plenty. They have the Catholic Encyclopedia which, so far as I know, is never used, but they manage to do without so needful a work as a standard French dictionary. Really, the funds are sufficient, but the choice is bad. Why should they buy Münsterberg's Psychotherapy instead of Bergson's Creative Evolution? Why should they buy dozens of books on Africa, when they do not own a single volume on Alaska later than the early nineties? I have asked the head librarian these questions. She asserts that the library must cater to the demands of its users. Very well said, but she does not know the demands of her patrons. They do not want books on Africa, as their small circulation shows. Why does she not try Alaska for a change, or even Mexico?

In spite of all its defects, I have happened upon many a treat while browsing in our library's stacks-I had never read Trine until this Summer, nor yet William Morris-but whenever I particularly want a book for reference or what not, that book is sure to be among those that the library does not own.

Through lack of suitable books, I am thrown pretty much into magazine reading. Several of the magazines, I purchase myself. Others I find at the library. Magazine reading is good in its way, but it can hardly serve to replace weightier work. In the line of reading, I find myself nearly as badly off as in human companionship. I have found it desirable to make a deep study of some particular work during the summer. This year it is Faust; last year, it was Brand and Peer Gynt; the year before that, Shakespeare. This detailed study results in a profound appreciation of the few works examined. After all, this is perhaps the better way. But when an old lady asks what you think of What's-his-name's new novel, it is hard to confess ignorance of that novel's existence. It is, I suppose, the price one must pay for being "educated," for being a "highbrow."

Books and men! Would that they were both available here in this little town! They are not, so there is an end to that. Nature only is left, and I find that Nature is almost as attractive in the memory as in the reality. Really, I enjoy Nature almost as much in Cambridge as I do here. In Cambridge, I enjoy the memory of days spent in the woods; here, I spend them in the woods. When I feel particularly lonely, I get out my old bicycle and start for the uncut forests.

About three miles from the town is a small pond. The roadway divides it into two parts. One part is clear as crystal; into this part, a brook flows. Almost any day in Summer, it serves a useful function as a "swimmin' hole." The other part is dotted with stumps. Lily pads cover its surface; beautiful lilies open every morning, spreading a sickly-sweet perfume. Frogs and lizards are not lacking. Great black snakes creep cautiously along the shores, darting away at a strange approach. It is to this pond that I most often turn my wheel. It is there that I have my open air study. It is there that I dream my daydreams.

In early morning, this spot is cool and pleasant. From the banks, I like to watch the water-bugs skim across the surface; I like to watch the lilies unfold; I like to watch the butterflies flit from place to place; I like to watch the birds taking their morning bath. All is interesting.

It is as noon-day comes along that the snakes come down to the shore in search for edibles. Though I do not like them, I find them interesting in a vague sort of way. They never come very near me, if they did—well, I suppose I should run. In the bright sunlight, one occasionally sees great turtles climb upon the stumps. Occasionally, too, game birds hover over the water, or swoop down into it momentarily.

In the early afternoon, the boys begin to come from neighboring farms. They pass along the path behind me,

divesting themselves of their clothes as they go. Across the road is the "swimming hole," and they are out for a lark. Somehow, this seems to fit in perfectly with the surroundings. Even the boys seem to be getting back to Nature-physically, if not mentally. Their fat young bodies are completely tanned from many such exposures. Most of them, too, are astonishingly well developed. Their conversation, too, is natural, touching on great questions of fundamental importance to the race. If their excellent mothers could overhear some of their remarks, there would be much going to bed without supper these summer nights. But they do not mean any harm. They are merely saying aloud to their little friends many things that we hide darkly, that we ourselves sometimes express when conditions are safe. They are going back to Nature, and Nature is not squeamish.

In and about this pond, I have had many a delightful hour, but there are many other places that I like to visit. I like to take my bicycle and go for miles about the country. Little villages interest me greatly. I like to sit upon village greens. I like to stop, hot and weary, by the roadside and drink from an ice-cold spring. The

water tastes so much better than it does at home. What matter if you must stand on your head to drink it! And how good the evening meal tastes, when you are home again! If I ate as much in Cambridge as I do at home, my board bill at a cheap restaurant would look as though the Copley-Plaza were the creditor!

