Simeon Strunsky, journalist and author of thirty years’ experience, is now a member of the editorial staff of the New York Times. ∆ Nationally known as an advertising executive and writer on business subjects. Earnest Elmo Calkins also made himself the goodhumored champion of deafness in a noisy world when, in 1924, he published his autobiography, ’Louder Please!’ ∆ Some fourteen years ago Gordon Lathrop, then a newspaper man, contracted rheumatic fever and lost the sight of one eye; seven years later his remaining eye also failed him. Through the help of the radio he has succeeded in making eyes of his ears; working on the Des Moines Register. he conducted one of the first radio feature columns to appear in an American newspaper. He now lives in Los Angeles, doing free-lance writing for radio trade papers. Perhaps a biographical footnote should be added about his amazing dog, Millie. Mr. Lathrop writes of her: ‘She believes in the good of everybody and everything except cats. She is my committee of one on public relations. Friendly to all the world, she is faithful to her job when in harness and understands that her first loyalty is to me.’ Jacob A. Flexner, oldest brother of one of the most, distinguished families in the United States, is the dean of Louisville physicians, Leslie Hotson, literary detective extraordinary, discovered the murderer of Christopher Marlowe and uncovered the long-lost Shelley letters, which were published in the Atlantic a year ago. Helen Dore Boylston is a former contributor whose diary of experiences as a war nurse in France appeared in the Atlantic back in 1925.

Stanley Casson is a don at New C ollege, Oxford. His studies in archæology have given him a wide knowledge of the Near East. ∆ Although a student of art, Josephine Johnson occasionally indulges a passion for the writing of verse. George W. Gray is a free-lance student of the wonders of applied science. ∆ Living at Papecte, Tahiti, James Norman Hall devotes all his spare moments to the neglected art of which he writes in this issue. Robert N. Corwin is a professor of German and Chairman of the Board of Admission at Yale. Theodore Morrison is a young poet of great promise whose recently published volume, The Serpent in the Cloud, has received favorable notice. Formerly a member of the Atlantic staff, he has lately accepted an offer to teach English at the bread Loaf School of English, Middlebury College. ∆ Like many another seaman, Captain William Outerson has knocked about the world in many capacities, sailor, janitor, reporter, prospector for gold in Alaska, — with an appropriate finale in Hollywood, where he now resides. ∆ As the mother of four small children. Edwa Robert is no mere academic apologist for the medical profession: she knows about it all — SHE KNOWS! William Trufant Foster and Waddill Calchings are the Siamese twins of modern economies, joining theory to practice. Mr. Foster is Director of the Pollak Foundation for Economic Research. Mr. Catchings is a manufacturer whoso list of chairmanships and directorates reads like a complete roster of American business. A. F. Hinrichs is the Director of Research in the Brown (University) Bureau of business Research.

Mazo de la Roche is the author of Jalna and Whiteoaks of Jalna, to which Finch’s Fortune is a sequel. A brief synopsis of previous installments follows:

Finch Whiteoak, who has just reached twenty-one and inherited a fortune of $100,000 from his grandmother, has left Jalna, his home in Ontario, for a visit to his Aunt Augusta in Devonshire. With him have come his two elderly uncles, Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak. Finch finds that a distant cousin from Ireland, Sarah Court, a few years his senior, and her guardian, Mrs. ourt, are also staying with his aunt; and he is surprised to learn that his brother Eden is in the neighborhood, living in a cottage of Augusta’s with his mistress, Minny Ware. Eden is a poet by profession, and very delicate, and his aunt, though highly embarrassed by his presence, does not want to turn him out. Finch and Sarah are both musical and become much interested in one another, but before they have overcome their mutual shyness Arthur Leigh, a Canadian friend of Finch’s, arrives on the scene. He quickly falls in love with Sarah, proposes, and is accepted.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Whiteoaks carry on their lives at Jalna — Renny, the head of the clan, and his half brothers, Piers and young Wakefield. Renny has lately married Alayne, the divorced wife of his half brother Eden. Piers is married to Pheasant, and has a little son, Mooey. Renny’s sister, Meg, is married to a neighboring farmer, Maurice Vaughan.

