re came a time when Amos alone in his later years thought that
it might be Kenyon's story; for Kenyon now is a fiddler of fame, and
fiddlers make grand heroes. But as the clippings and the notes show
forth still another story, the Book that was to be their book and story,
may not be one man's or one woman's story. It may not be even the story
of a town; though Harvey's story is tragic enough. (Indeed sometimes it
has seemed that the story of Harvey, rising in a generation out of the
sunshine and prairie grass, a thousand flued hell, was to be the story
of the Book.) But now Harvey seems to be only a sign of the times, a
symptom of the growth of the human soul. So the Book must tell the tale
of a time and a place where men and women loved and strove and joyed or
suffered and lost or won after the old, old fashion of our race; with
only such new girdles and borders and frills in the record of their work
and play as the changing skirts of passing circumstance require. The
Book must be more than Amos Adams's or his son's or his son's son's
story or his town's, though it must be all of these. It must be the
story of many men and many women, each one working out his salvation in
his own way and all the threads woven into the divine design, carrying
along in its small place on the loom the inscrutable pattern of human
destiny. But most of all it should be the story which shall explain the
America that rose when her great day came--exultant, triumphant to the
glorious call of an ideal, arose from sordid things environing her body
and soul, and consecrated herself without stint or faltering hand to the
challenge of democracy.

In the old days--the old days when Amos Adams was young--he printed the
Harvey _Tribune_ on a hand press. Mary spread the ink upon the
types; he pulled the great lever that impressed each sheet; and as they
worked they sang about the coming of the new day. As a soldier--a
commissioned officer he had fought in the great Civil War for the truth
that should make men free. And he was sure in those elder days that the
new day was just dawning. And Mary was sure too; so the readers of the
Tribune were assured that the dawn was at hand. The editor knew that
there were men who laughed at him for his hopes. But he and Mary, his
wife, only laughed at men who were so blind that they could not see the
dawn. So for many years they kept on rallying to whatever faith or
banner or cause seemed surest in its promise of the