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Smitb College 

©ctober** 1913 
®wne& ant) publlebcb b^ tbe Senior (Tlaee 


Ivy Oration . ' » 

October . . . 

Overture to the Sea in Storm 

The Laugh of a Sportive Spirit 

In the Lane 

Shepherd's Discontent 

Your Books . . . 

The Heart of the Wood Nymph 

Mamie . . . 

The Purple Heather 

Margaret and the Butterfly 

The Truant 

Maxfield Parrish's Pictures 


Finite . ^ .. 

Marion Hines 

Ruth Cobb 

Paula Louise Cady 

Helen V. Toolcer 

Dorothy Oehtman 

Angela Richmond 

Mira Bigelow Wilson 

Frances Margaret Bradshaw 

Eatherine B. Nye 

Margaret Louise Farrand 

Mary Louise Ramsdell 

Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Marion Delameter Freeman 

. Bertha Viola Conn 

Marion Sinclair Walker 
































The Third Triumvirate . Mary Coggeshall Baker 1916 26 

I Will Lift Up Mine Eyes unto the Hills Leonora Branch 1914: 31 

Good Night . . . Hyla Stoivell Watters 1915 31- 

The Rector's Study ... . Ellen Bidley Jones 1916 32 

Pretendin' . . . . Eleanor Louise Halpin 1914 40- 


The Little Maid of the Fountain . Jeanne Woods 1914 41 

A Round Trip . . . Marion Sinclair Walker 1915 41 

Formality ... Dorothy Vaughn McCormick 1915 46 




Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Massachusetts, as second class matte? 
Gazette Printing Covipany, Northampton^ Mass. 


Smith College Monthly 

Vol. XXI OCTOBER, 1913 No. 1 

Lois Cleveland Gould 
Leonora Branch Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Margaret Louise Farrand Marion Delamater Freeman 
Rosamond Drexel Holmes Frances Milliken Hooper 

Margaret Bloom Dorothy Lilian Spencer 

Ruth Cobb Dorothy Ochtman 

Eloise Schmidt 

business manager and treasurer 
Ruth Hellekson 

assistant business managers 
Esther Loyola Harney 
Bertha Viola Conn 



When the reward of achievement is upon us we realize for 
the first time that the joy we have anticipated does not lie in 
the attainment, but rather in the effort and struggle. We have 
become conscious only gradually of the growth which has 
resulted from that struggle, but the significance of its fruition 
we cannot grasp for many years. There are human enterprises 
which check the current of events and transmit their conse- 
quences not only to every moment of our future living, but also 
bring results in everything which we attempt. They are judged 
not so much for what they are in themselves, but rather by the 
ever-widening influences which radiate from them. We see 
their importance and call them great. College is such an expe- 


rience. It holds for us the culture of ages ; shields us for a few 
years while we attempt to make the past our own ; gives us 
therefore a new understanding of the hopes and aspirations of 
our own time ; sends us out into a new world and bids us 

What right has college to demand success when from every 
side comes the ringing criticism that college life is abnormal ? 
The so-called normal world was the first to formulate such a 
criticism which later was echoed by educators themselves until 
the conception is familiar to all college students. If we have 
not thought it we have felt it, especially during vacation periods 
when we meet those who are not interested in the things 
in which we are interested. Our critics have not sought an 
explanation of the keen joy which youth finds in such an 
abnormal atmosphere. It is wholesome ; it is large-hearted ; 
it is free. Each girl stands upon her own merits. She is not 
asked whence she has come or whither she is going. We only 
say, ^'Are you worth while ?" The girl who comes from the 
small towns and villages finds college life variegated and inter- 
esting. It holds for her a greater liberality, a keener sympathy 
with her aspirations than she has known. She enjoys the 
freedom of such a life in comparison with the critical atmos- 
phere of her normal existence. For her who comes from a 
larger community, the abnormal wholesomeness and frankness- 
of college is preferable to the routine of her earlier years. She 
enjoys to the full the freedom from conventionalities. Does 
not college thus hold an experience vital for the fuller growth 
of each individual ? No one questions whether we have enjoyed 
the living of the last four years. But there are those who ask 
whether there is any vital relation between college activity and 
the work of the world. The question comes to us as we look 
forward to the days in the coming years. They seem to many 
devoid of a clear, familiar color and meaning. In spite of 
present criticism I believe there is a great similarity between 
the life in college and that which awaits the college woman 
afterwards. May not a translation of our present living into 
terms of that which is to come help us receive our degrees with 
more joy than we have expected to have ? 

When we came to Smith we found an established order. It 
was determined not only by those traditions which had grown 
up within the college, but also by those which have been gath- 


ering through more than the thousand years during which 
colleges have existed in some form or other. We made an 
effort to understand it and to conform. We learned to read the 
signs in the note-room because we had missed a division play. 
We accepted the Smith system of dates and bought a pad. 
Later, whether we were accustomed to walking or not, we 
walked and wore sensible shoes with sturdy heels. A new 
appreciation of the beautiful became a part of our every-day 
living. We learned to watch for the sunset and to expect a 
change in the clouds every time we passed the library and 
looked across to the hills beyond. We learned to love the out- 
lines of Mount Tom and Mount Holyoke in their varied cloth- 
ing of Fall and Spring. We know how silent and dark they 
are across the meadows when the stars are bright overhead. 
Although we accepted some conditions, we rejected others and 
even at times created a new spirit. We no longer stand in line 
to draw for game tickets. We dance at Junior Promenade in 
the Students' Building and in the Gymnasium. A new atti- 
tude towards the Christian Association has been created. We 
understood the order into which we had entered ; we loved it 
and therefore wished to make a contribution that would keep it 
at its best. 

But greater than this was the knowledge of our fellows which 
came to us. W^e had wondered how they could call this one 
who laughed so much serious-minded and that plain-looking 
one marvelous. We found many who knew as much as we did 
and others who knew more. We took the attitude of one who 
learns and yet teaches at the same time. This is " the give and 
take" of college. Each of us was of some use to the others and 
a part of the whole, which of course could go on without us, 
but being a part of it was joy for us and our friends. 

When we approached our last year, we realized in our work 
the pleasure of following minds far greater than our own. 
Special subjects became fascinating. A peculiar phase of life 
interested us and there welled up within us the determination 
to become masters of that subject. We longed to specialize, 
really to know something. We pursued kindred subjects with 
a new zeal and counted that time most happy when we could 
make our contribution. We were anxious that this vision of 
usefulness touching the inner life should find some expression 
in our outer activities. Within our souls the dawn of our new 
relationship to the work of the world was breaking. 


When we entered college we lost ourselves in the order pecu- 
liar to Smith, we recognized the intrinsic worth of our fellows 
and we created a place through our own activities. These three 
processes of development in college are like the situations which 
will greet you in the years following. You are to enter an 
environment in which there is an established order. Fresh 
from college, its mistakes may be more evident to you than to 
those who are living in it. But a constant attempt to interpret 
its spirit may convince you that its hardened shell has protected 
something fragile and sacred. You may have a part in bring- 
ing to light its true spirit and in establishing a new order for 
its expression. And yet it must not be accepted without ques- 
tioning the efficiency of expression for its real spirit. The atti- 
tude of one who investigates need not be that of open revolt ; 
but may he not gather and record his information quietly, con- 
structively criticising the existing conditions and offering a 
new solution ? If you find that the spirit of the law has left its 
ritual as a form without meaning, be brave in asserting that 
the spirit is gone and that the custom needs to be dropped. 
Does it lie within the scope of educated womanhood to under- 
stand, to criticise and to patiently create ? 

There are two general classes of people whom you will meet, 
those with whom you work and those who are the objects of 
your benevolent love. How will you regard them ? You have 
had four years of cultural training. New methods of approach 
are habits with you, — a breadth of outlook and a sympathetic 
understanding of conditions not your own. You meet for the 
first time those who are experts. Their methods have narrowed 
their lives to such a point that they can see only those manifes- 
tations of life which that point touches. They know how to 
make a living while you have been learning to live. They will 
have little use for faith and enthusiasm, your sympathy and 
imagination ; but they know the value of a trained mind and 
of a skilled hand. Does not the highest service of educated 
womanhood in democratic society demand a breadth of interest 
as well as a depth of technical reach ? Does it not also require 
an unquenchable ardor for the best things, a spontaneous delight 
in work and play and a many-sided enthusiasm ? Fortunate 
are they who learn the professional mode of work and manner 
of application and yet retain an ever-renewing enthusiasm and 
love for the work Itself ! 


Besides those with whom you are to work there are those 
whom you will endeavor to help. They too have been working 
while you were in college, although they do not have much to 
show for their labor. What shall be your attitude toward 
them ? May we not turn to that which once controlled your 
regard for your fellow students ? At that time you knew that 
you might learn from each woman in college, whatever her 
birth or previous training. When you spoke of all of them 
you used the pronoun "we."^ It is the democratic attitude 
rather than the aristocratic which is needed in the normal 
world, too. Let the college woman speak graciously of her 
environment, of the people of her group as " you and I." That 
is the spirit which enlarges living and keeps it interesting. I 
do not disregard the unequalities of living ; they will always 
exist. But their bitterness can be overcome by a large-hearted 
sympathy which must become a part of your womanhood. I 
believe that there is no one so lowly who within his honest 
heart is not proud to share his meagre experience, if you wish 
to learn of him. You may possess this spirit which demands 
of you a self-renewing belief in human nature coupled with an 
enthusiasm for living itself. As college women you may radi- 
ate the open-heartedness of true democracy. 

There remains the work of which the vision came in college. 
Such a work should be founded upon adequate knowledge, 
endowed with undaunted courage and enriched by love. Col- 
lege itself has given a foundation in its intellectual training ; 
but preparation cannot stop there. It is a continuous process. 
Whether it is prepared for in a professional school or whether 
proficiency is gained through individual effort, you must possess 
a thorough training before that which you hope to do is your 
own. But work along any line as the execution of a theoretical 
plan falls short of the ideal. If its realization has left but the 
usual gap between itself and its ideal men will grant you 
success. If not it is failure. After all, it matters little what 
men may say ; for " our business in the world is not to succeed 
but to fail in good spirits." If all you live for goes to pieces in 
your hands begin again and rejoice because of the courageous 
spirit which undaunted builds anew. That does not mean that 
failure is preferable to success, but more significant than either 
success or failure is the courage with which the struggle is 
renewed. It is the "love of your work which will lift you 


above the fatalities cf time and chance so that, whatever befall 
the labor of your hands, the travail of your soul will remain 
undefeated and secure." 

Is there not a striking similarity in the underlying principles 
of living, whether they be found in college or out of it ? That 
which is unique in college is only a form. It is the manner of 
eating and drinking, of rising by bell and retiring at ten. The 
laws which have governed your life together are those wnich 
will continue to govern you wherever you may be. The end of 
college demands that you link the experiences of these four 
years to what is to come and recognize that each part has made 
a fuller living of the whole possible. The spirit here may be 
translated into forms and conditions unknown as yet and you 
may have the joy of being translators. Each year may bring 
new thoughts and new forms for their expression because you 
have had the gift of college. They will find their fruition in 
the fulfillment of the vision of usefulness which you have 
seen here. 

" The best is yet to be, 

The last of life, for which the first was made : 

Our times are in His hand 

Who saith, 'A whole I planned. 

Youth shows but half ; trust Grod ; see all, nor be afraid ! '" 



Oh, it's yellow tops the hillside 
And the branch is brown between, 

Where the crow. 

Flying low, 
Glints bis jet and satin sheen. 

Oh, it's red is in the hollow 
Where the oak and maple grow ; 

Ruby red 

Amethyst below. 



Low over the stormlashed twilight sea 

Is flung a heavy pall of thick black shadow massed 

And from its stillness to the leaping water-waste 

Stretches a vasty reach of gray dark gloom. 

Sad is the night dusk that floats drearily 

Out of awful boundless void — from dim infinity ; 

Black are the shadows that drift wearily 

In the black-green light of the stormy sea. 

Is it the heaving of the rising waves 
That makes dark shadows in that black strange green ? 
Or are those long lithe bodies sea-born forms — 
Rolling, swinging, diving, floating — 
The woe-bringing court of the lord of storms ? 
Do strange fierce stirrings quicken in the air 
Thrilling with wild alarms? 
Are those flashes of foam on the crests of the sea 
Or glimpses of corpse- white arms V 
Are those dark sea-weeds pitching in the surf 
Or wild-flung matted locks of snaky hair? 
And is it water hurled above the rocks 
That seems like kobolds in the gloom-filled air, 
Leaping to look expectant past the ocean's bound, 
Peering with comprehending evil stare ? 

A slow low moan o'er the tossing waves — 
Fear and Dread and Pain — 
The breakers leap and roar and shout ! 
And a moaning — 
Swelling and dying again. 

Then a wind sweeps in with a wailing " Hail ! " 
The combers curtsey low, 
The thunders artillery roar salute 
To this courier of the Gale ! 
The rush of the blast follows fast, follows fast ! 
Beneath it the bounding waves flee, 
And it swoops along with a stirring sad song 
On the road between the sky and sea. 
And its song, its song, is that slow long moan 
A heart-breaking terrible tone, 
Screams snatched from the lips of drowning men 
By the Gale and claimed for its own I 

The night has darkened, darkened, darkened 
Like that first Darkness when blind chaos ruled. 
Ah ! through its denseness feel the flying Gale ! 
Out of invisibility 

Hear the death cries throbbing through your heart ! 
And mourn the sadness, sadness, sadness of the sea. 




"* Thanking you for letting us see the story, we remain sin- 
cerely — / Bah, just the same old printed formula that every 
magazine in the country uses." Charles Quent tossed the man- 
uscript on the desk, and leaned back moodily in his chair. 

The rejection coming as it did, the fourth in a week, brought 
to him a feeling of utter despair and hopelessness. It was as 
though he were struggling against some malignant force bent 
upon destroying him. His work, he truly felt, was good. It 
was certainly not trash ; it had truth in it, and strength and 
art and an intangible something which goes to make literature. 
Much of it had been published from time to time, and highly 
praised by both editors and critics ; but the path to public 
favor and the resulting humbly receptive editors he had not yet 
stumbled upon. 

During the past year he had had only one story accepted. 
Story after story had been returned, and there had been times 
when the dread of returning home to be greeted by the familiar 
large envelope had kept him walking the streets till late hours. 
Moreover, he needed the money badly, and the strain was 
beginning to tell upon him, and his work now was anxious, 
hurried work. It lacked the old spontaneity, the terse, sweep- 
ing power. 

He sighed. '' It's good work, I Ivnoiu that," he said. ''A 
start is all I need. If only I could make the public realize that 
I am here, that I am just longing to spend my time in making 
them laugh and weep, why, I'd be a blooming millionaire in a 
couple of years." He snailed, an ever-ready optimism shaming 
into silence the passing depression. "And I'll do it yet," he 
exclaimed. "Confound it, I'm not going to take sass from 
editors all my life. Just wait." 

As he turned to the desk to re-address the story, a headline in 
the evening paper caught his attention. 

*' Stockton Writing Stories in the Spirit World," it read. 
'* Professor H. S. Whiting says that well-known author is cre- 
ating light literature for the spirits. Professor Whiting made 


the statement this morning that he had recently been in com- 
munication with the late novelist and short-story writer, Frank 
R. Stockton, and that the latter is very pleasantly whiling away 
his time in Heaven, or wherever he is, by creating light litera- 
ture for his companion shades. More than this Professor Whit- 
ing is not now prepared to say. We hope that Mr. Stockton 
will find profit in creating light literature for such a spirited 
public, and wish him all success." 

'^Well, the sheer cheek of some people,'' Quent burst out. 
*' They can't be satisfied with having everything their own way 
in this world, but have to keep it up in the next. What 
wouldn't I give for just a bit of Stockton's talent for getting 
himself read I If only he would give — " he broke off suddenly 
as if overwhelmed by the rush of ideas which an idle thought 
had called up. '"'I would explain afterwards, of course," he 
spoke aloud, and slowly, then he gave himself an impatient 
shake. "Bah," he flung out, "Are you a common thief?" 
And again he defended himself, saying, "It's not common 
thievery. It's — ." 

For over an hour Charles Qaent sat in his chair, fighting 
with the tenacious idea that had taken possession of him ! At 
the end of that time he rose deliberately and took his hat from 
the desk. "Of course," he said to himself as he went out the 
door, "it is only a wild idea, and nothing can come of it, but 
there is no harm in my just finding out." 

It was a strange evening that be spent. He saw stranger 
sights and heard stranger sounds than he had ever before 
dreamed of, and at midnight he crept home, awed and ashamed, 
feverishly repulsing the alluring idea that had so charmed him 
the night before. But in the more matter-of-fact mood of the 
next morning he laughed at his mental cowardice, as he termed 
it, of the previous night, and plunged eagerly into his scheme. 

After that evening his impressions of the cold, work-a-day 
world were vague and hazy. He seemed to be going about as 
one does in dreams, not touching the ground, but gliding along 
just above it without effort or voluntary motion. 

Then one night as he sat in his room there was a quick knock 
at the door, and at his answering call a man entered, crossed to 
the desk in three strides, shook Quent affectionately by the 
shoulders, and cried aloud, " Congratulations, man I It's great, 
great, do you hear ?" It was Frank Doyle, editor of the People's 
Age, and a personal friend of Quent. 


** I couldn't wait to tell you/' he continued a few minutes 
later, "because I knew j^ou had been pretty discouraged at our 
turning down so much of your stuff lately ; but you certainly 
have struck the real thing this time, and no mistake. Every- 
one at the office is enthusiastic about it, and we're going to rush 
it right through. Why, man, do you know what we think ? 
That it is going to be the same kind of a big success that 'The 
Lady or the Tiger ? ' was. Big excitement. Everyone talk- 
ing. Reputation made. That's all jom need, of course. Once 
get a name and you're all right if you don't slump. Speak- 
ing of 'The Lady or the Tiger?' though," he said musingly, 
" that story has quite a Stocktonian tang. Did you notice it ?" 
He looked inquiringly at Quent. 

That was the first acceptance. The story was published three 
months later in the August Fiction number, and fully justified 
Doyle's prediction by the furor it created. Everyone was dis- 
cussing it, and no one agreed with his neighbor as to its inter- 
pretation and its merit. Consequently everyone read it, and 
all the stories which Quent sent out to magazines at that time 
were quickly accepted. 

So for eight months he went about in the excitement of 
attained desire, and worked, worked hard, and worked cease- 
lessly, partly because of a feverish desire to follow up his 
advantage, and partly from a fear of the little black demon 
that buzzed questions of why and how in his ear whenever he 
attempted to have a restfully lazy evening. 

Then came a night when the work would not go, and charac- 
ters and situations got hopelessly out of hand, and the little 
demon at his ear became teasingly insistent. " Had it been 
worth while ?" he thought frowningly. And how, how was he 
to clear himself with his own conscience and with the public ? 
He laughed mirthlessly. Yes, surely, get up and tell people 
that they had been duped, hoaxed. That was simple. And 
after ? He shivered as though he were cold. He must have 
been mad, insane, that night and all the days that followed to 
have even dreamed that a simple explanation would satisfy. 
No, certainly, he could never tell how he — . 

A rap sounded sharply at the door, and before he could speak 
Frank Doyle stood in the doorway. Quent saw the anger and 
wondering incredulity in his face, and the first thought that 
passed through his mind as he rose mechanically to meet him 
was, " How did he find out ?" 


**I had rather stand," Doyle said quietly in answer to Quent's 
greeting. *' Did you really do that, Charley ?" 

There was nothing but hopeless pleading in his voice, and as 
he spoke Quent asked himself in bewildered self-wonder how 
he had ever conceived such a plan, but Doyle's tone, justifiable 
as it was, hurt, and he flung his head back with a defiant " How 
did you know ?" 

Doyle's face flushed angrily. ''I'll show you," he said, and 
going to the door called some one who stood outside. A little 
old man, thin, straight and spider-like, darted past him, and 
-stopping himself almost under Quent's nose, shook his fist in 
his face and burst out into a sobbing, scolding tirade. "You 
impudent scoundrel, you black-tongued, lying, faking hypo- 
crite, pretender, imposter," he bawled, his small, reddish eyes 
narrowing and broadening as he screamed. "How did you 
dare, dare, dare, bah I " his voice broke with anger and he drew 
off from Quent, folded his arms and stared at him in sudden 
dignity. " Worm of the earth," he snarled. 

"Charley," said Doyle, "this is Mr. Scrabner. Mr. Scrabner 
claims — " 

" Claims, sir, claims I " shouted the little man. " By Walter 
Scott and Theocrites, no, I assert, sir, I know I " 

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Scrabner," Doyle continued. 
" Charley, Mr. Scrabner says, in plain words, that that story of 
yours, which everybody made such a fuss over, was a steal. 
He says it is one of the first stories Frank Stockton ever wrote, 
and that it was published in some country newspaper when he 
was quite a young man. The Enterprise Gazette, was it not, 
Mr. Scrabner?" 

"The Enterprise Gazette for August, 1855, and here it is, 
imposter !" and the little man fairly threw the paper at Quent. 

It was indeed the Enterprise Gazette and on the back page 
the familiar title seemed to leer vindictively up at him. As he 
glanced down the columns and noted the familiar phrases and 
expressions his first emotion was an instinctive resentment that 
anyone should have printed his story here in — then the realiza- 
tion of his foster-parent relation to it drove him to seek refuge 
in impotent anger against the real parent. "He had no right 
to — " he burst out, but Scrabner knocked his words aside. 

" Right I Who are you to talk of right ? " he screamed. 


" Frank Stockton himself gave me the right," Quent answered 
loftily. '' I suppose he thought he would get funny and play a 
practical joke on me, that's all. Well," he continued, not 
heeding the bl-ank expression on the faces of the other two men, 
" it^s just a bit too blame practical for me." 

''Man alive, what are you talking about ?" asked Doyle in a 
bewildered tone. " Stockton couldn't have told you that story. 
He has been dead ten years, and you never knew him. Try to 
tell us where you got hold of it. Didn't you see this paper ? " 

"Never saw the fool paper before in my life. And for 
Heaven's sake don't take that tone, Frank. I'm not crazy,. 
even if Stockton is dead. I saw some blame spiel in a paper 
about Stockton's writing stories in Heaven, and I'd been getting 
my work back from everywhere. I thought if I could only get 
one story to go, and go hard, I'd be all right, and perhaps 
Stockton — well — perhaps he would have the goods. I went to 
a medium, or whatever you call the creatures, and, well, it 
wasn't a pleasant experience. But I came back with a story, 
and I sent it out to you. I had no idea it had been published 
or even written on earth, which is where Stockton's little joke 
comes in, I suppose. I meant at first to tell, sometime, and 
then somehow I didn't see my way clear. That's the whole 
tale." He squared himself defiantly. "Now say what you 
please, I don't care." 

" But you will, you will," gleefully cackled the little old man, 
whose face, while Quent was speaking, had taken on a diaboli- 
cal look of virtuous and vengeful triumph. "We'll do you 
yet, we'll show you," and he drew himself up into a dignified 
attitude and flung his arms out grandly, "that you cannot 
unpunished tamper with the works of great men. We, we 
who love and reverence them, will rise in their behalf and will 
defend them with all our strength, aye, with our lives." 

Quent made no motion, but stood stolidly waiting. Doyle, 
however, moved restlessly. 

"Don't you think, Mr. Scrabner," he began, "that perhaps it 
would be better in every way to let the matter rest ? It would 
be a most delicate matter to explain, and it would mean so 
much to Mr. Quent, and to me also, as editor." 

"Sir, if you are not willing to do your duty, and cry out the 
shameful case," Mr. Scrabner replied haughtily, "I must. Never 
wittingly will I permit a man to plagiarize with impunity. 
This is my heaven-sent duty which I must perform." 


For an hour the two men argued, hotly and stubbornly, 
while Quent stared stonily out of the window, and at the end of 
that time Mr. Scrabner, by virtue of his obdurate vengefulness 
and perversity, triumphantly bore away Doyle's promise of a 
complete disclosure. 

For the next few weeks Quent lived in a state of mingled 
dread and relief — dread of the day that should hurl knowledge 
at all the gossiping world, relief from a responsibility which 
had slipped from him. When he thought of his work, and of 
the new book which would soon be at the mercy of public and 
critics, and of his own future, despair gripped him and turned 
him sick. He realized now the inconsequent foolishness of his 
act, by which he had thought to gain his prize by a sudden 
clever, strategic move, rather than by sheer toil and perse- 

The explanation was to be made in the July number of the 
People's Age. It would come out on the twenty-fifth of June. 
After that date, he told himself, there would be no future for 
him. He had committed an unforgivable sin, and the public 
would demand his atonement. He would be an outcast, ostra- 
cized ; his career would be blown to the winds, and he — well, 
he would find something to do. He might take up farming. 
Then a revulsion of feeling would sweep him in the opposite 
direction. Surely, all this could not be. Something would 

The twenty-fifth of June came at last and with it the July 
People's Age. At the sight of the familiar brown cover on the 
subway news stands, Quent's knees grew weak, and he paced 
the platform restlessly, watching the stand uneasily from the 
corner of his eye. He did not go to the oflBce that morning, 
but took the train for the country, not much caring whither it 
took him, and wildly cursing the sportive spirit whose mischief 
had led him into trouble, he hid from the world's accusing 
finger for the space of three days. 

On the fourth day he returned from his seclusion, haggard, 
but quieted, and half-reconciled. He walked into his room 
that evening, and found Doyle sprawled out in an easy chair, 
reading a paper and blowing curly, lazy smoke into the air. 
Before Quent could summon up a protesting and unfounded 
sense of resentment Doyle was shaking him vigorously by the 


'* Have you seen the papers ?" he demanded eagerly. 

Quent shook his head. '' I don't care to very much," he said 

Doyle nodded understandingly. ^'They have handled you 
pretty kindly, though, for some reason. You ought to be 
grateful to them. But, Charley, this thing has boomed you tO' 
the skies." He leaned forward excitedly. " ' The Dyer's Hand*" 
has sold out one edition in the last three days." 

Quent started forward and gripped Doyle by the shoulders. 
"Do you mean that ?" he demanded sternly. '*Is that true ? 
Didn't they break me ? " 

"It's true. And you had better say they made you, not 
broke you. Coleman thinks that this is only a beginning. 
The second edition is already almost bought up in advance." 

Quent sat down suddenly, as if all his strength had slipped 
from him. For a while both men were silent, then Quent spoke. 

"And I have been eating my heart out for the last three days. 
I thought I would take to farming," he laughed. "What's all 
that mail on my desk ? " 

"Humble editors at your feet begging for stories, stories, 
and more stories, probably. Try and see, Quent." 

Quent tore open an envelope and glanced down the sheet,, 
then he looked up smiling. " It's Irving Bradley," he said con- 
tentedly. " He wants to see some of my work as soon as I find 
it convenient. He returned me seven stories in one month 
once. He has never accepted more than one iii his life, and he 
only paid me a hundred for that." 

" He won't haggle over terms this time," Doyle prophesied. 
" What do the rest say ?" 

"Same thing. Haven't I something I can send them. Glad 
to see anything I can send, etc." Suddenly Quent looked up 
from the letters with a gleeful smile. " I say, Frank," he 
chuckled, " I think Stockton has stopped laughing now. 
Don't you ? " 



Last night in the twilight, down the lane, 

My dearest and I x^assed on our way, 
And the thrushes sang in their sweetest strain 

And called to my dearest to stay, to stay. 

The roses looked up and saw her face, 

And bent o'er the path to keep her there, 
But I pushed their branches back into place, 

Cool with the dew of the evening air. 

So we passed down the lane and went over the stile. 
And the wind whispered low, " Come with me, come with me, 

The crescent moon, rising, looked on for a while, 
And all things were loving my dearest and me. 

Now, in the morning, down by the lane 
The birds are all silent, for she is away. 

The wind roves over the fields in vain 
To seek where my dearest is hidden to-day. 

And the wild red roses that grow in the lane, 
Dropping their petals one by one, 

Call to my dearest to come again, 
And turn their heads from the waiting: sun. 



Beyond the margin of the purple hills 

Lie worlds undreamed of ; golden mystery 

And bright adventure on the shimm'ring sea. 

A happy wanderer that knew no ills 

Has told the marvels of those worlds to me. 

So I am weary of this placid vale. 

Its rippling waters and its willow trees ; 

The sun-warmed meadows and the wind-swept leas 

Have lost their beauty since I heard the tale 

Of all that lies beyond the mountains' rim. 

How bright the sun upon their crests, how dim 

The shadow in the valley seems to-day ! 




How still you sit around the table ! 
The clock ticks loud, the lamp's aglow ; 
The clock ticks fast, the lamp burns slow. 

How wearying the day has been 

With all its small concerns, 

The house and family whats and wheres 

And whens, and how the cook-stove burns ! 

But now you're grouped around the table 

So still, so quiet with your books, 

And something far away about your looks, 

Something that has at length forgot 

About the garden-hose and cooks. 

Our easy chairs are close together ; 

Yet miles and years and winds and weather 

Are separating us. ■ 

" Brother, all hail ; I wish you love and joy ! 

My message comes by deep sea cable. 

The clock ticks loud, the lamp's aglow ; 
The clock ticks fast, the lamp burns slow. 
How still you sit around the table ! 



The wind was young once. 

In the cool, dark wood he came to woo me, 

Sprinkling sunlight through the thrilling leaves. 

I loved his timid kisses on my cheek 

And when he touched my brow with fingers cool 

My heart was won with all his winsomeness. 

But now my love is grown to be a man, 

Mighty is he, masterful and bold. 

He woes no more with sighs of tenderness ; 

In the whirlwind of his passion he carries my breathless soul. 

I quail and tremble, but I cannot flee. 

My heart adores the god that masters me. 




There was once a smart girl who had lived with the same 
family for three years. So of course the family thought they 
knew her very well, and one of her mistress' favorite remarks 
to the neighbors was, " Mamie is such a jewel ! And you always 
know she will do just what is expected of her I " 

This stability of character had been given her, I think, as 
armor, to protect her from almost overwhelming odds. In the 
first place her mistress, Mrs. Warren, expected Mamie to do 
everything. And it so happened that Mamie was by nature 
one of those people who do everything. She did not go around 
looking for work ; but she didn't have to. As soon as Mrs. 
Warren found she could do the kitchen work, the housework 
was added to her duties. After that Mrs. Warren began to 
count on her for little "extras," such as pressing out a frill or 
two or a suit now and then. In return she gave Mamie five 
dollars a week, Thursday afternoons and Sunday nights off. 

As for Mamie, well, Mamie wasn't her name at all. Her 
name was Margaret. However, Mrs. Warren's name was Mar- 
garet, so instead of changing her own name, which she had a 
perfect right to do, she changed Mamie's, which she had no 
right to do. But then, she never thought of it that way. 

Every Thursday afternoon Mamie spent at the Public Library 
reading magazines and those books in which the illustrations 
were startling enough to attract her eye. And Sunday nights 
she took the crowded, stuffy, suburban car out to Laketown, 
and there had supper with a little old lady who was a friend of 
Mamie's aunt. The old lady was very deaf and very anxious to 
be talked to ; consequently Mamie usually came back more tired 
than before. 

