N the dark days of a National crisis one need not be a student or professor of political science and jurisprudence to read the valuable lessons held for us in similar crises in our country's history.

At the close of those years between the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown and the adoption of the Federal Constitution, which John Fiske so aptly termed "the critical period of American history," Washington was called from Mount Vernon to launch the grand experiment. That he fully appreciated the nature of his task is shown by his own words. "The establishment of our new Government," he said, "seemed to be the ast great experiment for promoting human happiness by a reasonable compact in civil society. It was to be, in the first instance, in a considerable degree, a government of accommodation as well as a government of laws. Much was to be done by prudence, much by conciliation, much by firmness. Few who are not philosophical spectators can realize the difficult and delicate part which a man in my situation had to act. All see, and most admire, the glare which hovers round the external happiness of elevated office. To me there is nothing in it beyond the luster which may be reflected from its connection with a power of promoting human felicity. In our progress toward political happiness my station is new, and, if I may use the expression, I walk on untrodden ground. There is scarcely an action the motive of which may not be subject to a double interpretation. There is scarcely any part of my conduct which may not hereafter be drawn into precedent."

At this time, of course, there were no political parties as we are familiar with them, but the germs were there. The bitter contest waged over the adoption of the Constitution presaged that which shortly occurred, and which has been the peculiar characteristic of all governments having their foundations laid in English institutions—namely, the division into two great opposing parties.

As organized by the first Congress, the Cabinet consisted of only four members, the heads respectively of the State, Treas ury, War (including Navy), and Legal Departments. As Attorney-General Washington chose Edmund Randolph, of Virginia, a man who, although a member of the Constitutional Convention, had refused to sign the Constitution, and had only at a late date and with great reluctance been brought to its support. For Secretary of War he retained Henry Knox, a majorgeneral in the late war, who had administered the office satisfactorily under the old Confederation.

As Secretary of the Treasury he chose Alexander Hamilton, a pre-eminent genius and close friend, notwithstanding he had been subjected to most trying examples of that young man's fits of temper. But the most revealing selection of all was his choice of Thomas Jefferson to head his Cabinet. Jefferson and Washington had certainly never been close personal friends. The President's only authentic estimate of the new Secretary previous to his selection is contained in his letter to Robert Livingston of January 8, 1783, when he wrote: "What office is Mr. Jefferson appointed to that he has, you say, lately accepted? If it is that of Commissioner of Peace, Ihope he will arrive too late to have any hand in it." (Lodge's "Washington," Vol. II, p. 68.) Although Lodge's cast of mind is one hardly apt to do Jefferson justice, it is probable that he is right when he says, "The truth was that the two men were radically different, and never could have been sympathetic." What, then, What, then, was it that caused this selection? Undoubtedly Washington's views must have greatly changed since the letter of 1783 was written. But the answer lies much deeper than that. For one thing, Jefferson had been absent from the country during the period of the heated controversy over the Constitution, and for that very reason brought to the council board, if not a clearer, at least a more unprejudiced vision. He was also even then the idol of the democratic masses, who are so prone to bow to the so-called sages and philosophers, especially when those sages observe the niceties of backwoods courtesy and are prone to stroke them the right way. He brought a potent element of

popular strength to the untried Government, which needed above all else the support of the mass of the common people. It goes without saying that the object Washington had in view in the appointment of Jefferson was the good of the country at large, and that, no matter what his personal feelings were then or afterwards became, he never allowed them to stand in the way of his object. Not even the abusive outpourings of a Philip Freneau, a clerk in Jefferson's Department, which cut him to the quick, could alter this attitude.

We see these two, Jefferson and Hamilton, the able, brilliant, but bitterly antagonistic leaders, the one of the Democratic, the other of the Federalist party, with the latter of which Washington was in entire sympathy, held by the great chieftain through four years of strife and wrangle at opposite sides of his council board. Was it not to the country's best interests that this was so? The verdict of history is that never, not even in the darkest days of the Revolution, did the flame of Washington's patriotism shine with a higher, a purer light.

Let us now turn to the even gloomier days of 1860. No need to enter into the bitter controversies of that struggle, the scars of which are barely yet erased; but let us look for a moment at how Lincoln faced the issues.

On what props did he lean for support? To whom did he turn at that dark hour for advice and counsel?

Since the days of Washington the Cabinet had grown to number seven members. The President's selection of Cabinet members was far from pleasing to the members of his own party. The comments were partisan and bitter. Thaddeus Stevens said that" it [the Cabinet] consisted of a group of rivals, a stump speaker from Indiana and two representatives of the Blair family."

