A IN THE WILD WEST WITH ROOSEVELT MONG the younger American writers the name of Hermann Hagedorn is rapidly coming into the front rank. He has written delightful poetry-not verse, but very true poetry-as readers of The Outlook have reason to know; he has tried his hand at least at one novel; and now he is welcomed among the company of historians by three eminent historical authorities of the United States: Professor William A. Dunning, of Columbia University; Professor Albert Bushnell Hart, of Harvard; and President John Grier Hibben, of Princeton. How all this happened is a rather interesting story, and I propose to tell it even at the risk of seeming "to invade the sphere of private life," because it discloses the sources of that remarkable and energizing influence which Theodore Roosevelt brought to play-spontaenously, naturally, unconsciouslyupon the life and spirit of younger men. This I have always thought was one of his finest traits and accomplishments, although to speak of this influence as an accomplishment is a misnomer. For Roosevelt, I am convinced, never deliberately set out to exert "a good influence" on anybody. He never said to himself, "Go to! I will inspire this youth to right living and high thinking." It would be as reasonable to imagine the sun saying, "Go to! I will shine upon a chilly world," or the southwest sea-breeze of Long Island musing, "Go to! I will fan a parched and panting shore." Possibly these analogies may seem a little strained to some readers. But those who actually felt the warmth of Roosevelt's sunniness and the refreshment of his breeziness will know what I mean. life Well, then, Hagedorn made his mark at Harvard, where he was graduated in 1907. His class poem, "The Troop of the Guard," received the unusual distinction among such compositions of obtaining popular reading and popular applause. But his art is the kind, like John Masefield's, that feeds on rather than on letters. And so he was drawn to Roosevelt as a vivid and stirring phenomenon of American life. On the other hand, Roosevelt, who was deeply read in poetry and who never forgot his Alma Mater, although he never talked much about her, was interested in Hagedorn as a phenomenon of Harvard education. Under these circumstances it was not difficult to bring the two men together. And so in May, 1916, it happened that it was my privilege to take Hagedorn to Sagamore Hill, and there the two men met over the luncheon table-the middle-aged President who had been a cow-puncher ex 1 Roosevelt in the Bad Lands. By Hermann Hagedorn. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. Being the first volume of the publications of The Roosevelt Memorial Association, Incorporated. $5. 1 HERMANN HAGEDORN and the young poet who was to become The real folks is real folks which city folks is not. The dark is as the dark was before The sun is as the sun was before the long winds when they blow, Is like the things what Adam knew on his birthday, long ago. "It was Mr. Roosevelt himself," says Mr. Hagedorn, "who gave me the impulse to write this book, and it was the letters of introduction which he wrote early in 1918 which made it possible for me to secure the friendly interest of the men who knew most about his life on the ranch and the range. 'If you want to know what I was like when I had bark on,' he said, 'you ought to talk to Bill Sewall and Merrifield and Sylvane Ferris and his brother Joe.'" After Roosevelt's death came Hagedorn's opportunity; the Roosevelt Memorial Association was founded, and he became its Executive Secretary; and under the auspices of that Association he went into what was once the "Wild West" country and traversed the Bad Lands, the mauvaises terres of the early French explorers, in which Roosevelt, with headquarters at the little Dakota hamlet of Medora, had lived, hunted, ranged, adventured, and fought for law and order nearly thirty-five years before. "The letters Roosevelt had given me,” says Hagedorn, "unsealed the lips of the men who for thirty-five years had steadily refused to reveal to 'newspaper fellers' the intimate story of the romantic life they had shared with the man who became President of the United States. From Dickinson, North Dakota, came Sylvane Ferris; from Terry, Montana, came 'Joe' Ferris; from Somers, Montana, came 'Bill' Merrifield; and, on their old stamping ground along the Little Missouri, unfolded, bit by bit, the four years of Roosevelt's active ranching life. . . . On the ruins of the Maltese Cross cabin and under the murmuring cottonwoods at Elkhorn they spun their joyous yarns. Apart from what they had to tell, it was worth traveling twothirds across the continent to come to know these figures of an heroic age. "In the course of this most grateful of labors I have myself come to know something of the life that Roosevelt knew thirty-five