“Tovashi Hadley” by Jesse Halse

Pop Hadley | Russia, 1918

Then there was “Pop” Hadley, as we called him, a New York Tribune reporter that nothing could down. [Ed note: Howard Hadley, political writer for the New York Tribune] (Pop years ago got out the first publicity on the Route now marked Federal Highway 1from Canada to Florida. It was his idea. He came from the Canadian Border.) During our practical internment while street fighting was going on in Moscow [1917], he found a Russian printer who had some Roman characters in his cases, and set up a long jargon of hog-Russian and printed it on a strip of paper a yard long—it was a “Proposk” or permit or passport as you choose. A dozen of us signed it—he illuminated it with bright seals and impressive sealing wax and gave them out occasionally, here and there, as he traveled. As the red guards couldn’t read and Proposk looked highly official, it was often the open sesame to gates otherwise closed. More than one bedraggled traveler used this paper to get him across Siberia [Ed note: see photo of JH’s bogus passport.]

Hadley on one occasion found himself in Odessa. The Bolsheviks were in full control after hard fighting with the Whites. Pop who always carried his camera, was taking pictures. The Red Guard interfered; his passport didn’t work this time and they hailed him before the Commityet at the Narody Dom (City Hall). He was accused of espionage and condemned to be shot. After sentence was passed and the firing squad drawn up outside, he casually remarked to the Commissar that this was a curious procedure hard for an American to understand. And then went on to say, very leisurely, that with the “greatest experiment in all history” under way they should publicize the thing to the world. That’s the way they do it in America.” It didn’t take long; the Bolos got the point, and within ten minutes Pop was made official photographer and chief propoganda agent for the Odessa Soviet.

Excerpt about the Bolsheviks from a story by Isaac F. Marcosson about British Lord Northcliffe in the Saturday Evening Post, June 7, 1919:


“Perhaps the following incident will help to convince carpers that the Bolshevik armies have nothing above the neck but some species of bone or ivory:

Toward the middle of December 1918, a little man answering to the name of John D. Wolls was brought to American Headquarters in Vladivostok by a military escort. An American officer in Harbin had examined his passport and his naturalization papers, and had taken violent exception to the them—first because he didn’t see how anybody could travel on a passport like the one Wolls possessed, and second because the naturalization papers had been tampered with, the date of naturalization having been erased. So the American officer had shipped him in to headquarters under military escort.

At American Headquarters Wolls ultimately reached Capt. Bayard Rives, who among other Intelligence duties had charge of passport control for all the Allies. Captain Rives demanded his papers: and while Wolls was undoing several layers of garments and fishing for them Captain Rives asked him how far he had come. Wolls replied that he had come from Petrograd. This gave Captain Rives pause; in fact, it gave him several pauses—several large, full-grown pauses—for the distance from Petrograd to Vladivostok is 5,842 miles; and Bolshevik forces between Petrograd and the Urals were as thick as are black flies in the Maine woods in June; and it was as easy for a person to pass through them as for a St. Bernard dog to pass through a mouse hole. While Captain Rives was attempting to quiet the unrest which Wolls’s statement caused him Wolls finally succeeded in digging out his passport. He handed it to Captain Rives, who examined it carefully and then excused himself and repaired to the office of Colonel James Wilson, the chief surgeon of the Siberian Expeditionary Forces to have his tongue examined and his pulse noted. And considering the document which had got Wolls through the Bolshevik lines, Captain Rives could scarcely be blamed for wondering whether his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. This is the passport that Wolls produced:

THIS PASSPORT

Entitles

John D. Wolls

To 1 week’s board at "Do Svidanya" Camp, "SI Chas" beach, Upper Chatequgay Lake-in-the-Adirondacks, United States of America, and a seat near the fireplace the while you tell what little you actually know about Russia.”

GOOD for ONE first-class coupe in the Wagon-Lits from WHERESOEVER—YOUARESKI

to

MOSCOW

provided you can get into it and hold it against all comes, “Catch-as-catch-can,” “Jiu-Jitsu,” “Collar-and-Eyebrow,” and “Russo-Roumanian” style of wresting.

GOOD for one first-class passage by any and all payola, steams, e tok dahlia, from

MOSCOW

to

LYON MOUNTAIN, N.Y.

the usual routine for travelers having first been complied with.