When it was pointed out to the President that there were four former Democrats and only three Whigs, he dryly re marked that he supposed he himself might be counted to lend some weight on the Whig side. It is well known that for the five months between the election and the inauguration the Presi dent bent every effort to obtain the services of some Southerner of standing and ability, but without avail. Lincoln's relations with the several members of his Cabinet constitute no small part of that record of high devotion which is the great heritage of the American people. It need not be repeated here; but mark how closely his relations with Seward and Chase parallel those of Washington with Jefferson and Hamilton. It is the situation in the War Department, however, that here and now carries a lesson and a portent big with warning. When matters had got into a state so chaotic that Cameron himself recognized the necessity for change, where did Lincoln go for his succes sor? Where but to the Cabinet of his predecessor? At that time he called to his counsel Edwin M. Stanton, of Pennsyl vania, who had succeeded Jeremiah S. Black as Attorney-Gen eral in Buchanan's Cabinet. His efficiency and undoubted loy alty during the closing days of that spineless Administration had impressed the sound sense of the country. His selection by Lincoln for the position of Secretary of War was astounding Stanton was not only a Democrat, but an extremely partisan one. His opposition to Lincoln in the election had been open and violent; his expressions concerning him bitter in spirit and insulting in form. Moreover, he had treated Lincoln with great heartlessness and open rudeness on an occasion which Lincoln, the older man of the two, had at that time considered the greatest chance of his whole life. This occurred in the case of McCormick against Manney. This, a patent case of great im portance, appeared for trial in Cincinnati. It was heard before Judges McLean and Drummond. Lincoln, after weeks of laborious preparation, was not only relegated to obscurity, but he had overheard Stanton's remark, "Where did that longarmed creature come from, and what can he expect to do in this case?"

Yet Lincoln chose him. But that was Lincoln.

All this might be written in a primer of history. The lesson is so plain that he who runs may read.

J

EAN DUPONT, able-bodied mechanic of the Thirty-th Flying Corps, dropped his tools and lit a cigarette. The strain of waiting was becoming too great. Apprehensions that he feared to face were making him too nervous to work. All day he had felt that something was wrong. M. Arnold Adair, his lieutenant, had left the airdrome at daybreak this morning with the squadron. All but four of the fourteen had returned before noon. Three of these four had visited the Bar-le-Duc airdrome, and had gone aloft again from there, after telephoning home headquarters that they were O. K. Only one was still out. That was Adair. His Lieutenant Adair! It was now nearing six o'clock of a late September day. His lieutenant had not come home.

The anxious mechanic left the workshop and entered the hangar. Lieutenant Arrowdale was there, recounting his day's adventures to several of the officers. Their admiring mechanics were standing at hand, questioning the officers and offering humorous interruptions with the slangy freedom that characterizes this extraordinary intercourse between fighting pilots and their helpers.

"Arnold got a Boche early this morning," Lieutenant Arrowdale was saying. "David Green and I split the air trying to get the other fellow, but he was too slick for us. Funny, but I don't know whether Arnold dropped the Fokker inside our lines or not. It was so foggy, y' remember, and we were cutting every kind of didoes back and forth over the lines. We couldn't tell which side of the trenches we were on. Arnold got the Hun's rudder out of whack. The Fritz was falling out of control, and Arnold was sailing above him when I left."

"And you didn't see him again, m'sieu?" inquired Jean, entering the group.

Lieutenant Arrowdale shook his head soberly. "No, Jean. I left your patron with his crippled Heinie, and I beat it after the other Boche. Arnold got his man. I know that, and nobody else was around. Now where did the old boy go?"

Jean slowly turned his gaze out of the open door to the north. The talking ceased, and by common consent all the men moved towards the door and passed out onto the field in silence.

There was yet an hour before darkness. Several other pilots were still out. But they had all been in at least once since the early morning expedition-all except Arnold Adair!

"Listen!" said Brownie, Arnold's grimy little helper, cocking an ear upward. A faint humming was heard far up to the northward. Before many seconds the lynx-eyed mechanic had discovered the homing airman, a tiny speck no larger than a gnat up against a white billowy cloud ceiling.

There he comes-but it isn't Arnold," remarked Brownie, pointing upwards. Captain Pieron searched the direction indicated with his glasses.

"No, it's David Green," said the captain, lowering his glasses and turning to Arnold's junior mechanic. "But how did you know it wasn't Arnold ?"

“Engine hum, sir," returned Brownie, indifferently, abandoning the homing airplane and looking away again into the distant skies.

These loyal and devoted friends of their officers, the humble aviation mechanics attached to the fighting squadrons, carry far more responsibility on their shoulders than is apparent to the casual visitor. Fidelity to their tasks is naturally to be found in these carefully selected airplane experts. They live, eat, sleep. and dream with their airplanes. Every nut and wire, every thread of the fabric on their respective machines, is dear to them; every minutest defect receives instant attention; and, like the retainers of olden days, each labors solely to make his chief more proficient than his rivals. He is responsible to him alone; he works for him alone.

