Courtesy of Community Service, New York

A

T twenty minutes past two on every American holiday some one looks up and says, "Doesn't this seem like Sunday?"

After all our preparations-the marketing ahead, the stocking up with cigars, the study of weather forecasts and revised time-tables, the sending of picture post-cards, the wondering if our firm will keep open and if the mail man will come here is the result. Yes, even on Christmas Day, though what can surpass the agonies of preparation for Christmas? Says the heroine of a charming tale by William Dean Howells, "When this Christmas spirit gets into me, I could do murder!" And behold her reward. At twenty minutes past two, infallibly, some one looks up and says, "Doesn't this seem like Sunday?"

How old Noah Webster must have chuckled when he wrote in his Dictionary, "Holiday-a day of amusement, joy, and gayety!" Father celebrates by reading the morning paper, tinkering around the house, and then going down to the office "to see that everything is all right." Mother toils in the kitchen, cooking twice the usual dinner. The young folks lie abed until noon. Among the populace in general what an air of indecision, of helplessness! On certain holidays the church bells ring. Shall we go? Or there are mass-meetings advertised, and a parade. But, frankly, seriously, do we feel drawn to the masters of oratory, or does it strike us that the parade will differ materially from the hundred and one we have seen before?

As for the parks, meanwhile, pretty crowded, won't they be? At various restaurants, special seven-course midday gorges attract, with music thrown in, yet the price, how extortionate! At the theaters, special holiday matinées prom

Courtesy of Community Service, New York

A bearded Santa Claus with a merry smile and jovial voice is really the most important part-next to the Christmas tree, of courseof a Christmas celebration, whether it is held in town or country, indoors or out

ise amusement, joy, and gayety-that is, if we can get in, though even then we pay dear for our seats, and it is the same show we might visit any night in the week.

Finally, thanks to a brilliant flash of inspiration, the populace in general hits on our typical American method of cele brating and-walks around.

Up one street and down another it goes, aimlessly, mirthlessly, yet cherish ing a brave hope that something, some where, will turn up to convince it, some how, that this is not Sunday. Beyond the bawling of peddlers selling badges, medals, flags, canes, balloons, and other holiday gimcracks, nothing does. To be sure, there are several times the customary number of automobiles at large; but these, instead of banishing the Sunday illusion, seem rather to argue, "This is Sunday, only more so."

After the holiday we say we had a roaring good time, and here and there a sunburned nose or an upset digestion or accounts of a thrilling afternoon at the play so indicate. But we face ar rears of work. The postman brings a double mail, telephones shriek belated orders, complaints pour in from the shipping department about damages to perishable goods, other complaints ar rive from customers who would have received our wares on time except for the holiday. And the boss is irritablehis ten cigars were a mistake. Moreover, the one man who knows where an important paper is tucked away has missed his train and failed to show up We ourselves are-well, not irritable exactly, but no one will detect in us any very glaring symptoms of reinvigoration. In fact, it is a relief to be back at work, provided that we can sit down while working, for the net result of a typical American holiday, as experienced by the populace in general, may be summed up in two words-sore feet.

Nor does it appear that Columbus or Washington or whatever celebrity the holiday was about got much out of it either. We hardly gave him a thought.

There are real holiday-makers-a few. There are also whole classes who profit by a holiday. For example, innkeepers, garage-keepers, showmen, and venders of peanuts, tobacco, and soft drinks, not to mention the dealers in boots and shoes. But meanwhile whole classes toil harder than ever-trolley conductors, waiters, soda clerks, and plenty more besideswhile the populace in general toils at its futile pursuit of "amusement, joy, and gayety" until it seems to deserve the encomium Mr. Dooley bestowed upon Grover Cleveland-to wit: "Industhrees, but naught very bright."

Meanwhile, consider what the popu lace in general has missed. Not genuine recreation alone. Not the deepening of

fine sentiment alone. Not inspiration alone. Along with failure in these respects goes the neglect of an opportunity to begin learning, not only the art of playing together, but the still more splendid art of pulling together.