SPECIAL NOTICE: --In case you are wrecked, lost, arrested, or in extreme peril or dire distress of any nature on land or sea, you are hereby authorized and empowered, having uttered your regular prayers, to offer up a prayer to either Allah, Buddha, Confucius, Krishna, Mohammad, Shinto, Vishnu, Zende, Vesta, Yogi or Brigham Young, or to all of them, or to any other powers that have helped struggling souls in diverse lands a-down the ages, to the end that they may, --perchance,--tip up the koovchin of salvation and let a little drizzle down upon you. Any port in a storm!

P.S. Bring your Trans-Siberian Hymnals with you. Camp song: “And WHEN I Die, Don’t Bury Me At All, “ e tok dahlia.

ODESSA, Feb. 20, 1918.

HOWARD D. HADLY

Oclin Visocoki Koezezgodent of the Ancient, International Legion of “Si Chassers.”

NOTE: --NOT GOOD unless countersigned at Moscow by Crawford Wheeler, Perwi Advocate and Exemplifier of the short-notat-hour workday: Bayard H. Christy, Chief Prophet of the Worshippers of the Rising Sun and by the Rev. Jesse Halsey, Choroski Commissar, Cook and Bottle-Washer and Supreme Head in Russia of the Sons of Labrador.

This billyet will not be honored by said Hadley aforesaid after Oct. 26, 1972.

EMERGENCY COUPON!

If all railways in Russia become blocked this coupon entitles you to hoof it across lots to either Suez, Calcutta, Singapore, Ceylon, Cape Town, Vladivostok, Port Arthur, Archangel, or Jerusalem, and authority is hereby granted to commandeer such horses, oxen, camels, elephants, ostriches and reindeer as may be required.

Social Hygiene Board

Suffolk County News | Sayville, N.Y. | 12 Dec 1919

from 100 Years: The Rockefeller Foundation

"From 1911 to 1934, the Bureau of Social Hygiene (BSH) funded research and sought to influence public policy on a number of issues related to sex, crime and delinquency. Although the BSH received contributions from a number of organizations, including the Rockefeller Foundation (RF), the Bureau was largely dependent upon the patronage of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., who created the organization to address many of his own personal concerns and interests.

"The idea for the BSH originated in 1910, following JDR Jr.’s participation in a grand jury investigation of white slavery in New York City. Motivated by frustration with temporary public commissions that could only recommend governmental action, JDR Jr. established a permanent and private body to deal directly with a variety of social ills, including prostitution, corruption, drug use and juvenile delinquency."

The Evening World, February 19, 1919

Halsey appointed Chairman of Advisory Council of Cincinnati

31 October 1919

Jesse Halsey on “Mothers”

The Cincinnati Enquirer

12 May 1919

Rev. Jesse Halsey at Seventh Presbyterian Church, Walnut Hills, last night preached on “The Mother of the Neighborhood.”

“In the days before trained nurses she was the one sent for in time of illness and she was the presiding genius at the advent of each new life in the community,” said Rev. Mr. Halsey. “Her hands closed the eyes of the dead. Her memory is redolent with sweetness—that pervasive fragrance of personality, indescribably, yet real—that lingers as the perfume of rosemary laid within the pages of a treasured volume.

“She lived in a house of a story and a half, and in the attic hung herbs and roots, harvested in season, to meet the needs of the sick of the neighborhood—wormwood for ‘spring fever,’ hopes for bruises and flaxseed for poultices.

“She had suffered and knew sympathy. Three of her boys had gone to sea never to return, and every boy in the neighborhood found a mother in her. Her income was not large, but she always had enough to keep a fellow out of a scrape, when, for instance, he might break a window pane with a misdirected snowball.

“Her house was near the school and a hundred children crossed the yard daily, sometimes trespassing on her garden, but they were never refused the short-cut route. To most of them the inexhaustible cookie jar was always open.

“I make no apology for presenting her here in company with Mary of Bethany, for of both alike it may be said, ‘She has done what she could . . .’”

