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Courtesy Great Northern Railway (C) Fred H. Kiser



Courtesy Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad (C) Haynes, St. Paul



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Courtesy Union Pacific Railway



Courtesy Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway


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observing a man in rusty black habili. ments who was saying to a French policeman, "Can you tell me, sir, where Napoleon is buried?" I knew at once that the man was an undertaker.

When I see a member of a State Legislature making speeches in a pension, or a contractor figuring out with a pencil the cubic feet of stone in the pyramid of Cheops, or a banker explaining on a Dover-Calais ferryboat the relation of the French franc to the British sovereign, then I know that the nemesis of our working civilization is upon them. They have worked so much that they cannot stop.

Most pathetic of all is the case of those whom a deceitful good fortune has allured into retiring and for whom the close of life is one long and melancholy vacation—a discount, as it were, upon eternity. These haunt like ghosts the scenes of their former activities, if not in body at least in mind. I knew once upon a time a retired banker, a shadowy, mournful-looking man of fifty on whom false fortune had smiled. He lived for the most part on the Riviera and spent his time looking out over the Mediterranean and talking about how he founded the Bankers' Association of South Dakota. When he got well into his topic and described the operations of the Association, its members, and the extraordinary interest of its annual convention, his mind was so absorbed that the blue Mediterranean and the palm trees and the white cliffs above the beach were all blotted out and he was back again in a sunless room in a side street in some mean town of South Dakota-happy. When his talk ceased,

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Near by is her husband, a college pro. fessor. They gave him a year of Sabbatical leave of absence to ease his mind from the strain of his lectures. Watch him. He is lecturing to the doorkeeper and a nursemaid on mediæval Florence. Or behold in the galleries of the Louvre a stout gentleman with a pencil in his hand, ticking off names on a printed list. He is an auctioneer from Kansas City, and he is saying to himself (in his mind at any rate), “Lot No. 1, very fine painting by Van Dook, the great Dutch artist. Come, gentlemen! the frame alone is worth the price, what do I hear?” I remember one day in Paris

T is not given to every man to be able to take a vacation even if he

tries. As with all other things, there are those who can do it and those who can't. One man spends in vain a thousand dollars and travels in vain a thousand miles in the attempt to encompass a vacation. Another man can put on an old pair of trousers and a battered felt hat and retire to his back yard with a hoe, and, lo! in five minutes the outer world is blotted out, the sounds of the street are hushed, and his mind is as far away as if he were among the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or the Enchanted Islands of the South Seas.

There is an art in it. Either one can do it or one cannot; and in this work. broken world most of us have long since lost the key. When we try to take a holiday, we go so busily about it that we merely substitute one kind of work for another.

Every one recalls the story of the sexton in one of Dickens's books who took a day's holiday after continuous gravedigging for twenty years. He walked over a hill to the next cemetery and spent his day watching the sexton there dig graves. We are all a little bit like that. We carry

grave-digging around with us. Do but observe any. where the tourist starting on his vacation and you will see at once that he still carries his burden on his back.

A stock-broker has no sooner started on his European holiday than he gets up an auction pool on board a steamship which he makes quite as complicated and as interesting as the Stock Exchange itself.

The liberated housewife, when you set her down in the Pitti Palace at Florence, finds a quiet corner, gets out her knitting and two pairs of children's socks, and straightway feels at home.




Photograph by H. H. Moore, of the Outlook staff




Photograph by Leonard Misonne



he came to himself again and looked the thing called School, the dreaming sit on the shady side of a blossoming about him at his sunlit prison of blue spirit of the idle boy was chased out of hedge and watch the clouds go by; and and green with a sigh.

its proper habitation; and now they will he will not turn his leisure into work, At times, more cruel still, the retire- not leave; the dreams can never come as you or I would, by naming and clasment and the vacation is forced. All back.

sifying the blossoms in the hedge, or over this continent one sees the melan- But contrast with all these those rare by distinguishing the cumulus clouds choly spectacle of college professors beings for whom the dreaming spirit from the cirro-stratus. Indeed, so perbeing brutally forced by well-meaning that is the soul of the true vacation has fect is his adjustment that the mere trustees into pensioned retirement. not been cast out. Of such a sort is the idea would make him tired. Forced they literally are. In vain they man of whom I spoke who has but to Society has misjudged the tramp. It cling to their classroom benches. They step out to his back garden and kneel has confused him with the criminal. are lifted out and set down outside in down beside a ten-foot tulip bed to be Never was a greater difference. The the campus, blinking in the sun and transported out of his daily existence. tramp may be compelled by the force looking aimlessly at their pension Such people have by temperament the majeure of hunger most reluctantly to checks. Before Mr. Carnegie's well- vacational mind. Give them but an steal a chicken-a thing requiring effort intentioned philanthropy, professors afternoon in the sunshine or a rainy and contrivance and something susworked till they died. Now they stop day indoors and they will slip out of piciously akin to work. But the true working and cannot die.

