W

AR is not only ethically wrong. It is absurd. To say that national disputes should be settled by an appeal to arms is as ridiculous as the old belief that a person all wrong could be righted by the duel. Might does not make right between nations any more than it does between individuals. It is pleasing to note that there is a steadily growing sentiment in favor of the abolition of war between civilized states, which finds expression in the establishment of The Hague Tribunal and in the increasing number of international quarrels which are referred to arbitration.

Nevertheless, the good people who are preaching the gospel of humanity in the wars that do occur are unwittingly defeating, or at least impeding, their purpose. The best and surest way by which universal peace may be brought about and permanently maintained consists of making war as inhuman and as fearful as possible. The more humane war is made, the less its terrors. The more barbarous it is made, the less inclined will civilized nations be to engage in it. If we would revert to the ancient methods of war-waging-possibly, in the light of our higher accomplishments and knowledge, going the past somewhat better-it is safe to say that the days of war as the last appeal of nations would soon be numbered.

True, war is bad, very bad, as it is. That is why we would abolish it. Make it worse, and it will be the sooner abolished. The worse it is made the sooner will arrive the day of its complete abandonment.

Unthinking people have often said that the improvements in the weapons of war

that are constantly being made would in time effect the abolition of war, on account of increasing war's terrors and destruction. Instead of that, experience has shown that the modern weapons have lessened the terrors of war. The mortalities of modern wars, in proportion to numbers engaged, are less than those of ancient, and even of mediaeval wars. Long-range fighting is not so fatal as that close-range kind exemplified by the onetime practice of not firing "until you see the whites of their eyes.' The deaths from disease in the past far outnumbered the deaths from bullet and blade. Now they are minimized. The frigate Constitution lost more men in her victorious action with the Guerriere than the combined squadrons of Dewey and Sampson lost during the whole Spanish war. The modern small-calibre bullet makes a less painful and more readily cured wound than those of the old-fashioned muskets. The lives saved by modern medical science far exceed the additional deaths caused by modern high-powered artillery. Compared to old-fashioned war, the modern variety is a kid-glove, parlor game.

Here are a few of the restrictions of modern, "humane" war:

Explosive or poisoned bullets not allowed; wells and other sources of water or food supply not to be poisoned; undefended towns not to be bombarded, and the private dwellings in fortified towns. to be spared whenever possible; non-combatants not to be molested; private property not to be disturbed when avoidable, and when private property is appropriated in military exigencies, it must be paid for; enemy's sick and wounded cared for as well as one's own; prisoners shown best treatment, even courtesy and comfort; conquered nations shown greatest

consideration and even at times pecuniarily remunerated for territory captured.

These are but a few of the so-called advances in humanity. They are wellmeant, but their adoption has deferred the realization of universal, lasting peace among men. They are mistakes. should be made the most horrible thing on earth. Then it would cease.

If, instead of this "humane" war, nations should practice war of the ancient kind, the millenium would soon be here. For example, suppose war waged under the following conditions:

Let the hostilities be between nations, not alone between armies and navies. Let each man, woman and child of one nation do his or her best to injure the enemy's people to the utmost. Kill the sick and wounded; sack and burn captured towns, taking no captives, save those, both male and female, who would make good slaves, and carry these into bondage; put the old people and the infants to the sword, possibly torturing those who refuse to give information desired; use any weapons, poisoned bullets included; lay waste the fields

and the orchards, making the conquered country a wilderness; annex the conquered territory, or at least compel the payment of such a heavy annual tribute, in money or tribute, that the vanquished could never acquire enough wealth to renew the war in a word, inflict as awful suffering, as awful indignities, as awful loss as human ingenuity and modern invention can accomplish.

One war waged along such lines as these would surely be the last war of any kind among the nations of the earth. It would be so horrible that at its end every nation would disarm, the dream of universal peace, save among a few lingering savage tribes, would be realized, and nations would live together in lasting amity, forming a great United States of the World, and maintaining a harmonious international police force to repress instantly any disorder anywhere on the face of the earth.

Then would commerce, science and the arts have their reign. arts have their reign. The only strife would be that of lawful competition and the survival of the intellectually and morally fittest.