InterChurch Industrial Relations Department Conference | October 1919

"The Interchurch World Movement and the Great Steel Strike of 1919-1920," Eldon G. Ernst , Church History, Vol. 39, No. 2 (Jun., 1970), pp. 212-22; Published by: Cambridge University Press on behalf of the American Society of Church History ; Article Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3163388.

The

conference,

presided

over

by

Methodist

Bishop

Francis

J.

McConnell,

long-time

social

gospel

leader,17

did

not

intend

to

make

judgmental

statements

about

specific

industrial

conflicts.

It

rather

sought

"to

point

out

the

moral

principles

involved

in

all

industrial

rela-

tions

and

to

suggest

some

methods

applicable

to

the

present

situa-

tion

.

.

.

.

to

indicate

the

Christian

bases

upon

which

these

problems

can

be

solved."'8

The

conference

issued

just

such

a

statement.l9

It

was

similar

to

the

Federal

Council

of

Churches

document

"The

Church

and

Social

Reconstruction"

formulated

five

months

earlier,20

and

the

(American

Catholic)

"Bishops

Program

of

Social

Reconstruction"

adopted

in

1919,21

calling

for

the

application

of

Christian

love

to

in-

dustrial

relations,

supporting

the

right

of

collective

bargaining,

and

advocating

equal

opportunity

for

women,

Negroes,

and

foreign-born

in

industry. 

 

 

"The Continent" | February 27, 1919

-->

Your Savings and Their Investment

Will Address Fathers and Sons

Cincinnati—Cincinnati Presbytery, through its committee on education is arranging for a father and son dinner in the Church of the Covenant on March 7. Dr. W. O. Thompson, president of Ohio State University, is to make an address.

Keep Him Busy—Rev. Jesse Halsey, pastor of Seventh church, who saw two years of service with Dr. Grenfell, on the Labrador, and who has recently returned from a year of Y.M.C.A. service in Russia, has delivered nearly a hundred addresses since his return.

Give Auto to Pastor—Rev. A. L. Wilson, of Cincinnati Wyoming Church, who spend some months at Camp Sherman, Chillicothe, and later became engaged in “hut” work in Cincinnati, has recently been presented with a new automobile by his men members, who said they were tired of seeing him go about with “Lizzie.” The ladies of the church gave Mrs. Wilson a camping outfit.

"After a year of service in Russia, [he] is in great demand everywhere. . ."

July 24, 1919 | The Continent

Commends Home Board Printing

The Continent | 1919

"Why go to college?"

"The Continent" magazine | 1919

Fifteen Years Ago . . . To Day

Jesse Halsey | 1934

2726 Cleinview Av

Cincinnati, O

John Harley is always in church. He is proud of his church, is one of its trustees, and is a loyal and friendly toward his minister. He is a capable lawyer, direct and plain spoken, though not profound.

Last Sunday the minister preached on a curious text, “The Holy Ghost saith, Today!” It hardly made sense in itself. And then the minister was—well, he said something about the New Deal and the President’s latest message. Being a Democrat, Harley agreed, though he wasn’t sure that the minister gave entire approval. That didn’t matter.

Then the minister had something to say about that two-thirds of Protestantism who seldom or never go to church. That was true—and that was fine. Harley is always there.

But then he started on war, the minister did. Its terror and its devastation, its awful waste. Harley knew all about it; he had been over there. And just fifteen years ago to the day, and the hour, Harley had been sailing up the Bay coming home. The band had been playing and there was the Statue of Liberty—the world had been made safe!

The breeze, cool from the night’s thunder shower, blew in through the church window and summoned the minister to an extra five minutes—and Harley to his thoughts.

What was he saying? The danger of the hour is in a nationalistic religion whether you look at Germany or America? There was a reference to the MacIntosh case. Harley is a great admirer of Mr. Justice Hughes. So apparently, in this instance, was the minister.

Then bang—“never again”; “the method is wrong”; “naval preparedness is the worst possible gesture . . .”; “Christ said men were brothers”; “I must act that way even in the face of propaganda . . .”; “I can’t say categorically, in advance, in face of any or all conditions that I won’t fight, but I wish I could.”

That was good but likely camouflaged pacifism—(Harley wears a legion button). Hang it, he came here to worship, to get a start for the week and its problems, to get out of himself and find God, and here the minister was shooting ethics. Well, that was a minister’s privilege, his honest soul replied, and likely his business.