The Chinese fable printed on page 9 was told at a recent luncheon party in New York City where Mr. Cordon Lathrop was the guest of honor. Immediately he bore witness to the truth of this old story by saying that if he had to choose between blindness and deafness he would choose blindness, which he knew, rather than deafness, which was a stranger to him. Someone thereupon suggested that Mr. Lathrop ought to be invited to compare notes with that well-known champion of the deaf. Mr. Earnest Elmo Calkins, each to argue the advantages of his own affliction. The two papers published in this issue are the fruit of this suggestion.

If these articles, read together, tend to reveal something of the true courage and nobility of human nature at its best; if they indicate that men of philosophic minds can rise superior to either deafness or blindness — what admiration and sympathy shall we bestow upon those who, suffering both afflictions at once, can still find joy in life and the lightness of heart to make their presence a comfort to others! That such rare souls exist is attested by a letter which Mr. Calkins has lately received and passed along to us. We are glad to be able to quote from it: —

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
MY DEAR MR. CALKINS, —
Please forgive me for pestering you with this letter, but I just have to write it. About ten seconds ago I finished reading your intensely interesting autobiography, ‘Louder Please!' Some kind little woman of the Red Cross put it in Braille. Do you know what Braille is? it is one of the embossed types for the blind. Your book is in four volumes, and I have read them through tins evening and this morning (it is now ten minutes of two, A.M.). After that, need I tell you how much I have enjoyed and appreciated the story of your life?
There are things in your early experiences which remind me so much of my own. I had extraordinary sight until the age of nine, when cataracts formed on both eyes, and I saw fairly well until fourteen, when two fatal operations left me with light perception and the power to distinguish colors, even shades of color and the outline of objects, though I could not tell what the objects were. This precious mite of vision I lost five years ago through my own carelessness. I foolishly stooped over to inspect a new rug wit hout taking my bearings, and violently struck my eye on the bathroom sink. After six weeks of suffering, the light failed, and when I knew what I had done, I had the eye removed to put an end to the pain. It was not until then that I knew really knew — what it is to be blind.
I had extraordinary hearing until the age of twelve and could enjoy general conversation until the age of fifteen. Since then it has grown weaker, very slowly. I have not been able to hear at all for two years and three months. As in your case, this has been a matter of inheritance and environment.
I have always been immensely fond of reading and of writing. They would have been my joy of joys had I retained my sight and hearing. Like you, I have always been self-entertaining. Ever since I was three years old I have made up stories, which in those early days I called ‘talking to the wall.’ It seems that I have been talking to the wall ever since. Without this gift of entertaining myself. I don’t know what I’d have done in the early months of my trouble.
I want to tell you something of my precious little nephew, Robert, aged seven. He and I have always been the very best pals in all this world. I have never been able to hear him talk, but ever since he was eighteen months old we have understood each other as few beings can understand each other, even when possessed of all their faculties. He is a child of brilliant imagination, and has always made up his own signs, never using anyone else’s. He has always found a way to make me understand. He will stay with me all day long and never tire. He loves the stories I make up for him, and the plays and games. Some day I am going to write a book of Stories for little children, in the hope of entertaining them as I do Robin.
Children are my happiness and my interest, and my delight. I have about ten million interests, more or less. I am interested in everything. I always say that my curiosity bump is the size of the earth. I am also easily bored, which is one of the many reasons why I have found it necessary to make my own life.
After all, handicaps are better than handcuffs, are n’t they?
Yours very sincerely,
ADA M. YOUMANS

Education in Utopia.

CHRIST CHURCH RECTORY BALLSTON SPA, NEW YORK
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
I write to commend very highly ‘American Education’ by Albert Jay Nock in your May number. I hope that it will provoke much discussion. I have often thought how fine it would be if some bold, untrammeled spirits would set up, as it were in miniature, a grade school, high school, and college wherein no attention at all was paid to cash, wherein pupils who lagged behind were simply dropped, wherein education was diligently and seriously pursued. Here is a fruitful field in which the overwealthy can expend their ill-gotten gains!
Sincerely yours,
CHARLES E. HILL

Pleasant books,

LISBON, NEW HAMPSHIRE
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
In the May Contributors’ Club, in an essay called ‘On the Decline of the Pleasant, book,’ the Old Gentleman Opposite says, ‘I can name you a dozen out of hand.’ Would it be possible to get that dozen, and as many more as he can name? We have a constant demand at our library for the ‘pleasant book,’ and I should like to feel sure that we have them all on our shelves.
Yours gratefully,
LIDA CHACE WEBB

