CONTEMPORARY /ERSE ANTHOLOGY 1916" I020 "U» CONTEMPORARY VERSE ANTHOLOGY Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from Microsoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/contemporaryversOOstorrich CONTEMPORARY VERSE ANTHOLOGY Favorite Poems Selected from the Magazine "CONTEMPORARY VERSE" 1916—1920 With an Introduction By CHARLES WHARTON STORK NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & CO. 681 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright, 1920, by E. P. Dutton & Company All Rights Reserved »> ."■ : .:.-.,• Printed in the United States of America To our loyal Contributors who have made possible this Volume; and to all other Americans who believe in Poetry as the Expression of Life. / 451363 We gratefully acknowledge our indebtedness to the publishers in whose books some of the poems included in Contemporary Verse Anthology have appeared: — The Cornhill Company — Gargoyles, by Howard Mumford Jones. George H. Doran Company — Songs from the Journey, by Wilton Agnew Barrett. Poems, Essays and Letters of Joyce Kilmer. E. P. Dutton and Company — The Earth Turns South, by Clement Wood. Houghton Mifflin Company — Rhymes of a Homesteader, by Elliott C. Lincoln. B. W. Huebsch — Hesitant Heart, by Winifred Welles. John Lane Company — Tropical Town, by Salo- mon de la Selva. Little Book Publishers — Streets and Faces, by Scudder Middleton. The Macmillan Company — Bluestone, by Mar- guerite Wilkinson. Charles Scribner's Sons — Dust and Light, by John Hall Wheelock. James T. White — The Final Star, by Marion Couthouy Smith. CONTENTS PAGE An Invocation DuBose Hey ward 1 To-day Amory Hare 2 ^Three Poems Karle Wilson Baker I Love the Friendly Faces of Old Sorrows. . 4 Death the Highwayman 5 Morning Song 6 The American » Louis Untermeyer 7 What If the Lapse of Ages Were a Dream? Stephen Moylan Bird 10 The Anchor William Laird 12 Defeat Glenn Ward Dresbach 14 The Two Drinkers (From the French of Charles Vildrac) Witter Bynner 15 Gold-in-Gray Robert Gilbert Welsh 17 Echoes Ruth Lambert Jones 19 Won By Ear Daniel W. Troy 20 "Shine!" Amory Hare 21 Pier 6 Francis T. Kimball 23 The Watchman Miriam Vedder 25 God's Pity Louise Driscoll 26 Make Believe Helen Hoyt 27 Patchwork Mary Willis Shuey 28 A Song of Butte Howard Mum] or d Jones 30 Land of the Free. . .Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins 34 The Poem Clement Wood 35 The Bird Caroline Stern 39 Chains Glenn Ward Dresbach 40 Vll Contents Distance Margaret E. McCallie 41 The Day That Love Came Down to Me. Haniel Long 42 A Song of Piekrot Maurice A. Hanline 43 The Unforgiven Nancy Barr Mavity 45 The Door Mary Carolyn Davies 46 Inviolate Marx G. Sabel 47 "Les Latjriers Sont Coupes" Elinor Wylie 48 Certitude Helen, Hoyt 49 By the Hearth Amory Hare 51 Silenced Willard Wattles 53 To You Beatrice W. Ravenel 54 Contrasts Marie Louise Hersey 55 My Mother E. Merrill Root 56 Return After Death John Hall Wheelock 58 In An Old House Winifred Welles 61 The Ruined 'Dobe Jennie Harris Oliver 63 The Return Scudder Middleton 65 February Twenty-Second. Raymond Peckham Holden 66 The Man at the Plow Ruthele Novak 67 I Stood at Twilight Berenice K. Van Slyke 68 The Push-Cart William Rose Benet 69 Challenge Eleanor Duncan Wood 72 Waif Amanda Benjamin Hall 73 The Ashman Joyce Kilmer 77 The Freight Yards Phoebe Hoffman 84 I Would Not Die in April Clement Wood 86 Spring Cowardice Leonora Speyer 87 A Dead Man Wilton Agnew Barrett 88 Vlll Contents Not I Lizette Woodworth Reese 89 Funeral Raymond Peckham H olden 90 A Day in May Ruthele Novak 92 May Stephen Moylan Bird 93 To Narcissus Winifred Welles 94 A Song For My Father. . Grace Hazard Conkling 95 The Day You Went Beatrice W. Ravenel 96 A Revenant Dorothy Anderson 97 Tanager Abbie Farwell Brown 99 My Garden is a Pleasant Place. Louise Driscoll 101 My Soul is a Moth Dorothy Anderson 104 Three Songs For E Sara Teasdale I. Gray Eyes 106 II. Meadowlarks 106 III. The Net 107 Dusk in the Garden .... Grace Hazard Conkling 108 Rondels of Lomaland Kenneth Morris The Rain 109 Noon on the Hillside 109 The Flowers 110 Evening Over False Bay Ill A Morning in September v Ill Pampas-Grass 112 Kathleen Bernard Raymund 113 To Dance! Margaret B. McGee 114 Forest Dance Mary Carolyn Davies 115 The Fiddler Edna Valentine Trapnell 117 The Dancer in the Shrine. Amanda Benjamin Hall 119 Fire- Weed in the Forest. .Julian M. Drachman 121 IX Contents Courage, Mon Ami! Willard Wattles 123 Ha! Ha! Willard Wattles 124 Joy o' Living Amanda Benjamin Hall 125 Rendezvous Leonora Speyer 127 The Naturalist on a June Sunday. Leonora Speyer 129 Week-End Sonnets John French Wilson 131 Fishing Maxwell Struthers Burt 134 Inland Frances Dickenson Finder 137 Weather , . . . .Marguerite Wilkinson 138 Summer Sea Archie Austin Coates 139 Loneliness E.J. Coatsworth 140 Inland Edna Valentine Trapnell 141 The Tankers Gordon Malherbe Hillman 143 "Shipping News" David Morton 145 Crossing on the Seattle FERRY.C7are D. Stewart 146 Beauty Like Yours David Morton 149 Sand Hortense Flexner 150 Masks Marianne Moore 151 The Elm Odell Shepard 152 These Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus. Helen Coale Crew 154 A Home Hardwicke Marmaduke Nevin 157 In the Sky Garden Stephen Moylan Bird 158 The Queen's Shrift D.E.P. Harding 159 From "Songs for a Mask". .Margaret Widdemer 162 Swanhild Sings to the Knight The Waterfall Marion Couthouy Smith 163 Sixteen Elizabeth Hanly 164 Freesia Theresa Helburn 166 In Beatrice W. Ravenel 167 Contents Under Autumn Trees. ..Christine Turner Curtis 168 An Apple Eater to a Coquette. . . William Laird 169 The Coquette to the Apple Eater. Mary Eleanor Roberts 170 Four Walls Mary Morsell 171 Broomgrass Beatrice W. Ravenel 172 Certainty Beatrice W. Ravenel 173 The Soul's Goodbye John M. Waring 174 Bells of Erin Norreys Jephson 'Conor 176 Comfort t Margaret French Patton 178 Home Berenice K. Van Slyke 179 In the Hallway Louis Ginsberg 181 The Singer Exults Salomon de la Selva 182 The Poet's Path Daniel Henderson 183 Bubbles Oscar C. Williams 184 Mist Margie Potter 185 Pulvis Et Umbra Edward J. O'Brien 187 Revelation Louise Townsend Nicholl 188 The Tissue Gamaliel Bradford 189 Who Gamaliel Bradford 190 My Youth Gamaliel Bradford 191 Brown Leaves Gamaliel Bradford 192 The Drone Gamaliel Bradford 193 Expenses Gamaliel Bradford 194 The Dainty Virtue Gamaliel Bradford 195 Rousseau Gamaliel Bradford 196 God Gamaliel Bradford 197 Bed-Time Ralph M. Jones 198 After Sorrow Winifred Welles 200 Winter Flowers Effie Bangs Warvelle 201 XI Contents Snow C. A. Huntington 202 Stress of Snow Charles R. Murphy 203 Stories Maxwell Struthers Burt 207 Darkness Katharine Wisner McCluskey 210 Songs for Parents John Chipman Farrar Wish 211 A Comparison 211 Parenthood 212 The Wind-Gods Percival Allen 213 The Choosing Ruth Comfort Mitchell 215 Mrs. Senator Jones Elliott C. Lincoln 218 The Last Speech of Silent Sam. .John T. Troth 220 The Old Gods March Leyland Huck field 226 Life As a Gage You Flung John Pierre Roche 228 Largess Leslie Nelson Jennings 229 A Prayer William Laird 230 Westward William Laird 231 Gee-Up Dar, Mules Edwin Ford Piper 233 The Drafted Mountaineer Salutes. Hortense Flexner 235 Sekhmet, the Lion-Headed Leonora Speyer 236 The Taking of Bagdad Kadra May si 238 Betrayal and Absolution. O. R. Howard Thomson 240 Candle Famine in Paris. Louise Townsend Nicholl 242 It is not Strange Witter Bynner 245 Peace Frances Dickenson Pinder 246 This Soldier Generation. William Alexander Percy 247 Biographical Index to Poets Represented 249 xii INTRODUCTION IT IS strange that among the numerous collections of modern American verse none has hitherto been broadly devoted to the needs and interests of the general reading public. It is due to this lack, I feel, that many- intelligent persons have looked askance at the so-called "new verse," supposing that whatever it may mean, it can mean but little to them. Confronted with various recent effusions, they have gone back to the Fireside Encyclopedia, or some similar collection of their old favorites. This was a pity, and yet it was most natural. The fact is that it is always the bizarre and eccentric in contemporary art that is forced upon our attention. The quiet, sincere painter, composer, or writer has to make his or her way slowly. Thus while the imitators of Whitman and various imported cults have been ramp- ing on the American literary stage, it might well be supposed that Poe, Longfellow, Whittier, and Emerson have had no successors. Yet these latter poets were read by millions when Whitman was at best read by thousands. Far be it from me to underestimate the growing importance of Whitman, but on the other hand, it is merely narrow to condemn the American public because it still prefers the simpler, clearer work of the other poets. A perusal of this volume will, I think, show that the older type of American poetry is being very earnestly and successfully cultivated today. It has made many important developments, has thoroughly caught the xm Introduction vitality of this generation, without losing the sanity of the earlier tradition. The newer popular poetry, as I may call what this volume attempts to present, is very properly different from the work of Poe and the New England school. It is less idealistic than Poe, less moralizing than Lowell or Longfellow. Above all things it is closer to life, more enthusiastic about the world of nature and men that surrounds us. In this may be seen the more beneficial side of Whitman's influence, but the advance has come about rather from the changing temper of the people than through any single author or group of authors. The important thing here is to define the difference between the newer popular poetry and the radical ex- periments which have partly obscured its existence. The crucial point is the distinction between individuality and egotism. One class of versifiers, with the desire of writ- ing what people will like, solve the question by writing only what people have liked; in other words, consciously or unconsciously, they imitate. To this class belong the platitudinarians, the sentimentalists, the pseudo-clas- sicists — all those who take the formulas of any writer or age as a substitute for their own experiences and con- victions. They may imitate cleverly, may even give a certain amount of pleasure; but they ring hollow, for they have not even lived themselves into the thoughts and methods of others sufficiently to be good translators. If imitation be sterile, why not shun it by going to the other extreme? This is just what many superficially clever writers are doing. But in fleeing Scylla they rush xiv Introduction into Charybdis, the whirlpool of egotism. These are the post- Whitman declaimers, the bathers in exoticism, the color fiends, the refiners of nuances, the free-verse muck- rakers, the cacophonists of realism, the persons who strain to reveal something startling about their souls, or their bodies, or God. Worst of all are those who, with nothing to say, are most ingenious in finding new ways to say it, i.e., the dozen and one cults of -ists. Certainly much good paper is being spoiled in the name of poetry. Nevertheless, today as in the past, the essential sanity of the American people is making itself felt, and already the craze of false innovation is on the wane. I believe that now, especially since the war, an increasing majority of poetical aspirants are doing fine and effectual things. The timid stand-patters are being displaced, and the tumult and shouting of the radicals is rapidly dying away, to the great relief of our spiritual ears. People begin to realize that there are many living poets who have essentially something to say. These poets are honestly studying their craft, not as a vehicle of self-exploitation, but as a means of transmitting to their fellow-men the best that life has revealed to them. The words "freedom" and "originality" are beginning to be less loosely used. When someone on an actual or a metaphorical soap-box begins to rant about freedom, the by-standers begin to ask themselves, "freedom to do what?" We are weary of being disturbed by men who merely wish to call attention to their own imagined superiorities or grievances. It is the same with origi- nality. A little common sense will demonstrate that xv Introduction much "originality" is as valueless for actual life as is a museum freak. Emerson's doctrine of "be yourself," like other mystic generalizations, is capable of abuse. To be oneself is only a poetic merit when that self may be sympathetically interpreted, not to a self-admiring clique, but eventually to a fairly large number of plain human beings. This is of course the doctrine of Tolstoi: namely, that good art is that which increases within us the feeling of our kinship to humanity. After this attempt to describe the present state of American poetry, I have but to sketch most briefly the history of the magazine, Contemporary Verse. Con- temporary Verse was founded at the beginning of the year 1916 as an all-poetry monthly by Howard S. Graham, Jr., Devereaux C. Josephs, and Samuel McCoy, three young graduates respectively of Pennsylvania, Harvard, and Princeton. Their idea was simply to pre- sent some of the vital work being done by the more normal and intelligible of the younger poets. A strong group of writers rallied to the new magazine, and such critics as the late Joyce Kilmer of The Literary Digest and William D. Howells in Harpers at once proclaimed it the best periodical of its kind. In January, 1917, Mr. Graham and Mr. Josephs were forced by other duties to retire from the editorial board, their places being filled by James E. Richardson and my- self. Our first act was the decision never to print in Contemporary Verse any of our own work, confining our editing to brief notes and quotations. Contem- porary Verse always stood for clean-cut thought and xvi Introduction workmanship as opposed to the various eccentricities that were discouraging most lovers of poetry. During the first half of 1917, more in practice than in theory, we fixed our standards definitely for sincerity of feeling and directness of appeal. We wanted not merely to serve a small coterie of aesthetes, we wanted to help interpret America to herself. Most of the other magazines, we thought, were over-stressing the appeal of novelty. We believed that the growing power of American poetry could be shown to express itself in forms that an average person could enjoy. We wanted to progress, but we did not want to lose contact with the great mass of our fellow-countrymen. At the start, the magazine had depended for material upon a score or so of well-known poets. Soon, however, we began to get many interesting manuscripts by un- known writers. In this situation we naturally decided to print, as Mr. Richardson put it, "not the who's who, but the what's what." Soon we became known as giving unusual consideration to new poets. Mr. John Masefield approved strongly of the closer-to-life type which we began to cultivate, and gave us the privilege of publish- ing his notable lyric, "The Choice." Most critics were emphatic as to the improvement of the magazine. Toward the end of 1917 we found it increasingly diffi- cult to arrange editorial conferences, as Mr. McCoy and Mr. Richardson were much tied down with news- paper work. It was therefore arranged that I should take over the entire management of Contemporary Verse, which I conducted alone until November, 1919, xvn Introduction when Louise Townsend Nicholl became Associate Editor. The very marked increase in popularity which the maga- zine attained in 1918 had, I truly feel, very little to do with the personality or judgment of the editor. Con- temporary Verse had been established on sound prin- ciples and it was only a question of time before the right type of poets and subscribers would make the ven- ture an unqualified success. From his fiscal year of July, 1918, to July, 1919, Mr. Braithwaite selected more poems from Contemporary Verse for his Anthology of the best magazine poetry than he took from any other periodical. The New Republic proclaimed Contem- porary Verse as "The most successful of our magazines of verse," adding: "It is as interesting as the May woods." Furthermore, subscriptions doubled and news- paper quotation increased about fourfold. The present is, therefore, obviously a good time for us to attempt an anthology of the best work published in Contemporary Verse during the past four and a half years. Owing to frequent quotation and the many letters which the editor receives from friendly subscribers, it is an unusually easy task to select the best poems of the type which has gained the magazine its wide popularity. In order to prevent the duplication which is so annoying in many anthologies, no poems will be included which have appeared in the Second Volume of Modern Verse, edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse, or in Mr. Braithwaite 's 1916-1918 volumes. Three very characteristic poems, by Leonora Speyer, John French Wilson, and Edwin Ford Piper, are in the Anthology for 1919, having been xvm Introduction selected for this volume before Mr. Braithwaite's choice was known. Friends of Contemporary Verse will note the omission of some of our most famous contributors, such as Mr. Masefield, Mr. John Galsworthy, Mr. Sas- soon, Mr. Edwin A. Robinson, and Mr. Vachel Lindsay. We omit the English poets who have been our honored guests, because we wish to see what the United States can do "on its own"; we forbear adding the glamour of certain American names, ^because we want to stress the communal appeal rather than the highly individual. We are confident that no other book has ever shown how widespread are true poetic feeling and true poetic expres- sion in this country and generation. The great universal motives of the race: love of home, delight in outdoor nature, generous human sympathy, kindly humor, and a quiet, first-hand religious sense — all of these will be found in abundance. Recent develop- ments along the old lines appear in the more strenuous urge of modern life, the bold confronting of evil and in- justice, and, in connection with the war, the new unro- mantic type of heroism. In style these poems will, I think, be found more vivid, more compact, and more forceful than the older types. A greater range of form will be evident. A moderate number of free-verse ven- tures have been included, where genuineness of feeling and beautiful handling of its changing rhythms have seemed to justify the exceptions. It has been frequently said that no single author can ever succeed in expressing the United States. Perhaps, then, a hundred poets, representing all parts of the coun- xix Introduction try, may come nearer to the mark. Where, one may ask, is one likely to find more American idealism than in a volume such as this? By using only one-seventh of the poems available, it has been possible to unite sincere and wide appeal with comparatively finished expression. Though clear in presentation, some of the pieces are subtle in feeling, and few, I hope, will seem obvious except to the conscious "intellectuals." Whatever the reception of this particular anthology, it is, I profoundly believe, based on a true principle. The American people has a right to ask that poetry should express the thoughts and emotions of this generation in a style which can be widely understood and appreciated. For help in preparing this anthology I am primarily indebted to the Associate Editor, Miss Nicholl, but also in a hardly less degree to the periodicals and newspapers that have quoted from our pages, and to the numerous friends whose letters have shown us what poems were best fulfilling our special purpose. Charles Wharton Stork. xx CONTEMPORARY VERSE ANTHOLOGY AN INVOCATION BY DUBOSE HEYWARD A H, Life, press close thy passionate lips to mine jl\ Before we part; And let thy mad, ecstatic hunger throb Through all my heart. Oh haste the flood tide of thy glorious youth Through my slow veins, And strike this deadening palsy from my limbs With quickening pains. Then send me lilting, vibrant with thy song Upon the course that thou hast charted out. And give me all the tasks the weaklings shun; That triumphing, I prove beyond all doubt The high invincibility of Thee. And when my work is done, in Heaven's name Oh leave me not to flicker back to Thee A feeble, ever-dying little flame. But take me with a challenge in my throat, Clear-eyed and lusty, eager for the strife — Bursting all bonds for sheer excess of Thee; Then hurl me thrilling into keener Life. • • « . • • • . TO-DAY BY AMORY HARE "ITTHAT though I die to-morrow? Now I live! ▼ » To-day, close-packed with opportunity, Is mine; within whose span I may possess Laughter and tears, mayhap, and in one hour Run the whole scale 'twixt joy and deep despair. Warm sentient life, I know and love thee well! No dread of parting shall bedim that hour When all my Self shall pass and be dispersed To join the spacious breathing of the sky. For, to one Being — kindred to my own — To-day I have been all things beautiful. To one I am the stars, the light, the breath The music of the world set forth for him! And I am witchery and even woe — Woe of a quality akin to joy. The thought of me is subtly intertwined With twilight, and the wheeling swallow's cry ; With doorways dimly lit, and dark'ning fields; The long road's ending and the lantern's gleam; With little roofs adream beneath the moon. For I am that by which he is reborn; The dearness of the hearth by candlelight; The mystery wherein two spirits blend. I have the strange remoteness of the heavens 2 To-Day And yet the patient nearness of the grass. I will not waste one hour to question why This old enchantment should have come to me; Love's shining eyes looked bravely into mine A moment since, and all my being sang "To-day is mine is mine and it is joy!" 3 THREE POEMS BY KARLE WILSON BAKER I LOVE THE FRIENDLY FACES OF OLD SORROWS I LOVE the friendly faces of old Sorrows; I have no secrets that they do not know. They are so old, I think they have forgotten What bitter words were spoken, long ago. I hate the cold, stern faces of new Sorrows Who stand and watch, and catch me all alone. I should be braver if I could remember How different the older ones have grown. DEATH THE HIGHWAYMAN HE nurses there among his crags His naughty schemes — And he may snatch my elfin purse That's stuffed with dreams; But I have wealth he cannot touch, Spoiler of kings! For I have tasted agony And worn joys wings. MORNING SONG THERE'S a mellower light just over the hill, And somewhere a yellower daffodil, And honey, somewhere, that's sweeter still. And some were meant to stay like a stone, Knowing the things they have always known, Sinking down deeper into their own. But some must follow the wind and me, Who like to be starting and like to be free, Never so glad as we're going to be! THE AMERICAN BY LOUIS UNTERMEYEB SUDDENLY The silence, stretched to a great tensity, Snapped — and the dark 'house rumbled and crashed. It shook that pit of blackness, slashed With a long, flickering sword of light That beat in vain against a white Cloth wall hard in its brilliancy. The thunder grew; it roared approvingly: A lustiness, gargantuan and clean, As he, Doug Fairbanks, Prodigal and playboy, Leaped on and almost out beyond the screen. The ribbon flickered faster, drew Its hero through a maze of tangled scenes and flew Out of the heavy, humdrum world. He took the people with him ; caught and hurled Them back to boyishness and bravery again. Then- Madness; gay violence ruled the scene . . . There was a race, a chase, a storm of soundless blows. Laughing he bowled a dozen gun-men over . . . Stopped for a flash to be a high-speed lover . . . The American Baffled the plugs and thugs . . . Hurdled a fence . . . Ruined his dress-suit . . . Thought it im- mense . . . Leaped three landings . . . Squirmed through a crack . . . Jumped from a window to his pony's back. Beat out the Limited Soared like a bird. Jumped into a Packard. Shot her into third. Reached the ruined building. Scaled up a wall. Burst into the meeting. Cornered them all. Trapped the whole camorra. Made their short hairs curl. Freed the lovely lady. ("Close up" with the girl.) The last kiss faded out; the brightness thinned. Hands clattered in a tempest of applause; (A thousand white leaves pattering in the wind) Glory turned garish in the following pause. The audience shrank with it, looked and grinned Sheepishly at itself, then turned to see What the next number on the bill might be. A fat man sang "J hear you calling me." 8 The American But something still persisted, something crude; Childishly boisterous, palpably absurd. And yet it spelled America in rude Large letters; told without a word The essence of our boyhood, the young spirit Surer of naught than what we may inherit; Intrepid faith that does not stop to pray And strength that springs from a child's love of play ; Reckless, spontaneous, prodigal, immense, Taking no thought of cost or consequence. Again life flickered from the shining reels: — A lady vampire posed with a pet snake. Six odd-sized clowns, late of the burlesque "wheels," Dressed as policemen, fell into a lake. A lisping tenor, painted to the eyes Came out and squeaked "We're going to smash the Hun" . . . Apd still the spell remained. Out of the lies And cheap hypocrisies it rose and spun Its kindred strands of fantasy and fun, Of gaiety unconquerable and wise, Of the brash boy in us that never dies But keeps us better than a text or truth, Bound to the bright democracy of youth. WHAT IF THE LAPSE OF AGES WERE A DREAM? BY STEPHEN MOYLAN BIRD WHAT if the lapse of ages were a dream, From which we waked, clutching the primal bough, Seeing familiar thunder-piercing crags, Vast dripping woods, and saurian-bellowed swamps, That wearied the new heavens with their noise, Wild seas, that maddened, foaming, ever gnawed At fog-wrapped cliffs, and roaring in defeat, Ran to eye-wearying distance, without shore — All things familiar; but our dull ape minds Troubled with visions vague; the hungry roar Of the great sabred tiger far below Seeming in our wild dream the thund'rous sound Of hurtling heated monsters, made of steel; And the God-scattered worlds that gem the sky Seeming in vision dread the blinding glare Of myriad windows in huge range on range Of mountain buildings, teeming o'er with life. The wallowing pleiosaurus' gurgling snort Changed in our dream to rhythmic, panting roar Of black insensate steel amphibians, Daring the oceans dread horizon line; 10 What If the Lapse of Ages Were a Dream? And the high flap of pterodactyl wings Making us whine with fear, for, in our dream, We saw vast lifeless birds, that roaring flew, Commanded by weak puny likenesses Of our ape-selves; we cringed with terrors vague Of ungrasped thoughts we could not understand — What if the lapse of ages were a dream? 