This is where the story really begins. Once after Mamie had 
spent an unusual amount of lung power on the old lady and 
had given her an exhausting description of Mrs. Warren's new 
spring suit, she boarded the suburban car, sank into a red plush 
seat and fell fast asleep. And of course the man next to her, 
being below middle age and above medium stature, looked down 

2 1 1 


at the tired girl beside him and pitied Mamie because of the 
dark circles under her eyes and the brignt crimson spot on 
either pale cheek. He admired secretly her brown hair and 
wondered what color her eyes were. 

The man was rather different from the ordinary men that 
Mamie saw on the "nine o'clock city special." To be sure his 
clothes bore none of the distinguishing touches of a fashionable 
tailor; they were decidedly "store made." But there was a 
look about his eyes and a little turn of his under lip that saved 
him from being homely, and his black hair was gray enough at 
the temples to save him from looking hopelessly young. He 
took out a magazine and began to read. 

As the wheels rattled over a crossing Mamie wakened with a 
start, and stared around her half -dazed. Before she knew it 
she had looked straight into her neighbor's eyes— and he found 
that hers were deep blue. Abashed she glanced at his maga- 
zine, and unconsciously read the title of his story. That was 
all. He went on reading and she got off at the next corner. 

The next Thursday Mamie, having pressed frills until her 
wrists and eyes ached, walked to tho Public Library, entered 
briskly and, abashed at hearing her footsteps echo ahd reecho 
along the halls, stopped and tiptoed to the nearest shelves, with 
the approved "library attitude." 

She was startled to find herself gazing into two dark-brown 
eyes, and the owner of the brown eyes was iu turn duly startled 
at the reappearance of the blue of the "suburbanite." Mamie 
muttered something about " magazines" and tiptoed off again. 
She entered the magazine room, with its smell of rubber mat- 
ting and its rows of shiny tables. This time she had no diffi- 
cultj in making her selection. It was the story of the " Brown- 
eyed Man " that she selected. 

Being a girl she did not stop long on the description of the 
heroine ; the glowing account of her blue eyes, brown hair and 
tired face was lost on Mamie and she only lingered for a moment 
on the details of the yellow satin dinner gown which enveloped 
the faultless form of this paragon. 

But she dwelt at length on the paragraph devoted to a clean- 
shaven, bold hero who seemed to know exactly what to do at 
every turn of the complicated plot. He had, she learned, an 
endless amount of money and Mamie sighed, thinking of the 
bare kitchen and the bleak bedroom which were home to her. 


And after she had sighed she wished she hadn^t done so, for 
glancing up, she saw the brown eyes looking in her direction. 

That was all, but Mamie laughed to herself all the way back 
to her— that is, to Mrs. Warren's home, and said, ''If he turned 
out to be rich and secretly in love with me it would be funny ! 
But as it is, it's just happened and he isn^t rich or he'd have 
better clothes. He's that kind." 

Then she went in and did everything she could find to do to 
keep from thinking of pleasant but improbable things. 

And it so happened that every Sunday night the man was on 
the " nine o'clock city special, '^ and every Thursday afternoon 
he was in the magazine room at the Public Library. So most 
naturally they said "Good-afternoon" at the Library, and 
when they sat together on the car they talked, mostly about 
the stories they had read. 

Mamie found he had read a great many books, and he recom- 
mended some of his favorites to her. Strangely enough, after 
that they both deserted the magazine room and met again in 
various other parts of the building. Above all Mamie 
loved fiction. Just where she got her " sentimental streak," as 
she called it, she never knew ; surely not from her matter-of- 
fact farmer father, nor from her hard-working mother who 
never smiled and was not given to "acting foolish, even with 
the children." 

So time went on until Mamie had been with the same family 
for four years. She was now "doing a little sewing for the 
children now and then," aside from her numerous other tasks. 
As she took care of the children evenings while Mr. and Mrs. 
Warren were out, her wages were raised to six dollars a week. 
With this princely sum and more which she had saved Mamie 
bought her new spring suit and hat. And she laughed when 
she handed over her twenty-five dollars, for she knew that she 
was the " kind that liked better clothes, too." 

The next Sunday was warm and sunny, and the little old 
lady was more eager than ever to hear how the children were, 
how the new cake came out and whose parties Mrs. Warren was 
attending. She received thunderous answers to her mild, slow 
little questions, and when Mamie left she gave her a large 
bouquet of apple blossoms. Mamie ''just loved '^ the flowers, 
but secretly she was so tired she hated to carry them. 


On the car she sank into her accustomed seat and closed her 
eyes. The *'clickety-click" of the ties as the wheels buzzed 
over them soothed her tired nerves. The brown-eyed man 
glanced down at her again — just as he had a year ago — and 
thinking to bring a smile to her tired lips he said, ^^ The wealth}^ 
hero has arrived, I see,^' and he touched her new suit lightly. 

There was no answer. But when he glanced at her again he 
saw something that made him draw his breath sharply. Then 
he made a motion as if he were going to take the apple blossoms 
from her hand. But something happened and he changed his 
mind — and his hand was still on hers. 

And the clickety-click of the ties sang, " He lias come, he 
has come ! " 

The next Thursday afternoon the brown-eyed man and the 
blue-eyed girl entered the magazine room on tiptoe. Then 
they sat for a long time reading a story in a magazine which 
was a year old. After they had finished the man sighed. 

" The trouble is, you see, that heroes are always millionaires, '^ 
said he. 

^* Not aZii;a2/5," said Margaret. 



Across the common and up a winding road, 
Bordered by hedge-rows, tall and green and neat, 

Shutting in brimming fields of golden grain, 
With scarlet poppies laughing through the wheat. 

Tall trees that touch their branches overhead, 
And fleck the road with dancing bits of light, 

A brook that tumbles down its stony bed, 
Laughing with all its might. 

Then follow to the middle of the moor 

A little path that loses itself there, 
While round it, like a sea without a shore. 

The purple heather stretches everywhere ; 

And the Surrey hills that are dreamy, hazy blue, 
Roll their long and misty lengths away, away. 

And you look at them and wonder if it's true 
That behind them lies the road to yesterday. 



Under the blue pavilion of the sky, 

Where ravelled clouds their carded fleeces spin, 
The apple orchard spreads its leafy tent 

And chambers mellow aisles of shade within. 
All cool and dark the swimming air, and green 
As some dim emerald pool within the ocean's deep demesne. 

All cool and dark and green the swimming air, 

Save where the riddled canopy lets through 
Some trickling drops of sunshine, whose bright pools 

Checker with gold the grassy avenue. 
The whispering breeze, the rustling bird, the bee' 
Voicing that teeming silence which is Nature's harmony. 

Hark ! Through the stillness, pulsing waves of mirth. 

The untaught melody of childish glee. 
Ripple and break ; and from the farthest shade 

A bright form gleams and darts from tree to tree. 
Now back, now forth it twinkles o'er the grass. 
Till, nearer drawn, an errant beam reveals a little lass. 

As when the painted autumn leaf is lured 

By jocund zephyrs from its mother bough, 
And frolics downward in a zig-zag path, 

Now poised midway a tremulous instant, — now 
With one swift, headlong rush, a leaping fire, 
Darts to the earth and vanishes amid the tangled brier, — 

So she, charmed by an opal butterfly, 
Pursues, with arms outstretched, its eager flight, 

And now she gleams athwart a golden ray, 
Now slips from view within the shadow's night. 

Her eager feet in mazy patterns lead 

Adown the lanes where shifting lights their tapestries have spread. 




I saw him steal carefully from the animated group of his 
schoolfellows who were intent on some question involved in a 
game of marbles and, crossing the bare school yard unheeded, 
push aside the bushy hedge and jump the small stream which 
reminded one of an ancient moat in this connection and purpose. 

A small, insignificant-looking fellow of some twelve years of 
age he had appeared in the school yard ; a timorous air seemed 
to fold him round like some garment, and he seemed to prefer 
to watch rather than to participate in the games. I had not 
noticed him until his movement of withdrawal caught my 
sharp eyes. 

After jumping the stream he turned and looked back to make 
sure that no one was following and was evidently satisfied that 
he was unobserved, for the thick bushes hid me. And then the 
miracle happened ! His mantle of timidity and insignificance 
fell from him and I saw a slender, supple lad with brown hair 
and keen blue eyes. 

He stooped down and soon I saw that he was drawing off 
shoes and stockings. This accomplished, he straightened, took 
a deep breath, and started on a run for the woods some ten rods 
distant. I had a secret feeling of prying, of treading on for- 
bidden ground, but he had enchanted me and I could not but 
follow him, keeping well behind that he might not see me. 

How fast he ran ! Little bare brown legs flashing, flashing 
like shuttles in a loom, and head bent forward with firm 
purpose. He skirted the edge of the woods for a few minutes, 
then dashed into them on a narrow trail ; these were evidently 
old hunting grounds ; no hesitation delayed him now. 

The path led up a gently sloping hill covered with spring 
wild flowers and dainty fern lacework. Here the world was 
predominantly green and blue — no dismal shades, but the living 
tints of spring. The boy stopped here and there to admire some 
rarely exquisite arbutus or some slender Mayflower, breathing 
in the soothing fragrance. 



Up, up the path led, through grey bowlders half moss-covered 
and over deceitful little gullies hid by last fall's dead leaves ; 
and up we followed it, he a lithe impersonation of a little fawn 
or satyr, never losing footing nor misjudging the distance of 
a leap. 

We had now reached the top of the hill and, writhing up an 
unusually large bowlder which guarded the brow, he stood up 
and looked upon the scene which he had chosen to leave. Far 
below him the little city lay steeped in the early morning sun- 
shine, seemingly half asleep. Over to the right was the school- 
house and yard, the latter now deserted for the hot, busy hum 
of work inside the building. 

A flock of crows flew by him with their great wings flapping 
cheerfully, and off in the distance a lonely flicker followed his 
strange, inundating path. A drowsy bumble-bee hummed in a 
near-by bush ; and the boy stretched his arms and again drew 
in a deep breath, many of them, then burst into a joyous peal 
of laughter. To me it meant more than he could have told me 
in words, had he tried. A little pity, perhaps, for the poor, 
drudging schoolfellows, a gladness that the world was his, lay 
there before him to do with as he willed ; but most of all, joy, 
pure joy to be living and breathing and laughing. 

I forgot that he did not know of my presence. From my 
short distance I called out an answer to his expressed joy. 

Again a change passed over him. His arms dropped to his 
sides, he glanced quickly around and, seeing me, jumped down 
the bowlder and ran. I thought he had run swiftly before, but 
I had still swifter running to see now. He sped through the 
underbrush and had disappeared into the misty greenness of 
the woods before I could gather my thoughts. Far down the 
path a crunching noise died away and the kindly woods hid 
him from my view. In vain did I call, assuring him that 
I meant no harm. The little wild creature had gone, not to 

The flicker still swooped in dizzying patterns and the bumble- 
bee still hummed and droned, but the most of the joy and 
happiness had gone. Soon I too went, passing slowly through 
the leafy path, picking my way with care. 

I have watched for the little figure often since, but never 
have I seen him. His schoolfellows still throng the narrow 
playground at recess time and play their old games, but his 


figure is missing from among them. I go often to the hilltop 
and rest on the bowlder, scanning the whole hillside for him. 
Once I heard a slight movement in the underbrush near me as 
I ascended the hill, but I could prove nothing — it might have 
been some squirrel or other little wood inhabitant. And I 
wonder if I shall ever see him again with his bare, brown legs 
and small, keen, wistful face, and hear his joyous laugh. 



Such pictures ! As you look you quite forget 

That you are grown, and can no longer play 

In fairyland ! You are a child again, 

Lord of this towered castle gray and tall. 

See how the pennant from yon banner floats 

Out on the evening breeze, as you ride on 

O'er drawbridge, 'neath portcullis grim, 

Welcomed by your retainers great and small 

With cries of joy, "All hail the conqueror ! " 

And leaping from your charger, in you go 

To feast in torch-lit halls of splendor rare. 

Or, if you should prefer, you might become, 

Instead of knight, a pirate bad and bold. 

Yo ho 1 The wind shrieks through the rigging taut, 

The spray flies far before your boat's sharp prow, 

Their ship is swift, but yours is swifter still ! 

On, on ! Before the wind ! Spread every inch 

Of sail 1 You've got them I Aye, with treasure, too ! 

Pearls, diamonds and gold, just heaps of gold ! 

But maybe you'd just rather be a child. 

To go exploring in the dark, deep woods, 

Where fairies live, and elves and gnomes? 

You'll find them if you search and then they'll play 

With you, and share with you their treasure troves, 

And show you where the magic pools lie hid, 

And tell you everything you want to know. 

Or would you care to run and leap and swing 

Again the way you used to, years ago? 

Just look into his pictures, and forget 

That you're grown up ! He'll show you how ! He knows I 



I saw a tiny elfin who was dressed in green and yellow 
With many jingling hairbells on his small red hood. 
And he frisked within the twilight like a jolly little fellow 
While his merry laughing hairbells went a-tingling through the wood. 
And the night was growing older, 
Grey and dark and black and colder, 
And the night was getting blacker through the pine trees in the wood. 

Above the cracking branches came the blinking moon acreeping, 

And shadows formed like monsters on the cold dirt ground. 
Deep within the empty silence every little bird was sleeping, 

While the hollow wind went whistling bleak and comfortless around. 
And the stars were growing whiter, 
Clear and sharp, then gold and brighter, 
While the hollow wind went groaning through the branches all;[around. 

Among the dropping pine-cones and within the chill moon glances 

I watched the little elfin in his midnight glee, 
And the dusky, dancing shadows disappeared like hollow fancies, 
For I loved the little elfin who skipped about with me. 
But can it be I'm growing colder ? 
Wiser, learned, grave and older? 
For now I find no laughing elf to frisk about with me. 



Against yon meadow's fringe of darksome pine 
The fireflies flicker in uncertain flight ; 

The steady stars burn on ; are thoughts of mine 
Thus to Thy thoughts, Eternal Lord of Light ? 




They were walking leisurely along one of the fascinating, 
unexplored, winding roads which leave Northampton in every 
direction and end 'most anywhere in the surrounding country. 
It was a blue jewel of a day with a clear, deep, cloudless sky 
overhead and Mount Tom Range in the distance, transformed 
by the Midas-touch from its one-time restful hue to a mass of 
brilliant color with alternate splashes of flaming crimson and 
golden and yellow and here and there a stray green relic of the 
departed summer. 

Nearer, in the middle distance, were level fields broken at 
intervals by shocks of brown cornstalks with tasseled heads 
and nearer yet, too near in fact to borrow the enchantment that 
distance lends, were the broad, prosaic acres of an onion farm 
strewn with dirty little gray bags packed full of the delectable 
fruit and emitting the same familiar, peculiar, penetrating odor 
that onions have always emitted ever since their happy child- 
hood back in Adam's vegetable patch. I am not bemoaning 
the fact for I like the smell of onions at this early stage of 
their existence and it is only after they have been cooked and — 
but why go into detail ? This story is about freshmen, anyway. 

There were three of them walking along the dusty, gray 
road in the warm, golden sunshine of the late October day. 
The musical warbling of the birds in the woods at their right 
fell upon unheeding ears and the interesting antics of a lively 
young squirrel on the board fence at their left were likewise 
unnoticed, for the three girls were completely wrapped up in 
their own conversation, the all-absorbing subject of which was 



Ermingarde was speaking. "I suppose freshman year is 
hard," she admitted, " but 1 am sure that after I get accustomed 
to my new surroundings I shall get along all right. How could 
I help it ? I was valedictorian of my class in Blakeville and was 
one of the brightest girls the school ever graduated, my princi- 
pal said. He expects me to reflect honor on the school and on 
my home town and I have promised to try. I think I can 
all right." Ermingarde was a rather pale, undersized, slim, 
sixteen-year-old girl with sandy hair, which she still wore in a 
braid, and rather nice brown eyes, which were marred, how- 
ever, by the gold-bowed spectacles perched on her long, hooked 
nose. Her apparent self-confidence impressed the others. 

"Oh, were you valedictorian ?" cried Grace and Eunice in a 
chorus and Grace added, "Why so was I back in Kenton, 
Missouri. Say, I'm awfully glad to know another intelligent 
girl. I was so afraid I'd be lonesome here. I guess it will be 
nip and tuck between us for first honors all right." She turned 
to Eunice. "Were you anything, Eunice ?" 

Eunice smiled at the frankness of the question. She was not 
exactly pretty but there was something very attractive about 
her clear complexion, her smooth black hair neatly fixed and 
her graceful, athletic figure. "Nothing like that," she replied 
in a pleasant voice, " but I was captain of the basket-ball team 
senior year and I think I stood third in the class." 

"Wedidn^t have a basket-ball team," said irrace, "but we 
published a school magazine, The Youthful Promise, and I was 
the editor-in-chief of that. I am quite literary and I hope to 
write books after I graduate from college. If in after years 
you ever come across a book written by Grace Mary Anthony 
you will know that I wrote it and so you want to read it." 

"I will," promised Eunice cordially. Grace was by far the 
prettiest of the three with a lily-white skin except for the faint 
rose in her cheeks, big, blue, innocent eyes and a lot of curly, 
radiant, golden hair piled up on top of her head. She was not 
Ermingarde's conception of a literary light but of course she 
must be one if she said so. 

" Well," she admitted, " we didn't have a basket-ball team or 
a magazine at our high school but I've had some poetry printed 
in the Blakeville Chronicle and that's a real newspaper." 

"O-oh!" said the other two in respectful admiration, "a 
real newspaper I" There was a long silence while the three 


girls were thinking deeply. Each of them had come to college 
with the idea firmly fixed in her mind that she would far excel 
everybody else in the class and now had come the first hint of 
a struggle. Finally Grace spoke. ^' Of course," she said slowly, 
"we can't all be everything." Nobody contradicted this self- 
evident truth. After a time Grace continued as if talking to 
herself, '^Personally I'd rather run the Monthly than do any- 
thing else." 

Ermingarde and Eunice brightened perceptibly. " I won't 
beat you out if Eunice won't," said Ermingarde generously. 

'*No, I won't," agreed Eunice. "I probably couldn't, any- 
way. Besides, I'd rather make the freshman team." 

''And I will stand at the head of the class," concluded Ermin- 

As she said this the three girls came to the end of the road, 
which left them on a high rock with a steep, sheer descent on 
one side, below which was spread out before them miles and 
miles of level fields and peaceful farm lands, a panorama of 
calm, rural New England scenery. It was near sundown and 
the hour, together with the atmosphere and the setting as they 
stood there high above the rest of the world, was conducive to 
lofty thoughts and aspirations. An inspired expression causing 
a momentary resemblance flickered in the three faces but faded 
immediately, however, when Eunice broke the spell. " It^s a 
bargain," she said and they solemnly shook hands. Thus was- 
formed the Third Triumvirate. 

The scene had changed. It was no longer mild October 
weather but the wind was blowing a gale outside, hurling 
great masses of wet snow and hail against the big windows and 
rattling the sashes as the drifts piled up deeper and deeper 
around the big campus house. Grace had just returned from 
spending a few days with some friends in New York and 
Eunice had met her at the station in a taxicab. After having 
tea in Eunice's room they went down into the parlor and settled 
themselves comfortably on the divan in front of the fireplace. 
At the other end of the couch was Nellie Williams, Eunice's 
favorite senior, fast asleep with a volume of Shakespeare on the 
cushion beside her. 

"Perhaps we'll disturb her," said Grace doubtfully. 

"No, we won't and besides, she won't mind because she's 
supposed to be studying for a Shakespeare written." 


" I bet that's a hard course," said Grace thoughtfully. 

'*Well, just a few/' responded her friend. "I never could 
pass it." 

Conversation lagged. They had discussed Grace's visit over 
their tea and now the heat of the wood fire burning cheerfully 
in the fireplace made them drowsy. Eunice was meditating on 
the changes which had taken place in Grace since that day in 
October, changes slight enough to the ordinary observer but 
very evident to her best friend. A few months ago the mention 
of a hard course, particularly of a hard course in English, 
would have made Grace determined to take it but now — well, 
now she did not display any undue eagerness to become ac- 
quainted with the great Elizabethan dramatist. Her face was 
thinner than it had been and on her forehead between her eyes 
was a fine little line which certainly had not been there before. 

" Do you know," said Eunice slowly after a long silence, "I 
wouldn^t take eighteen hours next year if I were you, dear, 
fourteen is all the college requires and really I think that is 

"Oh yes, I changed my mind about that," replied Grace, "I 
shall take only fourteen." 

"What are you going to drop ? " inquired her friend. 

"Art or English 13." 

" Why, Grace, not English 13 !" Eunice's voice was full of 
•surprise and dismay. 

"Why not?" said the erstwhile famous-author-in-embryo 
gloomily. " They say Miss Jordan reads themes for only two 
reasons, either because she likes them or because she doesn't. 
She read just one of mine last semester and since then I have 
been afraid to hand in anything. I just passed the course." 

"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry," cried Eunice. "I think you 
write beautifully. Please keep on trying." 

"Well, perhaps," sighed Grace, "but I am afraid you are 
wrong about my talent. Anyway, I shall be tickled to death 
if the Monthly ever puts my name in the back of the book as 
announcing my engagement to so-and-so or teaching school in 
Chicopee Falls. An ordinary diploma looks big to me now 
without any side honors." 

"Same here," was the laconic answer. " I got a fierce report 

" Why, so did I, only I was afraid to say so because I thought 
you had a good one." 


" No, and I just made sub-team because Helen Johnson 
couldn't pass the office. I wouldn't have stood a show other- 

There was another thoughtful silence, broken at length by 
Eunice. " Do you remember that walk we took and Lookout 
Rock where we three divided the class honors ? " 

"Do I!" exclaimed Grace. "How long ago it seems! By 
the way, where is Ermingarde ? I'd like to see her again." 

"You can't," replied Eunice sorrowfully, staring fixedly at 
the fire, "because — because she isn't here any more. She left 
right after mid-years." 

" Honestly ! " cried Grace. " Why, she was terribly bright, 
valedictorian and everything and the best scholar the school 
had ever graduated." 

" It was only a little high school," said Eunice, "and it had 
been running only five years and just two people graduated in 
the class before her and there were only five scholars in her 
own class. So that explains it." Again there was a pause as 
they both watched the flames, shooting up the chimney and the 
falling sparks, the golden head and the brown one close together, 
tears shining in both pairs of eyes. Something stirred at the 
other end of the couch but neither of them heard it. 

"Well," said Grace with a little catch in her voice, "I sup- 
pose that does explain it but there were four-hundred-seventy- 
six who entered in our own class and most of them are still 
here. If she couldn't keep up, how did they ? For after all 
she was the whole thing at home." 

" I don't know," said Eunice heavily. " I cannot understand.'^ 

There was another stir and the volume of Shakespeare slipped 
to the floor as the senior, murmuring softly in her sleep, quoted, 
I think from Mark Anthony's great speech in Julius Csesar, 
" So were they all, all prep, school shining lights." 



•' I will lift up mine eyes to the hills ! " 
To the hills I There is silence there. 

Silence and peace on the hills ; 
But the valleys, they are fair. 

The air of the hilltops is pure ; 

I will climb to the heights above. 
Yet the valley air is sweet 

With the fragrance of human love. 

And down in the valleys men strive, 
And labor and toil with their hands, 

Yet of labor and striving there comes 
A joy that my heart understands. 

On the hilltops I cannot guess 
What futures my heart may meet ; 

But the life of the valleys I know, 
And its loves, I have found them sweet. 

Yet Thou bidd'st me higher climb, 
Bidd'st me leave the vales at length. 

'• I will lift up mine eyes to the hills," 
And Thou. Thou wilt send me strength ! 



The little candle is burning low. 

The giver of yellow light. 
The little candle is burning low, 
And the great, weird shadows come and go 
As they dance the victors' dance, for they know 

They have almost won the fight. 

The little candle is lower still, 

And wavering wild its light. 
The little candle is lower still, 
And the bright flame dances its death-dance, till 
The dark shuts down with a fearful thrill. 

The candle is out. Good night. 



The whole affair came from our not being commissioned 
officers. It was later found out that I was the first boy who 

was ever graduated from S Military School without being 

an officer and, to speak truly, I was rather proud of the dis- 
grace, or honor, whichever you choose to call it. 

I was always at the tag end of everything. It seemed as 
though I had been born into the position, from the moment 
when, a scared "new boy," I had first entered the hallowed 
portals of the school, late in the term. I was the youngest boy 
in my classes, the newest, and consequently the "goat." It 
was my name that appeared every month at the end, when the 
rector read the list of ranks, "Jones, thirty-second." I accepted 
it without a whimper, feeling that I was destined always to be 
at the bottom, so what was the difference, anyhow ? 

According to the military custom of the school, any boy who 
came to class tardy, who appeared at roll-call with his boots 
unblacked or with a button missing from his coat, had to drill 
an extra hour in our free time in the afternoon. I was always 
late to everything, never was orderly, consequently^, when the 
officer of the day, with his haughty, stentorian voice, read out 
the names of those delinquent ones, "Jones" was always among 
them. I can remember yet that straight brick pavement in 
front of the chapel, where we formed ranks. After a while I 
got so that I never even listened for my name, for it was always 
there, so why take the trouble to listen ? When the order 
" Fall out !" was given, I always marched off with the rest to 
the "grove" as we derisively called it, a triangular plot of 
grass with a fence around it and three pine trees in the middle, 
which was the place of torture. In this hallowed spot, because 
it was considered a disgrace to be there, no boy was allowed to 
drill with a gun. But a cord-wood stick, much heavier and 
harder to handle, served its purpose. I think, in my most self- 
conscious moment I could never feel as ungainly, as awkward, 
as I used to when that cruel officer gave the sharp command, 
"Double time, march!" and we, with cord-wood sticks on 



shoulders, started off in that mad rush around the triangle. 
Often he kept us running so long that to drop dead on the turf 
would have been a God-send. But our lungs were too stout for 
any such romantic ending. I have the greatest understanding 
and s^^mpathy for that dog, much celebrated in verse, with the 
proverbial tin-can tied to his limp tail. 

It was almost at the end of the first year when I took up with 
Stuffy or, to speak more truly. Stuffy took up with me. It 
was he that made me "buck up." I had asked permission to 
drop algebra and had gained my desire. With joyful heart I 
happened to mention it to Stuffy. 

"What did Tiggy say when you asked about it ? " he inquired. 
*' Tiggy" was the instructor. 

''Oh, he said, 'Yes, I guess you are right. I don't believe 
you ever could learn to do algebra. You'd better drop it.'" 

"Look here," said Stuffy, bristling, "you don't mean to say 
that you're going to drop it after he said that ! Why, boy, he 
called you a sap-head I " I looked at him solemnly. 

"Stuffy, I guess you're right. I'll just go and tell him I've 
decided that I don't want to drop it after all." I did so, much 
to the instructor's amusement. 

After that Stuffy took a personal interest in me. I had been 
the butt of the school ail year, didn't have any friends and 
never had time to play football with the rest. Stuffy was two 
years older than I but we were in the same class. Under his 
genial protection, I came out of my shell like a snail to the 
sunshine. I got to classes on time, I blacked my boots and 
laVjoriously sewed buttons on my coat. I. gained confidence in 
my lessons. Soon, instead of Stuffy helping me in algebra, I 
was helping Stuffy. And, wonder of all wonders, "Jones" was 
no longer at the end of the ranks ! One day, as I " fell out " as 
usual towards the triangle, the stern voice of the officer called 
my attention. 

"Jones, why are you here ?" I muttered something to the 
effect that I was always there. 

" No, name not on the list. Fall out ! " 

Fall out ! No afternoon drill ! I felt like a pet squirrel sud- 
denly freed from its cage. I did not know what to do. But in 
a moment I saw Stuffy's broad back over the gooseberry bushes 
and with a shout I galloped off to join him. 


Now, after rather a length}^ introduction, we come to the 
real subject in hand. It was early spring of my second year at 

S , on the kind of evening when one feels tired of himself, 

tired of everybody and everything except the open. It was 
always Stuffy that started things moving. At dinner he cau- 
tiously dropped the hint that it was Thursday night. If we 
didn't go to study hour " Tiggy " would think us in choir and 
everybody knew that old Craps was too near-sighted even to 
see boys in the back pew. So it was arranged. There were 
five in all who, with proper solemnity, were let into our plan,. 
Stuffy, Joe, another congenial soul, and two other boys in our 
class, who, although officers, and a bit "leery," still conde- 
scended to join us. 

It was half-past seven when, with cat-like tread, we stole 
down the old brick walk and out into the road. I remember 
still the warm scent of newly sprouted shrubbery, and the puff" 
of the cool night breeze in my hair. As we walked along 
towards town we meditated upon our chances of escape. Would 
old Craps suddenly take it into his head to call the roll ? 

"Well," said Stuffy, "this" prison life is too much for me. 
When I get home you bet I'll hunch my shoulders. With a 
sigh he unbuttoned the tight-fitting coat of his uniform and 
we all followed his example. 

"And as for these," he recklessly tore off a hanging button 
and threw it far away into a field. " What's the use of having 
buttons on, anyway ? The only thing they're good for is to- 
give away to girls. Say, have a hunk ?" Here he produced a 
flatish brown piece of tobacco. 

"How the deuce did you get it?" we all asked in wonder, 

for at S school the boy who could hide tobacco, under the 

scrutinizing military inspection of pockets, drawers and closets,, 
was deemed a hero among his companions. 

"Aw, that's nothing. .Do you know where I keep it ? Be- 
hind a loose brick on the Rector's porch. Then at night I hop 
out and grab it. Here, have a chew." For a while we chewed 
in silence. 

" There's one thing you kids have got to learn," said Stuffy, 
"and that is to be able to chew and not spit. It's the mark of 
a perfect gentleman. Anyway, what would you do if you had 
to talk with the Rector for half an hour with a cud in your 


By now we had reached town and proceeded to Ike Hoffen- 
stein's Tavern, that place dear to the hearts of all who have 

been bad boys at S . There we ordered beer at once and 

called for cigarettes. 

We were in the very midst of our revel when the clock struck 
half-past nine. Lights went out at ten and an officer went the 
rounds to see that every boy was in his bed. Slamming down 
our mugs and money, we hurdled out. The end of a good 
three miles in thirty minutes, up hill, saw us hot and exhausted 
and if anyone had cared to look at us when we slipped into our 
rooms, he would have sworn that we had not been peacefully 
studying all the evening. My room was way down the hall 
from Stuffy's, so the officer passed him first. I could hear 
Stuffy answer present in a panting, breathless voice. Joe, 
whose room was next mine, not being so overburdened with 
flesh as Stuffy was, answered in a voice as calm as you please, 
and I followed his example. 

That night my dreams were happy, for I experienced many 
thrilling adventures under the Rector's very eye without detec- 
tion. However, my ioy was short-lived for the very next 
morning at breakfast the Rector gave out from his elevated 
position on what we called the " hash pulpit," the awful 

'^The following will report to me in my study after drill this 
morning, for breaking bounds." I looked at Stuffy, expecting 
to see a face dismayed. Perhaps I would had not Stuffy's 
mouth, being full of toast, presented a ruddy, bloated appear- 

All that morning that summons haunted me. Never before 
had I been actually called into the hallowed presence of the 
Rector. To me, the door to his study was something like the 
River Styx, when once one had crossed it, he might never 
return. At last the morning with its tedious round of duties 
wore away and the appointed hour arrived. Five boys, spick 
and span, with freshly brushed uniforms and shining boots 
and with buttons tightly sewn on, knocked at the sacred portal 
and when the solemn "Come in" was heard, entered into the 
dim study. High book-shelves lined ever}^ wall. In the center 
was a low table, at which sat a white-haired man. Surely no 
Augustus could be more awe-inspiring or dignified. I think 
all of us felt a whole lot sorry, in spite of our rebellious natures, 


at having caused this mau any trouble. As we stood there I 
renaember tracing along the line of books on the lowest shelf 
with my eye. 