HAVE come to know three Amanitas. And what are these that their knowing should be worth. the seeking, the telling? Just three fungoid denizens of the woods, each with its life story, which, though simple in itself, is a part of that big story of the Big Outdoors, whose vast, complex revealings we should always hunger for.

Besides its own history, one of these fungus flowers has many baleful tales to tell of men's treachery, historic crime. But stories of human folk are dull in some ears compared to the stories of the Open. I would rather hear how a mushroom grows than how a mushroom was used to kill off an Emperor's enemies. You who are of my mind come with me and we will go seeking Amanitas in their haunts, sometimes harkening consciously for other wayside, woodland tales; sometimes stumbling unaware upon whispered stories, half-breathed secrets.

Now it is the lilt of the calling quail; the warbler's cheer which summons us; the glistening glide of a snake; the beckoning curled-over tips of the fern fronds; the wafting soul of a flower.

Sometimes it is the fungus fever, pure and simple which takes us forth; but whether we find Amanitas or not is a small matter if we have answered the earth call. So, let us go abroad looking for our three Amanitas, but taking thankfully whatever Nature vouchsafes to us.

My first Amanita friend is a mole-grey fungus, standing in a loose socketed cup root, the soiled white volva clinging in uneven plastering on the grey top or pileus.

I came upon it one day in the Sierras in a sunny hour, after a week's heavy rain. The sloping hills around me were chrysoprase green; gleaming white, big embossed clouds rolled across the blue, loomed over every rise. On the far horizon, jagged, mauve shadowed, snow white

heights. The air was brilliantly fresh with that sparkling quality the long rains sweep into the atmosphere.

I left a manzanita thicket, where every grey-green, disk-like leaf was jemmed about in shining rain jewels, to wander into a harping, wind-fingered pine grove. In a little water-worn gully, where the pine needles were heaped ankle deep, I discovered up-pushed piles of earth.

A Louisiana Tanager, singing with the pines, tried its best to take my attention, but in my nostrils was the faint, never forgotten odor of rich mould; damp, earthsteeped, dissolving leaves, threaded fragrantly with white, creeping mycelium, the fungus plant of which the mushroom is the air-reaching blossom. Down on my knees I staid for hours in that gully, digging out grey Amanitas in every phase of development, from the first formed, oval, covered ball, deep in the ground; the burst-through shape in which the true mushroom shows itself peeping out of its volva blanket, to the big, thickstemmed, high, white-gilled, grey-capped, skin-plastered, mature mushroom, set in the loose socket cup, characteristic of the family. Then, smelling of the earth, I went home, with several fine specimens, to my house people, who laughed at and

avoided me, not knowing how grateful is the touch of the soil.

I found, too, that I had learned by heart. that day the Tanager's song; I knew every turn of it perfectly; the spurting swing of its rhythm-that before then I had confused with other bird songs. Though my hands and eyes had been busy with the toad-stools, my ears were drinking deep of melody. It is always so; deep concentration in one degree arouses keener the other faculties, although we may not be conscious of it at the time.

I did not undertake to eat these grey Amanitas; I thought them some coast form of the deadly Amanita. Had they been rankly poisonous, as is the Amanita Vernus, my near proximity to them would have been enough to overcome me with

nausea.

I pulled them apart, studied them, sketched them, noting the ragged cup at the root, the gills which stopped suddenly where the stem springs, the thin grey covering the cap, notably the absence of a frill under the gills in the mature ones. Sometime after I learned they were not at all poisonous but not good to eat, being slightly puckery to the tongue and otherwise tasteless. I have had many pleasant moments with them, with the year as it comes and goes; January, February, March, October and November days. I do not dig them up any more, for I know all about them now; beautiful, well-formed, grey things. Interesting as a flower or fern or tree, they form part of my underground gardens, the earth blooming wold which is ever my delight.

An old Italian wood-chopper taught me the esculency of a certain edible Amanita. Often in my rambles I used to meet the old man, working away beside his fragrant tiers of piled pine. He would look up as I passed, with the open, sympathetic Latin glance and go on with his labor, unconscious.

However, one day as I was poking about in the piney, needle-matted soil near him, he asked, "Whatta you look for?" "Mushrooms," I answered.

"Aha! You tella heem good kind?"

