Fi

OR half a dozen years, while his long arms were busy handling the foaming pails of milk that were to make great yellow Danish cheeses, Knud Jensen thought of one thing: Some day he would go to America.

It was true that the pastures that he rented from the Baron were green and the cows gave richly, so that the red woolen stocking that Petra kept safely hidden was filling above the ankle with coins, and some of them golden crowns at that. But crowns are not all. Often Petra read to him from letters of her friends who had gone across the sea, and there were strange wordsthat in America there are no barons to own the land and take all the respect because their fathers before them had always been the high families, that newcomers could come quickly into many fine rights, and that farmers and shopkeepers and all could tell the Government what men they wished raised to the high places in the town and kingdom.

It was enough to think of for six slow, steady, comfortable years of cheeses on week days and church on Sundays. And sometimes they even talked of it a little over the savory peas and pork soup that marked Fridays or the cabbage and mutton of Tuesday's dinner.

But when their great year came they knew, without speech, that this was the time to go to America. And Petra began at once to pack the chest and the thick bags with her prized linens and embroideries, come carefully down from neat-handed mother and grandmother, and with the heavy woolen garments fashioned for northern winters. And with the larger ones went many softly otion picture rights reserved.

knitted little jackets and socks and even an odd snug, very round little pink-and-blue hood that scarcely went over the tightly closed fist of blushing happy big Knud.

By the time the chests and bags were ready Knud Jensen had sold his cows and his cheese forms and all the simple furniture of the cottage to his good neighbors, and on one of the long bright days of midsummer they set out, big Knud and his Petra, on the pilgrimage. Stopping to see old Auntie Croonquist, Petra's godmother, at the next town and lonely Uncle Per three miles out in the country, they came at last to the sea town where the ships rode the smooth water, one of them ready to go across to that very town of New York.

"We will be in the new land when August is here, perhaps even before that," said big Knud.

"We will be old, old Americans then before little-" Petra began, and laughed softly. "He will never know that his father and mother were once just Danish greenhorns."

"We will be smart and speak to him right away in the new American, as Hjalmer Lagerblad, who came back for a visit, said, 'Hel-lo lilla Knud!'"

And they both laughed and dreamed, counting out the money carefully in their small upstairs room at the boarding-house, so that they might go down to the street of shops and offices to buy the tickets to go to the great new life. But at that very moment the landlady climbed the narrow stairs, breathing hard with the weight of her hurried message.

"There has come a man from the country to see you. He says the old uncle lies stiff and sick and his tongue is dumb."

The

"Yes," said neighbor Karl Lofroth a few moments later in the crowded little parlor below. "He cannot speak, but his eyes they ask something. women say it is Petra he wishes, and they sent me so quickly to fetch you before you could sail away in the big ship that I came even in my old coat."

They went back with Karl to lonely Uncle Per, with his asking eyes and his still, still body, and by that bedside they stayed through the dragging nights and the brief day-lighted days of autumn and early winter until the second stroke came kindly and the old man went away from the chilly Danish country to the land without night.

When they came back from the cold stone Lutheran church, Petra started within an hour to pack again the chest and thick bags.

"It is not too late yet," she said, bravely. "He must be born an American, born an American. Uncle Per would take it no badness of respect to him that we should go at once, to-day."

They went through the deep-lying snows to the little station that very night and came again to the sea town, where only a ship or two now plunged and struggled in the hollows of the gray

sea.

"We should wait," urged Knud then. "This thing is too hard for you."

"No, no," said Petra Jensen, and her voice was strong and eager, though the shadows hung gray under her blue eyes and she was full of weariness from the long nursing of the old uncle.

So big Knud went out to get the tickets for the ship that was to leave the harbor in two or three days on an uncertain January voyage. But when he returned an hour later he was led by a mysterious rosy-faced landlady to

the cold little parlor, shut off for the winter from the heat of the rest of the house and looking colder than ever with its rime frost of tidies on all the stiffstuffed chairs and walnut center table. "I should tell you," half whispered the woman, breaking her great news finally in the sacred chill of that best room, "that you are a proud father, Mr. Jensen. There has come into this world since you went downtown a fine little boy, just as fine a little Dane as you could wish to see."

