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 the huge, white beast and set to work at once to make a den for him. This was completed in two or three days, so when Eiseeyou and Oumauk finally visited the park where they were told that their friend was to live, they found him in fine quarters. That is, the men who had built them thought them fine. Whether the White Czar thought them fine or not, who shall say? But I am inclined to think that he simply made the best of them and bided his time, just as do most wild animals which are captured when full grown and taken into captivity.

His den was made in the side of a hill. The foundation was concrete. The entire den was twenty-five feet by twelve. The den was equally divided between a swimming pool and a platform of rocks, upon which the Czar could stretch himself when he was tired of the water.

He at once recognized Eiseeyou and Oumauk, and came out of the pool to greet the boy. The keeper of the park was amazed to see the small, dark boy stick his fingers through the bars to the great brute.


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 He cried out for him to stop. But Eiseeyou told him in his quaint English that they were old friends.

Finally the keeper himself became convinced that Oumauk was master of the situation and he was persuaded to open the small door where the bear's food was pushed in to him, in order that Oumauk might pet Whitie more freely.

A curious crowd of white children had gathered about the outer fence of the cage to view, with awe in their hearts and their eyes, this strange scene of the small boy fondling the great head of the white bear as fearlessly as he would have a large dog. The keeper took special pains to explain to them that the bear had been the boy's pet when he was small, and so knew him. But he warned all the white children to keep well away from the den.

So each day Eiseeyou came to the hospital to visit Oumauk.

Later on the two went to the park to see the White Czar. This was always the first place that they visited.

After that Oumauk was willing that they

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 should see other things of interest, but he never neglected Whitie.

"Whitie and I are both of us prisoners," he said sadly one day when he was stroking the shaggy head of the Czar. "Whitie is a prisoner in his great cage and I am a prisoner in the dark."

"He don't like the cage and I don't like the dark. I hope some day we will both be free."

"When the doctor makes the light come again in the sun so I can see, I want to come here the very first thing and see Whitie. Then we must sell everything we have, and we will buy Whitie and go back to Eskimo Land. That is where we all belong."

Eiseeyou bit his lip and looked troubled, but he thought the same as Oumauk did. Eskimo Land was their home. They were out of place in the great city of the white man. Every one had been good to them, but they were out of place.

Thus three weeks went by. Each day Eiseeyou went to the hospital to get Oumauk, after this the two went to the park to see the White Czar, and then about the city


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 sight-seeing. They visited the parks, the museum, and even went into several theaters where Eiseeyou was much amazed by the strange pictures. He was most impressed when he saw a film of Eskimo Land, perhaps not his own particular country, but other arctic country. The fur-clad people, the dog teams and the komatiks, the seals, the walrus and the igloos were all there. How the white men could have gotten it so faithfully was a mystery to him. Then the automobiles, those strange machines that seemed almost to run themselves, amazed him, as did the telephone and the phonograph, both of which he saw men using. The phonograph he deemed a machine bewitched, full of devils, and he always crossed himself and hurried little Oumauk away whenever he heard one playing in a store.

The hand organ seemed more harmless, and he and Oumauk liked to listen to it, Eiseeyou was also much amused by the monkey who held out his cap for small coins.

Whenever the two went abroad, they were usually followed by curious children, who


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 were much interested in Oumauk. They seemed friendly, and often gave the Eskimo boy candy or fruit, neither of which he had ever tasted before.

Finally the crucial day in both their lives came around. It was the day when little Oumauk was to go under the knife in an attempt of the great doctor to bring back the light in the sun and the stone lamp. Eiseeyou was allowed to be with them in the operating room. He sat by the bedside, holding Oumauk's hand all through the operation.

Before the operation several doctors made a thorough examination of Oumauk's eyes, and then talked for a time about the case. Finally the surgeon came along and, patting the Eskimo boy on the cheek, told him they were ready.

A rubber blanket was put under his head and shoulders, and one doctor stood with a basin of water and sponges to wash away the blood. First they put a strange instrument with six claws upon Oumauk's eye. Each one of these six claws gripped the eye between the muscle and kept it from mov-


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 ing during the operation. Then a local anesthetic was administered, and the operation began.

Although the surgeon worked as carefully as he could, yet it hurt poor Oumauk severely and great tears streamed down his swarthy cheeks. Yet he did not even whimper. His own hard life in the rigorous north, where men and even small children endure hardship without complaining, stood him in good stead. When the right eye had been operated upon, the left eye was treated in the same manner.

The doctors were generous in their praise of Oumauk's pluck and this helped a little. When the operation was over, Oumauk asked if he might open his eyes and see if the light had come back to the sun. He was much troubled when they told him that he must wait several days before the bandages could be removed.

This disappointment was so great that he did cry a little. But they all told him that crying would hurt his chance of again seeing the sun, so he soon stopped.

After that whenever he and Eiseeyou


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 went forth, Oumauk had to keep the bandage on his eyes, and it was darker than ever.

It seemed to Oumauk and Eiseeyou that the day when they would take off the bandage would never come. But the clocks kept ticking steadily on, and the hours going by, so at last the day arrived.

Oumauk himself was so excited that he shook like a leaf when the doctors came into his ward. He had waited so patiently. The long night had been so very long. He had groped about in the dark, it seemed to him, for the whole of his life. At last the doctor gently removed the bandage and told Oumauk that he might open his eyes.

"Oh, oh," cried Oumauk as his eyelids flew open, "I can see, I can see, but not as I used to. Only a part of the light has come back to the sun."

"That is all right, my boy. That is fine," cried the doctor, clapping him on the shoulder. "I did not expect you would see very much without glasses. You will always have to wear glasses."

Then he brought out some strange shiny


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 things which went over Oumauk's nose and behind his ears, and tried several glasses of differing strength in them. Finally he found the right one and Oumauk could see almost perfectly.

"That is fine. The operation is a great success," said the doctor. "It is only a question of time when he will be all right."

The doctor rigged a shade for Oumauk's eyes, to wear above the glasses. He advised him to keep out of the strong sun light for several days and to get used to it gradually, and Eiseeyou promised to look out for him.

Oumauk was all excitement to go and see Whitie at once, but the doctor told them to wait until the morrow then to go towards dusk when the sunlight was not so trying, so the Eskimo boy had to possess his soul with patience till the morrow.

Eiseeyou confided to his son as they walked towards the park the good news that the doctor had given his services for the operation free; and that had cost them nothing. The charge at the hospital was only


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 going to be slight, so they had quite a sum of money left.

"Oh, good," cried Oumauk. "I feel so happy. Everything is coming out all right. We will have almost enough money to buy Whitie. Perhaps we can pay what we have and they will let us earn the rest and send it to them. Maybe we can take Whitie back with us."

But Eiseeyou himself had many misgivings about the matter, although he did not confide them to his son. He simply grunted and smiled and said nothing.

Arrived at the park, they made their way hurriedly to the White Czar's den, where they found that a large crowd of men, women, and children were gathered around the den. All were talking and much excited, especially the children with whom the White Czar had become a great favorite. Eiseeyou could not tell what they were saying, so he worked his way close up to the bear's den.

To his great astonishment, he found the door of the den open and the White Czar


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 gone. Oumauk was almost as quick to perceive what had happened as he.

At the sight, a cry of pain escaped Oumauk. He put his hand to his glasses and rubbed them to make sure. Then he turned eagerly to his father.

"Oh, oh," he cried, "is Whitie really gone?"

"Yes," returned Eiseeyou. "He seems to be. Perhaps they have put him in another den."

"No," said the superintendent of the park, who happened to be standing near. He had made the acquaintance of Eiseeyou and his son one day by the cage and learned from them much of the bear's history, so was interested in them.

"No, we have not put him in another den. He is gone, and I guess for good. We found the door open this morning just as you see it now, and the White Czar had disappeared.

"We have searched all day for him in the city, but he has disappeared as though the earth had opened and swallowed him. There has been foul play. He was let out,


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 and I know who did it too. I doubt very much if we ever see him again alive. He will turn up in the province of Quebec sooner or later, then there will be a great bear hunt and he will be shot."

Then seeing the terrified look upon Oumauk's face he hurried to add, "Perhaps he will escape though. He was a clever bear. They will often make their way through thickly settled country without being seen. The province of Quebec is not very thickly settled to the north. Perhaps he will escape."

"I know he will," said Eiseeyou, more to console Oumauk than because he really believed so. Like the superintendent of the park, he also believed that the White Czar would fall before some rifle bullet before he had travelled far in this strange country, even if he had gotten safely out of the city.

"It is strange," said the superintendent, patting Oumauk on the shoulder, "that no one saw him here in the city. But it is only a short distance to the river, down three streets and then along the broad street


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 leading to the docks. Perhaps he found the short cut."

"They are very clever," said Eiseeyou. "I guess he has escaped." Then to Oumauk he said, "I know we will find him in Eskimo Land when we get home. Come, let's go."


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the White Czar found himself transferred from the plank cage in which he had lived upon shipboard to the permanent den at the park, he was better suited than he had been in the cage.