NEW YORK, N. Y.
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
The Old Gentleman laughed very heartily when I showed him Mrs. Webb’s letter which you sent me. He reminded me that it was I, not he, who had offered to name a dozen pleasant books out of hand; and he again challenged me to do it. The accompanying list was the result. It represents my immediate reaction.
The Enchanted April, by the Countess Russell (Already mentioned in the Atlantic article.)
In the Mountains, published anonymously by Doubleday. Page in 1920 (I feel certain that this is also by the Countess Russell.)
Expiation, by the Countess Russell (The Old Gentleman hesitated to endorse this, as conflicting with his regulations; but I have overruled him.)
The Back Seat, by G. B. Stern
Thunderstorm, by G. R. Stern (Already mentioned in the Atlantic article.)
After Noon, by Susan Ertz
Now East, Note West, by Susan Ertz
Daisy and Daphne, by Rose Macaulay
The Malletts, by E. H. Young
Miss Mole, by E. H. Young
The Selbys, by Anne Green
House Party, by E. M. Delafield
the Way Things Are, by E. M. Delafield
The Happy Mountain, by Maristan Chapman
Homeplace, by Maristan Chapman
Sphinx, by Florence Converse
The Plutocrat, by Booth Tarkington
Years of Grace, by Margaret Ayer Barnes
The Deepening Stream, by Dorothy Canfield (I admit that The Deepening Stream runs deeper than the definition permits, since it has to cross the sad fields of war-time France; but I found it full of pleasure. Years of Grace, too, has a rich and solid quality that makes me want to include it.)
THE LADY OPPOSITE THE OLD GENTLEMAN

The brighter side of an experiment in Communism.

NEWLLANO, LOUISIANA
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
A lot of us people down here in Llano Colony were very much interested in Robert Whitcomb’s article, not only because it gave a splendid summary of the unemployment situation throughout the country, but because he did not deal fairly with the Llano Colony. In his itinerary of over ten thousand miles, during which he suffered miserable hardships for nearly ten months, it really seems that Llano stood out as a great white light, for it was the only place where he was taken in and treated as a brother. We gave him the best we had, and in these days of strain and stress the mere fact that Llano Coöperative Colony was able to furnish food, clothing, and shelter to a stranger who came without a dollar should mean something, even to the unthinking.
Whitcomb says that the colonists are an unhappy lot. If they appeared so. perhaps it was because so many people — birds of passage like himself — have come here seeking temporary berths and eating the colonists out of house and home. On the whole, the genuine colonist is a happy person, for he knows that he is secure against want, unemployment, doctors’ bills, funeral expenses, and the various other costs that harass one when he is fighting the game single-handed.
Your widely read magazine has fallen into the hands of many people who have written in asking about the status of the colony at the present time and inquiring if things are really as gloomy down here as Whitcomb’s article would lead one to believe. It would be only just for you to let the world know that Llano is still here, advancing and doing a real job, and that its future is brighter than at any time during the past seventeen years.
Fraternally yours,
ROBERT K. WILLIAMS, M.D.

The darker side.

SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
DEAR ATLANTIC,
I have just seen a copy of the Llano Colonist in which are printed three letters written to you protesting against an article by Mr. Robert Whitcomb. He must have hit the nail squarely on the head, for the old adage says that the dog that howls the loudest is the one whose tail has been tramped upon. I put in two years at that colony and dropped $1000 into its treasury, and all I have to say of Mr. Whitcomb’s article is that he was too charitable. Llano Colony is the worst-managed project I have ever seen. I left the place almost ten years ago, but have kept posted on the doings of it from then till now; to give it the very best, name one can is to say that it is a poor experiment. I heartily congratulate Mr. Whitcomb on his article.
Sincerely yours.
M. L. DEVINE

Two letters of appreciation.

KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI
DEAR ATLANTTC,
I have so thoroughly enjoyed your May number that I just had to write and tell you so. ' The New Pilgrim’s Progress’ is well written and true to its ideal: since I have had some ol the same experiences as Mr. Whitcomb, I enjoyed his description of the hardships of a man out of work.
Charles D. Stewart’s ‘History of the King Bee is the best I ever read, and I have read a lot about bees. It was so entertaining and so full of new information that I read the article aloud to a circle of friends, and they all enjoyed it.
I happened to be here at the time of the Cherokee Him, and of course I was delighted to follow what Mr. Humphrey had to say about it. It brought back vividly to my mind the activity of that time and the rush for the new lands, just as he has described them.
The whole magazine is full of good things, and I thought you would not dislike it if I should tell you so.
CLARENCE A. BURTON

CENTRALIA, ILLINOIS
DEAR ATLANTIC,
As a native son of the mountain folk of Arkansas, I want to voice yi keen appreciation of ‘ Drought,’ by Eleanor Rislcy, in your May issue. No Arkansan can read this description of a poor but proud people and not sense a thrill of patriotism. Just as the Red Cross and other charitable organizations have succored the impoverished bodies of the drought victims of Arkansas, so has Eleanor Risley, with equal opportuneness and adequacy, ministered to their despairing minds and saddened hearts.
OSCAR M. CORBELL

That forgotten war.

EDMONTON, ALBERTA
DEAR ATLANTIC,
Evidently Margaret Wilson, who writes in the April number on the War of 1812, feels acutely on the subject of the burning of Washington: or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she takes it hard that so many Englishmen know nothing about it. If your contributor had made her inquiries in Canada, where almost all of the land actions of the War of 1812 took place, she would have had much better luck.
In Sir C. P. Lucas’s Canadian War of 1812 there is a quiet account of the unnecessary brutality of General McClure in burning, not only the public buildings, but the whole town of Newark, Upper Canada, in the course of a winter night. In the same text Mrs. Wilson may read this in regard to York, the capital of Upper Canada (now Toronto), and just as important in a governmental sense as Washington: ‘ Whatever was the cause, the invaders burnt the Parliament buildings with the library and records, and carried off the plate from the church and the books from the town library. So far as I can discover, the British troops at Washington confined their attention very properly to public buildings only. The British Chancellor of the Exchequer of that day specifically slated that what was done at Washington Was a justified reprisal of war for what had been done at York.
Suppose I should ask people in the United States when I go down there this summer: ‘By the way, what is your opinion of the burning of York, Ontario, by the American troops in 1812?’ I wonder whether I should meet any more intelligent response than Mrs. Wilson seems to have met in her particular quest in England. Personally. I think both episodes had better he forgotten. If Mrs. Wilson will forget Washington, I will agree to forget York.
W. H. ALEXANDER

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
DEAR ATLANTIC,
Mrs. Wilson’s amusing comments on the British ability completely to ignore the War of 1812 recall vividly my first visit to Chelsea Hospital many years ago. Chelsea Hospital is an Old Soldiers’ Home, the one where the inmates wear the bright red coats with long tails and brass buttons which so frequently add color to the pageantry of Loudon streets. On a dado around the Great Hall of the Hospital are carved the names of England’s proudest battles. Noting the many campaigns, with their dates, I walked over to the corner where 1776-1780 should have been. Nothing! Those years were just, skipped. Apparently a period of profound peace hovered over England at that time!
Our medal-covered guide smiled at me. ’Yon must be an American,’ he said. ‘ Americans always walk right over to that corner.'
They would, I thought. It is humiliating to find that something which bulks so large in one’s consciousness is but a trifle to the party of the second part.
A friend of mine, who went to school in England, informs me that in her history class they were told that the English had never lost a war.
‘How about the American Revolution? my friend inquired timidly.
‘Oh,’ replied the teacher airily, ’the American colonists were English.’
MABEL CRAFT DEERING

From the mother of an ‘unintellectual boy.'