So it was that the tiny woolen jackets and the socks no longer than one's hand and the snug, very round cap were unpacked from the bottom of the chest, and they were none too warm for the early spring voyage that little Knud took across the wide stretch of the windy sea. And though big Knud's gray eyes smiled into Petra's blue ones over the frowzy white head of his son, she would hug her ruddy-faced sturdy little Dane close and say: "We are glad every day to have him here-but we should have beat him to America. It is too bad!"

They stopped for a few months in the Eastern States before finding just the place to go on to in the Middle West, where the farms looked more like the homeland, a better place for a man whose big hands had handled cheeses and milk-pails. So it happened that little Knud was a year old before big Knud found the chance to apply for the first of the great papers that should, in the course of five years, make him an entire American under the law.

THEY

HEY had not yet money enough, after the long journey, to buy land for a farm of their own, but there was plenty of time for that. Meanwhile Knud worked in a creamery, where he was soon at home, the big white-tiled room smelled so like his own Denmark dairy of new milk and pleasantly ripe cream and fragrant butter. The half a hundred other employees represented many parts of Europe, but a number of them were blond-haired northmen like himself. There was plenty of chance for picking up new friends, and from them learning many new things about the Government that was not a kingdom, but where every man had his vote for offices high and low.

Occasionally too he ran across friends from the old land, and he took them proudly out to the cottage at the edge of town where Petra had made a home out of four rooms, some golden-oak rocking-chairs, a red-clothed table, and a big American range that very quickly learned the knack of all the savory old-country dishes. The coffee-pot seemed always on the stove, and before the visitor had finished looking at the pictures of good neighbor Andersen's family and all the far-away kinsfolks Petra would have the table set for lunch with rusks and rich, crumbly "poor man's cake" and a potted plant in the center. There was always good talk of Denmark, but better talk yet

of this new country, with its fine stores and its parks with flowers free to look at, and its tall, crowded Lutheran churches.

Always, sooner or later, Petra would bring out the best of her happy past life the beautiful embroideries done by mothers and grandmothers Sorensen and Jensen; and the best of her new life-big Knud's paper that in five years was to be exchanged to the last paper of naturalization and make little Knud almost as good as Americanborn. Then the cherished paper went back to its place of safekeeping with the marriage certificate and the Lutheran pastor's statement of little Knud's christening.

But one winter night when the boy was almost five there was a guest who hung on for a long time to the precious paper. He was Claus Paulssen, who had gone in the old days to school with big Knud and who had only lately discovered him here.

"You are soon ready for your last papers. When you get to voting, you let me tell you about some good men here. I have been here ten years, and I know many of them. Let me see, when do you get them?" He looked again at the date, then in surprise, "Why, you should get your last papers on the thirteenth day of February that is coming soon."

"No," said Knud, simply. "It takes five years."

"Well, look at that date. Five years from that makes this next February sure."

Knud studied the familiar paper long and carefully. It was strange that in its many handlings he had not seen that mistaken year date. It stood out

It's your plain duty to get your papers in February and help in the county and National elections."

"Five years it takes to make an entire American," Knud broke in. "Five years of living in this country after going to the courts for the first paper. And five years ago Petra and I were still in that Danish town by the sea even so late as when the grass grew green."

"Well, of course it doesn't matter," Claus said again. "You'll have to wait four whole years to vote for a President; but you don't care to help the country out or to have any say about who runs this State and county."

He waited for this to sink in, almost as though he knew that this was one of the great privileges Knud had come across the water to earn for himself and for his boy after him.

"It is a mistake." Knud spoke with decision that closed the talk. "The country does not need to be helped by such things. The truth is better. I can wait."

When Claus Paulssen went away that evening to his "many friends" on the shabbiest corners of the lower town streets, there was no urging on the part of the Jensens that he come back again. Never had they felt so toward any of the old friends. To himself Knud said, in his newly learned American way: "I have no time for a man like that." He might as well have broken their revered law of hospitality and said it aloud, for Petra knew and agreed, and even little Knud looked with questioning unfriendliness on that swaggering departing back that they were not yet to be rid of.

read for the February when he and Petra were still in the Danish boarding-house at the seaport with little Knud, who had surprised them there.

"It is a mistake," said Knud. "We were still in the Danish sea town at that time. We did not come over until May, and it was the next winter that we made our home here and I went to the stone court-house for the paper."