The den was much more commodious, and it had the additional advantage of containing a swimming pool. After three or four days he enjoyed the pool greatly. But his attitude towards it at first had been very strange. He would lie upon his rock platform and look at the water for hours. Finally he reached down very carefully with his great white paw and touched it. Then he thrust his arm in to the shoulder. Even then he did not venture into the water until he had tested it by degrees. The truth was he was thinking of his last terrible experience in the water when the rope had been thrown about his neck, and he had been


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 dragged so mercilessly after the motor boat. Also his experience floating about in the cage on the Atlantic had tended to make him suspicious of water. Water in which he had always so revelled.

Finally however he was playing about in his pool and disporting himself on the rocky shelf in his den with a playfulness that was almost grotesque in so large an animal.

But it must not be imagined that the White Czar was satisfied with his lot, or that he was contented to settle down for the rest of his life in this twenty-five by twelve den. Not he.

He remembered too well the freedom of the broad icefloe and the low lying barrens along the coast. He had seen too much of the sparkling, tingling Arctic Ocean to ever rest in a stifling prison like this.

He simply made the best of his hard conditions and bided his time. Few wild animals which have been captured when full grown, as was the White Czar, ever become used to confinement. They may look very tame and well content. But behind this seeming content and docility is a terrible


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 rage and hidden fire that will some day break out and cost some one his life, or else the escape of the wild creature at the first possible moment.

The White Czar was a great favorite with the children who swarmed each day about his den to watch him playing in his pool or stretching his great muscles on the rocks. No matter how small the cage of a wild animal is, he always takes the proper amount of exercise each day by stretching himself. So it was with the Czar. If he ever got a chance to run for his life and his freedom, his muscles must not be stiff.

The visit of Oumauk and Eiseeyou to the den each day was a great comfort to the bear. He learned to time their coming, so that he would always be standing at the bars watching for them when they arrived. But his affection was all for Oumauk. Eiseeyou he had viewed with a suspicion ever since the day when he had sat in the stern of the motor boat and watched the cruel rope almost choke the life out of him. He did not fully connect his capture with the Es-


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 kimo, but in a dim sort of way he imagined that he was a party to it.

The White Czar might have lived the rest of his life in the den, admired by the children and with plenty to eat and comfortable quarters; with everything but that priceless thing he most prized, his freedom, had not a strange event intervened in his behalf.

The man who cared for the bear's den, including another den in which were two large black bears, and also for the wolf and fox dens, as well as the deer park, was a Scotchman named McAndrews.

He had general charge, but he was assisted by an Italian of hot temper and treacherous disposition, named Tony Garibaldi—a good name for a bad man.

It was during the second year of the great war, and wages in all departments of labor were very high. But Tony was seemingly not satisfied, although he was getting a large wage. So he went to the superintendent and asked for more pay.

The superintendent told him that he was not earning what he was then receiving and if his wages were changed in any way, it


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 would be to scale them down. At this Tony became insolent and the superintendent fired him.

Tony, who had really been well pleased with his present wage, was furious and vowed vengeance. The form that his revenge took quite amazed the officials of the park the next morning.

The night following Tony's discharge, the White Czar lay upon his stone platform peacefully sleeping. The day had been very hot and he was tired, not with any exercise, but with the confinement and the heat. Presently he was aroused by hearing a noise near his den. He opened his eyes and raised his great head. The dark, little man who cleaned out his den each morning was at the bars.

Had he come to clean out the den? He had never done that at night.

The White Czar was not sure. But he stretched himself and plunged into his pool. If the den was to be cleaned, he would be clean also.

When he climbed back on to his platform, he was much amazed to discover that the


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 large door through which the men always entered his den was open. It was wide open, and the man who he had supposed was to clean the den was standing several rods away.

At first the White Czar thought his eyes must be deceiving him, so he went over and poked the door with his nose and smelled of it. It certainly was open. But more than that. A breath of freedom, the wind from the out of doors, free and untrammeled was blowing through it. It was a north wind and it smelled of water.

A thrill went through the great beast. Very cautiously he thrust his head through the door. It did not catch him as he had half expected. So he thrust his shoulders through and then passed outside. He stretched himself and then reared on his hind legs and looked over the fence that surrounded his den. The Italian was watching him. But when a second later the great bear vaulted lightly over the fence, the Italian took to his heels and ran as though his life depended on his flight. He ran so


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 far and so fast that he was never seen in the city again.

But the White Czar paid no attention to him. He was looking up at the starry heavens and smelling the free, fresh wind. He looked this way and that, and finally decided. He would go towards the wind. This was a very wise course on his part for it would lead him through three deserted streets to the great river.

It was two o'clock in the morning. The early traffic had not yet begun. At the entrance to the first street the great bear looked warily down its strange, straight pavements and saw it was deserted. So, with a shambling trot, his great claws rattling strangely on the stones, he trotted to the end of the street. The second street also was deserted, so down that he fled. The third street brought him in sight of the river. The wharf at the end of this street was also deserted, although the wharf next to it was quite busy where some men were loading a steamer. But the White Czar was not looking for men. He had seen enough of them to last him for the rest of


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 his life, so he glided silently along, keeping in the shadows whenever he could. Finally, after considerable slinking and skulking on his part, he reached the end of the wharf.

There he slipped almost as silently into the water as an otter might have done, and sank from sight. When he next appeared, it was only his head that showed and it was a hundred feet from the wharf. After that his head might occasionally have been seen popping up until he reached the middle of the channel. Then he struck out boldly and swam for the northern shore.

It was a five mile swim, for the great river that drains five of the largest fresh water lakes in the world was broad here.

But the White Czar who is best of all swimmers among quadrupeds made the distance in about half an hour. When he finally struggled up on the bank, he shook himself and looking again at the heavens tested the wind. It was a strange country to him. The cities and towns of men, with their strange inventions were all about him. Yet the wind and the sky were just the same everywhere. Man could not change them.


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 So the great bear was guided by them.

Of course he did not know the north star. Yet who shall say but that this bright luminary had a message for him? There seemed to be no affinity in the great bear's nose for the magnetic pole, yet that also pulled him strangely. But most of all he felt the lure of the great wilderness of the province of Quebec that primæval wilderness that lies just beyond the boundaries of civilization. Few Americans appreciate the fact that the province of Quebec stretches away to the north of the great river for twelve hundred miles, before the boundary of Labrador is reached.

It was the lure of this great wilderness, so much akin to his own wild northland that the White Czar felt and he did not waste any time in answering the call. For two hours he trotted steadily forward, keeping away from the smooth, broad trails which smelled so strongly of men. Henceforth this scent of man he would flee from with all his strength.

So he guided his way in open fields and woods and kept out of the sight and smell


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 of everything that pertained to man. When the stars began to pale, he crept into the very heart of a dense swamp which the ingenuity of the Canadian farmers had not yet conquered, and slept through the day. When darkness came, he crept forth again and once more took up his steady untiring gallop northward.

He did not stop that night for anything to eat, he was too much obsessed with the idea of flight. He must gallop and gallop and gallop. So that night he covered over fifty miles. Again at the approach of dawn he hid in the densest wood that he could discover. There he once more slept away the daylight.

When the friendly night again appeared, he crawled out and fled northward, and fifty more good English miles were put between him and the great city from which he had escaped.

Just at dawn as he was thinking of finding a hiding place for the day, he came out into an open pasture and smelled a scent which was new to him; it was a strong animal scent.


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 Then the White Czar remembered that he was ravenously hungry.

He had come a hundred and twenty miles without food. So he crept cautiously forward. Then a score of small white animals jumped up almost in front of him and began running wildly about.

The sound they made was like the bleating of the seal pups.

At the thought of seal pups the White Czar's mouth fairly watered.

He had never even heard of sheep, but these small white creatures looked and smelled good. So he made after them.

In a few seconds he was along side a large ewe, for the Czar had surprised a flock of Canadian sheep. One blow from the great bear's paw broke the sheep's back. The mighty hunter soon dispatched it and then, seizing the dead sheep in his powerful jaws made for the deep woods. That day he alternately slept and feasted upon mutton. This was the first of many good meals that he made from sheep.

Two days later, at twilight, just as he was starting for his long night gallop, he sur-


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 prised his cousin, the black bear, feasting upon something at the edge of the woods.

The White Czar was much surprised at the sight of this black bear. All the bears he had ever seen had been white. But this bear was much smaller than he, so he charged and put him to flight. He was rewarded by finding the black bear had been feasting on a fawn which he had just killed. So the white marauder finished the fawn and went on his way rejoicing.

On another occasion the White Czar also profited by the example of the Black Cousin. This was when he discovered a black bear fishing. He was sitting on a rock at the edge of the stream watching the water intently. For some time the White Czar watched the black bear but could not discover what he was doing.

But finally the paw of the black fisherman shot out, and a great fish went flapping on to the low bank. The White Czar was much surprised, but when the black bear fisherman caught the next fish, the Czar rushed out and drove him away with such ferocity that he forgot his fish and the Czar


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 feasted upon it. After that he often fished himself in the streams which ran into the sea.

The White Czar always travelled about ten miles inland. He did not want to follow the sea coast, for he had discovered that men lived along the coast. He would keep as far away from them as he could and still keep in touch with the sea.

Then this wonderful country abounded in strange berries which were delicious to the taste. This was another thing that the white bear learned of his black cousin. There were also many roots which were good eating. Altogether it was a wonderful country through which the White Czar fled. But it was not his country. His home was by the wild Arctic sea, upon the icefloe, amid the ice and snow. This country was too tame, too warm, too comfortable.

