His America

by Susan Glaspell

He hated to see the reporter go. With the closing of that door itseemed certain that there was no putting it off any longer.But even when the man's footsteps were at last sounding on thestairway, he still clung to him."Father," he asked, fretfully, "why do you always talk to thosefellows?"Herman Beckman turned in his chair and stared at his son. Then helaughed. "Now, that's a fine question to come from the honour man ofa law school! I hope, Fritz, that your oration to-night is going tohave a little more sense in it than that."The calling up of his oration made him reach out another clutchinghand to the vanished reporter. "But it's farcical, father, to bealways interviewed by a paper nobody reads.""Nobody--reads?""Why, nobody cares anything about the Leader. It's dead."Herman Beckman looked at his son sharply; something about him seemedstrange. He decided that he was nervous about the commencementprogramme. Fritz had the one oration.The boy had opened the drawer of his study table and was fingeringsome papers he had taken out."Sure you know it?" the man asked with affectionate parentalanxiety."Oh, I know it all right," Fred answered grimly, and again thefather decided that he was nervous about the thing. He wasn't justlike himself.The man walked to the window and stood looking across at theuniversity buildings. Colleges had always meant much to HermanBeckman. The very day Fritz was born he determined that the boy wasto go to college. It was good to witness the fulfilment of hisdreams. He turned his glance to the comfortable room."Pretty decent comfortable sort of place, isn't it, father?" Fredasked, following his father's look and thought from the Morris chairto the student's lamp, and all those other things which nowadaysseem an inevitable part of the acquirement of learning.It made his father laugh. "Yes, my boy, I should call it decent--andcomfortable." He grew thoughtful after that."Pretty different from the place you had, father?""Oh--me? My place to study was any place I could find. Sometimes ontop of a load of hay, lots of times by the light of the logs. I'vestudied in some funny places, Fritz.""Well, you got there, father!" the boy burst out withfeeling. "By Jove, there aren't many of them know the thingsyou know!""I know enough to know what I don't know," said the old man, alittle sadly. "I know enough to know what I missed. I wanted to goto college. No one will ever know how I wanted to! I began to thinkI'd never feel right about it. But I have a notion that when I sitthere to-night listening to you, Fritz, knowing that you're speakingfor two hundred boys, half of whose fathers did go to college, Ithink I'm going to feel better about it then."The boy turned away. Something in the kindly words seemed as the cutof a whip across his face."Well, Fritz," his father continued, getting into his coat, "I'll begoing downtown. Leave you to put on an extra flourish or two." Helaughed in proud parental fashion. "Anyway, I have some things tosee about."The boy stood up. "Father, I have something to tell you." He said itshortly and sharply.The father stood there, puzzled."You won't like my oration to-night, father."And still the man did not speak. The words would not have botheredhim much--it was the boy's manner."In fact, father, you're going to be desperately disappointed init."The dull red was creeping into the man's cheeks. He was one to havelittle patience with that thing of not doing one's work. "Why am Igoing to be disappointed? This is no time to shirk! You should--""Oh, you'll not complain of the time and thought I've put on it,"the boy broke in with a short, hard laugh. "But, you see,father--you see"--his armour had slipped from him--"it doesn'texpress--your views.""Did I ever say I wanted you to express 'my views'? Did I bring youup to be a mouthpiece of mine? Haven't I told you to think?"But with a long, sharp glance at his boy anger gave way. "Come,boy"--going over and patting him on the back--"brace up now. You'reacting like a seven-year-old girl afraid to speak her first piece,"and his big laugh rang out, eager to reassure."You won't see it! You won't believe it! I don't suppose you'llbelieve it when you hear it!" He turned away, overwhelmed by asudden realisation of just how difficult was the thing that laybefore him.The man started toward his son, but instead he walked over and satdown at the opposite side of the table, waiting. He was beginning tosee that there was something in this which he did not understand.At last the boy turned to him, fighting back some things, taking onother things. He gazed at the care-worn, rugged face--face of aworker and a dreamer, reading in those lines the story of that life,seeing more clearly than he had ever seen before the beauty andfutility of it. Here was the idealist, the man who would give hiswhole lifetime to a dream he had dreamed. He loved his father verytenderly as he looked at him, read him, then."Father," he asked quietly, "are you satisfied with your life?"The man simply stared--waiting, seeking his bearings."You came to this country when you were nineteen years old--didn'tyou, father?" The man nodded. "And now you're--it's sixty-one, isn'tit?"Again he nodded."You've been