is democracy. These Old-World people bring the spirit of movement and change with them. It is not easy to pick up stakes and leave a native land with nothing ahead but nebulous hope and ambition. Yet immigrants do it, year after year, and find their hope and ambition justified, if not within their own lives, then within the lives of their children.

Of national figures whose fathers brought them here from a land across the ocean, we have many. The names and stories of some of them will awaken the memory to the existence of others. From there, the march can be made to more neighborly names, the merchant, the banker, the teacher, the doctor, the lawyer, in your own vicinity. There are hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of them all over the country, that look American, speak American, feel and think American, and, like the little East Side boys, are but one generation removed from a foreign soil.

Andrew Carnegie was a secondgeneration American. His father, William Carnegie, it will be remembered, was a weaver on a hand-loom in Dunfermline, Scotland. If you want to know what kind of work this means and what opportunities it offers, go to your book-shelves and take down Sir James Barrie's "Sentimental Tommy." You will understand then that young Andrew was not destined for much more than a seat at another hand-loom, or, at best, a loom run by steam. It was because he knew this that William Carnegie, already forty-three years old, took passage with his family on a sailing-vessel that left Glasgow on a

seven weeks' voyage to America. Young Andrew was then twelve years old. His father got a job in a cotton factory in Pittsburgh, his son going with him as a bobbin-boy. The rise of this immigrant lad is too well known to need repetition. From a bobbin-boy at a little over a dollar a week, he rose to be steelmaster of the United States. His father died a cotton-worker when the lad was only sixteen. Had he lived, it is doubtful whether he would have done very much better for himself. Forty-three is rather late to start a new career in a new land. But he had done his son an immeasurable kindness in bringing him here, in making him a second-generation American.

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It can be argued that a Scotchman is not as truly an immigrant as is the man coming from a country speaking a different language. Here then is the outline of the career of the son of a man who came from Bavaria. The father of Adolph S. Ochs, publisher of the "New York Times," was a Bavarian Jew who came to America in 1844, settling in Cincinnati. He was a student and a scholar, entirely unfitted for the business career he expected to carry on in his new homeland. So fully did he become a citizen of the country of his adoption that when the Mexican War broke out he enlisted. During the Civil War he served as an officer. Adolph Ochs was born in 1858. His schooling was of short duration; his father could not afford to keep the boy at a desk. At ten he sold newspapers; at fourteen he was working as a printer's devil on a newspaper in Knoxville, Tennessee. At fifteen he was a news

paper compositor, and at twenty he owned the "Chattanooga Daily Times." From then on, his rise was amazing. At thirty-eight, the son of the unsuccessful immigrant from Bavaria was the owner of the "New York Times." He is seventy to-day, and his power has increased with the years.

If this were not a story of men who took advantage of the opportunities offered by this country to rise above the positions held by their fathers who came as immigrants, then the late Joseph Pulitzer, most picturesque figure in the newspaper world, could be mentioned in the same breath with Adolph S. Ochs. Joseph Pulitzer was a first-generation American, a boy of eighteen when he came here, alone, from Budapest.

Edward Bok was brought to the United States by his parents when he was six. The elder Bok had been an influential man in Den Helder. Reverses made him come to America. He tried long and hard to rehabilitate himself but without success. The Boks lived in a tenement in Brooklyn. At thirteen young Edward had to give up his schooling and take his place as breadwinner for the family. He began as an office-boy with the Western Union Telegraph Company. At twenty-five he was editor of the "Ladies' Home Journal," not a short step for a poor little immigrant who could not speak the language of his classmates when he first entered the school-room.

Also of Dutch extraction, albeit of English birth, the late Samuel Gompers, was another national figure who found his stride in this country. He was thirteen when his father, like Andrew Carnegie's, gathered his fam

ily together and set sail on a seven weeks' voyage to America. They landed at Castle Garden in 1863. At the beginning, young Samuel followed the trade of his father, a cigarmaker. His home was on the East Side of New York. His rise to leadership of American labor is too well known to need retelling. But certain it is that people who saw the little kid playing in the East Side of London and, later, working in the East Side of New York did not imagine that his name would go down in American history as a contributing force in the shaping of labor policies.

