home who took me to church socials and sleighing parties, had seemed to be just ordinary boys like my brothers. This evening I was lifted up

among the stars.

and I strolled about the pretty little city and talked to each other with the impetuosity of youth whenever we had a little time. Romance and budding May-a wonderful combination. The last evening was to close with a program, and Mr. Winthrop was to be one of the speakersthe youngest of all those gray preachers, elders, and superintendents. I regarded this as the perfect culmination of a perfect time.

T

"Mr. Winthrop told me of his new little church, of the poverty and ignorance that existed in that sandy hill country. And I told him of my ambition to go through normal school and of how my brothers had worked their way through the university. He asked if any of them, like father, had entered the ministry. I said 'No,' but that father and mother hoped that Donald, who was just a sophomore, would take up that work. I was suddenly emboldened to ask Mr. Winthrop why he had chosen that profession. He explained that his parents had implanted the idea in his mind when he was very young; he thought that a life dedicated to service was a fine thing.

"I was silent. Unaccountably I hated to think of Mr. Winthrop wasting his life as my father seemed to have wasted his. A queer attitude for a preacher's daughter; but I suffered no illusions regarding the ministry. I knew that the average minister really couldn't afford children -this from actual experience that even his wife would have been

Bill's a swell dresser

a 'social progresser;'

a luxury if she were not needed as an assistant in many phases of his work; that he must live in shabby old houses furnished by the parish, and that he could barely afford everyday comforts, much less to study or travel. I remembered prying, sanctimonious deacons and gossiping women. With a prickle of shame I thought of the wornout clothes bestowed upon us by smug parishioners. I wondered how long Mr. Winthrop's trim frock-coat would stand the wear and tear, and if he could afford a new one when it gave out.

"The three days of the convention passed in a whirl of excitement for me. My young minister

"And late that very afternoon, Dr. Burdick sent me word that he and his wife must hurry home at once. There was nothing for me to do except swallow my bitter disappointment and accompany them: I had been entrusted to their care. I did not even see the young minister again, but I left a little note for him with my hostIt was a stilted effort to thank him for being kind to me and to say good-by. I wanted to tell him that it nearly broke my heart to miss hearing his address, but I couldn't express myself satisfactorily and finally gave it up.

ess.

"What a drab place my world was after that! I began to hate the routine of house work and church duties. I was irritated at my father's preoccupation and my mother's unending patience. I told myself

that my lot was one of lifelong drudgery.

The days dragged on to the end of summer. I tried to put out of mind the fancies that had crept upon me during those few days at F. But the newly awakened woman in me clamored against fate. I was subject to queer moods, a deep reserve came over me. In my heart I felt oddly apart from my old self and desires. And then there came a letter.

"Paul Winthrop hoped that I had not forgotten him, for he remembered our friendship with the deepest pleasure. He expected to be in our town Thursday and-might he call on me?"

"I wore the blue-silk dress again and was as self-conscious as a school-girl when he came. He, too, was constrained at first, but father and mother relieved us of conversational responsibility for a time. When they finally left us to ourselves, Paul and I strolled away to the gorgeous autumn woods. At dusk we returned hand in hand. It seems that, in his mind-as in minethere had never been any doubt concerning the fact that we two, in all the world, were destined for each other.

"We told mother and father that we were to be married, and they blessed us tearfully. We were very young and happy.

"During those next months, mother often looked at me long and lovingly. I felt sure that a warning lay close to her lips, but she never uttered it. How well she knew that I realized the hardships a struggling young minister must face. Perhaps, in considering Paul's ability and ambition, she saw for me a different life than she had led. With the optimism of youth and love, I was confident that Paul and I could rise triumphant over every obstacle. The thought of working by his side thrilled me more than the anticipation of wealth could have done.

а

"When Junior was three we moved to M., much larger place, with a consequent increase in salary. But, to offset that, Marjorie arrived, and when she was barely two years old we all had scarlet fever. We were just struggling back to health when Paul had a relapse, and for weeks his life hung in the balance. The children were sent home to my mother during that dark time. At length, my husband began to convalesce, and far too soon he was out again and working harder than ever.