in America, then, forty-two years. Father, do you thinkas much of it now as you did forty-two years ago?""I don't know what you mean," the man said, searching his son'squiet, passionate face. "I can't make you out, Fritz.""My favourite story as a kid," the boy went on, "was to hear youtell of how you felt when your boat came sailing into New YorkHarbour, and you saw the first outlines of a country you had dreamedabout all through your boyhood, which you had saved pennies for,worked nights for, ever since you were old enough to know themeaning of America. I mean," he corrected, significantly, "themeaning of what you thought was America."It's a bully story, father," he continued, with a smile at oncetender and hard; "the simple German boy, born a dreamer, standingthere looking out at the dim shores of that land he had idealised.If ever a man came to America bringing it rich gifts, that man wasyou!""Fritz," his father's voice was rendered harsh by mystification andforeboding, "tell me what you're talking about. Come to the point.Clear this up.""I'm talking about American politics--your party--having ruined yourlife! I'm talking about working like a slave all your days andhaving nothing but a mortgaged farm at sixty-one! I'm talking aboutplaying a losing game! I'm saying, What's the use? Father,I'm telling you that I'm going to join the other party andmake some money!"The man just sat there, staring."Well," the boy took it up defiantly, "why not?"And then he moved, laid a not quite steady hand out upon the table."My boy, you're not well. You've studied too hard. Now braceyourself up for to-night, and then we'll go down home and fix youup. What you need, Fritz," he said, trying to laugh, "is thehayfield.""You're not seeing it!" The boy pushed back his chair andbegan moving about the room. "The only way I can brace myself up forto-night is to get so mad--father, usually you see things so easily!Don't you understand? It was my chance, my one moment, my time tostrike. It will be years before I get such a hearing again. You see,father, the thing will be printed, and the men I want to have hearit, the men who own this State, will be there. One of them isto preside. And the story of it, the worth of it, to them, is thatI'm your son. You see, after all," he seized at this wildly, "I'mgetting my start on the fact that I'm your son.""Go on," said the man; the brown of his wind-beaten face had yieldedto a tinge of grey. "Just what is it you are going to say?""I call it 'The New America,' a lot of this talk about doing things,the glory of industrial America, the true Americans the men ofconstructive genius, the patriotism of railroad and factorybuilding, a eulogy of railroad officials and corporationpresidents," he rushed on with a laugh. "Singing the song ofCapital. Father, can't you see why?"The old man had risen. "Tell me this," he said. "None of it mattersmuch, if you just tell me this: You believe these things?You've thought it all out for yourself--and you feel thatway? You're honest, aren't you, Fritz?" He put that last in awhisper.The boy made no reply; after a minute the man sank back to hischair. The years seemed coming to him with the minutes.Fred was leaning against the wall. "Father," he said at last, "Ihope you'll let me be a little roundabout. It's only fair to me tolet me ramble on a little. I've got to put it all right before youor--or--You know, dad,"--he came back to his place by the table,"the first thing I remember very clearly is those men, your partymanagers, coming down to the farm one time and asking you to run forGovernor. How many times is it you've run for Governor, father?" Heput the question slowly."Five," said the man heavily."I don't know which time this was; but you didn't want to. You weresorry when you saw them coming. I heard some of the talk. You talkedabout your farm, what you wanted to do that summer, how you couldn'tafford the time or the money. They argued that you owed it to theparty--they always got you there; how no other man could hold downmajorities as you could--a man like you giving the best years of hislife to holding down majorities! They said you were the one managainst whom no personal attack could be made. And when there was somuch to fight, anyway--oh, I know that speech by heart! They've madegreat capital of your honesty and your clean life. In fact, they'veheld that up as a curtain behind which a great many things could goon. Oh, you didn't know about them; you were out in front ofthe curtain, but I haven't lived in this town without finding outthat they needed your integrity and your clean record pretty bad!"That was out on the side porch. Mother had brought out somebuttermilk, and they drank it while they talked. You put up a goodfight. Your time was money to you at that time of year; a manshouldn't neglect his farm--but you never yet could hold out againstthat 'needing-you' kind of talk. They knew there was no chance foryour election. You knew it. But it takes a man of just your grit toput any snap into a hopeless campaign."Mother cried when you went to drive them back to town. You see, Iremember all those things. She told about how hard you would work,and how it would do no good--that the State belonged to the otherparty. She