11 THE ANCHOR BY WILLIAM LAIBD BY furious fire begotten, From patient iron I rose; Stern hammers were the midwives ; My birth-caresses, blows. Of fire that dares and iron that bides. Thy fierce, grim soul had stuff and form, That flouts the touch and kiss of tides, And sets its strength against the storm. The work to me appointed: In coral, mud, or sand, To strike, and grip my hardest; And, having gripped, to stand. i Unseen thou striv y st, save by dark bulks That watch thee struggling in the ooze, Or staring ports of crusted hulks, Or orbless eye-pits of their crews. The beds of many waters Have felt my earnest grip, That saves from death or straying My pretty, foolish ship. 12 The Anchor The desperate bark, with strife fordone, Sea, earth, and air her foemen, trusts Thy grasp, fell set where many a one Of thy abandoned brethren rusts. Tho last they slip my cable To save my ship — forlorn, Forgot, to rust — what matter? I shall have striven and bome. Lord God of Effort, grant me such A grave as this. Be it my lot Having done and borne, to sleep, nor much To care how much men say, or what 13 DEFEAT BY GLENN WARD DRESBACH THERE is defeat where death gives anodyne And all desires of the battle wane In deep forgetfulness, and the one slain Lies with his face turned toward the firing-line. There is defeat where flesh fails the design Of Spirit, and the groping, tortured brain Sees glories lost it cannot win again. And wears itself out like effect of wine. But no defeat is quite so imminent To common ways as the defeat Success Turns into when it puts aside the dreams That made it be, and, somehow, grows content With what it is, forever giving less Until it is not, and no longer seems. 14 THE TWO DRINKERS (Translated from the French of Charles Vildrac.) BY WITTER BYNNER THEY have sat down together for a little drink; They are leaning with all their weight on their elbows; Their words are meeting and their eyes And their cheeks and voices and eyes are laughing across the table, And what good ones they're telling! They are really happy, for the moment; They are really happy to be together; And yet! . . . And yet, If tomorrow they have to hurry through a door Not wide enough for two Where one must pass after the other They will pause before it With an ugly change in their faces, With an ugly look at each other, And a slanting look toward the door. As dogs, with a bone between them, Growl, warning each other off, So may these two become tomorrow, or tonight, These two who now are friends because of little drink . . . 15 The Two Drinkers — That is true enough and it's sad too But that's not the way to say it! This is the way to say it: These two men who are laughing Might be fighting for no reason: They might find a thousand reasons To be fighting; There are reasons a-plenty! They need only pick, they need only choose! But no: Deep in that old heart of theirs, In the secret need of union and of mirth, And in a moment of unbending, While the spite of life has left that poor old heart to itself, See how their eyes are laughing, See how they slap each other's shoulders, See how they have no doubt of each other, See how they like to offer each other drinks, And what good ones they're telling! 16 GOLD-IN-GRAY BY ROBERT GILBERT WELSH WHEN he tumbles out of bed at daybreak, The old care-taker curses and swears, And when he tumbles in again at night He swears and curses. v If the morning coffee is poor Or the evening meal is tardy, — He calls on the Almighty to blast them, And assigns his wife who made them To an unrighteous and ignominious end. What he says about physical parts and processes Brings a blush to the cheeks of the sedate and decorous Who pretend that they do not hear him, Yet remain within earshot And thrill inwardly At the rank perfume of the speech. He looks at the errand boy As his muddy feet Leave tracks on the clean tiles, And with slow deliberate sentences He makes clear the immoral relations Of the errand boy's immediate family And every one of his ancestors All the way back to Judas Iscariot and Cain. 17 Gold-In-Gray "Profanity do you call it?" .Mutters the old grouch On the top floor, "Fiddlesticks! I call it Romance Gasping for breath In gray reality 1" 18 ECHOES RY RUTH LAMBERT JONES TRAVELING at dusk the noisy city street, I listened to the newsboys' strident cries Of "Extra," as with flying feet, They strove to gain this man or that — their prize. But one there was with neither shout nor stride, And, having bought from him, I stood near-by, Pondering the cruel crutches at his side, Blaming the crowd's neglect, and wondering why — When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet The cripple with, "On time to-night? w Then, as he handed out the sheet, The Youngster's answer — "You're all right. My other reg'lars are a little late. They'll find I'm short one paper when they come; You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait, I thot 'twould cheer him up — he looked so glum I" So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way, For I had found a city's heart that day. 19 WON BY EAR BY DANIEL W. TROY THEAH ? S a man up the street Ah'm jus' itchin' tuh meet — He's the man with the slidin' trombone, Ah don't understand How he does it so gran* But he sho' gits uh wonderful tone. That Mendels'n Song — He jus' rags it uh-long An' zoons it right intuh mah soul. When he plays "Ovuh Theah" Ev'ry kink in my haih Jus' natchully stahts tuh unroll. Mistah Man, Mistah Honey, Take me an* mah money, Whenevuh yo' want me Ah'm yo'n. Ah'll cook while yo' eat — Shine the shoes on yo' feet — If yo'll play on that slidhV trombone. 20 "SHINE!" BY AMORY HARE WAN of de boot-black on de ferra-boat, I watcha de beeg crowd' goin' back an* fort', And a queekly count de feet dat might be wort* A leetla dime for mekdem shiny coat. Great many feet I watcha een a day I Wan vera leetla shoes I have-a shine' Wit' holes een toes dat should have been een fine Warm boots, de owner was so vera gay ■ So vera sweet to look at een de eyes! I lak to shine dos leetla toes for her. Wan day I see a man, dressed lak chauffeur, And leetla lady looka at de skies And tek de han's ; I look de odder way, And all de night I teenk of leetla wan, She have look up so loveeng een de sun, And not care what de beega crowd might say. And een de morn' when ferra-boat eet start I shine for her de leetla shabby toes, And she say "Tony" (red-a lak a rose) "Shine beeg today, for I have geev' my heart, 21 Shine! And when I come tonight, my leetla friend I show you someteeng on dees lefta han\ He ees so fine a man, so vera gran'! I shan' be on dees ferra-boat again!" But when de night eet come, she come alone An' creep into de dark behin' de stair, An' when I pass I see her crying dere, And when I spik she give me leetla moan. Poor leetla wan! Poor laugheeng leetla rose! I watch de many feet dat pattera past, And count de faces hurryeeng so fast — But never see dos shabby leetla toes! 22 PIER 6 BY FRANCIS T. KIMBALL THE street was dark enough, but on the wharves The piles and stacks and careless heaps of goods Mottled the darkness with % a deeper hue, Like gobs of ink spilled on a piece of slate. The moon that should have been was smothered out, And not a star point pierced the folds of cloud. Came but the lap of waters on the piles, And farther, out of nothingness, the bleat Of some belated prowler of the deep. I stood with hands in pockets, listlessly, Watching the silent shapes that filled the pier, And thinking of my unrequited thoughts, When suddenly a shadow seemed to move Out of the darkness into blacker dark Ahead of me. I started, and felt my lids Lifting until the sea breeze stung my eyes, And I must blink, and then the moon was out, And facing it a woman, motionless. I started forward, and as quickly back, Shrinking against a packing case to wait. Full in the moon she stood, a marble form, Mellow and round before the moon's regard, Yet gaunt and palpable as any cur, Advertisement of mange and much abuse, 23 Pier 6 Ragged in outline and a thing of rags. Slowly she moved, and casting off the shawl That hid her last injustice for a while, She raised a ragged bundle in her arms, And tottered to the splintered edge, and crouched. But as she paused, before I caught my breath, The baby in the bundle wailed aloud, And fell to whimpering incessantly. The woman shivered, and then stepping back, Held with one hand the bundle on her thigh, And with the other fumbled at her waist, And bared her breast, and bent above the child. 24 THE WATCHMAN BY MIRIAM VEDDER THE watchman walked the little streets With slow and steady tread ; He swung his lantern as he went, — "All's well!" the watchman said. Behind close blinds a woman sat Who had no more to sell; The watchman paused before her door "All's well!" he cried, "All's well!" An old man shivered in the dark Who had no bread to eat; Echoed the watchman's cry, "All's well!" Along the empty street. The watchman passed a silent house Wherein a child had died; A candle burned against the pane, — "All's well!" the watchman cried. All through the night the watchman passed With slow and steady tread; And ever to the little streets "All's well!" the watchman said. 25 GOD'S PITY BY LOUISE DRISCOLL GOD pity all the brave who go The common way, and wear No ribboned medals on their breasts, No laurels on their hair. God pity all the lonely folk With griefs they do not tell, Women waking in the night, And men dissembling well. In common courage of the street The crushed grape is the wine, Wheat in the mill is daily bread And given for a sign. And who but God shall pity them Who go so quietly? And smile upon us when we meet, And greet us pleasantly. 26 MAKE BELIEVE HELEN HOYT I CAN feel at my breast Your tiny hand a-stray, And your lips clinging pressed, And the weight of you at rest, As if you truly lay Where my curved arm dreams to hold you. You so little, you so dear! Soft I let my love enfold you; In the dark, with none to see, I bend to bring my breast more near; Feel you drinking, drinking me. 27 PATCHWORK BY MARY WILLIS SHUEY SHE never had a pattern all her own, But from the scattered scraps of other lives, The remnants that the others did not want, She pieced a patch-work that she called her soul. Broken, irregular, Small bits of color, Pieced on a background of dull brown and gray. Faded, discarded, Carefully fitted, She pieced her a life from what they threw away. Their lives were made in regular designs, Their years were blocks of color and of beauty. Lucy pieced love. John squares of engineering, But all they left for her was service, duty Sometimes a square, Once a pink rose, Haphazard blocks made of small tasks they shirked, Sewing, nursing, Keeping the home, The others had pleasure; she merely worked. 28 Patchwork She never had a pattern all her own, And yet from what she had she pieced a soul; A crazy-quilt, perhaps, that no one wants, A life that never even knew a goal 29 A SONG OF BUTTE BY HOWARD MUMFORD JONES T AM the city demoniac! Desolate, mournful, in- * fernal Dweller apart among and upon the amazing hills, Seen of the poet of hell, I am she, the dark, the un- vernal Cybele, wearing my crown of fantastic mines and mills ! My breasts are girdled with iron; and under the place of my feet Is copper, and over my head in a green and copper sky A sulphurous sun goes by and I find his going sweet. My sisters have many jewels — is any so strange as I? I am the secret of night, transformed from an evil thing To a dream of passionate hope! A blur and cluster of stars, A galley of tremulous light, I lift from my anchor and swing Outbound for the farthest ports that lie past the lighthouse Mars! 30 A Song of Butte I splinter the darkness with glory, I burn like fire on the hills, I am Caerleon and Usk! I am the hurt of the moon! Because of my lonely beauty the soul takes thought and fills Till I cause the pulse to leap that I stayed with horror at noon. I am the city cast out, harlot and common scold Shrilling loud in the street, the taunter of all ye love, Holding what others scorn, scorning what others hold, Flaunting the vulgar shame my sisters are reticent of. I am the mistress of many, untrue and adulterous queen, Naked, tawdry, Priapian ; Lo, and what sin is mine? They who have kissed farewell on my painted lips, have seen My sisters are hypocrite souls that blush for their lust and wine. I am also the scoffer, the tester, the prover of life ! This one comes to me pure and I make him dirty and mean, This one comes to me lewd, and forth from my iron strife Joyous he goes and proud, and clean as a bride is clean 1 31 A Song of Butte sisters, look to your courts! Can ye look and say as much? How doth it stand with you? Have ye builded over a fen, That your white- faced, pasty brood shrinks back from my hurt and smutch? They that go down in my bowels and grip me are not as your men ! 1 am likewise the challenge, the mixing of many in one; Lustful, reckless, I yield to the urge of life and the slack, A myriad races come and beneath my dispassionate sun I mix and change and remold and send them, a nation, back; Indifferent seeker and spurner, I lure from city and shore Italian, negro and Slav. Their foster-mother am I ! And the man-child tugs at my breast and is nourished and knows no more The sound of an alien tongue or the heat of a foreign sky! I am also the spirit, the city chosen of God, Vast and pregnant seeker, aspirer and knower of dreams: I that search in the earth for dross go also abroad Rousing my sisters that sleep, contented, beside their streams. A Song of Butte On a riddling quest I go as the ancient mother went — My sisters, ye look ashamed when my asking foot- steps come, But under my breast I bear the answer the Riddler meant: I am Democracy's mother 1 sisters, why are ye dumb? 33 LAND OF THE FREE BY GERTRUDE CORNWELL HOPKINS HP HERE is a man within a grimy window-square; * I do not know how long it is he has been there — Three years of working-days I've passed on trains high in the air, And always he was there. He makes three motions: two are forward and one back, Two thrusts and then a draw. There is no pause (the knack Is perfect) while his left hand pulls from out a stack Leather — I think — the track Curves sharp, and will not let me see Just what the task . . . But 0, 1 know the moves he makes are three: I see him when I pass to days that are full long to me, Again at night, when I am free. No clod — The face is keen, the hands and arms are lean and tense, like wire. From some far land he came to us: was his desire To bind his young and vivid life to this, for meagre hire? He burns, I think . . . dull fire. 34 THE POEM BY CLEMENT WOOD I LIFT my gaze from one poet's book, Archaic, pallid, uncterwise, Then stop my strained and fretful look- Why, here's a poem before my eyes! Not in the books, whose marshalled rows Wait for my seeking to disclose Their thin and varied thus-and-soes; Not in the iris flower of June, That proudly spills its purple boon, A wordless, soundless, fragrant tune; Not in the waiting ivory keys, Nor the room's pleasant harmonies, Sweet with disheveled memories ; My restless eyes achieve their rest, Break to a smile, and ponder where, With face at peace and moveless breast, My tired young wife lies sleeping there. 35 The Poem ii. Peace on her face, peace in this room — Oh, it is far to the flaring gloom Where war's strange, fiery flowers bloom. Immobile breast and moveless air- On, it is far to red roads where Torn bodies twitch, and still, eyes stare. 0, can there be so sad a place, Where writhes a self- destructive race? . • ■ Immobile breast, peace in her face. III. Her gentle breathing scarce unfurls The tiniest of her sleeping curls. The eyes are closed, the soul withdrawn; The wax cheeks show a gentle flush As when the East begins to dawn; As quiet is her couch's hush. One hand is cupped beneath her brow; The other lies with fingers still Upon the coverlet; and now She almost smiles, as some deep thrill, Dream- woven, has its vagrant will. IV. Where do you wander, Out in your dreams? What gay adventures, 36 The Poem What sombre journeys, What wings upbear you As you accomplish All your hid longings? Do you climb lonely, Sky-secret mountains? Do .you grope blindly, Leaden, foot-hindered, Thru threatening caverns? Do you face dangers, Stormy gray sea-ways, Night-haunted sorrows? And am I with you, I, the beloved . . . Or do you fly me, Me, a dream-enemy? May you tread safely In your far dreaming, Gaining the goals! V. Ah, you seem so sound asleep! Body laved in stillness deep, Soul, whose silent slumbers keep Far away the restlessness Of the stupid world's distress, Plastic to the dream's caress. 37 The Poem And I am so far away, Here, where my quick fancies play With your quiet self today ! Why seek in a printed place, When in her sleeping beauty lies, With moveless breast and peaceful face, A very poem before my eyes? 38 THE BIRD BY CAROLINE STERN SIR, he is not for sale; Only a snow-white dove Found in the wilderness Singing of love; In a dead wilderness, Singing of love. Sir, I but seek to find Who might his master be ; Then I will yield my bird Freely and cheerily. Asking no fee in turn, Giving him blithely. Ah, he has flown from mel Gone with a whirring wing. Sir, in your bosom, see, My bird is fluttering; Nestling against your breast, Singing and fluttering. 39 CHAINS BY GLENN WARD DRESBACH WHY did you not hold me with chains Of steel all dull and cold That I might strain against their strength As long as they could hold? That I might see the links sink in My flesh and make blood flow, While I could hope to break my chains And hurl them down and go! But in these chains you hold me with, Only my Spirit frets — For who could use brute force to break A chain of violets! 40 DISTANCE BY MARGARET E. MCCALLIE THE lake was not more calm or clear Than was your voice. Your words alone Were plain enough, "God drew us near," Yet there was logic in your tone. Since doubting you had cost me pain, I clutched at timid hope again, When up from the reeds with sudden whirr Of heavy wings, a coot swung high His somber body stretched to blurr The paling sun against the sky. I turned to seek my swift surprise Repeated in your radiant eyes, And met your steady earnest gaze No spread of wings could set ablaze, And then I knew how far apart y?e really were from heart to heart. 41 THE DAY THAT LOVE GAME DOWN TO ME HANIEL LONG HE day that love came down to me, Now must I dress me well, said she. Since he has only mortal ears And only mortal language hears, I must give up my native tongue And many a native song I've sung. I must put on a mortal veil, And all for him my wonders pale ; Leaving my boundless home above me, I'll be a girl, that he may love me. And yet my love could not disguise, When she came down, her deathless eyes. 42 A SONG OF PIERROT BY MAURICE A. HANLINE THE cloak of laughter I have worn Has only served to hide the smart. The bells and bladder I have born Could wake no echo in my heart. And all the places where I go Are sweet with memories of you yet. The laughing footsteps of Pierrot Are always searching for Pierrette. Upon my face a painted smile, Upon my lips a scarlet stain, Before my feet an endless mile, That I must dance, despite the pain. Along the road red poppies grow, Perhaps your scarlet lips have set Upon their petals, for Pierrot, A tithe of kisses, dear Pierrette. The lips I knew have left their scars, Each rose beneath had hid a thorn, Your love was lost among the stars, I could not wait until the morn. 43 A Song of Pierrot The night was lonesome, love, and so I sought the roses to forget. But they have withered and Pierrot Longs for the kisses of Pierrette. If in your place, you hear my song, Hear, too, beneath, the strain of tears, I dance before the grinning throng. Their mocking laughter fills my ears, My giddy steps are all they know. They do not see my eyes are wet. I am a tired, lost Pierrot, Where are you hiding, my Pierrette? I/Envoi Ah princess, I shall never know! You smile and smile and say, "Forget" The tears and laughter of Pierrot Are but the playthings of Pierrette. 