years ago-the hot desolation of noon in the scarred butte country; the magic of dawn and dusk when the long shadows crept across the coulees and woke them to unexpected beauty; the solitude of the prairies that have the vastness without the malignancy of the sea. I have come to know the thrill and the dust and the cattle odors of the round-up; the warm companionship of the ranchman's dinner table; such profanity as I never expect to hear again; singing and yarns and hints of the tragedy of prairie women; and, at the height of a barbecue, the appalling intrusion of death. I have felt in all its potency the spell which the 'short grass country' cast over Theodore Roosevelt; and I cannot hear the word Dakota without feeling a stirring in my blood." These experiences and these pictures of a bygone phase of American life Hagedorn has woven into a dramatic but calmly flowing narrative of absorbing interest. The literary skill with which this is done is unobtrusive, but of the highest quality. The book is not a biography; it is not a eulogium; it is a vivid but perfectly natural moving picture of the Wild West in which the figure of Theodore Roosevelt weaves in and out, although he is by no means the only figure in the picture of deep human interest. One of the earmarks of Hagedorn's skill is that as he unfolds the tale he rarely comments or explains or interprets. He lets the actors tell their own story and make their own impression. To illustrate what I mean let me quote three incidents of the scores which the book contains. The first is of Hell-Roaring Bill Jones: It was there that he came to know Hell-Roaring Bill Jones. Bill Jones was a personage in the Bad Lands. He was, in fact, more than that. He was (like Roosevelt himself) one of those rare beings who attain mythical proportions even in their lifetime and draw about themselves the legendry of their generation. Bill Jones was the type and symbol of the carefree negation of moral standards in the wild little towns of the frontier, and men talked of him with an awe which they scarcely exhibited toward any symbol of virtue and sobriety. He said things and he did things which even a tolerant observer, hardened to the aspect of life's seamy side, might have felt impelled to call depraved, and yet Bill Jones himself was not depraved. He was, like the community in which he lived, "free an' easy." Morality meant no more to him than grammar. He outraged the one as he outraged the other, without malice and without any sense of fundamental difference between himself and those who preferred to do neither. The air. was full of tales of his extraordinary doings, for he was a fighter with pistols and with fists and had an ability as a "butter" which was all his own and which he used with deadly effect. What his history had been was a secret which he illuminated only fitfully. It was rumored that he had been born in Ireland of rather good stock, and in the course of an argument with an uncle of his with whom he lived had knocked the uncle down. Whether he had killed him the rumors failed to tell, but the fact that Bill Jones had found it necessary "to dust" to America, under an assumed name, suggested seevral things. Being inclined to violence, he naturally drifted to that part of the country where violence seemed to be least likely to have serious consequences. By a comic paradox, he joined the police force of Bismarck. He casually mentioned the fact one day to Roosevelt, remarking that he had left the force because he "beat the Mayor over the head with his gun one day." "The Mayor, he didn't mind it," he added, "but the Superintendent of Police guessed I'd better resign." He was a striking-looking creature, a man who could turn d'eams into nightmares, merely by his presence in them. He was rather short of stature, but stocky and powerfully built, with a tremendous chest and long, apelike arms, hung on a giant's shoulders. The neck was a brute's, and the square protruding jaw was in keeping with it. His lips were thin, his nose was hooked like a pirate's, and his keen black eyes gleamed from under the bushy black eyebrows like a grizzly's from a cave. He was not a thing of beauty, but, at the back of his unflinching gaze, humor in some spritely and satanic shape was always disporting itself, and there was, as Lincoln Lang described it, "a certain built-in look of drollery in his face," which made one forget its hardness. He was feared and, strange to say, he was loved by the very men who feared him. For he was genial, and he could build a yarn that had the architectural completeness of a turreted castle, created out of smoke by some imaginative minstrel of hell. His language on all occasions was so fresh and startling that men had a way of following him about just to gather up the poppies and the nightshade of his exuberant conversation. As