would be directed by official proclamation to discard lying (including polite lies) hypocrisy, deceit, and even perjury. Manufacturers, tradesmen, employees, ministers and lawyers would, for the time being, become as little children, guileless before God and man (including woman).

The benefits of such observance would be two-fold. First, having an ethical basis, it would serve to remind people that truthfulness is still a virtue, even though obsolescent. The driver would refuse to claim damages, for he wasn't really hurt; and his companion, who had recovered $10,000, would have to pay the lawyer only a reasonable charge instead of half of her estate. Tim, the office boy, would not camouflage his late arrival, but would tell the boss where he had parked till 2 A. M., and the boss would thereupon expound the folly of a fast life, citing as evidence his own experience of the night before, and his present condition. The doctor would tell his patient that his (or her) only malady was mental and physical laziness. Honesty in political, literary, and religious circles for a few days would be a great tonic, and help us to endure 51 weeks of double-dealing and bluff. There is no end to illustrations like these. Even a glimpse of the truth would in many cases carry all the benefits of a complete change.

But the chief advantage, as in the case of present observances, would be commercial. A similar experiment was once tried in Terra Neminis, a colony on the Cape of Good Hope. In that one week of strict honesty, the entire basis of business was changed. Directors made honest contracts which could not later be revoked. The merchant reduced his price on Monday, and found on Saturday night that he was never so well off; for the transportation company had meanwhile cut its rates in two, and the telephone company had done even better. The landlord had rebated 3 on last year's rent, and given a new lease based on actual, instead of inflated real estate values. Wholesalers were making better prices. Insurance rates and contracts were

changed beyond recognition; and more than all this, the employees' association had insisted on a 15 per cent cut in wages, affirming its confidence that they would be raised when business was better. The public, having faith in traders and in the new order of things, were already buying with enthusiasm.

One funny thing happened, however. Nearly all of those in authority in the government resigned, confessing their unfitness, weakness and corruption. Fortunately, their action was so prompt that an honest election could be held before the end of the week; and good men, willing to make a real personal sacrifice, were chosen. It is very unlikely, if not impossible, that either of these things would happen here. Most office-holders who ought to resign have conscientious objections to doing so and this whole idea depends on conscience. It might be well, however, to have Truthful Week before July; so that if by any chance a few political lepers, too weak to have a conscience, should be washed out in the wave of truth, we would be able to celebrate Independence Day in all its glory. By John A. L. Odde.

AUGUSI

The first time I saw Augusi is indelibly imprinted on my memory; we lived in Dragon, Utah, and Ute Indians-a fearsome novelty to me then came to town every day from their camp on Bitter Creek. One summer morning I was seated on the back steps, industriously stirring a mud pie, when a huge, awe-inspiring figure strode around the corner of the house-a figure six feet tall, correspondingly broad, moving with noiseless, tireless stride, on moccasined feet. Red and blue calico skirts swished around the legs; arms, folded across the chest, held a dirty, gray-brown blanket in place around powerful shoulders; and-at this point I dropped the pan of mud-pie-a purple handkerchief, framing a face unbelievably ugly, was knotted under a protruding ugly chin.

My aunt's cheerful voice came from the

Isn't it a lovely morning?"

The fierce black eyes lifted; a hard, ugly voice responded, "Mike," then gave a grunt. Turning on its heel, the figure disappeared whence it had come.

"Who is that awful old Indian woman?" I asked.

"Woman!" my sister Helen laughed. "He isn't any woman. That's Augusi.”

I knew there must be a story; there was. Augusi, a powerful young warrior in the days when the Utes were glorying in raids and massacres of white people in Colorado and Utah, was reputed to be unexcelled in bravery and daring, and often led these raids. One night in the fall of 1886, Chief Colorow planned a fiendish descent upon a helpless village not far from the Ute camp-and Augusi refused to go! Whether he had a sudden feeling of mercy and pity, or a sudden fit of cowardice (though the latter seems scarcely reasonable) no one knows. But from then on Colorow compelled the youthful brave to wear women's clothes, to share the squaws' work, to be driven and scorned by the warriors. Soured by such treatment, Augusi finally turned ugly; people, white and red, found it best to leave him alone. Our folks were among the few who managed to make friends with the old savage; people thought his "friendly" advances strange; so did I, remembering his abrupt appearance and departure that morning!

