Years ago, I saw a near-sighted cook peeling onions—a most pathetic scene if one judges entirely from appearances. The incident impressed me deeply at the time, although it had long since passed from my mind, when good old Fritz came to me, with tears running down the dusty furrows of his be-wrinkled and weather-beaten face.

Some strange analogy revived the old memory. There is—say what one will—something tremendously ludicrous about honesty when clothed too deeply in rusticity. We smile at it while we give it our love and respect.

It can toy with our heart-strings, playing both grave and gay. We laugh at it so that we may not cry and become laughable ourselves.

In broken English, he tried to explain that which was self-evident and needed no explanation—his own distress and desperation. His simple earnestness—his frank, honest manner—won every one’s immediate sympathy. The boys began to plan to relieve his distress, even while they laughed with scant courtesy in the old man’s face.

His clothes were many sizes too large, which was not entirely offset by his cap that was several sizes too small. Through his broken shoes, ten toes spoke in most eloquent English—the need of protection and shelter.

“What could ever cause a man to get into such a condition?” asked a fellow, who, three weeks before, had arrived quite as dishevelled, but had already forgotten the fact, which is just as well.

“The cause?” asked the German.

“Yes.”

“Beer.”

“Beer! You are the first man I ever saw who got to such a finish on beer,” returned the questioner.

“I drink nothing else—never,” the old German affirmed.

“I am thinking Mr. Floyd will try to clean you up in a hurry—or not at all—if you tell him that beer put you down and out.”

“I hope so,” said the old man; “I feel pretty bad.”

“Some mighty arguments have been put out that it is the distilled liquors that do all the mischief; that light wine and malt liquors are no more harmful than tea. And here you are in our camp to disprove this contention. If you say you have been on a beer debauch, you may not be believed.”

“Maybe someone put a little apple-jack into my glass when I wasn’t looking,” replied the German, quickly, as he went into the boys’ kitchen to get a little coffee.

So it came about that Fritz became a Colony member, and his good nature made him a general favorite almost immediately. His strength returned to him rapidly.

The final cure was effected when, among the books that came in, one of the men found a German volume. He took it to Fritz with some misgiving, as it was a work on astronomy, and Fritz did not resemble a Heidelberg professor; but when our friend glanced at the book and saw the German text, and then, on closer scrutiny, observed that it was a work on astronomy, he became excitedly enthusiastic.

“Good! Very good! I am happy to get it.”

It was a week later, an hour or two after midnight, I saw Fritz in the moonlight, walking around outside the house.

I went out to question him, as his actions seemed strange to me.

“What is the trouble, Fritz?” I asked him.

“It is nothing.”

“But I would rather not have the men out so late,” I said.

“I cannot find it,” he replied.

“Find what, Fritz? What have you lost?”

“I cannot find the North Star,” he said, sadly.

“Don’t you know where to look for it?”

“Oh, yes; but it is always cloudy.”

At that moment the clouds began to move—not because Fritz wished it, but his patience had outstayed the clouds.

“There it is. That’s it,” he exclaimed, as he ran into the stable, leaving me standing alone star-gazing to no purpose. But Fritz rejoined me as abruptly as he had left me. He had brought out with him a square board with an iron rod running through it.

“What have you there?” I questioned him.

“It is my sun-dial; it is my own invention. I have never seen a sun-dial, but I am sure that mine will be as correct as any of them.”

Then he fastened the dial firmly on a stump, pointing the wire straight at the North Star.

“In the morning I can see if I am right. Good night, Mr. Floyd.”

“Good night, Fritz.”

For several weeks Fritz worked about the place timing his labor by his ingenious invention. Sometimes he would work after the shadows had passed the quitting hour.

“The dial tells us,” I said to him one day, “that it is time to stop work.”

“No,” he said, “sun-dials are never exact; sometimes they vary fifteen minutes, at least. For the Earth goes around the Sun not in a circle but in an ellipse. I will work a little longer.”

One Sunday I overheard Fritz talking excitedly out near the spot where the dial was stationed. I thought he had for the moment forgotten he was a Self Master—as all men are likely at times to forget. But when I went out to check the noise, I found that Fritz had ten or fifteen of the men standing in front of him and he was saying:

“It is easy to do—to measure the distance to the Sun, or the distance from one planet to another. There are a hundred methods, many of them as simple as it is to measure the length of a building.”

“You are a student of astronomy?” I asked.

“Yes, for many years, I have studied the German books on astronomy. It is my pleasure.”

From that day our respect for Fritz was established. There is an aristocracy of learning; we doff our hats to even the beggar who knows.

The visitors were all interested in Fritz’s queer looking sun-dial, made out of a square board and piece of telegraph wire. Automobiles halted by the roadside to look at it. The children insisted on setting their Ingersolls by its falling shadow. A well known physician stood examining the dial one day. He took out his watch to make comparison.

“Very clever,” he said, “very clever; now let me see Fritz.” And Fritz came out.

“He isn’t much to look at,” the Doctor whispered to me, as the old German approached us.

Just then the five o’clock whistle blew. The Doctor and I looked at the dial.

“The shadow,” I said, “falls on the figure five.”

“Quite true,” replied the Doctor.

“It must,” said Fritz, quietly; “it must, for the wire points to the North Star.”

The Doctor smiled, as he spoke: “A man intelligent enough to make that dial can, at least, care for my stable and horses.... Fritz, would you like to work for me? I have some splendid horses and I pay well for their care.”

“I will go gladly,” said Fritz; “when do you want me?”

“To-morrow,”

“May I go, Mr. Floyd?”

“On one condition,” I said.

“What is it?”

“You must give the Colony your sun-dial.”

“It is nothing, but you may have it if you like.”

The next day Fritz was given a good suit of clothes, a collar and tie.

“I don’t know about the collar and tie,” said the old man; “I have not worn one for many months.”

Three or four of the boys helped him to button on the collar and arrange the ascot effectively. Then the Doctor came with his best span of pet horses.

“Jump in with me, Fritz,” he said.

The old German, smiling, climbed in and then turned, took his hat off to me and the boys.

“Thank you.... Good luck,” he said.

“You take the reins and drive,” said the Doctor.

Fritz buttoned his coat tightly around him, straightened up his old bent back and taking the reins he proudly drove away.

“He did not come in a carriage,” said a boy.

“It is the Self Masters that helped him,” said another.

“You forget about the Sun-dial,” I said.