--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Gardner, Wayne C. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 27 number: 9 published: 1924-07 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Wayne C. Gardner, “Your Call and My Call,” *Improvement Era 27, no. 9 (July 1924)*: 808–820." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2709unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2709unse start_page: 808 end_page: 820 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1924-07) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2709unse publication_year: 1924 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1924, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Your Call and My Call YOUR CALL AND MY CALL By Wayne C. Gardner Your America and mine is a heritage of the past, purchased through effort, through blood, and through vision. It is our birth- right made possible by those who labored, sacrificed and served. It is rich in history, immeasurable in value and promising in possibilities. In contemplating this heritage we must honor the heroes who answered the call of the past, and prepare ourselves to answer the call of today. With reverence we must pronounce the name of the immortal Washington, the hero of Valley Forge, and founder of our nation, the Father of our Country. We honor him for his character, his service, and for his achievements. These attainments embody not only service to his fellowmen, but also spiritual leadership of the highest order. Washington answered the call of this country, and the prin- ciples that made him succeed are necessary today if we would hope to succeed. His genius was found not in physical power, neither was it couched in intellectual integrity. Often both of these were taxed beyond their ability to master. But the greatness of our hero is mani- fest in his hours of adversity; the winter at Valley Forge and the dark, uncertain days that gave us the Constitution and the stability of our now powerful nation. In these scenes both the physical man and the sheer intellectual failed to meet the direct need. Then the great characteristic that made Washington the leader, the diplomat, and the man, became evident. It was his spirituality that ever reached out and found response. Just as Washington needed the humbling but reinforcing influ- ence of spirituality, so do you and I need it, that we may face the world squarely and "carry on." Washington's Valley Forge of '76, was a test of the spiritual man. He overcame the obstacles and brought about our national heritage. We have our Valley Forges and it is for us to meet and solve the problems of today, thereby perpetuating our heritage. America's call is just as insistent and just as important now as it ever has been, for there is a clear, forceful call for social leaders, leaders who can make safe for us the heritage bequeathed by our an- cestors and held secure by the blood of war. Your call and my call is expressed in the immortal words of Lin- coln in the latter part of his Gettysburg Address: "It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfin- ished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly ad- vanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task re- maining before us." YOUR CALL AND MY CALL 809 Truly there is a great task before us. Too much prosperity has made us self-sufficient and materialistic. "We go to the devil with full pockets and the Lord with empty ones." There is a great need of subordinating material interests for spiritual interests. Our nation is too tightly held by error for truth to win out easily. It has been remarked that the best sign of the possession of wisdom is to profit by the past. Your call and my call, is to subordinate ma- terial interests for spiritual interests. There must be more love of God and less love of gold in our nation and in our hearts. Spiritual illiteracy is the forerunner of moral bankruptcy and na- tional decay. When in our hearts Belshazzar-like we say, "It this not Babylon that we have builded?" then there is a need for the hand- writing on the wall. The modern interpretation of the hand-writing was ably voiced by President Coolidge when he said, "The thing this nation needs most is a proper spiritual conception of human relation- ships." To protect our nation's welfare we must recognize our duties to ourselves, our fellowmen and our God. But salvation does not come by a mere recognition of duty; it can be gained only by an- swering the call to active spiritual leadership. America, our heritage, is today what she is because of the spirituality of the past. A lip service to democracy will not save us from the consequen- ces of a false reading of the principles underlying democratic govern- ment. It is quite true that no individual lives to himself alone in a democracy; but rather he must live with people, and for people. One author has said, "We are living in a fool's paradise if we imagine for a moment that a democracy can run itself, that it can be successful if we are afraid to think straight and to act according to convictions arrived at after the severest kind of straight thinking." We have been warned by the President and leader of our nation, and it is for us, as American citizens, to meet our present day problems. Your call and my call is to active spiritual leadership. So long as there is a nation, there will be problems for its members. It would be