German, Scotch, Dutch, these are but three nationalities that have helped season America's melting-pot. In the Middle West and the Far West we find representatives from Scandinavian countries. They can boast of a number of national figures, men whose fathers had tilled the soil of Norway or Sweden. Such a one is Jacob Aall Ottesen Preus, former governor of Minnesota. He was born in Wisconsin, the son of a Norwegian immigrant. In 1920, when he was but thirty-seven years old, he was elected governor.

A story similar to his is that of Henrik Shipstead, son of Saave and Christine Shipstead, both from Norway. Young Henrik went through the State Normal School, then a dental school, and decided to settle down to the business of doctoring people's molars. Politics, however, had a greater lure than teeth, and after serving in the Minnesota House of Representatives, he was elected to the United States Senate for the term 1923-29.

Or consider Ole Hanson, famous as the mayor of Seattle. He, too,

was born of Norwegian immigrants who settled in Wisconsin. His career was a variegated one. At thirteen he taught school; at seventeen he clerked for a lawyer; at nineteen he had passed the bar examination but was too young to practise law; at twenty he was a salesman of drug sundries. Ill health made him move to Seattle, where he became in turn a grocery clerk, a grocer in his own right, a real-estate dealer, and at last a politician. In 1919 he rose In 1919 he rose to national prominence when as mayor of Seattle he quelled a serious strike riot. Surely this is a typical American story.

Magnus Johnson, the Swede who was sent to the United States Senate by the State of Minnesota, should be mentioned as a first-generation immigrant who caught the stride of the new country with amazing swiftness. He came to Wisconsin when he was twenty; his first job was that of lumberman. And while considering our citizens who come from Europe's northern lands, we should not forget that the father of Charles A. Lindbergh, the young American flyer, was the son of a Swedish immigrant.

The seven Guggenheim sons, offspring of Meyer Guggenheim, immigrant from Langnau, Switzerland, are striking examples of the constructive contributions made to American life by immigrant blood. Meyer Guggenheim landed in Philadelphia in 1848, beginning his American adventure by carrying a pack on his back and peddling laces and dainties in the country districts surrounding the city. Not for long, however, did this continue. In the late sixties he was importing laces from Switzerland and building up the business in which

all of his sons got their training. The ownership of a mine in Leadville, Colorado, was accidental, rising out of a loan he had made to a friend. It is this incident apparently which started his sons on their careers, for virtually all of them have shown their talent and business acumen in the mining and smelting field. Isaac, Daniel, Murry, Solomon, Benjamin, Simon, William, all have put their hands and minds to the work of extracting precious metal from the earth. To-day their interests extend to Alaska, Mexico and the Congo. Their possessions in the United States stretch across the continent.

Yet they have not limited their services to the acquisition of wealth. One of them, Simon, has several times been United States senator for Colorado. All of them have been generous in their contributions to civic and philanthropic work. Not the least of this is their interest in art, science, and international cultural relations; in all these directions the Guggenheim millions have been conspicuous.

A family group similar to the Guggenheims is the Gimbel family, merchants in Philadelphia, Milwaukee, New York and Paris. Adam Gimbel, the immigrant from Germany, began with a peddler's pack in Vincennes, Indiana. It was here his seven sons were born, and it was under his tutelage they learned the business of retail selling, serving a valuable apprenticeship behind their father's counter.

In this story of immigrants and sons who have proved their standing as Americans as well as the richness. of the country's opportunities, Michael Idvorsky Pupin, native of Idvor, Hungary, should not be for

gotten. Like Joseph Pulitzer and Magnus Johnson, he was a firstgeneration immigrant. He landed at Castle Garden at the age of fifteen, alone, inarticulate, friendless. Today he is without peer in his field. Among other things, he is professor of electromechanics at Columbia University and president of the Institute of Radio Engineers.

It is not difficult to pile up these facts. Present-day America is full of instances of this type. The names take their places in business, in science, in politics, in the professions. And if art can be called national, neither are they here absent. David Belasco, son of English immigrants of Portuguese extraction, is one of them; Alma Gluck, daughter of Rumanian voyageurs, is another; Mary Garden, brought here from Aberdeen, Scotland, at the age of six, is a third.

