V
A few days ago I visited again my native town. On the slope where I played as a child I listened in vain for the mourning bugle; but on the college campus a bronze tablet commemorative of those sons of Wabash who had fought in the mighty war quickened the old impressions. The college buildings wear a look of age in the gathering dusk.
| Coldly, sadly descends |
| The autumn evening. The field |
| Strewn with its dank yellow drifts |
| Of withered leaves, and the elms, |
| Fade into dimness apace, |
| Silent; hardly a shout |
| From a few boys late at their play! |
Brave airs of cityhood are apparent in the town, with its paved streets, fine hall and library; and everywhere are wholesome life, comfort, and peace. The train is soon hurrying through gray fields and dark woodlands. Farmhouses are disclosed by glowing panes; lanterns flash fitfully where farmers are making all fast for the night. The city is reached as great factories are discharging their laborers, and I pass from the station into a hurrying throng homeward bound. Against the sky looms the dome of the capitol; the tall shaft of the soldiers' monument rises ahead of me down the long street and vanishes starward. Here where forests stood seventy-five years ago, in a state that has not yet attained its centenary, is realized much that man has sought through all the ages,—order, justice, and mercy, kindliness and good cheer. What we lack we seek, and what we strive for we shall gain. And of such is the kingdom of democracy.
Our Lady Poverty
By Agnes Repplier
I
THE last people to read the literature of poverty are the poor, and this fact may be cited as one of the ameliorations of their lot. If they were assured day after day that they were degraded and enslaved, it would be a trifle hard for them to cherish their respectability, and enjoy their freedom. If their misery were dinned into their ears, they would naturally cease being cheerful. If they were convinced that tears are their portion, they would no longer have the temerity to laugh. Indeed their mirth is frankly repellent to the dolorous writers of to-day.
A burst of hollow laughter from a hopeless heart
is permitted as seemly and in character; even the poet of the slums grants this outlet for emotion; but the rude sounds which denote hilarity disturb the sympathetic soul. One agitated lady describes with shrinking horror the merriment of the scrub-women going to their labor. All the dignity, all the sacredness of womanhood are defiled by these poor old creatures tramping through the chill dawn; and yet, and yet,—oh, mockery of nobler aspirations!—'The scrub-women were going to work, and they went laughing!'