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MR. HOWELLS MEETS THE GHOST OF SHAKESPEARE

51

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gains in vividness from the exact dinner: there were many of the swell was present—was friendly-did not share fidelity with which Mr. Traubel relates fellows.present: the man I speak of was Lowell's feelings. He said O'Connor had

the principal guest. In the course of their spoken of it, but only by way of allu

dinner he mentioned his letter to sion.' "He said: 'The world now can have Lowell, who had had a couple of glasses But O'Connor knows all about itno idea of the bitterness of the feeling of wine-was flushed-called out: "What made some detailed note of it at onceagainst me in those early days.

I was

a letter for Walt Whitman! For God a note probably lost now, as so many a tough-obscene: indeed, it was my ob- Almighty's sake don't deliver it! Walt things have been, must be.' Whitman scenity, libidinousness, all that upon

Whitman ! Do you know who Walt added that when I met O'Connor I should which they made up their charges.' He Whitman is? Why—Walt Whitman is a 'have him unbosom on this subject: he is repeated the story of the nobleman whom rowdy, a New York tough, a loafer, a never extra anxious to unbosom, but will Lowell turned back, 'He came over here frequenter of low places—friend of cab do so, caught in the right mood: he knows with a letter of introduction from some drivers !”—and all that.' ‘Words like all about it: no one else knows it so fully. man of high standing in England—Ros- those,' Whitman said, when the passion This incident contained in essence the setti, William Rossetti, I guess'—but cor was blown over (he had been powerfully spirit of the opposition at one time omnirecting himself after a pause: 'No—not contemptuous in stating himself): ‘The potent.' Was 'sure Emerson never Rossetti: it could not have been Rossetti:

delivered.' He had yielded to it, but he must have had it some other. There was the Cambridge learned of the incident 'from one who dinned into his ears.'"

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WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS AS A

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IR EDWIN DURNING-LAI- biographical material! Let me tell you was in the affectionate keeping of her
RENCE died last April. So that there is comparatively a superabun- children, and it would have reflected upon

them if I had done so. ... The world
the most enthusiastic upholder dance of material, as Andrew Lang shows
of the "Bacon-is-Shakespeare"

in his excellent book on 'Shakespeare, somehow likes to think meanly of the

Bacon and the Great Unknown.' Far more wives of what it calls geniuses; but if heresy had no opportunity to

is known of Shakespeare's life than of the the wives had their say, they could say read Mr. William Dean Howells's

lives of most other famous poets. something on their own side that would brilliant attack upon it. For “The

Take, for instance, the case of Virgil, stop that talk. Xantippe lierself might Seen and the Unseen at Stratford- which I have just had occasion to look give a few cold facts about Socrates that on-Avon" (Harper and Brothers) is at."

would make the world sit up; and if Anne destructive as well as constructive:

told all she knew about me my biographers

For several pages Bacon goes on to Mr. Howells's diverting tale contains

would have plenty of the material that prove that more is known of Shakemany telling arguments against those

they think they are so lacking in now... speare than of Virgil, Ben Johnson, I only 'wish I had been as good husband who would place on the serene brow and many other famous writers. Shake

to her as she was wife to me.” of my Lord Verulam the laurels of

speare's conversation is most interesting England's greatest dramaturge. Mr.

when he visits the scenes of his young Mr. William Stanley Braithwaite, Howells.tells us that at an open-air per

writing in the Boston Transcript, calls formance of "A Midsummer-Night's

Mr. Howells's fantasy "superstructurDream” at Cheltenham he sat behind

ally romantic and fundamentally realisthe ghosts of Shakespeare and Bacon.

tic" and "captivating from beginning to He listened to their conversation and

end." "It will long be memorable,” found that Bacon by no means approved

he adds, “because he actually makes of all his companion's work, expressing

Shakespeare and Bacon live for us in particularly strong disapproval of "that

their own thoughts and opinions." fat rascal, Falstaff, and that drunken

A writer in the New York Times Bardolph, and that swaggering black

Review of Books finds Mr. Howells guard, Pistol.”

