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Winter was severe on the bleak prairies and sand dunes of the North Shore. Snow choked the straggling highways of Zion City. Yet some construction work was done. A big, red-brick residence for the General Overseer had been inclosed in late fall. During the winter dozens of workmen labored over the interior. This house was three stories high, its red brick walls fancifully orna­mented with cream-colored stone, and capped by a complicated roof gaudy with red, green, and yellow tiles in geometrical design.

A big, rambling, frame hotel, of somewhat Vene­tian architecture, had been begun on Elijah Avenue, and directly across from it a plain, colonial type two-­story administration building. The railroad company was building a station. Extensive additions were be­ing made to Zion City General Stores.

No sooner had Zion Building and Manufacturing Association begun work than Herbert was disturbed by complaints. People who had homes to be built or finished were alarmed at prices charged. Everything was done at cost plus ten per cent, but why should association costs be so much higher than contractors' had been? Those who had been contractors and were now foremen and superintendents told Herbert that they were put to work with sketches instead of


complete plans and specifications, and then, when plans finally came through, changes had been made and much of the work had to be torn out and rebuilt.

The association had built and equipped a planing mill, but when lumber, sash, and doors came from the mill, they would not fit. Work was often delayed, sometimes for weeks, because when supplies were needed they were not ready. Sometimes the purchas­ing department of the association had not even or­dered them. Or when things were delivered they were of the wrong kind or wrong sizes. All this meant waste time, waste effort, waste material, waste money, and waste emotion.

Herbert went to Deacon Gaines. He found his friend in a maelstrom of blue-prints, typists, clerks, architects, engineers, kickers, job-seekers, assistants, foremen, superintendents, telephones, and papers. No use trying to see him there. Herbert and Deacon Gaines took a walk down to the beach after dinner.

"Deacon," said Herbert, abruptly, "what's wrong with the B. and M.? You're too good a man to be sacrificed to whatever it is."

"You know what it is," answered Gaines, quietly. "Why do you ask me?"

“I know what it is?" repeated Herbert.

“Yes," the manager laughed; "same thing that's the matter with your department."

Herbert disconsolately whistled a few bars of "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night."

"Right you are, there will be," Gaines chuckled again. Herbert was silent, distressed.

"You mean," he said, at last, "too many jigadier



brindles, too many colonels and majors and adjutants and advocates, and too few high privates in the rear ranks?"

"Of course."

"And none of 'em can be fired or laid off or retired or mustered out?"

"Exactly. Sent to me with a letter, 'This is our dear Brother Corntassel from Decinson, Iowa. He has come into Zion with all his family and his worldly possessions. Give him an executive position at three thousand a year.' "

"But can't you put the dear brothers in ornamen­tal jobs and put your own competent men where there is important work to do?"

"Theoretically, yes. But these chaps are no fools, Herbert. If they were, they wouldn't come here with a hundred thousand or so to put into Zion Lace In­dustries. They know a position from a job-and they all want jobs."

"But if they are competent, why do they ball everything up?"

"They are competent farmers, hay and grain deal­ers, grocers, undertakers, and cattle-buyers."

"Then why do they want to mix up with build­ing?"

"Oh, most of 'em have done odd jobs at carpenter work around the place and they know all about it."

"Gee, isn't it the limit? What's going to be the outcome, Deacon? This thing can't go on. My de­partment is bad enough, goodness knows, but I don't have to put hayseeds on technical jobs, so about all it costs is the useless salaries. But the salaries are the




smallest part of your losses. Harrow has the same thing to worry over in the publishing house, Halsey in the bank, Eddinger in the stores, Augustman at the lumber yard, and Smathers at the brick-yard. What Lucas has to put up with at the lace factory I haven't heard, but I'll bet four cents and a fish­hook it's enough. What're we goin' to do about it?"

"Well, you're to blame; why don't you do some­thing about it?"


"Yes, of course. Don't you write all that adver­tising urging people to sell all they have and come to Zion City? You know they have to have jobs when they get here, and you know there aren't jobs enough to go round-and never will be."

"Never will be?" echoed Herbert.

“No, of course not. Do you know how much capi­tal it takes to finance one employee's job ip the average factory?"