"A mistake!" Claus Paulssen began, sneeringly, his red face growing redder yet. It was not the fresh, wholesome color of his Scandinavian ancestry, nor the healthy flush given by this American ozone. Knud Jensen did not like the looks of this newly discovered Claus, and already Petra felt the air tainted by his breath and wished him out of her house. "A mistake," he said again. "Well, I've seen a lot of the same kind around election time, and sometimes they're worth the risk."

Then suddenly he looked up from the smooth unscratched surface of the document to Knud's clear, honest, puzzled face. His tone changed quickly to surprised, wheedling virtue:

"It sure is a queer mistake. But you've got to take the Government's word. You can't change it after the judge made out the paper that way.

new experience that took little Knud, full ripe five years old now, off to the American kindergarten, but seemed actually to enroll the whole family.

The boy was big of bone and tall, with steady gray eyes, built after the very fashion of his father. His thick shock of pale-yellow hair bristled always as though his tight red wool cap had just been drawn from his head. Petra with loving care had crossstitched the sailor collar of his blue gingham blouse with a wonderful pattern of pine trees and reindeer, but the home-sewn black trousers above his thick-knit gray stockings reached too far below the knees without ending in the few little jaunty gathers and buckled straps that finished the knickerbockers of other little boys. The black. shoes on his fast-growing feet had unnecessarily high heels and from the insteps the long toes ran forward so far that they could not stay on the ground the whole way, but tilted unevenly up at their heavily capped ends. Knud thought them fine enough and wiped the winter slush carefully from them with dried grass, but even he knew that they were not dancing shoes.

That was the one hard, unpleasant

thing about this new life-that there were airy dances and lightly skipping games. During this part of every morning's programme little Knud Jensen, bare five years old but looking seven at least, his great rough yellow head towering above all his mates, stumbled and struggled with silent suffering to dance with dainty little American girls and boys, firmly shod in square-toed patent leathers. Not that any little girl ever willingly chose him for a partner, but sometimes Teacher managed it deftly or there was a dearth of dapper little boys.

Neither mother Petra nor father Knud dreamed that there was this shadowy side to the fine American life they sent their son into each morning. They saw his sturdy frame and his halo of yellow hair and his true, steady eyes, and they were glad and proud. And the boy said nothing.

Little Knud never had talked much. He was of the kind who speak best with their fingers, shaping and creating neatness and beauty. Was it not a wonderful tribute to the power of a little Dane to turn quickly into a smart American child that Teacher commended so warmly his brown corrugated paper washboard, his paper sled, his cut-out pictures of mother Petra hanging flapping clothes out on a line in a rollicking wind, and even his painting of a red, red poinsettia, splashingly lovely? Hardly a bit of Knud's handiwork could stay in the parlor with the red table-cover and the golden-oak rockers. Teacher wanted it brought back to school to be hung on the walls, so that visitors might see what beautifully matched and pasted and painted work one child could do, and an overseas boy at that.

Every day there was some time to do these marvelous things, and for that hour of sheer joy his knees forgot that they were too high for the low tables and chairs and folded happily under a checkered table. For that hour he lived through the humiliation of dancing time. He could bear much, try patiently, because after the dancing games there would be the chance to make things with his fingers.

But there came a day when this seemed hardly solace enough. It was toward the middle of February. The game of the morning was the worst possible one, so thought Knud, called out as partner to tiny Janie Dean in the gay half dance, half drama of "Oh, Won't You Come and Walk With Me?" Janie had wanted a different partner and she was much spoiled at home. Now she stamped her tiny foot straight on Knud's sore heart. "I won't dance with him!" she pouted. "He has horrid old shoes. He falls all over hisself."

That was all, but it was more than enough. Even the joy of making a soldier hat, stiff and true and plumed at the finish with a carefully fringed tassel of red-white-and-blue tissue paper, Couldn't take the mute pain out of the Dane's eyes. No, nor the nicely

managed appeal of now penitent Janie for his help with her hat, which burst out repeatedly from the futile crooked folding of her helpless little pink hands. But Teacher read the story in the brooding gray eyes and understood and cared.

Suddenly she said: "Instead of a game before we go home I am going to tell you one of the best stories in the world, and it is a true one too. It is a story that belongs to to-morrow, the 12th of February, but I can't wait even that long to tell it to you."