sad indeed if it were not so. Our national birth was brought about by a struggle for freedom. Ever since, we have been proclaiming it cherishing it, and singing of it. Our every law is designed with the view of making men free. It remains for us to maintain this freedom. America, our heritage, is today what she is because of the spirituality of the past. That has been the ladder by which the America of the past has climbed to success. It is a call to you and to me to accept and climb higher, and may we not forget the spiritual foundation upon which all permanent prosperity, joy and success are based. St. George, Utah. There is a divine majesty in trees INSPIRATION FROM TREES By Laval S. Morris, Instructor in Horticulture, Brigham Young University We are fortunate creatures in that the Creator gave us emo- tions to enjoy roses and sunflowers, and golden sunsets and trees. Lower animals do not enjoy beautiful things. Did you ever see a dog or a cat stop to look at a mellow moon? Did you ever see a horse or cow marvel at the sight of a flaming sunset? And did you ever fail to experience a pleasant emotion upon the sight of that which is beautiful? To thrill at the sight of beautiful things is to be inspired, which means a broader life and more happiness. Possibly trees have been the cause of more inspiration, of more poetry and other literature, with a goodly supply of happiness, than anything else. Wordsworth's soul must have been bubbling over with inspiration when he wrote: "One impulse from the vernal wood Can teach us more of man, Of moral evil and of good Than all the sages can." It seems that peace, wisdom and inspiration radiate from the soli- tude of the woods with a touch of divinity. It seems that the soul of one seeking solitude for study, thought and consolation is rewarded by youthful buoyancy, impossible to describe, from the quiet nooks of the forest. It seems there is a majesty in trees, placed there by God, that imparts itself to the lover of nature. But like other phases of his designs, that majesty, is indefinable; it cannot be handled by science; INSPIRATION FROM TREES 811 it can be experienced only by human emotions, by the projection of the human soul; it is transcendental. Shakespeare puts it: "And this our life exempt from public haunt Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything." About eighteen hundred and ninety-four years ago Christ went into the solitude and, in this abode of worship, stayed many days. He must have made frequent visits to the forests for thought, study and revelations. Jesus Christ has given us more information concerning the human soul and about happiness than possibly all other men com- bined. The favorite place of solitude is in the woods. Joseph Smith went among the trees to look into the mirror of wisdom and inspiration, and his reward is inestimable. We are ex- periencing the reward; we are enjoying the happiness he purchased for us; our hearts are lighter and our minds are more free than if we were lacking the information he gave to us and which he received while among the trees of the Sacred Grove. At the Brigham Young Uni- versity is a grove of trees, standing in memory of the Sacred Grove. To the thoughtful mind this small grove, at the south side of the campus, awakens reverence and keeps burning the solemn memory of what happened to establish the Latter-day Saint Church. What can be more delightful and invigorating than a walk through the woods? Henry David Thoreau, often wrongly branded as an iconoclast and atheist, did most of his writing in the woods. John Burrows said of Mr. Thoreau, "The length of his walk uniformly made the length of his writing. If shut up in the house he did no writing at all." Mr. Thoreau says, "Instead of calling on some scholar, I paid my visits to particular trees." Later, when writing about "Higher Laws," he states, "No human being, past the thought- less age of boyhood, will wantonly murder any creature, which holds its life by the same tenure that he does. The hare in its extremity cries like a child. To kill, is oftenest the young man's introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher until at last, if he has the seed of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist, it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind." - Thank God, that to some extent, we are beginning to hunt more with kodaks and proportionately allowing our fire arms to rust and be forgotten. Will it not be another sign of heaven when we cease to shoot the quail, the morning dove and the grouse? Will it not be the fulfilment of prophecy when wild birds will flutter from the trees and alight upon our outstretched hands? Is it not more Christian-like to throw the hungry quail, in winter time, a handful of wheat, rather than a discharge of shot? Will it not be more thrilling to go into the mountains and forests, and talk to the birds, the chipmunks and deer, with the softened voice of nature rather than with the murderous voice 812 IMPROVEMENT ERA of a gun? You may wonder what all this has to do with trees: It is the song of the trees. It is the song that was sung to Mr. Thoreau. It is the song that anyone can hear when one ponders and listens for Left: A Giant Redwood; right: Trees enhancing a pool a moment, among the trees. May I not say that it is the voice of God humming a lullaby to the babies in the forest? The poet Kendall hears a beautiful song, of a