thing that was happening, and from one of the visitors' cottages, where the police were questioning the boy about the band of poachers, they wanted to know everything, came screams. The police were peasants, like their victim. They had all grown up together, and now they were putting thumb-screws on him. Some one had stolen the property of the feudal lord, stags from the miles of virgin forest, and it was law that our guard could kill them. There was darkness and terror in the nursery. Everywhere the police do awful things. Then the screams stopped. My father, white-faced and with sweat on his brow, had gone to them. And the boy had made no sound in his presence, but had risen and inclined his head before the master of Dubrin. The police were sent away, protesting. They had only followed the custom of the country. Was the property not Count Andrassy's? The names of the other poachers, the names of all who were at the murder, they insisted upon having. It was something to think about through all the rest of my childhood, and I always came back to the same question. Why did our guard care so much about protecting my father's property, and why had he the right to kill the boy's brother and father and not to be called a murderer?

83

The constant emotion of my childhood was one of being pent. We must walk. We must not kick up our heels and run as we walked. My pleasures were lonely and secret. I remember once in the garden, a black night with only the glimmer of a new moon through the chestnut-boughs, I had a

vision. Bocskay, our Hungarian hero, mounted on a charger and behind him a flutter of ghostly followers, was there on the garden path. I had been thinking of him for weeks and weeks. He said to me that his work was unfinished on earth and that he could no more do it. It is not given to a dead soul to do work on earth except in a living body. I could see nothing more. Something passed into me. My heart pounded as I fell on the grass in the dew. Of all the world, the dead soul of Bocskay had come into me to live and do his deeds. I could not have been more than ten. One can never be sure, but I think I had never heard a word of the transmigration of souls. For a year I tried often to be alone, and when I was alone I waited for the soul of Bocskay to tell me in dreams what I was to do. Once before I had had a sacred secret. In the night I had crept from the nursery into the garden with a peach pit. I planted it deep, and then walked round and round, inventing an abracadabra: "As the peach-tree grows, let me grow, too, into a hero. I will write down things. I will make glorious deeds." The next day I wrote myself a letter, describing the planting of the peach pit and the great things that were to come of it, and when no one was looking, I would read the letter that I had written to myself. Some one saw me. The letter was taken to my mother, and I was punished. Always I was being punished. Sometimes for being saucy to the governess; for saying, "I will do this" or "I will do that"; or for throwing something when one of them teased me. The governess would run to my mother. In dealing with her children and their governesses, the Countess Andrassy

had one rule, it was like your department stores with their, "The customer is always right." My mother said, "The governess is always right." She would call two maids to hold me, and herself trembling, she would take a paper-cutter and perform the retribution. To this day I tear books with my finger. I recoil from paper-cutters. Prohibitions, revolts, punishments, one followed the other. We could not look at books except those that my mother put into our hands. When she read to us at night, as she did often, and that was very pleasant, for she had a resonant voice, there were always halts and pauses. She read to herself all the love passages, and there seemed to be very many even in the novels of Felix Dahn about the Roman Empire.

One day when she was gone away, and the sense of being shut out from knowing anything about life was strong in me, I slipped away from my governess and stealthily entered the library. I had heard some one say: "Tolstoy writes about everything. He knows all there is to know about men and women." Some one must have been discussing "The Kreutzer Sonata." I searched the shelves until I found his name in a book in German, "Master and Man." My fingers closed over it, and pausing to snatch up a cigarette from my uncle's box,-for if one thing, why not another?-I was swift away to the forest. It is a wonderful bookideas there for all the hours one lies awake at night, though never a line about man and woman. I read on, panting with excitement. I did not hear my governess. For months after, whatever I did, she would threaten. "Careful, careful. I will tell your mother about the Tolstoy book."

She angered me. I ran to my mother's room, "The Fräulein blackmails me, Mother. I tell you myself that I have read a Tolstoy book."

