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in armories, and in Y. M. C. A. buildings, etc. In order to stimulate interest in the movement, auxiliary organizations. of parents are formed, and in the discretion of the adult local leader public meetings are held, to which the people of the precinct are invited.

This plan of replacing ignorance of the police with knowledge as to their functions has been carried still further. For nearly two years a number of sergeants, carefully chosen for special qualifications, have been systematically visiting the schools of New York, and explaining to the pupils why the police are maintained, what they do, how they strive to protect the children and their fathers and mothers from harm, and how the boys and girls can help in this work. The talks are delivered informally, and as a rule in the assemblyroom of the school. But those talks have been most carefully prepared so as to interest the audiences for which they are intended. One of the ablest of the nineteen police inspectors has devoted himself to training this staff of sergeants, and to seeing that the lectures are effectively delivered. This inspector is one of the busiest "superintendents of education" one might find in a long search among teachers of the young.

With a view to encourage further cooperation between the public and the police, another organization of citizens, the Home Defense League, has been formed in New York. This was first thought of at a time when many persons saw the possibility of war between the United States and a foreign nation, and the league was created solely for purposes of defense against invasion. Immediately upon announcement from police headquarters that such a league was to be formed, five thousand citizens sent in their names as recruits. Within a year the number increased to twenty-two thousand. Of this paper strength, fifteen thousand have been actively organized by companies in the ninety or more police precincts of the city. During the winter months members of the Defense League, under supervision of precinct captains and army drill-masters,

are given a course of instruction in police matters and in light gymnastic work. The men of each company choose their own company officers. Among the important. duties these volunteers have already rendered may be mentioned that of helping to guard school-children at intersections of traffic-crowded streets, while many of them were gladly availed of in the sanitary patrol of the city during the summer of 1916, when an epidemic of infantile. paralysis for several weeks caused grave anxiety. A provision in the constitution of the Home Defense League specifically mentions that its members shall not be called upon as a body for police duty during labor disturbance; yet many companies permitted it to be known that they were ready to volunteer for maintaining law and order while the traction strike was at its height a few months ago. The Home Defense League is a big asset both n.orally and physically to the police department.

Turn again to still another human side of this new contact between the public and the police. Despite numberless charitable, philanthropic, and religious efforts, the population of New York includes a multitude of children who have never seen a Christmas-tree in all their povertystricken little lives. Early last autumn word went out from the commissioner's office at headquarters that when the Christmas season arrived a tree might be set up in each precinct station-house; that the citizens of each precinct might, if they desired, send to the station-house toys, clothing, food, books, candies, and other gifts; and that if such gifts were sent, the police could distribute the presents to children who would appreciate them. This was a new idea with a vengeancean idea that might make the old-time policeman turn over in his grave. But the men of the transformed police department. sprang to meet the idea half-way, and as this is being written they are carrying it out with enthusiasm. No citizen is asked to contribute anything toward this great Christmas celebration, but he is given the privilege of doing so if he chooses to avail himself of the opportunity.

Imagine the psychological effect on the plastic consciousness of scores of thousands of boys and girls who have been taught to regard the station-house as a place to be feared and shunned. In this one departure Commissioner Woods may be building better than he realizes for the future of law and order in New York. It may be a momentous step which he is taking; time alone can decide.

DURING the last decade the old-time type of criminal has largely passed away-the burly, desperate hold-up man, the cracksman of banks, the burglar as formerly known. A number of these survive, as may be seen by the newspapers, but their efforts are sporadic. To-day society has to deal more and more with the mental and moral defective, especially with the weakling poisoned by drugs that deprive him of all moral instinct, render him possibly insane for the time being, and incite him to commit the most vicious crimes. In 1915, through coöperation with members of the faculty of Columbia University and other scientific men, the police. department set up a psychopathic laboratory for the purpose of studying criminals who are feeble-minded or defective, and separating them from those who are normal. During the first two months twentynine suspected of abnormality were picked out of a total of 409 prisoners at the daily

line-up; and when careful medical examination had been made of the twenty-nine, it was found that twenty-one were mentally incompetent. Many of these, ranging in age from twenty to thirty-five, were found to have the brain development of children of seven or eight. To-day, instead of being sent to prison, where many of them had already served terms for previous crimes, such unfortunates are taken to insane-asylums, institutions for the feeble-minded, and other places of restraint. the incurable cases being distinguished from those that might recover.

