look no farther. Are you in search of amusement? Billiards, chess, cards, in the Men's Club; dancing, receptions, teas, fairs, plays, germans, parlor games. Do you wish merely to sit quietly and reflect? St. George's Church, large and calm and thought-inspiring, always open, that the wayfarer may enter and sit and remain as long as he wishes.

But this is not all. It is only a bald outline of part of the factory. It gives but a meagre hint of what is perhaps the most important part.

In the statistical table in the latest Year Book you will find that during the year 10,967 visits were made and 15,419 visits were received by the general superintendent and his staff of workers, paid and volunteer. Those figures are the cold and utterly inadequate summary of a vast social life that is vital to the plant. They furnish the clue to the persistence and triumphant growth of St. George's in a locality where decay would seem to be inevitable for such a democratic, God-helps-those-that-help-them

selves organization. They explain why, although St. George's loses nine per cent. of its membership every year by deaths and removals, it more than makes good the loss.

The general superintendent permits no one to be negligent, no one to be lost sight of. About six hundred of his subordinates live in private residences-the rich, who perhaps most of all need the benefits that come from working in and for the plant. About a thousand live in apartments and hotels - the well-to-do who must be kept in line for what they can do and for their own sakes. Another thousand live in boarding-houses- the young fellows and young girls who are working and are presently to set up housekeeping as men and women of family. The rest-about five thousand five hundred-live in tenements, and, like the others, they must be carefully looked after. The general superintendent not only goes himself, not only sends his immediate staff, not only sends his volunteer regular workers; he also sends these

eight thousand to call on each other, to keep track of each other, to keep each other up to the mark, that they may benefit the plant and be benefited by it. He goes and sends his men and women, his boys and girls, out, always out, after those who are falling away, after new men and new women, new boys and new girls. New York is a madly busy, an incessantly changing, city-there are on the average three thousand changes of address in St. George's membership annually. It is a tremendous task just to keep together the organization, to prevent enthusiasm from flagging, to make good inevitable losses, and to show an advance each year. And it is inspiring to note that St. George's and its like prosper and grow where plants based upon patronizing and pauperization shrink and wither.

This brings us to the basis of St. George's strength-the social life. It is social life that New-Yorkers of all classes and kinds most need and most crave.

We constantly hear of the lack of social life in the tenements-as if the lack were VOL. CVII.-No. 638.-27

not universal in New York, were not greater in the tenements only because they are more populous. Every great city is socially a vast desert.

The abysmal craving of New YorkWest Side and East Side, hotel and apartment, boarding - house and flat - is for friends, for sympathy, for the gayety and intimacy of the private circle, for social life, such as people can have in other cities, in the towns, in the country even.

And St. George's and its like among the new church model-communities seek to supply this lack, seek to respond to this craving. Its plant is essentially social throughout; and it reaches out constantly, assiduously, far and wide, up and down, to draw in and to assimilate to its high and broad standards the timid and the awkward, the poor and the forlorn, the rich who long to be useful, the lonely who sit in the cheerless solitude of hall bedrooms or haunt the saloons or the dance-halls. It gives the older people a chance to smile, the younger people a chance to court, all a chance to work in the sunshine of fellowship.

H

OP TONG, the happy possessor of many ancestors, sang persuasively to any of the gods who might by chance be in hearing as he once more defended his house with lighted punksticks. He had heard many times that the white man would descend upon the camp to drive the colony of Chinese laborers from California, but his faith still abided with his deities. Surely the smoke from the punks could not fail to affright those evil spirits who would tempt or goad the whites to deeds of immoderation.

Little Hop Sing, the first-born of Hop Tong, was sitting out in the sand near the door at the rear. He was waiting for his parent to come for a moment of their customary play before dinner. He watched his father with baby interest. He liked the little red papers which the happy Hop Tong strewed about to flank the burning punks. Had the papers been visiting-cards left by the gods themselves, Hop Tong could not have displayed them about his house with more confidence in their power of establishing security to him and his.

He was still engaged in constructing these defences of paper and smoke when the long-threatened raid suddenly came.

It broke without warning. Lawlessness arrived at the camp in an avalanche. The canyon above abruptly swarmed with cowboys, miners, and laborers, who, with shouts, curses, and din of shots, came running in a furious horde through the one crooked street.

Their calm thus so unexpectedly invaded, the Chinese were thrown into panic at once. They darted from their houses, bareheaded, yelling, and fleeing in all directions. The raiders created pandemonium, which their madness momentarily increased. They fell upon doors and windows; they beat and kicked the frightened coolies. They drove everything in a wild stampede before them.

More than half of the raiders fired their guns and pistols purposely high. They had come to drive, more than to slaughter. Nevertheless, a few aimed with more malignity. A number of running creatures fell, stricken down in strange attitudes.

Hop Tong hastened out at the front of his house to see what the frightful disturbance implied. Spellbound for a moment by the sight of the army of whites thus in wrath descended upon them, he could neither move nor speak. On erratic courses a dozen of his countrymen came dashing toward him. He raised his hand, as if to ward off the vision. A bullet struck him, with a sound of spattering. He reeled and fell. But he struggled to his feet sturdily, and running back through his house to little Hop Sing, lurched head foremost to the earth within a yard of the wondering youngster.

The man remained on his face. The baby chuckled, and crowing delightedly, crept to his father, who had come thus to play their little game. He patted the coiled-up queue on the motionless head, and then waited for the frolic to continue.