talked about the farm, too, and the addition she hadwanted for the house, and how now she wouldn't have it. Mother feltpretty bad that night. She's gone through a lot of those times."There was a silence."You were away a lot that summer, and all fall. You looked prettywell used up when you came home, but you said that you had held downmajorities splendidly."Again there was silence. It was the silences that seemed to besaying the most."You had one term in Congress--that's the only thing you ever had.Then you did so much that they concentrated in your district and sawto it that you never got back. Julius Caesar couldn't have beenelected again," he laughed harshly."Father," the boy went on, after a pause, "you asked me if I werehonest. There are two kinds of honesty. The primitive kind--likeyours--and then the kind you develop for yourself. Do I believe thethings I'm going to say to-night? No--not now. But I'll believe themmore after I've heard the applause I'm sure to get. I'll believethem still more after I've had my first case thrown to me by ourrailroad friends who own this State. More and more after I've saidthem over in campaigning next fall, and pretty soon I'll be so sureI believe them that I really will believe them--and that," heconcluded, flippantly, "is the new brand of American honesty. Why,any smart man can persuade himself he's not a hypocrite!""My God!" it wrenched from the man. "This? If you'dstolen money--killed a man--but hypocrisy, cant--the very thing I'vefought hardest, hated most! You lived all your life with me to learnthis?""I lived all my life with you to learn what pays, and what doesn't.I lived all my life with you to learn from failure the value ofsuccess.""I never was sure I was a failure until this hour.""Father! Can't you see--""Oh, don't talk to me!" cried the old man, rising, reachingout his fist as though he would strike him. "Son of mine sittingthere telling me he is fixing up a brand of honesty for himself!"The boy grew quieter as self-restraint left his father. "I meanthat--just that," he said at last. "Let a man either give or get. Ifhe gives, let it be to the real thing. There are two Americas. TheAmerica of you dreamers--and then the real America. Yours is anidea--an idea quite as much as an ideal. I don't think you have theslightest comprehension of how far apart it is from the realAmerica. The people who dream of it over in Europe are a great dealnearer it than you people who work for it here. Father, the spiritof this country flows in a strong, swift, resistless current. Younever got into it at all. Your kind of idealists influence it aboutas much--about as much as red lights burned on the banks of thegreat river would influence the current of that river. You're notof it. You came here, throbbing with the love for America;and with your ideal America you've fought the real, and you'veworked and you've believed and you've sacrificed. Father, what'sthe use? In this State, anyway, it's hopeless. It has been sothrough your lifetime; it will be through mine."The man sat looking at him. He felt that he should say something,but the words did not come--held back, perhaps, by a sense of theiruselessness. It was not so much what Fred said as it was the look inhis eyes as he said it. There was nothing impetuous or youthfulabout that look, nothing to be laughed at or argued away. He hadalways felt that Fred had a mind which saw things straight, saw themin their right relations, and at that moment he had no words toplead for what Fred called the America of the dreamers."I'm of the second generation, dad," the boy went on, at length,"and the second generation has an ideal of its own, and that idealis Success. It took us these forty years to come to understand thespirit of America. You were a dreamer who loved America. I'm anAmerican. We've translated democracy and brotherhood and equalityinto enterprise and opportunity and success--and that's gettingAmericanised. Now, father," he sought refuge in the tone ofevery-day things, "you'll get used to it--won't you? I don't expectyou to feel very good about it, but you aren't going to be broken upabout it--are you? After all, father," laughing and moving about asif to break the seriousness of things, "there's nothing criminalabout being one of the other fellows--is there? Just remember thatthere are folks who even think it's respectable!" The fatherhad risen and picked up his hat. "No, Fred," he said, with a sadnessin which there was great dignity, "there is nothing criminal in itif a man's conviction sends him that way. But to me there issomething--something too sad for words in a man's selling his ownsoul.""Father! How extravagant! Why is it selling one's soul to sitdown and figure out what's the best thing to do?" He hesitated,hating to add hurt to hurt, not wanting to say that his father'sfight should have been with the revolutionists, that his life wasineffective because, seeing his dream from within a dream, histhinking had been muddled. He only said: "As I say, father, it's aquestion of giving or getting. I couldn't even give in your way. AndI've seen enough of giving to want a taste of getting. I want tomake things go--and I see my chance. Why father," he laughed, tryingto turn