He wanted something more boisterous, more difficult, something against which he might pit his great strength.

Finally after about a month he came to a good-sized stream where there were several beaver dams. He had also seen many cari-


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 bou signs that day, so he was beginning to feel at home.

The ptarmigan likewise were plenty. Surely he was coming into his own.

This river did not look like the rivers he had crossed in his flight through the province of Quebec. It was more rugged, more rocky. The water ran more swiftly. It was more turbulent, like the racing blood in the veins of the White Czar. With an exultance that he had not felt since his capture two months before, the white bear plunged into the river and swam it. The water swirled about him and he battled with the current. It made him glad. Here was something to fight. He reached the further bank and shook himself, then raised his great head and sniffed the wind. There was a tang about it that he had not smelled in many a week. It was fairly cold. It made him distend his nostrils and take in great breaths. Did it smell of salt water? Was it the open sea that he smelled? The great bear could not tell. But one thing he did know. He was at home in Labrador at last. The fell clutch of civilization would


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 never again grip him. He was back in his native wilds. He would come and go as he wished. No mere man creature should ever again fling a rope over his great head and drag him to that cramped cage. He would fight to the death before that should happen again.

He was free, free, and would remain so, until the wild arctic winds and the cold finally conquered him and he lay down to sleep with his sires.


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and Oumauk stood on the slippery sides of Omingmong Mountain, as the Eskimos called that dark sinister mountain on which Eiseeyou, Tunkine, and Tucksu had made their famous kill of musk ox.

Eiseeyou had promised his son that he would take him to the spot and show him where he had killed the first White Czar, the sire of Whitie, as Oumauk still called his own particular white bear.

They were in the very heart of the frozen snowclad windswept tundra. That frozen desolate belt that stretches entirely around the globe, between the timber line and the arctic ice. A region where only reindeer moss and creeping willows flourish perennially, and where the caribou, the reindeer, and the musk ox alone thrive, although certain foxes and also the dread white wolf eke out a scant living in this desolate region.


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 Eiseeyou and Oumauk stood by the very boulder where the former had killed the first White Czar in the desperate encounter that so nearly cost him his own life.

He was describing with all of a boy's ardor just how he had rounded the boulder and come upon the monster. He then told of how he had fired quickly and merely wounded the great bear in the head. This had so enraged the Czar that he had struck the rifle from his hand, and then the two had clenched. Eiseeyou dwelt with special relish on the awful moment when the mighty fighter had slowly crushed him in his deadly embrace, and then told of how he had sunk his knife into the monster's heart. He did not fail to point out his cleverness in digging under the dead bear to protect himself from the deadly cold of the winter's night.

To all of this Oumauk listened with wide open eyes, and with his mouth agape in wonder, all of which pleased his father.

Two years had now elapsed since Eiseeyou and Oumauk had returned to Eskimo Land after their eventful visit to the great city. Oumauk had grown to a stalwart lad


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 of eleven years. He was tall and muscular for a boy of that age, and was destined to be a mighty hunter like his father. In the hollow of his arm he easily carried a small rifle as he stood erect and alert, listening to the story of this adventure.

"I do wish I could see Whitie again, and know he was all right," said Oumauk, with a deep sigh when the tale had been concluded. The desire to see Whitie once more was almost an obsession with the lad. Although so much time had elapsed, and although Eiseeyou had told him again and again that the White Czar had probably fallen before some rifle bullet in the Canadian wilderness, yet Oumauk never gave up hope. He was always watching and waiting for one more glimpse of Whitie.

"Well, perhaps you will," said Eiseeyou. Secretly he did not expect it, but for once he would humor Oumauk's great desire.

The two stood looking over the place of the deadly encounter for several minutes in silence, then Eiseeyou turned and gazed across the tundra towards the frozen Arctic Ocean which he knew was about ten miles


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 to the East. As he gazed, his expression became fixed, and his keen eyes seemed to take on an even more penetrating expression. Finally he shaded his face with his hand and his expression became even more intent.

Oumauk, who had noted his absorption, also gazed far across the frozen tundra. But his eyesight was not as good as his father's, so he could make out nothing. At last Eiseeyou spoke.

"There is something out there that I can't make out. It is white like the snow, but it moves. It is coming this way. Take the glass and see if you can make it out." He handed Oumauk the small field glass which he always carried.

The boy took the glass excitedly and placed it to his eyes, first removing his glasses which he still had to wear. For a long time he gazed eagerly, but was silent.

At last he dropped the glasses in the snow in his excitement and fairly shouted. "It's Whitie, it's Whitie! He is coming to the mountain."

Eiseeyou smiled at him indulgently.


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 "Yes," he said. "I see that is a white bear, but what makes you think it is Whitie? All white bears are Whitie to you."

"Oh no," cried Oumauk, fairly dancing up and down in his delight.

"It is Whitie. I can tell his trot and I know his face.

"No other white bear looks like Whitie. I know it is him.

"I am going down to meet him."

"Stop," cried Eiseeyou sternly. "You do not know that it is Whitie and even if it was, you could not get near him after this long time. Besides if you did, he would probably bite your head off."

Oumauk looked reproachfully at his father.

"Whitie not know me? Whitie bite me? You wait and see."

"You must not go Oumauk," said Eiseeyou again, but Oumauk paid no attention to his sire. Instead he stood his rifle up against the boulder and tightened his belt just as his father had done upon that momentous occasion several years before when


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 he had slid down the mountain side to save the dead musk ox from the wolfish sledge dogs.

Secretly Eiseeyou was much pleased with this venturesome spirit of Oumauk's, but he still remonstrated feebly.

"Well," he said, "if you must go, be careful. I will keep him covered with my rifle so I can shoot if he attacks you. Look out and do not get to sliding too fast."

But Oumauk did not hear this last admonition, for he was sliding rapidly down the slippery slope.

In a few seconds he stood up at the bottom of the mountain and waved his hand to his father and Eiseeyou waved back.

Then the watching Eskimo on the mountainside was treated to the most amazing sight that he had ever witnessed, although he was widely versed in the ways of the wild.

The great bear by this time was about two hundred yards from the foot of the mountain. As the bear's eyesight is rather poor, he probably had not seen Oumauk.

Although he was entirely unarmed, with


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 the exception of the hunting knife in his belt, yet the boy began walking rapidly towards the great beast, occasionally stopping to whistle shrilly by blowing between his fingers. This was the way he had called Whitie when he was a cub.

At the first sound of the whistle, the great, shaggy beast stopped to look and listen. He had heard, but could not locate the sound.

Then Oumauk whistled again and followed up that experiment by giving a loud hoo, hoo, hoo, the cry which the Eskimo uses to his dog team. This had also been one of the calls that he had used with Whitie when he had been a cub.

For several seconds the White Czar stood perfectly still, during which time Eiseeyou covered him with his rifle. Oumauk, chancing to look back at his father, saw that the rifle was raised and hastily moved over a few paces to the left in order to bring his own body directly in range.

Eiseeyou saw the movement and lowered his rifle. The nerve of the lad pleased him greatly and he did not raise the gun again,


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 although his heart fairly stood in his mouth at what he saw.

Once more Oumauk whistled, then the clear, ringing voice of the boy floated up to Eiseeyou.

"Whitie, Whitie, come it is Oumauk. He used to feed you the seal pup. He used to feed you nik-suk. He used to feed you the walrus, I-wok. He is your friend. You know Oumauk, Whitie, Whitie, come. Hoo, hoo, hoo."

Then the great bear seemed to make up his mind and he trotted slowly forward until he was about fifty feet from the boy. Here he again stopped uncertain. Once more the clear voice of the boy floated up to Eiseeyou.

"Whitie, Whitie come. It is Oumauk, Oumauk your friend.friend." [sic]

Then the White Czar, magnificent in all his seven hundred pounds, trotted up until he could smell the outstretched hand of Oumauk.

But the boy himself made no move. He just stood still and waited for his huge friend to make the advances.


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 Twice the White Czar walked slowly about him and finally even sniffed his leather pants. Still Oumauk made no move on his part.

Finally the great beast walked slowly by him twice, rubbing his sides against the boy's body as he moved, first on one side and then on the other. Then he turned and walked slowly away for a few yards. There he stood looking back over his shoulder at the boy.

"Whitie, Whitie," cried the boy, "stay with Oumauk. Oumauk wants you Whitie. Stay with Oumauk."

The bear seemed to listen intently as though he sought to catch the meaning in the sounds. Then he turned his head towards the frozen Arctic Ocean and trotted silently away. Several times he stopped to look back, but each time the stop was shorter than the last.

Smaller and smaller he grew, and whiter and whiter against the snow. The blue shadows of the coming night were fast falling.

The sun had shown only an hour that day


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 and they had seen the White Czar at full noonday. Finally even the keen sight of Eiseeyou could no longer discern the white vibrating object far across the fading snow, so he put up the glass and looked for Oumauk.

He was climbing laboriously back up the mountainside.

"Wait, I will come down," cried Eiseeyou. "There is nothing more to see up here." So he slid down the mountain, and a few seconds later stood by the side of the excited boy.