“a most satisfactory mediuin” and Next day, Messrs. Shakespeare, Ba

states that the Shakespeare problem con and Howells went to Stratford

seems less perplexing when it is looked by the same train and during the

at in the light of Mr. Howells's scholarpageants and festivals of the next few

ship, humor and common sense.

The weeks the three had many interesting

critic in conclusion pays a high tribute talks. Bacon, Mr. Howells found, was

to Mr. Howells's interpretation of much annoyed by the report that he

Shakespeare, and incidentally makes had written the Shakespearean dramas

somewhat unkind reference to the work and bored Shakespeare by continually

of an unnamed journalist (probably proving to him that he actually had

meaning Mr. Frank Harris's “The Man lived and written. On one occasion he

Shakespeare" and "The Women of said:

SIIAKESPEARE'S AMERICAN FRIENI) Shakespeare”), saying:
Mr. Howells, like Mark Twain, has his own

views on the Shakespeare question. "Of all the follies alleged in proof of

“There is a definite purpose back of Mr. my authorship of your plays, there is

manhood and talks about his children Howells's excellent fooling. He succeeds none quite so maddening as the notion and his wife.

not in destroying the Baconian heresy but that you couldn't have written them be

in making it appear, more than ever, an cause if you had there would be more “I have never felt quite happy about the absurd and negligible thing, and he sucfacts about you. The contention is, and way people talk of Anne. I suppose it ceeds—a higher achievement-in accomit's accepted even by most of your friendly began with my leaving her my second- plishing what a certain brilliant English biographers, that there is little or nothing best bed in my will, but that was because journalist has long and vainly attempted; known of your life. I maintain that there she always slept in it at New Place, and he makes the mysterious dramaturge step is far more known of your life than there wanted it especially devised to her. I from the obscuring clouds of time and is of most authors' lives. . . Paucity of made no provision for her because she show himself in the likeness of mankind.”

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EDMUND VAN

VAN SAANEN-ALGI, INTERPRETER

OF MOTION

W

HEN M. Edinund Van He believes that when one watches cf the interview he developed an in-
Saanen-Algi's studies of a dancer he does not see a succession teresting theory as to architecture
Isadora Duncan, Ida of poses but action-posture flowing an expression of the soul of a nation.
Rubinstein, Nijinsky, and into posture.

into posture. Therefore he began to . He said:
other dancers were ex-
hibited at the Galerie De Vambez, in

"I think that the office buildings of New the Boulevard Malesherbes, the Paris

York are tremendously interesting, psyedition of the Daily Mail said: “It is

chologically as well as architecturally, rarely that one finds the sense of mo

For many years the American architects tion so ideally expressed as in these

made their buildings as one makes cakes, small drawings, in which a remarkable

merely adding layer on layer. The result,

of course, was anything but inspiring. But economy of line and effort is also manifest.”

now they have evolved a special type of

architecture that is artistically beautiful M. Algi, with his wife, who as Marie

and representative, I think, of the national Louise l'an Saaren is known for

spirit. “Anne of Treboul,” “The Blind Who

"It is the mighty energy of America, See,'' and other novels, recently visited

rushing up toward the stars, that finds America. In an interview which ap

expression in such buildings as these. The peared in the Sunday Magazine of the

earlier American architecture was imitaNew York Times, this remarkable art

tive, but these buildings are original, ist, who is also an architect held in

native. They form America's real con

tribution to architecture. high esteem by European critics, ex

“And yet they are not absolutely origplained some of his theories of the

inal; in a sense they are derivative; or, portrayal of motion.

rather, similar phenomena have occurred When he began to make studies of

elsewhere. In classic lands, in classic dancers, he says, he drew them as he

ages, there was the same skyward reachwould subjects at rest—that is he made

ing of the buildings, and it expressed tiem complete; he finished the hands

something of the same rush of nervous

PAVLOWA'S SWAN-DANCE and feet and clothing. But he stopped

energy.

