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he had risen, except for a bubbling swirl of water.

The girl laughed then, and clapped her hands so merrily that I forgot he was a misshapen horror lurking over from an age of lurking horrors. She treated him like a neighbor from whose peculiar traits of character she might extract amusement, if she were discreet in choosing time and place.

"Swim along, old pig, you'll get no breakfast here," she told him, and returned to her interrupted work. The pestle boomed once more, her fresh young voice laughed again in the crisp morning air as she rallied. her companion on her fears. And I lounged there on my window-sill, forgetting time, till suddenly they both glanced up and caught me.

The timid one, with a little cry of surprise, ran straight away, shuffling in her chinelas. Even the other would have liked to run, I fancied. But some instinct of vicarious hospitality, of standing for the house, must have restrained her. And perhaps some pride as well. At any rate she stood looking up at me, with a hand fluttering above her loosened hair.

"Good morning, Senor," she said, demure enough.

"It is a good morning, pretty one," said I. "I saw you scare that old cayman away."

Forgetting her self-consciousness, she laughed, a soft ripple of sound. "People are afraid of him," she explained. "He eats them, you know." "You didn't seem very much

afraid," said I.

"Oh, no," she said, "I'm never afraid of anything. Still I think that this time he wanted to eat me."

"That," said I, "would not be pleasant-for you."

"No." she agreed, "I shouldn't like it." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "When I am eaten," she announced, "I'd rather it would be aman, Senor!" Then she, too, took flight, dismayed by her own audacity. "And there are reptilian reptilian men

enough," thought I, "floating along the muddy waters of life with dead, watchful eyes-"

There was a tap at the door and the muchacho who had blown out my candle the night before came in. "Good morning, Master," he said. "Good morning, friend," I answered. "And it is good."

"Yes, it is," said the muchacho. "Good as a miracle. The canoes have just put in to the beach with more fish than two men could count." "The fish of Happiness, famously fat?" I asked him.

"The same," said the muchacho, a trifle puzzled. To steady himself, he plumped his foot down on a fact. "Don Feliciano says," said he, "that chocolate will be ready in the sala whenever it pleases you to wish it."

As I dressed, I thought a little, comparing this with other mornings and wondering why it was that on this one occasion a bit of sunlight in the air and on the sea, the daily renewed blessing of a draught of fishes I should never taste, the flutter of a girl's hand above her flying hair, even an ancient cayman floating like a living death, should all together have made a morning so miraculously good.

"Wait," I warned myself, "till the freshness of dawn has left the air, and the heat of the day is come." Whereupon. I went out with good appetite to the chocolate which so obligingly waited on my wishes.


EARLY BREAKFAST IS SPOKEN OF One side of the sala faced the east. On that side all the shutters were slid back, so that there was no wall between householders and the morning.

The sunshine flooded all the polished floor. All the great room was radiant with it, save only the high vault beneath the rafters. And even there irrepressible beams had broken through the thatching in a dozen

places, and dancing motes transformed them to molten bars of gold laid across the dimness.

The long table was still shoved back against the wall. Right before the window was set a smaller one, a more companionable piece of timber with three or four tall armchairs of black wood marshaled about it.

In one of these Don Feliciano was enthroned, his thin profile dark, yet glowing against the light outside. In a second sat Doña Ceferina, a lady whose acquaintance I had little chance to cultivate the night before. She had been so very busy with the hospitable duties of her household,and so cumbersomely hurried, like a battleship trying to bustle.

She was not busy now, but still she seemed to be preoccupied. So it appeared, was Don Feliciano. For though his greeting was of the most friendly sort, he broke it off to send the message to his cook that the chocolate might now be prepared.

Then he turned to me again, assuring me that he found inexpressible pleasure in learning that I had slept well in the poor bed he had to offer me-I smiled at that, remembering the sand which had been my destined couch-and that I doubled the debt of pleasure given by caring to take my breakfast there.

But the cause of all that pleasure had hardly settled himself in a third chair by the table, whereon a silver platter heaped with crusty rolls stood -sat, lay at length, reposed-in solitary dignity, before Don Feliciano interrupted himself to send a second message, asking where the chocolate might be.

The message sent, he seemed relieved and master of himself once more, though Doña Ceferina still sat bolt upright with her hands clenched on the arms of her chair. I ventured a rather elaborate remark on the freshness of the morning.

I was no more than half way through my involved Castilian period, with a neatly terminative verb

of which I was somewhat enamored waiting for me in plain sight, though unattainable as yet for the duenna of a phrase which balked my wooing, when Don Feliciano sprang to his feet.

