What form of municipal government shall be instituted will be left for the Commonwealth Parliament to decide. To deprive residents of the right to elect a municipal body to govern the affairs of the city would be opposed to the democratic sentiment of Australians, but on the other hand it will be necessary for the Capital Commission to retain extensive powers in connection with the construction, development, and government of the city. Residents of Canberra - like those of Washington - will have no Parliamentary vote. The Commonwealth Parliament would be willing to give them the vote, but for a great many years the city will be too small in population to justify its being given the right to elect a member of the House of Representatives; and, being Federal territory, it cannot be amalgamated for electoral purposes with any of the adjoining Federal constituencies of the State of New South Wales.

All over the world the people interested in town planning and gardencity ideals are looking to Australia. Canberra has advantages that no other garden city in the world possesses. The site has been selected because of the advantages it offers for such building; there are no private property rights to be considered; there is a great deal of public money available. Although the garden-city movement, which owes its origin to Mr. Ebenezer Howard's book, Garden Cities of Tomorrow, first published in 1898 under the title, To-morrow: A Peaceful Path to Real Reform, has spread to all civilized countries, there are very few garden cities in the world. There are some hundreds of garden suburbs and small areas laid out on town-planning lines. New York has a 'Garden City,' which, however, has no claims to be regarded as a city; London has a garden suburb at Golders Green, and

twenty miles away at Welwyn a small garden city is being built as the first of a series of satellite towns which will be ringed round London. There are small communities living under model housing conditions at a score of places in England, of which Port Sunlight and Bourneville are the best known, and there are somewhat similar model housing areas in other European countries. But the world's only example of a complete garden city is Letchworth in England, where in 1904 six square miles of land in an agricultural district were purchased by the First Garden City Limited to enable Mr. Ebenezer Howard to give practical expression to his plans. Letchworth is planned to carry a population of 35,000 on an area of two square miles, the remainder of the land forming an agricultural belt round the city. There are now about forty factories in Letchworth, operating in a specially planned industrial area, and the population numbers 12,000. The streets are wide, and are lined with gardens and trees. The workers have good homes with plenty of air and sunlight, and each house has a small garden.

But Canberra is being laid out on a much larger and more elaborate scale. Far more money will be expended in making it a model city than any private company can afford in making Letchworth beautiful. Already more than $10,000,000 has been expended, though little more than a beginning has been made. The public buildings to be erected will rival the magnificent public buildings at Washington. As the Federal Capital of a country which is almost as large as Europe, Canberra has a great future before it; as a State-owned city, it is a unique experiment in civic government; as a garden city, it is destined to prove an inspiring example to town planners in all parts of the world.

MAÑANA

ESPECIALLY since a corrupt Spanish bureaucracy was deprived of power in Cuba, and the government bestowed upon corrupt Cubans, it has become a dogma the world over that Spain is a decadent nation.

I came to Spain expecting to find anæmic yellow faces, the sapped vitality of degenerates; when not sunk into a coma from indigence or secret vice, I looked to find the people cribbed and confined by a mediæval religion; pale children in gutters I looked for, and few of them. I was wrong. By and large, they are the healthiest-looking animals in Europe. Not those in the industrial cities, but those in rural Spain - which is infinitely the largest part, and will remain so. The Spanish land, the Spanish mountains, and above all the Spanish character forbid an invasion of anything more industrial than a Ford.

If, then, the Spaniard has devoted himself neither to building factories in which to burn soft coal, as we have done, nor to conquering backward nations, like the British, what has he done with his. biceps and brain?

Most Americans will be unable to survive a visit to Spain, but those who do will be better men. By visit I do not mean Cadiz or Madrid, train de luxe, Seville, Cordova, Granada, Burgos, cathedrals, the Prado, monasteries, a bullfight, and home in time for the hunting. That has its uses, but it can be done without leaving America — that is, leaving it linguistically, gastronomically, socially, or mentally. The sort of thing I mean is a sojourn in

Spain, be it long or short, where trippers are not.

One or two simple principles are absolutely necessary to American survival. The first is: Be courteous on all the occasions when you would be courteous at home, and likewise on all those when you would n't. If you are, the Spanish will outdo you exactly twofold in every courteous word and act; if you are n't, and become, say, brusque, they will either put you in jail or leave you on top of a mountain without anything to eat. The second principle is: Whenever you are in a hurry, do nothing about it. This is more important than the first. It will secure for you most of the good things in Spain.

