THE

HE unexpected death of Richard Watson Gilder is more than a personal bereavement to the thousands in every part of the land, and in other lands, to whom he was known affectionately either in person or-even better-by the revealing personality of his poetry and other writings. To his associates of this magazine, who from the daily contact of many years knew his rare spirit, his uncompromising scrupulousness, his high standards of personal influence, his large horizons of sympathy, his instinct and habit of usefulness, it must always seem that the noble qualities of the real man can never be made known to the world as they are known to us. To the readers of THE CENTURY, in which for the nearly forty years of its existence he has been a formative and determinative force and for the last twenty-eight its responsible and devoted editor-in-chief, his death must be like the loss of a friendly voice from the fireside, -a voice of hope and of warning, of optimistic faith and of brave encouragement toward worthy ends.

Circumstances compel us to defer to another opportunity anything like an adequate consideration of the claims for remembrance which his artistic and public activities demand. But to those who never met him we may speak of one or two characteristics that made him a citizen of great and lasting influence for good and one of the most beloved of men and poets.

The keynote of his character was loyalty. This trait pervaded every relation of his life like a sustaining and inspiring atmosphere. To his family and his friends, to his editorial and other business associates, to his social and civic obligations and, not least of all, to his Art-which remains his most individual record-he was loyalty itself. Nor was this a weak or blind impulse of goodness-rather it was a discriminating faculty of giving generously what was due to each, based on his delicate

REFORM IN ATHLETICS

HREE articles in this number of

THE CENTURY have a bearing on the broad and timely problem of tempering the strenuosity of school and college athletics. A prominent Yale promoter of the idea that the fusion of brain and brawn in intercollegiate contests assists in the university task of perfecting and strengthening character, shows how the keen and resourceful elements of American personality have built up the game of foot-ball to its present complex and strenuous stature. He is more impressed by the benefits than by the dangers of the game; but in a previous paper, "Foot-ball up to Date," in the November number, he indicated what he regards as an infallible remedy for the mass plays to which are chargeable most of the serious accidents. It was largely on Mr. Camp's urging that the distance to be gained by a side was increased from five to ten yards, and he believes that it is necessary only to extend the distance to make the game as "open" as may be desired. But what shall be said of open playing as a remedy, when the English visiting eleven, the Pilgrims, have four of their number on the injured list in their first games under Association rules?

Another paper, by a master of St. Paul's School, advocates as a means of keeping athletics in proper subordination to the intellectual aims of school life, and as a source of general physical culture, that interschool contests should be interdicted, and the whole body of pupils divided into many groups, to contest in the various games, and rowing, so that pupils of all degrees of aptitude may have the benefit of athletic training and emulation. These views, as the result of long usage at St. Paul's, are certainly impressive.

Satire is the effective medium of the third paper, by a journalist, who pictures divertingly the effect of applying present foot-ball strain, and fury to win, to intercollegiate contests in the higher branches of learning.

Our sports have great uses, but it is well to remember that emulation is a national trait which may be overstimulated, and when it is applied to athletics it becomes difficult to dissuade American youth from perverting the time-honored adage to read: 'Whatever is worth doing at all is worth overdoing."

HAIL TO THE KNEISELS!

THE

HE beginning of the twenty-fifth season of the Kneisel Quartet is an event of no merely local significance, nor one of small moment to lovers of chambermusic in America and elsewhere; for, wherever they have played, "the Kneisels," as they are familiarly known, have endeared themselves to American audiences as no other separate musical organization has done. It is often said that as a people we are not musical, in spite of the wide distribution of the piano and the general practice of school, church, and choral music; but when Mr. Kneisel says (as Mr. Mason in this number of THE CENTURY reports him as saying) that America has made more progress in music in fifteen years than Europe has for forty or fifty, it is permissible for the eagle to preen his feathers a bit, and it is both proper and obligatory to say that perhaps the largest influence in our improvement has been the playing of this very quartet. Throughout the country, in cities, colleges, and private houses, they have upheld the highest standards of their art and delighted hundreds of thousands by the beauty and sincerity of their professional work, and manifestly this has told and is telling in the musicaleducation of the people. Who that pretends to musical taste does not know and admire their beautiful ensemble, alike in classical and modern compositions? That this quality has not suffered by the changes in the personnel-and there have been but four changes in the twenty-four years-is. due, first, to the dominant artistic note in Mr. Kneisel and, next, to the traditions that have been sustained by him and Mr. Svećenski, with the aid of those who have retired-chiefly Mr. Alwin Schroeder and Mr. Otto Roth, who served the public in the quartet for fourteen and sixteen years respectively.