M. Algi shows “posture flowing into posture." doing this because he found it was

"I think that the soul of a nation always

shows itself in architecture. In my coun"untrue.” It showed, he says, some

omit. thing non-existent, unnatural, bodies

In one of his drawings of Isid- try, Rumania, in the south of France,

dora Duncan, for example, the right and in the Orient, there is plenty of frozen in a strange attitude.

arm is indicated merely by two eloquent leisure; there is not the rush of life that lines. M. Algi explains that he could, there is in the north. And the buildings if he desired, make a detailed anatomic show that; they are close to the ground,

with long lines and large floor space. study of the arm, but that in that case he would show it in repose.

They do not go high into the air; there There

is no need; the people have no desire for fore he merely suggests its motion, them to do so. But in the north, life is shows that it is passing from one ges- lived nervously, swiftly, and there we find ture to another.

the pointed arches and lofty spires of the N. Algi is not an artistic revolution- Gothic coming into being. ist; he has no sympathy with Cubism. Futurism, or any other extravagance. In some of his drawings, particularly those of Ida Rubinstein as La Pisanelle in D'Annunzio's play, he shows close attention to detail.

In one of these the slave girl is shown with her arms bound to her sides. Since she is of noble blood, M. Algi has given the body and head an air of rebellion which clearly indicates that she is no ordinary slave girl but

to whom the degradation of bondage is extraordinarily galling In the other picture of La Pisanelle, she has just been freed from her bonds and is beginning to dance. Iler left leg is vibrant, her right arm cleaves the air about her head. The whole figure is dynamic, energized.

The Times praises especially the study of Pavlowa in her famous swan dance. In this picture the dancer seems actually to glide with her feathcry skirts billowing about her.

M. Algi had little to say about AmerIDA RUBINSTEIN AS LA PISANELLE

LA DANSE DE GUERRE ican dancing, but he was enthusiastic The princess, freed from her bonds, bezins to Cance. over American buildings. In the course

J. Algi's interpretation of Isadora Duncan's arms

is characteristically energetic.

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ing on the trees. And great, golden, glit- out, and keep her to her course, or they'd tell me to keep clear? You tell me again, parts, begging your pardon, sir?" says Joe. wind to cool. But let him take heed, they think, I tell you you ain't. You're the KISSING THE QUEEN

53 THE WESTERN ISLANDS-A FO'C'S'LE TALE

BY MASEFIELD
This is one of the stories told by John Masefield in “The Mainsail Haul” (Macmillan).
It is a blue wonder. There isn't a swear-word in it, and yet you get, in places, the effect
of a purple stream of profanity. It shows what the English language can be made to do
when a man that knows how takes hold of it. Shakespeare himself would have chuckled
with delight and perhaps sighed with envy after reading what Jerry and Joe had to say

to each other in this tale, NCE there were two sailors; and “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Jerry, dimes, and pesetas, and francs, and four

one of them was Joe, and the other "but whereabouts might these here islands penny bits. And the flowers on the cliffs one was Jerry, and they were fish- be?”

was all one gleam and glitter. And they'd a young apprentice “Why, in the west,” says the parson. And the beauty of that island was a feller, and his name was Jim. And Joe “In the west, where the sun sets.” beauty beyond the beauty of Sally Brown, was a great one for his pot, and Jerry “Ah,” said Joe and Jerry. “What won the lady as kept the beer-house. And on was a wonder at his pipe; and Jim did ders there are in the world.”

the beach of that island, on a golden all the work, and both of them banged

throne, like, sat a woman so lovely that

OW, after that, neither one of them him. So one time Joe and Jerry were

to look at her was as good as a church

could think of anything but these in the beerhouse, and there was a young

service for one.

here western islands. So at last parson there, telling the folks about for

“That's the party I got to kiss,” said they take their smack, and off they go Jerry. “Steady, and beach her, Jim, boy," eign things, about plants and that. “Ah," he says, "what wonders there in search of them. And Joe had a barrel

“Run her ashore, lad. That's of beer in the bows, and Jerry had a box are in the west."

the party is to be my queen.” "What sort of wonders, begging your of twist in the waist, and pore little Jim