Several years ago, at the American Academy in Rome, the writer met Salvatore Lascari, the son of Sicilian immigrants who had come to live in New York's Little Italy. Lascari was a fellow in painting at the Academy and had already made his reputation in this country. His idea of a good time was to come home to America and break bread with his old friends on the East Side where he had spent his childhood. He was studying in the land of his birth, but home to him was America. He is back in New York to-day doing work as rich as the promises that sent him to Italy. His wife, Hilda Kristina Lascari, is a wellknown sculptor and, it is interesting to note, a first-generation American born in Sweden.

One does not have to stop at New

York or at national figures to show the continual march of progress of immigrant blood and to prove that the doors of opportunity are still open wide. Every part of the country and every rank can produce its proof that the sons of immigrants are several steps ahead of their fathers, socially and industrially. In the Connellsville mining district, which takes in several towns in western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio, with populations made up of Russians, Hungarians, Czechs, Italians, generously sprinkled among the Americans of older backgrounds, you can see this growth concretely. First-generation immigrants have European bake-ovens in their back yards; second-generations have garages. The first generation gives the mines. their unskilled and semiskilled labor; the second give the skilled and directing forces. The first-generation mothers wear shawls over their heads and keep their feet bare; the second are America's own, whose foreign strain can scarcely be distinguished save by the endings of their names. Many of the sons of the immigrant miners have entered the professions. One, the son of a Slav immigrant, educated himself at the public schools of his State-elementary, secondary and university-and is to-day the principal of a high school where children of later immigrants are learning that there is no fixed slum population in America.

Farther west you find the same thing. Gary, Indiana, a town not yet twenty years old, boasts of many of these second-generation Americans among its prominent citizens. One of the bankers there, if not the foremost banker, is the son of a Swede

who could neither write nor read when he came here. When asked his name, he said "Hulm," and the American hearing him translated it Holmes. Young Holmes has been a member of the State legislature several times. His bank is on the south side of Gary, the neighborhood where the inarticulate foreigner still lives. A dozen nationalities can be found at the bank any day, with Holmes ready to help make the way for them a little easier. There are others in Gary with similar backgrounds and stories, Norwegians, Germans, Russians, Greeks, all products of American opportunity.

I went

Wherever there are immigrants the same thing is found. You see it even in New England where the foreigner has been slower to enter. I went through a little mill town very near the birthplace of President Coolidge, where the large majority of workers are men and women whose fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers have stood at the looms. The man who took me through the building was a weaver, a member of an old family in the community. His English was that of the Bible and Dickens. His father, he said, had worked in the same mill, and his father's father before him. His children, in all probability, will also work in the mill. But of one thing I am certain. The children of the Pole at the loom beside him will not work in the mill. They will go to high school and college and get away from the monotonous grind of throwing a shuttle. They will not stay in the niche made

for them by their fathers. The spirit of restlessness is still alive in them. In time they too may settle down and be satisfied with being one of the old families of the community, but in the interim they march onward just as did the sons of the Mayflower immigration.

What is true of one place is true of another. What is true of New York is true of Pennsylvania; what is true of Pennsylvania is true of Minnesota; what is true of Minnesota is true of California. Certainly the Japanese would be among the wealthiest groups in California if they were permitted to own land.

All this does not mean that it is only the immigrant and his son who take advantage of the richness of this country's opportunities. America was made and is being made by Americans. For Andrew Carnegie we have Elbert H. Gary; for Adolph S. Ochs, Cyrus H. K. Curtis; for Michael I. Pupin, Thomas A. Edison; all men who began in very humble American homes. American industry and commerce are full of examples of this kind. This is the American tradition. ican tradition. The next generation will have its leaders culled impartially from those who have brains and genius to offer to the country. Among them will be men whose forefathers came here in the early days of the nation's history and those who came but recently. Progress, democracy, civilization, make no distinctions. They are interested only in results. Sons of immigrants can remind us of that.