I suppose the Rector's talk was like that any other head of a 
school would have given to refractory boys. He spoke of the need 
of discipline, especially in a military school, that the great cry of 
the age was the need of obedience, how the greatest generals, 
before they conquered cities, had first to learn the lesson of 
implicit obedience to their commander. 

I have often wondered where men gain the power of making- 
others feel about two inches high. I suppose it is inborn. It 
certainly was in the Rector. 

" For the next month," the Rector continued, "in addition to 
drill in the afternoon squad, I think it would be wise for you to 
give up your rooms and sleep in the general dormitory." All 
juniors and seniors had rooms of their own, while the " common 
herd" slept in long domitories. Now Joe, Stuffy and I were 
not officers. The other two boys had that honor and all officers 
had special rooms for study and recreation. 
It was Stuffy who thought at once of a plea for our rooms. 

"Rector," he ventured, "if we give up our rooms we will 
have no place to study outside of study-hour and, as we are 
juniors, we can't get along without extra study." 

" Then," said the unrelenting Rector, " those of you who are 
not officers may come here every evening to my study and do 
your work at this table. Then there will be no cause for your 
instructors to complain of my discipline interfering with your 

'^Say," said Joe, when we were well out of the door, " think 
of studying in there every night ! I'd rather go study in the 
morgue ! " 

Next evening, after the regular study-hour, books in hand, 
we three trooped into the Rector's study. It was all the same 
as before, massive gloomy book-cases, the low table and the 
white-haired Rector sitting before it. Without a word, he 
moved his work over to give us places and we all settled down 
around the reading light. I do not think any of us did much 
studying, although our eyes were glued to the page. Stuffy 
was brazenly reading Virgil for a week ahead, while Joe's book 
was open at the table of contents. But the Rector's serene face 
showed never a siern that he was aware of our existence. At 


about a quarter to ten he rose and with a quiet good-night 
went up-stairs to his room, leaving us in full possession of the 
the study. 

Like those proverbial mice on the disappearance of that feline 
monster, we began to stretch and look around. Joe looked 
under the couch to see if the Rector had a tobacco box hidden, 
while Stuffy and I stared up at the thousands of books that 
glared ominously down upon us. 

I have always prided myself that I saw it first and to this 
day I can feel the thrill that advanced along my spinal chord 
when I perceived it. There it was, as little and insignificant as 
you please, yet my untrained eye fairly spotted it out from 
all the rest. There it stood, among all the other ponderous 
volumes of stored-up knowledge, and it seemed strangely out of 
place. It was grey and said in black letters, "Homer's Odessy, 
literally translated." 

"Hi, Joe, came out from there! Look what I've found." 
It took only a minute to climb on a chair and pull out the book. 

"Whew! Look at the dust! I guess the Rector doesn't 
have much intercourse with the classics." 

'• Is it real or only a fake?" whispered Stuffy. I opened it 
to the first lines. Sure enough, tliere they were, staring at me 
in plain English, those terribly hard lines that I had dug out, 
figuratively and literally speaking, by the sweat of my brow 
and a Greek dictionary. Suddenly we all professed a remark- 
able interest in the Greek language. The book was laid face 
downward upon the table while we all crowded around it, 
pushing and shoving for the point of vantage. 

"Say, isn't this just like taking candy away from a baby ?" 
Stuft'y said. Our Greek lesson was finished in a remarkably 
short time, so that we attacked our geonietrj^ with vigor still 
fresh and b}'-, the time that the tower bell warned us that it was 
time tu be off, we were in perfect command of all our lessons 
for the next day. 

" Tlie next question is," I said, " where are we' going to hide 
it ? It would never do to let it go now ! " 

"No, it never would," they both agreed. So, with thief-like 
secrecy, we hid the precious volume back behind the other 
books and spread the rest out so as to fill up the gap. 

"Now if he misses it and asks us where it is — why, what 


"It isn't likely that the Rector will be hunting around after 
a Greek trot. Anyhow, we would not know anything about it, 
of course," I answered. 

The following day our instructor remarked on the excellent 
quality of our Greek lessons. We fairly shone, compared to 
the dimmer lights of the rest of the class. They looked at us 
in wonder. Surely, we must have been up all night, they 
thought, to "do up" Homer in such style. But our fresh and 
happy expressions seemed to dispute even that. 

In the evening we again went to our disgrace. All the school 
knew of it and we were regarded by all with feelings of min- 
gled awe, wonder and admiration. Surely we were bearing up 
bravely under such a strain, they thought. 

After that life took on a rose-colored hue. It became habitual 
for the Rector, tired out from his daily activities, to retire 
early and leave us in full sway. He seemed impressed by our 
quiet and gentleman-like decorum and left us with implicit 
confidence in our good-behavior. An academic atmosphere of 
study reigned supreme. Inspired by the "troths" kindly aid, 
we read far ahead of our lesson ; we soon were doing the work 
of months beyond, foreseeing the time when we would be help- 
less again. Also, on account of being able to get that bug- 
bear, Greek, in so short a time, we had more time and energy 
to spend on our other lessons. In geometry we fairly exhaled 
brilliancy ;' in Latin, the professor commended us on our new 
interest in the work. In the afternoon we went to our extra 
drill with resigned if not jovial faces. Be it double-quick time 
or not, even this could not mar our serenity of soul. Affairs 
got better and better. Professor Tygh even hinted around that 
I was a probable canditate for the valedictory next year ; and 
all because of one little book I 

One evening, near the end of the month, our usual solemn 
little group was assembled in the study, the Rector on one side, 
reading, Joe opposite, working equations, and Stuffy and I at 
the ends. I was particularly tired that night. The officer in 
charge at afternoon drill had had a "grouch" on and had set 
■QS running at double time and then had gone into the house to 
get a drink. I guess we would have been running yet had 
not another officer happened to pass by and compassionately 
released us. At any rate, I was wishing that the Rector would 
hurry up and go so that we might get our Greek done and go 
to bed, when he swung around in his arm-chair and said : 


*' Boys, I want to tell you how much I appreciate the excel- 
lent attitude you have taken towards this form of your punish- 
ment. You have endured it all with cheerfulness and with no 
sign of stubbornness or sullenness. I have also been informed 
by your instructors that your work has shown a marked im- 
provement in the past few weeks. I am happy to see that you 
are taking hold of life with a new vigor and I feel sure that 
you are going to succeed, all of you. I am convinced that you 
now see the folly of your rule-breaking, so I think to-morrow 
you may have back your rooms and I will tell one of the 
officers to erase your names from the list of afternoon drill. 
Good-night, boys." 

As his footfalls died away up above, we all stared at each 
other in bewilderment. After a long silence, Joe said, 

*'After all, I suppose the square thing would have been to tell 
him about the book." 

" Look here, Joe," said Stufify hotly, "what's the use of being 
bright enough to do a thing like this if you're going to spoil it 
all by telling ! " 

"Anyway," I said, "have a little consideration, Joe! Just 
think how awfully disappointed all our teachers would be ; and 
the Rector would be broken-hearted." I assumed a martyr-like 
attitude. " For their sake, my boy, we must not tell. It is our 

Then no one said anything for a long time. Somehow I 
seemed to feel the Rector's gray eyes 1-ooking at me, as he com- 
plimented me for my work. I looked up, to see Stuffy eyeing 
Joe sheepishly. 

"Fellers," I began slowly, "I think that guy was wrong 
when he said there wasn't any royal road to learning. You 
know, when the Rector began talking, it kind of put a fly in 
my ointment. Mum's the word about this, of course, but what 
do you say that we quit the royal road and take to the straight 
and narrow path ? As for horses, the cavalry may be all right, 
but gee ! it's the infantry that really does the business ! " 

"Look here!" shouted Stuffy, growing excited. ";Here's a 
Bible. Now we'll all swear. Put your hands on the book and 
say, ' By this Bible I do hereby swear henceforth to steer clear 
of all horses.'" So, standing around the table, with our hands 
in a heap on the Bible and with sober faces, we swore this 
mighty oath. 


Then Joe took down the gray volume and examined it fondly. 
Something like a grin flickered over his gloomy countenance. 

"Say, think of seeing this little guy for the last time. Get 
out your handkerchiefs, fellers." After a last fond embrace we 
put the book back in its accustomed place, then solemnly lined 
up before it. 

''Now pretend I'm captain," said Stuffy. "Company salute ! 
Company to the right, face ! Forward, march ! " And with 
heads held high, and in military order, we filed out of the 
Rector's study for the last time. 



One night I thought I was a bear, 

A great big wooly one ; 
('Course I was just pretendin', 

But it was the mostest fun) . 

I got right down on all four paws, 

And crawled around the floor, 
'N' then I shook myself so hard, 

And gave the awf'lest roar. 

One night I was a fireman. 

And rang a make-b'lieve bell, 
'N' jumped around mj^ bed 'n' then 

O' course I had to yell. 

Then nurse came runnin' up the stairs, 

And so did Ma and Dad : 
They thought perhaps I'd hurt myself, 

'N' my ! but they were mad. 

My fam'ly don't like any noise 

When they are tryiu' to rest. 
They give me blocks and cars and track, 

But pretendin' is the best. 

'N' then I play that I'm in church 

With lots of little boys, 
'N' I am givin' 'em licorish 

So they won't make any noise. 

'N' different times I'm different things ; 

There's lots of things I've done ; 
('N' course it's all pretendin' 

But it's just the bestest fun!) 




Across the blue arch of the September sky 

Race wind-driven, snowy clouds. 

The stately trees, crowned aloft with flame. 

Rustle their leaves in the sunshine, 

And, torn off by the breeze, scarlet leaves swirl down 

Dancing, to drop o'er the fountain's rim 

And float on the twinkling water. 

Life and the golden wind thrills everything here 

But you. little fountain maid. 

So quiet you stand, and gentle and cool and gray, 

With lashes dropped, and a musing smile touching your lips. 

A spirit apart, yet pervasive. 

As if the Peace of eternity listened — and listening sm.iled — 

To the sparkling Unrest of earth. 



It is seldom that I make jounieys or visits— my time is too 
valuable ; besides, all such interruptions are distracting to the 
mathematical mind. Last year, however, while I was at work 
upon a text-book in algebra, designed for the use of college 
freshmen, and in particular for the freshmen of Smith College, 
it occurred to me that I had a niece studying at that institution. 
I decided to look in upon hei' for a few days, in the hope of 
accumulating some data which might be of value to my book — 
touches of local color, so to speak. 

On the first day of my stay in Northampton, my niece and I 
were at luncheon, at a place frequented by the students — 


*' Hoyden's," I think was the name — when Emily said, ^' I'm so 
sorry, Uncle Horace, but I have an engagement for this after- 
noon. Pill Club is going on a bat." 

The phraseology was very strange to me. ''Pill Club?" I 
repeated in amazement. ''Why, my dear, are you studying to 
be — ah — an apothecary?" I was relieved to find that "Pill 
Club" stood for Philosophical Society, but I was still in doubt 
as to the nature of a bat. It must be a vehicle of some kind, as 
the girls were going somewhere on it. However, I did not 
enquire further. 

"But I have thought of something to entertain you," con- 
tinued Emily. " There is to be a lecture this afternoon at three 
o'clock, in Assembly Hall, on the subject of ' Possibilities of 
Probable Parabolas.' That will interest you, I'm sure." 

I admitted that the subject was a fascinating one, and ex- 
pressed my regret that Emily also could not hear the lecture. 

"It would be wasted on me. Uncle Horace," said Emily 
cheerfully. "I dropped Math at the end of freshman year. 
English is my specialty." 

"What a pity," I thought. "That young person is gifted 
with a really remarkable mind — excellent material for the study 
of mathematics. English, indeed ! And probably Shakespeare. 
I never could see why people made such a fuss about Shake- 
speare ; really sensible people falling all over themselves to 
bow down before him ! " With such musings did I receive the 
information that my niece was specializing in English. 

My niece had not given me very definite instructions as to 
how to find Assembly Hall, but I received the general impres- 
sion that there was a prominent building, noticable by reason 
of its tower and clock, and that if I entered any door of this 
building I could not fail to reach Assembly Hall. The building 
described I found without diflSculty, and noticing by the clock 
that I was already quite late, I entered the first door available. 
Walking along a corridor, I looked hopefully to right and to 
left, but saw nothing which looked like an assembly or a hall. 
Through the last door at the right, however, I saw, not a hall, 
but an exceedingly great assembly of students, massed about 
a desk, all trying to pass in little blue pasteboard squares. 
"Tickets!" I thought. "My niece forgot to give me one." 
"Are they compulsory ?" I asked a girl who was standing near 
me, indicating the card in her hand. 


** Yes, iiKleed ! " she replied warmly. "You get a deroerit if 
yoa don't hand oue in." 

"Do I?" I gasped in some alarm, but then recollecting the 
strange phraseology^ of the place — "Pill Club," for instance — I 
concluded that "a demerit" was some kind of emergency ticket 
to be had at the last minute. I was about to inquire further, as 
to where I might procure one, when I became aware of a lady 
in an inner office beckoning to me. I entered, wondering if the 
demerit was about to be conferred. 

"I am Miss Blank," said the lady, a most dignified person 
indeed, before whom I felt quite abashed. It is characteristic 
of me, I regret to say, to feel embarrassed in the presence of 

"You are Mr. X ," continued the lady, with assurance. I 

was about to protest, but so convincing was the lady's tone that 
I thought rather helplessly that perhaps she might be right. 

"And you wished to see me about your daughter, Miss Evelyn 
X , of the first class." 

" B-b-but," I stammered. 

"Yes, I understand. You would like very much to have 
your daughter stay at home until the Monday after the Christ- 
mas holidays. I regret not being able to grant your request, 
but it is impossible. A definite principle is involved; it is a 
matter of policy, of tradition." 

Here I managed to collect myself. The conviction of the 

lady had led me almost to believe that my name was X . 

But my daughter ! " Madam," I interrupted, " I have no 
daughter. I — I am a bachelor. I merely wished to purchase a 
demerit, by which I might be admitted the lecture on "Possi- 
bilities of Probable Parabolas." 

Miss Blank became very cordial when she learned that I had 
no designs upon my "daughter's" time, said that I need not 
get a demerit, and directed me to Assembly Hall. So ruffled 
had been my composure by the interview that when outside the 
door I could not remember whether she had said a stairway to 
the right or to the left. I went, however, to the right, and 
ascended a spiral stairway. I saw a number of interesting 
places — the interior of a tower, for instance — but nothing 
remotely resembling an assembly or a hall, or indeed " Possi- 
bilities of Probable Parabolas." Cautiously I retraced my 
steps — the stairway was steep. "Miss Blank must have said *to 
the left,' " I concluded, with my usual excellent logic. 


On ascending the stairway to the left I was confronted by so 
many possibilities — not of probable parabolas — that I conld not 
decide which door to enter. Just then, fortunately, three 
belated students appeared, and from their conversation I judged 
that they too were seeking, albeit reluctantly, the probable 
parabolas. Following them, I found myself at last in Assembly 
Hall. The seats were apparently all taken, a fact which amazed 
me, for though the subject was a most fascinating one to me, 
I had imaofined that undergraduate students might fail to see 
its true value. I mentioned this pleasant surprise to my niece, 
later, and she pointed to a footnote concerning the lecture, on 
the weekly bulletin, namely, "Attendance required of all mem- 
bers of the first and second classes." 

At length I secured a seat in a side section to the right of the 
platform, and spent a most delightful half-hour listening to the 
conclusion of the lecture. By this time I had quite recovered 
my dignity and poise, and I determined to seek a direct means 
of exit — one worthy of a mathematician, who is supposed at 
least to be firmly grounded upon the principle that a straight 
line is the shortest path between two points. Accordingly 1 
chose the door at my left, and went down the stairs with an air 
of calm assurance. A.t the foot there were three doors. Re- 
solved that to hesitate was unbecoming, I boldly opened the 
middle one. From a desk before me there rose another stately 
lady, with a smile of welcome. "Ye Higher Calculi!" I 
thought, "Am I again to answer for my daughter?" I was 
about to forestall her with a disavowal of the possession of 
such, but she was too quick for me, 

"Ah, yes, Mr, Z ,'' she began, "I am Miss Y of the 

Faculty Committee on Recommendations. I know your time 
is limited, so I am prepared for you. You wish to interview 
prospective teachers of German, chemistry and zoology ; am I 
not right ? I have asked a number of the seniors to meet you. 
Shall I call them in?" 

" Don^t, I beg of you ! I am sorry to have made this mistake. 
I was merely looking for an exit." 

" Oh, ethics," she rejoined. "How strange ! There must be 
some misunderstanding. But," consulting her list, "at least 
two of the seniors whom I have in mind are prepared to teach 
ethics. I will call them immediately." 

I do not know yet how I escaped from that room without 


engaging a teacher of ethics. But suffice it to say that I did 
at length fiud myself at the foot of the stairs which I had 
descended so confidently. This time 1 was about to open the 
door to the right when I noticed that it was labelled " Telegraph 
Office." Suppressing a momentary desire to telegraph my niece 
to send a searching party for me, I turned and mounted the 
stairs. I had not sufficient moral courage to open the third 

Arrived again in the now deserted Assembly Hall, I paused 
for a moment to get the facts of my position clearly in mind. 
Behind me was the door which had already led me to disaster. 
At the rear of the room, to the left, was the one by which I had 
entered — and I knew that that way was too complicated to be 
attempted again. By the process of elimination there were left 
two doors, one to the right of the platform, the other midway 
between it and the rear door. I chose the latter, distrusting 
the one by the platform because of the trouble into which its 
companion at the left had led me. When, however, I opened 
the chosen door, I reconsidered my decision. I am a man of 
caution, not willing needlessly to risk life and limb, and for 
one of my years and build an icy fire escape is not the ideal 
means of descent. I had begun to feel a genuine regard for 
Smith and its students, and should have sincerely regretted 
causing them the inconvenience sure to be attendant upon the 
failure of my text-book in algebra to be completed. 

I had then no further choice. To the door at the right of the 
platform must be entrusted my fate. All seemed to be going 
smoothly as I stepped carefully down the staircase, which 
descended in a beautiful curve. It was growing dark, and I 
felt my way, grasping the railing with characteristic caution. 
The last step — but unfortunately it was not the last, for I found 
myself sprawling in most undignified fashion before a colossal 
figure which stood at the foot of the stairs. When I had suffi- 
ciently recovered myself to peer through the gloom, at the 
features, I found that it was William Shakespeare to whom I 
was so unceremoniousl}^ doing homage. My musings of the 
afternoon flashed into my mind — " Falling all over themselves 
to bow down to him." 

" Oh, I've come to it, have I, William ?" I muttered. " Have 
you prepared this pitfall for just such as I ? " 


I arose with all dignity and opened the first door which con- 
fronted me. It led into a classroom, which I crossed, and 
entered a narrow hall. I found myself opposite a door which 
had some kind of inscription on it. "Faculty Recommenda- 
tions," I spelled, and fled. I do not know where I went then,, 
but suffice it to say that it was with thankful heart that I trod 
the icy pavement of Main Street some fifteen minutes later. 

My adventures of the afternoon bore fruit in one very prac- 
tical way. Next year when members of the freshman class in 
Smith College enter upon the study of mathematics, makings 
use of my text-book, which is to be published during the sum- 
mer, they will find under the head of " Permutations and Com- 
binations" some excellent, and I may add difficult, locally 
colored problems, dealing with the ways of entering and leaving. 
Assembly Hall. 



Sent out, like the proverbial cub-reporter, to get news for a. 
"write-up" for the Press Board, I found that the Dean was the 
first on my list of persons to be interviewed. It occurred to me- 
that the Dean might be very busy these first few days, busy 
enough to be approached and questioned in a short, business- 
like way. I realized that I didn't know much about business 
and its etiquette, and yet I could remember reading many a 
little article headed, "Advice to the Business Woman," in the- 
Ladies' Home Journal. As I thought it over, some of the old 
rules and maxims for success in business came back to me. 

The first one was, "Be neatly, tastefully and fittingly clothed.'^ 
Happily my coat-suit had just come back from a pressing 

It was already after nine o'clock and, being impressed with 
the fact that it is the best business policy to be the first caller,; 
I hurried along without making any plan for the conversation. 
It is my habit to decide beforehand what to say on a given 
occasion. I never think of entering a store to buy a yard of 
ribbon without having outlined and memorized my conversa- 
tion with the prospective clerk. Accustomed as I am to know 
exactly how to begin, I was quite nonplussed when I was- 


seized in the mid-air contemplations by the young lady in the 
anteroom, saying that I might enter the inner chamber at 
once. I was on the point of saying I would sit down and think 
over what I should saj to the Dean, when the young lady 
pressed a button underneath the top of her desk and a loud, 
jangling response came back. It was too late ; the Dean was 
plainly waiting for me. With a sickening realization that 
" Promptness is the politeness of business life," I walked over 
to the door. 

When I got there horror struck me I I did not know whether 
it was business-like to knock or to open the door and step 
briskly inside. Not one of my stand-by "articles" had forestalled 
this predicament. If I had only come later and watched those 
who were ahead of me get inside, I should not have been in 
this great quandary. 

" Please don't keep the Dean waiting," spoke the young lady 
at the desk rather crisply. Nettled a little by her tone, I opened 
the door and popped inside. 

By a big window with dark draperies sat the Dean, silent. I 
am thankful to say that I remembered the advice of somebody 
in the newspaper to say good morning with a smile to the 
person with whom you want to do business. I said it while I was 
dragging the door slowly to — I would not have had it slam for 
a good deal, because one should eliminate all unnecessary noise 
when in business. With my face respectfully turned toward 
the Dean, I kept on carefully, slowly, pains-takingly drawing 
the door to behind my back. It took so long that I had ample 
time to remember what an awkward, thoughtless creature I had 
always been; the one person in the world unsuited to interview 
the Dean. As I turned that strange, uncomfortable handle 
round in its lock behind my back, I wondered where I should 
begin my speech. Should I start it at once and throw my 
words over, as I had learned in elocution, to the Dean, eight or 
nine feet away, or should I walk over, giving her a specimen 
performance of how my ankles knock together ? I walked over 
to her desk and the time it took to get there seemed a long, 
drowsy, summer afternoon. 

Clutching pad and pencil tightly, forgetful of all the dia- 
phragm rules for good speaking, too intent upon saving the 
Dean's time to allow my attention to wander for an instant to 
the clothes she wore, I began as smoothly, simply, vividly and 


tersely as I could, " I represent the Smith College Press Board." 

The Dean smiled, amused. I fear that I am too small and 
too fat to represent anything in a diirnified, worthy manner. 

Smiling affably, as my readii-.g had advised me, but feebly, I 
rushed on to present my case in the fewest words possible. I 
galloped over what I wanted to do, who had ordered me to do 
it, whom I expected to interview also, and how I would bring 
everything I wrote back to be looked over and corrected. 

When I stopped the Dean smil^^d again. So kindly was her 
smile that I imagined it to be the preface to the request that I 
repeat my last hurried remarks. So I started to do so. She 
asked me to take a seat. I forgot about sinking gracefully into 
the chair, but I kept my eyes upon the Dean\s face in the most 
approved intent-upon-business way. 

The Dean began to talk, to tell me the things I should have 
fumbled around an hour or more to get at, through questions. 
She grew more interested in the subject as she talked. Her 
eyes lighted up. She leaned forward in her earnestness. 

The door behind me opened. I knew it, bat, according to the 
rules of business life, I kept my mind upon what the Dean was 

As the Dean paused the secretary announced my successor. 
With a hurried apology I offered to go. The Dean said I might 
come again for the rest of the interview. 

I walked out so wrapped up in what the Dean had said about 
her aims and the ideals of Smith College that I have a horiible, 
lurking, disconcerting suspicion that I did not close the door 
after me; that I was guilty of that breach of breaches of busi- 
ness etiquette. 


The Seeing Eye 

A curve in the road and a hillside 

Clear cut against the sky, 
A tall tree tossed by the autumn wind, 

And a white cloud riding high, 
Ten men went along that road, 

And all but one passed by. 

He saw the hill and the tree and the cloud 

With an artist's mind and eye ; 
And he put them down on canvas — 

For the other nine to buy. 

Margaret Louise Farrand 1914. 

To A Leaking Overshoe 

I trusted thee ; on stormy days 

When blew the wind and poured the rain. 
On thy protection I relied. 

Say, was my tender trust in vain? 
No, when together we were young 

Thou shielded me from every ill. 
And for the mem'ry of those days, 

Ah fair but false, I'll keep thee still. 
Thy shiny blackness does not show 

The fatal leak that inundates my toe. 

Angela Richmond 1916. 

The scene is laid in the Seelye reading 

A Slice o' Smith room, elegantly furnished with books in 

Drama in one act book cases, portraits on wall, a clock, 

studying students at tables. 
Enter Filia Smith, a senior, on a dead run, arriving at objec- 
tive table pale and spent. 


FiLiA (to students at table) — When did you come ? 

Students— We do not remember. We have cut dinner, we 
have cut luncheon, we have cut breakfast, we have always been 

FiLiA — Do you not hunger, my classmates ? 

Students — We hunger after learning, the food of the mind. 
We soar higher than hash, 

FiLiA— Who has the "Extracts from the Works of Petronius- 

One Pale Student— Alas, with the break of day I left my 
downy divan with the bed-box beneath it. As swiftly as my 
skirt permitted, I fled to the libe. Two were before me. The 
first is now half through her task. Forty times has the immor- 
tal work been promised. You are the forty-first. 

FiLiA — When, when will come my turn at the book ? When 
may I bathe my cerebrum, cerebellum and my medula oblongata 
in the fount of its learning ? 

Students — Perchance when the rose, woed by the breezes 
from the pulp mill, shall welcome the spring. 

FiLiA — Tell me what is within this book. 

Student with Book (in faltering accent) — It concerns food. 
Beginning with soup, continuing through meat, it lightly 
touches upon salad and in the end arrives at ice-cream and 

Moment of Silence. 

Chorus of Students— Our healed wounds are reopened » 
Again is matter victorious over mind. We sorrow for the 
things of the flesh. Oh for a cow cracker ! 

Scene of violent grief, the stronger sustaining the weaker. 
quick curtain. 

Margaret Bloom 1914. 

There was a time when I should have con- 
A Discovery sidered it the height of rashness to attend the 
theatre, a concert, or a class meeting, unless 
I carried under my arm a volume containing some part of the 
world's knowledge. Gradually these ideas have vanished, and 
yesterday when my roommate picked up a chubby volume of 
Moliere as she started for a recital, and asked in a parental 
tone, "Aren't you going to take your Math ?" I only shook my 
head, and wondered how long it would be before she too would 


be free from the illusion. For the idea that one will study in 
places not intended for that purpose is surely an illusion. Re- 
peated experiences tell us how small are the chances, yet day 
after day we persist in carrying our books to these places. 
What are the reasons for such a peculiar course of action ? 

Perhaps the underlying cause is habit. We become so accus- 
tomed to taking our books from class to class that when they 
are no longer needed, habit operates, and we take them just the 
same. Frequentlj^ they are picked up with very little conscious- 
ness of why we are doing so, the action becoming merely reflex 
in its character. We merely know that we are going among an 
assembly of people where, as in the library, there may be a 
chance for study ; at this stage habit orders our doings. 

William James declared that to our material selves belong all 
those possessions with which we are intimately related, such as 
our friends, our home, or our clothes. At college, then, our 
books must comprise a considerable part of such a self. Who 
could pass and repass the library without even a note book in 
her hand and still feel natural ? Instantly we would be aware 
of an incompleteness, even if we were wearing the coveted '' S '^ 
at the time. Because of this close relationship, habit asserts 
itself, and we tuck a volume snugly under our arm. 

At times, the influence of habit is not so apparent ; we hesi- 
tate a moment before we take up the customary burden. Then 
the passing thought that we may gain some notion of the next 
day's assignment exceeds in intensity a saner judgment based 
on previous experience. Something whispers tantalizingly in 
our ear : 

"You can't judge the present by the past. This time, all will 
be different!" 

It is nine o'clock, the hour we have gym, and Latin comes 
the next period. Horace was neglected the night before because 
of a friend's supper party, but a chance for atonement still 
remains. Into the gym class Horace goes, and is placed care- 
fully beneath a padded stool. As soon as we have leaped over 
the wooden horse a few times, we cautiously withdraw from 
our companions, and search out the poet. The first stanza of 
the first ode is barely read when " Get into line, girls," is heard, 
and Horace must be hastily replaced in his hiding. Our feel- 
ings are not helped when the instructor says, " I must ask you 
to leave all books outside." 


The next time, it is a class meeting. We remember tlie dis- 
astrous results of trying to combine gym and Horace, but some- 
how we feel that this is quite different. Surely it was not 
proper to take books to such a class, but no law of ethics can be 
violated if we study physics while votes are being counted. 
There may be time for a tennis game if the physics is finished. 
Moreover, by glancing out of the window we see that many of 
our friends have books in their hands. Consequently the theo- 
ries of Newton travel to the Students' Building, and while we 
try to comprehend them, if we do try, our friends keep up a 
constant buzz of conversation. At last, as the successful candi- 
date is led down the aisle, we drop our book, feeling that the 
reception we are according her is a trifle too material to be 

Those of us who wish to test psychological principles, such as 
distributive repetitions, find a delightful opportunity between 
the acts of the play. We read over our poem for elocution 
before we start, and repeat the reading after each act. Some- 
how in these cases the principles fail, for the amount we have 
learned is rarely proportional to the time or effort involved. 

A feeling of security is always agreeable, and even if the 
security is false we may allow ourselves to forget that part of 
it. When we select a book which contains the matter on which 
the next day's written is based, to be our constant attendant at 
an entertainment, we invariably feel safer than if we had 
left it in our room. The knowledge, if not in our heads, is at 
least in our hands, and by that much we fancy we are assured 
of a better grade. 

A final and very important influence is discovered in what we 
call conscience, combined with a lingering trace of New Eng- 
land Puritanism. Often in spite of work that needs our atten- 
tion, we decide to give over the evening to pleasure, but all 
thought of the work does not vanish as soon as the decision is 
made. Instead it persists as an obstacle to our action. Is it 
right, we reason, to devote ourselves wholly to enjoyment ; 
should we not at least allow ourselves the opportunity for a 
little work ? We overlook the fact that the value of the oppor- 
tunity is negligible, and appease all misgivings by burdening 
ourselves with the book in which the neglected information 
resides. If the book is heavy, all the better, for then we gain 
satisfaction in the labor involved. As soon as the desired 


knowledge is physically present, we indulge in a lurking hope 
that by some peculiar gift of Providence this companionship 
will be partially equivalent to mental acquisition. 

You must not imagine that an idea of the worthlessness of 
encumbering myself with books on every occasion occurred to 
me at once. The process of discovery was gradual. After my 
adventure in gym, I never again attempted to introduce Horace 
to physical education, and after that class meeting I made no 
more attempts to mingle physics and serenades. The theatre 
and concert mania persisted heroically, and has been only lately 
dispelled. Could my roommate know the freedom of my arms 
as well as my mind at the recent recital, she would, I am sure, 
permit Moliere and mathematics to remain side by side. 