On December 28, the organization will play in Chickering Hall in Boston, where its first recital was given, the same program with which it made its début on that day of 1885. As the eldest of the four who now compose this honored and united company of artists has not yet reached the ripe age of forty-five it is within bounds to expect, as well as to wish, that the Kneisels may live to celebrate their golden. jubilee!

TH

HAT a youngster should honor its ma Seems a mighty good doctrine to me, Bindin' nations as fittin' as folks;

So why not this Land of the Free?

There 's her national ma 'cross the pond.
She's a little stiff-necked, to be sure,
But she's got her good p'ints jest the same,
And a name that is bound to endure.

A distaste for her seems to have riz

'Cause she roared when Columbia and Sam Were a-courtin': she wanted the gal

For herself-held on tight as a clam.

She blustered and stormed at the match
Till her racketin' hurried it on;
Waked up from her tantrums, she did,
To find the gal married and gone!

Ma sulked and throwed slurs. After while
She smiled and was friendly again,
Till she s'picioned Columbia's ships
Was attractin' her seafarin' men.

Columbia was uppish, ma sot,

So the racketin' started afresh,
And the gal, bein' wiry and young,
Again got the best of the bresh.

Ma took all these slams purty mild,
Considerin' the power she wuz,
For her heart went out after her child,
Like the hearts of good mas always does;

And she said, after all, mebbe she

Hed been hasty; and ever since thenBlood 's thicker than water-the two Have been driftin' together again.

Columbia 's got her house, ma hers;

Let each run her own; but the two Can holler hello back and forth,

And neighbor, like kin ort to do.

Nobody else keeps house as nice

As Columbia; and this ort to prove That the mother that raised sech a gal Is deservin' of daughterly love.

It's a p'inter in favor of ma

That all of her gals are so smart,

So progressive and hustlin' and bright,
So quick about gettin' a start.

Cluck knows lots-'bout es much es Dutch hired han's. 'Ith pop she seemed a nentire stranger. Cluck 'd been settin' fer two weeks on some cobs an' nails an' a stone er two.

Pop stood there in the room where mom was sick, listenin' to d'rections es how to set 'er. 'E was prejudist from the start. It took mom 'bout a nour to tell 'im the way to do it. Efter a while pop bust

out:

"Angelina, I know you air sick, but, gosh all blimmity! any boorooloogugaw can set any ol' all-fired hen like Cluck. This ain't a rectangular survey, ner instructions on a p'isin case, er cove'ture, er mayhem, er, er— Pop went out whistlin' mad. Which ain't the worst. 'E hed a basket of aigs, fer ther' was ethers es was actin' suspicious 'bout settin'.

When pop got to Cluck, he said sweet: "Cluckie, I hev come out es a ferin missionary to save yer immortal giblets. Compromez vous?" Cluck did n't understan' ferin speech any more 'n pop did. She jus' set there starin' pop in the eye. An' pop stared at Cluck, kind o' studyin' her charack-ter.

Pop got purty close-t, an' Cluck ruffled up mad. Nen I said to pop:

"How's Cluck's climatical?"

'E kind o' giggled, but, lookin' serious, he said:

"Son, this is a nawspicious occasion fer the assemblyin' of these people of our natav lan'"-I heard him get so'thin' off like thet at the literary-“Sink er swim, sarvive er perish, I give my han' an' aigs to this vote." An' he begin to chuck aigs under Cluck. She took a pick, an' lef' a little blue place on 'is han'. Pop drawed back es ef a frien' hed hit 'im unexpected.

"You yeller heffer!" said pop, rubbin' 'is han'. "Anether perceedin' like thet interruptin' the court, an' I will fine you fer contempt, you yeller sassige-grinder!" An' pop kep' on rubbin'. Nen holdin' a cob fer 'er to pick at, he begun to chuck them aigs under 'er a mile a minute. 'E put the whole bunch under 'er-mebby three dozen er

more.

"Pop Puffer," I said, surprised so I could hardly talk, "you hev got too many aigs under Cluck."

