KIPPY, the basket-maker, was old and wrinkled, and hobbled about with a stick, and he had neither a coat to his back nor a farthing in his pocket. But every boy in Cripplegate, the dingy section of London in which by day he vended his wares and by night slept in a cellar, thought him greater than any king, for in his youth he had been a sailor, and was taken captive by Algerian pirates. He had gone with a fur-seeking expedition to the region called New France, where, beside an eastwardflowing, imperial river, the wigwams of the Algonquins stood. As a trophy of that venture, Skippy carried a head scar that marked the path of a redskin's knife across his brow, for the Algonquins, seeing disaster in the coming of the whites, had taken to the war-path, and the shiny hair of more than half of those who went westward in the hope of gaining wealth went to ornament the scalpbelt of a brave.

It was a marvelous experience to hear the old man tell of the nights and days that made up his period of adventuring, and young Daniel Defoe, whose father kept a butcher shop a stone's throw beyond the cellar in which the basket-maker slept, drank in the tales as sometimes, when he was very thirsty, he emptied a cup of water. Daniel dreamed of doing things himself some day. The street

on which his home fronted was to him a road leading to a world of glorious adventure, one he meant to travel before he was many years older; and as he heard of days among Algerian pirates and nights in an Algonquin camp, it seemed that already he was faring forth upon it. He watched the old man as he worked; he listened to every word that fell from his lips; and sometimes he bent over and took a handful of reed and wove it in and out, that Skippy might rest his tired fingers. And when he did, the wrinkled sailor would smile and praise him.

"It's a quick wit and nimble hand that ye have, boy," he remarked one day as his young friend relieved him, "seein' I never taught ye anything about the craft, but ye just picked it up from watchin' me. If ye go on usin' yer eyes the way ye 've been doin', ye 'll amount to somethin' some day. Ye 'll get educated an' be successful, an' not have to sit on a bench an' weave baskets when ye're old, the way I'm doin' now."

Daniel thought there could be no greater success than just voyaging and seeing the world, as Skippy had done, and he counted the years he must wait before he could go out and do it. His father meant that he should take an academy course, for, although he had had far more schooling than most fourteen-year-old boys of that day, Defoe senior believed it was not enough; so Daniel knew that for a good while yet he could not get very far from Cripplegate. But during that time he could dream and plan, and sometimes dreams are as joyful as reality.

One morning as he bounded along the street toward the bench in the square that was the basket-maker's

workshop, he heard an amazing and distressing piece of news.

"Something happened to Skippy's fingers last night," Ned Raeburn called from the door of his house as Daniel went by. "Mother has been rubbing them for almost an hour, but he can't move them."

Ned's mother owned the cellar in which the old sailor slept, and without waiting to hear more, Daniel dashed down to the corner he knew held his friend's bed. There, on the edge of his pallet, Skippy sat, while Dame Raeburn and several neighborhood women took turns at rubbing and working his fingers. But they worked without result. The hands that had known such long and varied usage had suddenly become lifeless. When, finally, a doctor came, he said it was paralysis, and that never again would they move enough to handle reed and make baskets.

Then the women declared that, being unable to earn anything to pay for his keep, he would have to go to the house for beggars. But Daniel cried out in indignation.

"They shall not take him away because of that!" he exclaimed, "I can make baskets if he cannot, and he can sit on the bench and sell them. It is school vacation now, and I have all day long."

Dame Raeburn and her companions glanced at each other as if they thought he was talking wildly.

"Fancy that urchin talking about knowing how to make baskets!" one of the women exclaimed.

"Ah, but he does!" Skippy broke in earnestly, "although that 's not sayin' I 'll let him earn a livin' fer me. A boy should have his vacation fer rompin' an' doin' the things he likes,

instead of stayin' on a bench to make money fer somebody else."

But loudly Daniel insisted: "That is what I want to do! I don't want to live here myself any more if you go away."