But why today? Fifteen years ago he had come home after eighteen months in the trenches and all he had believed then was held false now. What was the matter? Anyway, there was no use getting mad about it and—well, the minister had been over there, too. His church had sent him and paid his salary to his family; he had served the government without pay.

The sermon went on to a swift conclusion. God is Lord of the Conscious. The state is not supreme . . . God comes first  . . . In a Christian state there is room for the conscientious objector . . . No Christian should ever cross the boundary of another country with any but good intent, in peace or in war—and then there would be no war. No thorough-going pacifism, but enough to irritate the veteran who was sailing up the bay just fifteen years ago to the minute—allowing for daylight saving time; this careful lawyer.

So Harley tackled the minister, expressing not his anger, but his doubts. “Fifteen years ago we (that was generous) went. Now you advocate a philosophy just the opposite.”

“Yes, because the other didn’t work. Only ideals got us in and none of those objectives were accomplished.”

“That was the miserable politicians,” countered Democrat Harley. “But when the duly constituted representative of the people in congress assembled vote for war, every loyal citizen who can bear arms must respond, regardless.”

“Miserable politicians” then perverted the peace, “high minded statesmen” shall mould the future issue?

The minister’s logic, for the moment, was better than the lawyer’s—and they agree to defer further argument until after the Trustees’ meeting on Monday night.

Meanwhile, Harley is puzzled. Nor is the minister entirely sure. It would be so much easier to be a thorough-going Pacifist than a reasonable (and reasoning) Idealist.

from "Among the Deep Sea Fishers" | April 1913

Items from the New England Grenfell Association

Because Dr. Grenfell is in charge of St. Anthony Hospital this winter, deep in surgical and medical work and the running of his various institutions, while the regular doctor at St. Anthony is having a much needed vacation, the Rev. Jesse Halsey, who has served as a helper at St. Anthony of four years, has been helping at this end of the line this winter by giving lectures with and without the lantern slides. Dr. Grenfell has so many responsibilities in the North that he can do nothing about raising money this winter at such along range and under such a handicap. Mr. Halsey has proved himself a real friend to the Mission and is an earnest man with long experience at St. Anthony. He has spoken at Dartmouth and Wellesley Colleges and before a few Men’s Clubs as well as the Women’s club in Dudham, Mass. He is available still by making appointments a few weeks in advance.

***A Labrador Doctor: The Autobiography of Wilfred Thomason Grenfell (Boston 1919)

*Presentation copy with original mounted photographs. Inscribed and signed by Grenfell on the half-title, with a mounted photograph of "The Doctor on board the `Stratheona,'" (caption in another hand). Also, inscribed on the front pastedown, "W. G. Brown, Christmas 1919, Best wishes, Jesse Halsey." 

Halsey was an associate of Grenfell's at the Deep Sea Mission, and inserted before the frontispiece of the book is a 4-page illustrated program for "Illustrated Lectures by Rev. Jesse Halsey" at The Players in Boston. 

Other original photographs mounted on the front endpaper and flyleaves, all captioned, include "Dr. Grenfell greeted by the school children in St. Anthony"; "Jesse Halsey, Labrador & Northern Newfoundland, 1909 to Nov. 1912." 

"The `Boss' and the `Gang' (Boxes of food & clothing from the `States' being unloaded by U.S. college students)"; "J.H. in Labrador `dickey,"; and "Tuckamore Croft - Charles Henry & Helen I. Halsey" (a woman with dog sled in front of house). 

Grenfell (1865-1940) was a noted English physician who had been the house surgeon at London Hospital and then in 1892 became a medical missionary and resident of Labrador, where he also founded hospitals and orphanages.

from "Among the Deep Sea Fishers" | January 1919

“The World-Wide Influence of Grenfell"  by Jerome Davis

Some one has said that if a man can make some one thing better than any one else, even if only a mouse-trap, he may go to the most remote sot on the earth’s surface and the world will make a beaten path to his door. This could well be applied to the influence which a man exerts on others. Even though a man goes to the remote districts of northern Labrador, working among isolated and scattered groups of fisherfolk, if he has the Christ spirit of service and a genius for helping men, his influence will spread throughout the world. This is preeminently true of Dr. Grenfell and his unique service for others way up north in the Labrador.