"Did you see Whitie? Did you see him good? Did you see what a mountain he is? He looks as large as a bull walrus."

"Yes," said Eiseeyou with a strange thrill in his voice. "I saw all I wanted to of him. It made me much afraid. My blood was as cold as snow water. My heart was like ice. Here is your rifle Oumauk. We must start for the komatiks and the dog teams. Tunkine and Tucksu will be wondering if we are lost."

For many minutes they trudged over the snow in silence. Then Oumauk spoke,


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 "Will Whitie ever come back? Shall I ever see him again?

"I thought he seemed to be saying goodbye. That is what the white men say. I thought Whitie was saying it."

Eiseeyou patted the boy's shoulder and looked lovingly down at him.

"I was just thinking that myself," he said. "Yes, I am certain.

"The God of the wild creatures has called The White Czar and he has answered the call. It is well. His place is on the icefloe among the seal and the walrus. You must not wish him back.

"The winds and the snow and the cold have called him.

"They are what the white man calls Nature, and when they call the animals obey. Even man has to obey her voice. Yes, the winds the cold and the snow have called him, and he has answered. It is well."


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 it's in type! It's all ready to go into the columns at a moment's notice.

This is done by what we call the "release" system. That is, these highly important people obligingly write up their speeches several weeks or months in advance. They are then sent to the newspapers—by mail, not by telegraph—with the understanding that the papers will not publish them until a message is sent saying the speech has been delivered—until it has been "released." And that's the source of lots of your "telegraphic news."

That wouldn't be so had if it applied to speeches only. But it's true of presidential messages as well. What a president says in a message to congress affects trade conditions to some extent. When it is known that the chief executive will send a message to the House on a given day, thousands of business men get up at 4 o'clock the following morning. They want the "news" in a hurry. They want to know if it's necessary for them to make a quick turn to keep even with the market.

Save your time! The newspaper publisher has had that message for days. If your local editor or his friends are playing the market they'll be on the right side forty-eight hours before you can possibly start. Sleep late that morning! Don't worry. You're in the hands of your friends, the interests which own and control the press which you support.

This release system works another way. too. Twenty-four hours after the San Francisco fire, the Chicago newspapers had stories in type telling how the unions were retarding the rebuilding of San Francisco. At that time the full extent of the damage was not known. It was supposed that rebuilding could be begun in a few days, or a week at latest. So this story was prepared, put in type and held ready to go into the papers at a moment's notice. Later events proved that while their homes were tumbling in upon them and their families, the newspapers were putting in type stories of how these same union men were rioting and killing other men who wanted to work.


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text: The White Czar (Hawkes)

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Preface

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Preface


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 1

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 1


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 2

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 2


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 3

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 3


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 4

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 4


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 5

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 5


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 6

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 6


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 7

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 7


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 8

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 8


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 9

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 9


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 10

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 10


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 11

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 11


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 12

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 12


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 13

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 13


text: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 14

title: The White Czar (Hawkes)/Chapter 14


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Page:The Last Judgement and Second Coming of the Lord Illustrated.djvu/151

 Besides, nothing is said of such a body, and the raising spoken of refers only to those who see and believe. Moreover that would be a strange sort of everlasting life which is interrupted by thousands of years of natural death, to which the material bodies of myriads must certainly be exposed. The raising spoken of is the elevation of the souls of believers into the enjoyment of heavenly life. It is the spirit which quickeneth; the flesh profiteth nothing. The soul is raised; the body is buried.

Other passages might be quoted, but these are among the most pointed, with the exception of the celebrated chapter in the epistle of Paul to the Corinthians. And it is amazing that, with the marked distinction which he draws, the positive assertion which he makes, the striking illustrations he has furnished, and the figurative language he has employed, that his argument should ever have been construed into an exposition setting forth the resurrection of the material body. It commences the argument by referring to the fact that "Christ rose from the dead;" hence he contends for the resurrection of man, and says, "Now is Christ risen from the dead and become the first fruits of them that slept: for since by man came death, by man, also, came the resurrection of the dead." From this to the thirty-fourth verse, nothing whatever is said about that body which is the subject of resurrection; but at the twenty-third verse he expressly tells us that "in Christ all shall be made alive: but every man in his own order: Christ the first fruits; afterwards they that are Christ's,


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 It was months before those stories were used. But they were used. You read them. You thought they came over the wires direct from the Pacific coast. They'd been laying in the newspaper offices for months, and were just as true when you read them as they were when first written.

While we're on the subject of telegraphic news, let's go a step farther. Suppose you went to the telegraph office to-day and wished to send a ten-word message to San Francisco. What do you suppose it would cost you? You'd pay 75 cents. But suppose I wanted to send the same message to my newspaper in San Francisco for publication. If I walked into the same office, gave the same message to the same clerk and showed my reportorial star, how much do you suppose I'd have to pay? Twenty-five cents! I'd get a "press rate" and—

(Voice from the audience: "I paid a dollar for fourteen words three days ago.")

Oh, did you? Well, we're getting real well acquainted, aren't we?

But to continue: Let's suppose that fourteen words wouldn't be enough. Let's say it would take a hundred. You'd have to pay seventy-five cents for the first ten words and five cents a word thereafter; four dollars and a half for ninety words and seventy-five cents for ten words, or a total of five dollars and a quarter for one hundred words. On this same distance the newspapers get a flat rate of two and a half cents a word. They pay $2.50 for identically the same service that costs you five dollars and twenty-five cents. Remember that I'm speaking of day messages in both cases.

Now, perhaps you'll see why newspapers are not overly enthusiastic about government ownership of telegraph lines. They know that any concerted newspaper agitation along that line will result in the companies taking away their "press rates." Long ago the companies passed word to the papers that immediately they espoused government ownership of telegraph lines they, the newspapers, would pay the same tolls as the 'dear


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Page:Tree Crops; A Permanent Agriculture (1929).pdf/188

 such acres in Portugal. It is an interesting and peculiar fact that the poorer the land the better the cork. This superior quality results from a finer texture due to slower growth. Therefore, some fine cork forests are on sandy or stony land, which in any other country would be called "barrens" and would find its highest productivity by growing a pine forest. In some districts the trees are made the sole basis of estimating the value of the land on which they stand. Near Evora, in south-central Portugal, the method of calculating the value of a cork forest is as follows: The twenty-year yield of cork (two strippings) is taken as the basis. The buyer pays 600 to 650 reis (1913) (1,000 reis=$1.08) per arroba (33 pounds) of cork capacity. Thus a good acre of cork trees would bring $125 or more, and the man who sells throws in the land.

English owners of cork estates in Portugal estimate that acorns alone produce from a half to two-thirds of the total pork crop of that country.

Area thousand Population No, of swine* sq, miles million million Portugal ......eeeee5 " 6.0 about one Virginia .....ccsecee 2.4 % to %

 * Yearbook. U. S, em of Agriculture.

The Portuguese hog leads a lean and hungry life for a year and a half or two years, and then comes an orgy during which he eats acorns all day and sleeps on them at night, as he lives in the open beneath the trees. In three months he doubles or triples his weight and passes on to the ceremonies at the abattoir.


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 Careful experiment in central Portugal has shown that 5.3 liters of acorns will make one pound of pork. Thirty-five and one-fourth liters make a bushel. Therefore, a bushel makes 6.6 pounds of pork.

As the acorn crop is not under much control of man, does not come regularly, and above all is not harvested and measured, it is difficult to make an exact approximation of pigs and acorns. This difficulty is met by the organization of fortnightly markets in the villages of the cork regions where pigs in any and all stages of fatness and leanness are bought and sold at any and all times. Two weeks before the pig is completely fatted, he may be sold by the man who has a shortage of acorns to the man who has a surplus. In estimating the number of pigs that he should buy, the Iberian oak tree farmer walks through his forest scanning the trees and noting the number of acorns lying on the ground. Every time he sees the fattening for one more pig, he puts another acorn into his pocket.

On the unfenced acres of a cork estate two kinds of herders are daily abroad; the swineherd, whose wards eat grass and acorns, and the shepherd, whose sheep and goats browse the bushes and grass and furnish wool and milk—the fifth and sixth products of the cork forest.

As I rode through one of these estates on an April day, I came upon a long lane full of sheep, seven hundred of them, crowded solidly between close fences. Two shepherds were busy at their regular afternoon job of milking the sheep. They started at one end of the long and motley mass and worked their way through it. One presided over the milk bucket, the other caught a ewe, backed her up to the bucket, and held her while the milker extracted a few spoonfuls of


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 rich milk, after which the ewe was pushed aside to join the growing mass of the recently milked. That evening at the house of Joao Dias, estate foreman, I was offered rich cheese of sheep's milk, but my previously good appetite for it was diminished by my memory of the milking in the lane.

The bark of the evergreen-oak (quercus ilex) is of no value, but the tree yields more acorns than the cork oak. No Portuguese will cut down the one tree to make room for the other, so absolutely alike does he value the trees. Often the two species are mixed indiscriminately in the same tract, but in some localities the ilex forests are almost pure stand and are cared for exactly as are the cork forests. At Evora in south central Portugal—a locality famed for its pork production—Mr. Estevao Oliveira Fernandes, a graduate of a German engineering school, told me that the local estimate of production for a ten-year period was as follows: for a cork forest 34 kilos of pork per hectare (30 pounds per acre) and for an ilex forest, 68 kilos per hectare (60 pounds per acre). Compare these with pasture yields (on page 268) and then consider the low rainfall and dry summer of Portugal, and its age-long exposure to a robber agriculture, and the oak tree stands forth as a crop plant most worthy of consideration.