Will Dow later remarked about him, he was "an awfully good man to have on your side if there was any sassing to be done." Roosevelt was not one of those who fed on the malodorous stories which had gained for their author the further sobriquet of "Foul-mouthed Bill;" but he rather liked Bill Jones. It happened one day, in the Cowboy office, that June, that the genial reprobate was holding forth in his best vein to an admiring group of cowpunchers. Roosevelt, who was inclined to be reserved in the company of his new associates, endured the flow of indescribable English as long as he could. Then, suddenly, in a pause, when the approving laughter had subsided, he began slowly to "skin his teeth." "Bill Jones," he said, looking straight into the saturnine face, and speaking in a low, quiet voice, "I can't tell why in the world I like you, for you're the nastiest-talking man I ever heard." Bill Jones's hand fell on his "sixshooter." The cowpunchers, knowing their man, expected shooting. But Bill Jones did not shoot. For an instant the silence in the room was absolute. Gradually a sheepish look crept around the enormous and altogether hideous mouth of Bill Jones. "I don't belong to your outfit, Mr. Roosevelt," he said, "and I'm not beholden to you for anything. All the same, I don't mind saying that mebbe I've been a little too free with my mouth." They became friends from that day. Roosevelt was a most delightful table talker. Any meal, however elaborate, however simple, was sure to be enlivened by his presence. He had a wholesome appetite but he was not exacting about his food-talk was the pièce de résistance of his bill of fare, and he took care to surround himself with men who could carry on worthwhile talk. This was true of his life in the White House; it was true of his ranching life when he was less than thirty years old: At the Maltese Cross there was a steady stream of callers. One of them, a hawk-eyed, hawk-nosed cowpuncher named "Nitch" Kendley, who was one of the first settlers in the region, arrived one day when Roosevelt was alone. "Come on in," said Roosevelt, "and we'll have some dinner. I can't bake biscuits, but I can cook meat. If you can make the biscuits, go ahead, and I will see what I can do for the rest of the dinner." So "Nitch" made the biscuits and put them in the oven, and Roosevelt cut what was left of a saddle of venison and put it in a pan to fry. Then the two cooks went outdoors, for the cabin was small and the weather was hot. Roosevelt began to talk, whereupon "Nitch," who had ideas of his own, began to talk also with a fluency which was not customary, for he was naturally a taciturn man. They both forgot the dinner. "Nitch" never knew how long they talked. They were brought back into the world of facts by a smell of burning. The cabin was filled with smoke, and "you could not," as "Nitch" subsequently remarked, "have told your wife from your mother-in-law three feet away." On investigation it proved that "Nitch's" biscuits and Roosevelt's meat were burned to cinders. Merrifield and Sylvane were out after deer, and Roosevelt and his companion waited all afternoon in vain for the two men to return. At last, toward evening, Roosevelt made some coffee, which, as "Nitch" remarked, "took the rough spots off the biscuits." "If we'd talked less," reflected "Nitch," "we'd have had more dinner." Roosevelt laughed. He did not seem to mind the loss of a meal. "Nitch" was quite positive that he was well repaid. They went on talking as before. One of Roosevelt's outstanding traits was his capacity to make friends among all sorts and conditions of men, and, when made, to command their respect as well as their personal attachment: The moral tone of the round-up camp seemed to Roosevelt rather high. There was a real regard for truthfulness, a firm insistence on the sanctity of promises, and utter contempt for meanness and cowardice and dishonesty and hypocrisy and the disposition to shirk. The cowpuncher was a potential cattle-owner and good citizen, and if he went wild on occasion it was largely because he was so exuberantly young. In years he was generally a boy, often under twenty. But he did the work of a man, and he did it with singular conscientiousness and the spirit less of an employee than of a member of an order bound by vows, unspoken but accepted. He obeyed orders without hesitation, though it were to mount a bucking bronco or "head off" a stampede. He worked without complaint in a smother of dust and cattle fumes at temperatures ranging as high as 136 degrees; or, snow-blinded and frozen, he "rode line" for hours on end when the thermometer was fifty or more below zero. He was in constant peril of his life from the horns of milling cattle or the antics of a "mean" horse. Roosevelt was immensely drawn to the sinewy, hardy, and self-reliant adventurers; and