FIRST PRIZE

INSIDE THE WALLS BY LOUIS VICTOR EYTINGE

H'

E staggered through the prison gates, his steel-cuffed hands holding a bloody kerchief to his livid lips, as the hæmorrhage hacked at his leaking lungs. Two hours of fitful rest, then he stood upon the scales before the prison doctor and heard the verdict: "Two months more, at best." He studied the scale-beam swaying at its 119 pounds, smiled at his wobbling frail legs and blinked at the blistering sun baking the plastered walls. He was penniless, friendless, a stranger in a strange State, and this was his third and doomed-to-be-last prison experience. Then arose a terrific but unuttered soul protest, for the man must live long enough to clear his name of the brand of Cain. The judge had sentenced him to a life term, the physician had shortened this to two months, but he dared not die with that stigma on his shoulders. He had gayly coasted the facile descent to Avernus and landed at the bottom so hard that he saw starsthey've been shining for him ever since, these stars of inspiration. The turning point came at the greatest depth!

Even as the need for money to satisfy his spendthrift habits had proved his undoing in the past, that same need of money was to effect his rehabilitation. He had to have money with which to purchase foods not listed in the prison fare, so that he might conserve his failing strength, he needed the kindlier comforts that invalids crave, yet where could any money be found? He saw parties of tourists make petty purchases at the prison souvenir stands, yet he was isolated from this chance in the tubercular ward. If-if these handicraft novelties attracted buyers within forbidding walls, why should they not sel equally well in curio shops? His first letter brought back its acceptance, and his fellow-inmates, eager for a wider market, trusted him with his first shipments. In a month the lunger had a dozen dealers; in three months he was ordering business stationery and making the first payment on a typewriter. His situation demanded that he secure the completest confidence of his patrons, and this forced him to tell the strict truth about his wares. Strangest of all, this former forger and swindler found that not only did truth pay, but that he liked it: He was getting the same exulting excitement out of business honesty that he had known in his swindling

successes. With wakening awe he saw that business cleanliness and integrity were building up his bodily strength and stiffening a newly found moral backbone. The racking cough was passing, and in two years he was selling $5,000 worth a year, solely through the suasion of his letters.

Those same letters attracted the attention of his jobbers, who called on the convict to build them similarly effective sales literature, and soon the lunger was dropping his novelty work to attempt a new field as a business letter specialist. An advertising magazine asked for an article on better letters, and more than seventy-five articles have appeared under the prisoner's name in different business and advertising publications. Then he founded and was for two years editor of a 64-page monthly devoted to direct mail advertising, giving it up when business complications and overwork justified a change. A paper on breathing life into letters read before the Toronto Convention of the world's Advertising Clubs has been reprinted in more newspapers and booklets than any similar business document. His name appears as author of two business books; a silver cup marks his success in a Nation-wide letter contest among advertising men. Because a printing-trade journal sneered when he established his magazine he paid it off by winning the largest advertising trophy for a Canadian printer, although he had never set a line of type! Though offered stiff fees, he has never written a line for mining, oil, or other promotional or medical literature.

As a criminologist he owns some repute, first gained when he published, at his own expense, a booklet that changed one State's laws. Again, he was one of the creators of the first Mutual Welfare League ever formed in prison, two years before Thomas Mott Osborne instituted a similar movement in New York. A chance item in a newspaper led to a searching study of anæsthetics (for the lunger was accused of having chloroformed his physical superior in an open buggy) and to a better presentation of the circumstantial facts in his case, with the result that many medical men scout the theory upon which he was convicted and assert the man probably guiltless! Antagonism still exists in purblind prejudice, but the different dailies of the State that once anathematized the man now appeal for his freedom.

Debarred from the physical adventure that appeals to all men, he found joy in doing new and different things; thus

he was prison steward, he started and built the prison poultry plant; and now the chap is venturing into writing plots for the cinema, two scenarios having been accepted by an agent this autumn. Browned by the healing sun, he is a robust 190-pounder; scarified by the shame and suffering of his miserable past, he is learning something of regeneration. If liberty ever comes, he hopes to give society use of the knowledge he so bitterly acquired in twenty years' contact with our greatest failure -our prison system. Three books have been promised waiting publishers, tempting salaries offer a roseate business future, but the man thinks he owes a duty to his fellows, society, and himself to go into prison efficiency work. Handicap has been his incentive; opposition, his stimulus. What he may yet do, to what heights he may mount, is not for me to say, since I'm writing of a "lifer"-myself.

I found my turning point when there remained no greater depth to be plumbed!

SECOND PRIZE

THE SANDS OF THE DESERT

BY RAE BARNETT

ou may have gone to the little red schoolhouse, as I did, in the days when schoolmasters taught that the ostrich, when frightened, hides his head in the sand. Granting such fallacy credence, it must have been a great day for the ostrich when he learned the truth. Whether he learned it by overhearing his approaching enemies discussing his apparent idiocy while he believed himself securely concealed, or whether he learned it in a gentler manner, at any rate, it must have been a severe jolt for the poor old bird to discover that the seat of his former difficulties lay within himself, and not the rest of creation. It was to me. Doubtless long afterward he was surprised into reversions to his old-time custom of withdrawal from the rest of the world and thrusting his head into the. sand. I did the same.