it, "there's nothing so American as wanting to make thingsgo."He looked at him for a long minute. "My boy," he said, "I fear youare becoming so American that I am losing you.""Father," the boy pleaded, affectionately, "now don't--"The old man held up his hand. "You've tried to make me understandit," he said, "and succeeded. You can't complain of the way you'vesucceeded. I don't know why I don't argue with you--plead; there arethings I could say--should say, perhaps--but something assures me itwould be useless. I feel a good many years older than I did when Icame into this room, but the reason for it is not that you'rejoining the other party. You know what I think of the men whocontrol this State, the men with whom you desire to cast your lot,but I trust the years I've spent fighting them haven't made a bigotof me. It's not joining their party--it's using it--makesthis the hardest thing I've been called upon to meet.""Father, don't look like that! How do you think I am going to get upand speak tonight with that face before me?""You didn't think, did you," the man laughed bitterly, "that I wouldinspire you to your effort?"The boy stood looking at his father, a strange new fire in his eyes."Yes," he said, quietly, tenderly, "you will inspire me. When I getup before those men tonight I'm going to see the picture of that boystraining for his first glimpse of New York Harbour. I'm going tothink for just a minute of the things that boy brought withhim--things he has never lost. And then I'll see you as you standhere now---it will be enough. What I need to do is to get mad. If Ifalter I'll just think of some of those times when you came homefrom your campaigns--how you looked--what you said. It will bringthe inspiration. Father, I figure it out like this. We're going toget it back. We're going to get what's coming to us. There's anotherAmerica than the America of you dreamers. To yours you have given;from mine I will get. And the irony of it--don't think I don't seethe irony of it--is that I will be called the real American. Do youknow what I'm going to do? I'm going to make the railroads of thisState--oh, it sounds like schoolboy talk, but just give me a littletime--I'm going to make the railroads of this State pay off everycent of that mortgage on your farm! Father," he finished,impetuously, in a last appeal, "you're broken up now, disappointed,but would you honestly want me to travel the road you've traveled?""My boy," answered the old man, and the tears came with it, "Iwanted you to travel the road of an honest man."Herman Beckman did not go to the commencement exercises that night.There was no train home until morning, so he had the night to spendin town. He was alone, for his friends assumed that he would be outat the university. But he preferred being alone.He sat in his room at the hotel, reading. And he could read. Yearsof discipline stood him in good stead now. His life had taught himto read anywhere, at any time. He had never permitted himself theluxury of not being "in the mood." It was only the men who had goneto college who could do that. He had to read. He alwayscarried some little book with him, for how did a man know that hemight not have to wait an hour for a train somewhere? The man had asimple-minded veneration for knowledge. He wanted to know aboutthings. And he had never learned to pretend that he didn't want toknow. He quite lacked the modern art of flippancy. He believed ingreat books.And so on the night that his son was being graduated from college hesat in his room at the hotel--cheap room in a mediocre hotel; he hadnever learned to feel at home in the rich ones--reading MarcusAurelius. But his hand as he turned the pages trembled as the handof a very old man. At midnight some reporters came in to ask himwhat he thought of his son's oration. They wanted a statement fromhim.He told them that he had never believed the sins of a parent shouldbe visited on a child, and that it was even so with the thought. Hehad always contended that a man should do his own thinking. Thecontention applied to his son."Gamey old brute!" was what one of the reporters said in theelevator.He could not read Marcus Aurelius after that. He went to bed, but hedid not sleep. Many things passed before him. His anticipations, hisdreams for Fritz, had brought the warmest pleasure of his stern,unrelaxing life. There was a great emptiness tonight. What was a manto turn to, think about, when he seemed stripped, not only of thefuture, but of the past? He seemed called upon to readjust the wholeof his life, giving up that which he had held dearest. What wasleft? Daylight found him turning it over and over.In the morning he went home. He got away without seeing any of hisfriends.He did not try to read this morning; somehow it seemed there was nouse in trying to read any more. He watched the country through whichthey were passing, thinking of the hundreds of times he had riddenover it in campaigning. He wondered, vaguely, just how much money hehad spent on railroad fare--he had never accepted mileage. Fred's"What's the use?" kept ringing in his ears. There was somethingabout that phrase which made one feel very tired and old. It evenseemed there was no use looking out to see how the