"No, I've no idea."

"About ten thousand dollars. Take all those who want jobs here. Will their capital average anything like that much after they have paid for their homes?"

"No, but a lot of 'em put in money that don't want jobs-old folks, women, and invalids."

"All right, say they don't, and count 'em out. Will the average be ten thousand dollars for each job­-hunter even then?"

"Nothing like it, I'm afraid."

They came to the beach. The short autumn day was past, sunset had paled, and a full moon had risen. As they stood there in golden silence, each looking into



his own thoughts and feelings, Herbert owned to him-self a great discouragement.

He stooped, picked up a little flat stone, and skipped it out over the water. Every place it touched became a widening fairy ring in the moonlight.

"You do that well," commented Gaines.

"Been crazy about skipping stones ever since I was knee-high to a duck. But say, Deacon, what is going to happen to us?"

"We'll pull through."

“What's going to happen to save our bacon, if all you say about capital's true? What's your answer?"

“It's just faith, Herbert. I believe Zion City is God's, and He will not let even the General Overseer smash it. If I didn't believe that, I'd resign. Besides, I have faith in the General Overseer. I believe God called him to do this work."

During his spare time for the next few days Her­bert thought desperately. His statistics covered the backs of many envelops. And the more he thought and searched and figured, the more alarmed he grew. He must be wrong. Thinking and searching and figur­ing all over again obtained the same answer.

The next time he reported to Dr. Dowie he found the great man was in one of his gracious, expansive moods. Money was flowing in for investment and for lots. As he talked to Herbert, his imagination ex­plored new vistas.

"I can already see," he said, leaning back in his big mahogany swivel chair, "that if God spares my life, I shall be at the head of the strongest and wealthiest Church that the world has ever seen, and of the



mightiest and richest industrial, commercial, and financial empire ever known to history."

"I believe it too," said Herbert, seriously, "but I can also see that there are some difficult problems ahead of us-in fact, staring us in the face right now."

"Yes, yes," frowning and looking sharply at Her­bert, "but I thank God I have been able, by His grace and the wisdom He has granted me, to solve many harder problems in the past; and ‘The Lord that de­livered me out of the paw of the lion and out of the paw of the bear, He will deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine.' Herbert, our worst days are over. We now stand at the very gateway of triumph. But what problems do you see confronting us now?"

"Well, for example, do you realize that two hun­dred and thirteen men and women in Zion City are now trying to carry a population of five thousand on their backs?"

"Of course I realize nothing of the kind," crossly. “What do you mean?"

“I mean that there are now five thousand people in Zion City eating food, wearing clothes, burning fuel, using furniture, paying railroad and street-car fares, buying books, magazines, and newspapers, and that for all these things, and others, money is going out of Zion City. There are two hundred and thirteen people working in Zion Lace Industries and, while no lace has yet been sold, the lace they are making is the only thing that can bring money into Zion City."

“That is absurd, Herbert. Look here, you say these five thousand people eat, wear clothes, burn fuel, and



so forth. And you admit no lace has been sold. Yet they live and live well. How can they be dependent on lace?"

"They're living on capital, General Overseer--even the lace-makers, for the present. Every dollar that comes into Zion City now, every penny we pay our laborers, our builders, our engineers, our clerks and stenographers, our general stores force, is capital."

"In a way, yes, it is capital, but it takes capital to start an enterprise-you cannot build a new factory with your profits."

"Quite true, but by this time next year there will be ten thousand people in the city-ten thousand mouths eating up money. Where's the money coming from?"

"By this time next year there will also be fresh millions in Zion's treasury, brought by these new resi­dents and sent from Zion people all over the world."

"But that will all be capital too, and we cannot live very long on capital, no matter how much we bring in. Do you realize that, at only five dollars a week for each person, for all expenses, ten thousand people will use up two million six hundred thousand dollars in a year? That is more capital than has now been subscribed for all Zion's institutions and indus­tries. For every family that brings a few thousands into Zion City, there are half a dozen that have hardly enough to make a first payment on a lot and go into debt for the rear shed of a little house. And those are the ones with the biggest families."

"Ah, I love the big families. Zion's royal generation!