My revelation came long after I was hopelessly grown up. It may even sound too insignificant to be termed an awakening. I assure you, it was highly significant. I believe it isn't putting it too strongly to declare that it revolutionized the whole world-for me.

I had gone along for so long a time

gripped with the belief that it was the other fellow who was distant, unfriendly, suspicious, and critical, until I actually came to believe that the allotted portion of warm human friendship, happiness, and satisfaction was never meant for me. I had some few friends of course, but the rank and file of humanity with whom I came in contact passed me by. I consoled myself with the idea that they did not "understand" me. My inner feelings, hopes, ambitions, my highest aspirations, even my fears, seemed unique to me. Of course this is the pet delusion of youth, but I fostered my "difference" until it became a habit. I set myself farther and farther apart by drawing back into a shell of reticence. My New England ancestry manifested itself in an evergrowing repression. The world gave me a good living but turned me a cold shoulder. I was good looking but unattractive. I grew more and more introspective. I analyzed my own feelings minutely after each little hurt. I never allowed a wound to heal without first having probed it to the bottom. I was secretly proud of my "sensitiveness"nothing "thick-skinned" about me. I longed with all my heart for warmth, and offered in exchange cold repression.

My marriage, coming as it did at this time, is still a marvel to me. If I had only allowed it to be, it might have proved itself a real antidote to my mental attitude toward life, but it didn't "take." The thing grew insidiously from sensitiveness into morbidity, from selfishness into envy. Finally, I was forced to admit that even my husband didn't understand me. I was just "different." There was never any open - break, only an undercurrent of inharmony, an incessant procession of little hurts. I was continually pulling at right angles to the whole current of life.

And then

I was sitting alone one afternoon in one of the booths of our little ice-cream parlor when I heard my name mentioned directly behind me. I deliberately listened. I heard the same thing which eavesdroppers usually hear of themselves. Fortunately, though it was not good of me, it was good for me.

"Yes, she'd be an addition to the club, but..."

Long pause here. My ears fairly strained themselves to catch the next. "... so cold and distant. I just can't seem to get acquainted. If she'd only warm up just once, and give us half a chance to like her."

She went on, but I didn't hear the rest. My first impulse was to dig down farther and farther into the sand of my own reticence and hide my hurt. I stopped just a moment. That instant's pause was the "to-be-or-not-to-be" in my life. In the next few minutes, for the first time in my life, I raised my head and looked at myself, rather than within myself. What I saw was not flattering. I did some rapid and in

tensive thinking. I faced several disagreeable facts about myself. I went out with the grim determination to force myself out of my own repression. I began the warming-up process by the simple act of compelling myself, if necessary, to really smile. My first attempts were met with ill-concealed surprise. But persistence worked wonders. Instead of diffidently avoiding people I forced myself to take the initiative. I made myself inquire solicitously about our illiterate old huckster's boy when I really didn't care in the least. Gradually I found it less difficult to affect the solicitude. It became genuine. I began to find people warming up to me. was a long, laborious process, often painfully so. My husband slowly came to "understand" me. That was several years ago. My whole world has been changing ever since. That insatiable craving for inner warmth has lost its edge. I get infinitely more fun out of living.

It

Last week a friend said to me, "Wish you'd take the visiting committee. We have a long list of shut-ins, and you have such a way-" Audibly I said, "Surely, glad to do it," and, inaudibly, just, "Thank you, God."

THIRD PRIZE

THE MAKING OF A MAN BY VOLUNTEER

IX Hundred Words? Will try

SIN

Born on a hillside farm in New England, November, 1844; two miles from village and fifteen from railway. Early years doing chores on the farm, and attended district school.

1861! Environment: An aged father and mother, a brother four years my senior, a sister eighteen months my junior. A large farm, with a larger mortgage covering it. Brother, a splendid farmer and the mainstay of our father. For farm service I was properly considered a "no account;" tall, slender, frail, hollow-chested, after surviving two attacks of what was then called "lung fever." A student in the academy at the village two miles away; carried my provisions from home, roomed with a friend, swept and dusted the school-rooms and rang the academy bell in payment for tuition; my mind keenly set upon a classical course at the State University, fifteen miles away. In the fall of 1862 came the crash! My brother enlisted; father and mother in tears, fearing the battlefield and the mortgage. My last analysis of the situation showed me it was "up to me" to take my brother's place in the ranks. I knew this was only possible if it was kept a perfect secret from the family; went to the family physician, pledged him to secrecy, and asked him to make an examination of my lungs and give me his opinion of the effect of the army life upon me. His report was: "No organic trouble, but lungs very weak;

I cannot forecast results; your health might improve, or you might go out, but it would go one way or the other with you quickly." I replied, "I take the chance." His office door closed, and I stood at the parting of the ways-at the "turning point." The highway leading to the university, as it turned out, was then and there forever closed to me; my face was toward Virginia. I must take my brother's place. How? A conundrum.