In some sections of Spain and Portugal the young ilex trees are allowed to grow where they have by chance sprung up in the fields. Around and under the trees the machineless cultivation of wheat and beans, barley and hay, goes on just the same. This combination of trees and crops gives a beautiful parklike landscape. The cultivation helps the oaks to make acorns, and after the grain and other crops are harvested, the hogs are turned in to gather the mast crop.

On the slopes of the Sierra Nevada in Spain, a few miles south of Granada, I saw the ilex rendering its supreme serv-


text: Template:Progress bar/sandbox

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 people." So the papers obligingly remain silent, or, if commit themselves, opine that government ownership of telegraph lines is not a desirable tiling the United States and Hayti are the only republics in the world which submit to private ownership of the means of graphic communication.

And perhaps you think that we newspaper boys—when working for the Capitalist press and writing this of stuff—maybe you think we believe it ourselves! Well, we don't.

You know that for $25 a week a reporter will go to work on a Republican paper; in that rapacity he'll write with all the force at his command, declaring that everything politically righteous and holy is to be found within the Republican party—and nowhere else. And for a raise of $5 a week he'll walk right across the street and the same thing about the Democrats. Then for $5 more he'll go to a third paper right around the corner and line about a so-called independent party or candidate. In the face of this, I solemnly declare to you that the newspaper man is honest. He has his work to do and he does it. Then why change his polities so readily? I'll tell you. We have learned that whether we work for a Republican paper, or a Democratic paper, or a so-called Independent paper, that we're working for the same gang. We're working for Capitalism. So the Capitalist newspaper man changes his polities as readily as you change your coat.

"Oh," you say. "that applies to the Socialist press too, Creel. You and other men on Socialist papers have changed your politics momentarily. You Socialists, too, are insincere."

There are a number of good reasons why this does not apply. I'll give you three.

In the first place, it would be utterly impossible for a man who has made no deep study of Socialism to write intelligently on the subject. You Socialists will appre-


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 ciate that; the others may not. But to take a man fresh from the Capitalist press, put him on a Socialist paper and tell him to explain the Socialist philosophy would be equivalent to telling him to write an essay in Greek. He couldn't do it. It's a simple thing to change from "Taft's a good man. Vote for him," to "Bryan's a peerless man. Vote for him." But to plunge a writer deep into "Economic Determinism," "Materialistic Conception of History," "The Class Struggle," etc., is an altogether different matter.

Secondly, not more than three Socialist papers in the United States can pay a man anything like what the Capitalist press will pay him. So there is not the monetary incentive for him to espouse Socialism.

Thirdly, immediately a man steps off the Capitalist press and comes out strongly for Socialism, he's done for. No capitalist paper will again employ him. He's black-listed. You'd ought to know without me telling you that no Republican or Democratic paper in the country would pay me five cents a century—now. Yet they used to give me good salaries. But I've violated the law of the editorial sanctorium. I'm telling the tricks of the trade. I couldn't go back if I wished to.

So I say it does not follow because a man jumps from a Republican to a Democratic newspaper, then to an Independent one; and loops the loop back and forth, that he can do. the same, or that the Capitalist press would allow him to do the same, after he declares himself, strongly, for Socialism and exposes the trickery of the Capitalist press.

It frequently happens that a publisher or publishing company will own and operate both a Republican and a Democratic newspaper in the same city. This phase of the newspaper game is illustrated in a little story of a hare-lipped man who entered a barroom early one morning. He greeted the bartender, and then said:

"N'ay, old 'port, fix me up a little drink."


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 When the bartender set a cocktail before him the Harelip said.

"Ave one yourself. Nake one on me."

"Well," said the other, "you're a pretty good fellow. I'll just take one on you."

When they finished, the Harelip said:

"Nust till 'em up again. old 'port."

"What? Again!"

"Nure thing," said the patron. "It's on me. I'm buying."

So they had a second round. When the glasses were emptied this time the Harelip said:

"Now, nen, old 'port, I ju't tell you what I'll do. I'll vlip you to nee pays for 'em."

"You'll flip me to see who pays for them?" yelled the bartender.

"Nure! Nure thing," replied the other. "Be a 'port."

"Well, you've got a nerve! However, I'll flip you."

Taking a coin from the till, the man behind the bar tossed it, caught it in his left palm and covered it with his right.

"Now, then, what do yon take?" he asked.

"Wha-a-z."

"What is it?"

"Wha-a-z."

"I—I beg your pardon. I don't understand. Say it slowly. Do you take heads or tails?"

"Wha-a-z, wha-a-z. Can't you un'er'tand English? I n'ay I wha-a-a."

In desperation the saloon man uncovered the piece, pointed to the side uppermost, and said:

"Say, Bill, is dat what you mean?"

"N'at's it!" shouted the Harelip. "N'at's it!"


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 You see, he couldn't lose. It is so with you and the Capitalist newspapers, regardless of their politics. If the Republican candidate is voted into office the Morning Sun is jubilant over the confidence of the people in its man. If the Democratic nominee is successful the Evening Star is elated because the voters have seen fit to place ITS man in office. And the banker, the department store owner and the street car magnate own both papers. They play both ends against the middle. And you're the middle.

The political coin tossed by the master class has a Republican head and a Democratic tail. Once in four years you are allowed to guess which side will be turned to view after the toss-up. The tricky language of the Capitalist newspaper is no more deceptive than that of the Harelip. Yet you allow yourselves to be gulled year after year by the same old subterfuges. On election night you go without sleep to buy an early morning extra and be greeted with a political

"N'at's it, N'at's it!"

As opposed to this the Socialist Party and the Socialist press comes to you with the proposition of public ownership of the things publicly used and private ownership of the things privately used. In that program, and in that program alone, lies freedom from exploitation and from the acknowledged ills of our political, industrial and economic system. So long as the things publicly used can be made to turn a private profit, just so long will those of you who own no public utilities continue to pay the bills of those who do own them.

When you collectively own and control the press of the nation, when that press is operated solely for the dissemination of news of a public character; when the newspapers of the world are printed for the information and use of the many, instead of for the profit of the few, then, and then only, may you be off your guard against these and other tricks of the press.

I thank you.


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 if the Zeigner people really desired to fight the Fascists and arm 50,000 to 60,000 workers.

(: It was a great mistake.)

The representative of the German Party gave us this figure, 50,000 to 60,000. (: The Party was not informed of these conditions.)

This telegram was decided on in the presence of three German and three Russian comrades.

However, how did we present the situation to ourselves? As an episode in the civil war, and we informed you of this in the text.

I want, thirdly, to make another quotation on the question of our attitude to the Left Social-Democracy and towards the Social-Democracy as a whole. "In the presence of the German representatives, we resolved that we have to conduct the campaign, not only without the Left Social-Democracy, but even against it."

These documents are sufficient to recall to your minds what the Executive had decided.

These documents should also refresh your memories, and you will understand how the Executive was placed, and that the comrades had agreed to its position.

(: I did not agree to the telegram.)

Comrades, I must admit that I and the other comrades bear most of the responsibility for the entry into the Saxony Government. Brandler somewhat hesitated on this, He said "I do not know whether the situation is ripe for it," but he agreed. I do not wish to shirk any responsibility. It was the general view, and decided upon with you after consultation with the French, with the Polish, and with the Czecho-Slovak Parties, we said, if it was really a question of weeks we must utilise this in the event of civil war.

Well, this was the general view.

Now, comrades, how was it carried out? That is the most important question. Take Saxony. Comrade Remmele said yesterday: "Is it so important to bring up now about the Ministers being too late? Is not this opportunism? What can we expect from Minister?"

What is right in this statement? Of course, the most important is what the masses do. But for us, it is a symptom of wrong tendencies in the Party. The main question is, of course, why the civil war did not come, and why the masses could not be mobilised. You must understand, however, why we place so much importance upon the speeches of the Communist ministers: because it was a Ssmptom of the wrong tendency in our Party. Who were the minister ? Our leading and best comrades. Brandler, Heckert, Boettcher. For us, their speeches were a symptom of decay.

(: Quite true.)

Compare the ideas contained in our telegram with the style


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 of the speeches of these ministers. Of course, the most important is, why the masses did not rise, but the conduct of the ministers implied something. It implied an incorrect orientation.

Comrade Fischer undoubtedly exaggerated yesterday when she said that Brandler was playing a deliberate game. One of the greatest defects of Comrade Fischer's otherwise good speeches, is that she exaggerates. Things are reduced to a caricature. This generally is the chief defect of the left wing, and we have frequently said this to our bolshevik left. It is impossible that Brandler should have acted so deliberately.

(: It was her only argument.)

But she put forward many good arguments with which we must agree. The reason why we pay so much attention to the speeches of the Communist ministers was that they were the reflection of an incorrect policy. That is why things were reduced to a banal hotch-potch with the Social-Democracy.