they in turn liked him. Life in the camps was boisterous and the language beggared description. The practical jokes, moreover, which the cowboys played on each other were not such as to make life easy for the timid. "The boys played all kinds of tricks," remarked Merrifield long after; "sometimes they'd stick things under the horses' tails and play tricks of that kind an' there'd be a lot of hilarity to see the fellow get h'isted into the air; but were well known, for he never missed an opportunity, even on the roundup, to wander up some of the countless coulees with a rifle on his shoulder after deer, or to ride away over the prairies after antelope; and the cowpunchers decided that it would be rather good fun to send him on a wild-goose chase. So they told him with great seriousness of a dozen antelope they had seen five or six miles back, suggesting that he had better go and get one. He "bit," as they knew he would, and, in spite of the fact that he had had a hard day on the round-up, saddled a horse and rode off in the direction which they had indicated. The cowboys speculated as to the language he would use when he came back. He was gone several hours, and he had two antelope across his saddlebow when he rode back into camp. "I found them all right," he cried, "just a quarter-mile from where you said." There was a shout from the cowboys. By general consent the joke was declared as not to be on the "four-eyed tenderfoot." Most of the men sooner or later accepted Roosevelt as an equal, in spite of his tooth-brush and his habit of shaving; but there was one man, a surly Texan, who insisted on "picking on" Roosevelt as a dude. Roosevelt laughed. But the man continued, in season and out of season, to make him the butt of his gibes. It occurred to the object of all this attention that the Texan was evidently under the impression that the "dude" was also a coward. Roosevelt decided that, for the sake of general harmony, that impression had better be corrected at once. One evening, when the man was being particularly offensive, Roosevelt strode up to him. "You're talking like an ass!" he said sharply. "Put up or shut up! Fight now, or be friends!" The Texan stared, his shoulder dropped a little, and he shifted his feet. "I didn't mean no harm," he said. "Make it friends." They made it friends. With Roosevelt friendship always naturally developed into leadership: While the round-up was camped at Andrews Creek an incident occurred which revealed Roosevelt's influence over the cowpunchers, not alone of his own "outfit." Andrews Creek was not more than a mile from Medora, and after the day's work was done, the cowboys naturally adjourned with much enthusiasm to that oasis for the thirsty. As the evening wore on, the men, as "Dutch Wannigan" remarked long afterward, "were getting kinda noisy." Roosevelt, who had also ridden to town, possibly to keep an eye on "the boys," heard the commotion, and, contrary to his usual habit, which was to keep out of such centers of trouble, entered the saloon where the revelry was in progress. "I don't know if he took a drink or not," said "Dutch Wannigan" afterward. "I never saw him take one. But he came in and he paid for the drinks for the crowd. 'One more drink, boys," he says. Then, as soon as they had their drinks, he says, 'Come on,' and away they went. He just took the lead and they followed him home. By gollies, I never seen anything like it!" "Roosevelt in the Bad Lands" is a kind of epitome of the social and civic evolution of this continent. In it you see exactly how the early explorers and pioneers fought for life and property against the forces of nature, predatory animals, the native savage, and the savage instincts of their own neighbors and competitors; you see the germs of civilization-is it too much to call them the heaven-born germs of civilization?gradually emerging; you see the leaders of violence and selfishness and the leaders of law, order, and community organization struggling for mastery; and you take courage in your belief that there is a prophylactic power in moral character. All this may be said of the book with the more confidence because it is indorsed by the three historians mentioned at the beginning of this article. Professors Dunning, Hart, and Hibben were not a perfunctory committee; they went at their responsible task in the Missouri spirit; they wanted "to be shown;" they insisted, I am told, and rightly insisted, in passing upon documentary or personal evidence for every incident or statement of fact which the book contains. And after this critical examination they say: Three are the essentials of the good biographer-historic sense, common sense, and human sense. To the mind of the Committee, Mr. Hagedorn has put into service all three of these senses. Every writer of history must make himself an explorer