"You've got a neck on you, all of a stood and steered aba ft all. And in the pardon, sir,” says Joe. “What sort of

sudden,” said Joe. “You ain't the admiral wonders might them be?" evenings Jerry and Joe would bang their

of this feet. Not by a wide road you “Why, all sorts of wonders," says the pannikins together, and sing of the great

ain't. I'll do all the kissing as there's times they meant to have when they were parson. “Why, in the west,” he says,

any call for. You keep clear, my son.” married to the queen. "there's things you wouldn't believe. No,

Here the boat ran her nose into the Then they would clump pore little Jim sand, and the voyagers went ashore. you wouldn't believe; not till you'd seen

across the head, and tell him to watch them,” he says. “There's diamonds grow

“Keep clear, is it?” said Jerry. "You tering pearls as

ride him down like you would a main as pea-straw.

and I'll put a head on you—'ll make you tack. And he'd better mind his eye, they sing like a kettle. Who are you to tell And there's islands in the west.

Ah, I could tell you of them. Islands? I rather told him, or they'd make him long to be

me to keep clear?” boiled and salted. And he'd better put guess there's islands. None of your Isles

“I tell you who I am,” said Joe. “I'm of Man. None of your Alderney and more sugar in the tea, they said, or they'd

a better man than you are. That's what Sark. Not in them seas.” cut him up for cod-bait. And who was

I'm Joe the Tank, from Lime“What sort of islands might they be, he, they asked, to be wanting meat for

house Basin, and there's no tinker's dondinner, when there was that much weebegging your pardon, sir?” says Jerry.

key-boy'll make me stand from under. villy biscuit in the bread-barge? And boys Who are you to go kissing queens? Who "Why,” he says (the parson feller says), ISLANDS.

was going to the dogs, they said, when Islands as big as Spain. limbs the like of him had the heaven

are you that talk so proud and so mighty ? Islands with rivers of rum and streams

You've a face on you would make a Dago born insolence to want to sleep. And a of sarsaparilla. And none of your roses.

tired. You look like a sea-sick Kanaka nice pass things was coming to, they said, that's boxed seven rounds with a buzzRubies and ame-thynes is all the roses when a lad as they'd done everything for,

You've no more manners than a grows in them parts. With golden stalks to them, and big diamond sticks to them, house, should go for to snivel when they the enamel off a cup.”

and saved, so to speak, from the work- hob, and you've a lip on you would fetch and the taste of pork-crackling if you eat them. They're the sort of roses to have

hit him a clip. If they'd said a word,
when they was hit, when they was boys,

F IT comes to calling names,” said in your area,” he says.

Jerry, "you ain't the only pebble “And what else might there be in them they told him, they'd have had their bloods drawed, and been stood in the

on the beach. Whatever you might "Why," he says, this parson says, "there's wonders. There's not only wonsaid, and be a good lad, and do the work

round turn and two-half hitches of a ders but miracles. And not only miraof five, and they wouldn't half wonder, figure of fun as makes the angels weep.

That's what you are. And you're the cles, but sperrits.”

they used to say, as he'd be a man before
his mother.

right - hand strand, and the left - hand "What sort of sperrits might they be,

So the sun shone, and the stars came

strand, and the center strand, and the begging your pardon?” says Jerry. “Are they rum and that?”

out golden, and all the sea was a sparkle core, and the serving, and the marling, of of gold with them. Blue was the sea,

a three - stranded, left - handed, poorly “When I says sperrits,” says the par- and the wind blew, too, and it blew Joe worked junk of a half begin and never son feller, “I mean ghosts.”

finished odds and ends of a Port Mahon "Of course ye do,” says Joe.

and Jerry west as fast as a cat can eat
sardines.

soldier. You look like a Portuguese “Yes, ghosts,” says the parson. “And

drummer. You've a whelky red nose that by ghosts I mean sperrits. And by sper ND one fine morning the wind fell shines like a port side-light. You've a rits I mean white things. And by white calin, and a pleasant smell came

face like a muddy field where they've things I mean' things as turn your hair over the water, like nutmegs on been playing football in the rain. Your white. And there's red devils there, and a runi-milk-punch. Presently the dawn hair is an insult and a shame. I blush blue devils there, and a great gold queen broke. And, lo and behold, a rousing when I look at you. You give me a turn awaiting for a man to kiss her. And the great wonderful island, all scarlet with like the first day out to a first voyager. first man as dares to kiss that queen, why, coral and with rubies.