44 THE UNFORGIVEN BY NANCY BARE MAVITY YOU blew my future away with a breath, As the little white feathers are blown from the dandelion, Leaving only a knob and a stalk Where once in the long grass shone a golden blossom. But for this may I not forgive you? The future is lost only to be made again — From the blown seed-pods again sunny blossoms awaken. But 0, once dear, you have taken the past, And trodden it under your feet like a spent rose leaf. You have left no beauty uncrushed within it. No sorrow made fragrant by memories can be mine, For you have taken my memories one by one; You have stripped them and torn them until I dare not look. And for that you would not leave my past unhurt In its sheltered garden of old beauty, I cannot forgive you. 45 THE DOOR BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES THE littlest door, the inner door, I swing it wide. Now in my heart there is no more To hide. The farthest door — the latch at last Is lifted; see. I kept the little fortress fast. — Be good to me. 46 INVIOLATE BY MAKX G. SABEL I SHALL remember you as wistfulness, As petulance, and shadowy romance. Growing more vivid as the years advance You shall remain my memory. The dress You wore on one impassible, proud day, The way your hair meandered, tricks of speech, All these, my riches, shall far overreach Youth's gradual withdrawal, and decay. There was no giving, no, and naught of asking, — We were too filled with wonderment and awe. There was no sudden, sensual unmasking To dissipate the beauty that we saw. You shall remain intact, and always new For dreams were all I ever had of youl 47 \ "LES LAURIERS SONT COUPES" BY ELINOR WYLEE AH, love, within the shadow of the wood The laurels are cut down; some other brows May bear the classic wreath which Fame allows And find the burden honorable and good. Have we not passed the laurels as they stood — Soft in the veil with which the Spring endows The wintry glitter of their woven boughs — Nor stopped to break the branches while we could? Ah, love, for other brows they are cut down. Thornless and scentless are their stems and flowers, And cold as Death their twisted coronal. Sweeter to us the sharpness of this crown; Sweeter the wildest roses which are ours; Sweeter the petals, even when they fall. 48 CERTITUDE HELEN HOYT I HAVE heard him speak my name Passionately, like a word of flame, And a young girl might gay This was love's only, truest, way. She would not understand How the brief, half gruff command Of his voice, weary or sick, Touches so deeply the heart's quick. How, when he says "dear," or, "dearest," absently, The words are precious and their tone to me; Though it should happen he turned not his head; — Unconscious, almost, that the words are said. They are a use and custom of his tongue. Words are more fierce when they are new and young, But have they not a dearer hold, When use and happy frequence turn them old? Love, broadening, forgets the early need To say itself in words; to charm and plead: Love, broadening, diffuses its wild might; Habitual grows, like breath and sight. 49 Certitude Like sight, or breath, a certitude, A priceless good; but unthanked good: Too sure, too long, long known for speech; Too wide for proof of words to reach. 50 BY THE HEARTH BY AMORY HARE IT may have been a light elusive thing, Yet at the time the joy of it possessed me. And afterwards a furtive wish obsessed me To make it his: to seize his thoughts, and bring Such cunning to my words that he should guess, The living magic of its loveliness. So, after penance of long waiting, I Told swiftly all, Not watching him, but gazing at the wall, My thoughts caught back, yet poised as if to fly, I watched for some small gesture, or a word To show he understood what he had heard. Silent and still he was; and suddenly My heart dived down, then rallied, beating quickly, Swerving from doubt to faith ; and then a sickly Feeling of impotence swept over me. Daring at last 1 took a furtive peep, And watched him sleep! Then came distaste: and afterwards bruised blankness, The blankness of a mind without a mood; 51 By the Hearth My thoughts, wrung dry, went wandering till they stood Angry and hard at friendship going thankless; Then as his breathing turned to rhythmic sighing, I found that I was crying. If he had wakened I had never known A gentle thing that I have come to know. But long he slept. The shadows deepened so I almost would have thought myself alone Save that his courtly deference to convention Kept for his form a posture of attention. At sight of which I wept more bitterly, Not for my pleasure, ruthlessly desired; For knowledge that he labored and grew tired To light this hearth and keep it safe, for me. ****** "I dreamed of you," he said "I must have slept. "I dreamed you wept." SILENCED BY WILLARD WATTLES I SOMETIMES wonder why men say So very much of love; I sometimes think they little know What they are talking of, For when I felt your closing arms My heart sang like a bird; I lay all night upon your breast And never spoke a word. 53 TO YOU BY BEATRICE W. RAVENEL BECAUSE I loved you not nor let you speak, Your silence in my memory sings. Like God, your patience obstinate and meek, Waits at the heart of things. A still, strong purpose you, a hoarded light, (Against your day your watch you keep), Shadow and silence, things most exquisite, The condolence of sleep. And when life falls from round me, leaves me stark, Only a blind need through and through, As wounded beasts crawl off to find the dark, I know my way to you. 54 CONTRASTS BY MARIE LOUISE HERSEY MY studio windows overhead are black Save for the shimmer of wet lights from the street And in my woman's heart a sudden lack, An undertone of something incomplete! little human child here in the rain Unlike my painted miniatures up there — The careful workmanship of hand and brain, Cherubs with violet eyes and gold-spun hair — changing, wistful face so eager-bright And restless mouth so quick to smile or pout, 1 wish my arms could gather you to-night And hear you breathing when the light is out! 55 MY MOTHER BY E. MERRILL ROOT MY father gently took my hand; I left the nursery willingly: Perhaps I soon should understand Those tip-toe people, and why he Cried so, and where mamma could be. In mother's room he dropped my hand. I moved to where my mother lay; Outside, a running wind went by — It had been shouting all the day — Grey clouds had dirtied all the sky, And all day I had longed to cry ; Somehow I could not laugh or play. Her coverlet was cold and white, Her face was whiter; still and pale (Like the new snow of yesternight) She lay; her dear hand — Oh so frail 1 Faltered toward mine: I saw it fail — I caught a snow-flake, cold and light. Her eyes were framed in shadows ; they Were dark, like purple pansies' eyes; 56 My Mother "Come close to me!" they seemed to pray. Mine stared back, moist with vague surprise; Frightened, I said (big tears would rise) : "Why won't you talk to me to-day?" My mother did not stir or speak Save from deep eyes. I knelt; and she With straining fingers touched my cheek. Outside, I heard a wrestling tree Tap at the window fitfully; Behind me I heard floor-boards creak. My father led me to the door, I glanced back, very wistfully: Her eyes, still on me as before, Were like two arms stretched out toward me. And then we went out, I and he, I never saw her any more. 57 RETURN AFTER DEATH JOHN HALL WHEELOCK npO the old home, Through the wild country-ways and meadows damp, Lo — I am come: Drawn are the blinds, quenched is the lonely lamp And dark the door. The crickets chirp and the cicadas sing, But nevermore Comes the quick step, the dear voice answering. Long though I knock, Never the eager answer comes, they will Never unlock — So hushed the night, so deep and starry-still. Ah fain, how fain — From the fierce terror and the loneliness, Anguish insane And dreadful secret that you may not guess — The starry Vast Inexorable of everlasting law, Tomb of the Past, And endless reaches of the ancient Awe, 58 Return After Death With horrors rife — Star upon star forever strewn abroad, The thrones of life In the dark universe dethroned of God — With what desire, Ah, with what longing that you cannot know! To the warm fire, The cosy hearth and faces all- aglow, Dear eyes that burn, The old, familiar jokes and questions dear, We, lost, return, Calling with voices that you cannot hear! Night, deep and still: Empty, into the dark, the windows stare. A whip-poor-will Cries like the Past upon the patient air. But where it lies, The thing I was, the shell of me, they kneel With burning eyes, And in mute prayer to the Unknown appeal. Here on the shore And coast of the illimitable night Forevermore Lies the lost shell and home of my delight, 59 Return After Death Where passion reigned, Where ecstasy drew hushed and hurried breath, Where love disdained To stain her triumph with the thought of death. O pang too sheer Of all that has been and may never be I Anguish austere, And wild regret of all eternity 1 60 IN AN OLD HOUSE BY WINIFRED WELLES I'VE lived so long companionless In this old house bowed down with years, IVe come to welcome loneliness, Converse with dreams and sit with fears. Often and often in the night, When I have laid some dull book down, One comes between me and the light With terrible, unrustling gown. Wistful as moonlight in the room, Her face sways, luminous with fire Of eyes unsmothered by the tomb, Of lips remembering still desire. And there beside the lute she stands — With little eager flutterings She stretches out her pulseless hands, And only thrusts them through the strings! No way to bring her longing near Who has no heart to beat and break, Nor any way that she can hear The sounds her lost touch can not make. 61 In An Old House Oh who will sit here wondering Some other night and watch me steal Close to a loved, familiar thing With hands that reach but do not feel? THE RUINED T>OBE BY JENNIE HARRIS OLIVER IN the sunlight and the moonlight, In the low-hung desert starlight, Stands an old forsaken 'dobe, Like a grim, distorted dream; And its lidless eyes look westward, Its low ceiling seeps, and crumbles, While the bats hang down like dusky rags From one long rafter-beam. In the old, forsaken 'dobe, Lizards dart, all green and golden, And the rattler trails its diamond length Along the earthen floor. And an old, blind, limping pinto, Fumbling, 'mong the rocks and rubble, In the fury of the sand-storm Stumbles through the gaping door. In the old forsaken 'dobe Coyotes slink and barn-owls slither, And the swoop of seeking buzzard Haunts the pinon-scented air; On the hearth a ruby cactus 63 The Ruined 'Dobe Bloom — a strangely-twisted candle, When the wind from off the mesa Makes its petals flame and flare. On a shelf within the 'dobe, There are cups of clay, soft-colored. In a nook, a cedar cradle, And a thimble, and a glove. While around the ruins, mountains,- Purpled with the wine of shadow, — Cast a wistful benediction On the broken dream of love. 64 THE RETURN BY SCUDDEB MIDDLETON HOLD me, hold me, love — your lips are life! Here on your heart my heart now understands; Home have I come at last from alien lands — A pilgrim through the darkness to your eyes I Hold me, my love — I know the answer now, wayward, ever wandering feet of man — Always the journey ends where it began! . . . Out of my mother's arms into your own I Hold me, my love, serene against your breast, The sun takes up the wave and gives the rain. Over the dead the grass is green again. The lark is singing on the ruined wall. 65 FEBRUARY TWENTY-SECOND BY RAYMOND PECKHAM HOLDEN SUPPOSE one never heard of Valley Forge, And Washington were nothing but a name Cut in the rock of some Virginian gorge Where never anything but swallows came. Suppose December on the Delaware Had never known that bleeding, swift retreat. To-day would be a day as others are With less of colored bunting in the street. And nothing would be absent from these trees Which wait for April, and the starling's song Would be as happy and as harsh as these Shrill notes the gray wind blows along. And the careless music of fast-melting snows Would ripple in the gutters and be gone, And crocuses would follow, and the rose Return, and the bright world go on. 6C / THE MAN AT THE PLOW BY RUTHELE NOVAK \/E ho, for the song of the lark; «*■ For the spiralling lark with his song; With his full-throated praise so strong 1 Like joy beams from the sun His happy trillings run! Ye ho, for the song of the lark! Ye ho, for the smell of the loam; For the smile of the new-born day; For the little house over the way ; For the strength to plow And the knowledge how! Ye ho, for the smell of the loam! 67 I STOOD AT TWILIGHT BY BERENICE K. VAN SLYKE I STOOD at twilight making bread, Sifting salt and soft white flour; I thought of children gone to bed At this hour; Gone to bed with flowers and bees, Fists and blossoms curled up tight Till candles fail, and dawn breeze Scatters night. Through the windows I could see Stars, and branches, fading day. To some one passing what would be The thought to stay? Windy branches, starry stair? Children tumbling into bed? Or would it be my shadow there, Making bread? THE PUSH-CART BY WILLIAM ROSE BENET COLORS like cries of delight from the lips of a child Leapt from a cart by the curb of a comer I passed. The oars of a golden galley dipped swirling through seas Of azure and opal. The ancient Hesperides Lifted for landfall, and loud with the heroes I laughed! Blinded by blue we staggered ashore on a strand Of golden sand to the gorgeous gardens their gate, Where beautiful birds trilled embowered — but bright in midsward, Burnished of scale and claw, crouched Ladon, to guard The Fruit and the footing of maidens that minstreled its fate. And, dispersing this dream, still another, — bright Bag- dad's bazaars With the slow-footed camels from Yemen that lan- guidly glide, And, in turban and caftan, some retinue of the viziers, Black eunuchs with cimeters, guards with their glim- mering spears Round the litters of houris close-veiled to the harem who ride The Push-Cart Where some banquet is spread to bedazzle the eyes of a djinn, Where the hues of piled peaches, of apricots, pome- granates, plums And oranges, flicker like heaps of such jewels as blazed From Sinbad's deep Valley of Diamonds, turning him crazed ! Giant blacks draw the curtains apart — and the great Caliph comes! Old proser in charge of your push-cart, — ye gods, if you knew The grandeurs of purple and gold and rich crimson you sell "Two for five — three for five," with a grin and a greasy swart hand, As you chatter and shrug with that boy of the boot- blacking stand, — Why, your button-black eyes would grow bulging! . . . . Perhaps 'tis as well ! You'd be sure to go treading on clouds till, like him on the Field Of Mars, that a cloud took and rapt from the sight of his age, You were snatched to Olympus, and, mopping your oily brown brow, Wheeled your cart up the heights where the White Ones abide even now, — Till, at sight of you, gaily they sped Ganymede as a page 70 The Push-Cart And haled you before them ! Ambrosia and nectar forgot I can see them uprisen as one all to pillage your trove. Now, superb o'er your overturned cart (having feasted their fill) They are pelting each other with splendors adown the green hill, They are chairing you up to a seat between Juno and Jove! 71 CHALLENGE BY ELEANOR DUNCAN WOOD GRIEVE not, Beloved, that nevermore for me The wreath of silver shall to gold return, Nor on the hills my feet be swift and free, Nor in my cheek May's rapturous roses burn. Grieve not that I grow weary all too soon, That my voice falters like a child's at dark. The Body changes as the changing moon, Who cares what feathers clothe the meadow lark? While the glad heavens to my eager eyes Their mysteries of dawn and dusk unfold, While just one bird soars singing to the skies, While just one daisy bares its heart of gold, My Soul, unchanging, shall be strong to dare, To live and love, and in God's world to sing. I am as ageless as the vibrant air, I am as happy-hearted as the Spring. 72 WAIF BY AMANDA BENJAMIN HALL MINE was the heart no hand could tame, And mine the way no foot had been: I wandered, nude of any name, In palaces of green, Where now and then a cloud would ply Its silver shuttle overhead, Weaving across the warp of sky An iridescent thread. Where winds betrayed the trusting flowers To take from them all that was sweet — Where Day was mother of the hours That danced with shining feet. And evenings at her darkened door She'd call her tired children home And each would fold its pinafore And answer her, "I come." The stars were set to yield me light Across the ceiling of my room, And showed my arms as swaying white As apple boughs in bloom. 73 Waif I knew no need for thatch or fire, Or purse to sing a song of pence; I warmed myself at my desire, And paid with innocence. While others fingered fork or spoon, Laughing, I joyed to feed my soul From out a brimming, amber moon With honey in its bowl. Then, guided by presentiment, You turned a corner of the air, Your youth a garment sadly rent, All dusty with despair. And there surprised me, undefiled, Defenceless to what fate befell, As wild as autumn leaf is wild, And secret as a well. To heal you of your cynic's pain Till, like a pageantry of birds, Came daring from your heart again Some softly feathered words, — The kiss that sealed me woman-grown, And yet you dreamed that I might stay Ever sequestered and alone, Child of the earth alway, — 74 Waif To wait your will through storm and wind Deep in the vocal forest when You left the travelled road behind, And lamp-lit haunts of men. But I — how can I tell you lest Your faith should fail to understand? I who was wild now long to nest Within your hollow .hand. Coveting comfort for my lot, The rose-bright hearth and shadowed hall, I find, Beloved, my way is not The wind's way, after all. A ribbon for my hair, a gown In which to languishingly dress, And four walls of the lighted town To hold my happiness. And in a cradle, great for pride, The babe, the little fairy king, That, tending, I should sit beside And unto whom I'd sing! I guard the truth you dream not of; I dwell with flower and star and tree— These be my furniture of love, The house you give to me. 75 Waif Yet ever now by bank or brook, I meet you with the anguished fear My eyes may show you with a look Or tell you with a tear. 76 THE ASHMAN JOYCE KILMER People: An Ashman, a Policeman, a Little Girl in Green. Scene: A city alley. The ashman is fastening a nose- bag on his horse, which is harnessed to a wagon half-filled with ashes. A policeman is watching him. Time: Noon. Policeman: What do you feed him? Ashes? Ashman: No, I don't! I feed him Harps. Come over here, you boob, And let him bite your face, he's hungry ! Policeman: Aw! You're nothing but a Harp yourself, you poor Old God- forsaken ashman! Or a wop, Or some fool kind of foreigner. Ashman: Hell! You make me sick, you big fat pie-faced mutt! Get out, you spoil my horse's appetite! Policeman: I'd hate to be your horse, but then I guess I'd rather be your horse than you. (Exit.) 77 The Ashman A little girl in green appears from behind the wagon. Little Girl: Hello! Ashman: Hello there, kiddol Where did you come from? (Climbs to his seat on the wagon, takes out a tin pail, and begins to eat his lunch.) Little Girl: I think I'd like some bread and butter, please! Ashman: AH right, old girl, just take a bite of that. (Tosses his half loaf down to her.) Little Girl: There isn't any butter on it. Ashman: No. I haven't got no butter. But it's good, It's first-rate bread, all right. Little Girl: (Tossing back the loaf, from which she has taken a bite.) Thanks very much! Thanks, Captain Thunder! Ashman: Huh? You're a queer kid, all right, and hungry, too, To eat dry bread (eats some of the bread.) Why damn my eyes! God's wounds! Here's scurvy provender. (Throws the bread down) And scurvy mirth ! What, Kate! Dear Kate o' the Green, well met, well met, Slip up and sit beside me, lass ! It's not The first time you have been upon this seat. 78 The Ashman Little Girl: (Climbing up beside him) - No Captain, I should know the Royal Mail, But when did you take up the coaching trade? I had as soon expect to see old Dick Throw leg across your Monmouth's gleaming back, Thrust pistols in his belt, and gallop off To make his fortune in the light o' the moon, As to find you, the Master of the Heath, The DeviPs Treasurer, the Velvet Mask, The Silver Pistoleer, the Winged Thief, Sitting with down-cast Sabbath-keeping eyes, Sad lips, and nose all fixed for droning psalms, In old Dick's place upon the Royal Mail. A proper driver for a coach and four! Ashman: Ha' done! God's mercy on us! Let me speak, And I will tell you such a waggery Will make you laugh and split your pretty sides: I stole the Royal Mail ! Little Girl: You stole the Mail? Ashman: Aye, prigged it, Kate ! Why, here it is, you see, Box, boot and wheels, four horses and a whip, And on the door King George's coat of arms. All mine, good lass, all mine. But for a price, A bitter price, dear Kate. For Monmouth's dead! Little Girl: What, Monmouth, best of horses, is he dead? 79 The Ashman Captain Thunder, never tell me that! Why, all the world holds not another horse So glossy black, so fleet, so wise, so kind! Ashman: Yes, Monmouth's dead. Dick shot him through the heart, And Monmouth dropped without a whinny. But 1 paid Dick back. Monmouth is avenged! Now, hear me, Kate ! I stopped the Royal Mail Last night at twelve o'clock at Carter's Cross, Says I, "Stand now ! And let me have the bags — That's all I want tonight! Hand over, there!" Dick pulls his leaders on their haunches. "Why," Says he, "It's Captain Thunder! By my wig! Just help yourself!" I prigged his pistol belt And rode around to look inside the coach. I got the bags. The passengers were three. My Lord of Bath and Wells — Little Girl: A Bishop, what? Ashman: Aye, that he is ; white wig and bands and all. Yes, he's a Bishop. And there was his wife, (A big fat monster of a wife) and then There was a little wizened-looking thing, A sort of curate. Well, I looked at them And laughed to see them tremble in their shoes. "Good e'en, my Lord," says I, and doffed my hat. "How do you like the Royal Mail?" Says he: "0 good Sir Highwayman, pray let me go, Our coach broke down at York, and so we took This public carrier, this dreadful thing, 80 The Ashman This Royal Mail. will you let us pass? I must get into Hull by dawn, and sleep, For I confirm an hundred souls at noon." I listened to him, Kate, and did not see The old fox slip a pistol up to Dick. But, bang! Hell's fury! Down fell Monmoutfl,. dead. And off I stumbled in the ditch ! Well, Kate, Dick aimed for me, you see, and got the horse. And I got Dick. I got him through the head. And then I joined the Bishop once again. "Come out, my Lord, and strip!" says I. "What, strip?" Says he, and let his jaw fall on his chest. "Yes, strip!" says I, and pulls his great-coat off: "Yes, strip!" says I, and throws his wig away: "Yes, strip!" says I, and pulls his breeches off: And there he stands and shivers, pink and fat. "Now, Madame Bishopess," says I, "pray do Poor Captain Thunder so much courtesy As to ride by him on the way to town." She screamed and fought, I took her in my arms And heaved her up into the seat. "Now strip!" I shouted to the curate. "Yes," says he, "I'll strip," and strip he did. "Inside!" says I; They stumbled headlong in, I cracked my whip And, whoop! the Mail went rumbling on to Hull! Well, just at dawn we passed the Southern Gate; We galloped down the street and made a halt Beside the Close. "Here's the Cathedral, dame!" 81 The Ashmarii Says I, and helped the lady to the ground. "Unbar the door, and help his Lordship out And don't forget the curate!" How I laughed To see the Bishop and the curate run Stark naked, screaming, to the Chapter House I Well, I was off at once and out of Hull And never stopped to breathe the nags till now. Little Girl: But, Captain Thunder! Captain! Are you mad? They'll have the country after you! Be quick! You can't make cover in a coach and four As on a horse! Ashman: Nay, Kate, rest easy now. Red Will is out, and Davy Doublesword, And Hieland Jock, and Dan the Drum and Ned, And twenty gallant gentlemen beside. And they have sworn to keep the roadway clear By setting all the lobsters such a chase Will scatter them till night. And Ned will blow His bugle when the way is safe. Then, whoop ! I'll rattle off again and fill the coach With gentlemen of fortune, comrades true, And own the road from here to London town. (A horn is heard and a cry of "Fish, fish, fish, fine fresh fish!" Little Girl: Down, Captain, loose the horses! There's the call! (The Ashman gets down, takes off the horse's nosebag and unhitches the horse from the post.) 82 The Ashman Ashman: (Getting back on his seat) Now Kate, we'll gallop off to Arcady. Policeman: (Suddenly entering) Hello, there, Ashes, who you talking to? Ashman: Kate of the Greenwood. Policeman: Kate? You poor old boobl You're crazy in the head. There's no one there! Ashman: (Driving off) Make way there, constable. (Cracks his whip and sings.) Come all ye jolly rovers As wants to hear a tale Will make your hearts as merry As a bellyful of ale. I'll sing of Captain Thunder, And his dashing slashing way, How he kissed the queen and he cuffed the king, And threw the crown away ! (Exit) Policeman: Well, I'll be damned! 