WASHINGTON, D. C.
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
I wish you would not publish such articles as Mr. Frederick Winsor’s in the April issue they make me so enraged, perhaps because of my own two boys. He would undoubtedly call one ‘ unintellectual, ' whatever that means. Are our best schools to be made into training places for high-mark boys? Why should not my boy go to college and have courses in the classics, even if he has not the Phi Beta Kappa mind? Why should he be ignorant all his life of the great traditions of the race simply because his greatest fascination in life is to do something with his hands? As the guardian of his early years, I will not permit him to go uninformed of the great cultural facts in life and art which may some day make his resources in leisure moments richer, and which will insensibly give him a background even for his work with his hands. Most of our young people of high-school age start in unspoiled and responsive. Why should not the schoolmaster take the average, ’unintellectual’ boy and put his mind to the problem of interesting the boy in the more adult lasting values of life?
Mr. Winsor says the ‘money changers’ are to be put out of his pure temple; as an educator of youth is he not interested where they go? Why not move the temple, with its idealism, on to the street? Let the schoolmasters do better for the children that come to them, let them make their facts live for the minds that now seem dull to them. They shall not keep my ‘unintellectual’ boy from their doors! When will they ever learn that the so-called ’unintellectual ’ boys are their proper field, being the majority, and must be depended upon to pass on the torch of life?
Sincerely,
FANNY FISKE EATON

No cross-purposes here.

UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE
WASHINGTON, D. C.
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
As chief of the United States Forest Service and Vice Chairman of the Wood Utilization Committee, I have been interested in Mr. Lawrence Sullivan’s statement in the April issue of the Atlantic wherein he cites these two organizations as examples of Federal agencies working at cross-purposes. Mr. Sullivan’s statement appears to be due to a misconception of the meaning of forestry and an incomplete understanding of the activities of the two agencies cited.
Forests are crops that grow from the soil, and, therefore, replaceable resources. The United States has sufficient forest land not adapted to, or needed for, other purposes to grow a supply of forest products ample for the country’s needs. Available data indicate that timber is being consumed and destroyed much faster than it is being replaced by new growth. If a serious national shortage is to be avoided, vigorous steps must be taken to protect and care for forest lands in order that regrowth will be available for cutting as old stands are exhausted. The need is not to decrease well-directed forest consumption, but to stimulate forest production.
One of the most effective ways of doing this is to secure the utmost economic return through the efficient utilization of forest products. The Forest Products Laboratory of the United States Forest Service, at Madison, Wisconsin, is especially concerned with determining the best paying methods of properly harvesting the timber crop and, with technical research, promoting better utilization of the products of the forests. The National Committee on Wood Utilization is concerned with the commercial aspects of these better utilization methods, educating the public with the advice, ‘When you use wood, use it intelligently.’ The National Committee coöperates with the Forest Products Laboratory in popularizing its technical findings. There exists no duplication of effort. On the contrary, the close cooperation of these two organizations has proved most beneficial to the conservation of forest resources.
Sincerely yours,
R. Y. STUART, Forester

Lo, the poor Indian!

DENVER, COLORADO
DEAR ATLANTIC,—
Apropos of Mr. Lawrence Sullivan’s articles, I am reminded of a story which was told to me by the chief clerk on an Indian reservation .many years ago.
An Indian on the Navajo Reservation at Ignacio, Colorado, broke his leg. It was a difficult fracture and the post physician needed another doctor to assist him. He could have obtained such service from a number of doctors in Durango, forty miles distant, but he felt that he could not take the responsibility of engaging help without permission from Washington. So the Indian Agent telegraphed to his department chief for authorization. No reply came, so the next day he wired again—with the same result. The post doctor finally concluded that if Washington was indifferent to the poor Indian, he would be, too.
Many months later the post physician received a letter, written in a feminine hand (it was before typewriters had become popular in Washington), advising him to engage anot her doctor from Durango to set the broken limb of the Indian, who by that time had joined his forefathers in the Happy Hunting Grounds.
AUGUST FAST

Those cautious legal emotions.

LONDON, ENGLAND
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
Your April number was full of extraordinarily interesting material. But that lawyer man, F. Lyman Windolph, in his article on ‘Country Justice,’ says simply that a life sentence for a boy of fourteen he thinks rather severe! Why does n’t he curse, if he is human? It would become him more.
Sincerely,
MARGARET WILSON TURNER

Our homicidal automobiles.

HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT
DEAR ATLANTIC,
I read Mr. Kirby’s article on ‘The Right, to Drive in your April number with interest, and appreciation. I came to the conclusion long ago that the automobile is the greatest, curse of the present age, in spite of the fact that I own three of the contrivances and have driven for sixteen years without costing any Insurance company a penny. With an annual toll of 30,000 dead and 750,000 wounded, the automobile makes the battles of Waterloo and Heltysburg pale into insignificance. With 20 per cent of the drivers causing 80 per cent of the accidents, the day will surely come when the public will demand that licenses be granted only to those who are physically, mentally, and morally fit to drive, and that those who fail to live up to their trust shall have their licenses revoked.
HAROLD G. HOLCOMBE

The old salt again.