the prison in which we live so noise- criminal is a busy, planful, contriving In all these cases, I repeat, one sees lessly that you will not hear the key person, not absolutely different from the impossibility of the trained, indus- turn in the lock. That matchless ar- what is called a captain of industry. trious mind abandoning its evoluted tist 0. Henry, whose own mind was of Robbing a bank by night and running a activity. In vain it announces itself just this temperament, tells us some- bank by day are both operations that vacant. It cannot be vacant if it tries. where of such a one: a humble clerk require thought. The tramp could enIt puts up a sign, “Top Story to Let for inhabiting a hall bedroom in New York, compass neither of them. Two Months,” and hopes that there may but able, by seating himself with stock. The tramp is in reality a survival. enter in a new set of tenants in the inged feet on the radiator and opening Evolution has passed him by. He is a form of Scenery or Foreign Culture or, a paper-bound novel of Clark Russell, to reversion to the type of that far-away, shyest and strangest of all, the quiet transport himself bodily to the storms forgotten period when man did not have tenant called Rest. The thing is not to of the South Pacific.

to work; when, countless centuries ago, be. The old tenants have not moved I suppose that the supreme example somewhere in the paradise of Mesopoout. The imps of industry who have of the vacation man-I mean the real tamia perhaps, man,' half-humanized lived upon the premises these forty thing at its acme-is found in that animal, existed on the bounty of nature years are there still. Forty years ago misunderstood person called the tramp. or died for want of it, but never worked. they entered in; it was at the time In him the idea is so highly developed Of such days of a “lost paradise" our when, under the rigorous discipline of as to exclude almost all others. He will literature still bears the dim remem. introduce wire-fencing, some

one else would begin improving the trees, and in less than no time there would be motor roads all through the garden and “rest houses," save the mark! with music after midnight. And for myself, the founder of it, no recourse but to go and talk with the serpent in his tree about the futility of it all.

But if that movement is impossible, I will start a humbler and more feasible one-a movement for the renovation of vacations. It would be after this fashion. You, siror madam, who are about to start upon your European vacation, do not turn it into work. Do not exert your brain with railway folders and steamship guides. That is work. Avoid it. Do not buy and study the map of London; you cannot understand it, anyway, and it is work. Never mind about the Tower of London or which is the Tomb of Edward the Confessor in the Abbey. These things are dangerous. They will do you harm. Go and eat a bun on the Thames Embankment, and if you do not know in which direction the river is running, forbear to ask. When you go to Paris, do not brush up your French; you learned it in the Central High School, and it is really not worth brushing; it will only show the seams in it. If you must talk, hire a Frenchman to talk English, or, better still, why not keep silent for a week or two? You have talked so much these forty years, and silence is twin-sister to rest.

You will not take this advice. But if you did, you would come back from your vacation with that beautiful emptiness of mind, that charming Old World ignorance, so rarely seen to-day. In short, you would be voted by all your friends to be almost a vacuum. Can you do it?

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brance. And the Adam of that Garden swim and as the birds fly. But, alas! of Eden was the tramp; once the type when we wish to cease the work and figure, now the despised survival sitting announce ourselves to be on vacation, under his hedge.

then the secret of it is gone forever. The rest of us centuries and centuries. Our paradise is indeed lost. ago learned to work. It was "evoluted" If I had time to start a great National into us as an aptitude. We work—that movement (I am a little too busy for is to say, we perform all sorts of rou- it just now), it should be in favor of tine, uninteresting tasks devoid of sense the resumption of primitive idleness. I or meaning so far as our own particular should found a Garden of Eden Society faculties go. One man lifts dirt on a in which—but, no, what would be the shovel, another spreads ink on paper, use? We are all so badly damaged with a third carries food to a pig. And we work and industry that it would fail at have become so fashioned and habitu- once. A biologist would break in and ated to it that we work as the ducks classify the animals, some one would




JIVE years ago it was unknown.

To-day it has conquered the an:

gling world and is being used in every country where artistic fishing is practiced.

As a fishing lure the floating cork. bodied bass bug can perish only when rivers and lakes run dry. Just as long as water contains game fish, just so long will “floaters" be used. The floaters are not only bass lures, but when tied in trout sizes have proved successful with trout. I have a letter from an Eastern angler who writes, “I have just taken a four and one-half pound trout on a Zane Grey."

The invention of the floating bug equals in importance that of the English dry fly. What the dry fly means to trout fishing the floater means to blackbass fishing. Both have proved to be creators of ideals, and ideals mean higher ethics in sports.

Before the invention of the floating bass bug the trout fisherman rather

A black bass taken on a fly or a floater is worth six taken where one must send his lure down to the fish to hook it. There is art and skill expressed in making a fish come to the top. When a fish strikes at a floater, it frequently sounds like the crack of a pistol—the water is fairly torn into a foam!

Floaters are used to the best advantage in streams, but are also effective in lakes, particularly late in the evening, and at the inlet of small streams.

The first floating bass bug was tied by Mr. Louis B. Adams. Mr. B. F. Wilder, of the Butterick Company of New York, found Mr. Adams using these bugs on the Belgrade Lakes in Maine.

Mr. Wilder greatly improved them. In VISCOUNT GREY

the winter of 1915 I met him at Long

Key, Florida, and he told me of this looked down from lofty heights at the wonderful lure, tied a few, and sent humble bass fisherman below. He can them to me with his compliments. The do it no longer. The proper use of Wilder bug has a .cork body and feather floaters requires all of the art daintiness wings. It has no tail. I tried out these and skill that the dry fly involves. bugs on the upper Mississippi and had

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