Kiss, will you? Kiss? Man, I tell you he becomes king, and all her sacks of gold The surf that was beating on her sands you'd paralyze a shark if you kissed him. become his.” went shattering into silver coins, into

(Concluded on page 72.)

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VOICES OF THE LIVING POETS HAT is a remarkable tribute The God of Nature provided all the ma And if he speak them, let him take which Stephen Phillips pays

terials, and the God Genius took them The laurel wreath, the crown of oak, to America in a recent num

and made them into wonderful things. For what they win is theirs alone, ber of the Poetry Review. In

Nature gave Genius a pair of leaves and Of their reward I ask no part,

Genius made them into wings—wings I only claim three things my own: the course of a quite favor

for the birds, wings for the butterflies, My dream, my death and my sweetable notice of Mr. Le Gallienne's latest wings for all the things that fly. Such

heart. volume of poems, Mr. Phillips speaks

a beautiful dream! Such a wonderful of America as being “far more than World! the World when it was a Child. But if they want my song—'tis theirs. England both the market and the assize

For tho it may not stir their souls, of modern Anglo-Saxon verse.” He Under the winning title of “Arrows Tho feebler than their bugle blares, goes on to say: “That this is the posi- In The Gale,” Arturo Giovannitti has Their drum taps and their tocsin tolls, tion of America was pointed out a short had published (Hillacre House, River- Still may my song, before the sun's while ago by William Watson; and side, Conn.) a volume of his remark

Reveille, speed the hours that tire,

While they are cleaning up their guns tho his opinion was faintly challenged able poems. The quality of his work is

Around the cheery bivouac fire. in certain quarters, we of the Poetry very uneven, but a number of these Review, who have unique opportunities poems are unsurpassed in power by anyof judging on such a question, cor- thing ever published in America. His

Miss Teasdale's poem in the North roborated the statement. The writer of best work is done in Whitmanesque American Review has defective modern verse must for the future look measures, without rhyme or rhythm, rhyme in its refrain, but that does not to America both for audience and for such as “The Walker,” “The Cage,' spoil, tho it does mar, the poignant criticism.”

and “The Praise of Spring.” A num beauty of the poem: The trouble with most of the British ber of the poems were written in the poetry to-day is that it is too sophisti- jail at Lawrence, Mass., where the

SPRING NIGHT. cated. It is not only studied—all good author was confined, with Ettor, at the poetry is studied—but it also seems to time of the big strike. The entire vol

By SARAH TEASDALE. be studied. But a new poet has just ume abounds with the revolutionary

HE park is filled with night and fog, been brought to light by Mr. Ashton- spirit-what Helen Keller, in an intro

The veils are drawn about the Johnson against whom such a charge duction, calls “concentration to a glo

world, can hardly lie. This new poet's name rious cause,” the cause being that of the The drowsy lights along the paths is Logan Wiltshire. His age is seven, “I. W. W.” with its watch-cry of “No Are dim and pearled. and he can neither read nor write. He God and no Law.” We reprint the dictates his poetry to his mother. Poem, omitting one stanza:

Gold and gleaming the empty streets, “Mother,” he will exclaim, “I want to

Gold and gleaming the misty lake; say beautiful words to you,” and then,

SONGS OF A REVOLUTIONARY. The mirrored lights, like sunken swords, in a level, measured tone, with his eyes

Glimmer and shake.