I have just come back from service in Russia, which would be one of the last regions that one would expect to find influenced by Dr. Grenfell. Yet here we find American men who have caught the vision of service to others in work with Dr. Grenfell, who are now translating this same spirit into deeds of love and kindness for the Russian people.

The work among the German and Austrian prisoners of war showed that there were secretaries who had been with Dr. Grenfell who were trying to do in a small way for the prisoners what Dr. Grenfell was doing for the people of Newfoundland and Labrador. In prison camps of 10,000, these men were building Y.M.C.A. huts, which would become the center of all that was best in the camp. Here the prisoners could organize classes for themselves under the leadership of professors and presidents of universities who were prisoners of war. Sometimes the text books would have to be written in the prison amp by hand as it was impossible to purchase any. Nearly always the music notes were so written. Here, making their own instruments from material provided by the American secretary, they developed splendid orchestras. The weekly concerts which resulted, took all the prisoners away from the hardships of prison life and made them happy, at least during the concerts.

Religious services were established according to Dr. Grenfell’s theory that it makes less difference what the creed is, than it does how much the real spirit of love and sincerity permeates those who hear. Consequently, there were held Jewish services, Catholic services, and various forms of Protestant services all in the same building.

There was medical relief work carried on by prison doctors, with oftentimes improvised and inadequate sanitary equipment. The prisoners all donated their books and libraries were formed. Athletics began to flourish. Regular foot ball contests provided amusement and relaxation for all.

Not only did one see Dr. Grenfell’s influence in the work for the prisoners of war, but one found his influence permeating the work among the long-suffering and heroic Russian solders. Here was an army of 12,000,000 men, stretched along a battle front of 1500 miles, with soldiers receiving the pay of twenty-five cents a month instead of the American solders’ thirty-three dollars.

Yet these soldiers had no Y.M.C.A. to minister to their needs and it was not until the Foreign Secretary came, with the contagion of the Grenfell spirit, that the Association began to start work among the Russian soldiers.

Then a wonderful thing happened. The Russian soldier found that there was an organization which was really trying to provide a club for him with all the things that he never realized were possible for a soldier to have. So there were found along the Russian fronts and in the rear cities moving pictures showing in the open air for the Russian soldiers with an attendance of over 3,000 men nightly. There were writing rooms where paper and envelopes were provided free of charge. There was a tea room with a gramophone where the soldier could sit and sip tea. The Russian soldier was initiated into the mysteries of American foot ball, basket ball, volley ball, and base ball, which often he had never seen before. Among the thousands of letters written by Russian soldiers in these clubs, there were many who wrote like the following: “The only happiness and comfort I find in my life here is when I can come to this wonderful Y.M.C.A. Club. I never before realized that there were people who were trying to help like this.”

The above picture was taken after the fighting at Odessa in the civil war between the Ukraine and Bolshevik soldiers and shows both parties lined up on either side a big trench which they used for a common grave to bury their dead.

On the Ukraine banners were the words: “To the victims of the social revolution.”

The Bolshevik banners read: “To the victims of the Bourgeoise (rich people) provocation.”

Former Grenfell men helped to carry in the dead and wounded during the fighting. These are the kind of soldiers we are trying to help.

Then there was work for the Russian peasants with a large steamer given by the Soviet government, the Soviet government paying for all the fuel and the salaries of the captain and crew. The Y.M.C.A. provided educational moving pictures on one side of the steamer’s hold, while agricultural machinery was on the other side. There were eleven different departments with exhibits, on the main floor of the steamer. These departments ranged from chicken raising to horticulture and bee keeping. A representative of the Y.W.C.A. was on board, who tried to teach the peasant women how to care for their babies. A representative of the American Red Cross was on board to assist in medical relief. During two months, these exhibits showed to 40,000 peasants along the Volga. Do you wonder that the village people formed processions of thanks, given in honor of the Americans and their agricultural help? In one village the peasants said: “This is the first boat that has ever come to our shores to give and not to take.”

Dr. Halsey, a former Grenfell man, was up in the North, amid the darkness and the ice and snow, working for the English, French, American, and Russian men. He was rendering a typical Association service to men who had no other place to go except the Association, and incidentally he was showing the same spirit of friendship which he had seen demonstrated by Dr. Grenfell in the North.