different type, among the trees of an Australian forest, while visiting the humble dwelling of some shingle-splitters. He records it thus: "What, though our work be heavy, we shirk From nothing beneath the sun; And toil is sweet to those who can eat And rest when the day is done. In the Sabbath-time we hear no chime No sound of the Sunday bells; But yet Heaven smiles on the forest aisles And God in the woodland dwells. We listen to notes from the million throats Of chorister birds on high; Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees And our dome is the broad blue sky. Oh. a brave frank life, unsmitten by strife, We live wherever we roam. What can be more recreational than to camp in the woods, in the mountains, by some splashing stream, where sweet redolence perme- ates every breath of air? That is where Mr. and Mrs. Carlton Parker INSPIRATION FROM TREES 813 of "An American Idyll" spent their honeymoon. What is more in- spirational than to sit in reverie or thought under the branches of some quiet tree? Again John Burroughs says "The shy mystical genius of Hawthorne was never more at home than when in the woods." What can have a higher motive than to plant a tree, with a wish that its beauty will soothe the tired eyes of some friend, or its cooling shade cast freshness on him who stops to rest. May I here use the words of Washington Irving? "He who plants an oak, looks forward to future ages and plants for posterity. Nothing can be less selfish than this. He cannot expect to sit in its shade, nor enjoy its shelter; but he exults in the idea that the acorn which he has buried in the earth shall grow up into a lofty pile, and shall keep on flourishing and increasing and benefiting mankind, long after he shall have ceased to tread his paternal fields. Indeed, it is the nature of such occupations of trees to lift the thoughts above mere worldliness. As the leaves of trees are said to absorb all noxious qualities from the air, and to breathe forth a purer atmosphere, so it seems to me as if they drew from us all sordid and angry passions, and breathed forth peace and philanthropy. There is a serene and settled majesty in woodland scenery, that enters into the soul and dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclination." Even the heart of a soldier might be filled with noble inclinations and touched with buoyancy, by the serene and settled majesty of which Mr. Irving speaks. The writer well remembers traveling as a soldier with friends who were also soldiers, across one of Califor- nia's great landscapes, more accurately described as a desert. It was hot and dusty. Our large trucks seemed to boil with anger. Our soldiers did likewise and the reaction was not at all poetic. But finally we saw trees in the distance, subconsciously the unpoetic reaction lulled and died. Even the machines seemed to purr as we entered the Cal- avaras Big Tree Forest, in eastern California. Th soldiers drank of the delight of the trees; pernicious remarks had softened, and then army songs mingled with the murmur of the forest. The reaction took place unconsciously, no one exhaled his gratitude to the trees for cast- ing a cool shade and radiating beauty that "dilates and elevates the soul." Some of the giant trees in this forest told an interesting story. So mystical, beautiful and courageous was their story that perhaps I shall confuse some of the words. The first word is insignificance: One feels like an impotent speck overshadowed by a giant that has stretched its arms skyward for 4,500 years. It is known that many of these monsters of the forest have attained the age of from four to five thousand years. They stretch up and up as if to grow and climb forever. Many of the trees were ninety-five feet in circumference while eighty-five feet was common. Another word that seemed to float from these masters of age is courage: For centuries have angry winds torn through the tops and side branches as if to seek vengeance for an uncommitted sin, by devastating that which towers above its fellows. Branches the size of an ordinary tree have been crashed from 814 IMPROVEMENT ERA the mother and hurled to the ground with contumely. Streaks of lightning have shot malicious darts of destruction at these monuments of courage, until in places they are splintered and shredded. Insects and fungi have attacked the wounds until the very hearts of some of the trees have been destroyed. But still growing, still towering, still breathing delight and inspiration they sing their song of courage. A few of the older trees whisper "Melancholy." Occasionally one of the less fortunate members totters in the wind, sways and crashes mightily, inexorably to the earth. Friend or enemy in the way is treated alike, all are demolished under the stroke of death. But this is not the saddest part — there are no young red woods in this particular forest to take the place of their fallen parents. Slowly but surely the Sequoia gigantia are passing. If you would have mystery, go out to the trees. Every leaf is a mystery; every fruit blushes with mystery. The writer is reminded of hearing Dr. J. E. Talmage speak at the Utah Agricultural College, about a certain materialistic friend in the East. The friend had re- marked that he wanted nothing to do with things that he could not explain and understand. It happened that this materialistic friend, a chemist, was preparing to eat a large, luscious peach which