Martha Fabyan Chadbourne 1914. 


I sit in my garret window, 

Look down on the passing throng. 
Everyone's clad in rubber 

And no one sings a song. 
The tar walk is black and shiny, 

It's covered with nice worms and things, 
That's enough to make anyone happy. 

There ought to be someone who sings. 
Don't they know that the rain in fall-time 

Is something we can't do without ? 
Don't they know that a lack of moisture 

Is sure to result in drought? 
Why don't they look forward to skating ? 

Oh. why do they look so chilled, 
When we must put up with downpours? 

How would Paradise else be filled? 

Dorothy Lilian Spencer 1914. 


What was the last question we discussed in June ? Was it 
not, — "Are the Northampton Players really coming back next 
year?'^ And this fall after the first hilarious greetings, did not 
most of us breathlessly ask of the girl who had been here since 
" yesterday morning",—" Are the players here yet ? When do 
they come ?" If one may judge from the frequency of such re- 
marks and also from the great number of students in the au- 
diences last year one can say with some assurance that the aver- 
age college girl includes the Municipal theatre in her curriculum. 
True, "theatre, three hours a week" does not appear on her 
schedule of hours. But the number of names on the theatre lists 
in the different houses and the record of light cuts need no 

However, we cannot attend the theatre from one to four times 
a month for nine months out of the twelve without being 
benefited or harmed by so doing. For every thing we think, 
every thing we see or do has its effect on us. Some one an- 
swers, "our City theatre cannot be harmful. The girls will 
seek amusement somewhere. And in a season of the Northamp- 
ton Players they are seeing better plays, better produced than 
they otherwise would see." But the result in each one of us, 
of a season of theatre going, is not entirely dependent on the 
merit or demerit of the performances. Whether we are bene- 
fited or harmed by attending the theatre depends less on wLat 
we see there than on our attitude of mind towards what we see. 

The girl who is going regularly to the theatre, no matter how 
good the productions she sees, "for something to do," for the 
merely emotional stimulus, is harming herself. The constant 
demand for excitement for something " doing" is a destructive 
force working against quiet thinking and truer living. It is to 
be deplored that so many people seek the theatre as they would 
a roller coaster, — as something to give them a thrill. 



But there is another type of theatre goer. Her attitude towards 
-a. play is very much what she has when enjoying a symphony or 
•a. piece of sculpture. She, too is there for pleasure, but the deeper 
pleasure of making her own whatever is worth while. 

Last winter the Northampton Players worked tentatively. 
They tried to learn our taste and to give us the best attractions 
possible. But this year they not only are trying to give us a 
season of better plaj^s, but they would help us to a deeper appre- 
<jiation and enjoyment of what they are giving. Their positive 
policy takes the form of a suggestion, — that we "organize 
dramatic clubs for the study of the plays and their authors. 
Each member shall keep a theatre bookin which to write indivi- 
dual impressions of the play and the acting each week." Criti- 
cisms of the play are to be sent to the management and a prize 
will be given for the best one. It is also proposed that these 
dramatics clubs prepare a play for a public performance to be 
given at the theatre under the supervision of the management. 
These suggestions are most interesting, although the plan is 
perhaps not a practical one for us. For our days are already so 
•over-crowded, it is doubtful, indeed very improbable, that we 
have time for any more clubs than we have at present. It is 
rather for any clubs already formed to decide whether they care 
to take up the proposal. 

But the most interesting point of this suggestion is the pur- 
pose underlying it, — "to help the young people in getting a 
■deeper enjoyment from the season of the Northampton Players 
and their plays," — which is the same as saying, "to help us to 
become a more intelligent audience." We have in a season of 
the Northampton Players an exce])tional opportunity to develope 
our critical sense, to learn to recognize the good when we see it, 
to distinguish the failures and to know why they are such. 

Last year too many of us went to the theatre merely to be 
amused. But this year at the first of the season would it not be 
wise for each one of us to stop and think of these three hours a 
week of amusement. Should we not be getting more out of 
them than mere entertainment ? Can we not let the theatre be 
■our " joy course" which, we are told every college should have? 
For we shall find that in proportion as we actively try to be an 
intelligent audience we shall be getting a deeper satisfaction and 
pleasure from our theatre experiences. 


In a great city in a great country in this great world there was- 
a dictionary. And a great newspaper in this city wished to sell 
the dictionary. So it advertised the dictionary widely in all the 
street cars: a two dollar volume for ninety-eight cents, and a 
dollar volume for forty-nine cents. But the people did not buy 
the dictionary, for it was not great. So then the newspaper took 
away its advertisement and in the empty space it put up the 
word "Spizzerinktum." And under the word it advised the 
people to look in their dictionaries for the meaning. But the 
people could not find the word in their dictionaries and they 
wondered. Then the great newspaper told the people that in it& 
own dictionary they would find the word and know what it 
meant : a two dollar volume for ninety-eight cents and a dollar 
volume for forty-nine cents. And the people looked. They did 
not know how " Spizzerinktum" got into a dictionary, and they 
did not look for its descent or credentials. They did not care. 
But they looked and found that it meant " vim and energy," and 
they shouted it. They shouted it at the great baseball games,, 
and the street car conductors shouted it at the great crowd. 
** Spizzerinktum " met the eye and met the ear at every street 
corner. Even the modest little milliner placarded her promise 
of attention and despatch with it, and the great department 
store blazoned it forth in great letters a foot long. And the 
newspaper sold all of its dictionaries, a two dollar volume for 
ninety-eight cents, and a dollar volume for forty-nine cents. 
The dictionary was great. And the thing that made it great 
was this : no other dictionary in the ivhole world contained the 
word '' Spizzerinktum.^' 

A weighty problem now confronts the Exchange Department 
It is our bounden duty to write an article of five hundred words 
or more concerning the college magazines of the month, with 
the endeavor to criticise their contents. This editorial must be 
completed before the second of the month, and it should be 



interesting as well as instructive to those who venture to read 
the more serious portions of our magazine. This would not 
appear to be a difficult matter. But our readers must realize 
that the editorial this month should be based upon September or 
October magazines, which have not as yet been published. If 
any of our exchanges have been published, we are not cognizant 
of the fact, for no magazines have reached our hands. Instead 
of the piles of magazines that usually surround us, there are the 
broad empty spaces of our desk and table. And the second of 
the month draws nigh ! May we ask what should be done in 
such predicament? 

We have consulted some of our fellow members of the board,, 
and they one and all offer condolences and sympathy, and sug- 
gest that we criticise magazines that we received last June. 
But in the June number we made an endeavor to criticise those 
magazines, and we fear that, if there be any constant readers of 
this department, a second article about the same magazines 
would have for thera a musty flavor. The only alternative that 
occurs to us now is that of using imaginary periodicals. We 
are, however, afraid that this would be a dangerous precedent to 
establish, and our editorial would not in all probability be high- 
ly instructive from a critical point of view, however interesting 
it might be. 

Since it seems impossible for us to criticise as we should the 
college magazines of the month, we have decided not to criticize 
at all. We might discuss our plans for the year, except for the 
fact that this has been done carefully in a previous number. 
For the benefiit of those, however, to whom this magazine is 
new, we will state that we endeavor to criticise and bring into 
prominence the best of the literature in the college magazines, 
so far as is possible taking up each month the dominant type, 
whether it consist of stories, poems, plaj's or essays. Work that 
is poor we will leave unnoticed for the most part, with the excep- 
tion of a few cases where criticism may be a help and a spur 
toward better things. It is obvious that there will often be much 
good work, of which we can make no mention because of our 
limited space ; usually it is only that which is best for one reason 
or another that we can criticise in detail. And we should like 
to say in closing that we hope to tind in the college magazines of 
the year much work that is of such a high order that it will be 
difficult to decide what is really the very best. D. O. 


TuNGCHOU, Peking, China, via Siberia, July 6, 1913. 

Dear Smith Girls : 

This is not a proper time to be writing to you, for you are all off on your 
vacations, and will not see this letter till September. I shall be going off for 
my vacation next week, and am going to write now and tell you about the 
close of school and a few other things. 

We did not graduate a class this year for a year has been added to the 
course, but we planned an exhibition the week before examinations. It was 
held in the church one pleasant June afternoon and the program consisted of 
singing and gymnastics and the reading of original essays which the girls 
had been writing during the term. The girls were in their best gowns and 
nearly everyone had the new style trousers, not bound in at the ankle, and 
looked rather mannish to us foreigners. A new style, very stiff, low bow 
lias also supplanted the old-fashioned courtesy, and I am sure the audience 
was impressed as each head with its new style of coiffure bent low. Some of 
them doubtless were impressed because these girls could recognize so many 
characters, and stand up before an audience, and their read essays. There 
were proud mothers and little sisters, and many of them women who are not 
very much used to foreign ideas and ways. I expected the audience to laugh 
when the gymnastic classes performed, but they took it quite seriously, 
though I do not know what comments they may have made later on at home. 
We invited them all to go to the school afterwards and see the girls' work in 
drawing which was on exhibition, and to drink tea, but not many wanted to 
take the extra walk. Those that did come seemed to enjoy walking about 
the schoolroom and examining the the drawings and even the desks and 
seats, while eager girls served them with tea. 

Examinations are mostly oral and it is one of the foreigner's duties to 
listen to them, looking as wise as possible, keeping her place if she can, and 
being ready with an excuse when invited to add a few questions. Then 
there are averages to be made out and reports to be sent to parents. This 
year there was another important matter to be attended to directly after the 
close of school, getting the girls off to a summer conference. 

This year for the first time the Y. W. C. A. held a conference for girls at 
the Western Hills, near Peking. Two of the Y. W. C. A. secretaries are 
Miss Paxson and Miss Taft, whom some of you know, and I fancy the meet- 
ings were very much like those at Silver Bay. Some things were necessarily 

8 8 . 


different, for in>tanoe each j?irl was required to take her own bedding and 
wash basin, and the journey from Peking was made by rickshaw to the city 
gate and then by donkey or cart. Moreover the conference was held in an 
•old temple -the Temple of the Sleeping Buddha, where a few priests still 
■chant their prayers, undisturbed by Christian service I 

We had five delegates, two of them young teachers and three girls. I 
went with them to Peking, leaving them at our mission to go with the party 
from there. It had rained a little for two days before and we had been very 
much afraid that it might rain that day, in which case the roads would have 
been impassible, but it was a beautiful morning with a cool breeze, and we 
started off in fine spirits, on the morning train. It was the first time one of 
the girls had ever been to Peking and she was bubbling over with excitement 
as she watched the country fly by the car window. The bedding had all 
been sent the night before, but yon would have been amused at the little 
bundles the girls were carrying, neat bundles tied up in a square of blue 
cotton cloth, in true Chinese fashion. Several of them also had a tooth 
brush, sitting casually in a mug and only partially concealed by a hand- 

The girls were delighted at the idea of an outing, but they did not know 
exactly what to expect, and since coming back they have said, "Nobody 
knew what it was going to be like," and some girls did not want to go very 
much and the first day or two they said, " What a bore to go to so many 
meetings," but by the end they did not want to come away. I have never 
seen our girls so enthusiastic over anything as they are over the conference. 
They feel just as you do after Silver Bay. Moreover they want to do some- 
thing right away, and to-day they had a meeting to discuss plans. We have 
asked them to take charge of two Sunday afternoon meetings for women and 
children, and suggested that they might go calling with the Bible women, or 
might have a Bible class for some of the j-ounger girls who did not have the 
-chance to go to the Hills. Then they are going to substitute for me at the 
hospital where I go once a week to talk to the women at the clinic. It cer- 
tainly is good to know that they got so much out of it and are so anxious to 
give it to others. I am hoping very much that their influence will do much 
for the school next fall. Our girls are not little saints. Won't you think 
about us next year as you are starting your Bible and Mission classes and 
committees, and pray for us too. that our year may start well and it may be 
a good year clear through? We need your prayers, you can help us a lot 
that way. 

Loyally yours, 

Delia Dickson Leavens. 


1914 presents " The Tempest." 

Applications for Senior Dramatics for June 11 and 12, 1914, should be sent 
to the General Secretary at 184 Elm Street, Northampton. Alumnae are 
urged to apply for the Thursday evening pejformance if possible, as Satur- 
day evening is not open to alumnae, and there will x^robably not be more than 
one hundred tickets for Friday evening. Each alumna may apply for not 


more than one ticket for Friday evening ; extra tickets may be requested for 
Thursday. No deposit is required to secure the tickets, which may be 
claimed on arrival in Northampton from the business manager in Seelye 
Hall. In May all those who have applied for tickets will receive a request 
to confirm the applications. Tickets will then be assigned only to those wha 
respond to this request. The prices of the seats will range on Thursday 
evening from 81.50 to $.75 and on Friday from $2.00 to $.75. The desired 
price of seats should be indicated in the application. A fee of ten cents is 
charged to all non-members of the Alumnae Association for the filing of the 
application and should be sent to the General Secretary at the time of appli- 


Contributions to this department are desired before the end of the month, 
in order to appear in the next month's issue, and should be addressed to 
Eloise Schmidt, Gillett House. Northampton, Massachusetts. 

'04. Fannie Stearns Davis has announced her engagement to Augustus 

McKinstry Gifford. 
'08. Mrs. Arthur Coolidge (Mabel F. Tilton). Address: 49 Beech Street, 
Norwood, Massachusetts. 
Ruth Monroe has announced her engagement to Eddy Warren Landy. 
'09. Margaret Hatfield has announced her engagement to Stuart Chase. 
Mary Palmer has announced her engagement to Raymond T. Fuller. 
'11. Mrs. Fred J. Biele (Bertha Bender). Address : 318 72d Street, Brook- 
lyn, New York. 
Madeline Burns is assistant in the Administrative Department of the 

Women's Educational and Industrial Onion of Boston. 
Margaret Foss. Address : 19 Fairmont Avenue, Newton, Massachusetts. 
Jean T. Johnson has announced her engagement to Thomas Jewett God- 

dard of New York City. 
Joyce Knowlton is at the Finch School in New York teaching typewrit- 
ing, short hand and business methods. Home address : 33 Dwight 
Street, Brookline, Massachusetts. 
Hazel O'Neil has gone to San Domingo as secretary for her uncle, who 
has been appointed minister to that country. Address : American 
Legation, San Domingo. Dominican Republics. 
Carolyn Palmer is the Executive Secretary for the New York Smith Club. 

She is to be found at the University Club. 
Katherine J. Powell is teaching in the High School at Ellenburg, New 
'12. Elizabeth Noakes will be abroad for the winter. Address : Care of 

Baring Brothers, 8 Bishopgate Street, London, E. C, England. 
'13. Clara Ripley, Marjorie Lincoln, Maude Hamilton 1910 and Eloise Har- 
ney 1912 spent August at Cap al'Aigle, Canada, the summer cottage of 
Anna Chapin Ray 1885, as the guests of Catharine L. Chapin. 


'13. Caroline Clarke will take the Training Center Course under the Y. W. 
C. A. National Board until Christmas, when she will hava a secretarial 
position with them. Address : 72 W. 124th Street, New York City. 
Genevieve Clark will travel in the West for three months and will then 

be at home. 
Alice Cone sailed for Europe October 4, to be gone for the winter. Ad- 
dress : Care of Baring Brothers, 8 Bishopgate Street, London, E. C. 
Beatrice Darling is living at home and studying Design with Miss Sacker 

of Boston. 
Dorothy Douglas will be abroad for the winter. Address : Care of Bar- 
ing Brothers, 8 Bishopgate Street, London, E. C, England. 
Jane Garey has announced her engagement to Maxwell Barus of Provi- 
dence, Rhode Island. She is at present teaching Mathematics at Miss 
Beard's School, Orange, New Jersey. 
Xiea Gazzam is teaching English and coaching Dramatics in the Kelso 

High School, Kelso, Washington. 
Marion Halsey has a position as an apprentice to learn filing, in the Bond 

Department of the Guaranty Trust Company of New York City. 
Ruth Higgins is taking the secretarial course at Simmons College. Ad- 
dress : Stuart Club, 102 Fenway, Boston, Massachusetts. 
IMarion Hines is taking a medical course at the University of Chicago. 
Alice Kent is employed in the Personal Service Office of the Wanamaker 

Store, New York City. 
-Ada and Edith Leffingwell are living at the Studio Club in New York 

and studying Music and Art. 
IMary Lorenz has left for a year at Wei Hsien, Shantung Province, China. 

She expects to tutor in the family of a missionary. 
Clara Murphy has a fellowship for training in social work at the South 

End House, Boston, Massachusetts. 
Nellie Oiesen is taking a training course at the " School for Social Work- 
ers" in Boston, Massachusetts. 
Dorothy Rowley is teaching and acting as a secretary at Dwight School, 

Englewood. New Jersey. 
Clara Savage and Louise Nicholl are on the city staff of the New York 

Evening Post. 
Marian Storm is assistant to the head of the City Trades Department of 
the publishing house of Longmans, Green and Company. Address : 
Care of Longmans, Green & Co., 4th Avenue and 30th Street, New 
York City. 


■'Ol. Annie M. Buffum to Nathan W. Williams. Address : 3800 Broadway, 
New ^ork Citv. 


'01. Florence L. Byles to Joseph W. Barr. Address : 115 West Third Street^ 

Oil City, Pennsylvania. 
'04. Esther Josephine Sanderson to Rev. Percy Chandler Ladd, September 2, 

1913. Address : Moline. Illinois. 
'06, Mary Louise Thornton to Philip Sidney JNlcDougall. Address : 34 In- 
wood Place, Buffalo, New York. 
'07. Lulu Morley Sanborn to Raymond Aaron Linton, August 11, 1918. 
"08. Elizabeth Grates to Giles Munro Hubbard, September 26, 1913. Ad- 
dress : 268 Paris Avenue, Grand Rapids, Michigan. 
Malleville Wheelock Emerson to William Haller, September 3, 1913. 
ex-'OS. Catherine DeWitt Chambers to John Harry Campbell. Address t 

Port Jefferson, New York. 
'09. Elizabeth Beardsley to George McKeever, October 15, 1913. 
Eleanor Burch to John Elliott Jackson, September 20, 1913. 
Beth Crandall to Rollin S. Polk, July 16, 1913. 
Edith Hatch to William H. Rucker, July 1, 1913. 
Louise Milliken to Samuel Hiland Holden, September 10, 1913. 
Marcia Reed to Victor Arthur Binford, August 23, 1913. 
Frances Stevens to Kenneth Sargent May, September 4, 1913. 
Mary Stevens to Guy Carlton Hawkins, September 18, 1913. 
'10. Marjorie Eraser to William F. Hosford. Address : Manilla, P. I. 
'11. Marian Butler to Guy E. Boynton, October 22, 1913. 

Frances D. Campbell to Charles A. Cary, August 26, 1913. Address t 

2052 65th Street, Brooklyn, New York. 
Anna M. Daugherty to Carr Kemper Sutton. Address : Indiana, Penn- 
Gertrude Lyford to Edwin Ruthven Boyd. Address after January 1, 

1914 : Buckingham Terrace, Kelvinside, Glasgow, Scotland. 
Gladys Megie to James Morse Kingsley. 
Gertrude Russell to Edwin C. Doubleday, June, 1912. 
Florence Smith to Benjamin Franklin Tillson, July 9, 1913. 
Josephine Tripp to Lawson Wesley Wright, June 18, 1913. 
Ethel Roome to George Jenks Boutelle, February 4. 1913. 
Marguerite Underwood to John Randolph Labaree, July 26, 1913. 
ecc-'ll. Marian Lane to Arthur Lange. Address : Htibner Street, 15b- 
Gertrude Law to Chester Reith Thomas, September 10, 1913. 
'12. Helen Palmer to Percy Adams Rideout, October 11, 1913. 
'13. Alice Frances Griffiths to Augustus C. Wiswall, September 8, 1913. 
Address : 15 White Avenue, Wakefield, Massachusetts. 
Mary Helen Sneider to Oliver H. Starr, June 23, 1913. 
Edith Van Horn to Jesse Russell Watson, September 10, 1913. Address 
North Woodstock, New Hampshire. 



'08. Mrs. Frederick Dwight Downs (Florence C. Sheldon), a son, Frederick 

Sheldon Downs, born April 2, 1913. 
Mrs. Edmund Thorp See (Louise Edgar), a daughter. Ellen Edgar, born 

September 7, 1913. 
ea;-'08. Mrs. Harper Silliman (Gertrude Morris Cookman), a daughter, Caro- 
line Sleeper Silliman, born August 22, 1913. 
Mrs. Paul K. Dayton (Anna C. G-riggs), a sou, Paul Kuykendall Dayton 

Jr., born September 10. 1913. 
'11. Mrs. Tilden Graf ton Abbot (Josephine Dormitzer) , a son, Walter Dor- 

mitzer, born July 9. 1913. 
Mrs. Norman Slade Dillingham (Grace Clarke), a daughter, Elizabeth 

Clark, born May 25, 1913. 
Mrs. Martin Hartog (Florence Plant), a son, Martin Hartog Jr., born 

May 24, 1913. 
Mrs. Frederic Russell Moseley (Mary Rice), a son, Frederick Russell, 

born July 13, 1913. 
Mrs. HowajLd Murchie (Marjorie Browning), a daughter, Margaret Eaton, 

born August 11, 1913. 

Mrs. J. M.;3eay (Louise West), a son, James Miller Seay Jr., born Septem- 
ber 19, 1913. 

Mrs. George Sicard (Katharine Burrell), a daughter, Katharine Burrell, 
born July 17, 1913. 


October 15. Concert by the Boston Symphony Orchestra. 
** 18. Meetings of Alpha and Phi Kappa Psi 

" 21. Massachusetts State Charities Conference. 

'* 25. Group Dance. 

" 31. Lecture by George A. Birmingham. 

Subject : The Stage Irishman. 
November 5. Paj^ Day. 

Concert by Mme. Louise Homer. 
'* 8. Group Dance. 

" 12. Lecture by Professor Hastings Rashdall. 

Subject : Oxford, Past and Present. 
*' 15. Meetings of Alpha and Phi Kappa Psi 

4.00 P. M. Lecture by Alfred Noyes. 


Smitb CoUeae 

1Rovember:»» 1913 
©wneb an& publiebct) b? tbe Senior Claee 


Pope and Constructive Idealism 

The Trade of the Tide 

The Old Square 

"Bound in the Bundle of Life'' 

"C. O. D." . . 

Dawn's Bridal 

Marion Sinclair Walker 1915 65 

Katherine Biiell Nye 1915 74 

. Ellen Bodley Jones 1916 75 

Mary Augusta Jordan 79 

Ellen Elizabeth Williams 1915 81 

Marion Delaniater Freeman 1911}. 88 


The Passing of the Manchu Dynasty Mary Louise Ramsdell 1915 
Many a Time Have I Been Half in Love with Easeful Death 

Leonora Branch 1914 


The Philosophy of Gabrielle 

The Mon^ . . , . 

Autumn Afternoon 

Thrills . . . . 

Over the Hills 

Dvorak's Humoreske 

The Courtship of Billy 

The Great Miniature Painter 

"To Him Who Knocks" 
The Mountaln Tanager 

Alice Chamberlain Darrow 

Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Dorothy Ochtman 

Dorothy Homans 

Marion Delamater Freeman 

Jeanne Woods 

Adelaide Heriot Arms 

and Miss Nanny 

Frances Milliken Hooper 
Martha Emma Watts 
Mira Bigeloic Wilson 






















College "Eats" and "Bats" 
Philosophy 1a 


Kathleen Isabel Byam 1915 106 
Barbara Cheney 1915 113 



Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Massachusetts, as second class matter 
Gazette Printing Company^ Northampton^ Mass. 


Smith College Monthly 

Vol. XXI NOVEMBER, 1013 No. 2 

Lois Cleveland Gould 
Leonora Branch Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Margaret Louise Farrand Marion Delamater Freeman 
Rosamond Drexel Holmes Frances Milliken Hooper 

Margaret Bloom Dorothy Lilian Spencer 

Ruth Cobb Dorothy Ochtman 

Eloise Schmidt 

business manager and treasurer 
Ruth Hellekson 

assistant business managers 
Esther Loyola Harney 
Bertha Viola Conn 



Given " a crazy carcase," a Hfe that was ''one long disease'' 
and the heritage of a religious faitli whose believers were 
excluded from all political privileges ; and under these circum- 
stances endowed with "one talent which 'tis death to hide" — 
how could Alexander Pope, upon this foundation, build up a 
structure significant and enduring ; a private life worth while 
and work as a poet which has a distinct and important place in 
English thought? The answer is, "Because Alexander Pope 
was an idealist." 

Bernard Shaw, in his book entitled "The Quintessence of 
Ibsenism," tells what ideals and idealists mean to him. "A 
fancy picture," he says, ** invented by the minority as a mask 


for the reality, which in its nakedness is intolerable to them. 
We call this sort of fancy picture an ideal ; and the policy of 
forcing individuals to act on the assumption that all ideals are 
real, and to recognize and accept such action as standard moral 
conduct . . . may therefore be desciibed as the policy of 

The realist, according to Mr. Shaw, is " the man who is strong 
enough to face the truth that the idealist is shirking.'' He 
characterizes the idealist as " the man who is defending existing 
institutions by maintaining their identity with their masks, '^ 
while the realist '' is striving to realize the future possibilities 
by tearing the mask and the thing masked asunder." 

It is not likely, however, that Mr. Shaw's definitions will be 
accepted by all idealists. To be sure, there are, as he says, 
people calling themselves idealists, to whom idealism means 
nothing more than a blindly optimistic attitude — an unintel- 
ligent satisfaction with existing conditions. But there is a 
higher type of idealist, and as a point of departure in the search 
for his principles, we may take the philosophical doctrine of 
idealism. " Idealism is the system or theory that makes every- 
thing to consist in ideas, and denies the existence of material 
bodies." Believing, then, that the only real world is the world 
of thought, the idealist proceeds to make his world what he 
would like it to be by thinking of it as he would like to have it. 
That is^, unlike the satisfied idealist whom Shaw describes, this 
type of man sees the flaws in existing conditions, but sees, too, 
their possibilities, and by an active belief in them makes them 
more possible. Suppose, for instance, a school-teacher in one 
of the primary grades to be confronted by a very mischievous 
little boy. She is desirous of getting from him the confession 
of some misdemeanor. Now if she is an idealist, she says : 

"Tommy, I am leaving this to your honor. I believe that 
you will tell me the truth. How did the window get broken ?"" 

But if a realist : 

"Tommy, I know that you are not always a truthful boy. 
It is very wicked to tell a lie. You must not do anything so 
wicked. Now tell me just how the window got broken. '^ 

The realist, in tearing off the mask — in making it evident to 
Tommy that she knows him to be a mendacious little boy — has 
satisfied her desire for facts, for truth for truth's sake, and there 
is much to be said for her frank policy. "Whatever the subse- 


quent intercourse between Tommy and the teacher, it will be 
based on a frank understanding of each other, with no illusions 
on either side. Yet the fact remains that she has lessened 
Tommy's chances of being truthful. Though the idealist might 
be criticized for avoiding the issue of Tommy's mendacity, still, 
by her expressed belief in his ability to be truthful, she has 
given Tommy a distinct upward pull, has made it more possible 
for him to reach her ideal of him. Which teacher, judged by 
an absolute standard, is in the right, is, perhaps, not for us to 

Idealists, then, are of two types : the satisfied idealist, who 
is, as Mr. Shaw says, "defending existing institutions by main- 
taining their identity with their masks" ; and the higher type, 
who, alive to things as they are, sees beyond the facts to their 
possibilities. This idealist is, to a certain extent, like the best 
type of realist, for both deal with '' future possibilities." Their 
methods, however, are different. While the realist thinks that 
the beginning must be destructive — a tearing asunder of the 
mask and what it represents— the idealist begins constructively, 
by believing in the possibility of the thing as he wishes it to be, 
and acting on that belief. It was such a living belief that St. 
Paul meant by "faith" when he said, "Faith is the substance 
of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." This, 
then, is the doctrine of constructive idealism. 

Mr. Gerald Stanley Lee, in "The Lost Art of Reading" (a 
book which, transcending its title, is really an "Art of Living "), 
says, "Going about in the world respecting men until they 
respect themselves is almost the only practical way there is of 
serving them." In this statement is the essence of constructive 

What, then, in the life of Alexander Pope would mark him 
as an idealist of either type, or would exclude him from their 
ranks ? In brief, what did Pope accomplish as an author and 
as a man ? 

A man's achievements in his personal life may be estimated 
by the answers to two questions : first, "How did he meet his 
obligations?" and second, "What, beyond the fulfilment of 
obligations, did he build up about his life to make it more than 
existence ; to render it full and abundant ?" 

If Pope had failed to meet his obligations ; if he had been a 
disappointment as a son, or had looked to patronage as the solu- 


tion of his financial difficulties, it would not be hard to pardon 
him, for mnch may be forgiven a man whose life is "a long 
disease." How many of the vagaries of Lord Byron, for 
instance, have been looked upon with indulgence, because of a 
physical infirmity not approaching in severity those of Pope ! 
But Pope does not need our defence, for he did not fail. His 
devotion to his parents is commented upon even by his hostile 
editors who have done so much to discredit the name of Pope, 
and they cannot but mark the beautiful sincerity of the lines in 
tribute to his father : 

" Unlearned, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, 
No language but the language of the heart. 
By nature honest, by experience wise, 
Healthy by Temperance and by Exercise. 

" O grant me thus to live and thus to die ! 

Who sprung from kings should know less joy than I." 

Of his feeling for his mother we may judge by the dread with 
which he anticipated her death— his anxious care, as he ex- 
pressed it, 

" To keep awhile one parent from the sky." 

That a man fulfils his duty to his parents, however, is not a 
subject for commendation. Most people do. It is more remark- 
able that Pope, in spite of the limitations of his "crazy carcase," 
was able to stand on his own feet financially, an attainment 
which had been reached by few of his predecessors in the field 
of literature. Dry den had shown the world that it was possible 
to live by literature as a profession without making oneself the 
dependent of a wealthy patron. It would hardly have seemed, 
however, that Pope, handicapped by physical weakness, was 
the one fitted to carry on the experiment. Yet carry it on he 
did, with even greater success than Dryden. From his corre- 
spondence with Swift, it appears that Pope's translation of the 
*' Iliad " was undertaken for commercial reasons, and was, 
moreover, a financial success. His relief is evident when he 
speaks of concluding the "Iliad" and of taking up work upon 
the "Essay on Man." 

" I mean," he explains to Swift, "no more translations, but 
something domestic, fit for my own country and my own time." 

Swift replies : 

"I am exceedingly pleased that you have done with transla- 


tions. Lord Treasurer Oxford often lamented that a rascally 
world should lay you under a necessity of misemploying your 
genius for so long a time." 

The perseverance of a man who could consistently and with 
determination "misem])loy his genius" upon uncongenial work 
until his financial purpose was accomplished, and who could, in 
working for commercial reasons, produce an excellent as well 
as a stupendous piece of literature, cannot but command respect. 

In a more intimate and personal matter, that of his religion. 
Pope was faithful to an obligation. Born and brought up a 
Roman Catholic, in an age when membership in that religious 
body excluded one from all political privileges. Pope remained 
throughout his life a consistent, though a liberal. Catholic. 