This little illustration of how the spirit of Jesus Christ, as it has been translated into action by Dr. Grenfell, has permeated even the throbbing life of the far off Russian revolution, is typical as showing how Dr. Grenfell’s spirit is coming in every country throughout the world. As we came back from Russia, through England and France, we noticed that in those countries are still more former Grenfell men who are spreading the same unselfish service of love throughout the world.

*****

The wealth of man is the number of things he loves and blesses, which he is loved and blessed by.

Tutti-Frutti (Stream of Consciousness)

Jesse Halsey

2726 Cleinview Ave.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Why had he come? Why couldn’t he have been sick; one of his headaches. They came Sundays when he didn’t want them; why couldn’t he have had one tonight?

The new rector sat uneasily on the edge of his chair. Then, realizing he was uneasy, or looked uneasy, he sat back in the chair and assumed a still more unnatural pose. “It must look that way,” he thought, “for he was trying so hard that it should not look that way.”

It was at the table of his leading parishioner, Judge Hill. The Judge sat at the head, the rector was at his right. Why had he come in these clothes? Everyone else had on a diner jacket. They would think he didn’t know; and he didn’t, he had to admit it. He had come from a country parish to the big city; how should he know that for an affair like this one was supposed to wear a Tuxedo?

The Judge had asked him to say grace. He had, in a perfunctory way, but all the time he was thinking of the slave of his grandfather’s, who was invited out to dinner and, when asked to say grace, had said, “Lord bless the bread, but curse the skunk.” Not that this table suggested the equivalent of skunk, but he had overheard the Judge’s wife tell his wife that sweetbreads were coming. Why hadn’t he followed his wife’s suggestion and worn his high vest and dog collar and Tuxedo, that was, he had heard, correct for a clergyman. This sack suit and this speckled tie, black and red dots; little red dots. Surreptitiously he looked down over his chin. Yes, how strange it must look. A red tie! Everyone else with a Tuxedo, white shirt bosom and black bow tie. How strangely that old man’s was tied. Let’s see—yes, he was Mr. Straley—or was it spelled Strahley? Never mind, even old Mr. Strahley, who was kept on the vestry because he once had been a generous giver, even he had a Tux, and knew enough to wear it, even if he couldn’t tie a bow right side out.

What would they think? Would it hurt him in his work? He had tried to be a man among men, didn’t want to be stuck up nor preacherish, so had worn a business suit and a tie, instead of a dog collar. A dog collar and dinner jacket, that would have been the thing but—with a start he realized that Mr. Thomas, the treasurer, had finished a story and that everyone had laughed except himself. What a fool the old fellow looked, laughing at his own joke, but the rector must laugh, too, and laugh he would and did; a little late. And then he wondered, was it off color? Men seldom laughed like that at stories unless they were off color. He hadn’t really heard it. What would they think of him now he had laughed at that kind of a story. Was it that kind? He must pay attention.

Now the Judge was speaking . . . they must make a budget . . . run a church like a business . . . what did the rector think of that? “Yes,” “certainly,” “surely.” But he knew so little of business, or society, not to wear a Tux; and at his leading member’s house; all the vestry there; he their new rector in fashionable St. David’s. What would they think of him?

“Yes, sir.” “Yes.” They would add another hundred a month to the poor fund; that would be enough.

Poor they must think him, or ignorant, not to wear a Tux. Anyway, his wife, (who was dining now with the Judge’s wife upstairs,) she was dressed appropriately. Why wasn’t she there, then they could look at her. They must have noticed that she, anyway, was properly dressed. He wasn’t stingy.

Sixty dollars more on the janitor’s salary? “Why, yes, yes, sir.” Sixty dollars would buy a Tux; he’d have one tomorrow, and, by George, no one would catch him napping again. But this was today—and here he was.

What was that? Didn’t his host know he was a dry, in practice and in principle? Why should he be humiliated before his men—surely that was what it was—champagne. It sparkled; it bubbled; it looked like that kind of a bottle; it was wrapped in a napkin. What infernal set-up was this? An effort to make a fool of him . . . he would show them . . .