Of course I had read of these laws of Spanish character in books, on the Soul of Spain, the Heart of the Iberian, and all the rest, but never ground them by circumstance and calamity into my bones, and my diary.

Here is the working of the first. My friend and I entered Spain on foot on a discouraging day of mist, over the pass that had been used by Hannibal, Cæsar, Abd-er-Rahman, and Napoleon. For a week the clouds had been a swaying bank of moisture over the French side of the peaks. Just at the frontier, the watershed of the Pyrenean wall, they broke, and gave us Spain.

It was partly the sunlight of Spain that melted them. We looked down upon baked, castellated barricades running fifty miles into the plain. Real or natural castillos grew out of their tops, and the flanks of the mountains were dyed many colors: red and orange, for example; blue and green. Between,

the Spanish valleys lay lush with vineyards and grain, or arid with rock and sand. The country seemed poised a rude balance between desert sand and Eden.

At first historically infected with memories of Rahman and Hannibal, and then smitten with the scarring, boiling beauty of the landscape, we stepped on, in a happy hypnosis, till we met three soldiers. Then came a wave of concern for our defective passports. We had been moving over the frontier, before, through remote and unguarded mountains where no customs officer had ever trekked. The carabineros wore the green musical-comedy costume of the Spanish soldier, with fireman helmets turned up and flattened in back. They assumed attitudes and manners of immense dignity- the Spaniard has tons of it in reserve and studied our papers with black brows. The senior official fingered the passports; the others fingered their guns; we fingered nervously the newly changed pesetas in our breeches' pockets.

Suddenly the situation changed: the tail of a Spanish eye had caught sight of our kodak; we offered with courtesy to take their picture. Passports were folded up, uniforms brushed, and faces screwed into expressions of military rigor. We snapped the three soldiers; we shook hands, we exchanged addresses, we conversed in bad French, we saluted - we entered Spain.

Principle No. 2. We entered Canfranc, a tiny frontier village which the guidebook had told us to avoid. It had the immemorial look of all Spanish towns-baked, built of stone and slate, and resembling the landscape. But there were no monuments historiques there; it was just a village where we went to wait for the Jaca bus.

The bus was due at four o'clock. It was the mail bus into Spain. By 4.30 it

was n't in sight on the road from the Somport pass into France. But sometime about 5.30 five thousand sheep arrived instead. The children of Canfranc ran among them, pinched their tails, and made them hurdle each other in fright.

At 5.45 the mail bus squeezed its way along Main Street, and we climbed on the roof of it. Then, about six, the tiny town awoke into a rich, varied, and amazing life. The passeo began! The mayor, aristocracy, the thirty tradesmen with their wives, the peasants, and incredible numbers of children appeared mysteriously on balconies and in the street. We hoped the bus would n't start. It did n't.

The people passed each other, slowly, with that amazing dignity of the Spanish, talking with animation, gazing with consummate curiosity at everyone else as though they had n't seen them at yesterday's passeo. There were the young bloods, with Englishcut clothes and faces like American sophomores. Also, stuffing the balconies and the windows, one-hundredper-cent Spanish señoritas, carrying on, in the authentic manner of romance, a commerce of chaff and looks with the lads below. Farmers passed on donkeys, and hay loads fell from mules' backs to the side of the road. A man appeared with five musical instruments, which he distributed to tiny boys and girls who screamed with delight as they took them. He kept the cornet himself. They followed him, dancing and leaping over the cobblestones, down the narrow street where the sheep had gone.

everybody in Canfranc. Not the slightest interest in Madrid, or New York, or the League of Nations.

The mail bus left at 6.30, two hours late.

Any guidebook, or history, or newly baked tripper from Spain will tell you slyly that the key to Spanish character is mañana. Nonsense. It's perfectly true that the Spaniard puts off till tomorrow such things as business appointments, the building of railroads, or the conquest of the Riff. What of it! All matters of real importance, like singing or worshiping God or making love to his señorita, he attends to without a wasted minute - to-day.

CLOUDS

He comes from Texas and his eyes have kept the blue innocence of its skies. He is over six feet, sparing of gesture, conceals the stump of his amputated forefinger. From the corner of the right eye to the base of the skull runs a purplish scar, and his face is a network of wrinkles and lines that make him appear almost forty; but he is eight years younger, and when I looked in the candid, shadowless eyes I knew that I was talking to a boy.