he held in his hand. "Now," said Dr. Talmage, "you are a chemist and must un- derstand everything, before you have anything to do with it; before you bite into that peach, kindly explain all the chemical reactions that took place in the formation of the young peach and in the ripening processes." The poor chemist's mouth watered for nothing. If you would entertain yourself for a few hours try to find two leaves on the same tree, or on different trees, that are identically the same in every respect. If you would become rich quick, look upon a leaf and explain accurately how starch and sugar are made therein; for leaves of plants are the only economical manufacturers of these foods, in the world. A chemist cannot make starch, he can only extract it from a tree or other plant. If you would pay trees their just tribute, then thrill every time you see one, and remember Joyce Kilmer's words: "Poems are made by fools like me But only God can make a tree." Provo, Utah i As a Tree by the Waters "Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is. For he shall be as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green; and shall not be careful in the vear of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit." (Jer. 17:7, 8.) GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? By Wm. H. Peterson Lynn Wallace and Dan Watson ' were eating delicious cherry chocolates. "A nickle a trickle," exclaimed Dan, holding a large piece of candy in the position of a person drinking soda water. Lynn looked at his companion doubtfully. To him cherry chocolates were as rare as a day in June. He tasted daintily of the delicious morsel. Its rich flavor tempted him to cram the whole piece into his mouth — but he hesitated. He wanted to eat that chocolate with all his might and enjoy it. Why didn't he? There were two reasons. In the first place his father did not believe in spending much money for expensive candy; and in the second, Lynn had a presentiment that the candy had not been bought with honest-earned money. "Eat and be happy, for tomorrow we'll be broke," continued Dan, who noticed that Lynn was not eating with any great degree of eagerness. "Not broke, I hope," exclaimed Lynn, thrusting his hand into his trouser pocket. Dan looked at Lynn, and there was an expression of trickery in his eyes as he said in a low voice, "Maybe you're not; I will be, but what's the difference? It's easy to get some more." Lynn was thinking of the money he was holding tightly in his pocket, when a little black cat crawled out from under a high board fence. The boys were walking leisurely along on their way home from school, but when the cat appeared both jumped into a run. Lynn was the best runner; he caught the cat. Hissing and exploding like an over-heated Ford engine, the frightened little animal lay on its back in the boy's hands. "You little spitfire!" exclaimed Lynn, "you are a wild cat. Look, Dan, look at his eyes sparkle! How would you like to have him tickle your nose with his long whiskers?" Dan looked spitefully at the cat. "He would not do it more than once," he said between his teeth. "There, there," went on Lynn, softly rubbing the kitten's glossy, black fur. "You're frightened out of your wits, aren't you?" The cat struggled to free itself. "Want to get away? All right, I'll put you down. There, you go!" The kind hearted boy placed the little animal on the ground. At that moment, however, freedom was not the best thing for the kitten. It stood still on the sidewalk for a moment as if making ready for a leap to the top of the fence. Just as it was ready to 816 IMPROVEMENT ERA jump, something unexpected happened. Dan sprang forward. His foot shot out with the speed of an ax-stroke, struck the helpless animal and hurled it high into the air. It fell to the ground on the opposite side of the high board fence. For a moment Lynn was so surprised he could say nothing. To mistreat a dumb animal was to him one of the most wicked things a boy could do. His mother's words, "Always be kind to birds and beasts," came to his mind, and he looked his playmate square in the face and exclaimed: "You wouldn't want your mother to see you do that." "Oh, I don't know," said Dan, watching the cat limp slowly away. "You can't hurt a cat; it has nine lives. Why, you can't make a cat fall on its back. I've tried it lots of times. Besides, you don't want to be a sissy. Come on, let's go home." During the remainder of the journey homeward very few words passed between the boys. It was as if a great barrier had come between them. At the Wallace home something was wrong. Mrs. Parry, the neighbor woman, was calling. She stood before the front door and hesitated about entering. She was thinking to herself that Lynn Wallace had always appeared to be an honest, intelligent boy, and it was with feelings of regret that she suspected him of wrong-doing. "What shall I do?" she thought, resting her hand on the door- bell. "Mr. Wallace should know, and yet, I cannot believe it. The boy is honest. I know he — that is — I think he is — " While she was deciding what to do, the door opened and Mr. Wallace exclaimed: "Come right in, Mrs. Parry, glad to see you." Mr. Frank L. Wallace, prominent church supporter, financier, and city councilman, prided himself on having well-behaved, in- telligent children. When an important business meeting of the church was held, he was usually one of the speakers; when a land