By ARTURO GIOVANNITTI. looking into the far away, he proceeds to dictate such beautiful and naïve These are but songs—they're not a creed, Oh, is it not enough to be prose-poems as the following, which we They are not meant to lift or save,

Here with this beauty over me? reprint from The Poetry Review: They won't appeal or intercede

My throat should ache with praise and I
For any fool or any knave;

Should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
THE CRYSTAL.
They hold no covenant or pledge

Oh, beauty are you not enough?
For him who dares no foe assail : Why am I crying after love?
By LOGAN WILTSHIRE.
They are the blows of my own sledge

Have I not an eager soul
Against the walls of my own jail. With God for its last splendid goal?
HE Crystal lay between Heaven and

Youth, a singing voice, and eyes Earth, and the rainbow filled it If what I have I give, you can

To take earth's wonder with surprise? with light. Then the Sun and the Be sure I lay no heavenly store,

Why have I put off my pride?
Moon and the Stars and the Uni-
And what I take from any man

Why am I unsatisfied, verses one by one made it gifts of their

I have no thankful feeling for.

I for whom the pensive night substances. All that you worship, fear and trust

Binds her cloudy hair with light, So the Crystal had the glow of the ruby

I kick into the sewer's maw

I for whom all beauty burns and the glitter of the diamond, and all And fling my shaft and my disgust

Like incense in a million urns? colors and powers, and with wings of

Against your gospel and your law. Oh, beauty, are you not enough? gold it roamed through the sky.

Why am I crying after love?
When the Mortals on Earth saw it, they
covered their eyes from its dazzling

Oh, yes, I know the firing line
Outstretches far beyond my arms,

Coningsby Dawson has been guilty light. They felt faint and staggered. I know this muffled song of mine

of writing a novel that proved to be But the Crystal said, “You shall be able

Is but one shout of many alarms; to see my light and you shall be able

one of the best sellers; but all who But tho along the battle range to see my glory.”

read “The Garden Without Walls”

I press with many in one pursuit, So the Crystal went down to earth and

must have been impressed with the lived with Mortals and by taking a peep I have my personal revenge,

poetic quality of many of the passages.

My private enemy to shoot. now and then, the Mortals got so they

The author has now published (Henry could look at the Crystal and see the To them, the hosts of every land,

Holt) a volume of poems, giving it the glory, and that was how the World was

The nameless army of the strong

title of “Florence On A Certain Night." made good. Who make humanity's last stand

We might say of it what we have alA DREAM.

Against the battlements of wrong, ready said of modern British poets in

No worthy anthem can attune
By LOGAN WILTSHIRE.

general, that it is a little too sophistiMy raucous buccina. Let him,

cated; it appeals rather more to the culHE God of Dreams came to me last The greater bard that shall come soon,

tured mind than to the heart. But Mr. night and I had a dream of the Sing through the cannon mouth their

Dawson knows the difference between World when the World was a child.

hymn. And in this Child World there were

prose and poetry and he has used nothtwo Gods: the God of Nature and the To them, for theirs and for my sake, ing but poetic stuff in this volume. We God Genius.

He'll speak the words I never spoke, reprint the following, which has a

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comes no more.

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and goes.

H

l I brush it off, to see the fading
VOICES OF THE LIVING POETS

55 touch of mid-Victorian quality, and is thor's own experiences, rather than

thor's own experiences, rather than Silver, iridescent, the little river lies, none the worse for that: second-hand from the experiences of

Never asking anything, making no others. In this respect, the following,

plies.
HOME.
from Harper's Weekly, has all the

Green bank and ragged dock, bridged
marks of authentic poetry:
BY CONINGSBY DAWSON.

from shore to shore,

And a mother calling for a child that
E shall not always dwell as now

WHEN YOUR GIRL'S ENGAGED.
we dwell,
Together 'neath one home-pro-

By EDMUND VANCE COOKE.

Little lad, little lad, still the river flows, tecting roof. For some of us our lives may not go well :

HERE'S a song in her heart that is

Still upon its shining tide the ferry comes 'Gainst such small perils courage will be

buoyant and new proof,

(As new as her mother's before

her!) 'Gainst stronger ills these memories may

There's glint of little pleasure-craft, and, There's a light in her eye which was

as the night comes down, be proof; To some of us this life may say fare

never for you,

I can see the window lights gleaming in

the town. well

Or for even the mother who bore her.
We cannot always dwell as now we dwell.
Your heart overflowed at her first little

And the night wind, come from far, is

whispering to me: What tho we dwell not then as now we

cry
dwell?
And leaped at her first little laughter;

“There's always toll of weeping where Hearts can recover hearts, when hearts But now there's a note, half a song, half

streams run to the sea !”. are fain;

a sigh, While love stays with us everything is For all of her years to come after.