"But we were just about down and out. Paul's church, which had been hiring a 'supply' pastor, did not feel that it could do much to help us. I suppose the people figured that no one paid their doctor's bills when they were sick-so why

should they pay ours? We would have to look out for ourselves. I didn't blame them-much. But it wrung my heart to see Paul, so thin and worn, going uncomplainingly about his tasks, asking aid of no one and glad that he was back on his feet to shoulder the new load of debt. In addition to his regular duties, he began to do secretarial work for a college professor who was writing a book on his researches. As the only thing I could do to help, I moved our bed into the crowded trunk-closet and rented the bedroom. This was not only inconvenient and cramping, but we were in continued suspense lest the elders disapprove of such an act.

"I was so tired out and dispirited that I began to neglect first my house and then my children and husband. Horrible as I knew it to be, I found myself contrasting our comparative ease before the babies came, with this struggle. Sometimes Paul, returning home, would find me in tears while Junior stormed excitedly about and Marjorie wailed in her crib.

"But such a miserable state of affairs could not last forever. Gradually I began to regain strength and, with it, courage. Paul and I again took up life with zest. And one day he rushed into the house like a madman, uttering loud, unministerial yells, and threw a check for one hundred and fifty dollars into my lap. An article that he had written, in secret, had been accepted for publication by a magazine.

"Encouragement was all that Paul needed. He began to write in earnest during his spare hours, and I, by taking over as many of his duties as possible, helped him a little. When, at length, a prominent paper asked him for a series of articles, we felt that fortune was smiling on us.

OT many days after the last article had gone on its way, Paul handed his resignation to the church board. We had determined after nights of discussion, to make a drastic move: Paul was to leave the ministry and begin a career as a writer. He was determined to succeed.

"Some unexpected fund of nerve stood us in good stead during the lean months that followed. For another year we remained in M., while Paul devoted his time to studying the subject in which he was most interested and writing potboilers. We lived in a little three-room flat which always had a scrambled look because it was so crowded with the children continually underfoot, and a typewriter clattering busily. We considered the arrival of our third baby, Roger, as proof positive of our complete optimism-or foolhardiness-to any one inclined to sympathize with us.

(Continued on page 109)

for the opera, originally written in German, has been translated into English. Several others demurred. Perhaps some of them did not like the music which, though dramatic, lacks tunefulness.

Finally, Mr. Gatti-Casazza, director of the Metropolitan, sent for Chief Caupolican. The Chief had already had his "tryout" and had signed a contract which does not go into effect until this fall. The director, however, requested him to sing the new work and he unhesitatingly accepted.

"I

AM as independent as any man, I believe," he said to me, in speaking of the incident, "but it did not occur to me to refuse or quibble. I had a pretty thorough tutelage in discipline during my seven years as a sailor, and my natural tendency is to obey orders. I am glad to have had an opportunity to introduce myself to the Metropolitan audiences, even though the opera is not a masterpiece. I have no complaint to make. Everyone-Mr. GattiCasazza, Mr. Bodanzky, the conductor and the stage hands-has been very kind and considerate. You have heard much of the jealousies and backbiting said to prevail among opera singers. It may exist but I can truthfully say that I have observed no feeling of the sort towards me. On the contrary, everyone, stars and all, claps me on the back and offers encouragement. Even the chorus, when I come off at a rehearsal, call out, 'Brava, Chief!' and the stage hands offer such bits as 'Fine, Chief. You're all there, I'm telling you! With such encouragement, how could a fellow fail?"