Just then; “Parson have some cider?” from the host. Cider? Then it was alright. Why, of course, the Judge was a dry, too. He had known that. Why had he been so critical? That Tux. He knew it but, confound it, the thing was out of hand. What a fool to be so miserable . . . Here they were all his friends; his Board, his backers. Wake himself—he must. What did they care for a Tux? Or, he care? Or, what should he care if they did care? Why? No reason at all. Forget it. And, with a mighty effort, he concentrated on the budget.

And then, just then came, the sweetbreads. How he hated them. No farmer’s boy could like in’ards. Butchering days on the plantation came back: his olfactory nerves rebelled. He must surely leave the table. Again, with a mighty effort, he resolutely helped himself, sparingly to be sure, but helped himself. Maybe there were mushrooms in it; he could pick them out and pretend to eat. And there would be other things. Green peas, likely. He would make out, yes. Everything was good—except the sweetbreads. Butchering day . . . brains was it, or pancreas?. . . his old father had never worn a dinner jacket . . . curse it, what difference did it make. What was that story? He must add his bit of conversation. But he would choke, there were no mushrooms in it. He was eating sweetbreads, guts. With a gulp, he swallowed, then a big sip of cider—that was better.

The glass chandelier flashed overhead; the great oak sideboard carved and laden with china looked across at him. Thank God there was no mirror in it to flash back his red spotted tie! His glass was being filled. Why had he misjudged his host? The kindest of friends were these, they wouldn’t care . . . but they might. Oh, for a Tux!

“Good sermon the rector had last Sunday,” he could just overhear. He tried not to, but that only sharpened his auditory nerves the more.

“Good sermon last week.” “Which?” “The Babylonian Garment.”

They were making fun of him. That wedding guest who came without the proper clothes. That was the parable he had expounded. They were making fun of him—a wedding garment. “Friend, how camest thou in hither not having on a wedding garment?” No Tuxedo. And the guest’s answer. “And he was speechless.” Well, that was true of him tonight, alright. How true the old Scripture was—“speechless!”

Dessert was being served. Already his parishioners had discovered his inordinate love of ice cream. Once a year as a country boy, now once or twice a week as a city minister, he had ice cream; and so much of it, and so good.

“Take more, Parson, Mrs. Hill has made your kind.”

Tutti-frutti! His favorite. They had tried to please him. And he had come like this—a red dotted necktie—just like tutti-frutti .  . .He must look like some Holy Roller preacher with no Tuxedo. Why hadn’t he had some sense?

“Coffee, sir?”

No, he didn’t drink coffee. Maybe he’d better; it might straighten out his nerves and sharpen his wits.

The Judge had begun some of his best stories and soon he would be called on. What could he say? He had no stories. He had no proper clothes, why should he have stories? He, who didn’t know how to dress himself—no Tux, no toast, no good.

Yes, here is came. The Judge was standing.

“Gentlemen, our Rector, a young man, a gentleman, a scholar. God bless him.”

The vestrymen were on their feet. They drank his health. He bowed and thanked them. He started to speak. They were looking at him, interest centered on that red spotted tie. No Tux, a sack suit. They must be thinking of that, not of his speech. What was he saying? Red and flustered, he sat down.

Next morning at nine-thirty the rector was at the leading tailor’s being measured for a Tuxedo. “He was hard to fit.” “Those football shoulders!”

“Sixty dollars, sir, for this grade, and seventy for that with silk lining.”

“Better have the seventy, I guess. When will it be ready?”

“Two weeks.”

“So long as that?” . . . “Yes, a high-cut vest . . .” “And order me a dozen clerical collars . . . size sixteen.” “Thank you.” “Good day.”

At dinner that night the rector’s pretty wife was all animation. Mrs. Hill had called and they had driven to the country.

“You must have made a great hit last night,” she said, with pride in her voice.

“Mrs. Hill said the Judge told her how your Mexican stories charmed the whole company. They thought it lovely that you wore a business suit—‘no airs or society climbing’—something like that. The treasurer is glad you don’t smoke and the Judge don’t’ like a minister to button his collar in the back, except on Sunday.”

The dining room door swung open. The maid appeared with dessert. It was a mould of tutti-frutti ice cream.

“A surprise from the Hills,” said the wife as she sliced it down.