One day Zich the painter said, "Give me this child for a month, and she will be good." My mother was very angry at this. Still, she did not know what to do with me herself. Finally she decided to send me to the Convent of Notre Dame de Sion. To most girls this would have been a punishment, a strict and confined life. To me it was the first freedom: so many girls of my own age, one nun to watch over many girls, instead of a governess like a beadle with a congregation of one. The ritual intrigued me; the habits of the nuns I thought piquant and beautiful costumes. The irreligious Andrassy girl was altogether happy. She had begun to breathe at last. The new priest brought less pleasure. He talked a great deal about another life. One must be good to achieve it. "I do not want to be good," I told my confessor. There was a Rumanian girl, one of the Jonescus, in the school, whose room was full of holy pictures, and who wore not one, but many scapulars about her neck. She used to come to my bed at night and slip a share of her scapulars round mine. In a slightly nasal voice she began to mention me in her prayers, piously intervening for me. It was too much. After all, though we were nominally Catholics, and my mother certainly would never admit to any unbelief, still it was the Andrassy custom, I began to remember, to regard religion as the need of stupid people, a plebeian thing. Wise aristocrats were just and truthful and atheist. At this point the Socialist paper, "Napszova," published a vio

lent attack on Count Apponyi, who had let the French nuns into Budapest at the time of the expulsion, attacked our convent, too, called the sisters parasites, and the whole liberal press adopted this tone. I was in arms at once and began an article of my own. My heart was flooded with love for my happiness in the school. It was a burning composition, and I showed it to the priest of my Almassy cousins that he might find a way to publish it. There would be a scene with my mother, I knew, for to have one's name mentioned in the paper was regarded as tarnishing, and to appear as a journalist would surely bring down some new and unimaginable punishment. But to have one's article printed, to be a martyr for one's friends, the nuns, that would be worth it. What happened was that the good priest sent me my composition that I might make a few changes before he took it along to the editor. He was delighted with it, and especially with the Andrassy signature. But the rule in our house was that my mother opened all the post and read her daughters' letters. Nor were we permitted to post the smallest note without first getting her approval. It was a painful breakfast. Punishment after the publication would have been martyr's joy; ignominy and suppression were bitter. Only long afterward I laughed and thought how narrowly I had escaped being marked as a sentimental clerical. I began to have difficulties with my confessor. "If you do not believe, you will not go to heaven."

"But," I would persist, "the Andrassys do not believe, and why should I go to heaven when all whom I love

and who have been good to me are in hell?"

"You will forget them; God will make you forget," assured the shepherd.

"How wicked of God to use his force to make one forget! I shall certainly not give him a chance."

The lessons were as joyous as ever, and a great relief after the strain of being driven by tutors; but I continued to become more matter of fact. I went no more to confessional. I answered no more of the Jonescu questions, and when the nuns inquired if I had said my morning prayers, I murmured that prayers were my private affair and no one had the right to ask me. But at Easter came a crisis. It was the occasion on which my mother sent us all to mass, and she told us to get our absolutions to be ready for communion.

"I must tell you," I said to my confessor, "I come to you only because my mother wants me to have absolution. It would not be true to say I believe." The priest and the child argued for a long time. I was sent on my frightened way to explain at luncheon. "No, I did not get it. He would not give it to me." The household shook. Katinka had committed some cardinal sin. For her there was no forgiveness. I was silent. It was Easter eve, and enormous things were imagined. My mother wrung my story from me. It was not so bad and not irreparable. I was hurried to the liberal bishop, who talked to me kindly of symbolism, called me a good child, gave me absolution. My mother held her head high in the morning, and I became once for all one of the liberal Andrassys.

Z

ION National Park, in southwestern Utah, created in 1919, is the youngest member of the national-park family. For ten years prior to gaining national-park status it was a national monument, having been established as the Mukuntuweap National Monument by President Taft in 1909, and its name changed to Zion National Monument in 1918. Zion is not only new as a national park; it is also new to people generally outside the State as one of the country's scenic attractions. Geologically speaking, it is a "young" cañon. The forces of nature have not yet had time to rub off its distinctive characteristics, and it possesses unique beauty. In fact, all of southwestern Utah, of which Zion Park is virtually the center, is extremely interesting both scenically and historically.