So the old man and the boy formed a partnership, and the usual order of things went on. Day after day, throughout June, July, and early August, found them together at the bench; and as Daniel's nimble fingers formed the reed into containers, Skippy sold them, and each Saturday night there were coppers enough to pay Dame Raeburn for his bed and buy the food the aged sailor needed.

Day after day, too, found the neighborhood boys at the bench to hear stories and engage in boxing-matches and athletic games; for besides knowing about pirates and Indians and all sorts of exciting happenings on sea and land, Skippy was the best of umpires, and told tales of contests on shipboard or in some far land, and of the "yellow" and "white" men among the sailors.

"Ye could always pick out the decent ones an' the ones that was n't by the way they boxed," he declared; "an' ye can do it whenever ye see folks go at each other in sport with their fists. Them that struck when the enemy was down had to be watched at every corner, because life is a good deal like a boxin'-match, an' the ones that 's fair in sports will surely be fair in their dealin' with people."

when the world is wrapped in shadowy softness and seems veiled in wistaria and mauve, the basketmaker's mood was happiest, and he recalled most vividly the bygone days of action.

But as summer faded into autumn, there came a change. Skippy grew feeble and weak and had to stay on his bed in the cellar; and one day word

this employment to fill a purse that would take him forth into the world of adventure. After that he would live as Skippy had lived, where something was always happening. But Daniel Defoe was destined to travel the highway of adventure without leaving England.

In those days Britain was ruled over by Charles II, a king who his loyal subjects declared, was as blithe and gallant as ever sat upon a throne. But shortly after Daniel went into business, Charles died, and his brother was crowned as James II. James was a narrowminded, bigoted man, without the graces of manner or the likable nature that had made Charles a popular idol, and as soon as he began his reign he set about trying to make every one believe and worship as he did.

Although at the time the boys did not say much about his words, they drank them in and remembered them, and tried to conduct themselves in the games in such a way as to win his approval.

Never since Daniel could remember had there been such a wonderful summer. It seemed to him each hour was made up of golden moments, for the old sailor's tongue loosened as his fingers stiffened, and his tales flowed more freely than ever. Especially were the evenings a joy, for then the boys came in largest numbers and stayed longest, there being no tasks at home to perform, and throughout the fragrant dusk, so pleasant during summer in England,

went forth that he had told his last story and umpired his last game. The grown folks talked of him as being dead, but to Daniel and the boys who had loved him, it seemed he had just gone forth on another adventure, somewhere very far from Cripplegate.

During the next five years Daniel Defoe's life was filled with his academy course, with studying languages, mathematics, history, and all the subjects wiseacres said he ought to know. Then he went into business, becoming a hosiery factor, or one who arranges between merchant and manufacturer for the sale of hose. It was very far from his idea, however, to go on always in that way. Only long enough would he stay with

He ought to have known better, for Englishmen prided themselves upon their freedom and their ancient rights as citizens. They had overthrown more than one ruler who failed to recognize these rights, and now all upon whom James tried to force his religious views determined he should not do it. They revolted against him in favor of James Fitzroy, Duke of Monmouth, a son of Charles II, who had many of the gallant, blithe ways of his father. Daniel Defoe was heart and soul with Monmouth, and, with him leading a revolt against the king, buckled on a sword and plied it for all

he was worth.

But he fought in a losing cause. Although the forces of the duke were valiant, they were no match for the army of the king. Monmouth was defeated, imprisoned, and executed, and several hundred of his stanchest supporters met the same fate. Defoe would have met it also had he not been unknown in the region where the battle was fought and the arrests were made, and succeeded in escaping to the churchyard at Lyme Regis and hiding in the shadows among the stones until night settled over the country and it was safe for him to venture forth. And during the time he waited, he read the names, carved on the marble, of those who slept below, wondering what sort of people

Suddenly two words met his gaze that aroused his imagination to the full-Robinson Crusoe. The carving on the slab holding them was well nigh worn away, so that he had to look carefully to spell the name out; but as he did so, it interested him as few names had ever done.

land as William and Mary.