I answered him with over-confidence that I knew something of them. So, we spake together of the "fungee" harvest; of the meadow mushrooms whose season was over; of the Purple Russula crop just beginning to push up in the rich leafpacked shade of the Manzanitas. When I turned away he said, "You go home by my cabin, yes? Alla right. You finda one good fungee by my door. Heem fine, vera fine, better that grows. You cooka heem; my! Good, vera good!"

Before the door of his cabin long boards were laid across pine stumps and spread with yellow slices of big Boleti, drying in the sun. A fishing rod and gun stood in the corner of the porch; I caught a winey whiff from a rude press near. He fared well, old Angelo, chanterelles, truffles, wild game, macaroni, and red wine of his own make.

I found as he had directed a huge Amanita, fresh, thick, stocky, creamy stem and gills, set in a cup socket, the volva membrane clinging to the yellow top in broken fragments.

I took it home; compared it with all the authority I had, making up my mind that this must be the dreaded Amanita. To be sure, the top was pale, dull yellow, not red, orange or bright yellow, but that difference might be accounted for by some local and varied development. But there was the volva-flecked top, the socket cup. I concluded to let it alone and hold consultation with the Italian on the morrow.

The old man listened unimpressed. He looked at me with the kindly, knowing smile the old give to those younger.

"I eata heem alla my life; not dead yet. Alla right, you no eata heem," with a shrug, "alla right," and resumed his work.

I went home and cooked the Amanita

in true Italian style. I broke apart the thick, flaky top; sliced the big, firm stem; fried it delicately in olive oil; added a little milk; a whiff of garlic, salt and red pepper; then, for all old Angelo's gentle scorn and my increasing appetite, tasted the savory dish with extreme caution. Two bites only, that day. The day following I ate it all without hesitation, with much enjoyment.

This Amanita is almost identical in shape with the grey Amanita; the difference lies in its stockier form; in the dull yellow of the pileus, the skin of the grey is thinner, tearing off delicately, leaving a grey tinge to the body of the top, while the cuticle of the yellowish capped edible Amanita peels up thickly from the white inner surface. There is a flakier, more edible look about the yellow one; the skin is often cracked, showing the firm, white flesh through. The grey Amanita holds to its thin, uniform pileus, without breaking; nor does it grow as deeply imbedded in the earth as the edible member.

I have found a dozen or more of the latter, growing hidden under the ground about cedars, the earth heaved up in a protecting roof over them, so one might pass and see only slightly raised mounds about the roots of the tree, not knowing that whole colonies of earth flowers were rearing their creamy pillars and fluted arches in hidden, underground passages.

I have found them again in Madrone groves; big, inverted saucer shapes, bursting through the light pressure of leaves. But they are never apt to grow high, as the grey form does. The Amanitas are not for the novice. One must have learned the expert faculty of comparing varied forms, mingling and modified colors; indistinct odors; changing, unfixed texture; must be able to steer clear of the danger of poisoning, by instincts highly developed. The smell of the death-trap Amanita is pleasant, though deadly; its taste delicious, without warning. Only by keen, oft-tested sight is it known. But when you know them well, these three, or others, you have been in touch many times with the magnetic earth, and learned many truths aside from Amanita knowledge. So, seek them, but with trusty instincts, well-guarded prompting, and look also for surprises the earth delights in giving.

Now, let us walk in a wide circle about the deadly Amanita. the deadly Amanita. A beautiful growth, perfect in symmetry, highly colored; the pileus bright yellow, red, or orange; the gills pure white; even, the volva remaining in dotting, wart-like fragments over the top; a veil surrounding the stem. Not ours is this to taste or to touch, but ours to study, think about, admire, as it stands brilliantly beautiful in its poisoned cup, glowing in the gloom of deep woods, or shining in the sunlight of a meadow. Companion with the virulent cashew, the deadly nightshade, the malevolent hellebore; strange, venomous plant creatures, which, though they cry out to the human, "hands off," still, are harmless and of good power in their sphere of life. All is not created to serve humanity. Nature has use for these venomous ones aside from our needs.

A frown is as good sometimes as a smile; pain as fine a thing as pleasure. and poison may be as useful as food. It is an every day, easy act to gather food in the open, but we have gained much. more than an addition to our mushroom larder, if one day we succeed in approaching a little nearer, reading a little better, the covert secrets of the deadly Amanita.