These are Zion's greatest assets, Herbert. You have not counted on them. Now do not be afraid about our capital any more, Herbert. Do not be of little faith. 'The silver and the gold are the Lord's,' and He will take care of Zion. You do not see all I can see, sitting here with Zion's mail from all lands go­ing across my desk. Why, Herbert, if I were to say that I can see fifty millions of dollars coming to Zion within the next two or three years, I should greatly err on the side of understatement!"

"Even so, General Overseer, your population would increase faster than your capital. No average com­munity 'can live in idleness on ~come from its capi­tal. And everybody in Zion City not employed at making something that can be sold for money to the outside world is, in an economic sense, idle. You can­not go on expanding with capital alone. Production must more than keep pace. That is elementary eco­nomic law."

"Ah, but my dear Herbert," said the great man, his eyes glowing with triumph, "Zion is not subject to economic law. Hers is a higher law, the law of God's illimitable abundance."

And Herbert had to be satisfied with that.


"Deacon Renbrush," grated Zebulun I. Barne­galt, "God has told me to speak to you frankly. He is not mocked. I have the talent, the education, the de­votion to the cause of Christ for a better position, and, in obedience to Him, I demand it. This silly writing of figures in a book! Work for a brainless girl! Do you think I'm a fool-that I do not know



I'm being put off on that to hide my real ability, so your own job may not be endangered?"

“You can take that accusation to the General Over­seer," replied Herbert without looking up. “Please don't bother me with it. I've work to do."

Two days later, being called to Dr. Dowie's office, he controlled his delight all too weakly when told that Zebulun had come in and talked foolishness and would be transferred to another department.






Mr. Garrish woke with a start.

“'Larm clock," he muttered, his voice a sleepy croak. Then snuggled deep in his warm nest of comfortables. He was in that celestial borderland between asleep and awake-and wanted to stay there. He had worked ten hours for the B. and M. and three or four on his own house every day for a long week. He slipped a little deeper-and began a soft snore. A sharp nudge in his side. He struggled back to half consciousness.

Groaning, stretching, yawning, shaking himself like a big shaggy dog, he slowly climbed out of bed.

“Holy mackerel, Ma, 't's colder'n blazes! Where'd 'ya leave them matches?"

“They're right on the  chair 't the head of the bed. You put 'em there yourself."

“Ah, ya. Gee, hear 'at wind! We're like to freeze our faces goin' t' the deepo 's mornin'."

Fumbling with stiff fingers, he lighted an oil lamp on the walnut-stained pine bureau.

“Br-r-r-r! Snow's sifted in all over ever'thin'. M' feet's nearly froze off!"

“Get your shoes on Pa an' get a fire goin'. I'll sweep out th' snow."

Stumbling into the other room of their shack, a combined kitchen, dining-room, and living-room,




Mr. Garrish started a roaring soft coal fire in the cook-stove. Breaking half an inch of ice on the water-pail, he replenished a kettle and set it on. Blow­ing on blue fingers, he shivered back to the bedroom and gathered frosty clothes, which he carried out to the fireside. Meanwhile his wife had swept up snow, dressed herself, and begun to get breakfast.

"It's turrible cold," grumbled the man, eating his doughnuts and dried beef, the latter fried in some little likeness to bacon. “‘At stove's so red-hot it burns my face-and my back's freezin'."

He dried their few dishes as his wife washed them. While she packed sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, doughnuts, cold baked potatoes, and dried-apple pie in a collapsible tin box, he got out a lantern and filled its reservoir with kerosene.

"All ready now, Pa? Bring the Bible."

Sitting with him near their dying fire the woman read a few verses. Both knelt on the bare floor while Mrs. Garrish prayed.

Swiftly they quenched the last few embers in their stove, struggled into coats, sweaters, mufflers, mittens, and high overshoes. The man took his lantern, and their Bibles and hymn-books, the woman their lunch­box. They paused a moment to look about their little home.

"Ever'thin's a' right, I guess," said the man.

"Go see 'f I fastened the bedroom window."

He obeyed, nodded as he returned, looked around once more, then blew out the lamp.