Defoe stood for William of Orange in the same whole-hearted manner in which he had stood for Monmouth. He was one of those who made up the army that greeted the prince when he arrived from Holland, and, because of his readiness to unsheathe sword in his behalf, William honored him.

Robinson Crusoe! A person who had been called that could not have led an ordinary life, he believed. He began to picture the things he might have done, the adventures that perhaps had made up his days, and his fancy played about the name even after he was safe in London, although he did not know it was to be the beginning of a story.

James continued to tyrannize over England until a group of patriots sent a letter to Holland, to William, Prince of Orange, whose mother was sister to Charles II, urging him to lead an army against the king and set up a new order of things in Britain. So William hurried across and massed his forces on the English coast, and when he did, James saw the handwriting on the wall. He fled to France, and the Prince of Orange and

When he and his queen went to their coronation, Daniel was chosen to ride in the train as one of the attendants, and a very picturesque and elegant gentleman he was, in velvet coat, satin breeches, and silver-buckled shoes, his hair powdered and dressed in the height of fashion, and a hat sumptuous as any in the land. In the Cripplegate section where he had roved the streets and woven baskets for Skippy, the people talked of the wonder of it all, him being only the son of a butcher, yet risen so high because of his fearless patriotism that a sovereign gave him his friendship.

And no sovereign ever had a better friend than was Daniel Defoe to His Majesty of Orange at a time when he needed friends. There were among the people many who had supported

new king and tried to spread throughout the realm dissatisfaction that would drive him from the throne. So Daniel used his pen,--for as he grew to manhood it developed that he could write as skilfully as of old he had woven baskets, and he wrote with such power, appealing to the fair-mindedness of the fault-finders, and shaming them for their disloyalty, that enemies of William became in large numbers his staunch supporters. Three times a week he published a newspaper, the first to be printed regularly in England, every word of which he wrote himself, upholding the king and his policy and denouncing all who tried to be obstacles in his way.

He denounced also men in high places who were intolerant in religious matters, who, like James II, were determined others should believe and worship as they did, and who tried to pave a way to prison for them if they did not. These Defoe attacked as being poor citizens, declaring the man who truly loves his land (will not make it a place of discord by interfering with the faith of other

men.

"It is not a wise thing you are doing," his friends cautioned him, as they read his thrusts. "You are gaining the ill will of men of power, and if ever the king forgets how much you have risked in his cause, it will be a sad day for you."

"But it is right," Defoe answered in deep conviction. "Skippy taught me long ago that the thing that matters most in life is to keep one's self-respect. Believing as Believing as I do, I cannot keep it and remain silent."

So he boldly went ahead.

But soon after the king's death and when Anne was on the throne, by an article he wrote, Daniel aroused the anger of some influential politicians. He was arrested and sentenced to the pillory and to two years in prison. The same elegant and picturesque gentleman who had ridden in state when the king went to his coronation stood in a public part of London with his head and hands thrust through holes in a board, that passers-by might laugh and sneer and hurl missiles at him if it pleased them to do so. But almost nobody did. Many of those who went that way felt so keenly the injustice of the sentence that they tried to have it set aside. Especially did one young man lift his voice in protest. His name was William Penn. His father was admiral of the navy, and he was destined to play a great part in the story of America, for he was the very

same William Penn who led the Quakers westward, founded Pennsylvania, and established the City of Brotherly Love. His protest proved to be of no avail, however, and Daniel had to serve his time in prison. Yet, as fearlessly as before, he carried on his writing, a friendly jailer getting his newspaper past the doors to those who distributed it.

