they may finish their tasks? Licenses are granted to more than eleven thousand tenements in which home work may be done, and there are only ten factory inspectors to attend to them! With the welcome reorganization of the department of labor, and by putting upon the manufacturer the burden of responsibility as well as the odium of having work done on dirty and unsanitary premises, and, further, by prohibiting child labor and certain kinds of work, it is hoped that this mischief may be greatly reduced. There is a general definite conviction that the time has come to forbid contract work in tenements altogether, else all other efforts will go for naught. The law may never be able to do that. The power and the purpose alike must come from an informed and aroused public opinion that refuses any longer to put up with an abuse which only adds to the burdens of poverty without being of benefit to any one. The evidence is conclusive that it drags down the wages of those engaged in it. facture in the The war on home manutenements is to-day's phase of the struggle with the slum. We must first attack it on the score of child labor, and, when that evil is disposed of, from the angle of the welfare of the mother and the home. Here is where woman can help. For this at least she needs no political powers; for she has a better weapon: she is the shopper. She can refuse to buy anything made under unsanitary, unfair conditions. The Consumers' League will inform her on these points; it exists for that purpose. Let her challenge her critics by embracing the principles of the Consumers' League and making them her invariable practice. Should all women do that to-morrow in New York City, tenementhouse work would cease the next day. HOME AN ANONYMOUS NOVEL PART II WITH PICTURES BY REGINALD BIRCH SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING INSTALMENT ALAN WAYNE, nephew of a New York banker, is dismissed by his uncle on account of his wild life. He is a young engineer, and goes to Africa in the employment of a large bridgebuilding firm. He meets with success and gains the name of "Ten Per Cent." for cutting time and expense estimates. Gerry Lansing, the other dominant character of the story, has married Alix Deering, a former flame of Alan's. They do not live in harmony, and Alix goes abroad against her husband's wishes. Returning she meets Alan on shipboard. He is passionately in love with her and she is greatly fascinated by him. Upon reaching home the situation is soon noticed by others. Alan's cousin, Nance Sterling, cautions him, and Gerry asks his wife to drop Alan. Alix is so inflamed thereby that she consents to run off with Alan. On the Montreal express she sees her foolishness and jumps from the train as it moves from the station. Gerry, in the meantime, has followed Alix to the station, and not waiting for the train's departure he walks off without seeing the outcome. He has seen enough to make him wish to escape the imminent scandal, and he takes passage for Brazil. In South America he wanders from place to place, while those at home are making futile search for him. Gerry finally goes inland on the San Francisco River and one morning, when about to take a plunge, he sees the form of a beautiful girl on a near by bank. He dives and swims toward her. GE CHAPTER XII ERRY'S cablegram to his mother was forwarded to Red Hill on the very day that the judge had gone up to tell them that no trace could be found of the missing man. The Firs were gay that night-gay with the joy of happy people happily planning. In a month, or, at the most two months, Gerry could be here. He would come into his own as never before. The judge undertook the cabling. He cabled Gerry, and the message was reported undelivered. Then he cabled the American consul. There followed a long series of messages, first quick and hopeful, then lagging, but not doubtful, then at wearying silence of weeks, ending with the inevitable blow. Gerry had been traced to the San Francisco River. The envoy sent on his track by the judge's orders had reached Piranhas, to find the little town in apathetic wonder over the discovery of Gerry's canoe stranded three miles down the river. The paddle was still in the canoe, and a suit of pajamas. No further trace of Gerry had been found. His body had not been recovered. The people said it was not unusual. He had undoubtedly been attacked by tiger-fish. In that case his bones would have been stripped of flesh. It was impossible to drag the great river. The judge hid in his heart the harrowing details. To Mrs. Lansing he told the central fact. She was struck dumb with grief, and then she thought of Alix. Almost hastily they decided that it was not a time to tell Alix, and during long months they put her off with false news of the search. They carried it farther and farther into the wilds of the Southern Continent. The country was so vast, there was no telling when the messenger would finally come up with Gerry. Alix bore the strain with wonderful patience. The truth was that her thoughts were not on Gerry. Something greater than Gerry was claiming all her faith, all her strength of body and soul. She did not talk. She was holding that final com munion with her innermost self with which a woman dedicates her body to pain and sacrifice. Alix was not afraid. In those days the spirit of the race-her race of pioneers-shone from her steady eyes and even put courage in those about her. Only when the ordeal was over and an heir to the house of Lansing had raised his lusty voice in apparent rage at having been born to so small a kingdom, did the frail Alix of other days come back. She lay, pale and thin, but with the glorious light of supreme achievement in her eyes. Then came the day when Alix was strong-strong enough. Mrs. Lansing told her in a choked voice what they knew and what every one believed. She cried softly in Alix's arms. "Poor Mother!" said Alix, her lips against the wet cheek. "How strong you 've been! How you hid it from me! What a burden to carry in your heart, and smile. But listen, dear Mummy. You are all wrong. Perhaps I would not have known it if you had told me then, but I know it now. Gerry is not dead. There is no river that can drown Gerry." "My dear," said Mrs. Lansing, frightened, "you must not think that. It's always the best swimmers that risk the most." "It is n't that he can swim," said Alix. Her eyes turned slowly till they rested on her son. Her bosom swelled at the memory of the travail-the terrible travail that she had borne not for the child alone or for Gerry alone, but for them both. "Swimming has nothing to do with it. Somehow I know that Gerry is all right somewhere on this little world. Only, dear," and here her voice faltered and her eyes shone with tears, "this little world seems mighty big when hearts are far apart." Alix clung to her belief. So strong was her faith that Mrs. Lansing became infected, but the judge held out against them. "My heart is with you," he said at the end of months, "but my head won't turn. A naked man even in South America would have caused remark. Why should n't he have come back for his clothes, for his money? After all, he was n't a fugitive from justice. He was a man wandering over the earth in pursuit of a mere whim, and a whim does n't last forever." Alix interrupted him. you. "Judge, I have never been angry with We all owe you too much. But if you ever say 'was' about Gerry again—" She stopped, and bit her lip, but her eyes spoke for her. "My dear girl," said the judge, and only his color showed that he was hurt, "don't be angry with me. It shall be as you say. I've only been trying to save you from years of weary waiting. If you have the courage to wait for sorrow, I shall wait, too." Alix kissed him. A few weeks before, the Hon. Percy Collingeford had looked up the judge. It was as much a pleasure to the young man as a duty he owed to his father, whose friend the judge had been for many years. Collingeford was no stranger to America, but he knew far more about dodging arroyos in New Mexico on a cow-pony than he did about dodging the open trenches and debris of Fifth Avenue on the trail of a tea-party. He was an Englishman, a younger son with enough money to put him above the remittance class, and he was possessed of far more intelligence than he had been born with; for from his youth up, he had sought out experience in many places. He came back from the Klondike with more money than he needed for his passage, but only a few kindred spirits knew that he had made it hammering the piano in the Fallen Star of Hope. He had the English gentleman's common creed: ride straight, shoot straight, tub often, and talk the king's English. That creed fulfilled, nothing else seemed to worry him. He was dining with the judge at the club one night when the name of Wayne -Alan Wayne-floated over occasionally from a neighboring table. Later, as they sat over their coffee and cigars, Collingeford said abruptly: "I know a chap named Wayne." "Heard those people mention Alan Wayne," explained Collingeford. "I wondered if it was the same one-Ten Per Cent. Wayne of Africa." "That 's the one," said the judge, and watched Collingeford's face. "Hum!" said Collingeford. "When I saw Wayne, he was in shirt-sleeves and a battered sun-helmet. There are some men |