On a holiday work has mainly ceased. Sectarian differences are forgotten. Democracy is in the air. Instead of thinking of itself as split up into cliques, to the ruin of broad and generous citizenship, the town can think of itself as a unit, with a community mind and a community soul-that is, if the townsmen will but find something delightful and refreshing they can all do together.

This sounds rather like a challenge, no doubt reminding you of the playwright who was told, "Right along here in the second act you want a few witty lines," and replied, "As for instance?" Yet we are not without suggestions. More and more cities every year go in for community Christmas trees, with Christmas pageants or Christmas tableaux. More and more cities every year arrange on other holidays a programme at once tasteful and exhilarating, and making for huge sociability. Community sports, community singing, community drama-indeed, all imaginable devices for throwing people together and giving them the lark of their liveswe are learning to appreciate. From its headquarters at 315 Fourth Avenue, New York, Community Service has been issuing to its workers the country over a set of mimeographed bulletins showing how city after city has caught the new spirit and, by providing a real holiday, put an end to the custom of looking up and saying at twenty minutes past two, "Doesn't this seem like Sunday?"

Among other things, these bulletins give invaluable lists of pageants, pantomimes, and one-act dramas appropriate to this or that holiday or near-holiday. Very illustrious, oftentimes, are the signatures these pageants, pantomimes, and one-act dramas bear. With an eye to business, our cieverest writers have applied their genius to scheming out di

Courtesy of Community Service, New York

A PLAY OR PAGEANT IN WHICH EPISODES IN THE HISTORY OF THE PILGRIMS ARE DEPICTED MAKES A GOOD THANKSGIVING AFTERNOON PROGRAMME

versions for holidays. No more trash. No more sham sentiment. No more tawdriness. Instead, high art, at once popular and inspiring-the sort that makes the most of the holiday's meaning and yields a maximum of enjoyment for those crowds who now go aimlessly up one street and down another, hoping against hope for a holiday thrill.

Now observe. In its endeavor to introduce "amusement, joy, and gayety" into our holidays Community Service cherishes no ambition to discourage mass-meetings or parades or any traditional form of celebration whatsoever. The same orators, in the same frock coats, can go on mouthing the same grandiloquent phrases unmolested. The same veterans, in the same uniforms, can tread the same cobblestones, while, from the same wagons along behind, the same delightful fellows in white coats throw out the same cookies to the same populace. Community Service is not a reform society. It is an organization

seeking to add new pleasures without meddling with those we already have. It provides ideas. If approached in the right way, it even provides leadership.

Considering our general helplessness as regards holidays and our general inability to guess what to do with them, it is astonishing to note their tendency to multiply. Americans still in middle life recall the first Labor Day, the first Arbor Day, the first Columbus Day. Now we are adding Armistice Day. And every little while we extend our list of what might be termed "pink-letter days," not holidays, quite, but almostFlag Day, Mothers' Day, and the rest. And once we get a holiday started, it lives forever. Even the Massachusetts Fast Day survives-under another name. By and by some joker will be saying that our leading industry is the manufacture of holidays, our chief ambition a resolve to preserve them as long as the world standeth, and our noblest claim to distinction a belief that somehow we shall pull through rather comfortably in spite of them.

Comfortably! Why, bless you, all we need, to fill a holiday with abounding "amusement, joy, and gayety," is leadership. Trained leadership, that is. Leadership that has turned the trick successfully many a time, and itches to do it again. And we know where to find such leadership. Why not make overtures? More than a hundred American cities have already courted Community Service. Indeed, it is getting to be rather the customary thing.

See the record the organization has. It was originally got up to promote playgrounds. Then, when war came, it expanded enormously and promoted war camps recreation. Since the war it has been promoting recreation everywhere. It believes in jollity, in sociability, and in all manner of good times, though not primarily for their own sake.

Primarily it believes in them because

T

HOUGH Lloyd George goes out of

office, he will remain the storm center of British politics. Leader of the Opposition, he will remain for good or for evil the dominant personality in Britain. It may well be that Ministries will rise and fall through his influence, although he does not again hold office. Warwick, the kingmaker, can hardly fail to be his rôle.