We wrongly estimated the situation. We could not arm sixty, let alone 60,000. It turned out that the situation had been over-estimated. But why were we obliged to come out like Social-Democrats? Why should we have talked about the constitutionalness of our position? Why was it made to appear that we alone were responsible for the Landtag? This is old-fashioned and, at best, a Bebelist position of the '90's. Bebel in his best period said this. At that time it was right. Now, however, we must appeal to the direct revolutionary forces of the workers, and must say that the Left Social-Democracy is the principal enemy; the Left goes with the Right, with Seckt, Seckt with Ludendorf. But we must never say we stand on the basis of the constitution.

Therefore, the carrying out of the tasks was extraordinarily bad, and threatened greater dangers for our Party than anybody imagined. That is why we unanimously decided to send the critical letter to the German Central Committee. This, too, must not be forgotten. I do not wish to shift the responsibility upon other comrades. I wrote the letter. But it was not my personal letter, as has been stated in Germany. Yes, it is one of the notorious letters. A commission was appointed which included both Comrades Kolarov and Zetkin, who made certain amendments, most of which I accepted.

(: I beg to observe that the letters were written before we had received full information—before we received any information.)

Of course, we were not as well informed as we are now. I am prepared to say that in certain details my decision now is different to what it was before, but in the main we were right. If we can defend what has happened in Germany—in Saxony, we should join the Second International. We do not need elastic formulas, but we must express the facts. We have already expressed much in the theses of the present majority on the Central Committee.

The attitude towards the Social-Democracy as a whole. It


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 was here decided that the principal enemy is the Left Social Democracy, and that we must fight apart, without and against the Social-Democracy. I must confess that I said in this article, when in Berlin in the middle of October, some of our comrades had sat a week with these rascals, and drew up a programme; and the next day they said postpone the meeting for two days, we will come with a new programme.

Now, comrades, comes the question of the united front. Speaking generally, are there differences of opinion on this question in the Communist International? Yes, we have shades and nuances. We have not fought them out. Now, however, they must be fought out to the end.

Where is my mistake in having said at the meeting of the Enlarged Executive, that the workers' government is a pseudonym for the dictatorship of the proletariat. I was attacked by a representative of the majority. It was said: "You are spoiling our agitation, we cannot put forward this motto." I conceded, because I agreed that in practical agitation there is no need to blab at all. Now, however, it is clear that the objection was not made out of consideration for practical agitation, but an error in principle. Absolutely, however, the workers' government is nothing else than a pseudonym for the proletarian dictatorship—or else it is a Social-Democratic opposition.

Radek will assert that, immediately after Leipsic, I said: "Here we have either a great deviation in style or a great political deviation." Soon, I believe a week after, the conference of the Czecho-Slovak Party took place. The same formulations of democracy. It was clear that Brandler had united with them.

My mistake lay in not having fought the matter out. I said to myself wait, the thing is new, perhaps it can be fought out in a friendly way.

Well, the cry about the "pseudonym," the Leipsic decisions, then the decisions of the Czecho-Slovak., Party Conference, all these were opportunist deviations. We must watch this carefully and correct it, otherwise we shall corrupt our Party.

What is the united front? In the theses brought in by the Politbureau of our Russian Party, we say: "The united front is a method of revolution and not of evolution, a method of agitating and of mobilising the masses in the present period against the Social-Democracy," and nothing more. He who believes that it implies more is giving a finger to the devil. It is not and cannot mean any more than this. He who believes otherwise, makes a concession to the counter-revolutionary Social-Democracy. This must be fought out to the end.

Well, comrades, we must fight this question out now not nationally but internationally. I stand absolutely on the position of the Fourth Congress. What did the Fourth Congress say? Not every Labour government is a proletarian government. Look at the situation as it is now. In a few days, we shall have the


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6 made to perform the double duty of yielding pressure enough to sustain the bird's weight against the force of gravity, and also of communicating to it a forward impulse. The bird, therefore, has nothing to do but to repeat with the requisite velocity and strength its perpendicular blows upon the air, and by virtue of the structure of its wings the same blow both sustains and propels it.

"The truth of this explanation of the mechanical theory of flight may be tested in various ways. Perhaps the simplest is an experiment which may be very easily made. If we take in the hand the stretched wing of a heron, which has been dried in that position, and strike it quickly downwards in the air, we shall find that it is very difficult indeed to maintain the perpendicular direction of the stroke, requiring, in fact, much force to do so; and that if we do not apply this force, the hand is carried irresistibly forward, from the impetus in that direction which the air communicates to the wing in its escape backwards from the blow.

"Another test is one of reasoning and observation. If the explanation now given be correct, it must follow that since no bird can flap its wings in any other direction than the vertical-i.e., perpendicular to its own axis (which is ordinarily horizontal)—and as this motion has been shown to produce necessarily a forward motion, no bird can ever fly backwards. Accordingly no bird ever does so no man ever saw a bird, even for an instant, fly tail foremost. A bird can, of course, allow itself to fall backwards by merely slowing the action of its wings so as to allow its weight to overcome their sustaining power; and this motion may sometimes give the appearance of flying backwards—as when a swift drops backwards from the eaves of a house, or when a humming-bird allows itself to drop in like manner from out of the large tubular petals of a flower. But this backward motion is due to the action of gravity, and not to the action of the bird's wings. In short, it is falling, not flying backwards. Nay, more, if the theory of flight here given be correct, it must equally follow that even standing still, which is the easiest of all things to other animals, must be very difficult, if not altogether impossible, to a bird when flying. This, also, is true in fact. To stand still in the air is not indeed impossible to a flying bird, for reasons to be presently explained, but it is one of the most difficult feats of wingmanship—a feat which many birds, not otherwise clumsy, can never perform at all, and which is performed only by special exertion, and generally for a very short time, by those birds whose structure enables them to be adepts in their glorious art.

"Another fact observable in reference to birds of easy and powerful flight, is, that their wings are all sharply pointed at the end.

"The motion of a bird's wing increases from its minimum at the shoulder-joint to its maximum at the tip. The primary quills, which form the termination of the wing, are those on which the chief burden of flight is cast. Each feather has less and less weight to bear, and less and less force to exert, in proportion as it lies nearer the body of the bird; and there is nothing more beautiful in the


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 8, 1859.] ladies in London, and for soldiers in the camp. Why should we not all learn to cook! We have cookery-books for the great, and also for the million; but cookery-books are of little value till there is some aptitude at the practice. Let half a dozen popular teachers like Soyer (but who is like him!) travel through the country, each with a portable kitchen, and show all the women and girls in town and country the best way to make and cook the common preparations of food; and the benefit will be equal to a rise of wages to the labouring man at once. The mere secret of the stew—now rarely or never seen on the cottage table—would be as good as another shilling a-week in health and strength. It is difficult to stop here, on the verge of a great and enticing subject; but we can say only one thing more now—that there are literally thousands of mourning parents in England at this moment, whose manly young sons and once promising daughters are in their graves because their fathers made mistakes in providing the family food, and their mothers did not know how to set it before them. The mind recoils from such a statement, but it is true; and it ought therefore to be set down plainly. The mind also recoils from the statement that the cholera is at Dantzic and at Hamburg; and not altogether absent from England; but it is true, and ought to be told; and with it the further truth that if every family in the kingdom sat down in pure air, in a state of personal cleanliness, to three meals a day of good common food, well cooked, and earned by fair work of body and mind, the cholera would be kept out more surely than by a wall of brass, or would fly over us like the first raven we hear of, and go back to its haunts, for want of some place whereon to alight. It will be some time before that can happen. Meanwhile, what can each of us do to save some of the thousands who are for ever dropping into well-known pitfalls around the threshold of adult life?

has not heard tell of that famous Northern watering-place which I shall call Sulphurwell,—of its baths for the gouty, and its balls for the goutless,—its old-world hotels and tables d'hôte,—its bracing air and lovely environs; above all, of its celebrated marriages—the punster has no doubt already christened them sulphur-matches—with which the very name of the place has come to be identified, to the extent of making the insertion of a single gentleman’s name among the list of arrivals almost tantamount to an advertisement for a partner in life?

We have all of us, I say, heard of Sulphurwell; and yet in the eyes of us, the modern generation of Londoners, the place exists perhaps rather as a relic of the past. Cecilia and Evelina very likely spent a summer there. Gilbert Gurney, without doubt, must have paid it a visit, having run down there on the top of the Highflyer coach. Or the Pickwickians may have met there with some of their most startling, though unrecorded adventures. But modern heroes of romance no more than modern gentlemen out for a long vacation throng the Sulphurwell of the present day. The steam-engine has whistled them all off. The tourist, not content with overrunning Europe, has of late years discovered America, and at Saratoga, or Newport, or West Point, very likely, will our grandsons furnish us with granddaughters-in-law. Who goes to Sulphurwell now? Perhaps a few foreigners, a few Manchester and Leeds and Sheffield people, a few Irish—perhaps nobody at all! It may be that the mineral water is all used up in turning mill-wheels, and the vast saloons in which our ancestors strutted and minuetted are converted into ragged-school-rooms, or re-echo to the voice, addressing itself to monster meetings, of Mr. Cobden or Mr. Bright!