The canyon-sides were clattering with the sounds of shots and bawlings and yells. The noise of the raid swept by the house of Tong, and so on down the gorge below, where raced both pursued and pursuers. The sounds grew fainter at last, till an absolute silence fell upon the camp bathed in the light of the sun. Indeed, a calm too strange for peace settled where the emptied shanties huddled together in the gulch.

Little Hop Sing remained sitting in the sand, crowing inquiringly, and softly patting his father's twisted queue. The little chap, whose mother had died at his birth, had never known his father to play so long, nor to hide his face for a joke so persistently.

The long afternoon, so still and so fragrant of the mountains, went by. The sunset zephyr toyed with the tiny pigtail braided at the back of little Hop Sing's neck. Long shadows crept eastward from the peaks and hills. The chill of the autumn air trailed where the shadows lay deepest.

At length the silence was broken. Above the camp some one was whistling. A miner, come from his claim to borrow some rice at the Chinese camp, presently issued from around the bend of the trail in sight of the cabins-and halted. He ceased to whistle.

In the one crooked street there was furniture, thrown out and broken. Doors were smashed; windows were shattered. Nowhere did the visitor behold a living human being.

Haltingly the man came walking down the street. A grim look had come upon

his face. His gaze travelled about slowly, recoiling from several objects, a closer examination of which he dreaded. But presently his glance was detained. Then he walked across the intervening space, strewn with rocks, till he loomed up darkly above little Hop Sing, clinging with a chubby brown hand to his father's queue.

The tiny urchin, so bonny brown, so plump, pretty, and wonder-eyed, looked up timidly in the face of the rough young miner above him. He winked his big brown eyes slowly and hung his little head, but continued to watch his visitor as if with doubt.

The miner regarded the form of Hop Tong silently, and a stern look appeared in his eyes. "Feud," he muttered. "Race feud. . . . Worse than mine and Henderson's."

The scene of the desolated camp had

be disturbed. The river roared unceasingly a few rods away, but its great lullaby was wonderfully calming.

The day was perfect, with that stillness and fragrance which only the autumn can bring. From the slopes of the hills a breath of pine-trees and dry manzanita wafted away in its evanescence.

wrought upon his memory vividly. He wondered if any feud could be worse than that of the Blakes and Hendersons. He saw again his own mother shot down and lying in a furrow before him. He must always remember her thus, fallen backward on the moist earth, slain in her dead husband's clothing, which bravely she had adopted to deceive the Hendersons into believing a man was still about the place. This she had done to save her boy-this miner who now stood looking down at the body of Hop Tong.

"You can't stay here, little Chow-chow kid," he presently said to the child. He knelt on the sand and held out his big, rough hands. "Want to come?" he said. "Want to go with me-home?"

The tiny man clung fast to the coil of hair he had patted so long in his play. His little red bud of a mouth was tightly pursed. Blake expected him to cry, but he made no sound.

"I don't want to drag you away, little kid," said the man again, "but you'll have to leave that soon." He reflected a moment earnestly. "Perhaps if I wait you'll go to sleep," he added. He sat on the earth patiently.

The darkness gathered from the hollows. Big-eyed and wistful, little Hop Sing continued to gaze up at his visitor's face timidly. The miner's countenance seemed to undergo strange alterations as the darkness crept upon it. He was now a grinning Nemesis, anon a carven god like a Buddha, calm and benignant. At length he merged with the form of Hop Tong as he lay there, still at play with his first-born son. Then there came a movement. Something arose from the earth, and little Hop Sing was lifted up bodily. His wee bronze fist clutched hair again, but now it was warm. Less chilled, more sleepy than ever, the silent little man was borne away from the dark canyon, where coyotes began to howl their melancholy song.

Now that he had his tiny Chinese urchin in his cabin, the miner was not exactly certain of what he ought to do. The pretty little scamp was asleep, after sitting up, awake and blinking, through nearly all the night.

Blake had crept away to the sunlight out by his tunnel. The "kid" must not

With his pick between his knees, Blake sat on a boulder, thinking. His grim memories of the day before had gone. Day-dreams flitted through his mind. The vein of quartz he had tunnelled so far to follow had led him at last to a chimney of gold as rich as butter. This was good to begin with. Then there was her highness-Miss Mountain Dryad.

He knew her by no other name. She called him "Mr. Say," and they were both contented. He was wondering now if she would come again to-day. If she did he would speak at last. He dared to speak now, for what else had he delved so hard in his mine?

But what would she think of the Chowchow kid? She would be surprised. She would see what a pretty little rogue he was. She would like him-she couldn't help it. But, best of all, she would know what ought to be done about his immediate future.

So absorbed did the man become that he was wholly unaware of her advent when "Miss Dryad" rode quietly down the trail and halted her pony.

That the man thought upon her joyously was in no wise a wonder, for a sight more delightful would have been conjured with difficulty. She was such a bright, animated bit of color! Her cheeks were so smoothly ruddy and olive, her eyes so dark and dancing full of light, her lips so red and curving with smiles, her hair so glossy black and tumbled!

She was laughing at the day-dreaming miner. She filled her hungering gaze with the sight of his Saxon manhood. She was certain his flaxen hair and steady blue eyes were emblematic of strength and courage, honesty and traits of affection. She gazed so ardently that presently he felt it. He looked up and caught her.

"Oh, hullo!" he said. "You, is it, little Miss Dryad, appearin' again out of nothing but air?"