HE first of the story had in it

THE

a little boy living in a log house in a land of forests and wild life, helping his father all day long to hunt food or plant gardens or chop down trees. There was no schoolhouse to go to, but at night he lay on the floor on a bearskin before the blazing fireplace and read all the books he could find anywhere. He was always big for his age, tall and strong, like Knud here, and he could do many things with his hands that other boys could not do. When he had grown to be a man, the people of America thought this Abraham Lincoln the only man wise enough and strong enough to be President and to help them out of all their troubles.

There was much more to the story than this sketchy outline, and even pictures of the log house where he had lived when he was about as big as Knud.

"He was a very great man," said Teacher, "but the two things he was proudest of were two things almost all of us have. He was proud of his mother, who had been very good to him, and that he was an American."

"I'm a 'Merican," interrupted Dewey Harris. "I'm named after a great boat man."

"I'm a 'Merican. I'm a 'Merican," clamored the high voices of little girls and the louder ones of the boys. Only one of all the circle sat still, some of the shadow still left in his gray eyes.

"We are all Americans," said Teacher, quietly, but in a tone that stopped all the little voices. "You know there are two kinds of Americans, and I'm sure that you are big enough to understand about them."

Small shoulders were squared, eyes were all attention, and all ears listened.

"One kind is like most of us, born in this beautiful country of America, where we have room enough for everybody and fine farms and towns and schools and churches, and people can be happy if they will only work well and be good. And the other kind are the people who were born far away

they chose to be; and sometimes I think that that is almost the best kind of American to be."

Teacher had almost forgotten what mites of countrymen she was talking to. She seemed only to look at one young face, full of an inarticulate passion of loyalty beneath unkempt yellow locks. But she turned back to the rustling circle.

"I wonder if any little boy or girl here was born across the sea?"

The children looked dazed. Then an obliging child with pink rosettes above her ears offered,

"Maybe I was. I think I remember I was."

"Martha wasn't either," shouted her cousin John. "She was borned in Chicago."

"My mother was born in France." A clamor began then, offering fathers, mothers, aunts, and grandmothers uncertainly but heartily as the new kind of Americans.

But Teacher went on. "Perhaps there isn't any one here who was born across the sea and came with his father and mother in a big ship across the water to be Americans, but I thought may be "

Then slowly at last Knud got to his feet, standing in grave, silent dignity. "Were you, Knud?"

"I think," deliberated the boy, "that I was borned in Denmark. I th-ink" (he approached his th's carefully, giving them extra thick value because the thinner was so much easier, and father Knud never said t'ink any more). “I th-ink I heard my mother say to Auntie how I was a little baby but I did not even cry when the water was going rough under the big ship. I hadn't got growed then, so I can't remember myself."

"Oh, he's a Denmarker then!" exclaimed the excited Dewey.

"Oh, no," said Teacher, and she smiled in a way good to see; "he is one of the new Americans I have been telling you about, whose father and mother chose to come to Abraham Lincoln's country, our country. Tomorrow will be Lincoln's Birthday, and instead of games we will wear the soldier hats we made and march and wave our flags and be very proud of our country. And we want our newest American to wave the big flag-wave it high-while we sing 'America.' If Knud will ask his father and mother to-night if he really was born in Denmark, and they say yes, then he is our newest American and we will let him wave the big flag. That is the best honor any one could have in this whole school."

NUD went home, his stumbling

but when they heard of America they thought they would like to come here and be Americans too. So they packed up their clothes and the most precious things in their houses and traveled in wagons and trains and ships, a long, hard journey, until they came to America. They are Americans, too, because

out of his brooding eyes. His steady, slow heart was on fire with a new warmth and loyalty and eagerness, yet he said no word of his great question to mother Petra when she gave him a lunch of a bowl of hot milk thickened and sprinkled with cinnamon. Нів

mother might be able to remember that he did not even cry on the great ship, but it was his father who would be able to say certainly that he was born in Denmark. No one but a tall, strong man could climb to the roof of a Danish cottage, such as he had seen in the pictures of an old country book, and reach the stork's nest fitted in snugly against the warm chimney and bring a baby down. The question must wait until he ran, as he always did, down the darkening street to meet big Knud with his scoured dinner-pail and warm, red clasping hand.

"Well, boy. So it is you."

"Yes, it is me," and off they would go along the crunching, snowy sidewalk and turn finally from the crisp cold into the cheerful warmth and yellow lamplight of the home kitchen, with the table already set for supper and the pots and pans steaming on the stove.

