a noise myself I begin to feel a sense of progress; that's what we stand for in this country," with a knowing wink, "progress."

I have frequently been asked how I came to write a book. It is one of the few questions that have been asked that I can answer. Away back in 1907 we had a panic; we have been in such a turmoil, financial and other, since, that some of us have forgotten the very respectable dimensions of the money panic of the autumn of 1907. Not so the writer. I had gone to Europe, in no way pleased with the financial outlook, and to some extent prepared for a breeze, but not for a typhoon. Enough: Christmas came as Christmas will, and when it came time to say a word of greeting, it seemed absurd to send a man (or a woman, for women sometimes suffer in panics just as much as men do) a dainty little card with a picture of a bunch of mistletoe or a reindeer pulling a sleigh, and wishing him or her a "Merry Christmas." Admitting that "merriment" is a conventional wish anyway, I could not bring myself to do it.

While I was turning over in my mind whether it would not be possible for me to hit upon some thought which might raise a smile amid the general gloom, and for a moment escape the waste-paper basket, I chanced to drop in on Horace Traubel, who, having little to lose, was as happy as ever; and in looking over his Whitman manuscripts I came across a scrap of paper on which was written a sentiment that seemed particularly appropriate to the moment. So I had a facsimile of it made and printed on one side

of a card, with my own comment on the other. This provided me with a "greeting" that caught the fancy of some of my friends. Several "Captains" of politics, industry, and finance, to whom it was shown, wrote me and asked if I could "spare a copy"; and almost immediately my supply was exhausted and the matter passed out of my mind until the next year, when I again indulged myself in a myself in a greeting a little more personal than could be bought in a shop. I have continued this practice since: thus my descent into literature was gradual and easy.

Quite recently, in the drawer of an unused desk, I found a sole remaining copy of my Christmas card of 1907, which I now reproduce.

To the courtesy of Mr. Horace Traubel I am indebted for the opportunity of reproducing an interesting scrap of Whitman's handwriting. In Traubel's recently published book, "With Walt Whitman in Camden," one of the most remarkable biographical works since Boswell's "Johnson," - we read that he (Traubel) one day picked up from the floor of Whitman's little study a stained piece of paper and, reading it, looked at Whitman rather quizzically. "What is it?" he asked. I handed it to him. He pushed his glasses down over his eyes and read it. "That's old and kind o' violent - don't you think - for me? Yet I don't know but it still holds good."

If this was true twenty years ago, how much truer is it to-day? And if it be said that Whitman was extreme in' his views and unguarded in his writings, what may be said' of the following absurdity redeemed by wit:

"He touched the dead corpse of public credit," said Daniel Webster of Alexander Hamilton, "and it sprung upon its feet."

CHRISTMAS CARD, 1907

Is it to be said of another New York Federalist, infinitely more popular and far more of a Federalist than Hamilton, that he touched the healthy body of private credit and it became a corpse? Shall it be added that an adoring nation cheered the miracle and murmured with reverent lips: "Hail, Cæsar! We who are about to bust salute you "? Or of the following absurdity unredeemed:

"All that our people have to do now is to go ahead with their normal business in a normal fashion and the whole difficulty disappears; and this end will be achieved at once if each man will act as he normally does act. . .

"The Government will see that the people do not suffer if only the people themselves will act in a normal way." No mollycoddle's work is this; this broad guaranty drips clumsily from the pen of a strenuous man in a panic at the panic he has made.

Under "normal" conditions it would now be in order to shout Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year; but to shout anything at the moment might be out of place — thanks to our so-called "Captains" of Politics, Industry, and Finance, a Merry Christmas is out of the question, and a Happy New Year unlikely.

Cheer up. Let's have a drink: "Here's to a full babycarriage and an empty dinner-pail!"

A. E. N.

Times change quickly, and once again we face an era of the empty dinner-pail. Whose fault is it? How shall it be remedied? These are not questions for the mere book-collector, for the nonce (how long is a nonce?) wielding a pen.

Do not be alarmed, gentle reader; this introduction is almost over. It is like a door stuck tight which, when, by a great effort, you have forced it open, you find leads nowhere.