There had been once, in Herman Klein the making of a good American.
He had come to America, not at the call of freedom, but of peace and
plenty. Nevertheless, he had possibilities.

Taken in time he might have become a good American. But nothing was done
to stimulate in him a sentiment for his adopted land. He would, indeed,
have been, for all his citizenship papers, a man without a country but
for one thing.

The Fatherland had never let go. When he went to the Turnverein, it was
to hear the old tongue, to sing the old songs. Visiting Germans from
overseas were constantly lecturing, holding before him the vision of
great Germany. He saw moving-pictures of Germany; he went to meetings
which commenced with "Die Wacht am Rhine." One Christmas he received a
handsome copy of a photograph of the Kaiser through the mail. He never
knew who sent it, but he had it framed in a gilt frame, and it hung over
the fireplace in the sitting-room.

He had been adopted by America, but he had not adopted America, save
his own tiny bit of it. He took what the new country gave him with no
faintest sense that he owed anything in return beyond his small yearly
taxes. He was neither friendly nor inimical.

His creed through the years had been simple: to owe no man money, even
for a day; to spend less than he earned; to own his own home; to rise
early, work hard, and to live at peace with his neighbors. He had
learned English and had sent Anna to the public school. He spoke English
with her, always. And on Sunday he put on his best clothes, and sat
in the German Lutheran church, dozing occasionally, but always rigidly
erect.