deal or some financial transaction was up for consideration his advice was always asked; when the city authorities proposed any improvement his advice usually decided the matter, and his family was always re- ferred to as one of the model families of the community. He was born a leader. In his home his word was law. His wife and children gladly accepted his advice, because he governed his home in love and wisdom. His well-regulated home was a source of great satisfaction to him, and he often spoke of his beautiful, talented wife and obedient children. Slowly and nervously Mrs. Parry told her story. It cut deep into Mr. Wallace's pride, and he was so pained by the information she imparted that it was several moments before he could gain control of his emotions enough to speak. "You mean to say that my son has committed a theft?" he asked brokenly. GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY 817 "I'm sorry," began Mrs. Parry. The grieved father interrupted her. "That doesn't help mat- ters. Where is he? Where is my boy? Laura, Laura," he called. Mrs. Wallace came in from the kitchen. "Do you know," he con- tinued, " that our boy is accused of stealing?" Mrs. Wallace covered her face with her handkerchief and broke into tears. "Don't cry, dear," said the kind husband, taking his wife in his arms and partly calming himself. "The deed is done, and weeping can be of no avail. God knows that we would make any honorable sacrifice to amend it." In a distracted frame of mind Mrs. Parry left the Wallace home. At the gate she met the accused boy and his friend, Dan. "How do you do?" said Lynn, raising his hat. Mrs Parry did not answer. There was a troubled expression on her face, and Lynn thought he could see traces of tears. "Is anything wrong?" he exclaimed. "Can Dan and I help you?" in his wholehearted, unselfish way he offered the services of himself and companion. His companion was not so considerate. He was walking rapidly up the street. It seemed that he wanted to get away from someone. Mrs. Parry managed to thank the sympathetic boy for his offered assistance and explain that she was quite well. "I can't understand why a boy like Lynn Wallace would do such a thing," she thought as she hurried away. There was something Lynn Wallace couldn't understand, too. Why did Mrs. Parry act so strangely? Why did Dan walk off as if he did not want to meet Mrs. Parry? All unconscious of the ac- cusation that was being made against him, he picked up his baby brother, who was running to meet him, and began to play with him. "Play horse with me," cried the child. Lynn tied his hand- kerchief to the baby's arm and shouted, "getup," in a manly tone of voice. Away they went. They were just turning the corner of the house when Mr. Wallace called them in. The scene that followed was a trying one, not only for Lynn, but for his mother and father as well. Grieved by the thought that his son would commit a theft, the zealous father felt that the best thing to do was to get his boy to confess the wrong he had done, and then have him ask Mrs. Parry's forgiveness. He could hardly believe that Lynn would do the thing he was accused of, and yet, Mrs. Parry was so positive in her statements. She must be right. With the mother it was different. In spite of the evidence that her son was a thief, deep down in her heart she believed him innocent. This accusation made against her boy, cut deep into her tender soul and left a cruel, aching wound. And the boy who hesitated about eating expensive candy, who remembered his mother's counsel about being kind to birds, and who loved to play with his little brother, could not under- 818 IMPROVEMENT ERA stand what was troubling his father and mother. "Lynn," began Mr. Wallace, "Mrs. Parry's five White Leghorns are missing." "I saw them yesterday when — " "Stop," cried the father. "If you knew so much about them yesterday, where are they today?" "I don't know." "You don't know. Think what you say. I'd rather lose my right hand than learn that you, my son, would do the deed you are accused of and then tell a falsehood to shield yourself." "Why father!" gasped the astonished boy. "I don't understand." "Have you any money," questioned Mr. Wallace. "I — I'd rather not say." You have, I know you have. Give it to me." Reluctantly the agitated boy drew his little black purse from his pocket and gave it to his father, who emptied its contents, five dimes, on the table. Where had the money come from? The father's voice trembled as he asked: "Did you take five chickens to the Burton Hotel this afternoon?" Lynn did not answer. He began to understand. Mrs. Parry's chickens were gone, and the evidence seemed to point to him as the thief. The misunderstood lad looked from his father to his weeping mother, and his strength seemed to give way. Sick at heart he sank into a chair. "Speak," demanded the father, pointing a trembling finger at the boy, "and tell the truth!" "Yes," Lynn faltered. "I took some chickens to the Burton Hotel this afternoon." "I can't believe it," exclaimed Mr. Wallace. "You took — You STOLE the chickens. How could you do it? Go confess the wrong you have done; go to Mrs. Parry and ask for forgiveness; offer to work for her to pay for the loss of her chickens; and your mother and I will do what we can to make amends." The boy wanted to defend himself, but he seemed powerless to do so. Somehow, possibly because he had always obeyed his