crops weregetting on. What's the use? What's the use? Was that a phraseone learned in college?There had been two things to tell "mother" that night. The first wasthat he had stopped in town and told Claus Hansen he could have thatsouth hundred and sixty he had been wanting for two years.It was not easy to tell the woman who had worked shoulder toshoulder with him for thirty years, the woman who during those yearshad risen with him in the early morning and worked with him untildarkness rescued the weary bodies, that in their old age they mustsurrender the fruit of their toil. They would have left just whatthey had started with. They had just held their own.Coming down on the train he had made up his mind that if Hansen werein town he would tell him that he could have the land. He felt sovery tired and old, so bowed down with Fred's "What's the use?" thathe saw that he himself would never get the mortgage paid off. AndFred had said something about making the railroads pay it. He didnot know just how the boy figured that out--indeed, he was getting alittle dazed about the whole thing--but if Fritz had any idea ofhaving the railroads pay off the mortgage on his farm--hecouldn't forget how the boy looked when he said it, face white, eyesburning--he would see to it right now that there was no chance ofthat.He tried not to look at the land as he drove past it on the wayhome. He wondered just how much campaign literature it had paid for.He wondered if he would ever get used to seeing Claus Hansen puttingup his hay over there in that field.He had felt so badly about telling mother that he told it verybluntly. And because he felt so sorry for her he said not one kindword, but just sat quiet, looking the other way.She was clearing off the table. He heard her scraping out the potatodish with great care. Then she was coming over to him. She cameawkwardly, hesitatingly--her life had not schooled her in meetingemotional moments beautifully--but she laid her hand upon him,patted him on the shoulder as one would a child. "Never mind,papa--never you mind. It will make it easier for us. There's enoughleft--and it will make it easier. We're getting on--we're--" Thereshe broke off abruptly into a vigorous scolding of the dog, who waslifting covetous nostrils to a piece of meat.That was all. And there was no woman in the country had workedharder. And Martha was ambitious; she liked land, and she did notlike Claus Hansen's wife.Yes, he had had a good wife.Then there was that other thing to tell her--about Fritz. That washarder.Mother had not gone up to the city to hear Fritz "speak" because herfeet were bothering her, and she could not wear her shoes. He hadhad a vague idea of how disappointed she was, though she had saidvery little about it. Martha never had been one to say much aboutthings. When he came back, of course she had wanted to know allabout it, and he had put her off. Now he had to tell her.It was much harder; and in the telling of it he broke down.This time she did not come over and pat his shoulder. Perhaps Marthaknew--likely she had never heard the word intuition, but, anyway,she knew--that it was beyond that.It seemed difficult for her to comprehend. She was bewildered tofind that Fritz could change parties all in a minute. She seemed tograsp, first of all, that it was disrespectful to his father. Someboys at school had been putting notions into his head.But gradually she began to see it. Fritz wanted to make money. Fritzwanted to have it easier. And the other people did "have it easier."It divided her feeling: sorry and indignant for the father, secretlyglad and relieved for the boy. "He will have it easier than we hadit, papa," she said at the last. "But it was not right of Fritz,"she concluded, vaguely but severely.As she washed the dishes Martha was thinking that likely Fritz'swife would have a hired girl.Then Martha went up to bed. He said that he would come in a fewminutes, but many minutes went by while he sat out on the side porchtrying to think it out.The moon was shining brightly down on that hundred and sixty whichClaus Hansen was to have. And the moon, too, seemed to be saying:"What's the use?"Well, what was the use? Perhaps, after all, the boy wasright. What had it all amounted to? What was there left? What had hedone?Two Americas, Fred had said, and his but the America of thedreamers. He had always thought that he was fighting for the real.And now Fred said that he had never become an American at all.From the time he was twelve years old he had wanted to be anAmerican. A queer old man back in the German village--an old man, herecalled strangely now, who had never been in America--told himabout it. He told how all men were brothers in America, how the poorand the rich loved each other--indeed, how there were no poor andrich at all, but the same chance for every man who would work. Hetold about the marvellous resources of that distant America--gold inthe earth, which men were free to go and get, hundreds upon hundredsof miles of untouched forests and great rivers--all for men to use,great cities no older than the men who were in them, which men atthat present moment were making--every man his equal chance.He told of rich land which a man could have for