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covers and fell asleep.

THE rain began again Sunday and on Monday morning
flood news held front-page space. Pop was too deep in
trouble, however, to go near the river. While he was at
work in the shed a cop appeared in the doorway.

"You the father of Evan White?"

"Yup."

"Then come with me to Juvenile Court. Your kid was
caught with some others just now throwing coal from cars
in the railroad yards."

Stupified, heart-sick, Pop followed. His twelve-year-old
son before the judge? Of course the children "picked up,"
most of the people on the Flats got their fuel that way.
But how came Evan to be a thief?

A terrible two hours followed. In the Court House he
waited dumbly. Finally an official ushered him into the
judge's private chambers. There he saw Evan, tear-stained,
frightened, ashamed, standing with some other kids before
the desk.

Judge Rayford talked with the boys in a kindly voice.
An older chap, they said, had urged them on, then run
away. Yes, they knew it was stealing, they wouldn't do
it again.

"Dangerous business, anyway, this picking up coal in the
yards, too many accidents, and this petty thievery is the
next step."

The Judge turned sternly to the half-dozen parents who
stood behind the young offenders. "I'll decide about these
boys on Saturday, it's you parents I want to talk with now.
Can't you take care of your families without resorting to
picking up coal?" He singled out Pop. "What's your
business?"

"I makes and sells bluing, yer Honor."

"What income?"

Silence. All the people staring at Pop, waiting for an
answer.

"Some weeks purty good, some weeks not so good." His
quavering voice at last.



"Can't you get a regular job?"

A longer silence.

"Well?"

"I used ter work at Healy's, yer Honor."

"Better go after a job there. It's the workhouse for
non-support. Next."

The official led him out of the room, Evan clinging tightly
to his arm. Father and son walked along the street in word-
less misery. Stealing the workhouse for non-support
"better go after that job." And give up his business, his
car? He couldn't!

""'HEY came home to mad disorder. The river was way
J. beyond the danger line and had already flooded the
houses farther down. Neighbors were hurriedly carrying
out their belongings. Mary was crying silently as she
emptied bureau drawers while the babies kicked and screamed
upon the bed. She looked up fearfully as the two stood in
the doorway.

"He's got ter go back Sat'day, the Jedge '11 decide then."
Pop dropped to the floor, began mechanically helping his
wife tie clothing into a soiled blanket.

"Oh, it's your fault," she wailed, "if you sold the car
and got a job the children wouldn't have to pick up coal."

"Maybe I better see Healy." Pop's head sank upon his
breast.

By supper time their movable possessions were out of the
house. Nobody wanted to eat.

"Where's my boots? I better go now and see if I can
help below. All of you's stay right here. If they's danger
I'll come quick."

From the bridge Pop watched the scows making their
way from house to house. Firemen rowed the boats, police-
men kept order on the bridge, social workers directed the
refugees to food and shelter. Far from being the hero of
the hour, Pop found himself impatiently elbowed out of
the way.

He started home. Steadily the river was spilling over,
though the embankment still held. In his own yard the
water stood three feet high. Panting, he rushed to the
house, opened the door.

"Mary!"

The empty rooms echoed his voice.

"Where air ye? Susie, Emmy, Ben!"

No answer.

He leaned weakly against the wall. Had they grown
afraid, started after him, their natural protector? The
babies would be sick, out in the wet and cold. He thought
of his two little girls, sniffling all the time since the grippe,
about to go to the hospital with their adenoids.

"Oh, why did I leave 'em here? I might have fetched
'em safe first!"

THE flood was coming higher. In the yard he gasped,
dismayed. The black water had obliterated the fence, the
sign above the bluing shed. Nannette he found drowned in
her stall forgotten.

He tried to float his wife's washtub, but it leaked hope-
lessly. Scrambling over the roofs of the shed and the lean-to
garage he crawled to the ridge-pole of the house.

Buffeted by the wind, he clung there, peering out on the
black water, vainly hoping for some sign that his family
was safe. Drowned? Mischievous, laughing Susie and shy



382



THE WHITE ELEPHANT WINS



little Emmy, so strangely distant lately? Ben, ragging him
all the time to sell the car, but his idolized eldest son?
Evan, whom he'd wronged without, God knows, meaning
to? His faithful, patient old woman who'd pinched and
scraped so they could live ?