83 THE FREIGHT YARDS BY PHOEBE HOFFMAN IN the long spring evening's twilight, when the sun is setting low, And the smoke from all the engines flushes up, a rosy- glow, Then I come up to the bridge-head, watch the lights and net- work rails, Think of when I rode the freighters — engines spouting steam like whales, D. L. W., Jersey Central, old Rock Island, Fere Mar- quette, Reading coal cars down from Scranton, piled with anthracite like jet; N. and W., the Great Northern, Lehigh Valley, B. and 0., Like a giant earth-worm twisting, slowly round the curve they flow, Caravans of freight move westward, bearing eastern goods away. To come back with hogs and cattle, bales of sweet Kentucky hay, Brakemen walk along the roof-tops lingering for a moment's chat; There an engineer, while smoking, long and eloquently- spat. 84 The Freight Yards Wandering life and care-free rovers, seasoned in adventure bold, In the old caboose at night time many a thrilling tale is told, But on duty in the winter, when there's hail, and ice, and snow, And the rails and roofs are ice-cased, and you slip each step you go, Or the melting, boiling summer, when the blisters lump the paint, And the fierce sun strikes directly, and you feel you're like to faint, That's the time you curse the life out, striking for a rise in pay, Say a dog has better living, but you can't quite get away, For the rugged freedom holds you, spite of freezing cold and sweat, And the grating, grinding thunder of the freights you can't forget. L. and N., D. L. and W., Erie, Reading, P. R. R., Riding on your sliding roof-tops, that's where joy and freedom are! 85 I WOULD NOT DIE IN APRIL BY CLEMENT WOOD I WOULD not die in April, When grass and violet wake, Nor have your spade disturb them For my sake; I prize too much the comfort Of all the pallid shoots To grub beneath their confident Slim roots. Oh, rather in the snowtime — That from the newly dead The grass may forage boldly In my head, And from my heart the violet May drink, and flame a blue Sweet message from the heart of God To you. 86 SPRING COWARDICE BY LEONORA SPEYER I am afraid to go into the woods, I fear the trees and their mad, green moods. I fear the breezes that pull at my sleeves, The creeping arbutus beneath the leaves, And the brook that mocks me with wild, wet words; I stumble and fall at the voice of birds. Think of the terror of those swift showers, Think of the meadows of fierce-eyed flowers! And the little things with sudden wings, TThat buzz about me and dash and dart, And the lilac waiting to break my heart! Winter, hide me in your kind snow, I am a coward, a coward, I know ! 87 A DEAD MAN WILTON AGNEW BARRETT HE will not see the tender spring again Rise from the earth with strange, perennial grace, He will not see again the May-nights face Speak of eternal things to transient men, He will not stir, with deep upliftings, when June laughs for freedom from our time and place, — No, though her winds all day blow out of space, He will not quicken in his body then. And be his spirit timeless like a star — A burning life fate can no more remand — And be it rapturous like the silent flowers, And a long loveliness in springs afar, — Yet will he never feel in that new land The immortality of mortal hours. 88 NOT I BY LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE I AM not healed of grief; not I, Nor shall be till spring boughs forget Their poignancies down the young sky, In dusks all violet. Not I. Not till the year has found Some other fashion for the rain In old thin autumn fields ; its sound Against a lonely pane. Not till the worn, dear, usual things — Street, house, or even a chair, a jar — Rid them of all rememberings, Grow strange, and cold, and far. Who plucks my cowslips in the sun? Whose step fleets by the withered tree? Whose shadowy, golden laughters run Betwixt my books and me? They have been gone a thousand years. I grant it. Are the deeps fallen dry? Wears grief a look not that of tears? — Not I, indeed, not I. FUNERAL BY RAYMOND PECKHAM HOLDEN IN the dust with words they laid him, Told the winds 'twas God that made him; Him whose life was clock-told hours Friends consigned to future flowers; Him whose life was mainly eating Friends committed to God's greeting, Sent him to immortal rest In a mortal, braided vest, Gave the daily press his story, Snuffed his wick with oratory. Death, they said, is a swift changing To a guise of God's arranging. Life, they sighed, is something broken, Death the only holy token. God was present, and half heard But was busy with a bird And He missed the declamation, Missed the body's name and station, So will very likely leave him To the worms, and worms will weave him No white mask to make him holy, But oblivion, coming slowly 90 Funeral With this legend to expound it — "There was life — he never found it — "He is dead — he'll never know; "Let the grasses tell him so." 91 A DAY IN MAY! BY RTJTHELE NOVAK IN our mountain shanty I cook and wash and sweep, I tip to see our baby And find that she's asleep ! The song that's in my heart Leaps singing to my lips! My feet go nimbly dancing On their many little trips ! The fragrance of the woodbine And the sweetness of the rose Float in from the garden To tantalize my nose! Oh, you are young and I am, too, And life to us is play, — For you love me and I love you And it's a day in May! 92 MAY BY STEPHEN MOYLAN BIRD THE Pan-thrilled saplings swayed in sportive bliss, Longing to change their roots to flying feet, And, where the buds were pouting for Pan's kiss, The high lark sprinkled music, dewy sweet. I wandered down a golden lane of light, And found a dell, unsoiled by man, untrod, And, with the daffodil for acolyte, bared my soul to all the woods, and God. , 93 TO NARCISSUS BY WINIFRED WELLES 1HAVE no beauty that is all my own, No special loveliness carved out of me, No glowing images wrought perfectly, Splendour of flesh or delicacy of bone. I am a pool, wherein you shall be shown How wonderful and starlike you can be — I am a mirror so that you may see Yourself most intimately and alone. When you lean to me and a dear, swift grace Sways in my body, and my lips and eyes Grow suddenly and exquisitely calm — Oh tremble and look deep into my face And see your own there, marvel and grow wise, Touch me and cry, "How beautiful I am!" 94 A SONG FOR MY FATHER BY GRACE HAZARD CONKLING BREAK into bloom, my hidden thought! The apple trees are dressed for May, And shall their beauty call you not, Nor sweetness of this day? For there is one to whom belong Your coral buds of fancy dim, And every bloom of full-blown song You can put on for him. Mass all your boughs with fragrant snow, That when he sees you blossoming On this his birthday, he will know You bless him for your Spring. Be opulent for him and sweet: Thank him as do the grateful trees. Flutter your flowers to his feet Like little melodies ! 95 THE DAY YOU WENT BY BEATRICE W. RAVENEL THE day you went my world was done. There came no comfort from the sun Nor from the love of life that lurks In sunlight, nor from all the works Of faith and old philosophy, — Till one young rose leaned down to me And shot my brooding like a wing; The most foolhardy, gallant thing In all this rocking world, conceived Of morning dew . . . and I believed! It bannered upward from the sod The visible defence of God. 96 A REVENANT BY DOROTHY ANDERSON I ONLY know Last night he came to me, Just as he used to come before the days when war and death Had passed between us. Close by my side he stood, His presence filled the fair nights solitude. Blue moonlight fell about him like a cloak, And there was moonlight on a bed of hyacinths Sweet with the breath of love and youth and spring. I felt his touch ; His eyes looked into mine; I heard his voice speaking to me The words he spoke before he went away; . . . "Beloved, do not weep. There is no need to sorrow. My love will bring me back for many nights like this — When there is moonlight on the hyacinths, And the world is full of love and youth and spring." And I wept not. His kisses fell upon my eyes Like dew, and closed them. 97 A Revenant Then slow and stealthily a mist came creeping up, So that in sudden fear I reached to him, I called him — But he had slipped away. Alone — I was alone. But oh, I know that he will come Again, and yet again — and war and death Have never passed between us; And when he comes, though snows fall, there shall be Moonlight and hyacinths, And love, and youth, and spring! 98 TANAGER BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN SCARLET Bird! Whence have you fluttered into my green gloom, My sleepy solitude, op quiet wing, Your voice unheard? Why do you linger there upon the tree And still forbear to sing, As if your message were a silent doom? torch of fire, Enkindled at the flame of heart's desire In some enchanted land! winged rose, Blown from the living garden of delight! flash of joy, Deliriously bright, Escaping from the heart of some fierce boy Or maid who thrills and glows! dream incarnadine Out of the jeweled past; red rapture that was minel Why sent to torture me? You cut the shadow like an open wound; The forest bleeds with your intensity, In a mysterious anguish, unrelieved by sound. And when you flit away, Back to your radiant realm, your vivid day, And, shivering, I shall gaze Tanager Down the dim alley, empty of your blaze, The darkness will be darker than of yore, The silence stiller than it was before. Then faded peace will brood, A moment stirred, In the transfigured wood, O Scarlet Bird! 100 »•• , , . ..... »>j » » > . MY GARDEN IS A PLEASANT PLAGE BY LOUISE DRISCOLL MY garden is a pleasant place Of sun glory and leaf grace. There is an ancient cherry tree Where yellow warblers sing to me, And an old grape arbor where A robin builds her nest, and there Above the lima beans and peas She croons her little melodies, Her blue eggs hidden in the green Fastness of that leafy screen. Here are striped zinnias that bees Fly far to visit ; and sweet peas, Like little butterflies newborn, And over by the tasseled corn Are sunflowers and hollyhocks, And pink and yellow four-o'clocks. Here are humming birds that come To seek the tall delphinium, Songless bird and scentless flower Communing in a golden hour. There is no blue like the blue cup The tall delphinium holds up, Not sky, nor distant hill, nor sea, Sapphire, nor lapis-lazuli. 101 V tel;**i ; My Garden Is a Pleasant Place My lilac trees are old and tall, I cannot reach their bloom at all. They send their perfume over trees And roofs and streets, to find the bees. I wish some power would touch my ear With magic touch, and make me hear What all the blossoms say, and so I might know what the winged things know. I'd hear the sunflower's mellow pipe, "Goldfinch, goldfinch, my seeds are ripe!" I'd hear the pale wisteria sing, "Moon moth, moon moth, Ym blossoming!" I'd hear the evening primrose cry, "0, firefly! Come, firefly!" And I would learn the jeweled word The ruby-throated hummingbird Drops into cups of larkspur blue, And I would sing them all for you! My garden is a pleasant place Of moon glory and wind grace. 0, friend, wherever you may be, Will you not come to visit me? Over fields and streams and hills, Pll pipe like yellow daffodils, And every little wind that blows Shall take my message as it goes. 102 My Garden Is a Pleasant Place A heart may travel very far To come where its desires are. 0, may some power touch your ear, And grant me grace, and make you hear I 103 w MY SOUL IS A MOTH BY DOROTHY ANDERSON 00 me not tonight, my lover; Not tonight — for my soul is not here! My soul is a moth And the dusk is my lover. In the hush of the shadows We tryst, and we listen — Breathless — we listen To the far-blown secrets of night. O fragrant-blown secrets! They are hid in the petals of moonflowers, In the low, singing rhythm that stirs through the leaves, In soft, elfin laughter, And in the whirring of bats' wings. Little star-birds are splashing Their silver feathers in puddles of dew. There is a gold bowl in heaven, Half-tipped, and spilling its honey In long, luscious streaks upon the black grass; And we sip 104 My Soul Is a Moth Until we are steeped in it, Until we are faint with it, With the beauty and sweet of it — bear with the heavy- winged vagrant My moth-soul, my lover; Woo me not tonight, Not tonight 1 105 I THREE SONGS FOR E. BY SARA TEASDALE I GRAY EYES IT was April when you came The first time to me, And my first look in your eyes Was like my first look at the sea. We have been together Four Aprils now, Watching for the green On the swaying willow-bough; Yet whenever I turn To your gray eyes over me, It is as though I looked For the first time at the sea. II MEADOWLARKS N the silver light after a storm, Under dripping boughs of bright new green, I take the low path to hear the meadowlarks, More proud and high hearted than if I were a queen. 106 Three Songs For E. What have I to fear in life or death, Who have known three things : the kiss in the night, The white flying joy when a song is born, And meadowlarks whistling in silver light. Ill THE NET . I MADE you many and many a song, Yet never one told all you are — It was as though a net of words Were flung to catch a star; It was as though I curved my hand And dipped sea-water eagerly, Only to find it lost the blue Deep splendor of the sea. 107 DUSK IN THE GARDEN BY GRACE HAZARD CONKLING THIS stillness made of azure And veiled with lavender, Must be my daylight garden Where all the pigeons were! Blue dusk upon my eyelids, Your elfin whims disclose The moth that is a flower, The wings that are a rose. Make haste, exhale your sweetness For you must vanish soon: The garden will forget you At rising of the moon. A glory dawns predestined Of old to banish you And bind you fast with rainbows In dungeons of the dew. And who will then remember Your cool and gossamer art? Ah, never moon may exile Your beauty from my heart! 108 RONDELS OF LOMALAND BY KENNETH MORRIS THE RAIN GOD is in this gray, pensive rain; It is his mystic inmost mood; He has some old sweet thought to brood, Too curious for joy or pain. Keep your heart hushed! You'll get no gain Of anxious prayers and strivings crude While God is busy with the rain . . . Some secrecy, occult, arcane,' Holds its swift-drifting multitude; It hurries through the quietude Whispering so silverly . . . It's plain To me that God is in the rain, And in his inmost mystic mood. NOON ON THE HILLSIDE YON wizard Sun-god dreamed of old This glowing sage-brush solitude All silver-green and turkis-hued, With lilac shadows manifold. 109 Rondels of Lomaland These ragged blue-gums, sun-ensouled, On some antique enchantment brood; Yon wizard Sun-god dreamed of old This glowing sage-brush solitude. There's nothing human to behold, Nor aught mortality-imbued; God in his grand alchemic mood Melts earth to dim, aerial gold — Yon wizard God that dreamed of old This glowing sage-brush solitude. THE FLOWERS I COULD well spend a thousand years Just worshipping and praising you, That wonder have, and honeydew, For our crass passion, speech and tears. Your meditations soar in spheres No saint of ours, nor poet, knew; Sweet, I could spend ten thousand years Just worshipping and praising you! For you, I guess, have eyes and ears For all God broods beyond the blue ; And what the plumed archangels do You dream, and have no hopes nor fears. Oh that I had a million years, Sweet, to give all to praise of you! 110 Rondels of Lomaland EVENING OVER FALSE BAY WHEN the dove-wings of Evening dimmed The quiet world to blue and grey, Between the tree-trunks, far away On that soft gloom a marvel gleamed: The pearl and turkis waters rimmed With lights vermeil and golden gay Where the dove-wings of Evening dimmed The quiet world to blue and grey. Twas like some Feast of Lanterns, limned By wizard painters in Cathay, Some palace in the Realms of Fay That Sinbad or Aladdin dreamed When the dove wings of Evening dimmed The quiet world to blue and grey. A MORNING IN SEPTEMBER PEARL-PALE from some dim Paradise She wanders speechless, sibylline, By ghostly coastlines half unseen — Dim shores, wan seas, and grey, pale skies. Tiptoe, and hushed with mysteries Unwhisperable — aloof of mien, Pearl-pale from some dim Paradise She wanders, speechless, sibylline. Grey Druidess of the dreaming eyes, You give no gold for Summer's green, Nor deck the trees in passing sheen 111 Rondels of Lomaland Of gilt and carmined heraldries; Pearl-pale from some dim Paradise You wander speechless, sibylline! PAMPAS-GRASS THEY had some secret news to tell, The plume-blooms of the pampas-grass, They held me, that I might not pass, With some sun-sweet, scarce-whispered spell. About some faery miracle, Or the hidden wealth the Gods amass, They surely had strange news to tell . . . But I was moidered with the swell Of common thought; — had not, alas I Fasted of words since Martinmas As they had ; and I heard not well The unusual news they had to tell, Those plumes and blooms of pampas-grass. 112 KATHLEEN BY BERNARD RAYMUND SO calm, so still, with eyes so far away She sits unheedful of the clanging throng, Only her slender, white 7 gloved fingers play About the lilac in her lap; old song, Old unremembered wisps of music float To kiss the clinging fragrance at her lips. And there's a sudden catching in her throat For the sight of channel water as it slips Up a dear shore, for clambering roads that wind In dusty indolence from hill to hill, The hedgerow all in blossom, ditches blind With gold a million buttercups let spill. Full of the wonder spring has brought to pass Once more she runs barefooted thru the grass. 113 TO DANCE! BY MARGARET B. MCGEE I WANT to dance! When the sun catches the aspen leaves They dance; When it flecks the grasses and mottles the streams They dance; When the dark storm bends the black branches And the wind whips up the waves They dance; The birds swing on the elm twig, The sap races in the tree, Horses run in the pasture, Mist fairies glide to and fro in the valley, Cloud children play in heaven, The stars sing and dance, And I want to dance! I can be rain drops. I can be leaves and bending grasses, Gold mottled streams and running horses, Racing sap and the hidden heart of flowers. I can be fire light and moon light, A child of the night mist and a sister of the stars. All the world sings and dances, And I am a child of all the world. I want to sing, and — I want to dance! 114 FOREST DANCE BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES I SHALL dance in the forest, And all my dancing shall be for you — For you, who are very far away. The wind shall make A tune for my feet. It must be low; It must be sweet — For it is for you, Sweeter, lower; A little slower — Now I raise my foot and knee; And spurn the ground; and leap; and see The sky like a scarf to strain to, touch, Feel, and be part of, and claim, and clutch, And wave, in my dance ! Wind ! Louder ! Faster ! Be confusion! Be disaster! Now I crouch, and now I run, And dance, and dance, and catch the sun In one outstretched arm, and fling it high Back, against the wall of the air! Now it is caught in the scarf I wear! Now it is caught in my scarf, the sky, 115 Forest Dance Like a jewelled pin, like a yellow stone! It, too, is my own! Now I shall trail my scarf, and tread A stately march, and droop my head, Mimicking flowers, and they will all Tremble with anger. I shall let fall My scarf, and now I shall dance the word That is in my heart when I think of you. (It is a burning word, and holy. It is like a wakened bird.) Wild, and mad is my dance! I turn Swaying, trembling, like a tree, Like a tree that starts to burn In a forest, that feels the fire creep slowly Up its branches, into its bark, And sees its own smoke, like a dark Cloud that shuts it out from the known Trees with whom it has leaved and grown. Caught in flames, it shivers to see Itself a flame, that was a tree! So I dance! Wind, sing, sing! Louder, wilder, faster fling Down your music! I drop the sky Beneath my feet, and I tread it under. I hold my cupped hands, full of wonder, High, high— I dance in the forest, And all my dancing is for you, Who are far away, and will never know. 116 THE FIDDLER BY EDNA VALENTINE TRAPNELL DONAL o' Dreams has no bed for his sleeping, No gold in his keeping, no glove for his hand ; But the birds understand his wild music's leaping And the children follow his fiddle's command. He is sib to the winds and the wandering streams And the stars are the kinsfolk of Donal o' Dreams. When day goes over the edge of the dark The grandsires hark to his songs of old, And on dreams of gold do the lads embark While the lassies beckon him in from the cold But he's heeding no hearth where the firelight gleams For the Voices are calling to Donal o' Dreams. Playing o' nights by the fairy rings The brown fiddle swings a dancing song; Nor right nor wrong in the music sings — (0, the light feet whirling the leaves along!) Soulless as moon's light and soft as her beams Sounds the fairy music of Donal o' Dreams. Gold cannot stay him nor maidens' sigh — Stars fleck the skies or the fiddle's croon 117 The Fiddler Softens the noon on his way that lies To the East of the Sun and the West of the Moon — Always in search of that Land he is roaming And he follows its Gleam from the dawn to the gloaming. 