Gradually, as pride in his officer's proved prowess as an air fighter merges into reciprocal friendship, the mechanic assumes a jealous and somewhat paternal care over the flying pilot as well as over the machine. The mechanic's fortunes and ambitions are in his officer's keeping. But the officer's life itself depends upon the eternal vigilance and loyalty of his helper.

Far away in the distance the setting sun is now hanging glorious colors on the cloud banks over the Vosges. The quiet breeze of evening is blowing softly over the exhausted land; the dazzling glow of the sunset paints a wonderful setting for this charming landscape. But it glows on, unheeded by the unseeing, eyes of the comrades and friends of Arnold Adair.

In dead silence they turn and watch David Green run down a graceful letter S as he circles his machine smoothly to the near-by runway. Starting his motor again, he lurches and bounds forward by jerks until finally, cutting off his spark, his dainty Nieuport comes to rest with lagging propeller, a scant ten feet from the standing group.

Throwing both legs over the side of his cockpit, David took off his flying-helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. The men on the grass beside him had turned away, and were again gazing impotently off into the mocking sunset.

Jumping down from his seat, David motioned to his mechanics to run in his machine. Joining the group, he silently unbuttoned his leather jacket and took it off. He dropped his coat, helmet, and goggles on the grass, then, thrusting his hands deep into his breeches pockets, leveled his gaze likewise on the distant aerial highways to the north.

"Is it Arnold?" finally asked David, miserable fear choking his voice as he dropped his eyes swiftly to the others. Without answering aloud, several nodded their heads tensely.

"Sail ho!" cried Captain Pieron suddenly, dropping his glasses. "Up there just coming into that blue sky. See him? can hear him now!"

"No, that's Berryman," said David. "We were coming in together."

The tiny speck drew nearer and nearer. Berryman's two alert mechanics walked onto the field and advanced watchfully until a moment later Malcolm Berryman dropped neatly out of the sky beside them.

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Oh, but didn't I flop a choice one over on a big Boche just now!" laughed Berryman heartily, as he approached the group. "And you would never guess the prize I bagged," he went on, with ill-concealed excitement.

"What is it?" inquired Captain Pieron, interestedly. The whole field of waiting officers and mechanics gathered around Malcolm with sudden relief of tension. He must have good news of Arnold.

"I was coming in back of David there," began Berryman, "when I thought I would drop down and take a look at a big bus of ours that I saw flying very low over our ammunition camps. It was painted up with bright French colors and was hugging the ground for dear life.

"I let David go on home, and a moment later I was down alongside the observer and gave him a hail. The pilot was busy photographing. They were a good three miles inside our lines and looked as if they were taking photographs of the camou flaged stacks of munitions. over the hill by the railway slip. Photographs so late in the evening!' thought I. What does it mean, anyway?'

They were less than a thousand feet up when I slid around them. The pilot was the busy man of the two, while the fellow in front just looked at me. I thought I had seen him before, but I didn't quite recognize him until he suddenly stuck up his

Old man Blau! The Swiss spy that has been with us all summer, and that Arnold Adair thought he was getting out of the Neufchâtel creek last week," exclaimed Malcolm, dramatically.

A look of incredulity swept over the circle, then twenty questions volleyed forth simultaneously.

Finally Captain Pieron raised his hand and quieted the clamor and inquired:

Where did they go, Malcolm? What did you do?" "Oh, I just naturally bagged them both," replied Malcolm, grinning modestly. "But let me tell you what happened. Old Blau recognized me from my mark on my machine," he continued. "Until he jumped up and waved and yelled I had no idea that anything was wrong. But as soon as he busted loose I saw the fellow behind shove a pistol into Blau's back, and then the whole show was clear to me. It didn't take me a second to get a bead on the pilot with my Lewis gun. I let go a few bullets, and then I saw the Hun suddenly come to his senses. He looked at me as I circled around him, and as I threatened him the second time he dropped his pistol and put up his hands. I waved him to come down-and down we both dropped side by side on the same field. I covered them with my gun until they both got out and stood half-way between our two machines. Then I climbed out and Blau and I searched the Hun and took his pistol."

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"But what was Blau doing there?" demanded a voice. "And how did you know the pilot was a Boche?" questioned another. Where did he get one of our machines?" asked a third. "One at a time now, kind friends, and we will get on faster," returned Berryman, oratorically.

"I was sure something was up as soon as I recognized the Swiss," he went on. "As soon as we landed Blau told me that he had come over in the airplane to direct the foxy Boche over our hidden ammunition dumps. They had captured Blau the day after Arnold missed him, it seems, but he was not suspected because they couldn't get anything incriminating against him. He told them he was a Swiss mechanic in our employ, and he offered to show them all the French ammunition along the Yevre River if they would bring him over in a disguised machine. They fell for it, and with one of our captured Farnams they crossed the trenches late in the afternoon to avoid suspicion. Quite by accident they found our big depot there above Châlons. But Blau wasn't looking for depots, or anything else but a chance to get back in our lines. He intended to set fire to the machine when they were far enough inside our lines. But they didn't trust him altogether, he said, so they had handcuffed him for safety. Shows how easy the Boches are!"