"I aint done right by 'em. The jedge was right, I orter
git a job!"

Then he thought of the Ford, his pride and joy. He
exulted that she was safe, being overhauled at Jim's garage.

"But I'll give *er up I got to. If I find Mary and the
kids, I'll give 'er up."

Toward morning a rescue party found him.

"Have you seen my family?" he screamed.

"He's half dippy with fright," said a fireman. "Maybe
the disaster committee can tell you about your family, my
little man."

Things faded out. When Pop came to, he was lying in
a white bed in a long white room. Sunshine streamed
through bright windows. Bending over him was the anxious
face of the Charity Lady.

Pop blinked, gasped, struggled. "Where am I?" Then,
as he remembered things with a rush, "Oh, Miss Allison,
have you seen my family?"

She laid a cool hand on his head.

"Yes," she said, "this morning. They're safe and sound
in one of the tenements on Market Street."

"Oh, thank God, thank God!" Weak and shaken, he
sobbed unrestrainedly.

MARGARET sat beside the bed, began quietly to tell
him what had happened.

"When the water kept coming they got scared. Ben
started after you but was afraid by the time he got to the
bridge it might be too late. Susie thought of Neighbor-
hood House, so Mary bundled up the babies yes, good
and warm and they went there. The disaster committee
has headquarters at the settlement, and the Red Cross had
me directing the families to rooms, so I got your folks fixed
up right away."

"They might have drowned fer all of me," remarked Pop
passionately, "though I meant to do right by 'em! Don't
know why I always make a botch of things. Ben calls
me 'loafer,' Susie 'n Emmy's ashamed to bring they beaux
home, Evan's before the jedge 'cause I let him pick up
coal." He turned in bed so that he caught a distant glimpse
of the swollen river. "Even my bluing business didn't work
like it orter, and now my factory's ruined. Reckon I'll
see Healy about a job."

Margaret's eloquent grey eyes spoke mute sympathy.

"And I reckon," Pop continued, "Mary and the kids
would be better off if I sold the car. You don't know how
all-gone I feel when I think of givin' her up. Never had
nothin' I wanted skinny kid, always kicked around house-
boat no schoolin' to speak of never learned no trade
and Gosha'mighty you git sick of factory work, day in,
day out!" His lip trembled. "Seems like that car's all
I got."

"I didn't know," Margaret said gently, "it meant so
much. I see. Perhaps, some way

"I done made up my mind to git a job. Ben, maybe
he'll buck up, too."

"Oh, I meant to tell you about Ben. The specialist at
the dispensary who helps young folks decide how they can
be happy psychiatrist, they call him said Ben isn't



stupid like you feared, but was loafing because he wasn't
interested in his work. The boy wants to study mechanics."

Pop's face glowed. "Wished I could send him to trade
school."

"You don't need to. There's a night course in mechanics
and I found a job for him at Jim's garage. Ben wanted me
to tell you ; he's very happy."

Four days later, over the first meal at home, Pop an-
nounced his intention of selling the Ford. Afterward he
slipped away from the jubilant family for one last spin in
the country.

BETWEEN the highway and the now shrinking river
lay the Flats, mud-soaked, drab, dishevelled. Presently
the lowlands gave way to bluffs. New grass was springing,
trees wore tufts of yellowish green. The magic of spring
revived Pop's drooping spirits.

Fifteen or sixteen miles out he came upon a man piling
stones behind the rear wheels of a heavy roadster that stood
hub-deep in the mud of a side road.

"Hello," he called, drawing up, "need help?"

The man turned swiftly and Pop recognized Judge
Rayford.

"I sure do! If I could lay some boards for her front
wheels to run on when I start the engine, maybe I could
pull out."

They stripped a couple of boards from the fence. The
judge climbed in, started the engine, but the mud was too
slippery; the wheels wouldn't catch.

"You caint do it."

"How far is it to Cloversdale?"

"Ten mile."

"Telephone near here?"

"I passed a house three mile back."

Judge Rayford groaned.

Pop considered the situation. "That road's too narrer 'n
too muddy to git my car past and hitched to your'n. Air ye
in a rush?"

