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November 1930
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Orange “ I am the light o f the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light o f life” (John 8:12).
directions followed. Douglas read them carefully. He and his father were to meet the Personage in New York and go to Nikolai. “ What are we living in anyway, the United States or not?” Douglas asked himself, witb the sturdy indepen dence of the true American—the American, whose free born forebears have for generations enjoyed the personal liberty won for them by God-fearing ancestors. “ Is this the twentieth century or the French Revolution? And why must poor old Nikolai hide around in the land of the brave and the home of the free, like ‘ Sidney Carton’ in ‘The Tale of Two Cities’ ? Russia has gotten away from God and His Word, and the whole world feels it.” “ First call fo’ dinner!” broke in upon this revery. “ Come on ! I ’m hungry as a bear,” Douglas urged. And the Snowdpns soon forgot Russia, fur coats, and even Nikolai, in the delights of the diner. “ Little old New Y ork !” Margaret was exclaiming, as they taxied from the station. “ You know, Doug, it really has its own smell! I’d know it anywhere.” “ All I can smell is gasoline,” objected Douglas, smil ing. “ But look at that building! How many stories in it, Dad? What if an earthquake should shake it? I’ve only been away two years and this tall thing has happened!” “ Tell me about Armand.” The Personage had met them at the entrance of their hotel, eager for news of his son. “ Happy at Aunt Margot’s ! He’s a great favorite with the devout men out of every nation. They have a fine new home on Violet Vale Drive in Hollywood. Regular mis sionary enterprise, they tell me. Heathen all around ’em. Only Christian neighbor is a Chinese house b oy !” And the grave Jeremiah beamed, as he always did over the home he had made possible for these people. “ So Nikolai is actually going to Russia.” It was Douglas who said this. They had all gone up to the rooms reserved for the Snowdons. “ Let me look at those posters again,” and Douglas keenly inspected a foreign-looking lithograph of a brawny workman busily dumping out of a wheelbarrow an old, old man, labeled “ Jehovah.” “ How did he get these out of Russia?” asked Mr. Snowdon. “ Smuggled out by someone' cleverer than the border guards,” replied the Personage, scowling over a caricature o f a white dove, with ruffled and scrawny plumage, beside a haloed, anaemic creature, who was looking down in great alarm from a cloud. “ It will be a dangerous thing for him to get into that demon-ridden territory.”
Red . . . Blue . . . Yellow . . . A trinity o f color! Com pounded in twos and threes, these primary hues produce every tint in nature and art. Red and yellow produce orange. Red and blue produce purple. And so on, until we come to the seven strands of color that make the rainbow—the covenant sign, whose shimmering arch, spanning the heavens long ago, gladdened Noah’s waiting heart. These seven colors once suggested to New ton the common musical scale. But the average ear is too dull to hear this mighty sky diapason. . The seven colors, undivided by spectrum, or by raindrop, make up the white light—the familiar light o f every day, which was chosen by our Saviour as a type o f His own holy self when He said: “I am the light o f the world." HE Snowdons were on the way to Boston to spend Thanksgiving. “And we’re going to see the world’s great est football game!” announced Margaret, her dark eyes aglow. She was as slim as ever, but college life had changed the shy girl to a radiant young woman. Margaret was happy. She was to see Eleanor in New York on the way to Boston. And Con stance herself ’ was to return with the Snowdons to Cali fornia. But the warmest glow of joy in her heart was there because of her older brother’s sympathy with the Thin Red Line, whose members were her chosen friends. “ Douglas does not limp as much as he did,” she con fided to her father. And Douglas, sitting on the other side of the compartment, smiled as he heard his father’s answer above the rattle and roar of the train. “ I think we shall live to be very proud of Douglas.” His son’s research work as a biochemist had occasioned much favorable comment of late; and the words “ National Research Fellowship,” and a possible “ Fellow at King’s Cambridge,” re-echoed pleasingly still in the mind of Jere miah Lynch Snowden. “ Do you think I can have that fur coat, Dad?” A small hand was snuggled into the parental palm. “ Diag onal stripes are in now, and”—Douglas ceased to listen. He was reasonably certain that Sis would get her fur coat, and he was much occupied with a letter that had come from Nikolai. It was written to Djemileh and Kaimakov, but they had given it into his hands. Nikolai had served his term and gone east to New York when set at liberty. His great desire was to “ bring Christ to unholy Russia.” A Bible, sent by him to a cousin there, had not been delivered, but had been returned to the United States as “ undesirable literature.” Plays and books, he wrote, “ of the grossest, of the most immoral” were being published and approved there. And then: “ The Youth of Russia are being taught to spit at the mention of God—may He forgive them! The old people can save up their Kopecks no longer. They are arrested for it. ‘Keep the coin in circulation’ is the excuse! The Reds do not know I am here, as yet,” he went on. “ And when Ar- mand’s father comes, he must be careful.” A great many
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