In addition to the complete fulfilment of his obligations, 
Pope built up a private life full of interest and of genuine enjoy- 
ment. In brief, he may be said to have done this through his 
friendships and through his hobby. Five of Pope's friendships 
may be taken as representative— three which succeeded and two 
which failed. Boliiigbroke— " My St. John " of the "Essay on 
Man," whose friendsliip with Pope was a lasting one — was a 
most interesting character. Association with him could not 
but introduce widely varied interests into the more or less 
limited life of Pope. In addition to his literary ability, which 
no doubt was the original bond between him and Pope, Boling- 
broke, as politician and accomplished man of the world, must 
have represented to Pope all the activities and achievements in 
which he could have no part. Perhaps, too, there was an 
element of fascination in the wickedness of Bolingbroke for 
Pope, who never had the opportunity to be anything but moral, 
and probably would not have used such an opportunity had it 
presented itself. Still the attractively wicked Bolingbroke 
opened to Pope an interesting field for speculation, and helped 
him, without actual experience, to understand the point of view 
of a man of the world. 

Swift and Pope were ppculiarly congenial as friends. Their 
genius was c)f the same type, both being proficient in a form of 
expression clear, pithy and to the point ; both satirists with 
this difference, that Pope fundamentally believed in human 


nature, and Swift did not. Pope could not have echoed his 
friend's sentiments when Swift said : 

"Like the ever-laughing sage 
In a jest I spend my rage ; 
Though it must be understood 
I would hang them if I could." 

Pope indulged in no such malice ; he had no desire whatever 
to *'hang them/' An element of interest in the friendship 
between Swift and Pope was their wealth of common experi- 
ence. Each suffered from a physical infirmity ; each had a 
long and mysterious relationship with a woman; each found 
marriage unnecessary. 

The third of Pope's friendships was with Martha Blount. 
She contributed to the poet's life the point of view of a normal, 
wholesome woman, not remarkably brilliant, but personally 
attractive, loving and sympathetic. It is of Martha Blount and 
his mother that Pope is thinking as representative, when he 
says, ''Most women have no characters at all,"— not meaning 
in the least that women as a class are devoid of principles, but 
rather that the normal woman's quiet, unobtrusive virtue does 
not bring her into public notice. 

As the friendships of Pope with Bolingbroke, Swift and 
Martha Blount were lasting and successful, so, too, there are to 
be considered his friendships which failed. Addison and Pope 
were friends for years. Pope feeling a warm admiration for the 
older man ; yet eventually they were estranged, and Pope satir- 
ized his old friend in the character of Atticu.^. In the case of 
Lady Mary Wortley Montague, the friendship was based on 
the delight of a clever mind in another equally clever. When 
later, however. Pope mistook his intellectual admiration for 
Lady Mary for affection of a more personal nature, Lady Mary, 
justifiably, of course, discouraged his advances. The tactless- 
ness — yes, more, the cruelty with which she managed the diffi- 
cult situation made Pope her bitter enemy. Still Pope's friend- 
ships, those that failed as well as those that succeeded, each 
contributed its own element of interest to his life. 

Pope's country place at Twickenham was his hobby. There 
he worked and idled, entertained his friends and experimented 
with landscape gardening. He really made a significant con- 
tribution to the latter art by avoiding the formal clipping of 
trees into set shapes and permitting them to grow naturallj^. 


This ^arrleniiig- hobby, being of so different a nature from any 
of his other interests, helped to make Pope's a well-ronnded life. 

As a poet. Pope has two distinct lines of achievement, his 
satires and his moral essays, as he calls them. In all his work 
the form is admirable. As a maker of graceful and polished 
verse. Pope is nneqnaled. The satires, aside from their graceful 
expression, lose something now that the personal element cannot 
be appreciated, yet they are interesting because they are always 
clever. Lines from them, as from all Pope's works, have 
become a definite part of English thought in the form of familiar 

Not in his satires, however, but in his moral essays, is Pope's 
permanently significant work to be found. In the "Essay on 
Man" he lias given us the essence of the philosophical thought 
of the time. What Hooker, Hobbes, Locke and others were 
saying in many volumes of size discouraging to the casual 
student, Pope has summarized "in neat, portable form" in the 
*' Essay on Man." The importance of his contribution to phi- 
losophy is not that he has discovered many new thoughts, but 
that he has summed up what seemed to him the best ideas 
current at the time, and has related them to make his theory of 
of life. " To vindicate the ways of God to man," is his purpose 
in the essay, and he does that quite convincingly. We are con- 
scious throughout the essay that Pope feels the unity of things 
— the conformance of all to a great plan. 

"All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul." 

It is this ability of Pope's to relate ideas, to put the right things 
together, that makes his philosophy seem at times startlingly 
modern. When he says that "true self-love and social are the 
same" is this not the very doctrine of intelligent self-interest 
that Shaw and Ibsen represent to-day ? 

" I have long been told of your great achievements in build- 
ing and planting," said Swift once in a letter to Pope. "And 
especially of your subterranean passage to your garden, whereby 
you turjied a blunder into a beauty, which is a piece of 'ars 
poetica.'" Herein was Pope an idealist of the constructive 
kind, for the episode of the " subterranean passage" is symbolic 
of what he did with his life— "turned a blunder into a beauty." 
A blunder indeed it might have seemed to him that he was in 
the world at all, with his ugly, misshapen body and constant 


suffering, combined with an eager activity of mind which mnst 
have made physical drawbacks all the more intolerable. Yet 
Pope had a vision of what life might be— a life of usefulness 
and interest. A mask, perhaps, to cloak the bitter reality, a 
realist might have called this vision, had Pope stopped with the 
dream. But being a constructive idealist. Pope, believing in 
his vision, steadily built up a life in which the ideal was made 
real. Without the inspiration of an idealist's vision, the actual 
realities being so manifestly against him, he might have settled 
down to be an invalid, — might have decided that the obliga- 
tions of life were not for him to meet. With a doctrine of satis- 
fied idealism, he might have dreamed a beautiful dream, while 
others shouldered his responsibilities. But choosing to disre- 
gard the hampering realities he said, "My vision shows me 
that part of the life of a man is to meet his obligations'' ; and 
straightway^ he went forth and met them right manfully. 

The life of a man, however, must be more than the fulfilment 
of obligations ; it is entitled to breadth of interest, it should be 
full and abundant. Pope might have said, "I cannot have 
friendships with people worth while — I, without wealth, influ- 
ence or personal attractiveness. No, I will be a hermit. Neither 
can I, with my inadequate strength, interest myself in the little 
pleasures and hobbies that make part of the daily life of a. 
normal man.'' 

Instead, Pope, believing that he could have life abundantly, 
won the lasting friendship of a brilliant politician, of more 
than one accomplished man of letters, and of a good woman. 
Knowing the hobby to be a valuable contribution to life, he 
busied himself constructively, as always, with his Twickenham 
garden. Thus in his life as a man, Pope meets the require- 
ments of our definition of constructive idealism — '* to see the 
possibilities, and by an active belief in them, to make them 
more possible." 

In his art Pope was not always a constructive idealist. He 
had his experiments with the policy of tearing off masks, and 
as a result we have his satirical pictures. They are interesting^ 
as showing the plan of a keen mind, and in so far as they depict 
types of human nature, are still significant. Yet the satires 
have not the quality of high seriousness which Matthew Arnold 
considers the test of true poetry. In the " Essay on Man," the 
expression of his philosophy of life. Pope attains to that high 
seriousness and here we see him again as a constructive idealist. 


As soon as he reaches the conclusion, "Whatever is, is right,'^ 
we know him for an idealist ; the realist indeed, taking this 
statement by itself, might have reason to accuse him of satisfied 
idealism— of "defending existing institutions by maintaining 
their identity with their masks." But Pope's philosophy of life 
was constructive, in the sense that he put his world together. 
In " The Lost Art of Reading," Mr. Lee speaks of the poet and 
idealist as viewing things from "the ridgepole of the world. '^ 
We think that Pope must have been there, too, when he said, 
"Whatever is, is right." Not each little fragment of "what- 
ever is," but the whole, viewed in perspective from "the ridge- 
pole of the world." 

"All discord, harmony not understood, 
All partial evil, universal good." 

There were times, ot course, when Pope's idealism failed. 
What builder since the world began has not, once at least, 
"built his house upon the sand"? Pope's friendship with 
Lady Mary Wortley Montague was a failure because Lady Mary 
was not an idealist, nor even a woman of feeling. Had she 
been the latter, when Pope made the mistake of thinking his 
affection for her romantic love, her method of disillusioning 
him would have been more gentle. If she had been a construc- 
tive idealist, perhaps, she need not have disillusioned him at 
all. With a little tact she could have led him to see their 
friendship in its true light, and together they might have built 
up a relationship of lasting beauty. So here it was Lady Mary 
who failed. Of the other broken friendship all there is to be 
said is that it failed because Addison was— Addison. In these 
cases even Pope's active belief in his friends proved insuflScient 
to help them realize his ideal of them. He, too, fell short of 
the ideal of friendship, when in bitterness of spirit over broken 
faith, he permitted himself to satirize those whom he had loved» 
In his art he failed when he stooped to trickery and personal 
invective. Though these were the literary weapons of his time, 
nevertheless, in making use of such wea})ons, as a constructive 
idealist he failed. 

Because sometimes the vision fadt-d. and the poet saw but 
dimly, we must not forget that Pope in the main issues of his 
life, and in the noblest of his work, was patiently and persever- 
ingly seeing the possibilities, and by believing in them, making 


them more possible. It is a wonderful thing that Alexander 
Pope, with his frail, misshapen body, and in the course of his 
life that was "one long disease, ''' managed to mount up upon 
*'the ridgepole of the world." We like to think of him there- 
poor little Pope who had overcome so much ; and there, with 
the goodly company of all the constructive idealists who have 
lived since the world began, the men who have believed, and 
by believing have made possible, those who have seen the 
vision, and in its radiance have put their world together, with 
SocrateSj St. Paul and Plato and the rest, we will leave him — 
*' on the ridgepole of the world." 



A roll — and a curling roar, 
A swish — and the shifting sands, 

And now on the glistening shore 
Lie treasures from many lands. 

Afwilted flower tip 

From the island, out in the bay, 
And the hull of a whittled ship 

Lost by some child at play. 

A pebble that came from the deep, 
Where scarlet sea-flowers bloom 

And green, scaly mermaidens sleep 
In the cool of a coral room. 

From a land of ice and snow. 
From a land of tangled glades. 

From west of the sun's dying glow 
And from east of dawn's opal shades, 

From mountains towering high, 
From plains that are low and wide, 

These wares of the earth we buy 
In the ceaseless trade of the tide. 



As I entered the dim old square from the noise and clanging 
turmoil and traffic of the busy streets outsi(]e, I had the same 
impression that I had in Spain long ago, when I descended from 
the cobble-stoned street, loud with clattering water-carts, to the 
quiet of a little underground sepulcher. 

This was the most remarkable thing about it : here, hardly a 
sound broke the quiet, the ancient trees spread, forth their 
branches unmolested-— yet this square was in the very heart of 
the city, in the centre of a district crowded with all the life and 
traffic of the business world. 

There was only one street leading into the square. On all 
■other sides, the high fences at the back yards of the houses shut 
out the view. In the middle was an inclosure, surrounded by 
an iron fence, now corroded and eaten away in places by rust 
and dampness. In some places it had given away, but it still 
maintained its original appearance. Inside the fence there 
were several large old elms, towering far above the tall houses. 
There their huge branches met in gigantic arches, and their 
dark feathery foliage, mingling together, looked like the delicate 
tracery over the columns of some rare old cathedral. Here they 
expanded — spread out their arms to the light — untrimmed, un- 
molested. About their shaggy trunks the grass stood high, 
hiding from sight their roots. It liad been unmoved for years, 
and stood tall and rank in a luxuriance of unhindered growth; 
weeds of all kinds were scattered and intermingled with the 
grass, and the whole had interwoven and was knotted together 
in unkempt profusion like a jungle. 

Facing the square on all four sides stood old brown-stone 
houses, displa3Mng in their stern porticos and balconies an 
aspect of almost austere magnificence and i^randeur. Most of 
them had high stone gate-posts, on which carved stone lions 
languished at ease, or sat bolt upright, fierce and alert to scare 
away intruding strangers. But no such vigil was needed as 
few people ever came here now. 

As I walked along the weed-grown street, a chipmunk ran 
chattering past me, and disappeared under the porch of one of 


the houses. This house, more than any of the rest, impressed 
me with its spirit of melancholy, loneliness, and neglect. It was 
set far back from the street, and a sidewalk of those ancient 
flagstones so much used in the time of our forebears led up to 
the imposing steps. But this walk had sunken, in some places 
two or three inches below the grass level, and between the flag- 
stones weeds and wild flowers raised their tangled heads. The 
house itself, unlike the others, had its shutters left open, and 
the large panes of plate glass, translucent rather than trans- 
parent on account of their coats of dust, gave that peculiar eye- 
like appearance so often remarked in vacant houses. On the 
porch, the heaps of dead leaves and dirt had been pushed into 
irregular piles, and along the cracks in the steps, where the 
moisture had gathered, fungi and lichens had already begun to 
appear. The lawn must have been remarkable in its time, for 
even now hardly a weed was to be seen. The tall blue grass, 
straight and erect, filled all the spaces and hid from sight al- 
most entirely the remains of the -flower beds— of oyster shell 
and broken-bottle borders. 

In the centre of the yard stood an old marble fountain. A 
large, pure white slab of marble in the centre was carved into 
the likeness of the god Pan, holding a struggling water nymph 
on one arm, while, with the other hand, he poured water from 
a shell over her shining hair. By some sharp blow, I could not 
tell what, the basin had been smashed into two parts, and the 
broken fragments lay in the grass below. 

At each side of the walk, an ancient yew-troe spread its 
mottled shade. They met over the portico, and mingled and re- 
mingled their branches, until, except for their trunks one would 
have believed them to be one tree. As the dried leaves fell up- 
on the stone pavement below, each gave a sharp crackling sound, 
as though the old trees were vainly trying to wake the echoes of 
sounds heard long ago. 

These details would not have interested any chance passer-by, 
but to me every corner of the place cried out for sympathy. 
For in this house I had been born, and all those half -formed, 
shadowy recollections of childhood hung about it still, like the 
perfume from a rose, now dried and faded. Here it was I had 
worked, and played, and laughed and cried, with Lena. Yes,, 
there was Pan, smiling sardonically in the same way that he,, 
when I, in a naughty moment, had pushed Lena head first into- 


the fountain, had smiled at the thought of the whipping that 
was to come. Why, I could fairly see her yellow curls now, 
framed against those dark leaves, as she stood, tearful and re- 
proachful, with one tiny finger raised accusingly at me. 

Yes, everything was the same. There stood the same wooden 
seat under the yew-tree, where the happiest moment of my life 
had been passed, when I learned that Lena truly cared for me, 
and with pulses a-tingle, we planned all the wonderful things 
we would have in a home that should be all our own. 

A dingy sparrow flew down, and lit on the nymph's head. 
Memories are not always joyful ones. It was on that bench, too, 
that we were sitting when my father came out to us, and, when 
he had spoken to us, shattered all our hope and joy, and made 
the world fairly crumble in about our ears. He said it was 
wrong for cousins ever to marry. I must go away. Shall I 
ever forget when I said good-bye to her ? She walked with me 
s,s far as the gate, to make the time last as long as possible. I 
shall always remember the gown she wore. It was white dimity 
sprinkled with cherry blossoms, and on lier soft curls she wore 
a white straw bonnet with a cherry-colored ribbon tied under 
her chin. At night, when I can not sleep, I can still see the 
tears in her eyes when she kissed me. Then I turned and went 
away without looking back, but the memory of that last kiss 
has been paradise to me for twenty years. 

And now here I was back again. Everything was the same, 
yet somehow it seemed like another world. From afar off, I 
heard the dull roar of the ever pressing trafiBc. But the gloom 
^nd quiet of the square held me as though in a spell — apart from 
all that strife farther on. It was like fairyland. 

Some one was approaching. I looked up, and caught my 
breath. Ah, there she was at last, after all these years. I stood 
still, waiting. She did not see me, but advanced slowly down 
the walk towards the gate, where I stood. She wore the same 
dainty dress, and I saw that the cherry-colored ribbon was still 
there, tying her pretty bonnet. Then I looked at her face. 
Surely it too would be the same. I almost cried aloud, for it 
was the same, yet with an exprjession strangely new. The eyes 
were surely Lena's, of that deep sea-blue that only comes with 
hair yellow as corn. But before they were tender and dancing, 
.and now— oh Lena, have you suffered as much as I ? Now she 
saw me, and with a little cry ran towards me. Now I had her 


in my arms. It was only then that I knew what I had beeii. 
missing for twenty long years. 

With our hands clasped like little children, we walked about 
the deserted lawn. Oh, if we might only have walked on for- 
ever ! 

'^ See," said Lena, '* Here is dear old Pan I How many times- 
I used to scold him for teasing that lovely nymph I" She was 
away, light as a bird, and I saw her climb up and print a kiss- 
on Pan's wrinkled countenance. I recognized in her the same- 
light-hearted child of the old days, 

*'And see that horrible crack in the basin ! That happened 
the night after you left. A tree fell against it, you know. I. 
always said it was because you had gone away. Did you have^ 
to cry too ? At night, I mean, after everybody else was in 
bed?" We were walking on towards the back of the house. 
Lena gave a little bubble of laughter. 

"And here's the old rain -barrel. Oh you dear ! Do you re- 
niember the goldfish you saved up your money to buy and put 
in here ? And then the rain came and washed them all out on 
the ground. Poor little things! How frail and silvery they 
looked when they were dead I I remember the funeral we had 
for them, here by the house. Yes ! See, here is the brick, you. 
put 'in memory.'" 

We had strolled back to the gate. Lena had ceased her gay 
prattle, and had become strangely silent. 

" How still everything is here I" she said at last. " It makes- 
me think that the house and the trees and everything else is in 
mourning — for — for us!" I saw her eyes well up with great 
unshed tears — like those other tears, long ago. 

" Lena, Lena, don't ! Think how much better it is than if our 
love had died too!" I held her to my heart, and all those 
twenty years of loneliness and despair melted away before this- 
one moment of joy. 

From far away, I heard the city clock strike six and the- 
whistles begin to blow from all parts of the city, as a signal for 
the tired factory hands to stop work. A faint breeze was mov- 
ing the leaves of the yew trees until they stirred and moaned 
fitfully, like sleepy children. I was standing alone by the gate. 
Lena had gone, and it was almost dark. Already long, creeping 
shadows were advancing from the dark corners of the house. 
The elms in the square beyond seemed to spread their branches- 


over the place in protecting slielter for the night. I walked 
away, with a sigh in me too long and deep to give vent to — a 
sigh twenty years old. At the corner I turned back to look, for 
the last time, at the dim old house, Pan and the nymph shining 
white in the twilight, the old stone gateposts and the blessed 
trees over all. In a hundred more years they too, would all be 
gone — gone never to return. It is only the memories of things 
that last. 



The Bible phrase strikes quaintly and perhaps a little dully 
on our unused ears. 

Life — a puzzle, a problem, a conflict, a confusion, a chaos — 
we are painfully familiar with these forms of description and 
indictment ; we almost ignore the great human and divine 
bundle, bound together with cords of joy, pain and sympathy. 

Or, at best, we know it as shreds and ]:)atches, instead of the 
roll complete. We are concerned ndore with making it appear 
suitable furnishing, or even luggage, than with its core. What 
is there, for most of us, in the last inside fold of our own or our 
neighbors' bundle ? 

Now and again the wrapping is torn off by accident or fate, 
the loom-wheels reverse and glimpses are caught of life, ending, 
not beginning, running down, not in the disguise of full career. 

The spectacle is rare and grateful. The close of life is, for 
most of us, a dim twilight traversed with the aid of anaesthetics. 
The report of the trained nurse, and the notes and curves of the 
doctor's chart convey the passing spirit's message with scientific 
decency. Some of us confess to missing the old-time hope of a 
testimony, uttered with high authority from the threshold of 
new experiences. Others of us are a little breathless, after long 
dependence on estimates and averages, and schedules, at the 
mere idea of a souPs unwrapping itself in the clutch of pain and 
casting off its garments, standing straight and naked in its own 
nature — God's homing child. 

The little collection of verses by Louise Stockton Andrews, 
the last one dated June, 1912, and copyrighted by her father in 


November of the same year, comes from the place where the 
writer lived — bound in the bundle. They are touchingly expres- 
sive of some of the poignant things of life. They are simple 
and concerned with some of the trifles that give confirmation 
strong^as proofs of holy writ. They have the note of confidence 
belonging to pure hearts reaching out for sympathy in a world 
full of God. Some of them are : 

" One day Grod let me be a guest 

In the treasure land of the unexpressed. 

I found art there that no human hand 

Gould ever have made in the Realized Land. 

There were thoughts and yearnings too 

For which our words would never do, 

There were dreamed-of homes at last complete, 

Where sounded the patter of tiny feet. 

I knew that the love in that wonderful place 

Was just the reflection of God's own face. 

Some day when we finish our earthly quest, 

We shall claim our own, our unexpressed. 

For God, who gave it is guarding it, too 

And keeping it safe for me and for you. 

When I lay in my narrow, white hospital bed, 

And could only see things above my head. 

To help me forget the bad hurt feeling, 

I used to make things of the cracks in the ceiling. 

I saw horses and kites, a fish and a hen ; 

And cities and mountains, and rivers and men. 

Then sometimes across my ceiling town 

A fly would walk, all upside-down. 

And once a spider, that seemed all feet, 

Built his house where the two walls meet. 

But when I got tired of the things on the wall, 

I'd fall asleep — and forget them all. 

Sometimes, I think I'm in a dream. 

That things aren't really as they seem ; 

That I will waken up some day, 

To find things back the same old way. 

That this has just been given me, 

To show the way that things might be. 

Are things really as they seem, 

Or am I living in a dream ? " 

It is high privilege to be assured of one's human kinship as 
one catches the last gesture of farewell from the soul adventur- 
ingjout into the great unbound life. 


(Related by Miss Constance O'Donnell) 

'^The dance is to begin at half past eight." Ruby had written 
me, ^'and we are going to have a dinner-party first at seven. 
Just the people staying at the house, you know, to get ac- 
quainted. The three-forty from Hartford will get you here 
about five." 

I answered Ruby that I couldn't possibly come, for I have 
History from three to four on Fridays, and I had already used 
all my cuts. That produced the following reply : 

"Dan and I have looked up the time-tables, and if you can 
catch the four-eleven from Northampton, you just make con- 
nections at Hartford. You could reach Milford a little before 
six and come out on the trolley, but I think j^ou'd better go on 
to Waterbury, and Uncle Jack will bring you out in his car. 
That will be quicker on the whole, and if you're all ready un- 
derneath, it won't take long for Freda to hook you into your 
dress. At any rate, you must come ! "" 

Personally, I hate doing things in a rush. It makes me ner- 
vous to have just eleven minutes in which to make a train. It 
gives my heart the jumps, and by the time I do make connec- 
tions, I feel all worn out. Moreover, I didn't feel confident in 
having Freda's assistance at the last moment. With five maids 
in the Hamilton household, not one was ever free to attend to 
the needs of a guest. If Annie was attending to Mrs. Hamilton 
and one inveigled Freda into the guest chamber to fasten a last 
button in that ever-unattainable position in the small of one's 
back, a voice would exclaim : " Oh Annie, that won't do at all I 
Freda will show you how," and Freda would mutter a hasty ex- 
cuse, and fly down the corridor to her mistress. 

I knew, therefore, how little I could depend on Freda. But I 
am honestl}^ fond of Ruby, who seemed anxious to have me 
come, and besides, I had really no excuse except my prejadices 
to last-minute travel, so I wrote that I would arrive at Water- 
bury at six-fifteen. 


My nails were manicured, my hair *' coiffed," and my evening- 
clothes arranged near the top of my suit case when I left North- 
ampton on the four-eleven that Friday. I didn't notice that the 
date was the thirteenth ! I even had time to get a parlor car 
seat at Hartford, and my trip seemed going well, when — in the 
suburbs of Windsor we stuck. At Windsor Locks we were fif- 
teen minutes late, and my teeth were on edge. Then a thought 
came to me. " I can put my dress on here in the train. With 
my fur coat it won't show, and at least that much will be done.'*" 

Accordingly, I repaired to the dressing-room and divested 
myself of my travelling dress. Now no dressing-room on a train 
is palatial, and this one was particularly incommodious. With 
my coat and hat hung on pegs, there was room for me or for my 
suit-case, but not for both. As my party dress was floating 
open in the back, I decided that the suit-case should be the one 
to go, so, locking it, I set it in the corridor outside. Then, with 
contortions worthy of my gymnastic class, I hooked the belting^ 
the inner lining, the lining, the satin bodice, the placket hole, 
the chiffon over-skirt, and the lace tunic of my Paris '* creation." 
*'Tres simple, mais tres chic," the couteriere had assured me at 
my last fitting. 

The train stopped along time at Milford, and I was thankful, 
for, in spite of the delay, it gave me time to scrutinize my ap- 
pearance and pin my hat on straight. Then I stepped into the 

My suit-case was gone ! 

I rushed through the parlor-car. I looked at all the baggage. 
There were straw suit-cases, leather suit-cases, suit- cases plas- 
tered over with foreign labels, but a suit case there was not with 
C. O. D. on each end, and my dancing slippers, gloves and fan 
inside. In the midst of a heated altercation with the porter, we 
arrived at Waterbury. 

Mr. John Hamilton is a man of action. Within three minutes- 
after the explanation of my loss, he had telegraphed a descrip- 
tion of the suit-case to New Haven, with the assurance that if it 
were on that train, it would be corralled there and sent back on 
the return trip. It was fortunate that I already had my evening- 
dress on. 

"I would advise you not to say anything about your suit-case 
at the house,'' counseled Uncle Jack. ** They are excited enough 
already, and my sister would insist on having a finger in this 
pie, too." 


I was not surprised to find the Hamilton house in confusion. 
They had lost the place-cards for the dinner party. Ruby, her 
skirt looped up to her knees, greeted me at the foot of the stairs. 
" The first room on the left is yours with Alice Wentworth. 
She's a friend of sister's. Go right up and introduce yourself. 
And, on your way, would you mind looking in the top drawer 
of the cabinet in the upper hall and yell down if you find the 
place-cards ?" 

I didn't find the place-cards in the drawer ; but I did find Alice 
Wentworth all dressed, and she inspired me with confidence at 
first sight. I told her of the loss of my suit-case and the need of 

"I've an extra pair of long gloves you may have," proffered 
Alice. *' They've been cleaned and smell to heaven, but we can 
hang them out the window till the last moment." 

We unblushingly stole a pair of silk stockings and an em- 
broidered handkerchief from Ruby's bureau. The question of 
slippers, however, was not so easily solved. '^ I've only my pink 
satin ones," Alice sighed. '' If only Ruby weren't so easily ex- 
cited — stop ! I have it ! " 

She dived headlong into the closet, and a muffled voice trailed 
back: *' They're only boudoir slippers, but they're new, and 
they have high heels," and she produced a pair of black su^de 
slippers with French pompons. " Your dress half hides them 
anyway, and they ought to do at a pinch." 

" Do * at a pinch ' is good ! " I laughed. '' I note that these 
shoes are 3^ A. My number is 4 C. Nevertheless, I am heartily 

'* Your suit-case may reach here before we start for the dance," 
consoled Alice. *' Come on ; let's go down." 

The other girls were clustered on the stairs, laughing and 
chatting. Presently Mrs. Hamilton, massive in pearl-grey satin 
and fur, bore down upon us. She kissed me on both cheeks. 
*' So glad you could be with us, my dear. Now come and meet 
these nice boys, and we'll go in to dinner." 

At this juncture, it transpired that we were two " nice boys " 
short. Some confusion resulted in trying to find out which ones 
were missing. 

*' Dan's not here," I ventured. 

*' That's it ! " cried Mrs. Hamilton. ** He went to Milford to 
meet Charles Davison and I suppose they didn't make the six 
o'clock trolley. Well, we won't wait — " 


A rattle at the front door, and Dan came breezing in, followed 
by a tall, handsome youth, evidently embarrassed at his late ar- 

^' I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. Hamilton," he apologized. ''My 
train was late at Milford, and though we rushed, we missed — '' 

" Stop gassing !" interrupted Dan. "Beat it up and wash 
your hands. Second room on the left.^' 

Mr. Davison "beat it," and, upon his return, we all went in 
to the table. A little shudder passed over Mrs. Hamilton's form 
at the sight of one guest in a business suit, for she is rather 
punctilious, and this dinner and dance were to be the events of 
the Noroton social season. I think Mr. Davison noticed the 
glance, for he blushed and looked properly confused, and I felt 
rather sorry for him, and glad for myself that I had managed 
to get together so successful a toilette. 

After dinner, the guests started for the dance in the limousine. 
Mrs. Hamilton, Euby, and several girls left in the first party. 
" I'll go in the second," Alice whispered to me, " so that you can 
be in the third. Your suit-case may come at any minute now, 
and you can get your own slippers then." I went upstairs to 
await the hoped-for arrival. 

As I buttoned on my — or rather Alice's — gloves, I tried not to 
notice the racket in the next room, where Mr. Davison was 
evidently changing his clothes. The register between the rooms 
was open, and I heard one boot go "bang" against the floor, 
then the other, and — well, I hardly like to say it, (it may have 
been some one else, you know, and he had seemed to be such a 
gentleman) but I was almost sure that it was Mr. Davison^s 
lusty voice that I heard say "' Damn ! " 
I thought it time to shut the register. 


(As told by Charley Davison to his room-mate, William Hills) 

Great Heavens, Billy I you could have knocked me over with 
a feather when I opened that suit-case, and saw what was inside. 
On top was a girl's dress of dark blue slinky stuff, and a pair of 
satin slippers with diamond buckles, and a puffy white feather 
fan. Underneath was a fussy white negligee thing all lace and 
pink ribbons. Then I got scared and ^^elled for Harry Watson, 
in the room across the hall. He nearly doubled up with mirth. 


'* Funny, is it V said I, with sarcasm. " Funny as the deuce 
to be in the suburbs of Noroton, Conn., fifteen minutes before a 
dance, minus a dress suit, with the contents of a girl's suit case 
on one's hands. I'd hDok pretty, woukln't I, in that chiffon, 
crepe de chine, silk, voile, hobble skirt with fruchings of pan 
velvet ? Those slippers are the size I always wear, and my 
beauty is especially enhanced by a white feather perked over 
one ear I Devil take the porter on that parlor car ! " 

Harry was showing symptoms of acute indigestion. 

"What do you advise ?" I shouted, mad clear through. 

Harry recovered long enough to gasp : "Well, I'd either go 
in your street clothes or not at all. One doesn't usually attend 
a dance in your present attire," Then he went off into another 

" You are a darn fool," I complimented him, " Your remarks 
indicate the intelligence of a j)recocious child of six." 

My bouquet had the effect of bringing him to his senses. 

"On the contrary, my proposals are excellent," he replied 
with an air of wounded dignity, "A good story about getting 
the wrong suit-case would make quite a hit, girls always like 
misadventures of that sort. They call it 'college life.' And for 
my other suggestion, you might be suddenly stricken with ap- 

" Do you think I'd be the only man at a dance without evening 
dress ? No, thank you, not when Mrs. Hamilton is the chaper- 
one. It was conspicuous enough at dinner." 

" Stay at home then," said Harry without feeling. " I'll tell 
'em that the oysters made you sick," 

" I have a particular reas-on for wishing to be present at that 
dance," I replied firmly. 