In rigorous effort to suppress the illegal sale and use of habit-forming drugs the New York police are now arresting annually about 900 persons, and securing 700 convictions. Of these fully seventy-five per cent. have had previous police records, which include every crime in the statutes. This is an official statement, one of sinister portent. It means that law-abiding society is facing a human element new and exceedingly dangerous; so grave, in fact, that one of the most important duties of the police lies in stamping out this traffic. The danger is by no means confined to large cities like New York; it is probably growing in towns and villages all over the country. Police investigations have revealed an appalling increase of drug-addicts; more than one half of those confined in the city prison, the

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Tombs, were victims. Men and women following virtually every business, trade, and profession were included. Even school-children became addicted to the habit of using these drugs.

It is with full knowledge of such occurrences that the police are doing everything possible to stop illegal traffic in drugs. Criminals of this class present a problem even more difficult than the oldtime bank robber and general crook. The police may arrest a thousand offenders annually, but the problem will not be solved until boys and girls are taught the terrible


By PHYLLIS BOTTOME Author of "The Dark Tower," etc.


ARY arranged her skirt carefully and sat down on a patch of heather at the edge of the cliff. She did not do this to admire the view, though it was a singularly fine view. She despised views, and thought them the perquisites of visitors, a despicable people.

The Cornish headland, bold and rough, stood out into the sea like some carved figurehead fronting a ship. Heather and bracken and gorse flamed to the land's edge, and the cliff, formed of black ironstone, dropped sheer into green waters.

results which follow upon the use of habit-forming drugs. It is at this point that teachers of physiology and personal hygiene must lend powerful coöperation.

The competent policeman of to-day should be sanitary officer, thief-chaser, peace officer, soldier, and counselor in citizenship, all rolled into one. This manysided man is being developed by the New York police department. The work of the department furnishes a lesson in city government which should be carefully studied in every municipality in the, United States.

Heather, sea, and clean, keen wind as sweet as wild honey were parts of Mary's existence. She never noticed them, because she had never been without them. She lived at Trelinnock, which has a popula

tion of one hundred and twenty people, sees a newspaper once a week, and generally has a post in the course of twentyfour hours unless there should be too heavy a gale blowing. Mary sat on the edge of the cliff because it was a quiet place in which to think about David. David was also a part of Mary's, existence, and it is not until things go wrong that you begin to think about your existence.

It was the close of a late-summer day. The light rested upon the world like a spell; it held the luminous, green edges of the sea, the single ghostlike spires of the ling, the robust, bright heather, Mary herself, in her twentieth year, burned brown by the sun, in a deep-golden glow.

Mary had never heard of Giorgione,

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In the first rush of their enthusiasm over these money-bringing hordes, the inhabitants of Trelinnock had even let out their boats to visitors who had thought they could sail boats, apparently under the impression that winds were malleable and could be kept quiet while one tried experiments; but this had proved expensive. Trelinnock winds blew where they listed and blew hard; boats were lost, and incidentally visitors (not enough of them, Mary thought) were lost with them. Boats at Trelinnock are more important than houses, and when visitors began losing boats, they were stopped hiring them without a fisherman. They could easily, if they wished to be drowned, bathe. A good many visitors were drowned all along the coast; they seemed to expect the sea to put itself out for them.

The sea behaved, just as Mary would have done in its place, precisely as it was accustomed to behave. When it had

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formed the habit of swirling round a rock with dangerous swiftness, it swirled round the rock, and if it carried some one out to sea with it who did n't know that where there is a swirl there is an undertow, that one was drowned (very rightly, Mary thought) for not knowing it. The natural laws were against visitors and on the side of Mary.

Mary's father had a small farm. A good deal of it was granite, but there was enough grass for half a dozen cows, and Mary was very knowing about all animals-cart-horses, cows, pigs, and poultry. She worked hard from early morning till the dews fell, but on Sundays she only fed the animals, went twice to church, and took a walk with David. The walk with David was also a religious institution. She had walked with him for four years; she would walk with him for another, and then she would marry him. She had meant to marry him all her life.