in the materials out of which he is to build. To the usual outfit of printed matter, public records, and private papers, Mr. Hagedorn has added an unexpected wealth of personal memories from those who were part of Roosevelt's first great adventure in life. The book is a thoroughgoing historical investigation into both familiar and remote sources. The common sense of the work is in its choice of the things that counted in the experience of the ranchman, hunter, and citizen of a tumultuous commonwealth. All the essential facts are here, and also the incidents which gave them life. Even apart from the central figure, the book reconstructs one of the most fascinating phases of American history. This is high but not extravagant praise. The result is that this modest and unobtrusive masterpiece may be read with equal interest by those who merely love vivid stories of adventure and those who desire to comprehend the economic and social fiber out of which the life of this singular and amazing Republic of ours is woven. LAWRENCE F. ABBOTT. FROM THE MAIL BAG THREE FARMERS RESPOND Ꭱ TO A REQUEST FOR INFORMATION I EFERRING to the heading which you gave the letter from "A Farmer's Wife" in your issue of December 21, I must answer your question "Please, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer, Are We as Bad as All This? If So, Tell Us What, When, and Why?" in the affirmative. If I could spend some time in reading your back numbers, I could then tell you "when." But I can safely say that the "when" is very often. "Why" is not for me to answer. First let me say that I am a farmer, meaning a man who earns his money by farming only. I am earning a living for my family and educating my children by the actual operation of a farm. Moreover, the only assistance I had in first buying the farm was the savings from seven or eight years of city life-less than a thousand dollars. I am explicit because I don't wish to be confused with many who call themselves farmers, but who merely play at farming with money derived from other sources. They resemble writers who for a brief period of time disguise themselves as servant, factory hand, or store clerk for the sake of getting copy, and then flatter themselves with having acquired the point of view. For thirty years The Outlook has been my favorite magazine. Either by exchange or by subscription I have always managed to get it. For twenty-five years of my farm life many magazines have come and gone, but The Outlook always has been and still is my favorite. Because I want to study one subject for a few years I have stopped my subscriptions to all magazines except The Outlook, the Sunday edition of the New York "Times," and certain farm papers. I continue The Outlook because I think that you record the important happenings of the world with clearer vision (except in one particular) than most periodicals. The Sunday edition of the New York "Times" gives me the world's financial news from the "New York" point of view. It is needless to say that that point of view is not my own. I have written in this personal way in order that you may know from what position I judge you. Farmers have learned to expect two things from the press, particularly from the metropolitan press-a complete lack of understanding of the farmer, his problems and his rights, and advice which would be funny if its constant repetition did not make it tragic. I admit that The Outlook rarely gives us advice, but as far as understanding is concerned I know of no periodical more conspicuous for the lack of it, unless it is the New York "Times." As the "Farmer's Wife" says, "from Lyman Abbott down" your writers are all guilty of this lack of understanding. While your attitude does not seem to me "ar Film is the basis of tartar. It holds food substance which ferments and forms acid. It holds the acid in contact with the teeth to cause decay. Germs breed by millions in it. They, with tartar, are the chief cause of pyorrhea. Ways to end it Dental science has in late years found two ways to fight film. It has proved them by careful tests. Now they are embodied in a new-day tooth-paste-called Pepsodent-for daily application. Pepsodent The New-Day Dentifrice A scientific film combatant, whose every application brings five desired effects. Approved by highest authorities, and now advised by leading dentists everywhere. All druggists supply the large tubes. Dentists here and abroad now advise it. It is now bringing a new dental era to some 40 races of people. Other new effects Pepsodent brings three other effects, natural and very important. It multiplies the salivary flow-Nature's great tooth-protecting agent. It multiplies the starch digestant in the saliva, to digest starch deposits. They may otherwise cling and form acids. It multiplies the alkalinity of the saliva, to neutralize the acids