December came to an end with no plan for action on the amendment a.s.sured. This left us January and February only before the session would end. The President had not yet won the necessary 2 votes. We decided therefore to keep a perpetual fire to consume the President's speeches on democracy as fast as he made them in Europe.

And so on New Year's Day, 1919, we light our first watchfire of freedom in the Urn dedicated to that purpose. We place it on the sidewalk in a direct line with the President's front door. The wood comes from a tree in

Independence Square, Philadelphia. It burns gaily. Women with banners stand guard over the watchfire. A bell hung in the balcony at headquarters tolls rhythmically the beginning of the watch. It tolls again as the President's words are tossed to the flames. His speech to the workingmen of Manchester; his toast to the King at Buckingham Palace: "We have used great words, all of us. We have used the words 'right' and 'justice' and now we are to prove whether or not we understand these words;" his speech at Brest; all turn into ignominious brown ashes.

The bell tolls again when the watch is changed. All Washington is reminded hourly that we are at the President's gate, burning his words. From Washington the news goes to all the world.

People gather to see the ceremony. The omnipresent small boys and soldiers jeer, and some tear the banners. A soldier rushes to the scene with a bucket of water which does not extin-

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guish the flames. The fire burns as if by magic. A policeman arrives and uses a fire extinguisher. But the fire burns on! The flames are as indomitable as the women who guard them! Rain comes, but all through the night the watchfire burns. All through the night the women stand guard.

Day and night the fire burns. Boys are permitted by the police to scatter it in the street, to break the. urn, and to demolish the banners. But each time the women rekindle the fire. A squad of policemen tries to demolish the fire. While the police are engaged at the White House gates, other women go quietly in the dusk to the huge bronze urn in Lafayette Park and light another watchfire. A beautiful blaze leaps into the air from the great urn. The police hasten hither. The burning contents are overturned. Alice Paul refills the urn and kindles a new fire.

She is placed under arrest. Suddenly a third blaze is seen in a remote corner of the park. The policemen scramble to that corner.

When the watchfires have been continued for four days and four nights,, in spite of the attempts by the police to extinguish them, general orders to arrest are sent to the squad of policemen.

Five women are taken to the police station. The police captain is outraged that the ornamental urn valued at $10,000 should have been used to hold a fire which burned the President's words! His indignation leaves the defendants unimpressed, however, and he becomes conciliatory. Will the "ladies promise to be good and light no more fires in the park?"

Instead, the "ladies" inquire on what charge they are held. Not even the police captain knows. They wait at the police station to find out, refusing to give bail unless they are told. Meanwhile other women address the crowd lingering about the watchfire. The crowd asks thoughtful questions. Little knots of men can be seen discussing "what the whole thing is about anyway."

Miss Mildred Morris, one of the partic.i.p.ants, overheard

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the following discussion in one group composed of an old man, a young sailor and a young soldier.

"But whatever you think of them," the sailor was telling the soldier, "you have to admire their sincerity and courage. They've got to do this thing. They want only what's their right and real men want to give it to them."

"But they've got no business using a sidewalk in front of the White House for a bonfire," declared the soldier. "It's disloyal to the President, I tell you, and if they weren't women I'd slap their faces."

"Listen, sonny," said the old man, patting the soldier's arm, "I'm as loyal to the President as any man alive, but I've got to admit that he ain't doing the right thing towards these women.

He's forced everything else he's wanted through Congress, and if he wanted to give these women the vote badly enough he could force the suffrage amendment through. If you and I were in these women's places, sonny, we'd act real vicious. We'd want to come here and clean out the ,whole White House."

"But if the President doesn't want to push their amendment through, it's his right not to," argued the soldier. "It's n.o.body's business how he uses his power."

"Good G.o.d!" the sailor burst out. "Why don't you go over and get a job shining the Kaiser's boots?"

