and is steadfast to her better self. Armstrong awakens to the fact that for him there can be no other woman in the world, but Neva, owing to Armstrong's relations with the grafting insurance ring of high financiers and because of ugly stories that are circulated in regard to his business dealings, does not for a time dare to trust him, even though she has never ceased to love.

The interest never flags, from the opening chapter, and it is only a man possessing intimate knowledge of human life and strong imaginative powers who is thus able to carry the reader forward from page to page with ever-increasing interest, without resorting to plots or any of the artifices of the ordinary novelist, and without offending the reader's good taste by mock heroics. The story as a romance is one of Mr. Phillips' best works, which is to say that it is one of the most interesting novels of the year.

IV.

But it is far more than a fascinating romance of love and life. It has an ethical value at the present time that it would be difficult to over-estimate, for now as never before since the sluggish and easy-going populace was aroused a few years since by exposure after exposure of graft and corruption permeating business, political and society life, have the criminal rich, the reactionaries and privileged classes united in a systematic campaign to the public-opinion forming influences and again lull to sleep the partially awakened public conscience. The great hold which the industrial autocracy has on church, college and kid-glove reform organizations and associations has never been so startlingly apparent as to-day; while that part of the great press of the land controlled directly or indirectly by privileged wealth is doing all in its power to divert the attention of the people from the cancers that are eating to-day, just as surely as before the exposures, into the fabric of business and political life. While the people were ignorant of the evil conditions, they were not morally responsible for them. Now, if they permit the criminal rich to continue to oppress through immoral business practices and the debauching of government, they become partners in the crime, abetters in a nation's destruction. So the hour is far more critical than many imagine,- —a time when the highest interests of democracy or free government, as

well as considerations of sound morality and the common good, demand that every true patriot work as never before to force the people to drive the thieves and corruptors from the temple of government and business life.

No man at this juncture can do so much as the popular novelist, and no man knows so well as David Graham Phillips how to vividly uncover actual conditions in a clear and telling manner, and at the same time hold the interest of the general reader so that all who begin his book will complete it.

Light-Fingered Gentry comes at a most opportune time. The insurance scandal that filled the public mind with amazed indignation is rapidly blowing over. But how far have the real conditions been changed? Have the great insurance companies been wrested from the grasp of Wall-street gamblers? Are men of the Perkins-Ryan-Harriman type to-day outside or inside the breastworks? It is of the utmost importance again to remind the people of the facts that exist and will exist until we have some root-andbranch reform work in the realm of Wallstreet high finance. America's great Monte Carlo cannot continue as it has prospered during recent decades, and free institutions survive or the people escape the slavery of extortion, of remorseless greed, practically robbing on every hand through monopoly and trust power. No, it is only by the aid of such books as Light-Fingered Gentry which circulate freely among the reading classes and which force the people to see and understand the actual conditions, that we can hope to successfully carry forward the great work that has been begun and which alone can save free government. LightFingered Gentry takes us behind the curtain and 'shows the plutocracy at work in secret. It shows us the man who has long posed as the high-priest of honesty, morality and national honor for what recent investigations have shown him to be,-a moral criminal, robbing the people and poisoning the wells of public opinion. Nor is this all. Mr. Phillips is nothing if not a sincere lover of pure democracy, a hater of shams, hypocrisy and snobbishness. He knows that the criminality that masquerades under the robe of respectability in Wall street has its complement in the hollow sham, the moral bankruptcy and the pitiful apeing of reactionary and decadent life of the Old World in the so-called high society of

upper New York; and he lays bare all the world of shameless vice, criminality, pretense, intrigue and moral bankruptcy and shows just how the vitality of the Republic is being sapped, while at the same time he throws into high light the strong, fine virtues that

are the salvation of men and nations. This work, like The Second Generation, is a book for the nation's health,-a book that cannot be circulated too freely. It is fascinating, strong, virile, and rings true at every point. B. O. FLOWER.

CHR

I.