I interviewed the lieutenants who had been elected in the company, and who I had known in the academy. They skeptically consented to say nothing and make no objections if no one else did. I ransacked father's writing-desk (in his absence) and found his signature; studied it, copied it sufficiently; drew up a written consent for me to enlist, signed his name to it, and put it in my pocket-not for use against him, but to ward off any outside interference.

When the time came, and brother was ordered to report to the village, fifteen miles away, to start for the front, father (as I expected) directed me to harness the horse and drive him to the station. I witnessed part of the pathetic parting scene between father, mother, brother, and sister, and drove away. For me "fair sailing" so far, but I well knew that I was facing the acid test of my persuasive ability when brother met brother at the railway village. The company slept that night on the floor in the ballroom. of the village hotel. I bunked with brother, slept little, awoke before daylight (and before he did); put on his uniform and waited for him to awaken and dress. When this point was reached, the battle was on. When he came to learn my scheme, the language of his protests would not look well in print. I urged the conditions at nome to the best of my ability, and tried to talk faster than he could. I think his surprise and the fact that I had on the "goods" (his uniform) weakened his defense. While the battle still raged the "Fall in" call sounded from the street, and I rushed from the hall, formed in the rear rank, and when brother's name was called I yelled, "Here," and continued thus to yell during his period of enlistment.

The first six months in the army I gained forty pounds in weight; was not off duty one day of my service. The open-air life and military training straightened and strengthened my body; my lungs expanded my chest and produced a fair specimen of young manhood.

Result: A well man, now well past threescore and ten years. Conscious of having done "my bit" in the ranks in that great struggle, of having faced the onrushing hosts of Pickett's charge at Gettysburg in the ranks of Stannard's Vermont Brigade, and finally to experience a firm establishment of my physical manhood. You ask, "Do you regret the turn which you made?" My only answer can be, "No," and again, "No."

1

P

EOPLE at a distance from Chicago are not apt to think of that great city of three million inhabitants with its vast pulsating business center as enjoying the luxury of natural surroundings-woodlands and forest streams at its very door. Such, however, is the case. Eighteen thousand acres of forest preserve contiguous to the city of Chicago are the property of the people of Cook County, and this area will be increased to forty thousand acres in the near future.

The plan by which the Forest Preserve Commissioners are working will preserve for the city five large outlying parks. The tracts which will form these preserves all lie within the western half of a circle, the eastern half of which would be covered by Lake Michigan. With the intended lake-front development, they will leave no quarter of the city far from open space and access to the beauty of nature. Even when the city has grown to envelop these several preserves they will still guarantee it in 1 perpetuity a rich domain for normal acquaintance and contact with woods and streams and the life that inhabits them. The purpose is to keep them for The most part in a state of actual wilderconcentrating the necessary buildball grounds, playground appli

PRESERVES

BY ROBERT H. MOULTON

ances, and other artificial improvements in limited areas set apart for such things. Reforestation as well as preservation will be considered. With this in view, one nursery with 250,000 seedling trees has already been established on the Desplaines River.

In working out the Plan of Chicago, a vast scheme of civic improvement which was started about fifteen years ago and which eventually will involve an outlay of approximately a quarter of a billion dollars, cognizance was taken of the fact that, next to convenience and orderliness in street arrangements, the most essential thing in a great city is a sufficient park area. It was also real ized that modern cities must not confine their parkland projects to their own limits, but must go beyond them and out into the open country to provide recreation areas for their people. Every European capital has its forest parks outside of its limits, but within easy reach of its people. In this country other cities are acquiring outer territory for park purposes, and the people of Chicago are proud that their city has been one of the most progressive in America in the matter of forest preserves. There is no more beautiful country anywhere than the wooded territory around Chicago.

OF FOREST

The 18,000 acres of forest preserve in Cook County were acquired at a cost of more than $7,000,000 within recent years, and form a perfect chain of woodland about the city of Chicago. It is predicted that some day they will form a world marvel of a public recreation place as well as an economic life belt for the community. In connection with the development of the forest preserve system there is also going forward the construction of a system of concrete highways which have become known as "county boulevards" to connect up the various preserves.

For the camper and the seeker of health and for rest and recreation Chicago's forest preserves present unrivaled opportunities for outdoor life and enjoyment. During the last two years it has not been unusual for 100,000 persons to visit the preserves on holidays. Roads and trails, many of which were opened generations ago by the Indians, run in every conceivable direction in all the tracts. Traced and marked by signs erected by the district's forest rangers, these trails make the forests as accessible to-day as they were to the Indians.

In each preserve there are innumerable secluded spots along the banks of streams and at the edge of lakes where