mind of Christ. The presence or the absence of that mind in the Episcopal Church will determine in the future whether it is to be a Church or a sect.

Indian Industrial Devel

opment

After one hundred and thirty years of dealing with the American Indian, we may quite frankly admit that, so far from developing what was best in him, the methods hitherto followed have produced in the modern Indian on the reservation a lower type than the colonists found. They found him at least self-supporting; we see him a helpless, idle prisoner on a reservation which no white men want (as yet), a creature without recognition in the law, a pauper in many cases dependent

on rations.

The old hunting methods by which the Indian lived being no longer possible, it devolved upon us as an imperative duty first of all to provide industries that would enable him to be self-supporting, selfrespecting. Did we try to learn what industries he already possessed, what he loved to make and could make with surpassing skill? Not at all! Precisely the same sort of book education was givenwhere offered at all-as was set before white children in the public schools. Later, when trades were taught to the select few, they were invariably the white man's trades, at which he naturally excels after generations of employment at them, and in which fierce competition already exists. Even when philanthropists wished to give Indian women a home industry, they selected lace-making-a product evolved to meet the requirements of a European aristocracy-and offered Brussels and Paris patterns to aboriginal women upon a Minnesota reservation!

Now, looking backward after many years of blunders at what the Indians could do superlatively well when white men first came among them, we find several crafts and one or two arts that reached the very height of aboriginal excellence. Light, fleet Indian canoes weathered the storms on the Great Lakes when La Salle made his voyages of discovery in them. Who build our canoes, racing-shells, and

pleasure-boats to-day? Not our Indians, but Canadians, though this is an industry which a paternal government, committed to a protective trade policy, might easily have retained for its wards, developing it and them through it.

Certain tribes made blankets. The Spaniard, to whom we feel so vastly superior to-day, thanking God that we are not as other men are, gave the Navajo tribe its first flocks of sheep bearing a peculiarly soft, fine wool. Old blankets made from this wool, and colored with vegetable dyes of exquisite tints, were works of art, and are worth to-day just twenty times as much as the modern Navajo blankets, woven of Germantown worsted, colored with quickly fading, crude, jarring aniline dyes. The latter are impossible in a civilized home. Even the Sultan of Turkey has protected the rug-making industry of his land by forbidding the use of aniline dyes! The Tlinkits and Navajos have the foundations of self-support already laid in their blanket-weaving, which needs only intelligent, sympathetic direction by white educators.

In the Southwest especially, good pottery was made. Not long ago a lady from New York, while traveling in Arizona, showed one of the few old Indian potters how to put a hard finish on his jars. Very touching was his gratitude when he thanked her through an interpreter for this simple service by which a hitherto brittle ware was rendered durable. Those who have seen the soft-tinted, decorative Pueblo jars in this lady's Eastern home, where she uses them as jardinières for palms and other house plants, and have contrasted them with the ugly Vienna and majolica jardinières of commerce, realize that our loss has been almost as great as the Indians' in not fostering their pottery industry.

Indian women were once unrivaled bead-workers. Possibly they could not compete with Parisians in making passementerie for the ultra-fashionable dressmakers, fashions change so quickly; but some of the staple jet and steel passementerie, chatelaine bags, ladies' belts, and beaded millinery they might yet be taught to make. The writer has seen stoles made of strung beads through which the light shone as through stained glass, and a most beautiful communion table-cloth,

which were the labor of love of one Indian woman in Dakota. These suggest the possibility of utilizing Indian beadwork in ecclesiastical embroidery.

But of all the native arts, basket-making reached the greatest perfection among the Indians. Nowhere else in the world were found such marvelous weaves, such interesting symbolic designs, beautiful shapes, and durable colors. In the British Museum, where baskets from the ends of the earth have been gathered together, those made by our North American Indians easily excel; yet it is safe to say that, in thinking of Indian baskets, the majority of Americans have in mind the combinations of splints and sweet grass, colored with dyes from the drug-store, such as are offered by half-breeds on the Eastern hotel piazza to the summer boarder. The strong and artistic Apache weaves that hold water in an arid land where every drop is exceedingly precious, the exquisite little basket hats in which maidenhair fern stems are interwoven to form a striking decoration, the wonderful Pomo feather baskets that are always as valuable as a pony, and one of which was recently sold to a museum for eight hundred dollars, the flexible decorative baskets made by the Alaskan Indians, who are now starving-these baskets are practically unknown except to the ethnologist and traveler.