HRISTMAS is the one day in the year when among normal people with wholesome, genuine, simple or democratic environment, almost everyone is chiefly concerned in making others happy; and therefore for all such persons it is the happiest day of all the year, for the chief pleasure of the spiritual man lies in making others happy, in self-forgetful service for the upliftment, development and enrichment of those less fortunately environed and those whose lives impinge on one's own sphere of influence. Herein, indeed, lies the profound significance at the heart of the saying of the Great Nazarene concerning the finding of life through losing it. The egoistic spirit must be subordinated to the altruistic or love spirit before man can be called civilized; before, indeed, he can be truly happy or be a beneficent influence, imparting brightness and warmth to other lives. Someone has said that animal organisms live by feeding on one another, but spiritual life grows only by the giving of life for other lives, and one of the many things that indicate the high origin of man and a glorious destiny for the soul is found in the fact that the supreme happiness, the joy that lasts and is unalloyed, is found in giving happiness and help to others.

Now the Christmas spirit is precisely this spirit of self-forgetting love, of joyous, thoughtful service for others. This is what Christmas means to the normal aspiring and civilized man. But here as elsewhere, in porportion as men and society turn from the spiritual concepts or moral idealism that exalts while yielding pure happiness, and substitutes for it the sordid materialism of the market; in proportion as money is exalted above manhood

and considerations of personal enrichment and material aggrandizement take precedence over the ideal of justice, right and brotherhood, life becomes artificial and the vision of the victim of the mania for money or personal egoistic power, and also that of those environed by its death-dealing spirit, becomes inverted. Moral insanity super

That which gave joy and happiness becomes the source of bitterness and poison. The possession of things becomes more to the greed-crazed egoist than the spirit of the giver. Wherever and whenever this condition obtains, Christmas, like other things that are precious and blessed to the sane or normal soul, becomes a blight and a curse, because of fostering feelings of discontent and human restlessness.

Only a short time since we asked a friend the question: "What does Christmas suggest to you?" He shrugged his shoulders and replied: "It is the day in the year when one receives just the things he does not want, and when he feels forced to give to everyone he knows, and usually gives just the things they do not want."

Unconsciously this man betrayed the fact that the materialism of the market had taken control of his mind, though he would have been amazed and indignant had it been suggested to him. Yet his answer was concerned only with the things-the material gifts; nothing of the spirit save theiplca-im tion that the spirit was of too little con ern in the balance with material gifts, to be considered.

We have often been rendered inexpressibly sad by hearing young people in the metropolitan centers describe their Christmas gifts and complain that the gifts received from

certain friends were less expensive than those given, because here we saw and felt how the eclipse of moral idealism by materialistic egoism darkened all the Godward-looking windows of the soul, leaving the spirit to grope and grovel in the cellar of materiality, where pseudo pleasures allure and deceive, only they leave the Dead Sea fruit of ashes in the heart of their victims.

This view of Christmas, however, is that of a money-mad society suffering from a temporary spell of moral aberration and seeing all things with inverted vision. To the great millions of the people who hope, love and aspire and who joy in the simple life and the love that is steadfast and loyal and true, Christmas means a radiant moment in the pilgrimage of life, when the higher nature experiences its deepest pleasure through consciousness of having made glad the hearts of those who are dear, or of having brought into the prison homes of the children of adversity a strange new light and gladness.

II.

To us Christmas suggests many things, and the word has the magic power of opening the gate of memory and conjuring up scenes -dear, tender, hallowed scenes of the long-vanished past. It suggests our childhood days and lo! before the mind there rises a picture, vivid as though the canvas of a master-artist stood before us.

Here is a little country home in Illinois; a six-room house, with a long porch extending more than forty feet along the southern exposure, facing a broad valley studded with rural homes, each nestling in the midst of orchards and groves of noble forest trees. A fringe of trees, shrubs and bushes lines the winding banks of a stream that traverses the valley, and on the further side of the open expanse rises a forest of great trees extending from thence toward the Wabash. The view is very beautiful from this southern exposure, especially in the spring, summer and autumn, when nature weaves her robings of glory before one's very eyes, delighting all lovers of the beautiful with her magic transformations. First comes the emerald flush on earth, shrub and tree; then the orchards awake into fairy gardens. The peach trees, borrowing the blush of dawn, are robed in beauty only comparable to the bridal veil of fleecy white that covers the cherry, plum and pear trees; while the apple orchards weave

together the pink of dawn and the snow of winter and place their floral gems in emerald settings. Then comes summer in regal splendor. The wheat fields are as seas of burnished gold; the waving oats reflect a silvery sheen that contrasts charmingly with the deep green of the Indian maize, the reddish-brown of the ripening hay and the lighter green of the pasture lands. Next comes autumn, most gorgeous of the seasons, when nature, laden with the fruitage and wealth of the year, robes herself in indescribable splendor ere she falls asleep in winter's cold embrace.