DUTCH FLAT, CALIFORNIA
DEAR ATLANTIC, —
You’ve heard tell of Pitcairn!"' You know the old tale of the Bounty and her mutineers, of course. Well, I’ve been at Pitcairn a number of times. That island is a sea jewel. On some dark starry night we ’d heave to a mile or two from shore. We’d be just able to make out the loom of the land. Lying to leeward of it, we’d drink in its fragrance, borne to us upon the warm southeast trade wind. And soon we’d hear the cluck-cluck of the long whaleboat oars as the natives drew nigh.
A rummy thing happened to one of those Pitcairn people one time. I often think of it these days when I see folks go hurrying by in their cars, all in a rush to get somewhere suddenly and then rush back again.
Those Pitcairn people are a home-loving lot. Pitcairn, no more than a mile or two long by half as broad, suits them well. They want nothing but Pitcairn. But there was once a Pitcairn man who took a notion that he’d like to see something of the great world — a man with a touch of restlessness in him.
In those days a missionary schooner used to call at Pitcairn about once in a twelve-month a sailing schooner. This restless islander put it up to the mission people that he wanted to see the world a bit Sydney was their headquarters, and they agreed to take him thither and, in due course, to bring him home again. So off for Sydney sailed the Pitcairn man, and before the island was well dipped under the sea rim he began to grow homesick! Homesickness gnawed his heart, and before he came to Sydney he was all broken up with his longing for home.
The mission people could n’t take the man backright away, for they had their regular route to follow. But they did the best they could for him. There was a square-rigger leaving Sydney for San Francisco, and they prevailed upon her skipper to take the islander thither. Once in Frisco he would be able to get some sailing master whose ship was bound round the Horn to give him a southward passage. It was customary for south-bound ships to heave to off Pitcairn for a taste of fresh fruit.
So the Pitcairn man sailed for Frisco, working his way, and came there in a matter of two months or so. And in Frisco he was lucky. For my ship chanced to be there, and my ship’s skipper was an old friend of the Pitcairn people. In my ship the islander, working his way and living with the foremast sailors, took passage home to Pitcairn. We made a slow run and the eagerness of the homesick man was a thing to see; for homesickness is an ailment that never bothers any deep-water sailor.
My ship was a fast sailer, good for close to sixteen miles an hour with everything set and a good breeze from a point before the beam. But on that passage she never had a chance to show her paces. The skipper scowled while light breezes fanned her along. And when we were within a few days’ sail of Pitcairn his face grew darker yet, for the wind, which in those latitudes is usually favoring, hauled ahead; and with the yards jammed hard on the backstays she tacked to and fro, trying to claw up to the island.
With tramp steamers crowding every port, there was nothing sentimental about shipowners in those days. To hold his job, a sailing skipper must hurry his vessel along. On the second day of head wind the skipper gave up trying to make Pitcairn and stood the ship away for Cape Horn. From the day we towed out of the Golden Gate it was close to five months ere we eame into the Mersey. The Pitcairn man’s face was a sight to see!
On the evening of the day we docked in Liverpool a big barque pulled out, bound round the Cape of Good Hope to Sydney, and in her, thanks to the kindly offices of our skipper, went the Pitcairn man. From Liverpool to Sydney would be a matter of some seventy, eighty, ninety, or perhaps better than a hundred days. I don’t know how long it took the big barque to make Sydney.
Having come at last to Sydney, the islander found passage in a square-rigger bound up to Frisco. It was, in those days, the best and quickest thing that a fellow in his circumstances could do. That would be another sixty or seventy days at sea for him. In Frisco the islander managed once more to get a passage in a ship bound round the Horn. And that ship set him down upon his island shore at last. I reckon he is there to-day.
Pardon me for taking so much of your time.
With best wishes.
BILL ADAMS

P.S. A mail plane is just passing high above my roof. I suppose it is making better than a hundred miles an hour, perhaps!