118 THE DANGER IN THE SHRINE BY AMANDA BENJAMIN HALL I AM a dancer. When I pray I do not gather thoughts with clumsy thread Into poor phrases. Birds all have a way Of singing home the truth that they are birds, And so my loving litany is said Without the aid of words. I am a dancer. Under me The floor dreams lapis lazuli, With inlaid gems of every hue — Mother o' pearl I tread like dew, While at the window of her frame Our Lady, of the hallowed name, Leans on the sill. Gray saints glare down, Too long by godliness entranced, With piety of painted frown, Who never danced . . . But Oh, Our Lady's quaint, arrested look Remembers when she danced with bird and brook, Of wind and flowers and innocence a part, Before the rose of Jesus kissed her heart And men heaped heavy prayers upon her breast. She watches me with gladness half confessed Who dare to gesture homage with my feet, Or twinkle lacey steps of joy 119 The Dancer In the Shrine To entertain the Holy Boy; Who, laughing, pirouette and pass, Translated by the colored glass, To meanings infinitely sweet. And though it is not much, I know, To fan the incense to and fro With skirt as flighty as a wing, It seems Our Lady understands The method of my worshipping, The hymns I'm lifting in my hands I am a dancer . . . 120 FIRE-WEED IN THE FOREST BY JULIAN M. DRACHM AN FROM among deep mosses That cushion the twisted roots of the wood, It springs — the ragged weep! with burning blossoms. And, if you look for it, the cloistered dimness Under pine boughs, thick-thatched eternally, Is pierced in myriads of places By these tiny sparks, these flashes of cool flame. If there were a God of Fire, His home would be the forest. In the most secret chamber of the oak woods, To which the light of true day never penetrates, He would lurk all year, and growl and grumble to himself. In August, when hares lie panting in their burroughs, How terrible he would stalk abroad; Touching the dry tree-trunks with his fingers! How he would rush, roaring through the woods, Sweeping his red banners among crackling branches ! Then, if he but glanced down And saw the beautiful mockery at his feet, Mimicking him; The fire-weed, lighting the forest floor with loveliness 121 Fire-Weed In the Forest As he was lighting its vaulted roof with horror- Would he not shrink back? Would he not feel within himself how mean And how absurd a thing is fear fulness; How divine is beauty; What an all-mighty revealer of truth Laughter can be? 122 COURAGE, MON AMI! BY WILLARD WATTLES OH, it is good to camp with the spirit, Oh, it is jaunty to walk with the mind, When the soul sees all the future to share it Knowing the road that stretches behind. Courage, my comrade, the devil is dying! Here's the bright sun and a cloud scudding free; The touch of your hand is too near for denying, And laughter's a tavern sufficient for me. Hang your old hat on the smoke-mellowed rafter, Strike an old song on your crazy guitar; Hey, hustle, old lady, it's heaven we're after — God, but I'm glad we can be what we are! 123 HA! HA! BY WILLARD WATTLES I THOUGHT Joy went by me, I thought Love was dead — They did it but to try me; Laughingly Love said: "We are crazy fellows, All the roads we roam; When you come to find us, We are not at home. "Then some winter evening We will straggle in, Set the rafters rocking With the old familiar din. "Stay not hands to hold us When we're bowsed and fed, We are crazy fellows," . . . Laughingly Love said. 124 JOY O' LIVING BY AMANDA BENJAMIN HALL HE came with roses in his mouth, And kindling rubies in each vein, Like perfume of the scented south Through flying arrows of the rain, And on his goat-heels sat and played Till we were charmed yet half afraid! And dogs and sheep and gentle things Crept near, and very shy and sweet A butterfly, on painted wings, Alighted softly at his feet, And hearing him the great god Pan Grew feeble as an old, old man. His antics were so proud and free, His smiles so wilful and so rare He should have worn eternity As jewels in his grape-dark hair; And yet the burden of his song Was that he could not linger long! The clouds, a white-robed pilgrim lot, Came gathering at once they saw 125 Joy 0' Living Our little tangled human knot Attentive to his oaten straw, Till all on tiptoe they withdrew And let the moon adventure through. Through evening's iridescent mist He saw me once and followed far ; I would that he had caught and kissed And set me like a burning star To cool in some blue distant place Till death or dawn should find my face. 126 RENDEZVOUS BY LEONORA SPEYER B' Wrapt in a shadowed harmony Of leaves and buds and crinkly moss, Above me tangled green will toss, And all about, Unfurled for me, Uncurled for me, The fern's unhurried rout: But one more month — so soon — Wait for me, June, my J[une! The birds, live cups of singing wine, On their tall stems of larch and pine, Will brim for me the glad day long The comfort of their bubbling song; The nightingale Will trill for me, Will spill for me, Her shy, exultant grail: But one more month — so soon — Wait for me, June, my June ! Bring me your revelling fields and woods, Your hills and lakes of solemn moods, 127 Rendezvous Gather the stars, fresh-plucked and sweet, Scatter them wide where we two meet! I bring to you, Still near to me Still dear to me, My ancient grief, still new: But one more month — so soon — Wait for me, June, my June! 128 THE NATURALIST ON A JUNE SUNDAY BY LEONORA SPEYER MY old gardener leans on his hoe, Tells me the way that green things grow; "Goin' to church? Why no. All nature's church enough for me!" Says he. "Preachin' o' flower and choir o' bird, An' the wind passin' the plate — Sweetest service that ever / heard, That's straight! * Eternal Rest? What for, friend? Gimme a swarm o' bees to tend, A honey-makin', world without end, That's what I'd like the best! (Scoop 'em right up an' find the queen, They'd not sting me — the bees ain't mean!) "Heaven's all right! But still I guess I'll kinder miss The Lady Lunar moth at night And the White Wanderer butterfly Crawlin' out of its crysalis ! 129 The Naturalist On a June Sunday I want my heaven human too, 'Twixt me an' you — Why I'd jus' love to see A chipmunk hop up to the Lord An' eat right out o' His dread Hand Same as it does to me! Eternity — eternity — Don't it sound grand? But say What's the matter with today? Just step into the wood an' take a look! Ain't that a page o' teachin' from the Holy Book? 'He that hath eyes to see An' ears to hear' — That's good enough for me! I guess God's pretty near, He'll understand, I know, Why I ain't in no hurry to let June go!" My old gardener turns to his hoe, Helping the green things how to grow, "The Misses can go to church for me! Amen!" says he. 130 WEEK-END SONNETS BY JOHN FRENCH WILSON I. COME out to our house any week-end in June, When dandelions riot in the grass: And drink the yellow floods of afternoon, Poured from a sky of blue and quivering glass. Go through the arbor where the ramblers mass In crimson flame against white lattices : Open the easy swinging gate, and pass Beneath the birch, between the maple trees With tops a-tremble in the south-west breeze: Follow along the curving gravel walk Up to the terrace top, where, as you please, Tobacco, high adventure, casual talk, And journey's end await, if you are one Who would live much and quietly, in the sun. II. The easy swinging gate you entered through . Has worn and rusty hinges ; but they creak A little song of welcoming to you, Sung in the only language they can speak. They know the gladdest day of all the week, And count upon it, even as you and I. 131 Week-End Sonnets Their Monday morning voice is but a squeak; Somehow they cannot learn to sing "Goodbye." You may not think such knowingness can lie In rusted hinges of an arbor gate ; But everywhere in earth and air and sky Alluring undiscovered wonders wait, And high adventure lurks; and splendor clings In trivial and unsought-after things. III. On Sunday morning you may go to church In any way you please, or not at all. There is a stately one beneath our birch, A lowlier one out by the garden wall: Methodist, Catholic, Episcopal, Are all within an easy morning's stroll; But if these venerable creeds appal, A garden spade may benefit your soul; Or some eternal verity unroll As you spread paint upon the kitchen screens, Or fix fresh cut nasturtiums in a bowl, Or hold communion with the lima beans. Or you may put your clean white flannels on And meet it as you ramble through the lawn. IV. But do not make a desperate search for God Lest you offend his quiet dignity. The week-end is no time to pant or plod The rock-strewn roads of any Calvary. 132 Week-End Sonnets It is a time to live in the sun, and see Your favorite god by glimpses, everywhere. I find him lurking quite persistently In our young daughter's laugh, and in her hair; And if the baby smiles, he lingers there: But when the baby cries, he understands And straightway slips without offense or care Into my wife's brown eyes and her white hands; And many a moonlight night in fall he comes To dance among the Ted chrysanthemums. 133 FISHING BY MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT THE days that I'd go fishing, I would wake before the dawn, The moon a little lip of gold Above a silver lawn, Where in a velvet pool of trees, A gray mist hung, unstirred by breeze, Or any sound, so patiently The world bore night, it seemed to me. The house was silent to my feet, Beneath a tiptoe tread, And I could see behind each door, Calm in a white-paned bed, An aunt, with high patrician nose, An uncle carmined ; there arose A smell of matting on the air, Sober and cooling everywhere. Straight through the kitchen past the cat Who blinked with eyes of gold, And yawned with infinite contempt, For sleep is ever new, and old Is fishing; on the Nile, Once with mysterious feline guile, Were caught bright fins of other days, In temple-shadowed moonlit bays. 134 Fishing The cat, the stove, an opened door Upon a miracle of sun! for the dew upon the grass! for the feet that dance and run! And in the maples' tiptop spires A bursting song of passionate choirs! 1 think that morning's finest joys Are saved for little fishing boys. Where trout lie there are white, white stones, With running water over; And half the air is made of mint, And half is made of clover; And slow clouds come and go and sail, Like giant fish with lazy tail. A stream runs out a fine spun song, From shadowy pools to laughter; A wood-song with a chorus in, And a lilt, and a chuckle after; For little waves with sunlight in Are like plucked notes of a violin; While through the mist of melodies, Is ever the motif of the breeze. Some find bird caroling sweet at dawn, And some, more sweet at noon, But fishing boys like dusk, I think, For there's a hush, that soon, When evening sends you homeward bound, 135 Fishing Turns every field to tremulous sound, Where thrush and owl and meadow lark Chant to the coming of the dark. The nights when I'd been fishing, Were always very still, Save for a rustling of the leaves, A distant whip-poor-will; And, in a sky of velvet-blue, The stars were golden fishes, too; Swam slowly, swam into a dream Of white stones and a running stream. 136 INLAND BY FRANCES DICKENSON PINDER A KEEN wind, a live wind, A blithe wind, gallant, free, Blows laughing, singing, sailing in, Careening in, from sea. The calm wood, the staid field, The uneventful vale — What know they of blue magic or Slant sunlight on a sail? And yet when the night wind Sets seaward sweet with bloom, There's one who sees red clover fields Against the landward gloom 1 137 WEATHER BY MARGUERITE WILKINSON GIVE me. a land where the fog comes manifold and grey From over the black wash of the waves and the sheer white spray; For in a land where the fog lies my mother bore her child- Out of the blown wet veil of the fog first I wept and smiled. Give me a land where the fog comes, for when I burn with pain, As to a mother I would go home into the fog again; I would leave the garish fire of the sun and go where skies are blind, For cool to cover me is the fog, cool and very kind, Large as her love to hold and enfold me, quiet as death — or sleep — It may be that where the fog lies I can smile again, or weep. 138 SUMMER SEA BY ARCHIE AUSTIN COATES THE sea is like a little child at play, Its bright hair sparkling in the sunshine; Us tousled curls dancing in the breeze Spread out in undulent reaches Across the shoulders of the bar. The sea is like a solitary child Murmuring and singing to itself in play, Skipping across into shallow inlets, Catching and tossing a vagrant sea-flower, Or pouring a thousand little shells Idly from hand to hand. 139 LONELINESS BY E. J. COATS WORTH THE sea lies throbbing on the shore. The sea-gulls cry against the west. Those who think least are happiest. The sea-weeds blindly twist and turn, The long waves shudder on the reef. Power for joy is power for grief. A mist comes groping from afar, It cannot press the sea to rest. Those who think least are happiest 140 INLAND BY EDNA VALENTINE TRAPNELL WILLIE'S wife is very kind, Willie's equal you can't find And they've brought me here to anchor for as long as I shall stay; The children fairly dote on my little whittled boats And it's "Granpop, Granpop" all the live-long day. But it's that still o' nights that I cant feel to rights, Nothing but the crickets or the foot steps passing by. I strain my old deaf ears 'till it almost seems they hears The murmur of the waters or the sea-gulls' squeaky cry. The white road stretches down, farm by farm an' town by town, If I could follow far enough I know I'd reach the sea — Oh, to hear the sea birds cry an' to watch the ships sail by, Jus' to sniff the old salt smell how happy I would be! Jus' to hear the Captains talk, from Point Jude to Kitty hawk Jus' to hear the crashin' roar of the breakers runnin free — 141 Inland My eyes are sick to sight the old Fire Island Light Where she lifts across the waters for to warn the ships at sea. Soon they'll lay me down to rest with my hands crossed on my breast Scarred by ropes and marked with anchors as a sailor man's should be. But my soul, she'll never bide — at the turnin' of the tide She'll be pulling at her anchor and a runnin' out to sea ! 142 THE TANKERS BY GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN TO Bombay and Capetown, and ports of a hundred lands, To Mombassa, Panama, and Aden on the sands, Red with rust and green with mold, caked with sodden brine, The reeling, rolling tankers sail Southward from the Tyne. Southward past the Cornish cliffs, cleft red against the clouds, They snort and stagger onward with sailors in their shrouds To the spell of rolling seas and the blue of a windy sky While the smoke lies brown to leeward as the liners scurry by. Thrashing through a tearing gale with a dark green sea ahead, While the funnel clews sing madly against a sky of red, Foam choked and wave choked, scarred by battered gear, The long brown decks are whirling seas where silver combers rear. 143 The Tankers Swinging down a brilliant gulf with shores of brown and gray The snub-nosed, well-decked tankers slowly steam their way Up the straits to the Pirate Coast and dim harbors of the South Where they lie like long red patches by a jungle river's mouth. 144 "SHIPPING NEWS" BY DAVID MORTON HERE is the record of their splendid days: The curving prow, the tall and stately mast, And all the width and wonder of their ways Reduced to little printed words, at last. The Helen Dover docks, the Mary Ann Departs for Ceylon and the Eastern trade: Arrived: The Jacque, with cargoes from Japan, And Richard Kidd, a tramp, and Silver Maid. The narrow print is wide enough for these: But here: "Reported Missing" ... the type fails, The column breaks for white, disastrous seas, The jagged spars thrust through, and flapping sails Flagging farewells to sky and wind and shore, Arrive at silent ports, and leave no more. 145 CROSSING ON THE SEATTLE FERRY BY CLARE D. STEWART OH the exquisite poems in sound, The swash of the bow wave, The boil of the wake, The rhythmic sound pulse of the hidden screw, The white swash of a clumsy-topped wave that trips and falls, (Can you hear white swashes and white sounds? I can hear white sounds — They are always soft — They are quiet sounds, Just soothing the silence by their inconspicuous swishes, rustles, murmurs, Like the breaking of bubbles in cloudy foam, And the fall of snow flakes upon snow) And then the lap of the little green slopes against the bell buoy's adamant red, Or the keening of a taut stay, vibrant, weird, The slap-slap-slap of a halyard against a staff, count- ing the pulses of the iron heart stowed away in the vessel's vitals, And the whirr of a gull's wings — Oh I say there are poems in sound, Poems as many as bubbles here while crossing the bay. 146 Crossing On the Seattle Ferry And the exquisite poems in sight ! I see a sleek-hulled ship, Pushed thru the cold green water By the unseen, polished blades, rapidly whirling, I see a graceful hull at a mooring, With a black top-side and a white boot-top, And a red boot-top, And a green line at the water! Without your graceful ends you are beautiful, Hull ! Without your mellow colors you are beautiful, Hull ! Even afar like a smudge upon the wave you are beauti- ful, Hull! Even afar as a speck beneath the sun you are beauti- ful, Hull! I look at our ship's invasion of untrammeled waters ahead, The drapery of eager commotion that fans out abeam and astern, The ermine lace of a toppling crest, The lathery curd of the wake, Cumulous white, The side-swell's far-reaching orderly ridges, Lifting the sea like curving plow-shares of pearl, The smoke tumbling out of the funnels, Drooping abeam over the sea, Doubling and redoubling and gyrating like dancers in a dream, Swirling whirl-pools of murk that detach themselves and spin into nothingness, Queer little torques, 147 Crossing On the Seattle Ferry Spinning and spinning, and low, are gone, Like gray old women in a child's faery tale ; And I see the fine-spun radial lines about my aureoled head upon the mote-filled water, I see it as Walt Whitman saw it — It is the halo shine of the God in man, Of the God in me — And it will make a God of you, Reader, to stand at the rail in the sun-stream and gaze at the water Marking the bubble swarms beneath the surface, Swimming upward and outward, Simmering like bees; Feeling the stroke of the Chinook on your hand, Laughing, laughing, laughing, laughing, the inward laugh of joy in the sea-shine and sun-shine, Purged by this riotous bath of sense — O splash of crimson stack! note of shrilling tug ! O kiss of wind ! ye sheer miracles of sense I Quivering flood of sense — 1 bathe and bathe and bask, Exult, and nothing ask But that the sunny day endure. 148 BEAUTY LIKE YOURS BY DAVID MORTON BEAUTY like yours is stranger than white ships That leave their ports to sail into the night: Faint winds of mystery are at your lips, Young dawns have brought you chrisms of their light And left their whiteness on you, and old dusks Of dreamy-hearted countries haunt your hair With shadows and elusive, trailing musks — Till you have come most marvellously fair. What spirit shores, on what forgotten sea, Knew the thin shallop of your shining soul, The fragile grace, the gleaming radiancy? 0, slender barque, what waters yet may roll Back from the prow in dancing flowers of foam, Or on deep bosoms bear you gently home? 149 SAND BY HORTENSE FLEXNEE THE sand which will not hold the print of my shoe, Remembers, none the less, Chaos, The birth of stars, And the sunken lines of sea-devoured continents. It is the gray hair of earth, Bleached and wave-beaten, That has known the passionate rage of waters, White heat of sun, And the slow passing of a thousand thousand years. 150 MASKS BY MARIANNE MOORE UT 00N" . . . "goose" ... and "vulture" . . . -L' Thus, from the kings of water and of air, Men pluck three catchwords for their empty lips. Mock them in turn, wise, dumb triumvirate! You, gander, with stout heart tooled like your wings of steel, What coward knows your soul? "Egyptian vultures, clean as cherubim, All ivory and jet," sons of the burning sun, What creatures call you "foul"? And you, nature's own child, You most precocious water bird, That shouts exultantly among lone lakes, You, foremost in the madman's alphabet — Laugh in superb contempt at folly's catalogue! 151 THE ELM BY ODELL SHEPARD THE mountain pine is a man at arms With flashing shield and blade, The willow is a dowager, The birch is a guileless maid, But the elm tree is a lady In gold and green brocade. Broad-bosomed to the meadow breeze The matron maple grows, The poplar plays the courtesan To every wind that blows, But who the tall elm's lovers are Only the midnight knows. And few would ever ask it Of such a stately tree, So lofty in the moonlight, So virginal stands she, Snaring the little silver fish That swim her silent sea. 152 The Elm But hush! A hum of instruments Deep in the night begins, Along those dusky galleries Low music* throbs and thins, — A whispered sound of harps and flutes And ghostly violins. For what mysterious visitor Do all her windy bells Ring welcome in t{ie moonlight And amorous farewells? . , . The elm tree is a lady. The midnight never tells. 153 THESE ARE THY SHEEP, THEOCRITUS BY HELEN COALE CREW WAR-CLANGOR and the city's din Fall heavily upon our ears ; Our hearts are quick to leap at fears ; And multitudinous labors mock The night with their persistent grip ; When lo, with nibbling jerk and nip, To our glad vision enters in The little wayward, wanton flock, The little snowy, woolly sheep, Whose counting woos reluctant sleep. These are thy sheep, Theocritus; The tiny marching hooves that beat A sharp staccato in the dells And vales Sicilian ; theirs the bells That, silver-tinkling clear and sweet, To drowsy dreams are leading us. Down ^Etna's slopes to emerald grass They come, and softly browsing, pass To the cool brooks for watering ; For grateful shade, to olive trees Deep-murmuring with myriad bees, Hark! Hear you not Menalcas sing To the shrill pipes of Cory don? 154 These Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus Pan! Pan! Pan! In the fervid noon Behold, I bring thee In my beechen bowl, Carved 'round with vine-leaves, Chestnuts, and cheese, And amber honey, And the velvet purple Of a grape-cluster! Deign thou, God Pan, To accept my offerings, And give me in return Amaryllis, the wilful one, To kiss and to embrace In the twilight thickets, When the Lord Apollo Has driven his steeds Below the cool rim Of the blue ocean ! Now one by one, and one by one, And — sweet sleep ! — yet one by one. Under the slowly darkening sky ^ Broidered by Pleiads on the line Where weary day and night divine Mingle, and earth is musical With the black cricket's madrigal Up-issuing from the tangled grass — The wanton, woolly sheep still pass, 155 These Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus Nosing and nibbling, on and on, And bleat .... and browse . . . . and so pass by And dispossessed of stress and din — The roar of Mars, the shriek of sin — With quiet heart, with soothed ear, Only a far, dim sound we hear, The echo of Menalcas' song And the faint pipes of Corydon. . . . kindly Pan! Fold me in nightly With the little flock Of divine Theocritus, Who sang of them As they nibbled at the thickets Below frowning ^Etna, Where eager shepherd And wilful shepherdess Clasped and kissed I 156 I A HOME BY HARDWICKE MARMADTJKE NEVIN N some walled ancient town this home must be, And near, as always, must be heard. . . .the sea. , Where nights our foreheads cool. Where drowsily The vested robins choir upon the lawn. Where we can feel, half-dreaming, one small fawn Beneath the dewy pines move wearily, Pause, and in silence from the rosary, Ponder, with elfin mien, on us 'til dawn. Where sunlight rolls in haloes through the flowers. Where ruined abbeys rise, their wet lush vines Cathedraling the forests. Where the signs Of coming storms in skies bring only showers. In some walled ancient town this home must be, And near, as always, must be heard ... the sea . 