The women were released without bail, since no one was able to supply a charge. But a thorough research was inst.i.tuted and out of the dusty archives some one produced an ancient statute that would serve the purpose. It prohibits the building of fires in a public place in the District of Columbia between sunset and sunrise. And so the beautiful Elizabethan custom of lighting watchfires as a form of demonstration was forbidden!

In a few days eleven women were brought to trial. There was a t.i.tter in the court room as the prosecuting attorney read

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with heavy pomposity the charge against the prisoners "to wit: That on Pennsylvania Avenue, Northwest, in the District of Columbia they did aid and abet in setting fire to certain combustibles consisting of logs, paper, oil, etc., between the setting of the sun in the said District of Columbia on the sixth day of January and the rising of the sun in the said District of Columbia o f the sixth day o f January, 1919, A. D."

The court is shocked to hear of this serious deed. The prisoners are unconcerned.

"Call the names of the prisoners," the judge orders. The clerk calls, "Julia Emory."

No answer!

"Julia Emory," he calls a second time.

Dead silence!

The clerk tries another name, a second, a third, a fourth. Always there is silence!

In a benevolent tone, the judge asks the policeman to identify the prisoners. They identify as many as they can. An attempt is made to have the prisoners rise and be sworn. They sit.

"We will go on with the testimony," says the judge.

The police testify as to the important details of the crime. They were on Pennsylvania Avenue they looked at their watch-they learned it was about 5:30-they saw the ladies in the park putting wood on fires in urns. "I threw the wood on the pavement; they kept putting it back," says one policeman. "Each time I tried to put out the fire they threw on more wood," says another. "They kept on lighting new fires, and I'd keep putting them out," says a third with an injured air.

The prosecuting attorney asks an important question, "Did you command them to stop?"

Policeman-"I did sir, and I said, 'You ladies don't want to be arrested do you?' They made no answer but went on attending to their fires."

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The statute is read for the second time. Another witness is called. This time the district attorney asks the policeman, "Do you know what time the sun in the District of Columbia set on January 5th and rose on January 6th?"

At this profound question, the policeman hesitates, looks abashed, then says impressively, "The sun in the District of Columbia set at 5 o'clock January 5th, and rose at 7:9.8 o'clock January 6th."

The prosecutor is triumphant. He looks expectantly at the judge.

"How do you know what time the sun rose and set on those days?"

asks the judge.

"From the weather bureau," answers the policeman.

The judge is perplexed.

"I think we should have something more official," he says.

The prosecutor suggests that perhaps an almanac would settle the question. The judge believes it would. The government attorney disappears to find an almanac.

Breathless, the prisoners and spectators wait to hear the important verdict of the almanac. The delay is interminable. The court room is in a state of confusion. The prisoners, especially, are amused at the proceedings. It is clear their fate may hang upon a minute or two of time. An hour goes by, and still the district attorney has not returned. Another half hour! Presently he returns to read in heavy tones from the almanac. The policeman looks embarra.s.sed. His information from the weather bureau differs from that of the almanac. His sun rose two minutes too early and continued to shine twelve minutes too long! However, it doesn't matter. The sun shone long enough to make the defendants guilty.

The judge looks at the prisoners and announces that they are "guilty" and "shall pay a fine of $5.00 or serve five days in jail." The Administration has learned its lesson about hunger strikes and evidently fears having to yield to another

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strike. And so it seeks safety in lighter sentences. The judge pleads almost piteously with them not to go to jail at all, and says that he will put them on probation if they will promise to be good and not light any more fires in the District of Columbia.

The prisoners make no promise. They have been found guilty according to the almanac and they file through the little gate into the prisoners' pen.

Somehow they did not believe that whether the sun rose at 7 :26 or 7:28 was the issue which had decided whether they should be convicted or not, and it was not in protest against the almanac that they straightway entered upon a hunger strike.

Meanwhile the watchfires continued in the capital. January thirteenth, the day the great world Peace Conference under the President's leadership, began to deliberate on the task of administering "right" and "justice" to all the oppressed of the earth, twenty-three women were arrested in front of the White House.