It was pleasant to sit on the deck and listen to his low voice. Oh yes, he was telling me his troubles. They were like all agonies, for men suffer in much the same way. The fog drifted in past the islands, the wind grew chilly; we went to the lower deck where the seaplanes rest on their catapults.

He explained carefully how they were shot off by compressed air, going in forty feet from perfect stillness to sixty miles an hour, and how it was necessary to guide them straight and then up into the air, not letting them touch the water, and this was not easy. He had been flying for nine years. Yes, he was 'pretty good.' One bad crash. Only

two men in the Navy had more 'hours in the air. Sorry he could not show me the engine. It was a lovely engine.

I looked up at the seaplanes and I wondered what characteristics were imperative for the man that flew in that tiny, deadly seat. Elegant as a wasp; small and cruel and fascinating; what was it in men's brains that made them capable of flying, or hopelessly incapable of even the first violent rush from the catapult? There are born artists, engineers, lawyers - what was an aviator? That flying aged men prematurely, I saw; that they were, all I had met, very quiet in manner, I remembered and observed. Courage - but what kind of nerves? Imagination? What did he think of death? Death that flew with him, did it grin or smile, promise or end all things? Or did he not see the companion that soared with him? I could not ask. Only observe carefully, listen patiently, and hope for the unconscious revelation.

We left the ship, came to the house. He talkedHe talked of Texas, of his family, of his life, of the war, and of the problem that was consuming him; but still I did not hear the words that would tell me of his inner and secret attitude toward the invisible companion. Did he, like a Regular Army man I know, have to chew gum to control fear? No man is without fear, and by now I knew that he had nerves.

We went for a drive. The ocean, the hills, the glowing beauty of the evening sky, he seemed hardly to observe. There were fifteen minutes left, and I should probably never see him again. I decided to take the risk of indirect attack. Money, root of all evil, would be the Navy's criterion of his risk. To my discreet inquiries he said simply: 'I get almost as much as the captain of the ship.'

I brought it out very simply: 'Are you ever afraid?'

He did n't move an eyelash. 'An aviator,' he answered slowly, 'never has time to feel.'

'I'd like to fly,' I told him. 'Will you take me?'

'You'd be afraid.'

'Yes,' I confessed. 'Yes, but I want to go up. Will you take me?' 'In the seaplane?' 'In the seaplane.'

His face relaxed just a little. 'It's against regulations. A woman went up once; got scared - hysterical; grabbed hysterical; grabbed the controls. She was killed. But I could arrange it - in New York.'

'Good.'

'Remember this: Never go up except in an Army or Navy machine." 'I'll remember.'

He looked at me now with a different expression. "Tell me,' - I was to tell him!-'what do you think happens after death?'

I waited, not answering.

He went on: 'Are we just animals? When we die, are we simply dead? I've seen so many men die.'

I nodded.

"This certainly is a pretty place,' he went on, apparently with the same train of thought. 'It's right pretty. Ever been to Yosemite?'

No, never. And I did n't, at this moment, want to talk about it. But, by the mercy of an all-wise Providence, I kept silent.

'Yes,' he continued, 'I'm slow, not quick-minded. That's best for an aviator because then you're quickminded for the machines, see? You can't ever lose your head

and you have to be sort of quiet - phlegmatic -and when you know you're going to die and be dead- and not have time to think is n't that best? When I came to your house the other night, as soon as I saw you I knew.'

'What?'

He nodded his head. "That you

understood; that I could tell you. Listen, don't you ever write comedies. You write about men as they really are. You know better than any other woman I've met.'

We were almost at the village. Had I heard all that there was to hear? He was silent again, evidently thinking. "The Yosemite,' he drawled, 'is the best there is on earth. It can't be beat.' 'So I have heard.'

'But when you get to foolin' round with clouds, you're sort of less interested down here.'

My heart almost stopped beating. There it was, all of it! At last the words that expressed everything. Had I searched a hundred years for them I could not have found them. That phrase would have made hours of boredom worth while! He had said it absolutely. Perfectly. There was nothing more, nothing less, to be said. But he continued, slowly. 'I'd like to take you up, to show them to you- big white ones their canyons, colors, shapes - up there. With the earth beneath you. Nothing much makes any difference. Will you come?'

'Yes.'