PREFACE

To make clear the purpose of this book and to suggest possibilities to the reader the author offers the following article which was published in the Toronto Globe. Most of the chapters first appeared in the same journal.

Ekfrid, July 28.—This morning I got up feeling singularly cheerful and care-free. And no wonder. Yesterday I got even with the world—said everything I wanted to say about it right down to the last word. This morning I feel that I am making a fresh start with all scores paid, and I don't care whether school keeps or not.

The explanation of this unusual state of mind is quite simple. Yesterday I finished writing a book, in which I said just what I wanted to say—said what I have been aching to say for years—about the world and things in general. No matter what happens to the book, it has already served its purpose. It has rid my mind of "the perilous stuff, etc.," that accumulated during the war and since. And the result has been so refreshing that I have no hesitation in recommending the book cure to every one. Nowadays any one can write a book, and most every one does. The mistake is in regarding the book as a literary venture. What you should do is to make a pad of paper and a lead pencil your father confessor and ease your mind of its worries. When the book is done, you can send it out into the wilderness as the Israelites sent the scapegoat—bearing your sins with it. Then you can make a fresh start. If you don't want to publish it—though publication seems necessary to complete absolution—you can tie a stone to it and throw it into the

lake, or do it up in a parcel and leave it for some one to find, just as boys used to do with neat parcels in which they placed pebbles on which they had rubbed their warts—hoping in that way to rid themselves of warts. I know there are some old-fashioned people who will be shocked at this levity in speaking of books, but they should waken up to the fact that since the coming of the wood-pulp era no particular merit attaches to writing a book. And if books can be given a medicinal value to take the place of their old-time literary value, why shouldn't we recognize the fact? Anyway, the writing of a book put me in the frame of mind to parody Sir Sidney Smith and exclaim:

"Fate cannot harm me, I have had my say."

I have told all this merely to explain the joyous mood induced by the writing of the book. Having finished my task, I felt not only up-do-date with my work, but up-to-date with life. It is the ambition of every man—whether he confesses it or not—to get even with the world. The world is forever defeating us and defrauding us of our hopes. So let us have our say about it, turn over a new leaf, and make a fresh start. When I got up this morning

There was no feeling of responsibility about anything, and I could go to work in a care-free frame of mind. That made me realize how care-free all nature is, and how care-free life might be if we did not allow ourselves to become so much entangled with its affairs. Just because I had arranged to free myself from all other responsibilities while doing my task, I suddenly found myself free from responsibilities and in the only true holiday humor. It is true there was work to do, but I did not feel any responsibility. My first chore was to churn, but I was not responsible for the flavor and texture of the butter. It was my part to make the barrel churn revolve with a rhythmical "plop! plop! plop!" and when the butter came I had nothing more to do with it. By that time the heavy dew had dried from the sheaves, and the business of hauling in the wheat was commenced. Though I had an interest in the wheat, I was not responsible for it, and could pitch the sheaves without worrying. The mood left by having poured all my problems into a book was

apparently the same as that enjoyed by Kipling's devil when he "blew upon his nails, for his heart was free from care."

Along in the forenoon a thunderstorm began to gather in the west, and I was in the right mood to realize what a care-free and irresponsible storm it was. Even though it was harvest-time, this storm was not obliged to take any thought about what it was doing. It didn't have to pick the just from the unjust and distribute the rain as a reward—or punishment. It rained on both alike. Though it was such a care-free storm, I confessed to a feeling of relief when I saw it sheering off to the south. There are all kinds of just and unjust men living down that way, and though they may not have wanted rain any more than we did, it was no part of my business to worry about them. It was enough for us to gather in our own crop and be thankful that, after all, the Hessian fly had left us a crop worth gathering.

When the storm had rumbled away, the sun came out, and it was certainly a care-free sun. It gave its stimulating warmth and heat to the weeds as freely as to the crops. If man wanted to coddle some plants for his own use, the sun was perfectly willing to do its part—but it did its part just as freely and irresponsibly for the grass and the weeds. In spite of the philosophers and teachers, Nature seemed very irresponsible to-day. She had been irresponsible in sowing her seeds and in promoting their growth, and it was quite evident that she would be equally irresponsible in her work of harvesting. The free and irresponsible winds would blow the seeds fitted with wings and parachutes to every point of the compass and let them fall where they would. The free streams would carry others to hospitable shores or would leave them to rot in the lakes or even in the ocean. Other seeds provided with spines and hooks would cling to our clothing or to the wool of the sheep and in that way be given a wholly irresponsible distribution. Nothing in Nature

seemed to be burdened with responsibility or care or remorse or worry or ambition or any of the things with which we fret our lives. Being in a wholly irresponsible frame of mind, I could not help wondering if man has not gone woefully astray in making himself responsible for so much. Perhaps we have not interpreted properly that text about being our brother's keeper. Certainly our brothers seldom feel grateful to us when we concern ourselves with their affairs and try to make them realize that we regard ourselves as their keepers. As a rule they resent our interference, and our efforts do little good either to them or to us. Perhaps we should learn something from the irresponsibility of Nature to guide us in our dealings with our fellow-men.

