The most loveable characteristic of Man is his abiding delight in simple things, or in other words his eternal boyishness. No matter to what exalted station he rises in the honour and esteem of his fellow men, he is always at heart a lover of games, pleased to look at pictures, moved to emotion by the tragedies of life, keenly sympathetic with the ambitions and struggles of youth. He only appears to be a cold, reserved dignified man of affairs. At heart is a little child filled with wonder as he contemplates the mysteries of his existence. He may have learned to respect the matured intelligence of his manhood, but he still retains the boy’s blind confidence in his instinct.

It is impossible seemingly to educate instinct out of a human being. Instinct is the magnetic pole to which all the various phases of his nature point. It is instinctive to him to reverence the God of his fathers, to love the flag under which he is born, to respect the institutions of his fatherland, to believe in the heroes of his youth, and chief of all these is the homing instinct to venerate the place where he was born.

This is the Instinctive Magnetic Pole that the Canadian Society of New York gathers round at its annual dinner and those other charming little gatherings with it holds throughout the year. This instinct is the original cause of the formation of this Society. It was simply the irresistible desire of Canadian-born men in a foreign city, without reflecting in any way upon their love and respect for their adopted country, to get together once in a while, with the old flag overhead, to look into the eyes of their fellow countrymen and listen to talk about the motherland to give expression to the patriotic emotions of their hearts and to rejoice in the fact that their beloved Canada is growing to be so great, so intelligent and so wise a Nation.

Sentiment plays a large part in the organization of such a society. Sentiment is the rose colouring of the sunrise, the velvet opalescence of the orchid, the melody f the symphony, the flush on the cheek of youth, that indefinable essence of goodness and the beauty that keeps man’s nature mellow and human. Patriotism is a sentimental love, and very often there is no intelligent reason for this love. The Swill hungers for his mountains where he starved in childhood. The expatriated Arab dreams of his Sahara, with its terrible sufferings. The Esquimeau is unhappy separated from his long frigid winters. It is an old story.

The writer has always desired to purchase the old farm where he was born, to own it, to feel it was his; but really it was not much of a farm. The soil was light, and though the acres were many, torrential rains had long ago wash much of the encrusting clay from their lime rock faces. But a little brook ran through the farm in which as a child he waded and in certain pools fished for chub and other little silver fish in the springtime, a genuine babbling brook that has purred him to sleep many a day when, tired with play, he fell asleep on its bank. There was a big mysterious woods, also, tenanted by all the hobgoblins of childhood, a marvellous place where, with his brother and sisters, he played with the Fairies all day long. There was his mother’s sweet apple tree just beyond the kitchen stoop, the black cherry trees along the line fence, the hickory nut trees in the pasture field and the patriarchal butternut tree sweeping out over the sheep pond, all friends and dearly beloved. And most sacred of all, the little bedroom just off the sitting room where he was born. In later years he revisited the old farm and peered with dimmed eyes into that little room. It is the very apex of the magnetic pole of his existence. He rotates from there but his heart is always true to it. It could not be otherwise.

And every member of this Society has a similar lode star of his existence, somewhere in Canada, east or west, it does not matter, the boundary lines of the Provinces are only line fences. We are neighbours all.

So we get together, an odd assortment of men, rather a rugged type of men, clear eyed, big limbed, robust fellows, all secretly proud of themselves and of each other and at heart sentimental as boys.

Most of us went out into the world to seek our fortunes. The Motherland was very poor in our youth. She lay asleep waiting for the strong hearted Knight who would brave all the dangers and kiss her into live. So we came away with a good Canadian public school education in our heads and mighty few dollars in our pockets. We took hold of everything we could find to do and we worked; for we just had to do it, and to our surprise when shot ahead because the scratching of the Wolf at the door had so scared us that when we started to run we couldn’t stop, and as Uncle Remus says, "Jes’ naturally hit up sich a clip," that we outdistanced our local competitors who had not had the advantage of being similarly scared.

We have done all kids of things. Some are preachers—wonderful preachers, it is said, because their hearts are mellow with a mysterious homesickness, with a mysterious love for simple, old-fashioned people, and old-fashioned faiths; lovers of home, of country, of honesty and common sense, not dry doctrinaires. Some are doctors, noted physicians standing at the head of their profession. They studied well, those doctors when in college. They had to be pre-eminent, so they became pre-eminent. Honour to them. Some are lawyers, some bankers, some merchants, some engineers, not a man John of us as far as is known, a professional politician.

There are a great many societies in New York which meet at a forum dinner once a year, and listen to speeches by certain distinguished men. Very few of the members know one another. At the receptions preceding the dinners much introducing is done, but these introductions amount to nothing. Friendships are not made by mere introductions. A friendship has to be welded, and what is welded must be hammered with many strong blows and dainty little taps that make blows and these little taps that make friendships are many meetings and conversations. The making of a friendship is a long slow process but if at the end of each year a man can say, "I have made one more, true friend," he is to be congratulated. Friendship is the rarest thing on this earth. Men naturally do not like each other. This also is instinctive. All animals are the same.

If the Canadian Society of New York had no deeper purpose than to hold an annual dinner and listen to carefully prepared orations it would not amount to much in this world. The new member receives this impression and is chilled by it. He joins the society with an indistinct longing in his heart to get a "sniff" o'heather" as a Scotsman would say. He gets his ounce of perfume, but a cold wind goes with it and he doesn't feel very much at home.

This new member has not analyzed the motives of this Canadian Society correctly. In those rough unfriendly looking faces there are eyes that can shine with the greatest kindliness and in those stranger forms are warm hearts if he approach them right.

The true purpose of this Society is to promote friendship among its members, to gather round a common hearthstone, stimulate the growth of lofty ideals, to he helpful one to the other and to genuinely endeavour to put into practice Christ's canon, the Brotherhood of Man.

Not an easy thing to do by any means, but well worth trying to do most diligently and the Directors of this Society are in the endeavour to accomplish much along these lines. The little informal musical entertainments followed by suppers have been a great success. Every member of the Society is supposed to be on the reception committee on these occasions. No one is expected to wait for an introduction but to extend a hand to every stranger, saying, "My name is so and so and I am mighty pleased to meet you." This may have to be done a dozen times before a name will begin to be remembered, but it is remarkable how quickly this process will melt formality and drive it away into thin air.

If, after a time, the two hundred and fifty members of the Canadian Society of New York become well acquainted a great deal of good will have been accomplished and incidentally this Society will become the premier patriotic society of New York. Nothing can ever become great that is cold and formal. Sunlight and warmth are essential to all forms of development.

It is difficult for the writer to put his own teachings in regard to friendliness into practice. So he writes out his ideas with the earnest hope that his short comings may be forgiven and that every member will insist on making friends with him. He feels it an honour to be a member of this Society. He will be delighted if this little pamphlet is read in the same spirit in which it is written—the spirit of love of the Motherland, of the old place of birth, of brotherhood for all Canadians; the spirit of pride in the sane, sturdy, triumphant development which Canadians will be true to their ideals, that it will honour statesmanship and stamp upon demagogy, that Justice will always be the Familiar Spirit of the Nation, and that her people will remain close to the soil, and agricultural people demanding liberty but despising luxury, realizing that Happiness like Love, is a "Native of the Rocks."