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Very well done, Berryman. I will send your report to the General," said Captain Pieron, warmly. "What did you do with your prisoner?"

"Left him with the nearest artillery detachment, this side of Châlons. They're sending Blau over to headquarters by automobile. Well, I'm hungry!" Berryman ejaculated, with evident satisfaction. "Let's go on up to the joint. Who are you waiting for? Anybody out?"

At this sudden reference to the melancholy truth which had for a moment been forgotten all eyes turned again anxiously to the darkening skies.

"Arnold is out," answered David Green, soberly, with a single shake of his head. "You lucky old timbertop, Malcolm, you'll get a cross for this stunt!”

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"It's no time to think about crosses," answered Berryman, gravely. Do you know, it's after six o'clock? Hasn't anybody heard from Arnold?”

Several glanced apprehensively at their wrist watches, but none made reply.

When did he go out, Brownie?" called Berryman to the stoop-shouldered little mechanic.

1 See "A Bit of Night Work," in The Outlook for December 26, 1917.

But Brownie did not answer. Looking down at him, the officers saw the ill-shaped little runt, grimy, greasy, and ragged, standing mournfully lost in the distant sunset. He alone had not listened to Malcolm's story, and now unembarrassed tears were trickling down his drawn cheeks.

An hour passed, and the motionless group still stood sadly looking away into the darkening sky. The last gleams of hope went fading as the scarlet cloud-tips disappeared one by

one.

What thoughts came to those daring minds as they watched this glorious sunset dying! What impotent longing to hold back the impending night for even one more hour of hope! What price would not have been passionately paid by any one of the group for the sound of the ravishing whirl of one more homecoming plane!

A bugle call sounded from somewhere across the fields. Out of the growing darkness came the care-free jokes and laughter of the passing poilus. The mute, motionless watchers remained standing like graven images, dejectedly staring into the advaneing wall of darkness.

Captain Pieron broke the silence with a voice like doom itself:

"You will report to quarters, gentlemen-immediately. Light the night flares, men."

Picking up their traps, the fearless air fighters of the Thirty-th Escadrille moved off the field in silence. Looking back from the corner of the hangar a few minutes later, with a heart heavy as lead within him, Philip Pieron was barely able to distinguish in the falling night the pathetic outlines of Jean and Brownie, standing, still gazing with unseeing eyes into the vanishing northern sky.

One bright morning in the early spring following, Captain Philip Pieron was deftly breaking off the top of his egg à la coque with his spoon, sitting with legs extended under the edge of the garden breakfast table in one of the most charming villa gardens of old Tours, when his servant appeared carrying the tray containing coffee, cup and saucer, and placed them conveniently near his elbow.

"Voila, m'sieu! And the morning journal and your letters. Une grande lettre, which is of the military, I place here on top. A very large letter, M'sieu Philip."

"Very good, Jules. I shall attend to it. Great morning, eh, Jules? It is good to be home."

"Oui, m'sieu. The very good God brings you safe to us again. But you return, m'sieu?"

"To-morrow, Jules. One day home, and then to Paris. See that my shirts and things are ready."

"I will do them myself m'sieu. You will be going about to-day?"

"No. I shall stay at home by myself to-day. What is the news? Give me the 'Journal.'

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'Little news we hear now, M'sieu Philip. Always we win, but it means nothing at all. It is unbelievable-so many Germans we kill, but more fill their places. How many more must die before they will remove themselves back to their own country, mon capitaine?"

"I do not know, Jules. We must simply do our duty and wait it out. Where are my letters?"

"Voici, m'sieu. Here is the war letter. It has been opened by the censor. by the censor. What an impertinence!"

"Hullo, Jules! From the Azore Islands! Who is writing me such a bulky lot from there? Great Jerusalem's sepulchers! Arnold Adair! Impossible! Why, he's dead, Jules! Dead, I tell you! He's been missing since September last. It can't be!... But it is! Jules, you know M. Adair. He's been here. He's my dear friend. We have been together since the war began. Look at this signature! There! Read that! Whose name is that?"

With agitated gesture, Philip sprang to his feet and thrust the last closely written sheet under the startled servant's eyes. Snatching it away again, he rapidly scanned the closing paragraphs and sank again into his chair, staring off into space, the outspread sheets of paper lying neglected upon his knee. He saw once more the crimson sunset illuminating the cloud banks over the distant Vosges-the silent group of watchers search