Now the very ancient art of basketry, as once practiced by our aborigines for household and ceremonial purposes, is perilously near the extinction point. No Indian children or young women make baskets to-day-only a few old squaws here and there in the West. Tribes which even five years ago excelled in a unique basketry all their own, no longer feel the need to practice it since the trader has come among them with cheap tinware and crockery. These poor people know nothing of the great market in the East awaiting artistic articles for decoration, as well as the more prosaic scrap baskets, work-baskets, hampers, fruit, candy, and flower-baskets, which are now imported from Germany and Japan in countless numbers. Surely this is a trade which properly belongs to our needy Indians. If the art is not to be lost, it must be revived at once, while the old squaws are alive to teach it.

It is one of the encouraging signs of the times, an earnest of the new spirit at work among those to whom the education of all our subject peoples is intrusted, that the Indian Commissioner is now planning to revive basketry in the Government's Indian schools. Instead of the cruel alienation of sympathy between parents and children involved in the present system of Indian education, there will be at least one bond added. An inspiriting feeling that everything Indian is not necessarily unworthy and bad (as has been for a century implied) will be instilled. Increased numbers of white friends will be won for the generally despised Indian when his material, moral, and spiritual condition improve under the quickening influence of an appreciated, remunerative industry. It may be objected that the art will deteriorate when commercialism touches it, but we have faith that the wisdom of a Turkish Sultan will not surpass that of the American gentlemen in the employ of the United States Government who have this matter in charge.

The Best Preparation

The best preparation for the future does not consist in thinking about it, nor primarily in planning for it, but in doing the work of the day with the largest intelligence and the keenest conscience. The school-boy is not prepared for the tasks and responsibilities of manhood by continually dwelling on the things he will do when he becomes a man; it is well that he should think very little about them, and that the emphasis of his thought should rest on the work, the play, and the pleasure of the moment. He will have his dreams, as every boy of intelligence has them, and the future will beckon him on with a thousand invisible signs and a thousand inaudible voices, to which his heart and imagination will continually respond; but it is not the future on which his mind ought to dwell; it is the present. He who thinks wisely of the present and does well with the present thinks most wisely and does best with the future; for the future is but the unfolding of the present. The wise farmer spends very little time in meditating on his harvest at the time of seed-sowing; his whole con

cern is to get the seed under the ground under the best possible conditions, and to give it the best possible care. So far as he can control it, the future is involved in every day's work.

This is true in every relation of life. Work and action ought to be planned so far as either lies within the control of the planner; every life ought to be dominated by a general aim; every one ought to be working for some ultimate purpose; but the ultimate purpose is accomplished and the remotest goal reached, not by continually meditating upon them, but by getting the vantage-ground which comes when each day receives the deposit of all that a man can give out of his conscience, his intelligence, and his character, and every year sums up the entire capacity of his nature in what has been done. They are right who insist that we ought to cultivate the expectation of good fortune and to put out of our minds the apprehension of calamity; for we best prepare ourselves for misfortune by the serenity and poise of mind which anticipates and demands the best from life. Strength comes, not from building shelters for one's self against possible disasters, but from living bravely and freely as if there were no enemy in sight. The man who is always skulking across the field seeking some form of shelter is quite as likely to fall as the man who bravely faces the fire from the most commanding position. One man shapes his life by fear, and the other by courage; neither is secure, because in one sense there is no security in life, danger being always present; but courage is far more safe than cowardice. The best preparation for the future, whether for work, calamity, trial, or task, is to do thoroughly, bravely, and cheerfully those things which fall to our hand day by day. It is after this fashion that the greatest works are accomplished; it is by this method that the finest characters are formed; it is in this way that the wisest train themselves for life. He who gives himself up to thoughts of heaven and anticipations of happiness denies himself that preparation for heaven which comes by accepting the education of life, and which is the only sure promise of the possession of heaven. We must create heaven within ourselves before we claim it as a condition.

