years old, an aristocrat, of a noble family, a graduate of Harvard, full of dreams and aspirations, who might have had anything he might ask for himself; yet he gave up society and descended, not only to the level of the common people, but lower than that,—to the depths of the pit digged by the American people for the black slave. He went there of his own accord, refusing everything, taking his stand by the side of that black slave of the South; and looking up calmly at the American government and the church and society, he said, "I stand by this black slave. His cause and mine are one. Whatsoever ye do to him ye do unto me." There he stood calmly, steadfastly, enduring everything, foregoing everything, until at last the black man was raised to the level of the white man. SCENE. AMERICA THE CRUCIBLE OF GOD From THE MELTING-POT. BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL The living-room at the Quixanos home, Richmond Borough, New York City. There are present Mendel and David Quixanos, uncle and nephew, the former a pianist and the latter a violinist and composer, also Vera Revendal, a settlement worker calling at the Quixanos home who has just learned that her letter mailed a week before to David, has not been delivered to him. DAVID: A letter for me! (He opens it eagerly, reads and smiles) Oh, Miss Revendal! Isn't that great! To play again at your settlement. I am getting famous. VERA: But we can't offer you a fee. DAVID: A fee! I'd pay a fee to see all those happy immigrants you gather together,-Dutchmen and Greeks, Poles and Norwegians, Swiss and Armenians. If you only had Jews it would be as good as going to Ellis Island. VERA: What a strange taste! Who in the world wants to go to Ellis Island. DAVID: Oh, I love to go to Ellis Island to watch the ships coming in from Europe, and to think that all those weary, sea-tossed wanderers are feeling what I felt when America first stretched out her great motherhand to me! VERA: Were you very happy? DAVID: It was heaven. You must remember that all my life I had heard of America-everybody in our town had friends there or was going there or got money orders from there. The earliest game I played at was selling off my toy furniture and setting up in America. All my life America was waiting, beckoning, shining-the place where God would wipe away tears from off all faces. (He ends in a half-sob) MENDEL: Now, now, David, don't get excited. DAVID: To think that the same great torch of liberty which threw its light across all the broad seas and lands into my little garret in Russia, is shining also for all those other weeping millions of Europe, shining wherever men hunger and are oppressed— MENDEL (Soothingly): Yes, yes, David. Now sit down and DAVID: Shining over the starving villages of Italy and Ireland, over the swarming stony cities of Poland and Galicia, over the ruined farms of Roumania, over the shambles of Russia MENDEL (Pleading): David! DAVID: Oh, Miss Revendal, when I look at our Statue of Liberty, I just seem to hear the voice of America crying: “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest-rest." MENDEL: Don't talk any more you know it is bad for you. DAVID: But Miss Revendal asked-and I want to explain to her what America means to me. MENDEL: You can explain it in your American symphony. VERA: You compose? David: Oh, uncle, why did you talk of—? uncle always—my music is so thin and tinkling. When I am writing my American symphony, it seems like thunder crashing through a forest full of bird songs. But next day-oh, next day! VERA: So your music finds inspiration in America? DAVID: Yes, in the seething of the Crucible. VERA: The Crucible? I don't understand! DAVID: Not understand! You, the spirit of the settlement! Not understand that America is God's Crucible, the great Melting Pot where all the races of Europe are melting and re-forming! Here you stand, good folk, think I, when I see them at Ellis Island, here you stand in your fifty groups, with your fifty languages and histories, and your fifty blood hatreds and rivalries. But you won't be long like that, brothers, for these are the fires of God you've come to-these are the fires of God. A fig for your feuds and vendettas! Germans and Frenchmen, Irishmen and Englishmen, Jews and Russians-into the Crucible with you all! God is making the American. MENDEL: I should have thought the American was made already— eighty millions of him. DAVID: Eighty millions! Over a continent! Why, that cockleshell of a Britain has forty millions! No, uncle, the real American has not yet arrived. He is only in the Crucible, I tell you-he will be the fusion of all races, the coming superman. Ah, what a glorious Finale for my symphony-if I can only write it. HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR1 BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT The sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light Walk the dark atmosphere till she retires; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. Alone, in thy cold skies, Thou keep'st thy old unwavering station yet, 1 Reprinted by permission of D. Appleton and Company. Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the Earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done; High toward the starlit sky Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the Sun; The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud, And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. And, therefore, bards of old, Sages and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. THE SWAN CREEK CHURCH OPENED1 Abridged from THE SKY PILOT. BY RALPH CONNOR When Arthur Wellington Moore came to Swan Creek as a missionary, he was dubbed the "Sky Pilot." At first the rough cowboys and miners 1 Copyrighted 1899, by Fleming H. Revell Co., and quoted by special permission. Must not be reprinted without permission. were slow to admit him to their confidence, but steadily he won his place with them till they came to count him as one of themselves. He rode the range with them, he slept in their shacks and cooked his meals on their tin stoves. It took them a long time to believe that the interest he showed in them was genuine and not simply professional. Then, too, from a preacher, they expected chiefly pity, warning and rebuke. The Pilot astonished them by giving them respect, admiration and open hearted affection. It was months before they could get over the suspicion that he was humbugging them. When once they did, they gave him back without knowing it, all the trust and love of their big generous hearts. When the Pilot set his heart upon building a church, few agreed with him; but finally Bronco Bill and some of his pals championed the cause and pledged themselves so handsomely, that it chagrined those who should have been first to subscribe. The building of the Swan Creek Church made a sensation in the country, and all the more that Bronco Bill was in command. “When I put up money I stay with the game," he announced; and stay he did to the great benefit of the work and to the delight of the Pilot, who was wearing his life out trying to do several men's work. It was Bill that organized the gangs for hauling stones for the foundations and logs for the walls, and it was Bill that assigned the various jobs to those volunteering service. When near the end of the year, the Pilot fell sick, Bill nursed him like a mother and sent him off for rest and change, forbidding him to return till the church was finished, and visiting him twice a week. The day of the church opening came, as all days, however long waited for, will come a bright, beautiful Christmas Day. The air was still and full of frosty light, as if arrested by a voice of command, waiting the word to move. The hills lay under their dazzling coverlets, asleep. Back of all the great peaks lifted majestic heads out of the dark forest and gazed with calm, steadfast faces upon the white, sunlit world. To-day, as the light filled the cracks that wrinkled their hard faces, they seemed to smile, as if the Christmas joy had somehow moved something in their old, stony hearts. The people were all there-farmers, ranchers, cowboys, wives and |