labor, as against the buying and selling and exploiting, the robbing, killing and enslaving which is capitalism?

"This great new force is shaping itself in our world, preparing for the making of the future. And shall this new life not have an art? Shall men not thrill to this vision, and rouse others to make it real? Here lies your task, young comrade; here is your future-and not the timid service of convention, the million-times-over repetition of ancient lies, the endless copying of copies of folly and cruelty and greed. The artists of our time are like men hypnotized, repeating over and over a dreary formula of futility. And I say: Break this evil spell, young comrade; go out and meet the new dawning life, take your part in the battle, and put it into new art; do this service for a new public, which you yourselves will make. That is the message of this book, the last word I have to say: that your creative gift shall not be content to make art works, but shall at the same time make a world; shall make new souls, moved by a new ideal of fellowship, a new impulse of love, and faith-and not merely hope, but determination.

"That is what this book is about," says Ogi; "and maybe not many will get me, but a few will, and they will be the ones I am after."

Mrs. Ogi comes to him and puts her arms about him, trembling a little. "Yes, of course," she says; “and I'm glad you wrote it, in spite of all my terrors.'

"Ah, now!" says Ögi, smiling. "We ought to have a picture of this! A happy ending, in the very best bourgeois style!"