does not desert his spirit even when confronted by the judgment of Heaven itself.

a

The story of "Liliom" is not an easy one to tell. Perhaps it is best to refer the reader who is not fortunate enough to have a chance to see this play to the printed edition published by Boni & Liveright. Briefly, however, the prologue shows street fair, one of the most extraordinarily well-directed scenes of this kind which has been staged in a long time. Liliom, captivator of the hearts of servant girls, is there, in front of the merry-go-round in all the glory of his striped sweater and his blustering youth. Gypsies, soldiers, peasants, townspeople, a vender of balloons, and a strong man all contribute to a colorful hubbub which gives a most effective background for the play which is to follow,

The play tells the story of Liliom's conquest of the heart of a servant girl and of her strange and unacknowledged conquest of his own callous heart. For her he deserts his merry-go-round and side-show and its gypsy owner. He starves her, beats her; he is ashamed of nothing except of acknowledging the hold which she has upon him. When he learns that she is to be a mother, he consents to a murder in order that he may take her and his child in comfort to America-and murder is a crime which is not a natural one for his brutal yet cowardly nature.

But the murder is not to be. He is trapped by the police and commits suicide. Haled before a fantastic court in an unbelievable heaven, his spirit refuses to acknowledge his crimes, and he is sentenced to fifteen years in purgatory, the gate of which he enters jauntily puffing a cigarette which he has borrowed from an attendant of the celestial court.

He

At the end of fifteen years he is permitted to return to earth in order that he may perform some deed which will wipe out the record of his past. finds his wife and daughter in a humble cottage. Try as he will to express his longing for their happiness, he succeeds only in quarreling with his wife and striking his daughter. He is taken back to the celestial court by two policemen of the beyond, to what fate the spectator is left uninformed, except by the fact that the bewildered child tells her mother that the harsh blow that she has received did not hurt, but felt strangely like a kiss!

Surely, the play is as unusual as much which has come from the pen of Sir James Barrie, though it is fantastic and bizarre where Barrie is humorous and whimsical. Its exotic flavor has not been lost in translation from the original of its Hungarian author, Franz Molnar.

66.

"T

A DAY OFF

HERE is nothing that clears the

cobwebs so effectually out of one's brain as a day off," the Young-Old Philosopher was saying. "Just as we plan our work, we should plan our play; only, most of us, in the clamor of the times, forget that to loaf occasionally is as necessary as to drudge; and we confuse leisure with laziness.

"I know in my own case how difficult it is for me to make up my mind, definitely and unbendingly, that I require, now and then, a morning away from my desk; that it is as essential as the turning out of decent copy. Spiritual baths we crave and need; baptisms in the elemental things-in the wind and rain on a day dripping with sunlight.

no

"Once when I was in a beautiful country place, I remember how I planned all one summer that I would rise with the lark some morning and see the miracle of the sunrise. Living as I do in a crowded city, I have no time and no inclination-and, tragically enough, facilities-for a glimpse of the sun coming up at dawn; for the sky-scrapers would hide his face for hours, and I am not in a high window where I could view his bright countenance. But though I said that I would certainly give myself the tonic experience of witnessing Old Sol's brilliant début, I never did it. I slept each morning until seven o'clock or so, always pretending that to-morrow surely would be the day of days, and that nothing would deter me then. And so the weeks drifted on, and autumn came-too soon, alas!-and I was driven back to town without once indulging in the luxury of looking upon such wonder. Why is it that we thus delude and fool and cheat ourselves, fail to take advantage of such pleasing and exhilarating experiences?

"Another time I visited a lake in the northern part of New York, and, struck by the beauty of the summer foliage that adorned the trees down to the water's very edge, I said to a friend, 'This must be glorious in October. Let us come together then and see it.' And we made a solemn compact; it remains unkept to this day, and nine years have hurried by. There was no good reason why we should not have made the pilgrimage; but we just didn't. Fools, you say? Certainly. I admit it. And seldom am I more ashamed than when I break my word with myself. A friend forgives one; we do not find it easy to forgive ourselves, to erase those personal debts which we pile up with our own inner spirits.

"So the day off that means so much to us, mentally and physically, why are we afraid to take it when the opportunity arrives? I like nothing better than to see, in the big town, a group of

middle-aged men hastening out in a motor on some crisp morning, their golf-sticks piled beside them, while others trudge to dreary tasks. They have earned their liberty, no doubt-let us hope so, at any rate; and they will be all the better to-morrow for those few hours of delightful sport and healthgiving freedom.

"Too soon the curtain is rung down on this glowing world we live in; and it is heartbreaking to consider how many spots there are close at our gates which we never find the time to see and enjoy. Partly it is our own fault. The green earth cries out to us to come and tread the corridors of the countryside; instead, we cling to the granite of the city, and pace desolate hallways-the more desolate because they are crowded with people we do not know. And all of them are hurrying-where?

"I wonder. And so, no doubt, do they."

This is because the modern railway man has come to a broad understanding of his function. He is not merely a transmogrified bus driver. He is a merchant. He sells transportation, as a piano dealer sells pianos, and he desires to make his product attractive. The beautiful casing of a piano does not add to its musical qualities, but it makes the prospective purchaser pleased with it in advance and contented with it after he purchases it. A photograph does not transport a passenger or make his journey safe, but it pleases the prospective traveler and adds an element to his journey which makes it more valuable to him both in anticipation and in memory.

But the railway man is even more than a merchant. He is as truly as an officer of the Government a social servant. Civilization is a product of travel. Whoever not only promotes travel but helps to give it significance is a leader in civilization. And this is what the railway man does.

It is in this capacity, not merely as a merchandiser of motion, but as an enlarger of the environment of men and teacher of what travel has to offer to men's minds and souls, that the railway man employs the camera.

Thus it happens that when The Outlook wished to give to its readers a graphic survey in brief of many parts of America it turned to the great railway lines and there found the pictures reproduced on the following pages.