hopefully renewing her red, white and blue tissue, and I noticed that all the children were wearing fantastic patriotic caps made of shirred and fluted paper. "Well," I said, "how did things go?" "Oh," she replied, "the rain hurt things a bit, but tonight's going to be the big night. It's going to be a great time: you'd better come around."
The stuff of triumph!
HOG ISLAND
My only regret was that my friend John Fitzgerald didn't take Rudyard Kipling or William McFee or Philip Gibbs down to Hog Island, instead of a humble traveler whose hand can never do justice to that marvelous epic of human achievement. It would be worth Mr. Kipling's while to cross the Atlantic just to see the Island.
Far across the low-lying meadows the great fringe of derricks rises against the sky. Along a beautiful solid highway, over the Penrose Ferry drawbridge and past the crumbled ramparts of old Fort Mifflin, motors and trolley cars now go flashing down to the huge shipyard, where eighteen months ago a truck struggled along a miry country road carrying enough lumber to put up a timekeeper's shack. The story of that great drama of patient courage and effort lies behind and underneath all one sees at Hog Island. As we walked along the marvelous stretch of fifty shipways, each carrying a vessel in course of construction, and as