157 IN THE SKY GARDEN BY STEPHEN MOYLAN BIRD IN God's own garden I have sung alone, Moon-borne up to the angels' castle towers, And fingering a wind-strung, wild guitar, Have sung my soul song to the knee-deep flowers. And once an angel tossed a rosy kiss, Fluttering to me, a warm butterfly — And now, though I may walk in earthly ways, My heart still haunts the garden in the sky. 158 THE QUEEN'S SHRIFT BY D. E. P. HARDING THE queen laid by her robes of state And doffed her jeweled crown. With hushed feet and look elate She from the dais stepped down. "I go into retreat, my friends, My loyal friends, alone, For faults I have to make amends And any sin atone." They bent their knees, and saw her pass, Though each one said within: "The Queen's soul is a looking-glass For Heaven. It holds no sin." They saw her pass beyond the gates With bowed and uncrowned head. They said, "She goes to Hermit Kate's To pray there for the dead." But when she reached the darksome wood Beyond her subjects' eyes, The quiet queen in rapture stood, Then danced with wild emprise. 159 The Queen's Shrift She gathered leaves and made a wreath To place upon her brow. Unbending trees she stood beneath ; No shrub a knee did bow. She knelt to kiss a cool flower's face; She cupped her hands and took — And meanwhile said a fervent grace — A long drink from a brook. She sat upon its bank and shed Wrought shoe and silken stocking. A bird above her leaf-crowned head Would not leave off his mocking. A girdle rare, with wondrous care All threaded thick with pearls, She cast aside; unpinned her hair And freed its netted curls. She danced and sang. A kiss she threw To calm white clouds which floated As if they all her madness knew And on her gladness doted. In her bare hut, stood Hermit Kate, And told her beads again For youthful majesty who sate, Denying youth, to reign. 160 The Queen's Shrift The Queen returned, a tranquil mind, With chastened mien, and solemn air. Her maidens marveled much to find At night, a green leaf in her hair. 161 FROM "SONGS FOR A MASK" BY MARGARET WIDDEMER SWANHILD SINGS TO THE KNIGHT WHAT shall I do with my heart That will not go with thee, Lover of mine, knight of mine, guide to the heights afar? There is a dream to follow That will not let me be — I must go down to the marshland's water, hiding from wind and star! "What shall I do with thy heart Seeking me without rest — I who must strip all hands from me, guarding my steps in fear? Turn from the faery woodland, Pass to thy holy quest — I must go seek for the track of the swan and the sound of the step of the deerl 162 THE WATERFALL BY MARION COUTHOUY SMITH HERE, where the eternal waters fling themselves, Motion itself stands still. The flashing storm Of change has wrought itself in changeless form, Sculptured in white between the rocky shelves. Over this ledge the centuries are hurled, Fixed in one mighty instant; and all time Sounds in a single multitudinous chime, Here in a green cleft of the lonely world. 163 SIXTEEN BY ELIZABETH HANLY f f^OOD-NIGHT," my father says and winds the ^J clock. My mother smooths her work and lays it down, And puts her thread and thimble in their place. She folds my father's paper, "Coming, Ned," She calls to him and then she lifts my face And kisses me. "Good-night, my dear," she says, I close my book and go upstairs to bed. A little sweet wind makes my curtains sway, A bar of moonlight lies along the spread. Across the hall, I hear low voices say, "I 'phoned about the milk. The gas-bill came to-day." The baby stirs and whimpers fretfully And Mother comforts him, "Sh, sh, my dear," She croons ; then whispers from my doorway, "Jean, You're warm enough? How bright the moon is here! Good-night." A door shuts. Then the clock strikes ten. And everyone is fast asleep but me. A motor-car purrs by and stops. I hear Low laughter from the little house next door. 164 Sixteen Then comes a pause and though I cannot see, I know someone has just been kissed. And soon "Good-night," again. The motor glides away. Somebody whistles clearly down the street. I lie here in my room that's bright as day, My body white and still beneath the sheet, My heart a mad thing underneath the moon. 165 FREESIA BY THERESA HELBTJRN THE freesia that you loved so well Is here in hosts, And from each slender ivory bell Rise fragrant ghosts Of grey dawns by the sea, that passed In silent converse, starred with pain, Moments too exquisite to last, Or come again. 166 IN BY BEATRICE RAVENEL OUTSIDE is lonely; shut the door," He says, and bending quickly brings The fire to a boyish roar. Outside is full of friendly things: Sighs intimate and leaf-caress, The answering bosom of the gloom. With all the heart of loneliness Our hearts infect this prisoned room. 167 UNDER AUTUMN TREES BY CHRISTINE TURNER CURTIS THE wayside maples have put up Their ruffled autumn parasols — Chrome-yellow, like a buttercup, And through the arching roof there falls The softest, clear, translucent light From daybreak to the brink of night. And under every drooping tree There is a little paven plat Where the leaves, dripping dreamily, Have made a crumpled golden mat; A place of honey light and hush, Where Life pauses in its rush — And the long restlessness is done — The race with the relentless years — And past and future melt in one, And the old sadness disappears — And that estrangement we call death Measures no longer than a breath. The spirit is no more concerned With Time, and all its moil and maze — For she has found the door, and turned Into the glad eternal ways ; And every treasure of her heart Comes speeding from its realm apart. 168 AN APPLE EATER TO A COQUETTE BY WILLIAM LAIRD AH, let me be ; go bend thine aim On swifter bucks, on sprightlier game: So may the love my boyhood set On apples, rule my body yet. Later, if thou shalt hear avow : "Old Brown eats no more Apples, now I" Remember me ; omit the tear ; Lay Apple-blossoms on my bier. Huntress and Queen, awhile forego The breathless chase ; reluctant, throw Thy silver arrows clanging down, And look thy envious last on Brown. But when the kindly Autumn brings To every place her pleasant things, Then eat two Apples, blood and gold, And set the close-gnawed cores in mould Above my quiet grave, to grow Two goodly trees, whose buds shall blow, Whose fruit shall thud, through many a day, On the turf, above my easy clay. Then, having done the best by me, Back, Huntress, to thine archery: Again let field and woodland ring With twanging of thine eager string. 169 THE COQUETTE TO THE APPLE-EATER BY MARY ELEANOR ROBERTS APPLE-EATER, you proclaim Such your character and name. Why then show such scorn for these Apples of Hesperides? Two brown apple-seeds my eyes Brought by Eve from Paradise. Red and gold you own are fair; Here are lips and burnished hair. Yet you counsel me forsooth, I should set a pensive tooth In two apples (only two?), And should eat, remembering you. By the primal apple-tree You shall eat, remembering me ! I have twisted apples down E'en from Adam unto Brown. Break the fruit, you'll see my power; Hidden star that shows the flower. You are not so old and staid ! Can it be that you're afraid Of the sign we conquer by Venus Victrix, Eve, and I? 170 FOUR WALLS BY MARY MORSELL THE four walls I had always known, Grew close like prison bars; I levelled them that I might live Unbound save by the stars. I levelled them with strong, glad strokes; I worked untiringly, As one who hews through virgin woods, A vista toward the sea. And when at last the walls lay low, And earth and sea and sky Were all that compassed me about, Wild winds came rushing by. In fear I hunted for the stones, To build my wall again ; But they were gone, and mockingly, Down poured the cold gray rain. 171 BROOMGRASS BY BEATRICE W. RAVENEL THE broomgrass glows with the sunset's fire Long and long when the sky forgets, Into the dusk like a hid desire, — Purple of flame and of violets. Rust of roses and roses' ashes. Cold in the night, I can fancy still Opals of glamour, remembering flashes ! When the swamp folk scratch on the window-sill And ghost winds whisper, one to another, Rain-sounding legends of waiting and dread; — Brother huddled to little brother, Wild things sleep warm in the broomgrass bed. Ashes of roses and evening-glories, Make me a lair at your smouldering core, You that have hidden the sunsets' stories, Bear with a broken secret more 1 172 CERTAINTY BY BEATRICE W. RAVENEL I BREATHE your pity like enfolding air. I know, because the blood-streaked dew Has wrung my forehead, too, In pity of your despair. And that you died for me I knew Because along that sorry way I should have gone that day And died for you. 173 THE SOUL'S GOODBYE BY JOHN M. WARING MY soul went out before the dawn, when stars were in the sky, The river rushed along its course, the night wind hur- ried by, And bore upon its April breath the stag-hound's moan- ing cry. I felt so free, so free — as from a burden loosed away, — Alone, without, I heard what wind and river had to say, One should be dead to understand such orators as they ! I came along the garden paths, so dark and damp with dew, I thought of all within the house, but most of all of you, Still wrapped in earthly veils, that I had thinned, and broken through. I stopped beneath your window, in the turret of the Hall,— And whispered low the little name I loved the best of all, The little name, the childish name, they gave when you were small! 174 The Soul's Goodbye And did you know that, passing out, it was to you I came? And did you hear, and did you hear that whispered little name? For sudden, through the lattice blind, I saw a candle flame . . . The wind rushed past your lattice, and the ivy tapped again — The sweetness of our friendship welled within my soul, and then I turned towards the starry road that is not known of men! 175 BELLS OF ERIN BY NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR EVENING bells of Erin, From across the sea Do I hear you ringing, Bringing peace to me? Bells of busy Dublin, Through the jumbled sounds Of the darkling city Your deep jangling pounds. Over Meath's green grassland Comes your mingled tone To the weary farmer Working late, alone. Famous bells of Shandon, Steady, soft, and clear Are the strokes you're striking, Bells without a peer! But the bells of Mallow Ring within my heart Heedless of unheeding sea And two lands apart. 176 Bells of Erin Again I see the Castle And the sprawling town, Muddy, racing river, Meadow grass, unmown. Evening bells of Erin, From across the sea One day shall you be ringing Lasting peace for me? 177 COMFORT BY MARGARET FRENCH PATTON IF grief should come to me Like a big wind bringing the rain. Or if sorrow should cramp my heart With its pain, I know where my heart would turn, As a battered flower to the sun, — To your face — with its wrinkled smile — And its fun. 178 HOME BY BERENICE K. VAN SLYKE THE smell of hot bread With a gold-brown crust, Cooling; The gentle light of afternoon Dozing upon the shining windowpanes; The old rug whose faded threads Melt into the brown scrubbed floor; The tick of a clock Above the sink; An occasional faint plop of water Dropping from the faucet. A leaf floats to the dry grass; The wind breathes; The light softens, Deepens, Imperceptibly ; Upstairs the indeterminate sounds Of human movement Flutter the air: Mother rising, vaguely as in a dream, From her nap. The quiet ripples away From the staircase, 179 Home Eddies into the corners of the kitchen As she comes down; Comes down And parts the silence As a stone parts the waters. 180 IN THE HALLWAY BY LOUIS GINSBERG THE hall is windy with the wings of dreams; And as I hold you in this quiet place, The darkness grows a benediction hushed About the rapture of your lifted face! From what sweet lyric did you blossom out? From what old master's nocturne did you come? How long did Leonardo trace your heart? How many striving songs have faltered dumb? A hush is brooding dimly at your lips. You cling to me and let me hold you long. You do not even murmur any word ; Your eyes are silence and your breath is songl . . . The hall is windy with the wings of dreams ; They brush our hearts with fire till we start . . . Your eyes are silence and your breath is song — And thronging flames are crying through my heart I . . . 181 THE SINGER EXULTS BY SALOMON DE LA SELVA I BRING to you no common gift, Though dream-possessed and wonder-eyed; I have but watched the hours sift Between my fingers open wide. I never clutched the instant sands Of Time, have neither toiled nor spun, And yet I come with richest hands Now toil and spinning-time are done. 182 THE POET'S PATH BY DANIEL HENDERSON WHEN Chaucer sang — did he pursue A mystic or exotic strain, Not so ! From folk he met he drew His Canterbury train! And Shakespeare of the deathless page — What won him immortality? Because he made our world his stage He lives for you and me ! And Burns, his brief life madly spent, Why does he sway us to this hour? He voiced a ruined maid's lament! He mourned a broken flower ! Ye who aspire to follow Song, Spurn not the plain, broad path of art! Walk with great poets through the throng And feed the common heart! 183 BUBBLES BY OSCAR C. WILLIAMS I HAVE blown bubbles in the night, So weary of the day was I ! Though flowers' dreams were petalled tight And gold and blue had left the sky. I have blown bubbles in the night Though there were never eyes to see My little, floating worlds alight With black and silver witchery. I have blown bubbles in the night Though there were never hearts to mark How one by one they touched the stars And vanished in the sudden dark! 184 MIST BY MARGIE POTTER THE curving road gleams through the fog, And beckons me ; Dim lucent mists wrap me about In secrecy. Oh, peopled loneliness! Oh, dreams! Oh, world shut out! Drawn swaying shades, hearts' fire within, — Life's storm without! The air is thick with crowding thoughts, Like half-heard wings ; An uncaused bliss wakes in my soul And waking sings. Familiar lamps shine mist-transformed Through ghostly trees; And I walk rapt in exquisite Lonely unease. Hang low and hearten me, dim peace,— Hang close and low; Wrought to thine obscure ecstasy I forth would go. 185 ___ Mist Oh, presence winged, unnamed, serene, Brood thou and shine ; Thy gray plumes shroud no earthly light, Thou bird divined 186 PULVIS ET UMBRA BY EDWARD J. O'BRIEN I AM but a dusty name Blowing down a ruined stair, I whose passion was a flame Kindling all the windy air. Veil my dreaming with a sigh. Light is drowned in shadow's foam, I, whose dream may never die, Knew not when I wandered home. 187 REVELATION BY LOUISE TOWNSEND NICHOLL YOUTH slipped off me like a garment, Fell away and left me free — (Billowing cloak of many colors, Youth was beautiful to see!) Then slipped weight from off my shoulders,- ( Strange how heavy dreams may be!) — And a trouble from my spirit, Bruised and sore with honesty. Then was torn the rainbow veiling From my eyes that I might see. Now I stand aghast, ecstatic, Reaching for Reality. 188 THE TISSUE BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD OTHERS make their poems of aiiv Roses, dew, and song of birds, Weaving all with dainty care, In the magic web of words. Such resources have I none, Varied excellence of art. Stuff for verse I've only one: Throbbing tissue of my heart. 189 WHO BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD THE long and melancholy wind Blows over the salt sea; It sounds like one whose soul has sinned And never can get free. And all our souls alike have sinned And who shall set us free? Oh, sombre, melancholy wind And desolate, salt sea. 190 MY YOUTH BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD OH, my youth was hot and eager, And my heart was burning, burning, And the present joy seemed meagre, Dwarfed by that perpetual yearning. I was always madly asking Ampler beauty, keener pleasure, Had not wit enough for basking In the sunshine, rich with leisure. Now with ripeness of October I have reasoned and reflected. And I feed my soul, grown sober, With the crumbs that I rejected. 191 BROWN LEAVES BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD THE passage of dead leaves in spring Is like the aged vanishing. Amid the bustle and delight Of beauty thronging sound and sight, Their lengthened course we hardly know Nor mark their exit when they go. Yet through the burst of budding green And blossoms rich with varied sheen A brown leaf sometimes flutters by And breeds a sombre revery. 192 THE DRONE BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD I MIGHT have been a worker, but I'm nothing but a drone. I tell my idle stories in a philosophic tone. In a fuzzy, spiny mantle of remoteness softly furled I lie and watch with half-shut eyes the stupefying world. And they bustle and they rustle with their self-con- suming din. And eager feet go hurrying out and tired feet come in. Like Bottom, when they hear a sound they all must rush to see. They're always running after life. I let it come to me. 193 EXPENSES BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD T 'M sick to death of money, of the lack of it, that is, ■■■ And of practising perpetually small economies ; Of paring off a penny here, another penny there, Of the planning and the worrying, the everlasting care. The savages went naked and no doubt digested fruit, And when they longed for partridge all they had to do was shoot. But it may be Mrs. Savage was extravagant in paint And all the little Savages made juvenile complaint. "I want a bow like We-We's. I want a fine canoe. I don't have half such dandy things as other fellers do." And Mrs. Savage quite agreed it was an awful shame. So Mr. Savage sighed about expenses just the same. 194 THE DAINTY VIRTUE BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD SHE fled me through the meadow. She fled me o'er the hill. With such a fling she fled, oh, She may be flying still. But doubtless she grew weary By thicket or by wood. — A dainty virtue, dearie, That fled when none pursued. 195 ROUSSEAU BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD THAT odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau, Declared himself unique. How men persist in doing so, Puzzles me more than Greek. The sins that tarnish whore and thief Beset me every day. My most ethereal belief Inhabits common clay. 196 GOD BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD DAY and night I wander widely through the wilder- ness of thought, Catching dainty things of fancy most reluctant to be caught. Shining tangles leading nowhere I persistently unravel, Tread strange paths of meditation very intricate to travel. Gleaming bits of quaint desire tempt my steps beyond the decent. I confound old solid glory with publicity too recent. But my one unchanged obsession, wheresoe'er my feet have trod, Is a keen, enormous, haunting, never-sated thirst for God. 197 BED-TIME BY RALPH M. JONES f" MIND, love, how it ever was this way: *■ That I would to my task; and soon I'd hear Your little fluttering sigh, and you would say, "It's bed-time, dear." So you would go and leave me at my work; And I would turn to it with steady will, And wonder why the room had grown so dark, The night so chill. Betimes I'd hear the whisper of your feet Upon the stair; and you would come to me, All rosy from your dreams, and take your seat Upon my knee. "Poor, tired boy!" you'd say. But I would miss The lonely message of your eyes, and so Proffer the hasty bribery of a kiss, And let you go. But now, dear heart, that you have scaled the stair To that dim chamber far above the sun, I fumble with my futile task, nor care To get it donfe. 198 Bed-Time For all is empty since you said good-night (So spent you were, and weary with the day!) And on the hearth the ashes of delight Lie cold and gray. Ah, sweet my love, could I but wish you down In that white raiment which I know you wear; And hear once more the rustle of your gown Upon the stair; Could I but have you, drowsily-sweet, to say The tender little words that once I knew — How gaily would I put my work away And go with you. 199 AFTER SORROW BY WINIFRED WELLES MY heart can't break, but closes like a flower That waits in windless places for the day — Until the arrowy dawn finds some swift way To pierce its paleness with a gleaming hour. And when at last I look without offense Through windows and in mirrors that were yours, The stranger shadow in them reassures My heart that it has learned indifference. So hour and hour and hour and dark and light Go rustling slowly by as women do, Trailing complacence in a silken dress. Until, crying with loneliness some night, I wake from that old dream of losing you To find my hands closed tight on emptiness. 200 WINTER FLOWERS BY EFFIE BANGS WARVELLE DRIED stems of asters And goldenrod once gay, The zero wind is playing With you this winter day. White, white are the snowfields, The hills are purple blue, But even your little shadows Are brighter now than you. And yet, frail ghosts of asters And saddened goldenrod, How willingly your green souls crept Back to the kindly sod I 201 SNOW BY C. S. HUNTINGTON THERE is a time of snow in all adventure, A space of whiteness, and of quiet, shutting in, There is a winter, not of life — but thinking, That with its lack of blossoms gives us grace, That in its silent tide of patience Will cleanse our thoughts as all the fields are clean. There is a waiting, blanketed with musing Before the spring can turn through shining rain. We must be quiet and hide away our blunders, Receive the smoothing cover of repose, And in the passionless and clear, chill ether, Fill with untainted breath our burning souls. 