which cause tooth decay. Thus every use does five things which dental authorities now regard as essential. You'll quickly see A 10-day tube of Pepsodent is sent to all who ask. That shows the delightful effects. In a week you will realize that this method means much to you and yours. Send the coupon for it. Note how clean the teeth feel after using. Mark the absence of the viscous film. See how teeth whiten as the film-coats disappear. Watch all the effects, then read the reasons in our book. That test may lead to life-long benefits. Cut out the coupon now. 10-Day Tube Free 55 THE PEPSODENT COMPANY, Dept. 576, 1104 S. Wabash Ave., Chicago, Ill. Mail 10-Day Tube of Pepsodent to Only one tube AS Bois, Pa. CONTEST NUMBER FIVE The Best WHAT advertisement printed in The Outlook during 1921 do you consider the best? Explain why you find it the most impressive. What was its effect upon you? For the best answers we will award : a first prize of Fifty Dollars a second prize of Thirty Dollars a third prize of Twenty Dollars Advertising is a powerful force. Its educational values are subtle and extensive. Its effects on personal development, family life, and social customs are often lasting and profound. Perhaps you have been most influenced by reading an advertisement of a book, a course of study, a service, or a commodity. Describe the significance to you of the best recent advertisement in The Outlook. CONDITIONS OF CONTEST 1. Write your name (add a pen name, if you like, for publication) and address in the upper left-hand corner of your letter. 2. All letters must be typewritten on one side of the paper only. 3. Limit your letter to 500 words of average length. 4. Your letter, to be eligible, must reach us on or before January 23, 1922. 5. We reserve the right to purchase for publication desirable letters not winning prizes. 6. Unavailable letters will not be returned. 7. The staff of The Outlook will be the judges. Address all letters to CONTEST EDITOR, THE OUTLOOK COMPANY 381 Fourth Avenue, New York FROM THE MAIL BAG (Continued) rogant" or "contemptuous," your attitude, that of the city man, is unquestionably one of superiority. Perhaps it could not be otherwise, as the farmer is always depicted on the stage, the screen, and in the comic part of the press as illiterate, awkward, and uncouth. Such constant representation cannot but have its effect upon even the educated mind. I am thinking of the film "'Way Down East," which, I presume, was no attempt to ridicule the farmer. Yet the "city man" director could not depict a farm dinner table without uncouth mannersso uncouth that the most transient and poorest class of farm labor could not help seeing their absurdity. Another example of this common lack of understanding was the Industrial Congress called by President Wilson. The farmer represented the largest business and nearly one-third of the country's wealth. Yet three farmer delegates only sat in that Congress. Just now the city business world is agitated to its depths by a "Farmers' Bloc" in Congress, forgetting that there has always been a "Business Bloc" functioning there. To make my position clear, I am not in favor of much of the legislation asked by the "Farmers' Bloc." But why not a "Farmers' Bloc"? There has always been a "Southern Bloc," a "High Tariff Bloc," etc. I am not writing this with any hope that you will or can change your point of view. I wish simply to say with some amusement and little bitterness that you really are hopelessly ignorant of the largest and most fundamental of all the enterprises of this great country. The depths of the canyons in which you labor have obscured your vision in one direction at least, and, while I should be pleased to note an improvement, I do not look for it. 66 Yes, I shall continue as a subscriber. A FARMER. PLEAS II LEASE, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer, are we as bad as all this?" And we answer, Yes, guilty by neglect rather than by willful intentions. When Howard Murray Jones by his admirable rhetoric drew down your $50 prize with his Contest Letter of March 2, 1921, you failed to heed him when he said: "The Outlook, like the vast majority of papers, has failed to interpret the thirty-five million farm dwellers to the seventy million town and city dwellers. . . . But now a fourth estate, a rural estate, is rising into organized and embittered self-consciousness. Right here lies The Outlook's next job: Make the seventy million urbanites know, and therefore appreciate, the thirty-five million farmers who, often amid physical discomforts and social deprivations, toil early and late to feed the multitudes enjoying the opulence and splendor of our American cities." In The Outlook number of April 20, 1921, under the heading, "Opulence and Splendor," we could but feel that The Outlook shared with Mr. Tedman and |