When a man gives himself without stint to the welfare of others, his own affairs are likely to suffer, and so it was with Daniel Defoe. While upholding the king and trying to bring about better conditions in England, his business was neglected. It fared still worse during his years in prison; and almost as soon as he was released, he was brought face to face with the realization that he was on the verge of ruin. He could not pay his bills. He knew he would be able to pay them if given a little time, for he would work at buying and selling as he had worked with his sword and his pen. But his creditors said: "No. We want our money now; and if we do not get it, we will send you back to prison."

That was the gravest situation he had ever had to face, for upon what he then did depended his whole future and his standing as a man. The law of imprisonment for debt was then in force in England, and he knew that unless he got

him. There, in an effort to rebuild his business, he got in touch with dealers of other lands and other parts of England and a year later returned to London, settled with his creditors, and stood in the eyes of the world what he always had been at heart, an honest man.

maker long ago, I learned that is bad sportsmanship and bad citizenship. He who cannot pay his debts may be an honest man. He that can pay and will not is a knave. He that can pay his debts at leisure may not be able to do it all at once; and if it were required of all men, the Lord have Imprisonment for debt having been mercy upon half the tradesmen of

England. Therefore shall I go on trying to bring about the repeal of this barbarous measure, because, as long as it stands, no man may be certain of having a fair chance."

And he did go on working. Usually it takes a long time to have a law revoked, and it did in this case. But unceasingly Defoe continued talking and writing against it, until many came to think as he did, and when finally the measure was revoked, it was to him that much

of the credit belonged. After suffering and injustice such as he had endured, most people would have been embittered; but Daniel Defoe was one of those men who have souls as untrammeled as the flight of a bird; and no matter what hardship or adversity overtakes them, keep soaring onward and upward, like a cloud that floats far away into space. Undeserved imprisonment and punishment made him sympathetic toward the woes of other men, but it did not fill his life with bitterness or break his spirit. He kept his buoyancy, his capacity for hoping and dreaming, and although he had experienced more than two or three average men experience in a lifetime, he still longed to travel the road of adventure, to take the trail that leads to far lands. And now for the first time he did take it, going to France, to Germany, to Italy, to Holland and Belgium, partly to look into business opportunities there, mostly because within him was the thing that in his youth had driven Skippy forth to be a sailor. And for a time, as he journeyed, it (Continued on page 74)

away, he would be put behind iron bars. That meant he would never have a chance to pay and would live and die branded as a dishonest man. There was every reason to believe he could pay if permitted to stay at liberty, and the only way in which he could keep his liberty was to disappear from London. He decided it was the thing for him to do the one means by which he could hope to reimburse to the last copper the people he owed. So he hastened to Bristol on the western coast, although the going was no coward's flight to

HE CARRIED ON HIS WRITING"

so nearly Daniel Defoe's own fate, he realized to the full the injustice and cruelty of the law, and for several years after returning to London devoted every minute he could spare to an effort to have the ancient, harsh edict revoked.

"Englishmen ought to be better sportsmen than to imprison men because they cannot pay. To deprive a man of liberty because it is impossible for him to meet his debts is striking him when he is down," he declared one day in talking against the law; "and from an old basket

UPON

PON a historic occasion almost three and a half centuries to the rear, an obscure explorer named Columbus, dreamer of dreams that seemed destined never to come true, set sail upon a boundless ocean in a frail caravel, the Santa Maria, to discover new worlds. His discoveries of North and South America and islands of the West Indies changed the maps of the world and wrote the first chapter in an endless new volume of World Romance.