The first white men to settle in this region were Mormon pioneers, who had trekked over a thousand miles westward to establish their new homes in the wilderness. Exploring parties sent down into southwestern Utah found an area of strange contrasts, with semidesert conditions adjoining spots where luxuriant semi-tropical vegetation flourished. In their search for a place of refuge in case of attack from hostile Indians they came upon the

cañon of the Virgin River. Tales of the beauty of the spot reached Brigham Young, and he made an arduous journey to visit it. Standing on the rim of the cañon, with uncovered head, gazing into its misty depths, he exclaimed, "This is Little Zion." It is still known as Little Zion, or Zion Cañon.

The walls of Zion Cañon rise to more than half a mile in height, and in some places are almost perpendicular. Like the other cañons of the Southwest, it is a product of stream erosion. The Virgin River, as it cut this cañon, struck layers of extremely hard sandstone and wore away the softer surrounding rock. This process carved many interesting and fantastic shapes along the cañon walls, the general appearance being that of huge cathedrals and temples with majestic domes and spires. At the bottom the gorge is half a mile wide, while from crest to crest it measures a mile.

Arresting as these formations are, however, it is the riot of flaming color that gives the cañon its most distinctive touch and makes it rank high among Nature's scenic masterpieces. Blazing vivid red sandstone forms the base of the cliffs, surmounted by glistening white sandstone, with red caps often superimposed on the white.

Mingling with these reds and whites are shades of yellow, gray, mauve, purple, and brown, with spots of black basalt here and there to accent the rich coloring. Another color note is given by the luxuriant green of the semitropical foliage growing along the mountain streams. All blend in a color combination that is the despair of artists.

Shortly after Brigham Young first visited the cañon, he had what he termed a "vision" of a great highway leading from Salt Lake City south to Little Zion. The line of the proposed highway was surveyed and staked, and later the road was broken, becoming the principal north-and-south artery of travel for the people of Utah.

To outsiders, however, it was virtually an unknown country, although Major J. W. Powell, the famous explorer of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado and later director of the United States Geological Survey, visited it in 1870. Still later Captain C. E. Dutton explored the highlands of southern Utah. Both these men wrote glowing accounts of the area, but their descriptions were so interwoven with geologic data that they did not gain widespread popular attention.

Meanwhile the Mormons had established their little settlements throughout the region, generally near some mountain stream whose water could be diverted for irrigation purposes, and splendid gardens resulted. Even cotton was introduced from the far-off South. The ever-increasing number of visitors to this region are always interested in these old settlements, with their gray houses of a composition resembling adobe. Each settlement, no matter how small, has its compact little church. Of interest also are the

dilapidated old forts encountered here and there along the way, which are mute reminders of the days when Indian attacks were an ever-present menace.

Altogether it is a strange land; the rock formations and coloring are different from those encountered in other portions of the country, and the people, just emerging from nearly three quarters of a century of isolation, with their simple, primitive mode of life, seem almost to belong to an earlier generation. This simplicity of character is unique in itself and greatly charms the outsider. It is my hope that the old manners and customs may hold their own, at least for a while, against the sophisticating influences that are bound to follow in the wake of new developments.

Years after the construction of the crude north-and-south highway through Utah a railroad was built through the State, paralleling the old road, although many miles to the westward. After that the highway was abandoned as a through route, and the little settlements bordering it became still more isolated because of lack of transportation facilities.

In 1910, just after Little Zion became the Mukuntuweap National Monument, Governor William Spry, now Commissioner of the General Land Office, saw the possibilities of motor-travel through his State and had construction started on an excellent road which was gradually pushed from Salt Lake City southward. The road work in the "Dixie" country was performed by convict labor under a special law passed for this purpose. In 1913, after a personal visit to Little Zion, the governor decided that the monument must be made accessible by