"Due at the City Hall in half an hour. Principal speaker
at the Red Cross meeting. Started down this road to see
what the river's like up here. Could have made it except
for this wet spot."

"I'll drive you to the City Hall."

"What about my car?"

"Leave her. Got a wheel-lock? My boy in Jim's garage
'11 fetch her in."

The rickety Ford wheezed and groaned, rocked from side
to side, curtains flapping, the wind blowing through a dozen
holes in the top.

Once Judge Rayford spoke. "Sorry to take you from
your business. What line do you follow?"

"Bluing."

Judge Rayford gave his benefactor a searching look.
"Oh, you're the little man. Might as well tell you, Miss
Allison came to me yesterday and asked that your son be
put on probation to her. I shall grant her request."

"Oh, thank you, Jedge."

Pop fed gas, gripped the wheel more firmly. The Flats
with their home-made shacks and frowsy cottages came into
view. On across the tracks, cut through Primrose Alley to
Market Street. Slow down to fifteen miles an hour, keep
your eye on the cop. On and on. There's the Civic Center
with a crowd pouring into the City Hall.

Pop drew up at the curb (Continued on page 392)



SCISSORS PICTURE BY MARTHA BENSLEY BRUERE




X. THE FARMER LOOKS DOWN ON NEW YORK



O Pioneer!



By JOSEPH K. HART




CERTAIN young American has been made
an honorary alumnus of the Superior
Normal School of France. True, he has
been feted by premiers, and kings and
presidents, awarded the Cross of the Legion
and the Flying Cross; acclaimed by whole
peoples at twenty-five. The French scholars may have been
caught by mob emotion, may have endeavored by this
graceful gesture to win a bit of the spotlight for themselves.
They may have been fooled; but, on the other hand, they
may have shown unbelievable prescience in bestowing this
honor which comes to none but men of special achievement
in the field of the mind.

What was what is this American boy's education ?
He has long been called "Lucky Lindbergh" by his own
countrymen and the French seized upon that other nick-
name which heralded his setting forth. They meant by
"the flying fool," however, not what we should mean by
those words but rather that he was endowed with a supreme
audacity and the genius of courage. But in both cases, he
won these appellations because he did not tell the world all
he knew. It now appears that he reduced the element of
luck to an absolute minimum in all his performances, and
that his courage was not that of the "fool," at all, but that
of the true pioneer. He turns out to have been a very
thoughtful sailor of the air, weighing every factor that was
involved in his operations. As he has told the story of his
preparation and his flight there is revealed a steady mind
and a trained hand. He was, as far as mortal man may be,
not merely captain of his machine but also captain of his
soul. Highly technical skill and every latest aid to air
navigation gave his spirit the assurance that if the thing
could be done, he could do it.

Moreover, as we have read of his response to plaudits
that would have turned the head of a conquering hero
home from the wars, and countered seductions of those
who would capitalize every high and generous moment
as we have seen him distinguish between fool's gold and
the wealth that comes of real work- we have been com-
pelled, again, to admit that here is a youth who has a mind
of his own, who knows what that mind is and what it
wants, and who is able, as few far older men have been, to
keep his wits about him, even in the midst of a world-wide
hullaballoo. If Mind is the criterion of admission to a
place among the scholarly, here is one apprentice worthy of
the guild: he is educated, so far, and on his way to further
education.

If we are to judge by the bulletins where military en-
listments go forward, the army is claiming him as its
special product. He was, in fact, a student for a time in
a military academy; and he was an enlisted man in the
army air service for a year. But it is perfectly obvious, aside
from the record of his life, that discipline is not devised to
hatch individual pioneers of this sort. At most, the army
gave him opportunity to practice and perfect his technical
skill and, of course, that was a very great advantage.
But that is not education !



He was a student for a time at the University of
Wisconsin. Yet the story of his career there indicates that
in a year and half of university life he did not pass in a
single course. That does not mean that he did not learn
anything at the university. He seems to have registered,
regularly, in courses that he wanted to take; he seems to
have done the things in the chosen courses that he wanted
to do; and when those things were done, he seems to have
snapped his fingers at the idea of credits, and gone on about
his business. That he could learn is shown by the fact that
he attained an average of 93 per cent in his subjects of study
during his year in the army aviation service. But that he
was educated in schools civic or military for this there is
little available evidence. We must look elsewhere for our
explanation if the French scholars were right.