Any one who cared to write a book about it could probably show that most of the wars and afflictions that have come on the world are due to attempts made by incompetent people to be their brothers' keepers. They start great wars to stop little ones, cause great evils by trying to remedy little ones, and otherwise make nuisances of themselves to the limit of their power. Why don't these people take to writing books instead of trying to set things right? Writing the books would free their surcharged spirits, and the world could go its way without bothering to read what they wrote. The more I think of it the more convinced I am that the writing of books would cure a lot of our evils—chiefly because it would help to rid the people who wrote the books of their feeling of responsibility for other people and their affairs. The fact that they had set down their views in fair type would ease their consciences and enable them to go about the ordinary little matters of their own lives in a care-free way. The book cure for our

personal and collective troubles is hereby seriously recommended. And it is especially recommended to any one wanting to enjoy a holiday. You can't enjoy a holiday if you are worrying about your business in life. So write a book about it and get even with the world. Then you can enjoy a holiday even while going on with your work.

THE AFFABLE STRANGER

[Pg 3]

CHAPTER I

THE AFFABLE STRANGER

One day a group of Americans talked for publication without being aware of the fact. The democratic sociability of an observation car made it possible for me to get expressions of opinion on many subjects without the caution and frequent insincerity of formal interviews. No one knew the name or occupation of any of his fellow-passengers, and the conversation had "a charter large as the wind." For twelve hours, while making the trip from Montreal to Boston, the conversation ebbed and flowed over many fields of human interest, and by interjecting a remark here and there it was possible to turn the talk in any direction. Having a definite purpose in view and plenty of time at my disposal, I managed to get some spontaneous expressions of opinion along the particular line in which I am interested at the[Pg 4] moment. Before leaving Toronto I had been assured that I should be much irritated by the egotism of Americans regarding the winning of the war. With this in mind I resolved to take no part in the conversation if the subject came up for discussion, but to listen attentively.

For the first half-hour we travelled mostly in silence, entering the items of our expense accounts in notebooks after the manner of travellers, re-reading letters that had been read hurriedly before boarding the train, and generally putting our affairs in order before settling down to view the scenery and kill time on the long trip.

Finally the ice was broken by a breezy Westerner who had just made the trip across Canada from Vancouver to Montreal. He mentioned casually that he was from Seattle and at once launched on a eulogy of all that he had seen and experienced on his Canadian trip. Here was just what I was looking for, and at once I was all attention. It would probably have caused surprise and some indigna[Pg 5]tion to ardent prohibitionists if they could have heard the traveller's remarks.

"The Canadians are not so radical as we are. They do things in a more reasonable way."

Then he proceeded to dilate with exultant particularity on the hospitality he had enjoyed in various centres. Good Canadians had not only given him much stimulating entertainment, but they had even seen to it that he was supplied with liquid refreshment on the trip from the coast. Only in Alberta had the aridity been at all noticeable, and he attributed his misfortunes in this respect to the fact that he had no intimate personal friends in Calgary or Edmonton to look after his comfort. I gathered from his talk that Canada is far, far from being bone-dry. While he talked there was a hopeful gleam in several eyes, which subsided when he began to lament the strict watch that is kept on the border and the danger of carrying a supply on the hip or in one's baggage when entering the land of the[Pg 6] ex-free. The joy had passed from his life when he had left Montreal. Then the conversation became general and raged over "the inhuman dearth" of plausible red whiskey under the Stars and Stripes.

Presently the breezy Westerner began to speak of his fellow-passengers on the Canadian trip. From Vancouver to Calgary he had associated mostly with two Canadian officers. Here, I thought to myself, is where I need to get a grip on my emotions, so I camouflaged myself behind a morning paper and pretended to read. But the precaution proved unnecessary. He showed an almost pathetic pride in telling his fellow-countrymen that those officers had told him that the Yankees were more like the Canadians than any other soldiers they had met in Europe. They had the same initiative, resourcefulness, and courage. This was received with approval, for all in the little group were willing to concede that there was no question about the war record of the Canadians. To my surprise no mention was made of[Pg 7] the fact that the Americans really won the war—which leads me to suspect that the conviction is not so general among the plain people as I had been led to suppose. It is true that certain spread-eagle papers have rather too much to say on the subject,

and it is possible that some Americans like to get a rise out of visiting Canadians by assuming a patronizing attitude regarding the war, but the fact remains that during the whole day I did not hear any boasting on this point. The only remark that might have given offence was made by a lean, sallow New Englander. The talk had turned to the Peace Treaty and all were at once united in a common sorrow over the part that President Wilson had played in Europe. From which I gathered that all those present were Republicans, for not a word was said in the President's defence. The lean New Englander finally grumbled:

"Well, I think England got a good deal out of the war at our expense."

But he got no further. The Westerner[Pg 8] swept over him with a tornado of words. If anything of that kind had occurred—which he did not admit—it must be overlooked. The hope of the world lies in the continued friendship of Great Britain and the United States. Germany is far from being down and out and may even now be plotting against the peace of the world. There are dire possibilities in Asia that may involve both Britain and the United States.

