Radio Broadcast (May-Oct 1922)

A Sign in the Wilderness 525 few times in their hves. For these men know hfe from hving; they know nature from contact; and rehgion from faith. And so they talk, not as scholars, but as men who sense the deep truths of life and who strive to express the feeling, with a simplicity that is stunning. Women whose children can scarcely read or write, who know neither history nor promise of the future, women who have been deep within the mountain for years, come out with eyes as timid as a wild deer, with hands as calloused as a boy's bare feet. What does the little sign mean to them? To answer this question, our little party decided to wait until seven-thirty, when the service would begin. Early that evening the mountain folk began to gather about the camp. 1 was most surprised to note the number of women. It must have been an effort for them to come out to meet utter strangers. But their men had told them of a strange, wonderful thing, a thing that would bring them " preachin " from the great churches in the city, that would bring them music from a massive organ such as none of them had ever seen — music with swells and tremolo as perfect as the sigh of the wind in the high pine-tops. So whatever timidity they felt, they conquered, for they were there, all that could come. Mr. Moore tuned in KDKA (Westinghouse Electric Co. of East Pittsburgh). The service was coming to their broadcasting rooms from one of the churches in Pittsburgh. After the regular service they broadcasted a twentyminute musical programme. The sweet strains of a violin came over the mountain tops, down the slopes, over the hundred feet of antenna, through the mysteries of the little black box to our eager ears. One lad listened with a tragic expression on his face. The music ceased. His expression did not change. Awe, wonder, joy, and fear struggled for control. Then the announcement — and music. He leaned forward and closed his eyes. It was the music he dreamed of, it was the reality of those sobbing symphonies he heard in the moaning pines of his own mountains. It was expression, that vital thing that few mountaineers know. More than seventy-five men and women listened to the evening service and to the music. Only three had ever used the ordinary telephone. Many, indeed the majority, could not write, and could read but very little. Yet these men and women are close to us, they are our own blood, they are in our own country, they are in the heart of the most famous range of mountains in Eastern America. And the sad part is, that these people do not realize what to do with the help often kindly offered them: they are so ignorant of civilization, yet possess the inert refinement and deep-rooted pride of their forefathers — America's founders and defenders. To these, the Moores are bringing the greatest wonder of the modern age, they are showing the boys how to make or obtain a thing that will mean more to them than anything else they could possibly have. For the Radiophone brings them religion, education, music, and news of events, from all over the world. What greater thing can the Radiophone do than this? 1 doubt if radio ever brought a church service to a more intense audience than that grouped about the Moore camp. 1 know that radio never brought a message more gratefully received and more thoroughly appreciated than that sermon from hundreds of miles away. I know that radio never made a sign — in the wilderness of any country — a sign of progress and of hope — that could kindle interest in life and in the world more than the sign that will live in the memory of every one of those sturdy mountaineers.