She was only six years old when the word "sweetheart," flung at her as a taunt, sank burning into the bottom of her heart. From the earliest years she and David had shared the same pools, the same rocks, the same punishments. The same waves wet the same portions of their persons insisted upon by parents as portions which must, in all circumstances, be kept dry. They went to the same school, and wept uncomprehendingly over the same


As the years advanced, some vague, invincible law stepped in and swept them apart, but there was nothing personal or permanent in it. It was nature's method of keeping a sharper significance for their companionship later on.

David retired into groups of boys and killed whatever he could find to kill, and Mary retired into groups of girls and giggled at whatever she could find to giggle at; behind the accomplished deaths of small animals and the wall of feminine laughter their attachment progressed invisibly, as Nature herself progresses, without noise and without haste.

Theoretically David despised girls, but knew that Mary was different; and Mary

thought boys nasty and rough, but made, even while the assertion was on her lips and her head tossed to accentuate it, a mental reservation in favor of David.

Then Mary was confirmed, in white muslin, with her hair up. This settled David. He was seventeen, and girls suddenly ceased to be to him as trees walking. He knew that they were girls, and he wanted to walk with them.

He did not know how to put it into words; for though he was a carpenter of quite exceptional skill for his years, words had always evaded him. But he knew when Mary would come home from milking the cows, and at this hour he met her in the fields, by a gray stone covered with golden lichen, and said:

"Hullo, Mary!"

Mary knew in an instant that she had been waiting all her life to hear David say just those words in just that voice, and she replied, after a moment's pause, in which both their hearts stood still:

"Hullo, David!"

Their hearts went on again after that, but they went on differently; they went on together, and they had gone on together ever since.

The golden glow faded from the cliffs. It left Mary's face first, and little by little the ling became more ghostly, and the red heather burned on with a light of its own; a shadow fell to the land's edge and left all the color on the sea. The sinking sun lit up the waters into fiery emerald, and the spray flung up its white, tossed veil, shining like drops of morning dew.

Mary shivered as she sat there, but it was not with cold. She took a stone that lay under her hand and let it drop over the edge. She did not throw it; she let it drop.

above her, came down on easy wings to look at her more closely. It passed so near her head that she heard the hiss of the air cleaved by its passage.

""T is a gull," she said to herself, defensively; " 't is but a gull."

The color withdrew from the waters into the sky; the whole arch of the heavens became a deep-rose color, and beneath its screen of fire the sea turned black and

It did not fall sheer into the boiling surf. It rattled through the heathery fringe, and then struck on the ironstone, and sprang back, like something affrighted, into the air, and struck again lower down, and then once more; and Mary, leaning over, saw the surf take it. A moment's gap, and the waters closed again. Nothing was any different. A gull, flying high

very cold. Mary got up and went home.

The farm was a quarter of a mile from the cliffs. It lay in a fold of moor; a copse of small and shuddering beech-trees, with their backs bent double by the wind, softened the outline of its granite walls.

It was there that Mary and David picked beechnuts together in the autumn. Below the farm was a small wind-blown orchard. Mary's heart contracted in sudden pain when her eyes fell on it. She had meant to have her pain out on the cliffs, but some of it was waiting for her under the apple-trees. Last night she and David had had words in the orchard.

They had had singularly few words, but this is the most terrible form that words can take. Torrents of temper burst like surf and seldom drown, but when words are few, meaning is deep. Mary had seen David from the house, and had gone out to meet him; but she had known that he was not there for her.

She had gone straight to him under the small trees, noticing carefully as she went that the apples were forward for the time of year, and when she had reached him she had said breathlessly and as if the words hurt her:

""T is me, not her. You can't have the two of us; you must choose. Choose now, David!"

David had n't wanted to choose, and he was taken by surprise. He had naturally supposed that Mary had noticed nothing; he was not sure how much there was to notice. He was suddenly not sure of anything. He said:

"Hullo, Mary, what 's wrong?"

He wanted her to put it into words, so that he could look at it; this was usually the way they arranged life. But Mary

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