The Mena weekly star., 1908-02-06
THE ANARCHY
 OF THE SOUL
James Norvel Crutcher

TO SEEK the solitudes, far from
 the veneer of conventional
 life; to get away where one may think, and sleep, and rest awhile; to earn an honest living by the sweat of my face; to rejoice at the sunrise with feelings of gratitude for a new day in which to labor and think; to watch the sun at meridian, realizing the strength that comes at noon- day with task half-complete; to sit at eventide, the days work done, and with folded hands, the glow of the sinking sun full upon my weary brow; to get away from men and women who chatter and hate and never render service to their fellows; to join the hosts of those who dwell in silent places, where the music of ax and the low, sweet symphonies of the on-rushing' stream break the stiffness; to be thus alone awhile with those I love, measuring the days profit, not by what have produced of wealth, but rather by the happiness I have brought to those to whom 1 am knit by ties eternal. This is my dream, and l wonder if l am rebel or anarchist. May l lawfully covet the plain garb of the woodman, sturdy and strong, his wine the nectar of the hills gurgling toward the ribbon of blue wonder in the valley, his food the plain, homely fare of the toiler, his couch one of peace and restful slum- Der, his conscience looking his neigh bor in the face without fear or guilt? Where are life's prisons? Are they here, with the money changers, the jealous, the insincere, the vacillating, the weak? Bound down by the rules of conventional life, do these of the towns dare think as they please, and pursue happiness according to their own good conscience? Their prison walls are built wide and high, and deep down are their foundations, the accumulated customs and opinions of a thousand years. Prisoners, all, beating their tired bodies hopelessly and helplessly against the gratings that surround them, until bruised and broken, they submit to the in evitable. This is the Prison-House of Chiffon. My freemen are those who are seeking happiness outside the beaten path. Their prison-if it be lawful to call it prison--is surrounded by walls of granite, the mountains; their bars are the sturdy oak and pine and hemlock, and here every man is trusty. The hollow, mocking laugh of insincerity has given way to the chorals of the woods; the rattle of industry has given way to the velvet-touch of the leaf as it falls and the rataplan of the nuts upon the earth; no longer | the sighs of the discontented, the moans-of those who have lost life's | fight, haunt and make afraid. Free | to pursue happiness, to think, and | rest, and love, and live-this the freedom for which I yearn, this the rebellion of my heart, the anarchy of my soul. Do you pity me? Then think again, and again. Do you wonder at this msssage-this plea for the life sincere, the life un- trammeled-free, true and helpful :? Then consider well the ways that lead to peace; go in the boulevards and seek the contented heart; rush into the palace hall and search for joy; haunt the marts of trade, where men entrap and rob their fellows, and tell me if you find lines wrought by care and disappointment; bring forth your answer. seasoned with judgment, and tell me-am 1 an- archist, rebel, or am ] a good citizen , in the realm of peace and content ment?
 The Richteousnexs That Eyatfeth q