Centuries later-despite all the daring explorers who have gone before to the world's far horizons, despite cable and radio, steam and plane there remains a voyage to be made to lands of romance, into regions that were ancient when the Christ-child was born at Bethlehem in Judea; a voyage to be undertaken on a craft so frail that it would not sustain the weight of a nail from a single finger of Columbus, the sailor! On this magic trip we shall touch

'ARMENIA PICTURES MT. ARARAT

of Mt. Ararat, where Noah's ark rested when the flood subsided. In the foreground of this mountain an Armenian farmer tills the soil. Since the flood destroyed the world, we might make a simpler story of civilization by tracing thousands of events since that time upon the face of postage-stamps. But here illfortune intervenes. Armenia lacks a seaport at which a convenient landing can be effected, so we will journey first to Spain and observe the efforts of the Italian-born Christopher Co

By F. B. WARREN

thousands of ports of fame and fable; we shall meet kings and rickshaw runners; we shall sit with knights of old and Balkan komitadji; we shall meet great lovers, historic haters, bandits, buccaneers, heroes and villains, murderers and martyrs. Dante in Italy, with his own hands, shall show us his "Divine Comedy," and in Vienna we shall waltz to inspired melodies while Johann Strauss looks on. We shall find Joan of Arc, the fabled maid of Domremy, not in her native France, but banished into far-distant IndoChina. Christ on the Cross will look down upon us with compassion not from Calvary, but from the pass in the Andes between Argentine and Peru in the high Cordilleras of the Western World.

What a voyage of voyages for a skipper and his crew to take in the twentieth century, when already every nook and cranny of the world have been penetrated by men and

lumbus to get backing for his voyage to the west from the rulers of three countries, Portugal, Spain, and finally England, still a feudal land where, after the Wars of the Roses, Henry VII sat on the throne. Britain had not become great Britain, as history measures greatness (though she was even then called so Grande Bretagne to distinguish her from Brittany, or lesser Britain, in France). Venice and Genoa to the south and the Hanseatic League of the Baltic cities were greater in dominion, in world imagination, and sea-power. John of Portugal, in rejecting the sailor's overtures, deferred Portuguese opportunities, but luckily they were later grasped for his nation by the voyages of Vasco da Gama. When Isabella of Spain, importuned by the friends of Columbus to reverse her earlier rejection of him, pawned her jewels that his ships might be outfitted, she laid the basis for Spanish domination of the Western World for centuries to come, brought untold wealth to the Spanish crown, and constructed within her own mind a picture of colonial dominion that did not come to Great Britain until the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

So we may start with Isabella and Columbus, even though Spain, land of his adoption, Italy, land of his

women of imagination and daring! What care we for a 93-foot sailing craft of Columbus to bear us where the tides and winds decide! We shall outsail Columbus mile for mile upon a score of seas! We shall beat Da Gama and his Portuguese! We shall excel John Cabot and his staunch ship Matthew! We shall sail farther than Captain Cook, who merely reached New Zealand and Australia! The dock lines are loosening. The winches are creaking and groaning. The sails are filling and bellying in the breeze. We are off on the first leg of a journey never before made in the life of mankindstarting to round the world on a postage-stamp, a thin bit of colored paper rarely over one inch square.

We are off on the greatest of all the Great Adventures, and never shall it be necessary for you to leave the safe harbor of your armchair while you read and dreamand dream!

birth, and Colombia, the South American land later bearing his name, have never to this day by picture or word or sign recognized the existence of Columbus in any form of postal issue! Other lands of the West upon their stamps, numbering hundreds, have preserved a record of the ventures that resulted in their discovery and changed the map, as well as all human conceptions of the outlines, of the world.

Latin-tongued republics of the West Indies and Central America and one land of the South American mainland were first in their tributes to the great Italian discoverer who sailed under an alien flag. Until the issue in 1924 of the Norse-American commemoratives, no postal recognition had ever been given by the United States to the theory or fact of Lief Ericsson's discovery of the North American continent. The republic of Dominica (Santo Domingo, discovered by Columbus) depicts on a stamp of 1890 the figure of Toscanelli, the Florentine map-maker with whom Columbus, fired by reports of Marco Polo's voyages to Cathay, conferred as early as 1474. Another stamp of the same land reveals Columbus seeking Spanish support at Salamanca, being rebuffed because Spain was then embroiled in