The Spectator

The Spectator has a word of warning: never return to the scenes of your youth if you wish to preserve the delusion that time has passed you by. Should you, in defiance of this advice, go to a place where you face your youth, if you bring to the experience the proper mental attitude, you will find much to interest and amuse you. One experience of the Spectator was surrounded by the right conditions. He was alone in a hotel in the heart of the village on Sunday morning. Early he walked through-he was going to say familiar streets; that would have been incorrect. Their familiarity was geographical only. The Spectator's recollection was of country roads where were now macadamized streets. Roads had been opened where corn-fields were familiar to the Spectator. On this meadow of his youth rises a stately mansion, or perhaps rather a house defying architectural classification. A familiar house has been disguised by piazzas, bay-windows, leaded panes, and varying projections until its identity is a matter of location, not outline. Nothing remains, not even the school-house; sunshine glares where shade was remembered, for the trees have suffered by insects and time. Shade has come where there were memories of long, hot walks; lawns like velvet have replaced grass-plots with flower borders. On every side are the evidences of the architect and landscape-gardener, professional or amaThe scene of his youth was a simple New England village. This is a suburban town of wealth, social activity, and consequent division of interests. "Where are the scenes of my youth?" asks the Spectator's heart. "In memory's gallery," responds the Spectator's head, which has kept itself more in touch with what may be called the trend of things.

teur.

Later, when the church-bells rang out without the jangle that the homely poet has put into rhyme, the Spectator sat on the piazza of that modern institution, a summer hotel. First came the foot-pas sengers to heaven. singly and in groups, family and friends. Here is a familiar face. The Spectator leans eagerly forward. The face is turned toward the piazza with a glance expressing the lan

guid interest that the native takes in the transient. No gleam of recognition comes, and the Spectator leans back disappointed, to suddenly discover a bent pair of shoulders, steps carefully taken, silvered hair, but in spite of all a familiar something that almost brings him to his feet. This is the man he knew; the other is his son. The older man looks at the Spectator, a puzzled expression in his face, half smiles, and then turns away.

Ah! here comes a family in a carriage. The same carriage, the same colored horse, and the same sweet smiling girl beside her grandfather-no, that must be John, her Uncle John. Again sure of recognition, the Spectator leans forward. The rosy, sweet face is turned toward him as in the old days, but there is no bow. A large, florid woman on the back seat leans forward, and then bows half doubtfully, but with the identifying smile. The Spectator gasps as he mechanically reaches for his hat-yes, the girl in the front seat is the daughter. The florid lady? That is the girl of the Spectator's youth.

Here on the front seat of a drag is the model of Gibson's college athlete, a magnificent specimen of American manhood. Money has given him just what he needed to bring out his best points. Say what you will of the benefits conferred by poverty in developing men, wealth well applied has the advantage. Again the Spectator experienced the thrill of expectancy. Who is that heavy, disdainful man beside him? Why! yes! Wealth has its disadvantages. Is this the man whose kindliness, generosity, and enthusiasm as a boy made him the friend of everybody— this man whose face and every line of whose body revealed to the Spectator the meaning of "bloated bondholder"? No, the boy is his father with the advantages gained by familiarity with wealth in childhood and youth.

And who is this with flash of diamonds, and softly wrapped in lace? Not on roseleaves are you resting, my lady. Note the anxious, searching glances thrown at the occupants of other vehicles. None bowls more softly over the roads, none is

drawn by more glossy horses or driven by more supercilious-looking coachman. Why, yes, the Spectator remembers! The farm was never the source of wealth. A living from it meant hard work and no play. Its rocks are the foundation of a house whose beauties have been the themes of journalists, reproduced by the aid of photography to arouse the envy of the mean. Curiously enough, the old farm produced its richest harvest from that which the owner never cultivated-the view. The sale of the old farm in villa plots made residence in the village possible, and many other things not dreamed of in that time when we were young together. In the village my lady met Mr. Enterprise, who shrewdly saw that, by the aid of his clerkly knowledge of Wall Street, he could make her hundreds thousands. He has, but the magic of wealth has not accomplished her purpose in life, to shine among the leaders.

The Spectator discovered that Dives has been the fairy godfather to many in the dear old town. The farms exchanged for money brought ease of mind and body to toilers now at rest. They opened college doors to the children of the Spectator's day. They established sons in business. Dives has brought prosperity to the sleepy old town, and changed its standards.

The Spectator met the man who was the ideal of his youth. There was no change. Time had passed both by. They met with the old-time hand-clasp. "The more I look at you," said the Ideal to the Spectator, "the more clearly I see you have not changed. Your voice and manner are the same, and your mind works just as it always has." A contented sigh as the Ideal settled back in his chair echoed the Spectator's content. They sat silent in the twilight of that Sunday evening. The Spectator looked at the Ideal. Yes, there was a change, the change of realization. He was just what the Spectator dreamed, had prophesied in his own soul. What had saddened the Spectator during the day was that he had seen that for which he was not prepared. Now he looked into the face of one who was the embodiment of the subtle qualities that make our Ideals.