pon layer of streaky green. A toad sat
and took aim with its tongue. It caught a fly at every shot. A
hedgehog trotted about in the dried, rustling beech leaves. Dragonflies
darted about with glittering wings. The people sat down around the
luncheon-baskets. The piping, chirping crickets tried to make their
Sunday a glad one.

Suddenly the hedgehog disappeared, terrified he rolled himself up
in his prickles. The crickets crept into the grass, quite silenced.
The nightingale sang as if its throat would burst. It was guitars,
guitars. The Salvation Army marched forward under the beeches. The
people started up from their rest under the trees. The dancing-green
and croquet-ground were deserted. The swings and merry-go-rounds
had an hour's rest. Everybody followed to the Salvation Army's
camp. The benches filled, and listeners sat on every hillock. The
army had waxed strong and powerful. About many a fair cheek was
tied the Salvation Army hat. Many a strong man wore the red shirt.
There was peace and order in the crowd. Bad words did not venture
to pass the lips. Oaths rumbled harmlessly behind teeth. And Matts
Wik, the shoemaker, the terrible blasphemer, stood now as standard-bearer
by the platform. He, too, was one of the believers. The red flag
caressed his gray head.

The Salvation Army soldiers had not forgotten the old man. They had
him to thank for their first victory. They had come to him in his
loneliness. They washed his floor and mended his clothes. They did
not refuse to associate with him. And at their meetings he was
allowed to speak.

Ever since he had broken his silence he was happy. He stood no
longer as an enemy of God. There was a raging power in him. He was
happy when he could let it out. When souls were shaken by his lion
voice, he was happy.

He spoke always of himself. He always told his own story. He
described the fate of the misjudged. He spoke of sacrifices of life
itself, made without a hope of reward, without acknowledgment. He
disguised what he related. He told his secret and yet did not tell it.

He became a poet. He had the power of winning hearts. For his sake
crowds gathered in front of the Salvation Army platform. He drew
them by the fantastic images which filled his diseased brain. He
captivated them with the words of affecting lament, which the
oppression of his heart had taught him.

Perhaps his spirit in days of old had visited this world of death
and change. Perhaps he had then