The great day drew near its dusk and little Knud left his play early to go down the street, twice as far as the usual meeting-place. But as the big bundled figure of big Knud came dimly into sight another one joined it, and when they reached little Knud, standing uncertainly at the corner, his father was deep in talk with Claus Paulssen.

Big Knud shifted his dinner-pail mechanically to grasp the thick blue mitten of his son. "So, boy, it is you," he began, but he did not hear the answer. Claus was filling all the air around with his hard, fast talk.

"I come like a friend to advise you. This is the time you should have your naturalization papers. I have some friends who are running for office in the county. The man for sheriff now, I know him very well. And he is willing to do something handsome for the men who will help him to gain the foreign vote. The Danes are a stubborn lot, and they do not take easily to any advice about the best men, but you know them at the creamery and the lodge and your big Lutheran church, and they admire your good sense. You could be a leader among them and have much influence if you could only vote yourself."

"I say again that the year date is a mistake. At that time I was wishing

to be an American, but I had not yet B the little house.

crossed the ocean," said Knud Jensen.

"It is your luck that the old judge, who was grown so old that his eyes were not much good, made that mistake," went on Claus. "I tell you that that man who is running for sheriff has lots of money and he is generous with his new friends."

Big Knud did not answer this time. Claus misread that disdaining silence and went on in softer, persuasive tones:

"Perhaps that figure is even correct. It would be easy for a hard-working man like you to forget or mistake the year he came over."

Then the slow, smoldering northern wrath broke. Without seeming conscious of the mittened hand of his son, Knud spoke of him:

"It is time that you should stop speaking, Claus Paulssen. Do you think that I would forget the birth of my son? We wished him to be born in America, to which we talked long of coming, and we hurried from the milk and cheese farm, but we had to stay long months in the winter caring for paralyzed old Uncle Per. And when we came at last to take the ship the boy came to us there in that Danish seaport. We would have had him an entire American, but soon, next year when I have the papers, he will be one, and not by cheating and lying shall it be done. And as for the vote for sheriff, I am not taking what the Americans would call rotten money for my rights."

They stopped on the last snowy corner, where a fluttering of diamond flakes drifted down under the highhung street light. It showed Claus the grim, determined look of big Knud's face, but Claus took defeat slowly.

"For old time's sake, then," he ventured, counting on the close-knit ties that hold all Danes together, even in this New World.

But Knud thundered: "Go home, Claus Paulssen. With my door but a dozen steps away I would not ask you to come in."

That was far for a Dane to go, turning a countryman from his always hospitable house. Even coarse Claus Paulssen was stung to silence, and he turned roughly away in the night.

IG Knud turned toward the light in His rough-hewn face was kind and clear again and he pressed the small mitten.

"Well, boy, so it is you," he said, as though they had just met.

"Yes," said little Knud, "it is me." But to his father's surprise he went on with a slow, steady stream of talk.

"We maked soldier hats to-day. We will wear them to-morrow. We will march for that Abraham Lincoln's Birthday."

They had reached the door, and Petra opened it wide for them, all tidy in her starched lavender dress and blue gingham apron with cross-stitch roses blooming in a wide border along its hem. She slipped a cover slyly over a kettle on the stove to guard the supper surprise, but the savory odors that filled the room gave her away entirely.

Little Knud stood in the center of the room. He tugged at his tight red wool cap and it came off, dragging his thick hair up on end in a rough yellow halo. His mother smiled and reached over to smooth it down, but the boy moved a step nearer to his father and went on:

"I will wave the flag. I will wave it high. It is good that I am so tall." Big Knud stood staring at his suddenly wordy son.

"What?" he asked.

"I will wave the flag high," little Knud repeated patiently, "because I am the newest 'Merican. Teacher said SO. Teacher said my father he came a long way with trouble because he wanted to be a 'Merican man. We we choosed to be 'Mericans, and that is the best kind. Teacher she said so."

Something more than the reflection of the kerosene-lamp light shone in big Knud's eyes. Then he smiled all over his long, homely, ruddy Danish face.

"Teacher in the American school said that, did she? Petra, do you hear what this boy says?" His gray eyes laughed into her blue ones. "So maybe we are not too late, after all, even if this Knud did fly to meet us in Denmark when we should have run to see him in America. We will be Americans yet, all three of us."

He stopped and sniffed the air. "It is mutton and cabbage, Petra. That is good."