They stepped out into shrieking white savagery. Even while Mr. Garrish paused to lock the door,



snow stung their eyes, pelted their faces, sifted through tiny crevices in their woolen armor, and gripped their feet and legs.

There was weird, muffled light enough now to see the way. Heads down, shoulders hunched, they started, the man ahead, breaking a path. When flesh could no longer endure the crystal-tipped lashes of cold and wind, they turned and walked backward. Their shack being far out in the section northwest of Shiloh Park, they had a long walk. Other bundled figures, ghostly at first, began to materialize out of the flying murk.

"Peace to thee, brother."

"Peace to thee be multiplied, Deacon."

"The dear Lord permits the Devil to send us a bad morning."

"Yes, but He gives us strength to overcome, praise the Lord. The Zion soldier thrives on hardship."

"We must be bound for a great victory for Zion to-day-that's why the Devil's so mad."

When they had crossed Shiloh Park and were on their way down Shiloh Boulevard, still other snowy figures loomed out of the storm to join them. Near Edina Hospice the flying whiteness materialized them in scores.

It was half past six and Overseer Darling was ready to begin the early morning meeting of praise and prayer. Crowded into the little dining-room and lobby was every resident of the city who could ven­ture out of doors. There they steamed in pleasant heat, song, and prayer for an hour while a slow dawn stole in and paled the oil lights.



Still bearing their lanterns, now unlighted, hud­dled like sheep, they marched to Zion's City's tem­porary railroad station and stood knee-deep in snow while a train of day coaches was backed in from Waukegan. Elders and deacons shouted commands, snow-plastered figures, laughing and chattering, pulled themselves up the steps and into the cars. Each coach contained a “Zion Seventy" and its leaders.

During the run to Chicago, hymns were sung, pray­ers were offered, bundles of "Leaves of Healing" and other Zion literature were distributed, and territories were assigned. From the old Wells Street station, Zion Seventies scattered, north, east, south and west. Some attacked homes of the wealthy in Lake Shore Drive and its neighborhood; middle class homes and flats on the North, West and South Sides drew the majority; others sought the ghettos and other foreign-born dis­tricts near river and stock-yards; still others pene­trated the haunts of segregated vice in South Wabash Avenue and Twenty-second Street.

Wherever they went, two by two, they missed no dwelling. They knocked on every door, rang every door-bell. If the door opened, they said, "Peace be to this house," and offered their “Leaves of Healing" for sale. Whether or not they sold a copy, they handed out a tract and a leaflet announcing the meet­ing in the Chicago Auditorium, with a spoken invi­tation to come and enjoy it. When there was sickness or trouble or need in the house, they offered their aid. Sometimes they were received kindly and their help was welcomed. More often they were coldly re­fused. Some people slammed doors in their faces. 



Occasionally they were given a tongue-lashing, and rarely they were beaten or stoned.

"Well," said Mr. Garrish, with a sigh, "that's the last call. We've carried God's peace and the dear General Overseer's message to every house in our ter­ritory. Let's take a cable car and get down t' th' Home's quick's we can. The storm's worse 'f any­thin'. My hands'n' feet're like chunks o' ice, 'n' I'm's hungry I c'd eat a raw dog."

At the Home they joined hundreds of Zion Seven­ties in the long corridors, where they sat on the floor, their backs against the wall-men and women, boys and girls--eating from pails, boxes, and baskets packed at home in Zion City.

Seventies from Zion City sat in the orchestra at the Chicago Auditorium that afternoon. Do not judge some of them harshly if they were noisy in their slumbers.

It was often past six o'clock before the choir sang its recessional and Dr. Dowie pronounced the bene­diction.

Mr. Garrish awoke when those near him rose for the recessional. Fumbling under his seat, he drew out cap, muffler, overcoat, overshoes, and lantern. Mrs. Garrish began to make a bundle of lunch-box, Bi­bles, hymn-books, and the latest number of "Leaves of Healing."

Heartily echoing their leader's amen to the bene­diction, they writhed into their many wraps, slowly crept up the aisle, and out of the building.

"The Spirit of the Lord was upon our dear Gen­eral Overseer to-day, praise His blessed Name!" said



a neighbor they met in the aisle. “It was the most wonderful message I ever heard."