Whereupon Harry let out an entirely unnecessary remark that 
I might especially desire to keep my engagement with the 
charming Miss Constance O'Donnell, who, although I had met 
her only that evening, had consented to give me the first two 
dances, I didn't deny it. but intimated to Master Harry that 
the sooner he eliminated the young lady's name from the con- 
versation, the better it would be for him. 

"Jove, Charley I" he exclaimed, and I saw the ghost of an 
idea flicker on his countenance, "Why not borrow the dress 
suit from one of the waiters ? There are strings of 'em down- 
stairs, waiting to go to the hall." 


Then I proceed to lead the cheering and Harry makes tracks 
for the lower regions, and returned with a decent enough 
fellow about my size. Harry's glib tongue was working over 
time, and with the added persuasion of a five-dollar bill (believe 
me, Billy, money talks) he soon convinced that waiter that he 
was deathly sick and needed to go home at once, but that if he 
would leave his dress-suit behind, and call for it in the morn- 
ing, et cetera, et cetera, and so forth. Then I did the quick 
change act. 

Thank the Lord, the trousers were long enough and didn't 
wrinkle when I sat down. The vest was tightish over the chest, 
but Harry said that wouldn't show while dancing. 

" Carry your head high," he said. " Put that feather arrange- 
ment in your pocket and fan the girlies between the acts. 
That'll cool you off, too, and above all, keep up the bluff ! " 

With these last instructions we went down and got into the 
limousine. Miss O'.Donnell was already there. She was darn 
cool to me at first, and it puzzled me a lot, but she soon warmed 
up enough to promise me the third and fifth dances, as we'd 
probably miss the first and second. She's a bully good dancer, 
too ; she does the Spanish and the aeroplane and I taught her 
some others she didn't know. The floor was like glass, and the 
music soft and swinging, and— oh hang it all, Billy, your room- 
mate was fool enough to think he'd fallen in love, and he hasn't 
gotten over thinking so yet ! 

Well, after our third dance we were pretty hot, and my waist- 
coat was giving me a cramped, consumptive feeling. Also I 
was unbecomingly red in the face, which didn't add to my 
peace of mind. I was mighty glad when Constance (oh yes, I 
call her by her first name now) suggested our going into a cool 
alcove, and once lying back among the pillows of the divan, I 
bethought me of the fan. 

''That breeze is delightful," said Constance, turning to me 
with a smile that made my head swim. "You are the most 
thoughtful man I've ever met, Mr. Davison. Most fellows 
expect the girls to furnish fans, and they are so awfully in 
the way." 

" Oh, I always carry a fan to dances," I lied. " Girls haven't 
pockets to keep them in." Gee ! I was glad Harry made me 
take that feather thing. 

Then she dropped the little fancy bag on her wrist. I stooped 


for it, and she stooped for it, and we sort of met in the middle. 
My hand hit something on the floor and I brought it up. It 
wasn^t the pink bag. It was her slipper. She made little 
ineffective grabs for it, and looked so pretty and fussed, I picked 
up the other one, too. 

"Give them to me ! Please give them to me ! They aren't 
mine, anyway. You see — " she stammered apologetically, '*an 
— an accident happened to my slippers, and I borrowed a pair, 
and— and — well — they hurt, and so I just slipped them off." 

*'I comprehend your sentiments exactly," I acquiesced gravely. 
*' I only wish that I could remove certain portions of my attire 
as easily and inconspicuously as you did your slippers." 

"Why, do your clothes hurt, too?" she asked naively. 
*' You look all right on the outside." 

"I might say the same of you," I replied. "But when the 
man whose dress suit youH^e borrowed wears a vest two sizes 
too small, when one's coat keeps hitching up in the back, and 
one's trou — " 

Here I began to fan violently, realizing that a man doesn't 
usually speak of his nether garments to a young lady upon their 
first acquaintance. 

" I'm quite cool now," Constance remarked unkindly. " Per- 
haps I should fan you instead." Then, in a tone that chilled 
me far more than any amount of fanning could have done, 
"Mr. Davison, where did you get this fan ?" 

"Why, er — it's just a fan — a very pretty fan, don't you 
think ? It was — it was my sister's." 

"I agree with you that it is a very pretty fan. In fact, I 
once owned one like it myself. Mr. Davison, did you happen 
to come from Hartford on the five-nineteen train ?" 

" I did — " I began. Then it penetrated. 

" Your suit case — your slippers ! " 

" Your dress suit — " 

" C. O'D. Constance O'Donnell ! " 

" C. O. D. Charles O. Davison 1 " 

Then we both burst out laughing, and I discovered that 
Connie had a sense of humor. Indeed she laughed so hard that 
Mr. Hamilton, Dan's uncle, heard us and came into the alcove. 

"I was looking for you, Miss Constance," he said. "My 
chauffeur has just come to tell me that he left your suit case at 
the house not ten minutes ago." 


** I am so very much obliged," said Connie. " Oh, Mr. Ham- 
ilton, would it be too much for Jerry to take me up there in the 
car ? I would like to get my own slippers ! '' 

*' Certainly, my dear," joins in Mr. Hamilton. '^Tll take 
you up myself — or, better still, perhaps Mr. Davison will see- 
that you come and go safely." 

Gee ! Mr. Hamilton is a trump ! 

We matched up stories going back in the limousine, and 
Jerry waited while we got into our own clothes. At last I 
could draw a deep breath without fear of bursting the buttons 
off that vest, and Connie looked fresh as a daisy. We reached 
the hall in time for the supper dance, which we had in the 
alcove, and her eyes — 

But say, Billy, what's the use ? You'll see her when she- 
comes up for prom — and by the way, don't be a bromide and 
quote that old " Change the name and not the letter," because 
her last name begins with an O ! 



Yonng Dawn crept forth from night's dark-shadow'd halls. 

Out of the dimness and the clinging mists. 

Swift-footed as the evening breeze she glided down 

The pearly whiteness of high heaven's stair. 

Bright gleam'd her red-gold hair, where here and there, 

Caught in the shining strands, flash'd a pale star. 

Flushed were her radiant cheeks, glow'd her blue eyes, 

And all about her seemed to drift a mist 

Of changing gold and rose. And as she ran 

The glad earth blossom'd at her little feet 

And myriads of roses broke their calix'd bonds 

To deck her way. Still went she on until, 

Cleaving the mists before him as he sped, 

Day came with sunlit eyes to claim his bride. 



Her hoary head, bowed low with years of toil, 
Once reared itself in regal majesty, 
Disdainful of the things that were to be. 

Scorning the living present's feverish moil. 

With eyes turned proudly toward her storied past, 
With face averted from the western sun. 
She mused upon the deeds that had been done, 

Too proud to fear her glory would not last. 

Now she, who, calm-eyed, from her lofty height 
Saw kingdoms rise and live their little day 
Of Time's long years, and crumble to decay, 

Herself lies in the dust, stripped of her might, 

'Tis better thus. Her day was passed ; but we 

Sigh to behold her fallen majesty. 




In fancy I have touched thy hands, so small, and soft and cool — 
Like water-lilies, silver sweet, from some green woodland pool 
Where day is dead, and dusk and dreams and silken silence rule. 

In autumn wind and summer show'r I've watched thy dancing feet, 
Whirling in measures mystical, adown the rain-swept street. 
Mad with the wind's wild melodies, and faery-light and fleet. 

And I have seen thy dreamy eyes, like heavy poppy-flowers, 
Full of the languid warmth of dark in perfume-scented bowers. 
Where Love herself has ceased to count the swiftly passing hours. 

In dreams I've drunk thy kisses and would feign have drunk more deep 
From out thy starry- jeweled cup, the magic draught of sleep, 
Forgetting how to love and hate, and how to laugh and weep. 

Thy gift of sleep is precious, yea, but here is one that saith 

Come breathe upon my tired eyes thy warm, wine-fragrant breath. 

And let my heart-throbs cease on thine, O dim, delicious Death ! 



It had been raining and the fields back of Riviere du Long 
were glistening in the clear early light of an August sunrise. 
The butterflies, who had doubtless hidden themselves over night 
in some fairy bower beneath the wild rose petals, arose gay and 
golden, their black veils drooped gracefully over their skirts. 
They had been well groomed evidently by the fairies and their 
gowns were all buttoned straight up the back, as anyone could 

Gabrielle was gathering roses when she saw them and they 
fascinated her. Her mother had sent her to milk the cows but 
milk you sold only to silly English people down the road who 
gave you dirty grey stuff from their pockets that was often 
warm and sticky and smelt horrid— and roses — why, the fairies 
lived underneath them sometimes and to see a fairy, any kind, 
so long as it was a fairy — Gabrielle tingled all over at the 
thought. They were prettiest when you saw them without 
their knowing it, so Gabrielle was very quiet but then it struck 
her that the butterflies might be fairies and she left her roses 
and ran after them. They fluttered about here and there, she 
following, up and up the hillside, through the glistening grass, 
weaving swiftly back and forth, up and down in mazes of 
thread-like paths that seemed golden colored as they left them. 
There was a wild, sweet rhythm in their graceful flight, as if 
they danced to fairy music, and Gabrielle caught it as she 
tripped along after them. 

Gradually all but one had flown too high but that one was the 
one she liked the best anyway, so she followed him, with her 
quick lithe movements, over and up the meadows to where the 



brook ran down. The brook tinkled and twinkled along and 
Gabrielle ran in with her bare white feet, still grasping with her 
tiny hands at the royal ambassador from fairyland, who con- 
tinued his lofty but friendly flight over it. But the brook was 
deeper than she thought just there and down she went, slipping 
on a pebble and sitting up to her arm pits in the cold mountain- 
spring water. But undaunted she got up and ran on and pretty 
soon his excellency was caught in her firm tender little hand, 
willy-nilly. She ran f^.own the hill and caught up her pail of 
milk (which really had been quite full when she started picking 
the roses) and, leaving the sleepy, happy cows rather startled, 
she skipped past Pierre's, and all dripping and thoughtless and 
joyous, in to find her mother. 

Her mother made dresses for the English people up the road 
and as Gabrielle ran in she brushed against one, all finished and 
ready to go. Oh, the sorrow I Oh, the alarm I But no, there 
was no harm done to the dress. Her mother breathed a sigh of 
relief ; nevertheless she was frightened and her happy spirit 
could not appreciate the butterfly fairy ambassador very well. 
It was nothing to her of course that Gabrielle should tumble iu 
the brook, that she might do every day if she liked, but *'ma 
m^re " was disturbed, flustered. " Oui — the butterfly is lovely — 
they all are lovely — they all are alike — what did you chase that 
one for, though ? '^ 

Gabrielle did not follow the reasoning, the mood, the logic, 
the whatever-you-choose-to-call-it of her mother. She philo- 
sophized instead. "All alike? All butterflies alike? "Bien, 
lis sont tons — " They were all alike when viewed from her 
most calm and unaffected point of view, having previously re- 
leased the butterfly, yet, " But I did love him the best,^* and 
there she had to stop. She could not tell why, any more than 
any of us can. 

She went into the barn and yoked the quiet oxen to the little 
creaky wooden-wheeled cart, then took them down to the white 
beach of the wide, soft, sleepy St. Lawrence. Up and down the 
beach she went, the oxen following her, rhythmically bending 
and swinging with her right arm into her left, long, slinky, 
trailing masses of glossy seaweed to burn or for fodder for the 
pigs or to. stuff up the crannies in the house when the long 
sweeping winter wind came and blew it half to pieces. Careful 
she was, to make no distinctions in the light of her new knowl- 


edge, one piece of sea-weed was exactly as good as another. 
Was a chance remark of her mother's going to become a guiding 
principle in her philosophy of life ? 

Pierre, seeing her, came down to help and together they 
worked quietly through the morning, sometimes talking, oftener 
not. Habitant children are very often subdued in their ways. 

As the years went on Gabrielle became known in the littla 
settlement in the bend of the road by the river as one of the 
fair, just, impersonal kind of girl, one who could decide a dis- 
pute, one who said " Take what comes along, one thing's as good 
as another." She never knew how it was but she always seemed 
to be with Pierre in a crowd or at mass and at weddings and 
funerals. It was not inconsistent, she really did not connect the 
event of her babyhood and her present mode of life at all, did not 
know even that she had a philosophy of life, scarcely that she 
had a point of view, but yet it disturbed her a little sometimes, 
for she would have kept the letter of the law, had she known 
there was one. The others really were as nice, exactly, she liked 
them just as well, they were very much the same, Pierre and 
they, and she let it go at that. 

Until one night, in summer, when Pierre came and asked her 
to walk up the road with him and she left the group on the little 
front porch and went. 

'' To-night is a wonderful night," he said. 
'^ Oui — but they are all lovely — all." 

" But to-night above all others — you know why. N'est-ce 
pas ?" And he put his arm around her. 

Then he asked her something else and after a while, as though 
rather surprised at herself, she nodded. 

It was not late when she came back but it is cheaper to sleep 
than to use candle light and every one on the banks of the Saint 
Lawrence goes to bed when it gets dark. Gabrielle slipped 
quietly under the covers beside her sister. Next morning she 
woke early and went out but her mother was there before her. 
" Ma mere," she said softly. " Ma mere." 
Her mother looked up, divining what she was going to say. 
*'Ma mere, they are all alike, the men." She hesitated. 
"They all wish to marry." Now she was floundering ; she was 
on the wrong road. " I — I will marry Pierre, s'il vous plait." 
She was confused. " I like them all. I like Pierre — " 

A heavy step sounded on the soft grass and she slipped out- 


side, to return arm in arm with her lover. Her mother came 
toward them. 

" They are all the same, ma mere." This time she said it jo}'- 
ously. She was brave because he was there. She smiled broadly, 
confidently, bravely. 

"Et puis ?" said her mother. 

" I like this man best, I know not why," and she put her 
arms around them both. 

'' And I like this one," said Pierre proudly, kissing Gabrielle. 



Brother, where is thj' flesh and blood ? 
" B}' fasting the soul fares on to God." 

Brother, why dost thon grin with pain? 

*' The scourge and the whip bring the soul great gain. 

Why the beads and tlie ceaseless prayer ? 

" Though earth be dark, the heavens are fair." 

Wherefore the watch through the endless night ? 
" If one watch and pray, he will find the light." 

Why the chastity, self-imposed ? 

" Through lusts of the flesh heaven's door is closed." 

Brother, the spiders share thy cell. 
^'Better are they than flames of hell." 

Brother, the poor at the minster-gate 

That huddle and freeze ? " They are come too late." 



Ruddy and gold and veiled in amethyst 

G-low far-off trees before the setting sun. 

From gray-green meadows stretching wide and far, 

A thin gray mist is rising ; in the trees 

Near by the squirrel chatters and in the grass 

Below, the cricket sings his cheery song. 



If it were not for thrills life would be ^'all forlorn" like the 
maid with the cow of the crumpled horns. As it is life is a 
patch-work quilt of many colors. Each color in the quilt stands 
for a thrill. 

Some thrills are of soft pastel shades ; others are startling^ 
and bright like the skies in the pictures of Maxfield Parrish. 
There are of course people who will deny that thrills have color, 
just as they deny that the blare of a trumpet is scarlet, a waltz- 
played on a violin silver and wine-color. If they thought a 
moment they would recollect that there are certain papers of 
large type and larger thrills, called "yellow journals." If 
they were called '* peach-blow sheets" do you think the gentle- 
reader would buy ? 

There are many kinds of thrills. "When they are good, they 
are very, very good, but when they are bad, they are horrid." 

The novelists, playwrights and artists of to-day have discov^ 
ered that a thrill is bad form and good art. They prefer man- 
ners to their art. The picture of a " Nude Descending a Stair-^ 
case " is a striking example of polite art. Staircases are thrill- 
ing subjects if handled properly. So many tragedies and come- 
dies occur on them. You may slide down the banisters, fall 
down the stairs and even fall up them with the result that you 
will not be married that year. A great tragedy ! Do you see 
any of those thrills in the picture I have just mentioned ? It is 
appalling to look at a cubist picture and think of the "might 
have beens." An Iliad could be made out of a staircase. The 
cubist paints something that looks like a kaleidoscope, the 
insides of which Tommy has been playfully exploring with a 

The drama is travelling the same tepid road to good manners. 
A critic sees "Admiral Guinea." He is mildly interested but 
when Pew, the blind beggar, puts his finger through the candle 
flame he forgets to drowse and says, " Good dramatic action," 
in the words of the "madding crowd" a thriller, though thi& 
breach of manners does not occur to him till later. The fol- 
lowing evening the same critic strolls into a theatre on the 


Bowery. The play is *' Through Flood and Fire, or The Lovers 
of Leonora." The critic sits next to Gertie O'Connor, who 
chews gum and eats peanuts with fine impartiality. The open- 
ing act is laid in London ; time, midnight, on the Thames 
embankment; it is snowing; the chimes of ''Big Ben" are 
heard ; Leonora appears in a pink opera cloak lined with swans- 
down, for her evening constitutional ; Mandeville St. Leger 
rushes forward ; the hero leans from a passing air-ship, seizes 
Leonora in his arms, jumps off the bridge and lands neatly 
upon the deck of a passing barge. 

"Foiled!" cries the villain. "Ten thousand curses upon 
thee, Harold St. Clair ! " Just then the hand of the law falls 
heavily upon his shoulder. 

"I harrest you for the murder of your great-aunt," says the 

"Gee! some thriller," murmurs Gertie O'Conner and she 
loses a peanut in her enthusiasm. 

A sudden fierce light beats upon the critic^s brain. He goes 
home. He thinks. The next morning's paper has an article in 
in it which makes the world blush to think of the bad taste it 
has been showing in its fondness for thrills. It makes little 
difference whether the thrill is in "Admiral Guinea," " Hamlet " 
or the " Fatal Wedding," a thrill's a thrill " for a' that." 

So they play Ibsen, Brieux and others with the good old- 
fashioned thrills left out and the new decadent nervousness put 
in. They take off "Sweet Lavender" and play "Ghosts." 
They have to have something interesting enough to hold the 
audience so they place the chairs with their backs to the foot- 
lights. Noble thought ! it gives almost the look of the wall 
that should be there. I here offer with an air "gentle, meek 
and mild " a little suggestion that would mean much saving of 
expense to stage-managers. Why not put up a real wall and 
let the people sit in front of it and read Henry James ? The 
general effect would be as good as if they watched a perform- 
ance of " Hedda Gabler." 

Poor modern playwright, to him 

" The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose, 

* * * * 

But there hath passed away 
A something from this earth." 


I do not mean by all this that one must set out to find thrills. 
It is no use to do that. Authors think how thrilling it will be 
to see their work in print. But when the children of their 
brains appear for the first carriage ride the thrill turns tail 
and runs. 

Thrills are like will-o'-the-wisps. Did you ever long to take a 
will-o'-the-wisp and stroke its golden fur ? You see one flitting 
through the dusk. You run down to the marsh's edge. You 
know you can catch that bit of live fire. You lean over the wet 
grasses, cupping your hand. The will-o'-the-wisp is gone. You 
lio not know where, perhaps to " Old Japan. '^ 



Over the hills, just you and I, 

When the breeze blows fresh from the sea, 
And the sky is flawless blue above, 

Oh come, dear,- come with me ! 

I want you to love the things I love, 
The sough of the wind-swept pines, 

The swish of the crested meadow grass, 
And the cave where the sea-wind whines. 

I want you to love the sun-Mssed heights 
Where you catch a glimpse of the sea, 

I want, dear, to share them all with you ! 
Come over the hills with me ! 



'Twas thy intent to make thy hearers laugh 
At clownish tricks done in light-hearted glee, 
But 'tis the sadness of thy wistful eyes, 
The pathos of thy aching, clownish heart. 
That pleads with us behind the grinning mask, 
And stills our laughter. 



" Wish't I was a big man an' I'd fix her. She's a reg'lar old 
lien an' I sha'n't go home ever ! " Billy's stubby foot kicked 
the innocent tree unmercifully. "An' all on account of that 
ole pie face," he concluded with an angry scowl. 

"Oh Billy," said a soft little scared voice close beside him, 
^*did Tommy hurt you ? I— I'm sorry—" and Geraldine of the 
first grade looked anxiously at Billy, her blue eyes very serious. 

"Nope, course he didn't hurt me but I bet he's good an' — an' 
knocked out. Hope his nose '11 bleed all day an' all night." 
Billy's chubby face was very fierce when he concluded and 
Geraldine drew back. 

"Why, Billy," she cried, "you don't neither — 'cause — why, 
he might die an' then you'd be awful sorry and — " Geraldine's 
eyes grew big with sudden consternation, " they might put you 
in prison. Oh, Billy, do you think he will die ?" 

Billy snorted. " Course not," he said scornfully. "An' I 
wouldn't care if he did, 'cause I'm goin' to run away and never 
come back ever. An' I ain't never goin' to have any more girls 
neither, 'slong's I live." 

Geraldine's eyes opened wide first with surprise and then 
-dilated with sudden anger. " Billy Reynolds, you're the badest 
boy I ever saw an' — an' I do like Tommy better, anyway. I 
don't care if you never come back an'," Geraldine's curls stood 
straight out as she hurled her parting words at the astonished 
Billy, " I sha'n't never marry you now, anyway," and Geraldine 
fled into the schoolroom. 

"Geraldine Simpson, why didn't you come in when the bell 
rang ? " asked Teacher as a tearful little culprit opened the door. 

The culprit walked straight to her seat and, putting her head 
in her hands, sobbed audibly. 

But Teacher was cross to-day and sobs annoyed her rather 
than brought forth pity. "You may stay in at recess, Ger- 
aldine, and make up the time." But Geraldine took the penalty 
calmly. For what did she want of recess and what did any- 
thing matter now, since her lover had deserted her. Billy 

3 91 


would probably run away and perhaps die. Life was too hard. 
And that same day Geraldine misspelled two words and lost " a 
star'^ for the first time for a whole month. 

Billy stared after Geraldine's retreating ruffles. What had 
he done to make her '^ mad " ? There was no question that she 
was very " mad." If Billy had been older he might have said, 
'^That's just like a girl/' but Billy was young and besides 
Geraldine was his first girl and she hadn't been his girl for 
more than a week, so he didn't say anything at all but just 
stared. He had liked Geraldine first, because she lived next 
door to him and her mother believed in eating ginger-cookies 
between meals and secondly, Geraldine was pretty and not a 
bit horrid — and — she liked him. 

But now Billy's heart was hardened against all women and 
like all men creatures he felt justified. Tommy Hopkins had 
teased Geraldine when in a sudden burst of uncontrollable 
affection she had confided to Tommy that the nicest boy in all 
the school was Billy and Tommy's tactless taunts had made 
Geraldine cry. A woman in tears was too much for Billy'& 
manly soul and he had straightway challenged Tommy and 
fallen upon him most unmercifully. Teacher, a self-appointed 
second, had come to poor Tommy's rescue and had sent the 
angry lover home with a note of explanation and complaint* 
*'An' all for an ole girl," he mused and stamped his short foot. 
He longed in his inmost heart to go and tell his mother all 
about it. She'd understand — but the others. Perhaps his big 
brother Roger would be there and he'd laugh and — no, Billy 
turned resolutely in the direction opposite from home and 
trudged up a hill past the tiny railway station towards the 
mountain road. Maybe he would come back sometime when he 
was a man but not for years and years ! 

At noon Billy was conscious of a strange gnawing inside and 
decided he must have walked many miles. It was then that 
the seriousness of his undertaking swept fully upon his mind, — 
miles from home and nothing to eat. If Billy had not been a 
very brave boy he might have cried at this sudden and awful 
realization. But Billy was braver than most boys so he only 
sniffled. Suddenly he caught sight of an apple tree near by 
loaded with fall fruit. Nothing daunted, he set out to procure 
his dinner from this tree of salvation. 

"Vm all losted an' I can't find nobodies," sobbed a childish 


voice and, turning a bend in his path, Billj'' came face to face 
with — a woman, a woman in tears. 

For a moment he stood stock-still regarding her. He had 
fled from the world of sorrow and in that world he had left 
woman and all her faults ; but here, straight in his path to 
freedom, was another woman in distress. Billy's childish mind 
did not think all this but the man in him thought it and if 
Billy had not been a brave boy he would have fled even as 
^neas fled from his weeping Dido. 

But Billy lived in the age of courage and kindness. He made 
a move one step nearer to the weeping woman. " Where's your 
house V he demanded solemnly. 

"I — I's losted my house an' my muggy an' my foggy an' I's 
all hungly. We had a plicnic an' I losted ums too." The 
woman sniffled pathetically. 

Billy looked at her, half puzzled and half in pity. *' Want a 
apple?" he asked abruptly. " There's a tree over there. I'm 
goin' to get one." 

The woman nodded. *' Plicnic's all gone now," she sighed. 

So the two wanderers trudged slowly up the road. The 
woman clung tightly to Billy's hand and Billy pulled her along, 
not ungently but with the air of a man of unfair responsibility. 

The tree was in a small field shut in by a stone wall. Behind 
the wall there was a noise, as of grunting and squealing. With 
some difficult}^ Billy climbed to the top and the woman followed. 

** It's pigs," announced Billy. ''Are you scared ?" 

She shook her head. " Pigs don't bite," she said reassuringly. 

*' I guess maybe they're wild pigs," said Billy reflecting, 
^' 'cause there ain't any houses here." 

'*Do ums bite?" asked the woman, startled by this sudden 

Billy soook his head. '^ Course not," but as one pig snorted 
close under his heels, his voice quavered ; still he was hungry 
and so was the woman. ''I tell you," he cried, "I'll shoo off 
the pigs an' you run quick and pick up those apples," and Billy 
jumped down off the wall. "Shoo there, you ole pigs," he 
shouted, brandishing a stick, "or I'll kill you all !" And the 
woman, who had hesitated just a little, watched admiringly, as 
the pigs ran in many directions, grunting and squealing. 

"Hurry up an' get the apples," cried Billy impatiently. 
"They'll all be comin' back in a minute." 


The woman scrambled down fearfully and ran to the tree. 
Cautiously she picked up two round apples in her chubby hands 
and ran headlong back to the wall. Looking back from her 
vantage of safety at Billy, she gave a shrill little scream. *' Oh 
come quick. He's goin' to bite you.'^ 

Billy turning saw an old sow angrily coming toward him. 
Here was ample opportunity to prove himself a hero. " Ged 
out you ole' pig or I'll — ''but the pig was not to be thwarted 
thus easily. She retreated a few steps and then came on raging. 
Even a very brave boy might have been frightened and Billy 
wisely fled. "I guess they are wild pigs," he gasped as he 
scrambled over the wall to safety. 

"' Um" said the woman. " They^s fierce as elephants an' I do^ 
want to go in there any more never," and she shook her brown 
curls emphatically. 

The perilous struggle for food having been accomplished, they 
sat down and munched. "We were goin' to have dumplings 
for dinner to-daj^," said Billy, sadl}^ reminiscent. 

A puzzled expression carrie over the woman's face. ''Are you 
all losted too ? " she asked anxiously. 

"Nope, I'm runnin' away an' goin' to work," answered Billy 
proudly, " 'cause — 'cause I want to," he concluded ruefully. 

The woman understood. She looked solemnly at Billy. "Was 
they awf'ly cru'l to you ? " she asked sympathetically. 

Billy nodded. " Eaup," he said indifferently, " awf'ly." 

But the woman was curious. " Did they spank you ?" 

"Course not," answered Billy scornfully. " Only babies get 

The woman sighed. " I do lots," she said sadly, "' an' I ain't 
a baby." 

"Well, you're a girl and that's jus' as bad," he said trium- 

" Boys is badder, so ! " and the woman's eyes became danger- 
ously wet. 

Billy stood up and started down the road. "Why, where 
you goin'?" she cried, suddenly fearful lest he might desert 
her. " I don't fink you's as bad as all boys." 

Billy stopped. "I'm goin' to find your house an'," Billy's 
face was screwed up to the same fierce expression which had 
made Geraldine shudder, "if you cry I sha'n't,'' he concluded. 

" Um I won't : but I don' know where my house is," and the 
woman's lip trembled dangerously. 


'■ Well, come on," said Billy hurriedly, wondering inwardly 
if all women with blue eyes and brown curls cried easily. 

All that afternoon Billy and the woman trudged over the 
dusty roads and then through the cool woods. Rabbits and 
squirrels ran across their path and often startled them but Billy 
was a brave protector and the woman feared nothing, unless by 
chance a wild pig might attack them. At last they came to a 
brook and joyously pulled off their shoes and stockings. It 
was so cool and such fun that the woman almost forgot her 
sorrows and even Billy, overwhelmed with responsibility, con- 
descended to build a dam. 

A crashing among the bushes and the sound of voices broke 
the stillness. " Gerry — whoo— hoo— Geraldine I " 

The woman extracted a small foot from the brown mud. 
" It's Foggy/' she cried. " I's here, in the brook." 

Billy only stared ; and her name was Geraldine, too ! 

A tall man rushed through the underbrush and caught the 
bare-footed wanderer up in his arms. 

" I— I got all losted, Foggy, an' this boy," she pointed a 
muddy finger at Billy, "he was tryin' to find my house. He's 
runnin' away an' he didn't get a spankin' 'tall." 

The tall man looked at the two children and then, much to 
Billy's disgust, began to laugh. "Well, my boy," he said at 
last, "if you'll tell me where you live, Gerry and I will take 
you home. You've taken fine care of Gerry I" 

Billy looked reproachfully at the woman and then gazed into 
the woods now cool and shadowy in the twilight. And Billy 
was hungry. 

"Oh, Billy, mother's been so worried I Where have you 
been ?" cried Mrs. Reynolds as a dirty boy in a much bedrag- 
gled sailor-suit came slowly up the steps. 

Billy shut his teeth very tight. "Jus' walkin'," he began 
bravely bat Billy was only eight and, when Mother drew him 
close, dirt and all, the tears spattered down and Billy sobbed 
out the whole story. 

Just then pussj^ came purring around and jumped into Billy's 

" Dear ole pussy," whispered Billy, '"'you haven't forgotten 
your own Bill, have you ?" 



*'I say, hang it all, Miss Nanny — the devil take it," 

" Let me see. JN'o, it isn't very good — is it ? But perhaps it 
is impossible to get. Auburn hair is difficult to " 

"Titian did not find it so." 

" No,'' laughed Miss Nanny gently, '' but Allyn Williard 

"Allyn Williard does," the artist smiled, " Hum. Well, we'll 

'' Oh don't. Don't wash it out again." 

"How else?" 

"Paint it black." 

"Black indeed." 

" Yes, I much prefer black hair anyway.^' 

'' Miss Nanny " 

"I do, Mr. Williard." 

"Well, JdoTi'^^." 

" How final. Well," there was a long pause and then Miss 
Nanny's face lit up with a sudden inspiration, " paint it any 
other color but auburn." 

"Any other color but the color of your own tresses !" 

"Yes, Mr. Williard! That is it exactly. Oh, how readily 
you fall into my plans." 

" I — fall into your Miss Nanny, I hope you do not for one 

moment think I would consider any such nonsense. I — paint 
your hair black — black — when it is auburn, that beautiful rare 
shade of auburn. I, Allyn Williard, President of the Royal 
Miniature Society of England, France, and Germany." 

" How interesting." 

"You did not know that before ?" Mr. Willard put down 
his palette and looked up at Miss Nanny in absolute amazement. 