202 STRESS OF SNOW BY CHARLES R. MURPHY C>ME up the hill and listen to the snow; The trees will snare it in their branches for you, The almost enunciating trees; And the uttering wind will nudge you, Once, again, and thrice, Then rest on the flat air, Calm with the stillness of unfallen snow. And the voioe of the snow? What is it? It is neither the wind, Nor the trees, Yet they are part of it. Be still and listen now; Here is the first faint drifting of the snow. For us who believe in it it's hard To make you feel a thing we cannot tell; For the voice has never spoken words, Yet there is a murmuring in our hearts, And when we come to sequestered crannies of the world, Or mount to hilltops like this one of ours To have a spell of listening, All that we can say is that we somehow Make annotations to an unseen text. Give me your hand; we'll stand here under the trees 203 Stress of Snow And watch the grey oust every sharper light And the first soft impinging of delicate flakes, Feel the upgathered wind set free again And the lunging trees rock to our very feet; Wince at our blinded vision, and have our blood Fevered with the tumult of the snow. Do you shiver? Is this different from your land? I know some who suffer anguish at this point And say when there's no juncture to the sky And earth that their souls's blind and panic-struck And dumb, and that these clustering flakes Grapple at their heart — Would bow their drooping soul, Like a bent stressed twig, earthward Under this white annulment of the snow. But I think they are mistaken; The voice of the snow itself does not say this — And I will not have you think it. Hark, the wind is failing — feel its lessening sting; The flakes are loitering, they lapse, And you can see the steel-blue woods, And far off against the blackening sky, The smoothed-off sinews of the hills. Something here there is that calls for acceptance— Urges the upright breasting of the storm, Urges the upgathering Of all the brunt of its every bitter sting And the hurt loneliness of its aftermath— 204 Stress of Snow Urges to make one with yourself The lifeless rigidity of earth, The unrelenting night And menace of the impalpable cold — Urges the gesture of wide open arms That is but an intimation Of your own soul's amplitude, Wide as the acquiescence of the snow . . : . And what if there were an issue to all this That leads beyond the frontiers of the snow To frankness of new skies? What if in the banishment of death We meet the ambushed confirmation of our dream? And find That death is when you challenge all of life? Shall we then dread the solace of the snow? And if we cannot follow this dim leading, The snow still is not unkind; For it isolates our human love, And leaves us two alone in a great white world, You and I, alone, and with us love And the amplitude of soul I'd roof you with; My soul, like a hand's palm enclosing you, And its first faint touches, like the white flowers of the snow, That melt in anguish against your loveliness — My love relentless as the night, Undesisting as the completed storm, Quiet as the white breast of earth, 205 Stress of Snow Warm as the candid ardency of snow Consecrate with the innocence of you. . . . Suppose we don't think any more? You haven't found the storm so very harsh? Your cheeks are glowing and your eyes are calm; What if your toes are cold? We'll warm them now — We'll scamper down the frozen hill, And storm the darkened house and light it up, And give a quick release to patient logs, And sit close by, and think how it may be Out in the crisp and tinkling night — And we'll be drowsy, and keep safe and warm Within us the simplicities of snow. 206 STORIES BY MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT THE wind is a finger on the pane, The firs a cloak across the snows, The moon a lantern down the lane, Where an old witch-woman goes; But here the firelights dance and lie. And up from the hearth the great sparks fly: While the cat hums sleepily. Gather you close and round your ear To nurse's voice old and slow, While nurse's nose makes a shadow queer On the wall where the fireflames glow. Stretched at their ease the two dogs snore, From the big brown bear skin on the floor: And our hair stirs creepily. . . . Hist, hark! ... A crackling spark — The cat hums sleepily. On winter nights, they say, they say, When everyone is fast asleep, The forest dances a rare gambade To a tune the small stars keep, 207 Stories And all the pine trees, unafraid, Sway in a limb-locked black charade Down the hillside steep, so steep, The shadowy hillside steep. O then, if one has eyes to see, There follows the quaintest mystery, But should one tell, why then, why well, They'd turn one into a fairy bell, Or the bole of an old oak tree. . . . Hist, hark ! Just a spark — A little man, with cap of red, And horn-brown lamp of glow-worm light, An elfin porter, I've heard said, Comes out and peers around the night, And then, as sudden as rain drops quite, The forest rustles overhead: Rustles, and shivers, and laughs, and is still, And out from thicket, and out from hill, With an echo of horse and a tinkle of horn, And glittering spears of a half inch thorn, Rides a fairy hunt, as sure as you're born. With 'IViorte Halloa!' and a 'Harke Away' The night is filled with tumult gay ; But save you're possessed of the keenest of ears, You'd think it the crinkle of ice, my dears. Way in the front is a tiny shape: Breath of my body, a fairy ape! No, it's a spider! No, it's a bear! As small as the round black seed of a pear! 208 Stories And how it roars as it bustles and bounds From the very jaws of the fairy hounds. Down the valley, and everywhere; Up the hillside, far and near, With a silver call and a faint fanfare, And a 'Ride him down!' and a 'Lend me your spear!* Till suddenly, thrice, and loud, and clear, A cock crows into the frosty air, And the little man with cap of red, Waves his lantern above his head- So . . .! Then one by one the stars turn white: Then, cloaked and sandaled, through the night, Before you know it, in cowl of gray, Strides the bearded palmer day. The forest is still, but the old black oak Stir in their sleep and chuckle and choke. . . . . Hist! Hark! What was that? Hu-ush ! Hu-ush ! Only the cat. 209 DARKNESS BY KATHARINE WISNER MCCLTJSKEY WHEN waking in the hollow dark,- A microscopic me ! — Both eyes are pasted shut with fear Of something I might see. But when a floor or wall rips out A curse or threat or cry, My eyeballs leap out in the night As up my eyelids fly. And then my eyes go wandering, Hoping to find a star, But if they do, its very small, And very faint and far. They try to reach horizon's edge; They ache as on they plod; They only want a limit, A something less than God! But when there is a breath or stir Of someone in a bed, A comfortable, human sound, They go to sleep instead. 210 SONGS FOR PARENTS BY JOHN CHIPMAN FAERAR WISH A FROG'S a very happy thing, Cool and green in early spring, Quick and silver through the pool With no thought of books or school. Oh, I want to be a frog — Sunning, stretching on a log, Blinking there in splendid ease, Swimming naked when I please, Nosing into magic nooks, Quiet marshes, noisy brooks — Free ! and fit for anything — Oh, to be a frog in spring! A COMPARISON APPLE blossoms look like snow, They're different, though. Snow falls softly, but it brings Noisy things: Sleighs and bells, forts and fights, Cosy nights. 211 Songs For Parents But apple blossoms when they go, White and slow, Quiet all the orchard space Till the place Hushed with falling sweetness, seems Filled with dreams. PARENTHOOD. r I ^HE birches that dance on the top of the hill ■*- Are so slender and young that they cannot keep still. They bend and they nod at each whiff of a breeze, For you see they are still just the children of trees; But the bircnes below in the valley are older, They are calmer and straighter and taller and colder, Perhaps when we're grown up as solemn and grave, We, too, will have children that do not behave. 212 THE WIND-GODS BY PERCIVAL ALLEN WE fight the Wind-gods, Mike and I, The Wind-gods blustering from the sky, For, as we shake the city street, The Wind-gods and our engine meet. Then, when I let her out, there comes A roaring like a thousand drums, The Wind-gods singing in our ears, Stinging our straining eyes to tears. Across the flats, while gaining head, You think you have the Wind-gods dead, But when night crowds along the sky You come to where the Wind-gods lie, And strike the cut and climb the hill While all around grows cold and chill, Then suddenly the Wind-gods leap Upon you as you skyward creep, While every throbbing rod and wheel, And every ounce of pushing steel Are straining up to gain the crest, Against the sullen Wind- gods pressed. 213 The Wind-Gods Mike swings the door and then the light Leaps out upon the driving night, And shows the roll of twisting clouds That leave the stack like sooty shrouds. The Wind-gods toss the sparks up high, Like stars against the moving sky; Ahead the golden puddles shine Lit by the headlight on the line, And up we climb and all the wnile The fight we're winning mile by mile. Watching the lightning strike the rail And break into a silver hail. We reach the level of the crest The Wind- gods for a moment rest, And then they follow whistling shrill As down the grade we coast the hill, Mike shouts across the cab to me, "They ain't what they're cracked up to be, I'll give 'em credit, they fought hard!" — Then 'cross the switches in the yard The coaches rattle as we slow, And all those sleepers never know How Mike and I along the route Tired the howling Wind-gods out. 214 THE CHOOSING BY RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL ASTERN-LIPPED angel stranger lays hold upon my hand; He leads me out with Lot, my spouse ; across the pallid sand With the handful of The Righteous for whom the Lord will stand, Culled from merry Sodom and Gomorrah. The Righteous! The Righteous! Their eyes are bleak and bright They hunger after grace by day And thirst for it by night. They love a chill Jehovah Who is pitiless to smite All save The Righteous! The Righteous! Across the arid desert in the tender, new-born day, Away from mirth and melody which august wrath will slay, Away from sleeping Sodomites, the friendly and the gay, And the pleasant wicked in Gomorrah! 215 The Choosing Across the parching desert they are leading me in haste, Away from green and growing things toward a trackless waste, From the merry Sodom sinner, forsaken and disgraced, And the pleasant wicked in Gomorrah ! The Righteous! The Righteous! Their feet are fleet with fear. They speed with eyes that strain ahead. And yet they pant to hear The scalding rain of brimstone On the cities they held dear; Such be The Righteous! The Righteous! Now I was born a Righteous and The Righteous are my kin, And gates of bliss shall open wide to welcome me within, Yet Sodom sinners are my friends, so I love sin, And the pleasant wicked in Gomorrah! The Righteous! The Righteous! My tears will make me blind. My tears are salt upon my lip. I cannot leave behind To sear in lonely brimstone The merry and the kind. Saving my soul with The Righteous! 216 The Choosing Pale Lot and august Abraham . . . the awful- angel guide . I work my fingers from his grasp . . . and now I slip aside . . . The sky is red with Righteous Wrath, but I would rather bide With the pleasant wicked in Go 217 MRS. SENATOR JONES BY ELLIOTT C. LINCOLN 'The Bridge Club met at the home of Mrs. on Wednesday last. Mrs. Senator Tom Jones, a pioneer of County, made high score, the prize being a pair of silk stockings." Item from the society column of any weekly paper in the North-west WOULD you tell an old pal, Mrs. Senator Jones, If the stuff that he's reading is true? Was something wrong with the dealer's box That the bank paid nothing but four-bit sox To her that was Boston Lou? Now honestly, didn't you grin at yourself, Sitting in at that ladylike game? Did you think of the days when chips was few? Did the cards behave like they used to do? Did a full house look the same? Remember the night, down at Timothy's place When you emptied your poke on the black, An' the wheel spun round, an' it left you broke, An' you laughed as if it was all a joke, An' you slapped old Tim on the back? 218 Mrs. Senator Jones Remember the smoke, an' the dealer's drone, An' the click of the ivory ball? The big game running on day an' night, With twenty thousand, gold, in sight, And the hush when a man would call? Ain't there plenty of times, Mrs. Senator Jones, When the looking-glass shows you're, well, plump, That something pulls at you from the Past, Till you have to talk pretty loud an' fast To keep down that rising lump? Say, Lou, when you feel it's a mighty big job Living up to that "Senator" stuff, Jest remember the old gang's kind of proud To have Lou one of the top-notch crowd; Set your teeth, keep a-fighting — an' bluff! 219 THE LAST SPEECH OF SILENT SAM BY JOHN T. TROTH DO I remember Silent Sam? Say, who'd forget a guy- That never spoke no moro'n a clam Till when he come to die! It's fourteen year since St. Cassien First lamped that noisy gink, An' he never cracked his jaws, but when He'd crook his arm to drink ! You reckon 'd he was livin' still 1 Say, Pal, are you all right? Why all the way to Rocky Spill Men tell about that night! Say, grab that coyote-eared Canuck, And stand me to a dram, And hear how righteous anger bruk The fast of Silent Sam. Twas in old square-head Jason's hell; — The old Elite Saloon: Twas Sunday night, bad luck, as well, An' the thirteenth day o' June: 220 The Last Speech of Silent Sam And every cussed lumber- jack For twenty mile aroun', From St. Pierre to Pied-du-Lac, Had dragged his thirst to town! Outside the night hung thick a3 fat, Inside 'twas bright as day; Behind the old pianner sat MacGregor from Beaupre, — With Jean Ladoux a' fiddlin' fast Enough to break a trace: And all the boys was sittin', massed About the dancin' space. There was old "Fi-donc" an' Gun-shy Jim, (The one that knifed Duneen) Big Voix-du-Loup, an' Six-toed Slim, And some I never seen. Poor Silent Sam, blear-eyed an' gone, Sat soppin' up the "stuff," A' scribblin' po'try, written' on His frayed an' dirty cuff. The dancers scraped across the floor; The music banged an' whined: But he never turned a hair, no more Than if he was deef an' blind! The lamps flared up, the blue smoke swam, It eddied, ducked, an' curved; And through it Desiree Laflamme Ole Jason's whiskey served. 221 The Last Speech of Silent Sam Where she came from, nobody knew; — Just one of Jason's girls: With pretty ways, and eyes grey-blue, And sunny, tangled curls. You know the kind ! And yet, she seemed, In some perplexin' way, Clean different from the rest, that schemed To nab the fellers' pay. The sight of her brought to your mind All queer, an' dim, an' blurred, Forgotten things left far behind, You'd seen, or felt, or heard. She didn't look like she was part Of that there rough-neck crowd ; You felt, somehow, she had a heart, And her greeting left you proud! She treated all us "jacks" the same; We called her "Jason's Wine": A million times I've left the game To watch her beauty shine Like some bright vision, to an' fro' Beneath the smoke-blued light: But her sweetness seemed to overflow And flood the room, that night! The dancers scraped across the floor, The music banged and whined: When, all at once, the open door Shut with a slam, behind 222 The Last Speech of Silent Sam Two "forty-eights" that searched the room With their circlin' bead on us, An' back o' them, with the face of doom, Stood a touchy-lookin' cuss! The dancin' stopped! Our hands uprose A' drippin' cards an' chips: An' Sam's good drinkin' fist was froze Just halfway to his lips! The music choked, an' died away; — A spell seemed on the place! Only the lights flared up, to play Upon the stranger's face! His eyes shot straight where Desiree Stood starin', lips apart: One white hand held her little tray, The other clutched her heart ! "You fooled me, eh? You think you're free!" The snarlin', black lips said: "You're free to choose, — this dump, or me;— But if you stay, it's dead!" A second ticked; — we held our breaths: Then snapped her answer "Shoot! "I'd rather die a hundred deaths With men, than serve a brute!" Then some one surged across the floor t Things happened lightnin' fast! A scream! a shot, — an' then a score! The spell was broke at last! 223 The Last Speech of Silent Sam And when the smoke had cleared away- One corpse enhanced the scene: But, with his back to Desiree, Swayed Silent Sam, drilled clean! He clutched the bar, — it seemed to each As if the stranger's lead Had touched the spring of long-pent speech, For this is what Sam said: "What this fizz-bang was, — wrong, er right, We neither know nor care! The p'int is, every man, this night, His love-debt did forswear! An' if there is a God on high, Well, He don't give a damn For dogs that lacked the guts to die For Desiree Laflamme!" He glared at us a minute, then His face went ashen grey; But no pain was writ upon it when He smiled at Desiree! An' then Sam sort o' crumpled up, — She caught him as he fell: And each man, like a beaten pup, Slunk out— an' Slim said "Hell!" Right where the settin' sun last gleams On wind-swept Golden Butte 224 The Last Speech of Silent Sam We buried him: wrapped in their dreams The other graves lie mute, But Sam speaks plain, without reserve, And tells us, twice each day, How we sat bluffed, and lacked the nerve To draw for Desiree ! I used to smoke, an' watch the jam Of logs below the flume, An' try to figger out what Sam Still muttered from his tomb: What was the "love-debt" we'd forsworn? Who was / owin' to? Why, I'd played straight since I was born! Then, all at once, I knewl He meant the debt no man can square, The debt that grows and grows ! That for his mother's tender care Each man forever owes. So, Pal, here's hopin' if, some day Some Desiree Laflamme Has need of you or me', we'll pay Our debt like Silent Sam I 225 THE OLD GODS MARCH BY LEYLAND HUCKFIELD THE grim gods of the past have arisen, The black swamps throb and the mountains boom And the dust from their iron-sandalled feet Shrouds the sun in a blood-red gloom: Out of the Northern mountain passes Flame the banners and glare the swords, The old gods march from their wild morasses The old gods march with their ancient hordes, With scarlet banners and songs of death; From marshes white with the bitter brine The boar-herds gather, the wolf-clans whine Till the land is foul with their streaming breath: And the old gods bellow, the old gods roar, And the hills shake and the grey seas rave, For the old gods march with a thundering tread Whose echoes thrill in the nether wave, Shaking the bones of a myriad dead As in red days of yore. Glare of torches in dead men's eyes And black nights lit by towns aflare, And things of horror and claws that tear, And reeking rivers that bloodily rise To the old gods' tempest blare. 226 The Old Gods March Banners black with the blood and smoke High in the eddying battle van, And great swords red with the murder-stroke, And torches aflame as the night comes on — For the old gods march in the shape of man, The old gods march — sweet days are done — Tia fires of home or the fires of hate? There is no choice in the wide world — none— But we must stand where the old gods tread, In ranks of steel, and steady and grim Chanting the sweet, wild battle-hymn That the old gods hate and dread. 227 LIFE AS A GAGE YOU FLUNG BY JOHN PIERRE ROCHE THERE in an alien land Lie quietly, Alien no longer now For you and me. Fragrant the thoughts of you, Rare was your soul; Life as a gage you flung, Facing the goal. Life as a gage you flung, Flung as a rose; Gave it as gentry do Gladly to those Who gave their glowing youth Gladly as you. Live in the heart of me — I gave you, too. 228 LARGESS LESLIE NELSON JENNINGS NOW Death has done its final violence, Let us with tearless, fearless eyes compute This last, earth-rendered score, and so salute With equal largess his munificence. Youth was a thing to spend; with lavish hand He scattered this incalculably fine And precious coinage, meeting with divine Extravagance each miserly demand. Shall we, in this ungenerous moment, wrung By selfish pity, hoard him in some dim, Grief-guarded chamber of the heart's distress? Nay! Rather cast his name like gold among Those laughter- loving ones who lived by him, That they may never know his emptiness. 229 A PRAYER BY WILLIAM LAIRD IORD, make my childish soul stand straight -* To meet the kindly stranger, Fate; Shake hands with elder brother, Doom, Nor bawl, nor scurry from the room. 230 WESTWARD BY WILLIAM LAIRD WESTWARD the Happy Islands hide Where the Greeks knew their heroes went To take their hire for toil, and bide Remembering much, in all content. And if folk-phrases still hold truth — Strong meat within a warding rind — Out of our war, the chosen youth Pass west, and walks amongst their kind. Their elder brethren there, I think, Change tale for tale with manly joy; And iron names pass over the drink: Verdun — Propontis — Aisne — Marne — Troy. Ulysses scans the tangled lines A sapper draws, of trench and bridge; And laughs to hear of burrowing mines That cleared and won a bloody ridge. Jason, hearing from sailor men Terse, salty gossip of the Fleet, Feels in his fist an oar again, Argo leaping under his feet. 231 Westward And one who breathed of middle air And died in flight — at ease upon A wind-befriended hillock there, Holds converse with Bellerophon. Folk-phrases still hold truth: their clay— Shell-smashed, gas-livid — left behind, Our mother takes and uses: They Pass west, and walk amongst {heir kind. 232 GEE-UP DAR, MULES BY EDWIN FORD PIPER HE stood up in our khaki with the poise Of perfect soldiership beneath the praise Of the French officer. We caught the words, "Conspicuous courage," "bringing wounded in," And "decorated with the cross of war." Black- faced? Yes, just»a nigger. Nine months since He drove a span of bony cotton mules, And never had been out of Jasper County In Georgia, U. S. A. They drafted him, Shipped him to barracks, broke him into drill; It was a changeling's life. I saw the lad After his first three days in cantonment; He had just finished polishing his teeth, — Novel achievement, and he swung the brush With beat ecstatic, chanting joyously: "Lordy, lordy, got a toothbresh, Lordy, lordy, got a toothbresh, Lordy, lordy, got a toothbresh, And I'll go to heaven on a-high!" Perhaps he sings now of the service medal, Or of some other meager badge or symbol 233 Gee-Up Bar, Mules Out of that rich and shattering experience Hurled round his simple soul. With hasty hand, Life sweeps a loaded vivifying brush Over his old dull past. And yet, I like To think he will come back to Jasper County; I pictured him in patched and faded denims ; Over the wagon wheel he mounts the seat, Evens the lines so the lead team won't jerk, Then all together the four nervous mules Will straighten tugs, dig in their toes, and pull. She shakes, she creaks, she rolls ! "Gee-up dar, mules!" "General Foch is a fine old French, He puts us niggers in a front line trench ; The barb-wire down, and the barrage begun, — Boche see a nigger, and the Boche he run, po' mourner ! You shall be free When the good Lord sets you free! "0, 1 hitched up the mules, and the mules worked fine; I hitched 'em to that Hinnenburg line, I drawed her back till I snagged her on the Rhine, An' the boss come along, and he give me my time. po' mourner ! You shall be free When the good Lord sets you free. Gwan-n, mules! Gee-up dar, mules!" 234 THE DRAFTED MOUNTAINEER SALUTES BY HORTENSE FLEXNEE THE high and silent hills are part of him; He knows the creek-bed road, the tug and sway Of pines above the mountain's windy rim, Touch of the dawn and dusk. His unmarked day He used to spend working i the rusty ground Beside his hut, or drowsing at the door; Few words he had for men — the peaks around Gave him companionship and something more. Here in the narrow camp he can not find His world; orders and uniform are strange; He tries to learn, but is too slow, too blind With distance and the sleeping skies, to change, When he salutes — for all the noise, the crowd, It is as if a hill had strangely bowed. 235 SEKHMET, THE LION-HEADED* BY LEONORA SPEYER IN the dark night I heard a purring, Near me something was stirring. A voice, deep-throated, spoke: I litter armies for all easts and wests And norths and souths: They suckle my girl-goddess breasts, And my fierce milk drips from their mouths. The voice sang: I do not kill! I, Sekhmet the Lion-headed, I! But between my soft hands they die. I asked: O Sekhmet, Lion-headed one, How long shall warring be? And Sekhmet deigned to make reply: Eternally ! ♦Egyptian Goddess of War and Strife. 