And then, at night, how pleasant a walk in treeless fields! Often midnight finds me miles from home, walking along dusty roads with only the light of the stars to light my way. But such stars they are! Brilliant, twinkling little spots in a great dark field. Light-bearers straight from God, they seem to me. Somehow, like a veil, the Divine Presence seems to fall about me. fall about me. I get into that strange state where coherent thoughts seem impossible, the state where ideas float by with inconceivable lightness-and fade never to be recalled. If a person could but record these fleeting fancies, elaborating them, literature would hold him inspired as no man yet has been. Then home and to bed -to dream marvelous dreams, where the landscape shifts like the scenery in a play, where each new act, though entirely different from its predeces(Continued on page 86)

A

S New England justly deserves the title of "America's Vacation Land," so Portland stands in the foremost ranks of beautiful cities in this particular section of the country. Situated at the head of Casco Bay, it commands one of the grandest maritime views imaginable and is essentially a commercial city, also the leading manufacturing center of the State. It is a city of many attractive residences and elm-embowered streets, spacious and well kept. The large number of massive public buildings in clude City Hall, a pretentious edifice completed three years ago at a cost of $1,000,000. It is of Colonial architecture and contains the finest organ in the world-the gift of Mr. Cyrus Curtis, publisher of the Ladies' Home Journal and a native of Port

land, the Post Office, an imposing building of Vermont marble, County Court House, Public Library-a beautiful structure on Congress Street and a gift to the city from the Hon. James Baxter, Y. M. C. A. Building, Elks' Home and many others. Portland is the gate-way to the summer playground of the East. Its site and surroundings lure thousands who seek recuperation from a season of social life and business in the large cities. The vast army of tourists continue to come and go through Portland from early summer until late in the fall. Even these seem loath to leave "Forest City" and its charming resorts. Being the terminus of three railway systems, Boston and Maine, Maine Central and Central and Grand Trunk roads, Portland's population of 62,000 is increased during the summer to 100,000.

to

who were killed were brought Portland and buried side by side in the Eastern Cemetery and Longfellow, who was then only seven years of age, referred to it in his poem "My Lost Youth."

In the great enterprise of the Atlantic and St. Lawrence Railroad, the city had for its leader, Poor, and in the Portland and Ogdensburg, Anderson, by whose skill the road was carried through the notch of the White Mountains and without which Portland today would not possess this valuable avenue of traffic. This city has been prolific of men, conspicuous in ability in every walk of life.

The boyhood home of America's beloved poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, is the mecca of thousands, whether on a day or season's visit to Maine. The historic house which is now the property of the Maine Historical Society, was built by General Wadsworth, grandfather of Longfellow on his mother's side. He bought the land in 1784 and first built a store and barn and the next year laid the

foundation for the home which is one of the centers of interest to all tourists. Longfellow's literary talent early asserted itself and at the age of 13 he published a poem in the Portland Gazette, entitled "The Battle of Lovell's Pond." In several of the valtable works which he has given to the world, he derived much inspiration from his favorite haunts in Deering Woods-the reminiscences of which have furnished delightful reading. There are still standing several venerable dwellings which have been the homes of men who have won national distinction. Many scenes of historic interest may be found within the city limits. Old time mansions in their original appearance, lend charm to the beautiful broad avenues of the city. While Portland was considered a city of great beauty before the disastrous fire of forty-nine years ago when one hundred and fifty acres and fifteen hundred buildings were

destroyed, it is even richer in scenic grandeur today. After the fire, the city set apart a tract of land now known as "Lincoln Park" as protection against the spread of fire, and from that venture, the park system has steadily grown until at present over 100 acres have been secured and the lands beautified. Portland as a mercantile center offers every advantage to the summer visitor and for amusement seekers, there are two large theatres in the city proper-the Jefferson and Keith houses, both running summer stock companies and the near-by resorts furnish theatrical attractions during the summer season. One may stay a month in the city and each day visit some new point of interest. As the traveler wends his way through Commercial Street, a broad avenue extending the length of the city, he is at once impressed with the magnitude of shipping carried on here. The grain shipment alone from Port