"Does father know it? He told me you had won many 
medals and," leaning forward, in a confidential whisper, "he 
said you were very expensive. But a President of a Royal 
Society of three countries ! Now why didn't you tell me before ? " 

Mr. Williard was aghast. "I who have been patronized and 



favored in the highest circles the world over ; honored by 
•Queen Alexandra, King Edward, the Kaiser," he recited to 
himself, " decorated by the Academy, supposedly know every- 
where, Allyn Williard, the great miniature painter — and you 
say you did not know ?" 

" No," said Miss Nanny very frankly, so frankly in fact that 
the man before her opened up his mouth to speak and could not 
say a word. '^ I knew you had an exceptionally good opinion 
■of yourself — bat you really have some grounds for it. Think 
of it," she rambled on, " this is my third sitting and," a bit sar- 
<;astically, ''all this time when you have been painting me you 
have not mentioned these great facts before." 

Mr. Williard caught the tone in Miss Nanny's voice ; it made 
him feel very awkward, in fact, it nettled him. Miss Nanny 
-caught the look that came over Mr. Williard's face. '*0h you 
funny, funny man," she laughed, '' I love you ! You have no 
mortal conception of the humor you set me." 

'*Miss Nanny.'' 

"I know it Mr. Williard but you are, you are funny." 

**Miss Nanny." 

** And you don't know it." 

*' Miss Nanny !" 

*• I can't help it. Royal President of the whole world, in- 
cluding the Black Hole of Calcutta and the Cape of Good Hope 
and Horn ! I can't stop laughing while you are so serious. 

" Miss Nanny." The man was about to say something a little 
biting, but he did not say it. His eyes met the full radiant gaze 
of Miss Nanny ; she held him for a moment in odd fascination. 
She smiled up at him very sweetly. He smiled back at her, he 
smiled in spite of himself. And then, he picked up his tube box 
and, balancing his palette on his thumb, he fell suddenly to a 
mad mixing of colors. 

A long silence followed. Mr. Williard did not paint, he did 
not know exactly what he was doing, he kept on mixing colors, 
he kept on mixing colors. Miss Nanny leaned back in her chair 
a,nd watched him, humming a soft, indefinite tune. 

" I hope it turns out black," she said at length. 

" What turns out black ? " 

*'That mixture." 

■*' Oh-oh-a-oh — yes, yes," he answered. 


'^And if it does, you have to use it for my hair, a penalty I 
hereby enforce upon you for " 

"For ?" 

*' Allowing me to have embarassed you/^ 

** Rather, Miss ISTanny, to have put me in confusion." 

*' I like the latter term myself." 

" But, Miss Nanny, should it not turn out black ?" 

'* What then?" 

" Do I pay my penalty anyvi^ise ? " 

*' You do, sir, what ever color it turns out that color will yon 
paint me tresses." 

The artist streaked his brush mechanically from the mixture- 
on the pallete to a piece of practice vellum, looking the while not 
at the vellum but at Miss Nanny. '^ You are a bit harsh if you 
will pardon me, Miss Nanny. You remember it is imy name, 
that is hazarded." 

''I do not forget you are the great miniature painter, that 
your name will be— a — hazarded — but no more so than my looks. 
The penalty is decreed." 

** Here, Miss Nanny, is a sample of the color,'' taking up the 
practice vellum in his hand. "You may care to change your 
-. What ! My word ! My eye ! " 

'•What isit, what is it ?" 

'* It is, Miss Nanny, why, it is—" 

"Not green!" 

"Green, no ! It is the color that I wanted. It is the shade 
I have been striving for. It is the auburn of your tresses. 
It is the color that I paint your hair." 

^' I can't believe it,'' said Miss Nanny, feigning to be greatly 
disappointed, and then added with a bow " Mr.-a-Titian." 

The artist shook his head . He might be trying to keep back 
a laugh or he might be trying to keep back a sob ; his expression. 
bespoke either. 

"You don't know exactly how to take me ?" Miss Nanny 

"No, I don't." Mr. Williard answered. 

"Well, you will." 


" You see this is only our third sitting." Miss Nanny smiled 
again. She look up into the artist's face and never smiled more 

" Don't, Miss Nanny, don't." 



Don^t what, Mr. Williard ?'' 

Don't look at me like that. Don't smile — your— it — I — we — 
oh — you — the smile — I — oh, I sa}^ hang it all, Miss Nanny, I 
did not come here to America to marry ; I came to paint. 



In the softness of the sand, 

Wearied man can lie, 
And watch the evening light her lamps 

To fill the sun-fled sky, 
Seeing the dark clouds curtain the light, 
Feeling a rhythm in stillness of night, 

The stirring presence of God. 

In the midst of the City's gloom, 
In dullness and sickness and pain. 
Where vice keeps pace with wild desire 
In the maddening rush for gain, 
There man can feel in the heart of that war, 
In the clasp of a comrade, that not very far 
Is the healing presence of God. 



I bend my face to the mountain's rocky earth ; 

I spread my fingers o'er its rugged edge. 

And feel assured there is no dearth 

Of sun's heat stored within the stone. 

The red ants pass across my fingers 

As they lie. Grass seeds, wind sown, 

In the crevices have dared to spring and cluster. 

I catch, sunborn. the little luster 

From some bit of shattered stone. 

The breath of the soil is as warm as my own. 

Slowly I raise my face till I 

Can feel the cool drift of the farther winds. 

The hills about now seem to be 

The gray and shadowed phantoms of a dream ; 

And rivers flow in solemn silence by. 

Till, in a distant mystery. 

Horizon lines and rivers disappear. 

As if to charm away unfathomed fear, 

I realize that a scarlet bird flies by 

Betwixt my mountain and the sky. 




^' Eats ! '^ The word is fraught with meaning ; it may connote 
edibles ranging from the pallid tea and lady-fingers to be had at 
''teas" to the grandeur of a Rose Tree supper, or anything 
from the smoky charms of a bacon-bat to the formality of 
strawberry sherbet served to the strains of an orchestra in an 
atmosphere of trains and frock coats — a faculty reception. 

All these various occasions of "eats^' have their peculiar 
charms. When we see a friend arrayed in suit and hat our 
curiosity is aroused ; when she appears in white kid gloves we 
have proof positive that she is to decorate a " tea." In spite of 
her slightly superior air we know how she feels. We have been 
there ourselves. 

We don't like to change from a mackinaw to a suit and white 
kid gloves. The feelings of the real and original bull in a 
china-shop could have been nothing to those we experience as 
we approach the audible atmosphere of the ''tea." We smile ; 
we shake hands ; we fearfully guard our pristine fingers as we 
balance a tea-cup and a wafer. But as we drift into the little 
currents of conversation and mayhap find kindred spirits, we 
are suddenly glad we came. We feel a dignity not to be expe- 
rienced in a mackinaw ; perhaps we are even acquiring " social 
ease." We come away with a feeling of well-being ; we stand 
before our fellows, suited, hatted, white-gloved with assurance. 
We did our duty — and enjoyed it. 

What the development of these various diversions has been, 
and how explained, I do not know. In vain have I racked my 
brain, seeking the connection between a tea and a breakfast- 
party, a tea and a bacon-bat. There isn't any ; they just are. 


Breakfast-])arties are interesting and wholly satisfying. Ki- 
Uionos and cinnamon rolls are the ear-marks here. The luxury 
of a Sunday morning sleep cannot be indulged in without the 
loss of breakfast. There is nothing to do but turn to the 
chafing-dish and the bakers for consolation; and many kindred 
spirits combine, in the intimacy of boudoir caps and bed-room 
slippers, to prepare a breakfast of their own selection. Cinna- 
mon rolls are favored because they require no butter. Preten- 
tious parties afford grape fruit in season (and where one pecu- 
liarly blessed individual boasts a percolater all her friends 
imbibe, and also dispense, "perked" coffee). 

But it isn't what we eat at breakfast parties that makes theiii 
dear ; it is the cosy luxury of rising late and eating breakfast 
€urled up in a kimono. Of course there are those Spartan souls 
who scorn such indolence and appear properly and glaringly 
dressed and combed ; but even they fall before the other charms 
of the breakfast party. It is a chatty time — there are no 
approaching classes to cast a shadow before. We can lounge 
carelessly and discuss at length upon any subject from ''Nurs- 
ing and its causes" to the latest engagement. (If that seems a 
logical development, attribute it to accident, never to the train- 
ing of our minds.) 

Supper parties differ from breakfast parties in their attempt 
to do honor to a guest — that is their usual raison d'etre. Among 
familiar spirits the piece de resistance for such occasions differs. 
Some time ago we writhed in a reign of terror — the reign of 
cheese-dreams. Cheese-dreams are good — they have a soft and 
melting charm, not to be forgotten but withal a leaden quality 
long to be remembered. We passed from the period of cheese- 
dreams to a dignified epoch of creamed chicken, really chicken- 

That was a step on high ; it led to French peas and frozen 
puddings as accessories worthy of the fowl. But I think that 
now even chicken-wiggle and its attendant canned luxuries 
have passed out. The last supper was marred by an unmistak- 
able sweetness in the chicken. 

Had we used pulverized sugar for thickening ? No, decid- 
edly no ! The cooks were indignant. The fact remained, the 
chicken was unnaturally sweet. In our innocence, we had used 
sweetened condensed milk to ''cream" it. However, olives 
helped a lot, if eaten in abundance. Such little mishaps are all 
part of the shifting fortunes of chafing-dish meals. 


When the last bite has disappeared, everyone does her share- 
of the cleaning up. Where ? Why, in the bath-room. Some 
splash and, scour and rub ; some flirt the community tea-towels. 
Others rush back and forth, laying away the cosmopolitan 
china in the scullery. The scullery, you ask ? Oh, that is the 
joint possession of the house. The seniors leave their discarded 
dishes in this long, cofiSn-like box that ornaments the hall and 
everyone that comes after them uses it freely. No two dishes 
match ; most of the pitchers are decidedly snub-nosed and the 
silver might be questioned. But we are duly grateful to the 
classes who passed on. They are remembered ; china, though 
fragile, is more lasting than '' footprints on the sands of time.^'' 

Before we leave the house for the freer pleasures of "bats" 
out-of-doors, we must consider the faculty receptions. Every 
house gives one. The faculty and some students come. After 
an afternoon of upheaval, the house gradually assumes a festive 
air, accomplished by the aid of ferns and branches brought 
from abroad. The girls . arrive ; they are conducted to the 
receiving line and introduced. Very often this line is of 
such a length as to change the name of Simpson to Smith when 
it has sounded down its length. Then the received one is borne 
away to colorful ice-cream or sherbet and syncopated conversa- 
tion. Queer things happen at faculty receptions. There is 
always one freshman who asks the unmarried Professor if "Mrs. 
Professor is here." And then, sometimes, it is hard to tell 
who is most uncomfortable. 

But even the imagined atmosphere of receptions makes me 
long for the real happiness of "bats." There is a variety of 
" bats," big, jolly ones, little, cozy ones of just a few congenial 

Viewed critically, a "bacon-bat" is a messy affair of (in nine 
cases out of ten) a smoky fire, charred and dingy bacon on rolls, 
and much general discomfort ; because among "bacon-batters" 
of the highest average, bacon will drop into the fire, grease 
will dribble surreptitiously and mustard will acknowledge no 

But, you see, you cannot "bat" if you are in a critical mood; 
it is impossible, indeed. If you are naturally gifted with a 
"batting-sense," you feel a thrill at the mere mention of a 
"bacon-bat." You are uplifhed at the rattle of the faithful old 
tin cups as they are unearthed from the depths of the scullery. 



And when yoa have gone to the extent of bringing the bacon 
and rolls, the mastard and perhaps extra luxuries, you are 
joyous when at last the kindling crackles and sends little 
stealthy tongues to test the logs, you live only in the delicious 
moment with hopes only for the immediate future. What a 
joy it is to sit around that fire — to hold the sizzling slivers of 
meat over the flames and gradually to find yourself becoming 
expert in spearing it on your twig, in raanoeuvering it without 
allowing it more than once to drop among the coals. 

Our favorite "bacon-batting" is in a quiet piece of wood 
with meadows all around, where a shallow stream runs. It is 
the most humorous rivulet I have ever seen. It slips along, 
bent on its winding, rock-strewn cruise, and treasures a little 
joke that makes it laugh every ripple of the way ; it smiles and 
chuckles in a most engaging manner. I wonder if it's laughing 
at or with us. 

Bacon-bats are always at six, I may have neglected to say. 
So, late in the year, our party takes on a romantically campy 
aspect. The dark, moonless evening is given enchanting mys- 
tery by the great shadows that fall and creep upon us, jealous 
of our cheery blaze. And on such nights, when the fire is 
ruddy, when there is a snap in the air and the stars look like 
sparks on high, singing seems good to us. (What chance 
listeners may think, we've never heard,) Then the songs of 
spirit and fun fill the cool air, and we thrill to the romance of a 
dark night, a blazing fire and song. 

What matter if we must return to the calf-bound sages — or 
worse, to the exercise of our own constructive geniuses ? We've 
laughed and sung and heroically devoured grimy bacon. We 
cannot forget that, iio matter how deadly our pursuit ; for days 
we carry with us, via our trusty mackinaws, the haunting, not 
elusive, aroma of cofifee, burned bacon and smoke. 

On short, golden afternoons there is another sort of *'bat," 
known and dear to every girl. There is a walk out Main street, 
past Rose Tree, with low meadows stretching off to the right 
and the range beyond. The fascination of those meadows, as 
moodily changeful as an April day, is only equalled by that of 
the worn old hills, now softly grey, now darkly clear against a 
sky of fresh-washed blue. Farther on we cross the Connecticut, 
blue like the sky above it, but marking its treacherous eddies 
with a myriad of little angry swirls. Then the road forks and 


we follow a shady one, where great-truuked elms reach out in 
their friendly clasp of years, while decorous old-fashioned,, 
white-faced houses retire farther into the shade. Truly this is- 
a New England street but even its venerable dignity seldom im- 
presses the '^batt}^," middy-bloused groups that hurry along" 
through the shade. Indeed, we nearly always hurry because 
there's something very good just beyond ; and there is always 
the danger of being just too late for it. Once we walked out 
there— it was hot and dusty and the only thing that encouraged 
us to persist was the thought of the reward. When we got 
there — but that is another story as Mr. Kipling (unfortunately 
not my friend) would say. 

Just when a real barn comes in sight and there is a glimpse 
of water under an old bridge, your sense of taste becomes acute. 
What is the desired thing ? Oh, I forgot I hadn't told you. It 
is cider — clear, golden, cider fresh from the press. It is cool — 
and you get more than you can drink. You take a pitcher full 
and a package of gingersnaps, thin and crisp and gingery ; you 
sit down overlooking the quiet water that slish-sloshes over the 
dam behind the mill. The smooth surface holds all the glory of 
autumn color that paints the trees and shrubs about the pond ;: 
against the depth of sky ; sumac blazes with golden maple 
leaves. It is good to stop talking— just for a bit— and drink in 
with the cider, the quiet of this autumn loveliness. And when 
we start home, the sun is lowering across the fields of stacked 
corn and pumpkin ; and perhaps, if we loiter in the dusk, we- 
see the great disk of the harvest moon come up burning its 
feverish way above the trees into the cool sky. 

Out the same road to the cider mill, and just a bit farther on, 
is another haunt famous and ever-popular. How can I describe 
the melting sweetness of the waffles to be had at Mrs. Stebbin's ? 
They are made just right, cooked to a golden crispness and 
served fresh from the griddle. Add to their native charms 
those of pure syrup or creamed chicken, according to taste or 
pocket-book, and you have a fair idea of a Stebbin's supper. 
But, as usual, the sauce is found in the bracing walk out and 
the ^* batting-spirit'' that goes with it, and after supper it is part 
of the program to wait a few minutes to play a little and dance. 
From here, as from the '* bacon-bat " we carry an unmistakable 
odor, the essence of Mrs. Stebbin's waffled-aired rooms. 

" Bats," with their attendant eats, are numberless, correctly 


speaking. Almost anything to do out-of-doors is a "bat/' and a 
" bat'' is not complete without "eats.'' I've told you about the 
bigger, more exciting sort. Perhaps I should not have because 
anything after a Stebbins supper, the cider-mill and a "bacon- 
bat " would be anti-climax. But I haven't been in college long 
enough to be broken to that literary harness called an outline. 
I envy those who are ; such a procedure seems so eminently 
proper. There is no possibility of their being illogical and, of 
course, they alone are on the road to a "literary form." But 
how could I make an outline on "eats" and "bats?" There 
are no sub-topics ; they^re all, each and everyone, a thing sep- 
arate and apart. But as I've heard someone say, I digress. 

I haven't told you about Rose Tree, Boyden's, Beckmann's and 
the Club House. Rose Tree, on the outside doesn't live up to 
it's name and there are features on the inside that seem oblivious 
to the responsibility of such a name. The house is a squat, 
stained old building ; its uncertain attitude has always held me, 
and I wonder how it stands so firmly. You pass under a quaint 
sign-board, heralding "Ye Rose Tree Inne," up a path hedged 
by shrubs and watched by shaggy dogs. 

Inside, Rose Tree is wholly satisfying. Little tables, flower- 
trimmed, invite a cosy half-hour over fragrant tea and toast or 
an ice. Then again. Rose Tree puts on an imposing air when 
the candles are lit and fresh white linen covers the tables and 
evening dress blossoms over a true course dinner. Madame of 
Ye Rose Tree adds a flavor to these dinners, which the unitiated 
find fairly interesting. 

Madame herself will bear observation. No fitter antithesis of 
the little Inne could be found than this presiding genius. Big, 
broad-shouldered, and slow-moving, she bears down upon one 
like an unevitable Fate. Innocent suitors suffer especially from 
her laconic form of address. Before dinner she looms beside the 
table with the startling query, " With or without ?" 

Can you blame anyone for a muddled reply ? Also for sur- 
prise when " with " proves to be fruit cocktail innocent of any- 
thing stronger than a maraschino cherry. 

Boyden's is not unique ; its "eats" are not interesting because 
it is simply an eating-place where we entrap visiting friends or 
possibly resident ones. It is pleasant mainly for the freedom 
from a campus repast and the "gisty bits" a supper there af- 
fords. For instance, by observing, you may take stock of all 


important masculinity and, what is more interesting, of whom 
they are "suiting." And the study of "crushes" and their 
"crushed" is engrossing, as here exemplified. There are so 
many different phases of it. And Boyden's, affording a degree 
of extravagant living, is important as a touch-stone for devotion. 

Beckmann's is the Castle Perilous of Northampton. I have 
tried everj^ wile of human art to cheat it of at least one victim. 
Its windows, full of sweets, lie just within the pale. To ex- 
plain: — Beckmann's is the Mason and Dixon line between cam- 
pus precincts and downtown. One may run down to Beck- 
mann's bare-headed, with perfect propriety ; but beyond that, a 
hatless head enfringes upon the first regulation dinned into a 
Freshman's ear; "wear hats below Beckmann's." And that 
very rule, wholly proper in itself, is our undoing. It makes it 
so easy just to run down to Beckmann's. One can go in any 
degree of dress or undress : in anything from a gym suit, (skirt 
protected, of course !) and tousled hair, to the sophistication of 
evening attire. And after a strenuous half hour of gym or an 
evening of study, Beckmann's seems the only relief. I try to 
pass without a glance in the direction of the peril but it is use^ 
less and, accordingly, my account mounts. Ice cream, as I may 
not have said, is the "eat" peculiar to Beckmann's. When 
you inquire what kinds are offered, the waitress stoically repeats 
a lingo calculated to rouse wonder and dismay. And I invari- 
ably murmur "double chocolate marshmallow," because that 
is the only combination of which I am sure. I ask for it with 
the confidence bred by long practice. 

The Club House is a feature of Allen Field, where all the col- 
lege plays. The wants of those, blown with basket-ball or 
tennis, are ministered to in the Club House. It is a tiny place ; 
ten people give it the appearance of being crowded, but it is 
cosy and made for friendliness and unrestraint. As at Beck- 
mann's, ice cream and cold drinks are favored ; but there are 
cool fall days and biting winter ones when the Club House al- 
lures with the fragrance of tea and toast or coffee and waffles. 
It has the same inevitable attraction that Beckmann's has, only 
more so. How can anyone, after playing hard for an hour or 
more, pass by the cool white building and see her friends 
within, sipping lemonade or devouring ice cream, without a 
yearning to join them ? Indeed, I have resolved, have schemed 
to help my judgement overpower my desires — but to no avail. 


My only consolation lies in the fact that most of my friends are 
equally characterless. 

As you see there are ^' eats " and " eats ; " but where there are 
*'eats/' the situation may be and nearly always is, termed a 
*^bat." The term is likely to include anything from a walk 
downtown to a day spent tramping the range. But the breadth 
of its application doesn^t lessen the suggestiveness of the word, 
and ^'bat" still connotes fun and freedom from troublesome 
consciences, while " eats " never fail to arouse interest. As long 
as we are we, both subjects will be matters for serious con- 



All M is P ; all P is S 

All S is not not P I guess 

These meanings seem to be quite plain 

But still my work is all in vain 

I must a missionary be 

And set to work to convert P. 

The subject's universal tho 

So shall it be E, I, or O ? 

Perhaps obversion might help out, 

Now then I've changed it all about ; 

No S is not not — not not — P. 

But what on earth can not — M be ? 

If once you have the meaning fixed 

They say you never can get mixed 

Pray, if the meaning is so plain 

Why change and change the terms again ? 

Since truth is what we're looking for, 

And everything was true before, 

What is the use of shifting around 

When no new meanings can be found? 

Let S be P and P be M 

And just be satisfied with them. 



Some people think their greatest sorrow 

Lies in the thought, " a quiz to-morrow ; " 

Or after slaving night and day 

They get an E instead of A. 

Still others think the rising bell 

Tolls loud and clear their funeral knell 

And others hate the rigid rule 

"Lights out at ten " like boarding school. 

Then some there are who Sunday eve 

For Amherst youths and Rose Tree grieve 

But Sunday noon's what brings me gloom 

As I look 'round the dining-room,^ 

The day when joy should reign supreme, 

Since campus revels in ice cream ; 

For though I see six strange new faces, 

There still are lots of empty places. 

I could not have my longed for guest, 

Now how could I " be at my best ? " 

Eleanor Sackett 1915 
Constance Kiehel 1915 
Blanche Lindauer 1915 

The scene is laid in a college roonij, 
A Slice o' Smith containing 1, Filia Smith, a freshman, 
Drama in one act studying math. 2, her faithful EooM- 
MATE, a sophomore. 3, her red laundry 
bag in the center of room. 
Roommate — Laundry goes to-day. 
Filia — Drop a line perpendicular, — 

Roommate — Laundry goes to-day. Here is your red laundry 
bag, which I have brought from our small but compact clothes- 
press. It is fitting that you should place garments within the 
bag. The laundry will distribute them among your fellow- 
students and you will receive others in return. 
Filia — If a parallelepiped, — 



Roommate — Laundry goes to-day. Do you not wish to be 
cleanly ? I have read some where either in Shakespeare or the 
Bible that cleanliness is next to godliness. I flunked freshman 
math but I was at least cleanly. (Removes math book from 
Filia's hand. Filia seems to be in a trance). 

FiLiA — (hoarsely). Asleep and awake they haunt me — 
(clutching the handkerchief-tie of her P. T. and pointing at her 
laundry bag.) Is that a circle that I see before me ? 

Roommate — Arouse yourself to action I Behold, the laundry 
wagon approaches. The champing steed champs beneath the 
window. The laundryman, the Hermes of the tubs, advances 
up the stairs. Oh, laundry shall not go to-day I 

(Filia stung to action seizes garments and plunges them into 
her laundry bag.) 

Roommate — I hear his voice in converse. Hark, I fear you 
are lost. He descends the stairs. 

(Filia casts her laundry bag from the window. A commo- 
tion below follows.) 

Roommate — You have no doubt hit someone. From the 
academic nature of the remarks, I should judge it were faculty. 
I think you had best spend a week out of town. But Filia, 
whate'er befall, rejoice I Laundry, it has gone to-day! 

(Triumphant tableau and curtain.) 

Margaret Bloom L914. 

It has always seemed a curious thing to me 
Umbrellas that fnnny people should be so prone to jest 
about the umbrella. I have pondered 4ong and 
and seriously whether it is because of the peculiar shape of the 
umbrella, its diminutiveness in fair weather and bulk in stormy 
weather, or because of the uses to which it is put. But in every 
instance I have failed to solve the riddle. As far as I can see 
there is nothing funny in the umbrella itself, or in its relations. 
On the contrary, as I have become better acquainted with the 
article in question, I have found many things about it calcu- 
lated to produce a soberness, if not a sadness. And especially 
has this been the case since I have been in college. 

If you have ever observed the advent of an incoming class, 
you have probably noticed that each member comes provided 
with a new umbrella. The carefulness of a mother thus pro- 
vides physically for her daughter. It is by this means that the 
supply of college umbrellas is kept up. 


This may be a matter of amusement to some people, but I do 
not see it in that light. Consider in the first place the amount 
of misplaced confidence on the part of the parents, which is lost 
in the process. To be sure, one may say that misplaced confi- 
dence is a drug on the market and that the quantity thus 
destroyed is of no particular account anyway ; but when we 
realize how often the average student has to draw on the home 
stock for this commodity, anything tending to diminish the 
article becomes alarming in its importance. 

However, after all, the effect on the student herself is the 
main thing to be noted. The freshman comes with her new 
umbrella ; whatever else she may lack, she is the owner of an 
umbrella. But she is the victim of a singular delusion. She 
believes that, like herself, every other girl in college is the 
proud possessor of an umbrella. With primeval simplicity, 
she believes this to be the elysium of umbrellas. 

Perhaps it rains the first day of college. This is more than a 
possibility— it may be regarded in the light of a probability. 
With umbrella spread, in proud conspicuousness, she starts for 
chapel. With unhesitating confidence she leaves it at the door, 
not stopping to wonder where the precedent is for this proceed- 
ing. There it stands, an overwhelming proof of the original 
innocence of man. 

Meanwhile the freshman goes through her devotions in proper 
form ; no thought of her umbrella disturbs the sweet serenity 
of her spirit. Tha service over, having dutifully waited for 
the choir to vanish, she departs. Now just consider the situa- 
tion. Her natural amiability, increased by the chastening 
atmosphere of chapel, leads her to put implicit faith in man- 
kind — especially that part of mankind, or rather womankind, 
now included in Smith. Her heart swells as she thinks that 
she too now belongs to Smith. Under the influence of these 
emotions she looks around for her new umbrella. Of course it 
is gone. It has gone to swell the general stock of college 
umbrellas. But the freshman ! Who can estimate the amount 
of harm it has done her ? Her faith in human nature, the 
religious calm of her spirit, is obliterated in an instant ! And 
yet some people are heartless enough to joke about such things. 
There are other phases of the umbrella question which might 
be examined, but it is a saddening and sobering task, and 
might well be left until another time. Adele Codding 1914. 


Not So in Hamp 

When j'ou hear the pit-a-pat on the old wood-shed, 

And all the sky is gray and dark overhead, 

And the wind blows the autumn leaves down to the ground. 

And you know it won't be long 'fore winter comes around, 

Then you take a book and nestle in a great arm-chair, 

And forget about the cold rain that patters out there, 

And read in a happy, dreamy sort of way. 

Why you really could love one — single — rainy day 1 

Marie D. GRaFF 1915. 

Is it true that once I could write ? 

Explaining Lack Had I ever aspired to write ? I truth- 

OF Contributions fully had, once, but that was long ago. 
It was before spelling and grammar and 
form were the required style. It was before logical thinking 
had been logically thought by me. It was the joyful time 
when I could write my thoughts with a pen as they happened 
to occur. Now, I must write my thoughts with a dictionary and 
a grammar as they ought to occur. In ^^hort, like Rip Van 
Winkle, I am out of style. 

Do you question my mood ? Then hear and perhaps you will 

This morning I awoke with a decided inclination to write. I 
obeyed the inclination and, since it was so promising a one, I 
decided not to meet my classes. I hung a busy sign on my door 
at nine-thirty and " fell to" with great energy. It is now five. 
The sign and I are still busy, but behold the outcome of it all ! 
An empty theme tablet balanced by a full waste-basket, a blank 
mind and a yawning English thirteen drawer still unhonored 
by my contribution. 

What is to be done ? Sixty hours of ^' English thirt" yet to 
do ! If I write as I can, all the logical methods which must be 
used will vanish from my mind ; if I write as^I ought, all sixty 
hours must be of the English C type. An early grave looms 
up before me at the thought ! 

Consider then my predicament. I must either drop Logic 
and hence becomci an n?igraduate, or else drop Genius, become 
a Philosopher and hence part with my sanity. I think, then, 
perhaps you will understand my state of mind when you see 
that my choice lies between being a sane, ungraduated Genius, 
or an insane, graduated Philosopher. 

Adelaide H. Arms 1915. 


The Isle of Dreams 

Come follow me back to our island shore 
Wing true as the homing dove, 
And hand in hand in a magic land 
We will hie to the haunts we love. 

In a little ebony craft we will dip 

And trim to the lazy wind ; 

With a palm-leaf sail in the bow we will trail, 

And a rainbow behind. 

Where a thousand, tortuous, trailing coils 
Of the giant wood-vine lie, 
And tier above tier in triumph rear 
Their jostling crowns to the sky. 

We will stay to sip of the founted drop 
That flows in the travellers' palm, 
Peering up to the nesting ferns where they rest 
In the crotch of an ancient arm. 

Ruth Cobb 1914 


The other day we were privileged to hear a group of freshmen 
in a thoughtful discussion of college life. They had come to 
Smith expecting to find sixteen hundred girls with one common 
interest and pleasure — the pursuit of knowledge. After seven 
weeks they were impressed with the fact that study instead of 
being looked upon as the chief aim and privilege at college, 
seemed to be considered one of its necessary evils. The prepar- 
ation of lessons was a task attacked grudgingly and dispatched 
as rapidly as possible in order to get to the more engrossing 
college interests. 

This is a bold statement of facts but is it not a natural deduc- 
tion from our manner of living ? We are in a constant bedlam 
of enthusiasm over clubs, social service activities, trials for 
dramatics, athletics and bats. We are running hither and 
thither in our zeal over some or all of these activities. Study 
would seem to hold an unimportant position in our opinion and 
in our curriculum. And yet that upper classman is rare who 
will not emphatically deny that we consider study merely a 
necessary evil, a medicine which we gulp down with a wry face. 
But how is one to reconcile the thoughtful ideal for college life 
and our seeming failure to carry out that ideal ? 

There are two conditions under which these accusations might 
be true. For there are a few girls here with no further aim 
than to spend four years agreeably, and incidently to learn a 
little. There are also a few others who keep up their studies 
because it is necessary to '' pass the office" to get into clubs and 
societies. But the girls who are working with such ignoble 
purpose or lack of purpose are few, and represent so distorted 
a. view of the Smith College spirit that they are almost negligible. 

The vast majority of girls here enjoy their work. They are 
deeply interested in their classes. They are grateful for the 



privilege of coming in touch with the men and women of our 
Faculty. And yet these are the very girls who are being mis- 
judged in regard to their attitude towards study. They unwit^ 
tingly are giving the entering students a false and harmful idea 
of college standards. They recognize that college technically is 
and should be *' a society of friends of learning incorporated for 
study in the higher branches of learning." But the diversions 
offered are many and the interests are varied. For them to keep 
the emphasis in the proper place is much more difficult than 
merely to see where it should go. 