"Perhaps," said he to his wife, "I'd better ask about it myself?"

"Perhaps you had, Escalante," said his wife, so very suddenly that frail Don Feliciano, speeding kitchenwards, seemed rather to have been shot on the explosive violence of her speech.

Though disconcerted, I was directing the remainder of my ill-fated sentence at Doña Ceferina when she too rose, as hastily as she well could, and steamed off heavily. "What do men know about it?" was her Sphinxlike farewell, muttered to empty air in a contemptuous manner.

I had not yet disentangled myself from the small complexities of the situation, when my hosts returned as suddenly as they had gone, Don Feliciano grave and self-contained cnce more, Doña Ceferina sighing contentedly. Behind them a stately muchacho bore high on a salver a tall iron pot of steaming, frothing chocolate.

Thus for the first time I had a hint of the solemnity which in Felicidad, at least, invests the taking of that morning draught. Not yet did I grasp it wholly. One can not do that till the chocolate of Happiness has been brewed beneath one's own rooftree. But a glimmer of understanding came to me, and I should not have wondered longer at the preoccupation of my hosts, even had their suddenly altered bearing not assured me that it was only for a moment they had been helpless in the grip of an emotion stronger than hospitality itself.

Now Don Feliciano was all anxiety for me alone. The amount of pleasure I could have created out of thin air by letting him deive to the very depths of the reposeful platter (Continued on page 43)

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N no other way can we characterize the excitement over the film (miscalled, it is true), "The Birth of a Nation." When historical accuracy becomes a requisite of theatrical production, we must throw out practically every historic drama. now on the stage including, to a certainty, all of Shakespeare's "Histories.' And, after all, who is to be final arbiter of the accuracy of historical statements? Up in Canada it is commonly taught that the United States was thoroughly whipped in the war of 1812, and paid an indemnity to Great Britain, out of which indemnity the Rideau Canal was built. We teach the war of 1812 as a great triumph of American. arms. The history of the Reconstruction period is as difficult to write with justice as the history of non-conformity in Scotland. Such evil passions ruled vast majorities on both sides, that worthy ends are clouded by unwarrantable means, and the purest instrumentalities degraded to the unworthiest uses. In such a situation it is all a matter of standpoint as to whether we emphasize the good of this or that party. "The Birth of a Nation" is a

strongly partisan presentation of the case for the upper class of Southern whites, in their organization of illsavored Ku-Klux Clan. History SO unfalteringly condemns that movement, that there is all the less harm in a presentation of what is, or was, good in it. For, especially in its beginning, there was much that was good and much that was wise and well directed. It is only fair to recognize the fact; it is only just to the South to allow that side of the case to be presented. If the film was "immoral," why then the newspaper accounts condemning it were trebly so. They grossly and indecently exaggerated its worst insinuationsand, on the same page, in one instance, printed a private scandal, the printing of which was an act more outrageous and detestable than anything in that film, a thousand times.

If the whole excitement should issue in a strengthening of the already disgraced, and utterly unAmerican idea of a meddlesome Censorship, the evil of the whole silly excitement will have been consummated in an injury to our civilization, a degradation of the purity of our laws.

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OME time ago a voluntary committee of distinguished Bostonians was organized to further the project of erecting a monument to Anne Hutchinson, the Puritan religious independent, whose picturesque and singular history adds a touch of romance and liveliness to the sombre nals of Colonial life. Whether or not she actually contributed much of importance to the development of freedom in America, is still, unfortunately, something of a partisan issue. If such a monument could murmur a requiescat in pace over the restless shades of this antique controversy, it might, on that account alone, be well worth placing.

I confess that I am only interested in the idea as a contribution to our artistic treasure. The work of designing a model was committed to Cyrus Dallin, the Boston sculptor, so well known by his interesting Indian figures, including The Appeal to the Great Spirit, that stands before the Boston Art Museum. Illustrations of these, and others of Mr. Dallin's work appeared in the New England Magazine some time ago. If the plan of placing the statue in the vestibule of the Boston Public Library, in the space facing the well-known statue of Sir Harry Vane, by Macmonnies, is carried out, the meaning would be that the library was primarily dedicated to intellectual freedom. That is a pretty sentiment, and will appeal to a dozen or more persons, out of the tens of thousands who pass in and out. Almost all, however, will appreciate the appeal of the statue itself, its beauty, and the fine and true type of womanhood for which it stands.



I am glad that Mr. Dallin has introduced the mother touch in his composition. I am glad to have a monument expressive of the sentiment of motherhood and womanly intellectuality stand in so prominent a place in the Boston Public Library. I hope that the committee will find their work of raising funds

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