off somewhere
with a great clatter.

The people went in groups crowded together on the pavements, and the
great word destined to unite the world burst out more and more often
among them, like a spark: "Comrade." A policeman, bearded, fierce, and
filled with the consciousness of his own importance, approached the
crowd surrounding an old orator at the corner of a street, and, after
having listened to the discourse, he said slowly: "Assemblages are
interdicted ... disperse...." And after a moment's silence, lowering his
eyes, he added, in a lower tone, "Comrades."

The pride of young combatants was depicted in the faces of those who
carried the word in their hearts, who had given it flesh and blood and
the appeal to union; one felt that the strength they so generously
poured into this living word was indestructible, inexhaustible.

Here and there blind troops of armed men, dressed in gray, gathered and
formed ranks in silence; it was the fury of the oppressors preparing to
repulse the wave of justice.

And in the narrow streets of the immense city, between the cold and
silent walls raised by the hands of ignored creators, the noble belief
in Man and in Fraternity grew and ripened.

"Comrade."--Sometimes in one corner, sometimes in another, the fire
burst out. Soon this fire would become the conflagration destined to
enkindle the earth with the ardent sentiment of kinship, uniting all its
peoples; destined to consume and reduce to ashes the rage, hate and
cruelty by which we are mutilated; the conflagration which will embrace
all hearts, melt them into one,--the heart of the world, the heart of
beings noble and just;--into one united family of workers.

In the streets of the dead city, created by slaves, in the streets of
the city where cruelty reigned, faith in humanity and in victory over
self and over the evil of the world grew and ripened. And in the vague
chaos of a dull and troubled existence, a simple word, profound as the
heart, shone like a star, like a light guiding toward the future:
COMRADE.

[Illustration]

ALEXANDER BERKMAN.

By E. G.

ON the 18th of this month the workhouse at Hoboken, Pa., will open its
iron gates for Alexander Berkman. One buried alive for fourteen years
will emerge from his tomb. That was not the intention of those who
indicted Berkman. In the kindness of their Christian hearts they saw to
it that he be sentenced to twenty-one years in the penitentiary and one
year in