father, he felt that the only thing to" do was to comply with his father's request. "I will go," he stammered. Hardly knowing how to proceed to clear up the situation and prove his innocence, he went to Mrs. Parry's home, knocked and was admitted. "I have come to ask you to — " "Don't," interrupted Mrs. Parry, struggling to hold back the tears. "I know you aren't guilty, so why have you come?" "I have come to see you because father thinks I have stolen your chickens." "If your father and I had only known the truth, you would not be here trying to make amends for another boy's wickedness." GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY 819 "Do you mean it?" cried Lynn eagerly. "You don't think I am guilty?" "Guilty! Knowing your character I just could not believe it of you. Circumstantial evidence seemed to prove that you did. I have been busy since I talked with your father, and I have cleared up a few things. You come with me, I want to have another talk with your parents." Willingly" the relieved boy went with Mrs. Parry. How changed the world was! The boy felt as if a great weight had suddenly been taken from his shoulders. Before he entered his neighbor's home he was sad, and everything about him was depressing and gloomy. The occasional chirp of a bird, which before seemed to be a disconsolate complaint because the day was over and night had come, now seemed to be a contented thanksgiving for peaceful rest after the heat and toil of the day. The moon, which before seemed to throw its pale, ghastly light in a miserable attempt to light the boy's way, was now lustrous and beautiful. As he walked homeward, he could hear music in the air, and all about him he could hear and feel a beautiful harmony. Mr. Wallace was surprised to see Mrs, Parry return with her son. "I hope Lynn has done what he promised to do," he said. "Your son has gone through a trying ordeal. He — " "Let us not sympathize with him in wrong doing," interrupted the father. "Don't be too sure that your son has done wrong, my good neighbor. We all make mistakes." "You are Lynn's accuser. What do you mean?" "When I came to your home this afternoon," replied Mrs. Parry, "the evidence I had been able to gather seemed to prove conclusively that your son had stolen my chickens. While thinking the matter over this afternoon certain acts of Dan Watson's came to my mind, and I began to think that possibly he had committed the deed. I went to him. He denied knowing anything about it, but hinted that your son had sold some chickens to the Burton Hotel. I immediately called up Mr. Burton. 'Yes,' he said, 'Mr. Wallace's boy brought me five chickens this afternoon.' "Wait," exclaimed Mr. Wallace, "where did you get those chickens?" "From Dan Watson," replied the boy. "How?" "As I was coming out of the school house this afternoon," ex- plained Lynn, "I met Dan. He was carrying a basket and seemed to be in a hurry. He told me that he had several things to do, and if I would help him he would buy some cherry chocolates. I told him I would. He gave me his basket, which contained five chickens, and told me to deliver them to the Burton Hotel. I did not ask him any questions, but did as he said. On the way back I met him, and he 820 IMPROVEMENT ERA bought a very large box of candy for the money. I didn't like to see him spend so much money in that way, but he would not listen to me." Mr. Wallace began to understand his awful mistake. His son was innocent. "I have been unfatherly," he thought, "I have accused my boy before I really knew." "Can it be possible that we have made a dreadful mistake?" he exclaimed. Mrs. Parry rose and went toward the door. "Your son tells the truth," she said. "Dan Watson confessed to his mother that he had taken the chickens. She called me over the telephone not over a half an hour ago and explained the whole situation to me. Your son is innocent and you ought to be proud of him. I would get down on my knees and thank God for such a boy." So saying she left the room. Tears sprang to the father's eyes. For several moments he gazed in silence upon his son as if there was yet something he could not under- stand. Finally he said, "the money — there on the table — those five dimes, where did you get them?" "I have been saving my picture-show money," replied the boy. "You have saved this money by staying home from the picture- show?" questioned the father. "Yes," was the reply. A pause followed. Lynn wanted to say something to his father, but he did not know how to say it. "Do you know what day it is today?" he asked. "Friday, May 7, 1922," was the reply. "Yes," said the boy, "and your birthday." "Then the money was for my — " A great lump rose in his throat and he could say no more. A full hour passed and neither father nor son spoke. The bright moon rose to its zenith, and in its warm mellow light the father extended his arms and cried out in exquisite joy, "My son! my son!" Monti, Utah. Could We But Know Could we but see the pleasures strewn before. We might, while dreaming of the bliss in store, Awake to find, beyond our rust-locked door, They'd passed us by. Could we but see the sorrows just ahead, We would not dare our destined paths to tread But, shrinking, pray in sickly fear and dread That we might die. That joys come unexpected through the years, That we know naught of future doubts or fears, That we are spared today tomorrow's tears, Thank the Most High! RUTH B. MUSSER