The immediate setting of this country home was no less engaging. A short distance from the end of the porch was an arbor vitæ tree of unusual proportions. At the other end rose a stately Norway spruce. Not far distant were a giant silver poplar, some picturesque spike-like Lombardy poplars, a catalpa, and other foliage and flowering trees, together with massive clumps of snowballs and other shrubs. Beds of flowers fringed the front of the house, while the porch was shaded with vines, its chief glory being a mammoth wistaria whose gnarled trunk had weathered the winters of almost a generation of time. It had flourished in the wellnourished soil and seemed to have two ambitions: to gracefully festoon the space between the supporting columns of the porch while clambering over the roof in a vain attempt to reach the great brick chimney at the center of the western end of the building, and each spring to make its little corner of the earth the most attractive spot that eye could rest upon, with a wealth of bloom of almost dream-like delicacy, making a veritable trysting-place for fairies as well as a gorgeous banquet-hall for the honey-bee and his giant cousin, whose drone and hum made musical the live-long day.

Not far from the house grew a giant sweetbriar, whose blossoms were greatly loved by our mother, and well do we remember how we children in early summer watched the pink peeping from the green buds, until at last, after a shower, the buds expanded as by magic. Then we would gather an armful of blossoms and carry them to our mother, whose large black eyes shone like stars when we handed her the fragrant flowers. We thought her joy was caused by her love for the sweet-briar. Later we knew betterknew that the wonderful light that at times

seemed to glorify her sweet face came from the joy she felt at the thoughtfulness, the manifestation of the Christmas spirit, by her little children.

The northern approach to the house led through an avenue of elms of heroic size, and on one side grew the largest acacia tree we have ever seen. It presented a splendid sight when in the glory of blossom and was a veritable Eden-spot for gorgeous butterflies and honey-bees.

But it is not the environing setting of this home or nature's festal seasons that specially interest us at the present moment. It is winter. The holiday season draws near, and we enter the humble home where were spent so many Christmases that oasis-like live in the memory of our childhood. We enter the great living room, hallowed by precious memories. An immense fireplace occupies a large part of the eastern end, in which huge hickory and oak logs are brightly burning. The room is spacious. The floor is covered with a rag carpet of the hit-or-miss variety,-rags that once clothed the family and were later cut in strips, sewed together, rolled into balls and on a neighbor's loom woven into the carpet. How the wizard memory brings back the past and peoples again that great room. Before the roaring fire night after night much of our most vital education was received, when we little imagined we were being taught; for here our father during the long winter evenings read aloud and explained the more obscure passages in a manner so graphic and entertaining that there was no difficulty in seeing the pictures he sought to conjure up before our youthful imaginations. The Bible and Pilgrim's Progress, Rollins' Ancient History and other standard works, were thus presented. When we say that our father invested Rollins' Ancient History with an interest greater than that which we to-day derive from the most powerful romance, the reader will know something of his rare gift as a reader and interpreter.

Gone are those days, and the two who made for us a heaven of that little home are reunited in the Morning Land; and we who remain behind can only bless their memory as we say, "We miss them so!"

Of the many Christmases spent in that great room, one we remember especially well, because though it was marked by fewer gifts such as are so prized by small children, it

remains indelibly impressed on our mind, as radiant as the holly berries that make bright the Christmas-tide, and beautiful as the great pearl-like wealth of berries that clothed the mistletoe that grew in abundance in the woods near by. And because the story of this Christmas illustrates how little material gifts have to do with the happiness even of children, in a home dominated by the spirit of sincerity, love and sanity, we are tempted to describe it.

Our father was a clergyman, much loved and respected wherever known. Though his sermons were singularly free from emotional pleas and were ever addressed mainly to the reason of his hearers, he met with such success expounding the Word as he understood it, in revivals, or, as they were then called, protracted meetings, that his services were greatly in demand. Frequently he was away from home for several weeks. On the Christmas eve we have in mind, he had planned as usual to be at home. At the last moment, however, a number of young people joined the church where he was holding a meeting, and many more seemed on the verge of following their example. The church officials urged that the closing of the meetings, even for two or three nights, would break into the interest and be unfortunate. His sense of duty, that was ever a compelling motive in life, caused him to remain. Thus the little simple presents that he would have brought for the stockings were not purchased, as his return was expected until it was too late to purchase them from the town. A box sent by express from two older brothers in a great city in a neighboring state was belated and did not arrive at its destination until some time later. So Christmas eve arrived and the little girl and boy who were the only members of the family who harbored any illusion about Santa Claus, hung up their stockings and went to bed. The mother put into them some little home-made articles, well knowing, however, that they were not the little things the children had spoken of so often, so if Santa Claus might be listening he would know what they most wanted. Morning came,— -a biting winter dawn, with the thermometer far below zero and the earth shrouded in winter's unsullied winding sheet. But this morning the cold was not an excuse which the little ones thought of urging for remaining in the warm and cosy beds. Out on the floor, and like homing