When the New Englander got a hearing again, it was very evident that he had seen a light. Probably he suspected that there might be a British subject in the little chance assembled group, for he began to lay on the soft sawder in a way that would have done credit to Sam Slick. The only British people of which he had personal knowledge were the Canadians, as his business took him to Canada for several weeks every year. He could not speak too highly of their courtesy and business probity. What he had in mind when he made the offending remark was that making a Peace[Pg 9] Treaty was much like a "hoss-trade," and that as a "hoss-trader" Wilson had no show with crafty diplomats like Lloyd George, Balfour, Clemenceau, and the others he had met.

As my interest was centred in that part of the conversation which dealt with the attitude of the plain people of the United States toward the plain people of Canada and the British Empire, I shall not attempt to report the wide range of knowledge that came to the surface during the day. I may say, however, that I learned with interest that New York has the highest buildings in the world, Seattle the finest docks in the world, the United States the greatest military possibilities of any nation in the world, and that the Merrimac River turns more spindles than any other river in the world. I suspect it would be possible to write a book about the greatest things in the world likely to be heard of on this trip, but I am not forgetful of the fact that it was not the people of the United States that Rudyard Kipling had in mind when he wrote:

[Pg 10]

In the afternoon I deserted the observation car and went visiting in the day coach among the passengers who were taking short trips between the intermediate stations. In this way I got an unconscious compliment that cheered me wonderfully. An exchange of newspapers with the man with whom a seat was shared gave an opening for conversation. Sticking to my resolution I did not introduce the subject of the war. We talked of the news of the day and all sorts of subjects. Suddenly my seat-mate gave me a searching look and asked:

"You are a farmer, are you not?"

He will never know how flattered I was. Being so far from home I felt that I could admit my nearness to the soil without being scoffed at. There is no doubt that in some matters Americans are much more discerning than Canadians—but let that pass.

We talked of the late spring, crop prospects,[Pg 11] the high cost of living, and such things, and at last my patience was rewarded. In a dreary tone he said:

"It seems as if people would never get settled down after the war."

I encouraged him with a nod.

"The war upset everything. Labor was unsettled by high wages. The country boys that went into the army got a taste of city life and life in crowds, and it looks as if they would never stay on the land any more."

I let him ramble on about the train of evils that had followed the war. There was no boasting—just a sense of weariness with it all.

On my arrival in Boston I became practically incomunicado and unable to play my rôle of the affable stranger who is willing to engage in conversation with any one who is willing to talk. It was impossible to get accommodations at the hotel to which I had telegraphed for a room. They had more reservations than they could handle for three weeks[Pg 12] ahead. But if I wished, the courteous clerk might be able to arrange for me at another hotel. As it was after ten o'clock, I wished. By using the telephone he located a room for me in a quiet family hotel. Its tone and exclusiveness impressed me as soon as I registered. I was in a position to see Boston on its dignity. The elevator man looked like a sad professor of political economy in reduced circumstances, and as I stepped into his cage I felt as if I had been turned over to the final psychopomp. With this in mind it gave me a thrill of pleasure to note, like Phil Welch, that the elevator was going up and not down. No one at this hotel spoke to another without an introduction, and I realized that

I was having a chance to get a glimpse of that sternly exclusive New England:

But a few hours later I was mingling with the ordinary throng again, looking for information.

[Pg 13]

CHAPTER II

THE ELUSIVE INSULT

When a man starts on a journey he usually makes a plan before starting. He will go to this place or that at such a time or times: He will meet this man and that—and will say to them thus and so. If he is a man of trained habits—say a commercial traveller for an exacting firm—he will carry out his plans—or lie about them in his report to the home office. As my report is to be made to the public there is no need of lying. I have promised nothing and nothing is expected. My plans went all awry before I was in the United States two days. But what of that? I may not find the information I was after, but I am finding things that are interesting and amusing, so let us carry on. But first a word about those plans—for what happened to them was rather illuminating. It seems to cast a light[Pg 14] on the law of acceleration that I hear about sometimes.

It has been my experience that a mere observer—"a looker-on here in Vienna"—seldom arrives at the truth about anything. He sees only the outside of things. It is when one is actually doing things that he learns about them. With this in mind I deferred taking the present trip for many months. Not wishing to come as a holiday onlooker I waited until actual business made it necessary for me to come. This business would make it necessary for me to have dealings with men in various cities, and in order to transact it I would be obliged to keep step with that part of the business world in which I found it necessary to move. I would find the chance comments of business conversation more enlightening than any formal interviews, for they would rise spontaneously from the soul of things. With all this carefully thought out I started on my trip.

When I left the farm my plans were vague[Pg 15] and leisurely. I had business to transact, but it was not urgent. It could wait on my convenience and on the convenience of others. It was little more than a good excuse for meeting business men in their offices so that I could glimpse what they were thinking about when off their guard.

When I reached Toronto I found that it would be necessary for me to make my plans more definite and to speed up to a regular schedule. There seemed to be more in the business than I thought and it would be well to make the most of it. So I reformed my plans and prepared to step lively wherever necessary.