236 Sekhmet, the Lion-Headed Bold in my faith I grew: Dread goddess-cat, you lie! Warring shall cease! My God of love is greater far Than you! How gentle was the voice of Sekhmet then: He of the Star? He Whom they called the Prince of Peace— And slew? And slew again — and yet again? — Ah yes! — she said. And all about my bed The night grew laughing-red: Sekhmet I did not see, But in that bleeding dusk I heard That Sekhmet purred. 237 THE TAKING OF BAGDAD BY KADRA MAYSI HAD you taken Rome of story, you had taken pomp and glory ; Had you taken Codrus' Athens, where the broken marbles gleam, You had taken all the beauty of Ionia for your duty — Where you took the courts of Bagdad, there you took the courts of dream! Did the sacred pave, I wonder, break before a genii ■ thunder Underneath the cursed marching of the Christians in the street? When the muezzins are calling, while the eastern dusk is falling, Do you smell the orange blossoms and Damascus roses sweet? Are there veiled, averted faces which you pass in sheltered places With a heavy scent of attar and a sheen of cloth-of- gold? Have you found a caliph's chalice in some minaretted palace, Or the key to mosque and chamber such as Scherezade told? 238 The Talcing of Bagdad Under olive groves enchanted, where the date and fig are planted, Do you follow as the byways of the secret gardens lead? Where the nightingales are singing and the blazing pheasants winging, Have you found, bewitched, a princess hid in a pomegranate seed? Had you broken Persia's pinions, when the satraps sent their minions To the westward of the Iran for an empire supreme, You had taken all the splendour of which Asia was the vender — When you took the courts of Bagdad, then you took the courts of dream 1 239 BETRAYAL AND ABSOLUTION BY 0. R. HOWARD THOMSON GOD pardon me! While cannon spit and roar, And dying men sob in their agony I am athirst, e'en as I was of yore, For draughts of beauty's cleansing ecstasy. Nature's fair loveliness, that, like a glass, Mirrors the power that animates all space, Strikes in my breast strange chords, that sing and pass, Leaving me breathless with an upturned face, Held by the white clouds' fleecy argosies. I am seduced by choirs on outstretched wings; Intrigued by perfumes of the orchard trees; Slave to the dark wood's Pan-born murmurings And to the wind-flowers on the grassy knoll God pardon me; but Beauty snares my soul! II Yet beauty is the leaven that makes sweet The world, that else had nought to show but pain, Moving amidst us on her sandaled feet With healing such as comes of April rain. Unheralded, unhymned, she whispers to her own, 240 Betrayal and Absolution With voice like softly fingered psaltery, Her silver veil, a moment, backward thrown To comfort us in our great misery; That we may catch, through looking on her face, Some hint of that, beyond the outmost stars, Which transcends boundaries of time and space And frees the soul of its material bars: Timeless and ageless; the locked door and the key; The answer sought; the unsolved mystery 1 241 CANDLE FAMINE IN PARIS BY LOUISE TOWNSEND NICHOLL f f /^ANDLE Famine in Paris" the clipping read, ^^ And I forgot the paper and saw instead A dim, old French Cathedral, in the far, first week of war, Lit by candle and taper, and by a strand of sunlight A-slant on the knee- worn floor. ("Candle Famine in Paris" Is a light and flickering name. These words are spun of a delicate gold Which is kin to a candle's flame. For who could say in dark words That Paris lacks for light, When all of France is a flaming torch Held up to meet the night?) The Cathedral was darkened with women who knelt to niched Saints, And told anew on silent beads the ancient wartime plaints. Some were old and their beads slipped slow — Some were young for the ancient woe — But in the dusk and the silence, each woman as she came 242 Candle Famine in Paris Lighted a tall, white taper and her prayer went up in flame. Each woman left a candle there And every candle was a prayer. Each one lighted her taper from the flame of the one before, Till separate prayers were merged in one — and that for France at war. Month and year the war went on, and day and night. The edict then went out to use no other light. They took the candles to live by, for common what was divine. All Paris was a Cathedral, and every home a shrine. Now there is famine in Paris ; Famine of light in Paris; In radiant, wartime Paris The lesser lights are out. What need of candles in Paris when day itself is there? What need of lighted tapers when daily life is prayer? And candles would give but a flickering light At the feet and the head Of the men who are dead In the fields of France at night. ("Candle Famine in Paris" Is a light and flickering name. These words are spun of a delicate gold Which is kin to a candle's flame. 243 Candle Famine in Paris For who could say in dark words That Paris lacks for light, When all of France is a flaming torch Held up to meet the night?) 244 IT IS NOT STRANGE BY WITTER BYNNER IT is not strange, yet it is ever strange, This host of angels waiting in the air Far as the utmost rim and range Of thought and unimaginable love. The soft wing of a dove In flight is strange, yet t is not strange. Nor is the heart more strange that leaps and flies away Beyond the touch of hunter and of clay. let no hunter come to snare The heart and clip Its wings ! Hunters are visible who trap a bird. But hunters go unseen, unheard, Go stalking ever with a care To catch the heart, To shut it up apart From love and the free air . . . therefore let your hearts look high and slip And range Far as the utmost rim of love, Till they have felt the unimaginable change And are themselves the angels in the air! 245 PEACE BY FRANCES DICKENSON PINDEB PEACE!— What roof could house the glory of the word — What walls encompass its infinity? I ran beneath the open sky and heard The challenge of its glad divinity Break in a silver surf against the stars! And then, athwart the silence, like a song Across still waters when the wind's asleep, I heard the happy Dead's pale legions throng, Chanting of victory, as deep calls to deep — Out where Life's last sweet gate of love unbars I . , And knelt, and knew the world-heart kneeling, too, In dumb thanksgiving too profound for prayer, Until with ecstasy it overflowed And flung joy, like red roses, on the air, While Dawn trod out the scattered torch of Mars I 246 THIS SOLDIER GENERATION BY WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY WE are the sons of disaster, Deserted by gods that are named, Thrust in a world with no master, Our altars prepared but unclaimed, Wreathed with the blood-purple aster, Victims, foredoomed, but untamed. Behold, without faith we are fashioned, Bereft the assuaging of lies. Thirsty for dreams we have passioned Yet more for truth that denies. Aware that no powers compassioned We have grown very lonely and wise. Leisure we loved and laughter, Our portion is labor and pain, For home we are given a rafter Of storm and a lintel of rain, And all that our hearts followed after Is taken and naught doth remain. Yet never a new generation But shall live by the battles we fight And prosper of our immolation 247 This Soldier Generation And reap of our anguish delight. Accepting the great abnegation, We are fathers, not children, of light. Bruised with the scourges of sorrow, Broke with the terrible rod, Bidden for respite to borrow A poppy-red swarthe of the sod, Yet this is our hope: that tomorrow Will yield of our strivings — God. 248 BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX TO POETS REPRESENTED ALLEN, PERCIVAL. A Philadelphian, engaged in banking. The poem here quoted was specially ad- mired by John Masefield. The Wind-Gods. ANDERSON, DOROTHY (Mrs. Philip B. Hoge). Has led a wandering existence as the daughter of a naval officer. Has appeared principally in C. V. A Revenant. My Soul is a Moth. BAKER, KARLE WILSON. Mrs. Baker is the au- thor of a volume entitled "Blue Smoke" and a con- tributor to leading magazines, notably The Yale Review. Born at Little Rock, Arkansas; now living in Nacogdoches, Tex. Three Poems — I Love the Friendly Faces of Old Sorrows. Death the Highwayman. Morning Song. BARRETT, WILTON AGNEW. A graduate of Pennsylvania now resident in New York. Con- tributor to magazines and author of a volume. A Dead Man. 249 Biographical Index to Poets Represented BENET, WILLIAM ROSE. Now assistant editor of the Book Section of The New York Evening Post. Widely known as a poet both in magazines and in some four volumes of lyrics and narratives. The Push-Cart. BIRD, STEPHEN MOYLAN. A native of Galves- ton. Died in West Point Military Academy Janu- ary 1, 1919, at the age of twenty-one. Contributed only to Contemporary Verse, where his poems at- tracted wide attention. So important a critic as the late Professor Francis B. Gummere wrote of him: "His verses will be read and valued, I think, when most of the poetry that now makes loud appeal is forgotten." A volume of his poetry is in preparation. What if the Lapse of Ages Were a Dream? May. In the Sky Garden. BRADFORD, GAMALIEL. Lives at Wellesley Hills, Mass. The author of several volumes of verse, besides the brilliant historical portraits which have been for many years a feature of the Atlantic. His latest lyrics will also appear soon in book form. The Tissue. My Youth. Brown Leaves. The Drone. Expenses. The Dainty Virtue. Rousseau. God. 250 Biographical Index to Poets Represented BROWN, ABBIE FARWELL. A Bostonian, best known for her children's books, but also a con- tributor of verse to Harper's, Bookman, etc. Her poetry has been collected in book form more than once; and a new book will appear in the Fall. Tanager. BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. Originally a Philadelphian, he now lives chiefly in Wyoming. One of the leading younger writers of fiction, also the author of a poetry volume "Among the High Hills." Fishing. Stories. BYNNER, WITTER. Resident in New York, but an ardent traveller, especially in the far east. His work as poet and playwright is known to all who are conversant with the field. The Two Drinkers (Translated from the French of Charles Vildrac). It is not Strange. COATES, ARCHIE AUSTIN. Assistant Editor of Life. Has published a volume, besides appearing widely in popular magazines. Summer Sea. COATSWORTH, ELIZABETH J. Has lived mainly at Pasadena but is now in Boston. Best known for her Japanesque lyrics, which have been widely printed. Loneliness. 251 Biographical Index to Poets Represented CONKLING, GRACE HAZARD. Mrs. Conkling is a professor at Smith College. Known to all readers of present-day poetry ; the author of "Afternoons in April." She expects to publish a new volume shortly. A Song for My Father. Dusk in the Garden. QREW, HELEN COALE. A Graduate of Bryn Mawr, last heard of as in Baltimore. These Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus. CURTIS, CHRISTINE TURNER. A New Eng- lander who has begun to appear in American and Canadian periodicals. Under Autumn Trees. DAVIES, MARY CAROLYN (Mrs. Leland Davis). Alternates between New York City and Washington State. A frequent contributor to magazines, and author of "Drums in Our Street." The Door. Forest Dance. DE LA SELVA, SALOMON. A Nicaraguan who has immigrated to New York. Author of "Tropical Town and Other Poems." The Singer Exults. DRACHM AN, JULIAN M. Born in Greece; at pres- ent in New York. Fire- Weed in the Forest. 252 Biographical Index to Poets Represented DRESBACH, GLENN WARD. A resident of New Mexico. The author of numerous volumes of verse, and contributor to many magazines. Defeat. Chains. DRISCOLL, LOUISE. Lives in Catskill, N. Y. Represented in most of the leading anthologies; her first volume is to appear shortly. God's Pity. My Garden is a Pleasant Place. FARRAR, JOHN CHIPMAN. A Yale graduate, now working on the New York World. Editor of an anthology of Yale undergraduate verse and author of two original books. Songs for Parents. Wish. A Comparison. Parenthood. FLEXNER, HORTENSE. Resides in Louisville. A regular contributor to Chicago Poetry and other magazines. Sand. The Drafted Mountaineer Salutes. GINSBERG, LOUIS. A graduate of Rutgers College, teaching at Woodbine, N. J. In the Hallway. 253 Biographical Index to Poets Represented HALL, AMANDA BENJAMIN. Lives at Norwich, Conn. Has contributed to leading magazines and is the author of two novels, the second of which is now in press. Waif. The Dancer in the Shrine. Joy 0' Living. HANLINE, MAURICE A. A Baltimorean. A Song of Pierrot. HANLY, ELIZABETH. Lives at Caribou, Me. Sixteen. HARDING, D. E. P. Mrs. Harding is from Cleve- land. The Queen's Shrift. HARE, AMORY (Mrs. Arthur B. Cook). A Phila- delphian who has contributed nlany poems to the Atlantic Monthly. She expects to publish a volume shortly. Today. "Shine!" By the Hearth. HENDERSON, DANIEL. Has moved from Balti- more to New York, where he is connected with Mc- C lure's Magazine. Has won success in war poetry and published "Life's Minstrel." The Poet's Path. 254 Biographical Index to Poets Represented HERSEY, MARIE LOUISE. A Bostonian. Contrasts. HEYWARD, DUBOSE. A young business man of Charleston, S. C, who has contributed verse and short stories to magazines. An Invocation. HILLMAN, GORDON MALHERBE. Connected with The Boston Transcript. The Tankers. HOFFMAN, PHOEBE. A Philadelphian who has contributed to various poetry magazines. The Freight Yards. HOLDEN, RAYMOND PECKHAM. A graduate of Princeton, now in New York. February Twenty-Second. Funeral. HOPKINS, GERTRUDE CORNWELL. Associated with the New York Nation. Land of the Free. HOYT, HELEN. Formerly an associate editor of Poetry, a Magazine of Verse. Make Believe. Gratitude. HUCKFIELD, LEYLAND. Of English birth, now living at Rochester, Minn. Has appeared often in the special magazines. The Old Gods March. 255 Biographical Index to Poets Represented HUNTINGTON, C. A. Resides at Lexington, Mass. Snow. JENNINGS, LESLIE NELSON. Lives at Ruther- ford, Cal. Has contributed widely to many sorts of magazines. Largesse. JONES, HOWARD MUMFORD. A Professor of English in the University of Texas. Author of the volume "Gargoyles." A Song of Butte. JONES, RALPH M. A clergyman of Chester, Vt. Bed-time. JONES, RUTH LAMBERT. A resident of Haverhill, Mass. Contributes to popular magazines and news- papers. Echoes. KILMER, JOYCE. The only American poet to fall in the war under the colors of his country. A loyal friend and contributor to C. V. from the first. His collected poems have had the success deserved by his manly democratic spirit. The Ashman. KIMBALL, FRANCIS T. Wrote us from New York. Pier 6. 256 Biographical Index to Poets Represented LAIRD, WILLIAM. The pen-name of a Philadelphia poet who has been a steady contributor to C. V. and has appeared in other poetry magazines. Rep- resented in Miss Harriet Monroe's anthology of the new poetry. The Anchor. An Apple Eater to a Coquette. A Prayer. Westward. LINCOLN, ELLIOTT C. Formerly of Washington State, but now in the east. Author of a book. Mrs. Senator Jones. LONG, HANIEL. Teaching English at the Carnegie Institute, Pittsburgh. Has won notable success in magazine verse. The Day that Love Came Down to Me. McCALLIE, MARGARET E. A Georgian. Distance. McCLUSKEY, KATHARINE WISNER. A resident of Arizona. Darkness. McGEE, MARGARET B. A resident of Colum- bus, 0. To Dance! MAVITY, NANCY BARR. Mrs. Mavity has re- cently moved from New York to the west. Con- tributor to The Bookman, etc. The Unforgiven. 257 Biographical Index to Poets Represented MAYSI, KADRA. The pen-name of a South Can*, lina writer. The Taking of Bagdad. MIDDLETON, SCUDDER. An editor of the maga- zine Romance, New York. Contributor to leading magazines and author of "Streets and Faces" and "The New Day." The Return. MITCHELL, RUTH COMFORT (Mrs. Young). Lives at Los Gatos, Cal. Contributor of dramatic narratives to leading magazines and author of a volume. The Choosing. MOORE, MARIANNE. A graduate of Bryn Mawr who lives in New York City. Masks. MORRIS, KENNETH. Professor of literature at the Theosophical College, Point Loma, Cal. Has pub- lished mainly in The Theosophical Path. Rondels of Lomaland. MORSELL, MARY. A New Yorker. Four Walls. MORTON, DAVID. Has recently moved from Louis- ville to Morristown, N. J., where he is teaching. His volume, "Ships in Harbor," which has just won a prize of $500, is to appear shortly. Probably the best known younger poet in the field of the sonnet. Beauty Like Yours. "Shipping News." 258 Biographical Index to Poets Represented MURPHY, CHARLES R. Formerly of Carmel, CaL, now at Wellesley Hills, Mass. Translator of a vol- ume of Verhaerer under the title "Songs of the Sun- lit Hours." Stress of Snow. NEVIN, HARDWICKE MARMADUKE. Son of Mr. Arthur Nevin, of Lawrence, Kan., the famous composer. Studied at Princeton, was wounded in France and awarded the Croix de Guerre. A Home. NICHOLL, LOUISE TOWNSEND. On the staff of the New York Evening Post and now also Associate Editor of Contemporary Verse. Her poems here in- cluded were printed before she joined the magazine. Is planning an original volume of verse. Revelation. Candle Famine in Paris. NOVAK, RUTHELE (Mrs. E. W.). American by birth; lives at Nashville, Tenn. The Man at the Plow. A Day in May. O'BRIEN, EDWARD J. Formerly of South Yar- mouth, Mass., but abroad until recently. Has brought out volumes of original verse and edited collections of the best magazine short stories. Pulvis Et Umbra. 259 Biographical Index to Poets Represented O'CONOR, NORREYS JEPHSON. A Bostonian, author of original volumes and translations from the Old Irish. The Bells of Erin. OLIVER, JENNIE HARRIS. Lives in Oklahoma. The Ruined 'Dobe. PATTON, MARGARET FRENCH. A North Caro- linian. Comfort. PERCY, WILLIAM ALEXANDER. Has returned from the war to resume the practice of law at Green- ville, Miss. A contributor to leading magazines and author of "Sappho in Leukas." The Soldier Generation. PINDER, FRANCES DICKENSON. Lives in Jack- sonville, Fla. Has appeared in Art and Life. Inland. Peace. PIPER, EDWIN FORD. An Iowan, author of "Barbed Wire." Gee-up Dar, Mules. POTTER, MARGIE. Lives in Washington, D. C. Mist. 260 Biographical Index to Poets Represented RAVENEL, BEATRICE (Mrs. Frank G.). A resi- dent of Charleston, S. C. Contributor of poetry to the Atlantic and of short stories to Harper's and The Saturday Evening Post. To You. The Day You Went. In. Broomgrass. Certainty. RAYMUND, BERNARD. A Chicagoan who has contributed much to the special poetry magazines. Kathleen. REESE, LIZETTE WOODWORTH. Perhaps the most notable of living American women in the field of poetry. Not I. ROBERTS, MARY ELEANOR. A Philadelphian, author of "Cloth of Frieze." The Coquette to the Apple-Eater. ROCHE, JOHN PIERRE. Originally of Milwaukee. Was active in soldiers' magazines at the front dur- ing the war. Life as a Gage You Flung. ROOT, E. MERRILL. A graduate of Amherst, resi- dent before the war in St. Louis. My Mother. 261 Biographical Index to Poets Represented SABEL, MARX G. A lawyer in Jacksonville, Fla. Inviolate. SHEPARD, ODELL. Professor at Trinity College, Hartford. Author of "A Lonely Flute." The Elm. SHUEY, MARY WILLIS. Mrs. Shuey was in Florida at our last advice. Has contributed to various poetry magazines. Patchwork. SMITH, MARION COUTHOUY. Lives at East Or- ange, N. J., and has published a volume entitled "The Final Star." The Waterfall. SPEYER, LEONORA (Mrs. Edgar). Born at Wash- ington, but long resident in England as the wife of Sir Edgar Speyer, who has given up his title after settling in New York. Her most successful poems have appeared in C. V., but she has been liberally represented in many other periodicals. Rendezvous. The Naturalist on a June Sunday. Sekhmet, the Lion-Headed. Spring Cowardice. STERN, CAROLINE. Lives at Greenville, Miss. The Bird. STEWART, CLARE D. ^ives in Seattle. Crossing on the Seattle Ferry. 262 Biographical Index t o Poets Represented TEASDALE, SARA (Mrs. Ernst Filsinger). For- merly of St. Louis, now of New York. The best known love poet in this country today. Three Songs for E. Gray Eyes. Meadowlarks. The Net. THOMSON, 0. R. HOWARD. A librarian in Wil- liamsport, Pa. Has appeared frequently in The New York Times and published a volume. Betrayal and Absolution. TRAPNELL, EDNA VALENTINE. A New Yorker who has appeared mainly in C. V., but has also won success in popular magazines. TROTH, JOHN T. Born in West Chester, Pa., and a graduate of Haverford College. The poem here included was admired by Prof. Gummere, the lead- ing authority of the time on the English ballad. "Silent Sam" would appear to have left the deepest impression of anything ever printed in C. V. The Last Speech of Silent Sam. TROY, DANIEL W. A lawyer in Montgomery, Ala. Formerly a student at the University of Pennsyl- vania. Won by Ear. 263 Biographical Index to Poets Represented UNTERMEYER, LOUIS. A New York business man, poet, and critic, the author of numerous vol- umes too widely known to need mention. Con- tributor of verse to leading magazines and reviewer for The New Republic. The American. VAN SLYKE, BERENICE K. A graduate of Welles- ley, now in France doing relief work. Has con- tributed to the Atlantic and Chicago Poetry. I Stood at Twilight. Home. VEDDER, MIRIAM. A graduate of Wellesley; now in New York. The Watchman. WARING, JOHN M. The pen-name of a poet living near Wilmington, Del. The Soul's Goodbye. WARVELLE, EFFIE BANGS. A Chicagoan. Winter Flowers. WATTLES, WILLARD. Teaches at the University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kan. Contributor to poetry magazines and others, author of "Lanterns in Gethsemane." Silenced. Courage, Mon Ami I Ha! Ha! 264 Biographical Index to Poets Represented WELLES, WINIFRED. Resides at Norwich, Conn. Has contributed to magazines, especially the North American Review, and has just published her first volume, "The Hesitant Heart." In An Old House. Narcissus. After Sorrow. WELSH, ROBERT GILBERT. A New York writer who was overseas by our last advice. Contributor to the Century and to Miss Rittenhouse's "Little Book of Modern Verse," Gold-in-Gray. WHEELOCK, JOHN HALL. Connected with the publishing house of Scribner's, New York. Author of four volumes, the last of which is entitled "Dust and Light." Represented in practically all the best magazines and anthologies. Return After Death. WIDDEMER, MARGARET (Mrs. Robert Haven Schauffler). Formerly of Doylestown, Pa., now at Larchmont, N. Y. Author of numerous novels and two volumes of verse, one of which divided th<* prize for the best book of poetry appearing in 1918. From "Songs for a Mask." Swanhild Sings to the Knight. 265 Biographical Index to Poets Represented WILKINSON, MARGUERITE (Mrs. Henry M.). Now living in New York. Well known for her services to poetry as critic and anthologist, espe- cially in her volume "New Voices." She is about to publish her second book of original poems. Weather. WILLIAMS, OSCAR C. Now in Brooklyn. Has contributed widely to magazines for a poet of eight- een, and is planning a volume. Bubbles. WILSON, JOHN FRENCH. A graduate of Haver- ford College, now practicing law in Cleveland. The sonnets here printed were among the most widely quoted poems of the year 1919. Week-End Sonnets. WOOD, CLEMENT. Born in Alabama, now teaching in New York. Author of the volumes "Glad of Earth" and "The Earth Turns South." Winner of several poetry prizes and about to make his debut as a novelist. The Poem. I Would not Die in April. WOOD, ELEANOR DUNCAN. Resides in the south. Challenge. WYLIE, ELINOR. Lives in Washington, D. C. "Les Lauriers sont Coupes." 266