Knowing his story, I experienced always a feeling of oppressive loneliness at sight of that tall, solitary figure in its funny Mother Hubbard, with the fierce black eyes- a look of age-old tragedy in their depths; thinlipped mouth, ugly, sullen- lending its share to the malignant, menacing aspect of his whole face; dark skin, pock-marked until it closely resembled wrinkled, aged leather;

work which has been his lot all these long years; those same rough, knotted hands, however, which fashion the most beautiful beadwork made by the Ute tribe.

Bribes and diplomacy to the contrary notwithstanding, Augusi will not have his picture taken! Whether it is Indian superstition concerning a camera, whether he feels his disgrace too keenly-no one knows. Many stories are told of attempts by enthusiastic, unwary tourists to "snap" Augusi - with dire results. One performance, resulting from a cowpuncher's fooling, happened in the store at Dragon, one morning. Helen and I, having finished our purchasing, were watching Augusi do his, when Lee Sherrill, a cowboy from west of town, clumped into the store. He slapped Augusi good-naturedly on the shoulder, spoke, and continued his joyous course down the length of the store. Augusi grunted, and finished his business. He turned slowly, his black eyes seeking the tall figure of Lee-finding it, suddenly. Into his eyes leaped combined hatred and stark fear, for Lee, attempting to conceal a box-like object under his short jacket, was trying to "focus" it on Augusi. With a murderous snarl of rage, the Indian sprang. Lithely, the boy leaped aside, dropping the concealed object. Two men grabbed an arm on either side of Augusi, holding him forcibly. Everyone's eyes went to the fallen object-a can of Log-Cabin syrup! It was all over in the space of a second; then Augusi shook himself free. With a savagely heart-broken look on his face, he left the store, picking up his box of groceries on the way. Lee, a little white and breathless, laughed shakily.

A

T THE American Library Association

convention in May, the John Newbery Medal was awarded to Dhan Gopal Mukerji as the author of "Gay Neck," "the most significant contribution to American literature for children during the year 1927."

Doubtless this announcement will be a surprise to many readers of Mr. Mukerji's scholarly books for adults, who do not know that he is one of the favorite children's writers of the day, ranking close to A. A. Milne in popularity.

As we sat chatting recently in Mr. Mukerji's New York studio, which is uptown and overlooks the city, I felt a breath of India steal over me. On the walls hung a lovely maroon-colored sari, near it old pictures and

DHAN GOPAL MUKERJI.

a plate of rare yellow which blended harmoniously with the antique carved chest that, Mrs. Mukerji explained, had been brought from Brittany. A feeling of serenity and placidness pervaded the room in which we sat talking.

Mr. Mukerji is a comparatively young man, of rather slight but very wiry build. He is noticeably keen and alert, and much more observing than the average American. Doubtless these characteristics are due in part to his early training in India, where he was carefully instructed in the ways of the tiger and leopard before being subjected to the risk of booklearning.

"In India, the minority read and write, and the majority sing, recite poetry, and pass

down legends from one generation to another," said Mr. Mukerji. "We have few books in India, so that each mother has to pass on legends by word of mouth to her child. The child memorizes them, as a rule, before he is fourteen years old. Such training of the mind is excellent. The children's heads are not crammed with a lot of book knowledge which is only half digested and which cannot help cluttering up the brain. cells with much useless information. Nature is their teacher and the Jungle is their school

room.

"Grandfather used to say I could ask more questions than any other child he had ever known," Mr. Mukerji went on.

This overwhelming desire for knowledge and an endless curiosity have resulted in this young author's marvelous mastery of many subjects.

Mr. Mukerji is most enthusiastic about the illustrations in his book "Gay-Neck." "They are done by Boris Artzybasheff," he explained. "At first, we had rather a hard time getting them appreciated. The publishers said, 'We want realistic, not formal, drawings.' But they are natural," Mr. Mukerji insisted, "and now the teachers have educated the children so that they like them. My next book is to be done this same way."

"What will that be about?" I inquired. "Ghond, the Hunter," he responded. "It is the story of a mighty hunter, an extraordinary old man who came from the forests of eastern India, and who knew an amazing lot about wild animals. It is his life as he trained and educated us, upwards of seven years. For three or four months of every year, he would take us into the jungle. The book is dedicated to his memory."

Then Mr. Mukerji, at my request, quickly sketched the story of his life, which is to be found in more complete form, in his book "Caste and Outcast."

"I was a Hindu of Brahmin parentage," he began. "I was born and brought up in a small village near Calcutta. Our house was near the edge of the forest not far from the

town. My grandfather, father, mother, my brothers and sisters and I-all lived on the outskirts of this town.