His mother has told the story of his early years. Every-
thing that he ever did, she says, he did by himself. He
lived more to himself than most boys. He was never
"goody-goody." He does not take after any one of his
relatives. He was and is just himself. He had many
"scraps" in childhood, but he always handled them, him-
self. He was never ill, save with the measles. He lived his
childhood out of doors on the Minnesota farm, and there
he developed in the companionship of the woods and fields,
animals and machines, his audaciously natural and simpl
personality.

With his dog for companion, he would spend whole days
alone in the woods. He had a boat, on a lake in the woods.
He had designed and built the boat himself, and he and
his dog took long cruises together. A lone trip across the
Atlantic was not impossible for a boy who had grown up
in the solitude of the woods and waters.

When he was a bit older he had a horse. He learned all
the tricks of riding, including "broncho busting," and made
the horse the means of his mastery of ever larger reaches
of his Minnesota world.

His schooling was always irregular. His father was
elected to Congress from Minnesota when Charles was but
four years old, and the family came and went from west
to east at the irregular seasons of congressional sessions.
He attended a Washington high school, but much of his
formal "education" came from the coaching which his
mother gave him. "He was not hard to teach," she says,
"but I must confess he did not study hard on things that
did not interest him." Charles Darwin was thrown out of
the University of Cambridge for the same reason.

HE began to find himself fully when he got his first
motorcycle. He "puttered about" with this machine.
He took long tours over the country with it, and later with
his first automobile. Mastering these vehicles of the new
century, and the countryside made available by means of
them, made up the record of his early youth. At the age
of fourteen he was able to run all the machines on his
father's farm, and he was, during the war years, practically
the manager of the farm.

Now he seems to have learned more than how to start



384



O PIONEER!



385



and stop a machine: he seems to have learned the theory
of the thing, and with it its mathematics. At any rate,
when he came upon his first flying machine, he mastered
it not merely as a bit of mechanism but as an instrument
of navigation and as a means of discovery. His mother
says that by this time he had become independent in mind
and spirit: "The story of his aviation is his own story. I
had nothing to do with it, and I never sought to interfere."
A free spirit, armed with the technical understanding and
the skill of handling instruments that enable that free spirit
to go its own way in the world : that was Lindbergh at the
age of twenty-two the normal age of graduation from
college or university. Was he educated ?

He is clear-headed, naif ; untrained in the ways of
cities, yet able to meet scholars, presidents, kings and queens
with dignity with something of that "natural simplicity"
whhh Fenimore Cooper used to attribute to the pioneer
hero of his Leatherstocking Tales. When offers of millions
have been thrown at him, he has quietly answered: "I
expect to go on doing the things that are in me to do. I
am an air man. I shall do no blood and thunder stuff.
But I shall turn down no offer that promises me the chance
to do what I want to do: refusing such a chance would
be neither courteous nor intelligent!" He is an educated
man who is able to deal with life courteously and in-
telligently.

TO be sure, there was good stock to begin with. His
grandfather Lindbergh was a member of the Swedish
parliament and a pioneer in the great woods of northern
Minnesota, where stories of his independence still are to
be heard. His father was an insurgent member of Congress
for ten years. On his mother's side there is evidence of
equally good stock.

But good stock is easily ruined in the modern world, as
can be seen in the history of the later generations of many
a "good family." Lindbergh's inheritance was not wasted
or dissipated, either by his own folly, or by the enforce-
ment of unintelligent institutional disciplines.

True, that proves nothing for the rest of us ; in fact, have
we not always heard that the exception proves the rule?
And does that not mean that Lindbergh's success outside
the usual run proves how necessary the usual run is for all
the rest of us!

The two most common types of "exception" are the
criminal and the genius. Now it must be obvious that
Lindbergh can scarcely be classed as a criminal, unless



flying into France without a passport visa would so qualify
him in these timorous times.

But, is he a "genius"? Well, no one would have said
so ten weeks ago. He has courage the courage of youth
and audacity. How did he save these qualities through the
years? Would a graduate of our schools, who had care-
fully conned his lessons, made high grades for sixteen years
in all subjects, and bent to all the conformities of the
campus, sail off alone across the Atlantic? Must we not
admit that this pioneering urge remained to this audacious
youth because he had never submitted completely to the
repressions of the world and its jealous institutions? At
least, must not this explanation be admitted to court along
with all the others?