The Chinese Lyrics which Harper's well;

Weekly continues to serve up to us The roof of love is proof against the You know never Galahad shattered a

with interesting illustrations, are well rain,

lance Dead hands will guard our hearts against Who was fit to presume to possess her,

worth while. We reprint two of them

here: the rain,

And tho' glad of her gladness, you eye
Love will abide when all have said fare-

him askance
well:
And rebel that he dare to caress her.

WILD GEESE.
Our hearts may ever dwell as now they

By Pai TA-SHUN. dwell,

She is flesh of your flesh, she is bone of
your bone,

OW oft against the sunset sky or “The Flame In The Wind” is the You have known all her gladness and

moon title of a volume of poems by Margaret

sorrow,

I watched that moving zig-zag of But the call of a new blood has entered Steele Anderson, published by John P.

spread wings

her own Morton & Company, Louisville. Many

In unforgotten autumns gone too soon, That the world shall be peopled toof the poems have been first published

In unforgotten springs !

inorrow. in our leading magazines, and tho none

Creatures of desolation, far they fly of them is exactly unforgettable, yet all Oh, the old must grow old and the new

Above all lands bound by the curling have distinction'and a fine poetic sense. must renew;

foam; The following is particularly attract So rejoice at the New Joy before her; ive: But oh, there's that look which was never

In misty fens, wild moors and track

less sky
A BOY'S VIRGIL.
for you!

These wild things have their home.
Or for even the mother who bore her!
By MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON.

They know the tundra of Siberian coasts, UST on the page, from these for We seem to be running this month And tropic marshes by the Indian seas; !

to the pathos of domestic change. Per- They know the clouds and night and
haps the poets are coming back again

starry hosts
date
to the strains that were more popular

From Crux to Pleiades.
Written in boyish hand; to find through a generation ago than they are to-day.
tears

Here, from Harper's Magazine, is an Dark flying rune against the western The lad's dear name, inscribed with all other very pleasant poem that belongs

glow-
the state
in the domestic class :

It tells the sweep and loneliness of things, Of the first day's possession; and to read

Symbol of autumns vanished long ago, Along the tell-tale margin, scribbled thick.

Symbol of coming springs ! Here is the note—'t was writ with guilty

THE RIVER. speedAnd here the sketch, with guilty pencil

By LOUISE DRISCOLL.

ABSENCE. quick; ITTLE lad, little lad, that played

BY PAI TA-SHUN. And here's a picture! Was she ever so?

along the shore, Were these her curls and this her merry

I hear your mother calling you, do

How the flowers of the aspen-plum flutter and look

Do I not think of you? But your house you hear her no more?

The Master said, “It is the want of Who lieth in her old green grave as low

thought about it. How is it distant?”—Confucian As he is lying? Ah, this faded book!

Analects.
There flows a little river through Cats-
I think not of the bold and storied wrong

kill town,

HE Spring seems distant with her
Done for a woman's fairness, nor of
And there the little fishing-boats go

jasmine-flowers.
strong
slowly up and down.

The gaunt bare trees with icicles And god-like heroes, nor of beauteous

are drest, youth

I can hear the windlass where the wet The snowbird in the cryptomeria cowers; In game and battle—but, with heart of

ropes run,

Yetmis Spring far when Spring is in ruth,

I can see the dripping nets shining in the About this boy, who laughed and played

sun. and read

And you seem far, too far for eye to see So carelessly! Ah, how long he is dead !

Slow and heavy barges with their freight Your lantern and your lattices apartfor human needs

So many moons, so many hundred liThe vitality of a poem depends upon Follow where the guide-rope of the little Yet-are you far when you are in my its being drawn direct from the au

tugboat leads.

heart?

L

turn!
is distant.

THE

my breast?

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