"Hollyhawks!" said pop, "I jus' 'spect I hev." Nen fergettin' 'is cob, 'e begin to claw them aigs back in the basket. Cluck took things purty well till pop efter a while lifted 'er off to count the aigs. "Thet 's so, Skid," he said, an' nen 'e kind o' bresh 'er away to count the aigs over again.

Cluck, fightin' mad, come up again. Pop kept on countin', an' give 'er a smart lick

under the bustle an' knocked 'er a few feet. This time Cluck come back, traveled up pop's back, knocked off 'is hat, jumped down in the nes', an' broke two aigs. You see, pop was n't haraiy noticin' Cluck, fer e was countin', an' pop was allus slow et thet.

Nen pop quit at nine, an' stood up. Ef a man ever was mad, pop was when 'e looked at them broke' aigs in the nes'. I wanted to go some'ers 'bout then, but saw no chance-t. There air times in our fambly when distance len's 'chantment to the view.

"Om'lets on hay," said pop 'ithout laffin'. Nen he jus' stared at Cluck an' said sarcastic: "Meet yer approbation, Cluckie? Air ther' anough, right size? An' whut about the color? P'r'aps you like nails an' cobs an' darnocks better, eh? Speak up, Cluckie; the key to the city is yourn."

When pop 'u'd get to talkin' thet way you never ketch me laffin'. The barometer is fallin' about a foot a secon'. I ferget all the things es happened nen, but they was comin' mighty fas'. I saw pop stoop down an' kind o' taunt 'er 'ith a cob. Nen Cluck reached fer the han' es hed no cob in it, an' took out a piece 'bout es big es a cent. It was a clean cut, the bigges' an' sassiest I ever saw a live hen chew out.

"Holy cracky, thunderation, an' Tom Walker!" But Cluck knowed it was no place fer her to board jus' about then. She took to the barn. Nen pop hooped efter 'er. Cluck hed a good start, an' though she was kind o' stiff-laiged fer settin' s' long, she pushed 'ith 'er wings lightnin' fas' fer the hog-hole under the barn. Pop weighs twofifty, is six feet four, an' can run fas' as a zebra 'mos', an' holdin' 'is breath, he cut efter 'er like a Nindian.

Feelin' saft, I got excited an' just hooped 'er up an' yelled:

"Two muskrat skins on Cluck, Pop!"

Pop was holdin' 'is breath an' sailin' like a quail, but I knowed by the extra jump 'e give 'e took me up. 'E could n't hoop, fer 'e was lickin' into the gravel too fas' fer thet.

Jus' es Cluck, 'ith her mouth open an' her wings a-whizzin', dove through the hog-hole, pop brought up 'ithout preparin' to stop, an' give 'er a glancin' kick es sent her clean some'er's into the fur side of the barn. Pop stopped, though, ter-r-r'ble sudden. 'E jarred the barn so thet the woodpeckers flew out o' their holes nex' the roof. An' it was a mighty strong barn, too.

Pop sunk down 'bout like a limber-link watch-chain. I was feared so'thin' was broke', an' started for 'im. D'rec'ly 'e begin to unwin' an' stood up, rubbin', jus' rubbin' an' rubbin'. 'Is hair was hangin' down

over 'is face, which was all screwed up fearful. He did n't yowl.

When 'e come back limpin' an' twistin', I said fer safety:

"Them muskrat skins is yourn, pop, an' no questions ast."

Nen we looked at the house, an' ther' was mom settin' in the door in 'er nightgown, 'ith her face hid in 'er arms, a-cryin'. Suddenlike pop got worse 'n ever, an' rubbed es ef 'e hed the Wabash scratches.

"Abe, she was like a chil' to me, an' you hev gone an' kilt 'er!" cried mom.

Pop acted then es ef nearly all his muscles was tore loose. An' I jus' hung my head an' wished I was in Halifax. D'rec'ly pop said:

"Skid, you better go fer Jake Spading an' Hi Stickle fer to sit up 'ith me to-night. I expec' high fever." Nen mom looked up a secon', and, sniffin', helt 'er face down in 'er arms again. "Tell 'em to bring all the lini-. ment an' sa'v' they hev in the house. Mebby I'll pull through."

Nen mom gave a little snort o' mad, an' teetered into the house to bed. When we was alone, pop said brisk-like: "Skid, crawl under the barn an' drag 'er out. The smell 'll