nothing, which wouldbe his, if he would but go and work upon it. In the heart ofthe little German boy there was kindled then a fire which the yearshad never put out. His cheeks grew red, his eyes bright and verydeep as he listened to the story. He went home that night anddreamed of going to America. And through the years of his boyhood,penny by penny, he saved his money for America. It was his dream. Itwas the passion of his life. More plainly than the events ofyesterday, he remembered his first glimpse of those wonderfulshores--the lump in his throat, the passionate excitement, theuplift. Leaning over the railing of his boat, staring, searching,penetrating, worshipping, he lifted up his heart and sent out hispledge of allegiance to the new land. How he would love America,work for it, be true to it!He had three dollars and sixty cents in his pocket when he steppedupon American soil. He wondered if any man had ever felt richer. Forhad he not reached the land where there was an equal chance forevery man who would work, where men loved each other as brothers,and where the earth itself was so rich and so gracious in itsofferings?The old man crossed one leg over the other--slowly, stiffly. It madehim tired and stiff now just to think of the work he had donebetween that day and this.But there was something which he had always had--that something washis America. That had never wavered, though he soon learnedthat between it and realities were many things which were wrong andunfortunate. With the whole force and passion of his nature, withall his single mindedness--would some call it simple mindedness?--hethrew himself into the fight against those things which wereblurring men's vision of his America. No work, no sacrifice was toogreat, for America had enemies who called themselves friends, menwho were striking heavy blows at that equal chance for every man.When he failed, it was because he did not know enough; he must work,he must study, he must think, in order to make more real to othermen the America which was in his heart. He must fight for it becauseit was his.And now it seemed that the end had come; he was old, he was tired,he was not sure. Claus Hansen would have his land and his son wouldjoin hands with the things which he had spent his life in fighting.And far deeper and sadder and more bitter than that, he had nottransmitted the America of his heart even to his own son. He was notleaving someone to fight for it in his stead, to win where he hadfailed. Fred saw in it but a place for gain. "I lived all my lifewith you to learn from failure the value of success." That was whathe had given to his boy. Yes, that was what he had bequeathed toAmerica. Could the failure, the futility of his life be more clearlyrevealed?Twice Martha had called to him, but still he sat, smoking, thinking.There was much to think about to-night.Finally, it was not thought, but visions. Too tired for consciousthinking, he gave himself up to what came--Fred's America, hisAmerica, the America of the dreamers--and the things which stoodbetween. The America of the future---what would that America be?At the last, taking form from many things which came and went,shaping itself slowly, form giving place to new form, he seemed tosee it grow. Out beyond that land Claus Hansen was to have, a longway off, there rose the vision of the America of the future--anAmerica of realities, and yet an America of dreams; for the dreamershad become the realists---or was it that the realists had becomedreamers? In the manifold forms taken on and cast aside destroyingdualism had made way for the strength and the dignity and harmony ofunity. He watched it as breathlessly, as yearningly, as thenineteen-year-old boy had watched the other America taking shape inthe distance some forty years before. "How did you come?" hewhispered. "What are you?"And the voice of that real America seemed to answer: "I came becausefor a long-enough time there were enough men who held me in theirhearts. I came because there were men who never gave me up. I waswon by men who believed that they had failed."Again there was a lump in his throat--once more an exultationflooded all his being. For to the old man--tired, stiff, smittenthough he had been, there came again that same uplift which longbefore had come to the boy. Was there not here an answer to "What'sthe use?" For he would leave America as he came to it--loving it,believing in it. What were the work and the failure of a lifetimewhen there was something in his heart which was his? Should he saythat he had fought in vain when he had kept it for himself? It wasas real, as wonderful--yes as inevitable, as it had been forty yearsbefore. Realities had taken his land, his career, his hopes for theboy. But realities had not stripped him of his dream. The futilityof the years could not harm the things which were in his heart. Evenin America he had not lost His America."Perhaps it is then that it is like that," he murmured, his visioncarrying him back to the days of his broken English. "Perhaps it isthat every man's America is in the inside of his own heart. Perhapsit is that it will come when it has grown big--big and verystrong--in the hearts."

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