"My mother was a very simple woman. She did not know how to read or write but despite this fact, she taught us many legends and much beautiful poetry.

"My father was a lawyer by profession, though his real talent was in music. Oftentimes he would take me with him when he went to play for the different rajahs.

"As we were Brahmins, we had charge of the village temple which had been in the family for generations. As Brahmins also, it was our right to receive initiation into the priesthood at fourteen years of age.

"The time came when I was to be a priest. After initiation, I renounced the world and entered upon a two-year period of beggary, as is the custom in our country. It is the law of the priesthood that before officiating in the temple, you must go begging from door to door.

"So I journeyed to Benares with two or three other priests, and after seeing Benares, I started for the hills. It took us six months to get there. Each night we stopped and begged a lodging; sometimes we traveled with the caravans, sometimes with the strolling players.

"When I came home, I took up the life of a priest. But it did not suit me and after a year's trial I gave it up. Then I went with the caravans into the Himalayas and brought back shawls which I sold. This wearied me very soon, and I returned home to enter the University of Calcutta.

"Study could not help me; my soul hungered still for space, for some unattainable good that remained unrealized except as a continual goad to my unsatisfied spirit. I was given an opportunity, through a traveling scholarship, of going to Japan to study industrial machinery in order to learn Western scientific methods of production. I wanted to improve India by means of Western materialism.

"I did not stay long in Japan, however,

because an Indian advised me to go to America and I took his advice.

"I came here as a penniless immigrant. Incidentally, I went to college. I had to work my way through college by working in the fields and in the factories, and by scrubbing and washing dishes when nothing better presented itself. I found colleges were places where the young barbarians are at play. It is the only place where you can play," he finished.

"How did you happen to write your stories?" I asked Mr. Mukerji.

He smiled and said very simply:

"Everything I have done in my life was an accident. Some friends of mine said to me, 'You know all about Indian life, a region no Anglo-Saxon has ever penetrated as you have done. Why not tell of it to the world?' The outcome of this conversation was that I wrote 'Caste and Outcast.'

"Then I told my story of an elephant to somebody else, who suggested I put it in writing. That is how 'Kari, the Elephant' came to be written. Many of my other children's stories are the result of tales I have told my own son. When they pass his censorship, I know that other little boys and girls are going to like them too. So I put them into writing.

Two of these children's books are "Jungle Beasts and Men," and "Hari, the Jungle Lad."

"Generally my stories come out in children's magazines first," remarked Mr. Mukerji, "and then they are put into book form. All the boys' magazines rejected 'Gay-Neck.' As it turned out, 'Gay-Neck the Story of a Pigeon' and 'Kari, the Elephant,' are the most popular among my children's stories. But I think the elephant story will outlive the pigeon story," he concluded. And then he added, as an afterthought: "Just think, not one of my books has been written in less than eighteen months and yet not one is more than 50,000 words long!"

"What advice would you give the young writer?" I inquired of Mr. Mukerji. He hesitated a moment.

"My advice would be to get a philosophy of life by observing nature and then develop a style in which to tell what he has observed.

"In India, we used to make mental notes of everything we saw. We didn't take them down on paper. When I went to college in this country, I found that the professors would ask me for my notebooks. Generally I couldn't produce any because I simply sat and listened to their lectures. And so it is with all Orientals; whether they know how to read or write, they have this same strange way of observing by making mental notes of what they see and hear. That is why you will never find a Hindu who is uncultured, although you may find him uneducated."

I asked Mr. Mukerji what book in his estimation represented his best work. And this was his reply:

"The only book that I was born to write was 'The Face of Silence' and this had only a very small appeal."

His book called "My Brother's Face" is dedicated to his charming American wife. This is the story of the author's return to India after twelve years' absence. He sees again his brother and sister, after many years' separation. Six chapters in this book are devoted to the remarkable story of his brother. Many interesting passages occur, such as the following which he wrote after deprecating the conditions as he found them on his return to Calcutta:

"Yet it is my own town, and I love it. The language of Bengal is spoken there as nowhere else. Every tongue has the style of Tagore's prose, pellucid, haunting, wicked. The first Bengali sentence that Calcutta spoke to me on my return was: 'Come, amuse thyself with kind words; the day is young, and we all know that life is brief as a sparrow's hop.' The speech of men is the ring of gold in which may shine the precious stone of Thought and there is no speech as attractive as Bengali, unless it be Spanish-'a language of caprice and orderliness.'

Mr. Mukerji is an admirer of both Tagore