Such were my thoughts some two months ago, when circumstances—of which it is only necessary to say that they were not of a matrimonial character—took me to Sulphurwell for a few days. Instead of a few days, my stay protracted itself into as many weeks, and even now, the season closed and the place really deserted, I sit writing these pages in my quaint old bedroom at the George Hotel. The fact is that Sulphurwell is a rich mine for the observer, a spot the counterpart to which does not exist in Great Britain or, as far as my experience goes, in any portion of the habitable globe. And now that we are all of us so familiar with the globe aforesaid, knowing the Alps a great deal better than the Surrey Hills, and visiting Rome a good deal more often than the Tower Hamlets, perhaps a short account of the life at this out-of-the-way place, lying as it were neglected at our own doors, may come with a certain smack of novelty.

The town is divided into two parts, High and Low, situated about half a mile from each other; but it is of the former that I have principally to treat. Here we have three hotels, each with a distinctive character, or, as the French would say, a clientèle peculiar to itself. There is the Marlborough (named after that celebrated general, and built during the period of his triumphs), which goes by the name of “The House of Lords,” being the resort of such few fashionables as continue to visit the place. “The House of Commons” is represented by the George (built, and apparently furnished, in the reign of the First George), the head-quarters of fun, flirtation, and Irish aspirants. The William and Mary (whose structure and internal arrangements date from that double reign) is, again, the rendezvous of the Manchester and Leeds aristocracies,—a terribly select house, turning away lords from its doors, and shielding as much as possible its cotton-spinning heiresses from the profane southern or Milesian gaze.

One of the most curious features about Sulphurwell life is the hereditary feud which is kept up between these three chief hotels, sometimes flaming high, sometimes smouldering low, sometimes to all appearance dying out in an entente cordiale, yet always ready to spring up again, like the feuds between neighbouring peoples. How the tradition manages to keep afloat with an annually changing population, is the mysterious part of the affair. Now and then the Marlborough, it may be, offended at something done or left undone by the George, starts an opposition dance right on the evening of the George ball, and the other two

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 304 hotels uniting, put the Marlborough into Coventry. The Marlburnians, when they appear at our balls, pass hostile criticisms on the fair Georgians, and express audibly their astonishment at our shockingly mixed society. We, on our part, on going to them are lost in amazement, every Friday evening, at their stiffness, their formality, the indifferent quality of their negus, and their other social deficiencies. Not to do this on one side and the other would be to run the risk of being treated as a lukewarm patriot, if not a traitor to one’s own signboard.

But the point in which the three hotels—or at least two out of the three—entirely resemble each other, is that of their internal economy and arrangements. You seem to yourself to be transported back to the eighteenth century, as you sit eating your Yorkshire cake in the vast breakfast room. That, like the still vaster and more dismal dining-room, is innocent of a carpet. The walls are painted with obsolete patterns and impossible flowers, the colours of which have gone off into a kind of faint chalkiness, like the colours of some of the pictures by Sir Joshua. In both rooms there is a musician’ gallery; a lyre, tragic and comic masks, crown, and G. R., the whole surrounded by a garland of flowers, are, I need hardly say, its pictorial decorations, the approach to which is by a rickety ladder, borrowed from the stable. The chairs are, I confess, a mystery to me. An antiquarian from Wardour Street should be brought down to sit in judgment upon them. I should not be in the least surprised to hear that they were bought a bargain at the London residences of the seven bishops, when those prelates, as we may well suppose, “declined housekeeping” on being committed to the Tower.

The bedrooms are destitute of bells and fireplaces. But a blazing coal and wood fire illuminates the ugly carpeted bar, shining through its red curtains and bringing into relief the steeplechasers and stage-coaches upon its walls, the portraits of great local Nimrods, and of the wonderful inhabitants of Sulphurwell, taken at the age of one hundred and ten, by command of her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. Seated in this bar, it becomes possible to conceive the idea of some one being left in charge of the house during the winter, a supposition which would otherwise give one a kind of cold shudder. For in those vast halls, and long re-echoing corridors, there must be, I take it, a winter season for ghosts—ghosts with three-cornered hats and gold-headed canes, ghosts in hoops and patches, marvelling each successive year at the little change which has come over the place since their days of a century ago. Why does not the gentleman who lately advertised in the papers for a haunted house come and spend a winter at Sulphurwell?

These are no spectres, however, the one hundred or so of male and female guests who are waked up to a sensation of appetite, or recalled from their dreadful potations at the well, by the sound of the eight o’clock breakfast gong. A glance at the side-tables will show the anticipated presence of flesh and blood. Legs of mutton, shoulders of mutton, haunch of mutton, saddle of mutton, ribs of mutton, other portions of mutton, if anatomy permit of their existence (we have slaughtered a sheep lately), form the staple of our fare. A huge tea-urn, something of the shape of the leaning tower of Pisa, furnishes the supply of hot water, which each guest causes to dribble out into his or her little antique tea-pot.

Our fare at Sulphurwell is of the heaviest, and our appetites, as in the case of travellers on a long sea voyage, Cambridge and Oxford undergraduates, country parsons, and other unemployed personages, of the most severe kind. The legs of mutton and rounds of beef reappear cold at the one o’clock luncheon, and are succeeded by hot and ponderous joints at the half-past five o’clock dinner. At eight, the digestion is astonished by the exhibition of muffins, Sally-luns, and Yorkshire cakes, under the name of “tea,” and is finally quite prostrated by the sandwiches and negus, or punch, peculiar to the place (having been much approved of on one of her visits by the Duchess of Marlborough), which terminate the day.

But amidst all this Homeric feasting, woe to the unhappy bachelor unattended (as literary bachelors are, for obvious reasons, wont to be) by a servant of his own. The four waiters attached to the establishment are to him not so much as spectral appearances, or indeed appearances of any kind. His meat, if he wish for any, must consist of the dish most nearly contiguous to him: his drink, like that of the Americans, must be taken after the repast, standing at the bar. Perhaps this is only one of the deep-laid traditional schemes of the place, to lure the single men into matrimony by cutting off the supplies, starving out, so to speak, the garrison which refuses to be taken by storm. Certain it is, that families who are habitués of the spot, bring down not only their own servants, but their own wines, their tea, sometimes their plate and table-linen, as travellers from St. Petersburgh to Moscow were in the habit of doing till within the last few years. There is one elderly Scotch gentleman near me at table, whom I have never yet ventured to ask for a slice of the salmon which stands, twice in the week, before him. I imagine it to be his private property, and to be directed to him for the use of himself and his family, from the shores of his native Tweed.

And yet, in the midst of this confusion, scarcely any one complains. Like Eothen, when he first sat down to his cup of coffee in a real desert, we are all of us glad to escape for awhile from the well-appointed tables of civilised life. The very scramble produces sociability. Strangers are more likely to become acquainted with each other at a pic-nic, than at a stately dinner of eight courses. Hence it is that a new comer, of gentlemanly address, finds himself almost immediately naturalised, and falls easily into one of the three or four family circles or clans which subdivide the hotel. Either he joins the Smith and Robinson families, in visiting the ruins and other points of attraction in the neighbourhood, or he attaches himself, in the same way, to the Browns, Joneses, and Jenkinsons. At the nightly balls—and surely there is no place in the world where there is so much dancing going on—the result of all this is to be seen in a greater degree of entrain than can perhaps be found in any other congregation of holiday-seeking Britons. Instead of sitting moodily

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Two days before the first contingent of 100 Czechoslovak invalids sailed from New York on the last lap of their long journey home from Siberia, another and larger contingent landed on July 3 at San Diego. Over one thousand veterans of a hundred fights in Russia and Siberia, some of them incapacited by wounds, all beyond the age of 42, were brought to the United States on the steamer Nanking. Their transport was arranged by the War Department and the cost of it will be paid by the Czechoslovak government. The contingent was in command of Major Vladimir Jirsa.

A stirring reception was provided for them by the citizens of San Diego. There are few Czechoslovaks living there, but the entire city turned out to do honor to the men who threw back the Bolsheviki from the Pacific beyond the Urals. The men were quartered at Camp Kearny, a few miles from San Diego, but the citizens furnished automobiles to carry the men between the city and the camp. The day after their arrival, on July 4, General Strong, commandant of the camp, addressed the Czechoslovaks, expressing his appreciation of the part they played in the struggle for world liberty; suitable response was made by Major Jirsa, and the men themselves then demonstrated to the American soldiers, how majestic could be singing by large bodies of soldiers. On July 6 a celebration was held in memory of John Hus, and two days later the whole city witnessed a Czechoslovak military parade, worthy of veterans who fought for five years.

From Camp Kearny the transport proceeded by way of New Orleans and Atlanta to Washington. On July 18 they had the honor of being reviewed by President Wilson, in their estimation the greatest living man after President Masaryk. It was a pity that a heavy downpour interfered with the parade; but in spite of rain the East portico of the Capitol was crowded, when the men fell in and were addressed by Col. V. S. Hurban, Czechoslovak military attache in Washington. In heavy rain the elderly veterans marched along Pennsylvania Ave. to the White House grounds, where they were received by an American guard of honor and by hundreds of their countrymen from Baltimore, New York, Pittsburgh, Chicago, and other cities. Sokols in uniforms and girls in national costumes presented a striking picture to the Washingtonians who seldom get to see a Czechoslovak celebration.