“He certainly is opening up God's Word to us in a marvelous way:' said Mrs. Garrish, her face lighted with solemn rapture.

Mr. Garrish said nothing. He had slept through it all.

It was dark when they reached Congress Street. The storm had been gripped in its tracks by deadly cold. Stars shone in a black sky like bits of ice. Snow screamed underfoot. Air seemed to sear their throats and tears streamed from tortured eyes.

Shivering, they hurried up icy stairs to the elevated station, stamped and swung their arms on a crowded platform until they despaired of further endurance, then swung from straps all the way to Wells Street station. Once on their special to Zion City, Mr. Gar­rish slept again and did not waken until his wife shook him and told him it was time to light his lantern.

The new city showed a few widely scattered lights. For the rest, it was a desolate plain of darkness, out of which a cruel wind swept from the northwest­-an arctic blast they must face on their two-mile walk home.

By twos, by fours, by larger groups their companions left them, lanterns twinkling over the snow like sparks in white ashes. At last they two were alone. No word had been spoken by anyone since they left the station. Plodding through a foot of close-packed snow against a twelve-below-zero wind demanded all their energy.



"Hurry, Pa, I'm frozen:' begged Mrs. Garrish, at their door.

"Gee, I'm doin' my best, Ma," he said, patiently, "but my fingers is so stiff I can't seem to han'le this key."

At last the door opened and they went in stamp­ing off snow. The nickel alarm clock that had roused Mr. Garrish at five that morning now showed nine o'clock when he held his lantern up to its face.

"S'prised it kep' goin'," he grunted, “ 't so cold in here-feels colder'n ou'door."

"Never mind that, Pa," said his wife; "get the fire goin' so a body c'n get supper."

"Good idea that,” he said. "I'm holler clear to my toes."

They both bustled about, stopping now and then to blow on their aching fingers. Three quarters of an hour later they-and all their fellow-citizens in Zion City-sat down to their Sunday dinner.

"Well, it's been a hard day:' sighed Mrs. Garrish, "but I've enjoyed it. I'm glad, once in a while, to suffer a little for God and Zion."

“I wouldn't 'a' missed it fer a fortune," said her husband. "One man to-day, when we said ‘Peace be to this house,’ says, ‘Thank you, brethren, and God bless you fer them words!' "

“Yes," she said, “it's a blessed, blessed privilege, praise the Lord!"

This was their "day of rest" all through that win­ter and the next.

Early in 1902 Zion headquarters were moved from Chicago to Zion City.



Shiloh House had been finished and the General Overseer and family lived in its luxury and gaudi­ness.

Shiloh Tabernacle, a wooden barn of an auditorium, seating nearly six thousand, squatted in Shiloh Park.

Elijah Hospice opened its doors, and the administration building provided offices for the General Overseer and his staff, for the Church, and for the bank and the land department.     At this time Deacon Gaines, general manager of Zion Building and Manufacturing Association, was made general financial manager of Zion's institutions and industries. Evert dollar of income from all sources passed through his hands and every penny of expenditure waited upon his sanction. Under his di­rection was Zion accounting department, which kept books for all Zion enterprises. His office also was in the new administration building.

Herbert was sorry to leave his old room in Zion Home--but he was glad to get out of Chicago, glad to become a resident of his beloved Zion City. He took his meals at the hospice and so was still plagued by Zion's eccentricities of catering.

The Harrows remained in Zion Home, Chicago, since no building had been put up for the publishing house.

Edith Brelin and her mother had spent nearly a year in the East and were now back in their Woodlawn flat. They came out to Sunday meetings in Shiloh Tabernacle and Herbert sometimes walked to the Chicago-bound train with Edith after services.




She always thrilled him with her loveliness and cap­tivated him by her personality, but he was busy and his mind was full of his duties, problems, and wor­ries. Despite his worries, however, he was happy. He told Edith: "You know, I'm the luckiest young dog alive! Think of it! I like my work, everything goes fast, associates jolly, marvelous environment, grand leader, all for the benefit of humanity, and world­wide expansion in sight! And I have a richly unde­served front seat!"

This was no mood for romance.