With the first performance, the Indian star proved himself not only a singer but an actor as well. He displayed a full, clear, resonant baritone voice and an accurate ear. But the highest praise of all was bestowed on his diction. "For the first time in my life, I understood every word a singer uttered,” exclaimed one auditor, enthusiastically. The veteran critic of The Herald said, "The diction of Chief Caupolican, who sings the leading part in the work, is a lesson no singer can afford not to learn. No singer in English, that is. For his, throughout all the blithering book, are the words roundly, plainly, masculinely used. Against the foreign accents which are put to teasing the king's language, his native one is a treat. It is of no moment, perhaps, for they say quite definitely that the German operas will be sung in German henceforth-but just the same, it has taken an Indian to teach us how easily and pleasingly our tongue could have taken its place in permanent repertory."

It is a bit amazing to an average American citizen who knows no language but his own, and who doesn't know much about that, to hear smooth, graceful English from a man who was born in a foreign land of French and Indian parents, and to learn that he speaks at least four other languages as well; and the wonder at his intellectual attainments grows when you learn that he has never spent a day at school since he ran away from a Roman Catholic institution in Valparaiso, Chile, at the tender age of twelve.

One can spend a very delightful and instructive evening in conversation with this accomplished gentleman. One of the first objects that met my eye when I entered his room was a book, the old sprinkled calf-cover of which proclaimed it to be at least a hundred years old. It was Molina's "History of Chile," an English translation published in 1808. Caupolican reads everything that he can lay hands on, about South America and his own race. He is familiar with Araucanian history and legend, and is planning to write a history of the Araucanian people.

Apparently he has all the facts at his fingers' ends now, for he can reel off descriptions of battles, interspersed with dates, names of leaders, numbers engaged and lost on both sides, analyses of all national movements and many other matters pertaining to his people, with a fluency that betrays the scholar.

"M

'Y father's people," said he, "were the aboriginal inhabitants of the mountains of Southern Chile. Under the old tribal organization we had two hundred and four rulers, distributed among three grades. Highest of all there were four Toqui, or princes— tetrarchs, as it were. You will find the early Spanish writers referring to them as caciques. Each of these governed five smaller divisions over which were apo-ulmen, or super-chiefs; and each of these twenty apo-ulmen had under him nine ulmen, or chiefs. Thus there were one hundred and eighty ulmen. Succession to the chieftainship followed as in the English rule of primogeniture; save that if the eldest son were not intellectual or lacked courage the succession was apt to be passed on to the second son. However, there were occasionally new chiefs selected because of great prowess in battle"war chiefs," as they were designated among some tribes of your North American Indiansand his descendants thereupon became hereditary chiefs. One such selection was my ancestor, Caupolican, who was elevated to the chieftainship after his prodigious deeds of

Chief Caupolican in the rôle of the Inn Keeper, the leading character in the Wolf-Ferrari opera, "The Polish Jew," a musical version of Sir Henry Irving's "The Bells"

Mishkin, New York

generalship and daring in the battle of Pilucayquen in 1550.

"Never in their history did our race bow their necks to the yoke of another. Our tribal name, translated, means "Free People." When I write my Araucanian history, I shall maintain that our people did more to break the power of Spain in South America than any other element. Spain was never able to do anything with us. Pizarro's feat of wiping out the Incas with his little band of one hundred and eighty-three men could never have been accomplished in our country. Chile is known as the cockiest, most independent State in South America, and I think it is due in no small measure to the liberal infusion of Araucanian blood in the Chilean population."

The singer's father, when a mere boy, was adopted into a well-to-do French family residing in Chile. On reaching manhood, he married the eldest daughter of the household. When little Emile, his son, had reached the age of four years, there

came a call to the father from the tribe, informing him that the chieftainship was vacant, and demanding that he resume his hereditary place. His wife had not expected that he would ever return to his tribal life, and when he decided that he must go, she refused to accompany him. By mutual consent, little Emile was sent to a school in the south of France,

where he remained for seven years. When he was eleven, his father was injured while hunting, It was predicted that he would never recover. Believing that his time was short, he sent a messenger to his wife, asking that he might, if possible, see his son again before he died. The boy was sent for, and though it was a long, slow journey, he reached the bedside in time to be