birds they ran to the chimney, seized the stockings, and found none of Santa Claus' expected gifts. Then our little mother, who was by our side, told us the truth she had so often broadly hinted,—that the parents and other loved ones were the real Santa Claus, and that our father's unexpected detention had prevented the presents from arriving.

"But," said she as she drew with her loving arms the children to her side before the uncovered bed of coals, "we are going to have a beautiful Christmas, my children; for it is not the presents that count, so much as the love that they represent, and we are going to have a fine dinner to-day. The boys are going to the woods. They will try and find some mistletoe and green boughs to dress the room, and this afternoon we will have a candy-pulling. To-night you shall pop all the corn you want and we will have apples and nuts, and I will tell you some stories." The eyes of the little boy and girl met. They felt the love, the boundless love, of the mother, and they drew very, very near to her and entered heart and soul into the plan for a joyous day. Later a neighbor's child came over and her parent was induced to let her remain all night. The dinner was a great success. So was the candy-pulling. But ah! the evening! Who can describe that which one must see, feel and know to understand? The dishes were cleared away. A roaring fire burned in the fireplace. The faithful watch-dogs were honored guests of the evening family circles during the winter nights, and they were here. So were the cats, preempting the softest home-made rugs or curling up in the laps of the accommodating ones, who were rewarded with the purring of deep content. Down into the cellar went one of the older brothers, returning with a large basket of wine-sap and golden pippin apples and a goodly supply of hickory nuts. The corn was soon popped, after which the children all eagerly listened, first to some Bible stories, for the mother, through whose veins ran the blood of a long line of Huguenot ancestors on one side and of two generations of Welsh clergymen on the other, loved the Bible, as much as the ancient psalmist loved his God when he uttered that cry of the soul: "As the hart panteth after the water brook, so panteth my soul after thee, O God." And after the Bible stories the children clamored for some Christmas tale, so one followed. What was the story? It is no matter. Any story told by those

charmed lips would have been sweet as music to the ear of the children. We will suppose it was Dickens' Christmas Carol, which our mother loved SO well, that wonderful Christmas story only second to the late W. H. H. Murray's John Norton's Christmas in its human interest, fascination and ethical worth. How real and vivid when told by the mother, who possessed the strong imagination of the intuitive French and the mystic or poetic nature of the Welsh, was Marley's ghost, more potent for good than Marley living. The little eyes grew wide and something of Scrooge's fear crept into the minds of the children as the story approached the creepy situation when the ghost appears. With what breathless interest we followed Scrooge on his journeys. How our hearts went out in sympathy for his nephew and for Bob Cratchit, and how near and dear seemed Tiny Tim, with his "God bless us, every one."

And so the story was ended, and we children reluctantly prepared for bed. A bright light flashed in our mother's eyes when the children said that it had been the happiest Christmas they had known, and the little visitor exclaimed, “O, do n't you wish Christmas was every day?"

And here lies the lesson which it seems to us the Christmas season should teach. We are supremely happy the one day when we forget ourselves in our every effort to make others happy, because that day we are most completely dominated by the Christmas spirit-by the spirit of loving service, the spirit that made the life of the Great Nazarene one long Christmas day. Now if, as we think all deeply thoughtful people will admit, in the Christmas spirit man finds that which gives the purest, deepest and most abiding happiness while nourishing the spiritual nature, is it not wisdom-the highest wisdom to strive to carry it into every hour of every day?

How quickly the hours fly! How swiftly the days pass into the weeks, the weeks into the months, the months into the years! How soon the marching orders come to cross the Great Divide! And yet, how prodigal are we of our opportunities and how miserly are we with the love that sweetens the mind, brightens the soul and glorifies the spirit of the one who is wise enough to give the love that is in him for the happiness, the upliftment and the development of all who come within the radius of his influence!

B. O. FLOWER.