But why should anyone want to call him a "genius"?
Primarily because that classification would, for most of us,
release him from the ordinary rules of existence; and it
would release the rest of us from the necessity of learning
anything from his career. Thus, we could rejoice with him
in his triumph, and then go back to the contracted routines
of our institutional ways and, with good face, reject every
critical implication of his accomplishment. And, if even
then we were a bit uneasy over the existence of this type
of unsuspected "genius" in our midst, we could help cele-
brate his return to his native land by covering the wings
of his spirit with cloying adulations as the sleet threatened
his plane in midocean, until in sheer fatigue he should drop
from his high course and become one with the common-
place rest of us.

Doubtless, as the world runs, ninety-nine per cent of us
must be content to be shaped and moulded by the routine
ways and forms of the world to the routine tasks of life.
But, if the sort of thing that young Lindbergh did is really
to be regarded as admirable, then should we not be anxious
to secure to the youth of the land opportunities for more
of the kind of education Lindbergh so fortunately worked
out for himself? I do not intend to suggest how that sort
of education can be assured ; but a land and an age that
can do great things in mechanics ought not to be balked
by equally great undertakings in the realm of the spirit!

Certainly, in the response that the world especially the
world of great cities has made to the performances of
this mid-western boy, we can read of the homesickness of
the human soul, immured in city canyons and routine tasks,
for the freer world of youth, for the open spaces of the
pioneer, for the joy of battling with nature and clean storms
once more on the frontiers of the earth.



Was It Luck?

Charles A. Lindbergh and his fa-
ther, farmer, pacifist, radical, for
ten years a member of the Farmer-
Labor group in Congress, Nonpar-
tisan League candidate for governor
of Minnesota. The grandfather
was a member of the Swedish par-
liament, a pioneer in our North-
west. In school and at the Uni-
versity of Wisconsin, Lindbergh
studied only what interested him.
His education came from his boy-
hood on the farm and his early
ability to run all the farm machinery




Photo by International Newsrcel



See Your Doctor



By DONALD B. ARMSTRONG



GHOUSANDS and perhaps hundreds of thou-
sands of letters are written by residents of
the United States each year seeking health
and medical advice. These come for the
most part to national agencies such as the
United States Public Health Service, the
national voluntary health and medical societies, the daily
press health columnists, and the life insurance companies.
While helpful advice and guidance can be given to a certain
percentage of these inquiries, yet if the experience of one
of these "national information bureaus" is any guide, then
the large bulk of correspondence that ensues is futile for
reasons inherent in the procedure.

One man or woman in twenty seeks advice concerning
a particular phase of a community health organization and
can intelligently be referred to the national or local organ-
ization interested in that activity. One person in twenty
raises a simple, theoretical question of personal hygiene,
concerning diet or rest or exercise or an immunological
procedure such as the use of diphtheria toxin-antitoxin
and can be legitimately answered on impersonal, theoretical
lines. Perhaps one in twenty seeks guidance with reference
to an advertised and fraudulent "cure" and can be safely ad-
vised. Still another seeks a reference to health literature or
a request for a health pamphlet and can be safely instructed.
However, while this is an impressionistic estimate and
not a statistical calculation, there remain about sixteen out
of the twenty who are or who think they are ill, who have
tried or plan to try medical service, or advertised cures,
and who want medical advice. Some of these sixteen are
new in their community and want the name of a reliable
physician. Some want to find a specialist, though that may
not be what they need. Some submit symptoms and want
a diagnosis and suggestions for treatment by mail. To the
great majority of these, what is the answer? The answer
is, "See your doctor." Why is this a futile reply? Because
they haven't any doctor, or don't know the right kind, or
don't know how to find a specialist, or don't know the
difference between a qualified practitioner of medicine and
a "doctor" of any one of the flourishing varieties of quackery.
"There is no clinic in my community how can I get
a thorough health examination?"

"I would like to have my child immunized. Please tell
me what physician to go to and what he will charge?" If
there is no free Health Department immunization service
in this community, the answer is, "Take it up with a



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