For seventeen years Lloyd George has been a member of the British Cabinet, and from the time that Campbell-Bannerman essayed the audacious experiment of introducing the young Welsh guerrilla to the Ministry in the junior position of President of the Board of Trade he has been the driving forceit might be more correct to say, the commanding force-in the British Gov. ernment. The Presidency of the Board of Trade may be regarded as the least important of the sixteen to twenty offices which make up the Cabinet. Within about a year of his appointment Lloyd George had made the office of President of the Board of Trade second only in importance to that of the Prime Minister's position itself. I remember well the first time I met him. There had been a railway accident, with twenty people killed, at Shrewsbury, and I went down in charge of a corps of reporters for the "Daily Mail." It had been the custom of the Board of Trade to send down an inspector to any serious accident. On this occasion the inspector was accompanied by the Cabinet Minister himself, Mr. Lloyd George. I can see him now, stepping over the rails, inspecting the wreckage, and asking questions in his quick, alert way. The Board of Trade inspector always held an inquiry on the spot, a private inquiry to which the press up to then had never been admitted. I met Mr. Lloyd George in the street at Shrewsbury, and on behalf of all the press there I asked him if a statement would be issued afterwards with regard to the result of the inquiry. "Would not the newspaper men be there?" asked Mr. George.

"It is private," I said. "We are not admitted."

"Nonsense," was the reply. "Here are twenty people killed, and the public want to know the reason why. The press will certainly be admitted to the inquiry."

This was the first precedent which I knew Mr. Lloyd George to break. He was present at the inquiry and practi

BONAR LAW, GREAT BRITAIN'S NEW PREMIER cally conducted it himself, and did so with a vigor, comprehensiveness, and force which could not have been entirely pleasant to the dignified official who had hitherto had command of such proceedings.

I remember hearing friends talk of a small incident not long after this. There was threat of a general railway strike. Lloyd George tackled the situation, and there were tense days in which he struggled to bring masters and men together. It was in the winter time, and as he passed into the Board of Trade offices one afternoon he noticed a group of newspaper men waiting out side.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Waiting to hear of any decision." "Come inside and make yourselves comfortable," he said.

He took them in, had a room placed at their disposal, sent tea and toast down for them and also a supply of cigarettes. An unheard-of proceeding for a Cabinet Minister of Britain.

For five years after that I watched him from the Press Gallery in Parlia

ment, saw him carry through the Budget-the Budget which was to set up changes robbing the House of Lords of much of their historic power. In those stormy times, sitting on the Opposition front bench but not in any prominence, was a tall, gaunt man with a melancholy, thoughtful expression who was destined in the years to come to see Mr. Lloyd George become Prime Minister, to say the decisive word which was to accomplish his downfall, and then to be sent for by the King to form a Government on his own account. Mr. Bonar Law was not a pushful man; he has never been anything but essentially modest as well as able. A certain external mournfulness has always marked his demeanor. It was dissipated in conversation with the kindest and most charming of smiles. He gave one a sense of disillusionment and at the same time of absolute trustworthiness, and probably that expresses his temperament as well as any short phrase is able to do. He was subordinate to the big Tory chiefs in those days and did not trouble much about it, but occasionally he stepped to the front with a speech in opposition to the Government-a speech which was always marked by the closest of argument, an adherence to fact, an intense earnestness, and absence of rhetoric. I can see him now at the box at the table in the House of Commons, rapping on it sharply with his knuckles to emphasize a point, his voice rising to a high note with a snappy precision absent in his more deliberate moments. He never had a note to speak from. It was amazing how without any assistance to his memory he would speak for an hour at a time in a wellordered, fact-laden speech, coherent, without repetition, and with not a word to spare. He was a steady workman, he had no flamboyancy. He never allowed a hint of passion to escape him, real or simulated. There came a time when, with the departure of Mr. Balfour from the leadership, the Conservatives had to choose a new chief, and, opinion being strongly divided between Mr. Walter Long and Mr. Austen Chamberlain, a compromise was arrived at by the selection of Mr. Bonar Law, who, if the truth must be told, was regarded as somewhat of a second-rater. He was a surprise. He took charge with confidence and dignity. Mr. Asquith was then the Liberal Prime Minister, and I remember how, sharing perhaps the