S

OME years ago there was published

in the Los Angeles "Times" and several other American papers

"An Open Letter to President Roosevelt" protesting against his laudatory characterization of British rule in India. It was signed by seventeen Americans, mostly ministers. I wrote a reply to that letter, a copy of which was sent to a newspaper called "India." The editor refused to publish it, but it was published in "Truths about India" and other papers, showing the utter untruthfulness of the statements in the "Manifesto." In my paper I took occasion to say that I had been a missionary in India for more than thirtyfive years, with exceptional opportunities of knowing the people and the Government, and that I could say without the slightest fear of contradiction that there was not a single word of truth in the statements referred to.

It would seem as if the replies then

nade to the so-called "Manifesto"

should have been sufficient to satisfy the people of the United States of the ignorance that then prevailed regarding the Government of India, but such does not appear to be the case. I have before me as I write a paper published in New York entitled "The Tragedy of India," which not only repeats the fabulous statements of the "Manifesto," but adds to them a series of statements that are utterly untrue, and yet that are, I am credibly informed, believed by many otherwise intelligent people in America to be actual facts.

(C) Underwood

One

BY DAVID DOWNIE

wonders where Americans get such false impressions, for I cannot believe that many see the paper just referred to. I can think of at least three sources of misinformation. These are: 1. Superficial World Tourists. Some years ago, in Madras, I met a party of tourists who had come out to "do" India. Recognizing them as Americans, I asked one of them where they had landed. He did not seem to know, and asked one of his fellow-voyagers. "Landed? It was at Colombo, wasn't it?" "Oh, yes; so it was." I then asked if they had seen Kandy in Ceylon, or Tanjore, or Madura, or Trichinopoly. "No, we haven't seen anything; we landed at Colombo and are now on our way to Calcutta." Fancy a party of American tourists coming out to "do" India and passing through the whole of South India without seeing a single one of the noted places of onehalf of the country they had crossed the continent of America and the Pacific Ocean to see! That may be an extreme case, but there are many tourists who make a hop, skip, and jump through India, speak with a few English-speaking Indians, get fed up with a lot of misinformation, and then go home and pose as authorities on things Indian. I have just returned from a furlough to America, where I found an amazing amount of this sort of information about India.

2. Disappointed Students. It is well known that Indian university students have Government employment as their

chief aim in seeking an education. That is not true of all. Some have law, medicine, and teaching as their aim; but the great mass have no use for an education if it does not secure for them some Government position. But to get that certain difficult examinations must be passed. A considerable proportion of the applicants fail. That, of course, brings disappointment. course the fault is not theirs. The fault is the Government's for demanding such stiff examinations. They will have revenge in doing all they can to discredit the Government.

Of

These disappointed and disgruntled men have sympathizers, some of them in Government employ. They have money at their disposal, and gladly give it or lend it to aid in a crusade against the Government. America is known as a fruitful field for such an enterprise. So off they go to sow the seeds of dissension between Britain and America. Here is a specimen of how they begin, taken from the New York paper above mentioned:

"To the people of the United States of America: We know your love of fair play. The people of other countries have looked on America for the past century and a half as the refuge of the oppressed, a haven where the fighter for the right against might could find a sanctuary from the wrath of tyrants," etc. Then follows a long list of charges against the Government so utterly false that they cause one who lives in India to blush for the people whom he loves and for whom he lives. And what an atrocious reflection on the intelligence of the American people that they should be expected to believe such egregious falsehoods! And yet many do believe them, and much mischief is done thereby.

3. The German Propaganda. In spite of the Great War, Germany is said still to have her eye on India. She has probably given up the Berlin-Bagdad route, but there is still the route through the Ukraine and Afghanistan. To accomplish her purpose Britain must be discredited in the eyes of the people of India. Not a difficult thing to do with a small but persistently disloyal section of the people. Britain must be shown to be a dastardly Power, guilty of the most heinous crimes and the cause of famine, plague, and oppression of every sort. For that sort of stuff Germany is ready to pay a handsome price. And this also pleases the Irish-Americans who hate Britain with a bitter hatred. The following, taken from the Madras "Mail," confirms, in part at least, what I have said: "Sir Edward Carson, speaking regarding Ireland, said that there was ample evidence that the condition of affairs was all a part of the propaganda carried on in Egypt and India. The chief offices