At the White House President Wilson was awaiting them, surrounded by a distinguished company—Mrs. Wilson, Secretary of War Baker, Secretary of the Navy Daniels, Gen. March, chief of the general staff, assistant secretary of State Phillips, military attaches stationed in Washington, congressman Sabath and the Czechoslovak diplomatic representative Chas. Pergler. The president said:

“It gives me pleasure to review this detachment of your valiant army. Though we have been far away, we have been moved by admiration of the services you have rendered under the most adverse circumstances. At the moment when adversity came to the armies with which you were fighting, you declined to be daunted by circumstances and retained your gallant hope. In the midst of a disorganized people and subject to influences which worked for ruin you consistently maintained order within your ranks and by your example helped those with whom you came in contact to re-establish their lives.

“Future generation will happily record the influence for good which you were privileged to exercise upon a large part of the population of the world and will accord you the place which you have so courageously won.”

It was evident that Mr. Wilson was deeply moved by the sight of the wounded and the greybeards who had played such a strik-


text: The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/Coming Home Around the World


text: The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/Change of Ministry


text: The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/Commercial Conditions in Czechoslovakia


text: The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/Lying Austrian statistics


text: The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 3/Help the Children


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Investigation

The Civil Aeronautics Board was notified of the accident shortly after it occurred. An Investigation was immediately initiated in accordance with the provisions of Tale VII of the Federal Aviation Act of 1958.

Air Carrier

United States Overseas Airlines, Inc., holds a temporary CAB certificate of public convenience and necessity to operate as a domestic Supplemental Air Carrier which expires March 30, 1961, and FAA Air Carrier Operating Certificate No. NY-1, authorizing irregular air carrier passenger and cargo operations. The carrier's principal operating and maintenance base is located at Oakland Municipal Airport, Oakland, California.

Flight Personnel

Captain Jewell Read, age 45, was employed by U. S. Overseas Airlines on July 21, 1958, as a copilot In C-54 aircraft following his retirement from the U. S. Navy where he was a naval aviator in transport-type equipment. He held a currently effective airman certificate with airline transport and other appropriate ratings. His last first-class physical was completed April 3, 1959. He was upgraded to reserve captain on February 6, 1959, and to captain on August 28, 1959. He had a total of 12,166 flying hours, 7,303 of which were in C-54 type aircraft. He had flown a total of 216 hours within the last 90 days, all of which were in 0-54 type aircraft. He had completed the required ground school tests, instrument, and proficiency checks.

Copilot Gordon Cole, age 37, was employed by U. S. Overseas Airlines on July 16, 1959. He held an airman certificate with commercial privileges and single-engine land rating. His last second-class physical was completed July 27, 1959. He had a total of 9,024 flying hours, 255 of which were in C-54 type aircraft. He had completed the required ground school tests, instrument, and proficiency checks.

The Aircraft

Douglas C-54-G, N 4000A, serial number 36063, was purchased by U. S. Overseas Airlines from the U. S. Air Force on November 16, 1955, and was of a cargo configuration. It had a total flying time of 19,269 hours, 10,543 hours since the last major overhaul. Nos.1 and 4 engines were Pratt & Whitney R-2000-D-5 twin Wasps. Nos. 2 and 3 engines were Pratt & Whitney R-2000-7M2 twin Wasps. No. 1 engine had 17,531 total hours, 895 hours since last overhaul. No. 2 engine had 6,506 total hours, 591 hours since last overhaul. No. 3 engine had 17,630 total hours, 799 since last overhaul. No. 4 engine had 16,754 total hours, 357 hours since last overhaul.


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 The aircraft was descending rapidly and an attempt was made to ditch on a sual1 lake directly ahead. Several trees were struck in the attempt and the aircraft hit the water, wings level and in a tail-low attitude, on a heading of 25 degrees.

The aircraft came to rest on a 290-degree magnetic heading in 10 feet of water approximately 300 feet from the lake's western shore and 280 feet from its southern shore, with approximately 80 percent of the fuselage submerged. Fire consumed the upper fuselage down to the top window line between fuselage stations 129 to 621.

Sections and small pieces of the left and right vangs, including the ailerons, and pieces of the left and right stabilizers were found strewn along the approach path. All four separated propellers were in the shallow water near the lake's southern shore on and to the right of the approach path centerline.

Investigation of the aircraft, prior to moving the wreckage, revealed that the fuel tank selector valves were in the auxiliary tank positions. Examination of the fuel lines, fuel screens, fuel filters, and available fuel pumps revealed no restrictions in the fuel flow to the four engines or evidence of failure prior to impact. There was no evidence of mechanical malfunction, failure, or fire involving any part of the aircraft prior to impact and no evidence of crew incapacitation prior to impact.

A check of the aircraft records revealed that there were between 25 to 50 gallons of fuel In each of the four auxiliary fuel tanks when the crew accepted the aircraft. Only the main fuel tanks were filled during the refueling operation at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station and no additional fuel was added to the auxiliary fuel tanks. Investigation and analysis of fuel samples from the servicing units and storage tanks disclosed no contamination by foreign materials at the time of servicing the aircraft.

U. S. Overseas Airlines, Inc., had the following fleet.

7 C-54-B-DC aircraft (6-Fuel Tank System) 5 C-54-B-DO aircraft (8-Fuel Tank System) 1 c-54-4 aircraft (N 4000A) (8-Fuen Tank System) 2 DC -64 aircraft 2 DC-6B aircraft

All of these Douglas aircraft have somewhat similar fuel systems. Among the differences between the C-54-B and the B and G are the number of fuel tanks installed and the tank selector handle positions. The fuel selector positions for the 6-tank C-54'8 Are: REAR - OFF; FORWARD - MAIN TANKS. The fuel selector valve positions, for the C-54 8-tank systen are: REAR - OPP; CENTER - MAIN TANKS; FORWARD - AUXILIARY TANKS.

The checklist in the aircraft was of the rotative type and was found set at a point indicating that it had been rolled past the following items: PREFLIGHT; BITBRING AIRCRAFT; PRESTARTING; START ENGINES; and PRETAXI. The prestarting and pretakeoff checklist section relating to fuel tank selector settings are as follows:

PRESTART - MAIN TANKS (Type System) - ON PRETAKBOFP - MAIN TANKS (Note Type System) - ON

In addition, the following placards were found on the instrument panel above the fuel selectors:


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 military Form 175 flight plan and the weight and balance record. The captain was briefed on the weather and conducted the aircraft preflight check. The aircraft was being refueled at the time of the preflight check. Approximately 10 minutes later the captain drained the fuel tank sumps onto the ramp and observed no evidence of fuel contamination. The captain then required that some of the cargo tie-downs be retied. The gross weight at takeoff was 66,501 pounds, 7,299 pounds under the allowable maximum gross weight.

The IFR flight plan was direct to Jacksonville via Victor Airway 3 to Ritter intersection and Victor Airway 185 to Charleston with Norfolk, Virginia, as the alternate airport. Jacksonville weather at departure vas broken clouds at 2,500 feet, 10,000 feet overcast; visibility three miles in fog and smoke.

The preflight engine start, engine runup, and the takeoff at 2057 on runway 090 were normal. The Jacksonville-Imeson Airport departure control cleared the flight direct Jacksonville, Victor 3 to Brunswick, Georgia, maintain 5,000 feet, climb on runway heading to 1,500 feet until further advised.

The crew stated that following takeoff the gear retraction, power reduction, flap retraction, and radio communication were routine. Upon reaching approximately 1,400 feet altitude the No. 4 engine surged. No. 4 throttle was retarded and again advanced but surging continued and the manifold pressure fell off. A check of the instrument panel revealed that all instruments were normal except the No. 4 fuel pressure and fuel flow which fluctuated. No fuel warning light was observed, The use of carburettor heat and selection of the low and high fuel booster pumps did not improve the conditions.

At 2101, N 4000A advised the FAA Imeson Airport departure control at Jacksonville it was having trouble with No. 4 engine and requested permission to circle east of Jacksonville Naval Air Station at 1,500 feet. This was approved. At 2103, N 400A requested a radar vector back to Jacksonville Naval Air Stations - The pilot was instructed to turn to a heading of 275 degrees. Subsequently, the following clearance was given to N 4000A: Cleared to Navy Jacksonville low frequency range, maintain 1,500 feet, stand by this frequency. Neither the clearance nor the radar heading was acknowledged by the pilot. At 2105 the radar blip of M 4000A disappeared below the horizontal capabilities of the Imeson Airport departure control radarscope.

Following loss of No. 4 engine, the pilot initiated a left turn towards the 275-degree heading suggested by departure control. During the turn the No. 4 cylinder head temperature decreased; the cowl flaps wore then closed, and the captain had just decided to feather the propeller when the No. 3 engine began to surge. Featuring of No. 4 propeller was deferred and the captain called for METO power instead. This power could not be obtained as No. 3 engine continued to surge. Approximately five seconds later No. 2 engine began surging. During the emergency the copilot stated, "I think we must have taken on jet fuel. It acts like a C-46 did when they were given Jet fuel." During this time the copilot reached over and checked the position of the fuel selectors but the captain does not remember whether they were moved from their positions.

The flight crew did not notice the engine instrument readings after the No. 4 engine difficulty nor did they notice whether there was a loss of power from No. engine.


text: Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/Sulphurwell