There is danger that we too freely imitate the Sophists in our 
own day. We try to be too versatile. We are interested in sa 
many and such varied subjects that we forget our own limita- 
tions. We are not content with doing a few things and doing^ 
them well. We would do everything within our reach. In 
consequence we lose our equilibrium. We forget that the center 
though not the circumference of college life should be academic 

This is not a plea for the grind. But it is a request that wa 
give our studies their proper place of importance in student life. 
We should be losing some of the richest benefits of college if we 
were deprived of our activities in clubs and dramatics and 
athletics. But we are losing the deepest import of our four 
years if we are so engrossed in these activities that we never 
know the satisfying reward of consistent scholarly effort. 

This freshman criticism of college life is one that can not go 
unchallenged. But it is also one that should rekindle in us the 
determination to be faithful to the best the college has to offer. 


It is two minutes past ten and the clang of the bell has just 
died away in the corridor. A dark form passes beneath your 
window. A paper gleams for a minute in the light of a bob- 
bing lantern, and the form passes on. Perhaps your door stands 
open and an ominous ray from the hall light has crept in. 
Perhaps the window next to yours is taking a light cut to-night ; 
the two windows are quite close. You sleep in peace but next 
morning there is a sad discrepancy between the reports of John 
and the proctor. There follow interviews, questions, and bitter 
thoughts before the list is finally adjusted and the probable 
source of error located. 

We cannot help feeling the ignominy of the situation. Night 
after night we are watched from without. An account of our 
actions is tabulated and handed over to the head of the house. 
That account is used as a check upon our own. And when 
there are mistakes we suffer the consequences. Why is it that 
we must bear the shame of this, and all that it implies ? Such 
a custom could not grow up without a cause. It is not that we 
wish to eliminate the ten o'clock rule. It is not that we wish to 
elude it. As we go further in our college course the realization 
of its value grows upon us. We do not intentionally disobey 
the rule, but we do disobey it. Five minutes seem so trifling 
when there are five hundred and thirty-five more to follow. 
And even though our lights are out promptly at ten we are not 
always in our rooms. Each offence taken by itself may be a 
trifle, but we cannot take each offence by itself, nor can we ex- 
pect them to be taken so. And as long as we prove by our care- 
lessness that we are unable to form a strict interpretation of the 
ten o'clock rule and to abide by it, just so long we deserve the 
petty inconveniences and ignominy of a night watchman's re- 



With the present system we reap the physical benefits of 
quiet and early rest, but we sacrifice the greater good. We 
miss the real pleasure of an independent compliance to rule. 
When we have shown that we are capable of that greater good 
we may reap the double benefit. Until then let us try harder to 
shoulder this responsibility that we already have ; and after the 
burden is well adjusted there will be time enough to clamor for 
senior privileges and student government. A student body that 
shows its need of such supervision in the matter of lights, is 
hardly the one to be entrusted with its own government. We 
must thoroughly control the rudiments before we attempt a 
masterpiece. And to control the rudiments we must be able to 
dispense with John in his nightly rounds, and reduce the proctor 
to a labor saving device. R. C. 

In the college magazines of the month, it is the short story 
that is the dominant type of literature. There are a few good 
poems, though none of these are of exceptional merit, and there 
are a number of essays that are very well written and very 
interesting, but the short stories are numerous as well as good. 

The Vassar Miscellany contains two that are indeed worthy 
of notice. ** Lean Years " is a story that one immediately recog- 
nises as true to life ; the characters are just such people as one 
sees in a country community, and the story is well carried out. 
" Some Facts in the Case of Mrs. J. Strong " is very unusual, 
both in the plot and in the manner in which it is written. The 
whole situation may be improbable — we are not well enough 
informed to be sure whether it is or not — but at any rate the 
atmosphere of horror grips the attention of the reader from the 
very start ; the story is powerful. 

In the Nassau Literary Magazine *'Two Dreams" is an in- 
teresting story. But is not the sacrifice of the younger man 
unnecessary ? It could easily have been averted without weak- 
ening the story to any appreciable extent. In the same maga- 
zine, *'An Incident in the Life of Alexander F. Manson" deals 
with a novel situation. 

The Barnard Bear contains one story of exceptional interest, 
^'Alte Julie ; " it is unusual and charmingly written. "When 
Betsey Taught in Fairbridge '' is a serial which promises to be 
interesting. Serials as a rule seldom appear in the college 
magazines — at least, so we would gather from our short ac- 


qiiaintance with them — and the Barnard Bear is to be com- 
mended for this departure. 

In the Harvard Advocate for October 24 there are three 
stories of importance, "The Other Kind " " The Process '' and 
''Two Friends," while "The Boy" in the issue of October 18 
is very good. 

" Paradise Regained '' in the Brunonian is very well worked 
out; the type of story, however, is a little ordinary. "The 
Cutting of the Gordian Knot,'' on the other hand, is more un- 
common as to situation, but the story is not well unified. 

In the University of Texas Monthly we find "A Whited 
Sepulchre," which is a story longer than many of those that 
usually appear in the college magazines ; it is well sustained 
and the local color is admirablj^ suggested. 

We have now made mention of the best stories in the college 
magazines of the month, with the exception of "The Heart of 
Judith" and "The Chroniophone '" in the Wooster Literary 
Messenger, which are very short and more in the nature of 
sketches. There are also good stories in the Minnesota Maga- 
zine, the Wesleyan Literary Monthly, The Bema, and the Uni- 
versity of Virginia Magazine, but we have no space to criticise 
them in detail. If one may judge by the number of excellent 
stories that are to be found in the September and October maga- 
zines, it would appear that the college magazines are starting 
the year well, and we feel confident that the verse as well as 
other forms of literature will grow better and become more 
original as time goes on. D. O. 



1914 presents " The Tempest." 

Applications for Senior Dramatics for June 11 and 12, 1914, should be sent 
to the General Secretary at 184 Elm Street, Northampton. Alumnse are 
urged to apply for the Thursday evening performance if possible, as Satur- 
day evening is not open to alumnge, and there will probably not be more than 
one hundred tickets for Friday evening. Each alumna may apply for not 
more than one ticket for Friday evening ; extra tickets may be requested for 
Thursday. No deposit is required to secure the tickets, which may be 
claimed on arrival in Northampton from the business manager in Seel ye 
Hall. In May all those who have applied for tickets will receive a request 
to confirm the applications. Tickets will then be assigned only to those who 
respond to this request. The prices of the seats will range on Thursday 
evening from $1.50 to $.75 and on Friday from $2.00 to $.75. The desired 
price of seats should be indicated in the application. A fee of ten cents is 
charged to all non-members of the Alumnse Association for the filing of the 
application and should be sent to the General Secretary at the time of appli- 


Contributions to this department are desired before the end of the month, 
in order to appear in the next month's issue, and should be addressed to 
Eloise Schmidt, Gillett House. Northampton, Massachusetts. 



Bessie Amerman is working for a Master's degree at Teachers' College, 
Columbia University, Her major is Public Health Nursing and Edu- 

Elsie Baskin is secretary to the Principal of the Finch School in New 

Blanche Butsfield has announced her engagement to Harlan Prats of 
East Orange, New Jersey. 

Margaret Clark has announced her engagement to Howard D. Williams 
of Springfield, Massachusetts. She is to be married in June. 

Helen T. Lord is the Assistant Executive Secretary of the Playground 
and Recreation Association of America, New York City. 

Marion Lucas, social editor of the Springfield Republican for the past 
year, received the degree of Master of Arts at Wellesley last June. 
The title of her thesis was : " Les femmes des salons dans I'histoire du 
dix-huitieme siecle." 



11. Julia Miller was graduated last June from the Lowthrope School of 
Landscape Architecture. She is planning to take work along the same 
lines in Cleveland, Ohio. 
Elizabeth Moos is teaching Hygiene and Physical Education in the F. W. 
Parker School in Chicago. She was graduated last summer from the 
Howard Summer School of Physical Education. 
Adaline Moyer has announced her engagement to Arthur S. Martin of 

Elizabeth, New Jersey. 
Winifred Notman is studying law at the New York University Law 

Mary Patten is Assistant Physical Director at Winthrop College, South 

Edna Bobbins is teaching at the Capen School, Northampton. 
Anna Rochester is teaching in the primary department of St. Margaret's 

School in Buffalo. 
Muriel Spicer is managing the "Business Women's Luncheon Club" in 

Carlotta Stone is Principal of the School at Wendell Center, Massa- 
Alice Thompson is to be married in February, 1914. 

Florence Watters has announced her engagement to the Rev. Clyde 
Bronson Stuntz. 
■ex^W. Myra B. Howell has announced her engagement to J. A. Keillor of 

New York City. 
"'12. Mabel Beaver is teaching English in the government schools of Porto 
Dorothy Bement is teaching French at Miss Glendinning's School in New 

Haven and studying at the Yale University Music School. 
Florence Bond is studying for a year in Hanover, Germany. 
Amy Bridgman is laboratory assistant in the Department of Health in 

New York City. 
Marion Clark is studying Interior Decoration and Design with Mr. Monte 

at the Westfield Normal School. 
Ruth Cooper is teaching Elocution at the Burnham School, Northampton, 

and taking a graduate course at Smith. 
Emily Coye is acting as Assistant Secretary of the Child Welfare Ex- 
hibit which is part of the National Conservation Exposition now taking 
place in Knoxville, Tennessee. In November she is to return to New 
York to serve as exhibiting assistant on the Child Welfare Exhibit 
Miriam Cragin is taking the course in Kindergarten Education at Teach- 
ers' College, Columbia. 
Ethel Curtis is on the staff of the Family Rehabilitation Department of 
the United Charities of Rochester, New York. 


'12. Henrietta Dana has announced her engagement to Thomas DenisoQ 
Hewitt of Brooklyn. 

Martha Dennison is taking a three months' training course at the Y. W. 
C. A. in Toledo, Ohio. 

Ruth Emerson, Ada Sirnpson and Dorothy Whitley are taking courses at 
the Boston School for Social Workers. 

Adra Fay is cataloguer and assistant librarian in a branch of the Minne- 
apolis Public Library. 

Annie Goddard and Margaret Washington leave for Europe in January. 

Theo Gould has announced her engagement to Raymond Davis Hunting 
of West Newton, Massachusetts. 

Grace May Hoffman is connected with the A born Opera Company. 

Helen Houghton has a secretarial position at the Horace Mann School in- 
New York City. 

Ruth Lewin has announced her engagement to John Henry Blodgett of 

Margaret Plumley is spending the winter in Chicago. Address : 5314 
Kimbard Avenue, Chicago, Illinois. 

Margaret Sargent has announced her engagement to Charles M. Hewett 
of Canton, Massachusetts. - 

Carolyn Sheldon is teaching in the French and History Departments of 
Barnard College. 

Dorothy de Schweinitz is travelling in Europe. 

Marian Tanner has been a member of Stock Companies in Buffalo^ 
Wilmington, Delaware, and Reading, Pennsylvania. 

Florence Weeks is taking a graduate course in English at Smith College.. 
ex- 12. Mildred Armour spent the summer at the Grenfell Mission, St. An-^ 
thony, Newfoundland. She taught rug-weaving and homespun. 

Alice Moore is stenographer for the Railroad Commission of Oregon. 

Janet Rankin is studying at the Columbia School of Journalism. 
'13. Helen Barnum is taking the one-year secretarial course at Simmons. 
Address: Stuart Club, 102 Fenway, Boston, Massachusetts. 

Eleanor Cory is travelling secretary for the Students' Volunteer Move- 
ment. Slie will travel among the colleges of the South during the fall. 
Address : 600 Lexington Avenue, New York City. 

Edith Cushing is Supervisor of Drawing in the schools of Northboro, 
Southboro, Schrewsboro and Berlin, Massachusetts. Address : Box 
152 Northboro, Massachusetts. 

Ruth Ensign sailed November 1, to spend the winter in Egypt, Italy and 
and Greece. 

Eleanor Poppe is the official German tutor at the University of Min- 

Susan Raymond is Demonstrator in Astronomy at Smith College. 


'13. Inez Tiedeman is at home in Savannah, Georgia. 

Gretchen Todd is studying at the Instituto Internacional, Madrid, Spain. 

Rachel Whidden is at home. 

Catherine Williams is teaching Latin in the Howard High School, Mar- 
quette, Michigan. Address : 32 1 East Arch Street, Marquette, Michigan. 

Helen Wilcox sails January 10, 1914. for a trip around the world. She 
will stay some time in Hongkong and Tokio. 


'06, Jessie Caroline Barclay to Roger H. Motten, August 14, 1913. Address : 

7 Pelham Place. Colorado Springs, Colorado. 
'10. Eleanor Benson to Ralph Lawson. October 18, 1913. Address after De- 
cember 1, 1913 : 44 Warren Street, Salem, Massachusetts. 

Katherine Van V. Drew to Vernon A. Smith, May 10, 1913. 

Helen Gifford to Leon E. Varnum, June 28, 1913. 

Heloise Hedges to Paul R. Tappan, August 7, 1913. 

Ruth Leonard to James Garfield Moses, June 4, 1913. 

Florence Murray to Charles Hovey Gardiner, September 17. 1913. 

Anne Pigeon to John M. Van Kusen, July 31, 1913. Address : 101 Robin- 
wood Avenue. Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. 

Marjorie Roberts to Clifford C. Champine, May 3, 1913. Address : Pleas- 
ant Avenue, Minneapolis. Minnesota. 

Yeoli Stimson to Edward H. Acton, June 17, 1913. 

Eva Tebbetts to George E. Robinson, June 25, 1913. 

Martha Washburn to Cephas D. Allen, July 30, 1913. Address: 721 
Seventh Avenue, Southeast, Minneapolis, Minnesota. 

Edith H. Willetts to Glenn H. Wayne, October 21, 1913. 

Ethel S. Wilson to Frank D. Lyman, October 4, 1913. Address : 534 
Clarke Avenue, Westmount, Montreal, Canada. 
"11. Myra Breckenridge to Alfred Wallace Gordon, September 1, 1913. 

Marguerite Butterfield to Henry D. Ervin, June 26, 1913. 

Emily Hix to Fred M. Faber, October 15, 1913. Address : Corner Illinois 
and Indiana Avenues, Peoria, Illinois. 

Adelaide Peterson to Chase Whitney Love, August 21, 1913. 
ea?-'ll. Katharine Berryhill to William Pearce Gaddis. Address : Care of 
Navy Department. Washington, District of Columbia. 

Lillian Brigham to Howard Milton Pease. 

Flora Lewis to Arthur Williams Logan. 
'12. R. Leila Allyn to Ralph P. Schelly. 

Minnie Emerson to James Perkins Keith. October 4, 1913. 

Helen Garfield to James Frances Buckley, July 5, 1913. 

Ruth Harper to Alfred O. Anderson, June 21, 1913. 


'12. Florence Hedrick to Chester F. Miller. 

Mary Parmly Koues to Dr. Ernest Sachs, October 28, 1913. Address : 

5557 Berlin Avenue, St. Lonis, Missouri. 
Margaret Lockey to Bertram Hatch Hayes, October 18, 1913. 
Helen Peddrick to Edwin Conover Leedom, August 19, 1913. 
Nellie Pennell to Eugene Philip Adams Simpson, September 18, 1913. 
Jeanne Pushee to Philip Hiram Thayer, October 18, 1913. 
Ruth Shepherd to Julian Stevens Hay ward, June 21, 1913. 
Florence Sprague to Ellsworth Farnum, June 11, 1913. 
Sarah Van Benschoten to Dr. Byron Clary Darling, September 27, 1913. 


'12. Mrs. Royall Victor (Nan Martin), a son, Edwin Martin, born Octo- 
ber 2, 1913. 


November 21. Student Volunteer Meeting. 
" 22. Division C Dramatics. 

4.00 P. M. Lecture by Alfred Noyes. 
*' 26-28. Thanksgiving Recess. 
" 29. Open Meeting of Philosophical Society. 

Lecture by Mr. R. F. A. Hoernke. 
December 3. Self-Help Fair. 

Meetings of Alpha and Phi Kappa Psi Societies. 
'* 5. Lecture by Mrs. Blattner. 

" 6. 4.00 P. M. Lecture by Alfred Noyes. 

Sophomore Reception. 
" 10. Concert by the Hoffman String Quartet. 
" 13. Division D Dramatics. 


Smitb College 

December «» 1913 
©wneb ant) publiebeb b^ tbe Senior Claee 


Arturo Giovannitti— The Walt Whitman of the Twentieth 

Century . 
Songs Without Words 
In the Absence op Romance 
To-night . . , 

A Ring for Angeline , 

A Grey Day 
Jim's Mother . 
The Forest Pool 
Fog . . . . 

Marion Sinclair Walker 19 IS 129 

Mir a Bigelow Wilson 1924 138 

Katherine B. Nye 1915 139 

Anna Elizabeth Spicer 1914 144 

Ellen V. McLoughlin 1915 145 

Dorothy Ochtman 1914 149 

Mary Louise Ramsdell 1915 150 

Eloise Schmidt 1914 153 

Marion Delamater Freeman 1914 153 


Mary Sarah Makes the Team 



Extracts from Letters Home. 

Moonlight over the Sea 

Fog from the Sea 


When You Play 

The Fear of Abellini 

An Achievement . 

Lullaby (To F. L. B.) 


Ellen Elizabeth Williams 1915 154 

Anna Elizabeth Spicer 1914 160 

Leonora Branch 1914 160 

Margaret Louise Farrand 1914 161 

Martha Fabyan Chadboume 1914 163 

Dorothy Ochtman 1914 163 

. Anne Eleanor von Harten 1914 164 

MaHon Delameter Freeman 1914 167 

Margaret Bloom 1914 167 

Marie Doris Schipper Graff 1915 168 

Jeanne Woods 1914 169 

Martha Emma Watts 1914 169 


Something Different in Suits 


To H. T. . 

My First Shower 

Roberta Franklin 1916 

Juliet Staunton 1915 

A. Lilian Peters 1915 

Madeleine McDoicell 1917 

Rules for Packing and Unpacking Trunks 

Natalie Carpenter 1915 




. 176 



. 182 



. 184 



. 187 


, , , , 

. 192 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Massachusetts, as second class matter 
Oazette Printing Covipany, Northampton^ Mass. 


Smith College Monthly 

Vol. XXI DECEMBER, 1913 No. 3 

Lois Cleveland Gould 
Leonora Branch Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Margaret Louise Farrand Marion Delamater Freeman 
Rosamond Drexel Holmes Frances Milliken Hooper 

Margaret Bloom Dorothy Lilian Spencer 

Ruth Cobb Dorothy Ochtman 

Eloise Schmidt 

business manager and treasurer 
Ruth Hellekson 

assistant business managers 
Esther Loyola Harney 
Bertha Viola Conn 



** I greet you at the beginning of a great career/' wrote 
Ralph Waldo Emerson to Walt Whitman, when the latter pub- 
lished his " Leaves of Grass." Were Emerson living now, his 
generous appreciation of worth and his keen critical insight 
might lead him to send a like greeting to the author of "The 
Walker" and "The Cage," the gifted young Italian, Arturo 

One thinks instinctively of Walt Whitman on reading Gio- 
vannitti's poems, for in the first place their form is the free 
versification always associated with Whitman. On a further 


examination of the life and character of Giovannitti, it is 
noticeable that Whitman and the young Italian have more 
than style in common. There are similarities in their experi- 
ences, their natures and their attitude toward life. 

It is always hard to estimate a present, living poet ; the 
struggles and passions which he sings are too near, too vital to- 
us, for an impartial judgment. Then, too, there is something 
awe-inspiring in the thought that genius, which has somehow 
been associated with a golden age of long ago, is actually living, 
burning, in our own time. So a comparison, with Walt Whit- 
man, who seems to have much in common with Giovannitti, 
and whose place in literature is established, may serve as the 
basis for an estimate of the significance of Giovannitti. 

A strange, irrational life was that of Walt Whitm an. Brought 
np by " a perfect mother," as he himself says, and a father who- 
would have been termed shiftless, probably, in New England, 
he developed early in life that roving spirit, that impatience of 
all restraint, which became the keynote of his life and work. 
His school-days ended when he was thirteen years old, for 
formal study was not his way of educating himself. It was by 
experience, by tasting, that Whitman learned and grew. *^A 
caresser of life," Bliss Perry calls him. 

For the next dozen years he drifted in leisurely, happy fashion, 
from one occupation to another : now office-boy for a doctor or 
lawyer, now setting type in a printing office ; again teaching — 
with most original methods— in a country school, or editing a. 
country newspaper and driving about from farm to farm dis- 
tributing its copies. Strange to say, it was in the printer's 
office that he first had the longing to write something great. 
Why there should be inspiration in this, the mechanical side of 
book-making, is a mystery, but Franklin and many another 
printer seems to have found it there. 

Tasting this experience and that, the '^ caresser of life " was 
learning to know people from many a different angle. But 
most of all he was living his life to his own inward joy and 
satisfaction, taking time to make over every experience into a 
part of himself. It is one of Whitman's most striking charac- 
teristics that he always had time for things. Whether editing 
a Brooklyn paper, or in the course of his long, leisurely journey 
through the South, he never lacked time to read (informally of 
course) and to swim, and to declaim by the sea-side, in time 


with the rhythmic beat of the waves ; to belong to debating 
societies, and to listen to open-air oratory ; to see from the top 
of an omnibus the passing throng, and to chat with the omnibus- 
driver ; to know all kinds of people, and to feel as they felt. 
Someone has said that every man is entitled to a good look at 
the universe. This is what Whitman was having in those early 
days, a long, slow look at the universe, and that look was 
making Whitman the Poet. 

Having had his look, having tasted life— there are few expe- 
riences that he left untried — this strange gazer set about telling 
the world what he had seen, trying to let others know how life 
felt to him. From a period of slow, quiet brooding over expe- 
rience past came his noteworthy publication, " Leaves of Grass." 
'*Song of Myself," he frankly entitles one of its numbers, and 
he talks of himself, his experiences, and the philosophy which 
he has reached, throughout the poems. He is not egotistical ; 
he merely realizes the truth of Pope^s little phrase, *' Know then 
thyself." It seems to him that his own life is the material 
which he, and he alone, can use best. He is always emphasiz- 
ing the fact that personal experience is the vital thing. 

"Not 1, nor anyone else, can travel that road for yon, 
You must travel it for yourself." 

In himself. Whitman means to typify the American, and 
freedom is the keynote of his message. In a prose essay he 
says, "There can be no true artist without a glowing thought 
of freedom." To clothe suitably his freedom of thought, he 
demanded freedom of form. 

"Like a font of type, poetry must be set over again, con- 
sistent with American, modern and democratic institutions." 
Thus Whitman broke away from the traditional poetic forms, 
and made a scheme of versification of his own. He says of 
himself : 

'* He constructs his verse in a loose and free metre of his 
own, of an irregular length of lines, apparently lawless at first 
perusal, although on closer examination a certain regularity 
appears, like the recurrence of lesser and larger waves on the 
sea-shore, rolling in without intermission, and fitfully rising 
and falling." 

The rhythmic structure of the English Bible was Whitman's 
basis. Then into his new versification he wove all that he had 


heard and felt while taking his long look at life, the motion of 
trains and ferry-boats ; the sound of the wind, of flying birds, 
of the sea ; the alternation of aria and recitative in the oratorio ; 
the rhythmic periods of the emotional orators of his day. As 
to whether or not the result he produced was poetry, critics 
have always disagreed. Bliss Perry says of " Leaves of Grass," 
**It was so full of poetry that to deny it the name of poem is 
pedantic ; yet rhapsody is a more closely descriptive word. 
But whether poetry or not, it is a form of expression strong, 
vivid and vital, and admirably suited to its purpose, the pur- 
pose of a pioneer and a rebel." For always, whatever Walt 
Whitman does or says, he is a rebel, protesting against conven- 
tion. A rebel he was in taking his long look at life ; a rebel in 
his manners, and in the code of ethics that he formed. 

In spite of Walt Whitman's lack of religious training, God 
was not absent from the universe as he saw it. Yet even in 
his conception of God, he is a rebel, for the God who is the cen- 
tral force of his universe is not the God whom the churches 
accept. Bliss Perry approximates his attitude in quoting 
William Blake's belief, ''collective man is God." Dependent 
upon his conception of God is his insistence, like Kipling's, of 
finding "naught common on Thy earth." 

" I do not call one greater or smaller ; that which fills its 
period and place is equal to any." 

This is the objection to his thoughts that the New York 
Crayon raised : 

" To Walt Whitman all things are alike good, nothing is 
better than another, and thence there is no ideal, no aspiration, 
no progress to things better." 

But what has been the life and work of the younger poet,, 
whom the world of the conventional has named a rebel, also ? 

Giovannitti came of a good Italian family ; his father is a 
physician and chemist, and his brothers, one a lawyer and one 
a doctor. His schooling ended early, and was confined to the 
common schools of his native town in Italy. We find him jour- 
neying to America at the age of twenty, not in the usual immi- 
grant fashion, for the rest of the family remain to the present 
day practicing their respective professions in Italy. It must 
have been the desire for new experiences that led the poetic 
youth across the seas. 

He went to Canada first, and worked for a time in the coal 


mines. His chief interests, however, were always intellectual 
and religious in nature. Presently he took charge of an Italian 
mission in Montreal, where he was studying the English lan- 
guage. So successful were his missionary labors that he received 
a call to conduct a Presbyterian mission in Brooklyn, New 
York. At this time he had the purpose of becoming a regular 
minister and while in New York studied at the Union Theologi- 
cal Seminary. But the severe formal study at the seminary 
was not suited to his poetic nature and irregular attainments. 
He left the seminary without being graduated, and took charge 
of another Presbyterian mission in Pittsburg. Here Giovan- 
nitti became deeply interested in Socialism, and came into close 
relationship with some Socialist leaders. His superiors of the 
Church objected to his Socialistic tendencies, so he gave up 
missionary work, and returned to New York in 1911. "This is 
probably the time when he began to drop God out of his pro- 
gram," says a contributor to Current Opinion. 

The next period of his life represents the struggle of a not 
particularly skilled workman, trying his hand at various occu- 
pations ; often out of employmf^nt, sleeping on park benches. 
Presently, however, he got work on an Italian newspaper, and 
later became its editor. All this time he was seeing and talk- 
ing with men interested in the vital problems of the day ; his 
convictions were forming, and his influence among his fellow 
Italians was increasing. So prominent had he become that 
when the strike broke out in Lawrence Giovannitti was sent for 
to direct activities among the workmen. Perhaps because of 
his earlier missionary experience Giovannitti was given the 
task of managing the relief of need by the distribution of food. 
Such pacific service was a poor outlet for his burning enthusiasm, 
and soon he was making speeches to the workmen in eloquent 
Italian, advocating not Socialism, but something more advanced 
and radical— Syndicalism, the doctrine of the Industrial Work- 
ers of the World. The influence of Giovannitti's fiery oratory 
with his countrymen was great, dangerously so, it seemed to the 
anti-strike faction. They procured his arrest on "a trumped- 
up charge," (thus at least it seems to disinterested observers,) 
and he was detained at Salem jail for nine months. That prison 
experience of Giovannitti's was significant, for it brought into 
being "The Cage" and " The Walker." The kind of "long, 
long thoughts " that Giovannitti was thinking as he lay awake 


through the jail's interminable nights, may be seen from the 
opening passage of " The Walker." 

" I hear footsteps over my head all night. 

They come and they go. Again they come and again they go all night. 

They come one eternity in four paces, and they go one eternity in four paces, 
and between the coming and the going there is Silence, and the Night, 
and the Infinite. 

For infinite are the nine feet of a prison cell, and endless is the march of him 
who walks between the yellow brick wall and the red iron gate, think- 
ing things that cannot be chained and cannot be locked, but that 
wander away in the sunlit world, in their wild pilgrimage after des- 
tined goals." 

The prisoners obtained books from a library, and here Gio- 
vannitti for the first time came to know English poets. He 
read Taine's "English Literature," Shakespeare, Carlyle, Bal- 
zac, Shelley and Byron. So it was not from lack of familiarity 
with the conventional forms of English poetry that he chose 
the free versification for "The Walker" and "The Cage." 
Perhaps it is because he knows the Bible so well, as he must, 
because of his early religious fervor, that Giovannitti has caught 
the magnificent swing of rhythmic parallelism. He begins in 
the style of an exalted hymn, and he keeps up to the pitch 
throughout. Even in describing commonplace things, sordid 
things, he raises them to the level of his theme, as : 

"Whirred the great wheels of the puissant machines, rattled and clanked the 
chains of the giant cranes, crashed the falling rocks : the riveters 
crepitated ; and glad and sonorous was the rhythm of the bouncing 
hammers upon the loud-throated anvils." 

This passage, with its specific mention of machines, in the 
hands of one who was less a poet, might give an effect incon- 
sistent with the lofty tone of "The Cage." But with Giovan- 
nitti it is not incongruous even when followed at a short inter- 
val by : 

" Wonderful and fierce was the mighty symphony of the world, as the terri- 
ble voices of metal and fire and water cried out into the listening ears 
of the gods the furious song of human toil." 

Perhaps this is not poetry. Some critics insist that it is not. 
But at any rate it is somethiug splendid and stirring and the 
spirit which brought it into being is something which must be 
reckoned with. 

"The Cage," says a writer for the Contributor's Club in the 


Atlantic Monthly, "will call out plenty of literary criticism, 
plenty of expressions of social sympathy or lack of it, but the 
simple point which needs emphasis is that whether the poem 
repels or attracts the reader, he will find in it, if he cares to 
look, more of the heart and soul of the syndicalist movement 
than all the papers of all the economists can teach him/' 

As representative of the syndicalist movement, "The Walker'^ 
and "The Cage "are the poetry of war. For the syndicalists, 
organized as the Industrial Workers^of the World, declare that 
a state of industrial war exists, as long as the present system of 
labor and capital endures. Syndicalism goes beyond Socialism 
in its demands, for it insists that the laborers themselves must 
own the means of production, where Socialism plans to have 
them in the possession of the state. Socialism proposes to right 
wrong partly by legislation ; Syndicalism considers appeal to 
the law worse than useless. 

So it is war that throbs and pulses through Giovannitti's 
rhapsodies, war with its methods of dealing out justice, with 
the whole system represented by the "green iron cage." 

Up to a certain point it would be fitting to call Giovannitti 
"the Walt Whitman of the twentieth century." There are 
similarities in their lives and achievements. Each had the 
roving spirit, each gratified his craving for experience by tast- 
ing life in varied scenes and occupations. Each was a rebel, as 
the thought and spirit of his work reveals, and each clothed 
the rebellion of his thought in form that was in itself a protest 
against conventional usage. 

Here the similarity ends. It is a noteworthy fact that when 
Whitman has reached a certain position on some point, Giovan- 
nitti goes a step further. It is^in this step in advance that the 
significance of Giovannitti lies. 

In their early years, when each was having his look at the 
universe, Whitman's was the leisurely interest of a spectator 
while Giovannitti's was a working interest. Whitman from 
the top of the omnibus watched the throng below ; Giovannitti 
was one of the throng. In short, where Whitman played with 
life, Giovannitti has worked, and worked hard. 

There is something significant, '^too, in the prison experience 
which Giovannitti had and Whitman had not. The bitter con- 
tempt for the law and its institutions which characterizes " The 
Cage" and "The Walker" probably rooted itself in his mind 


duriDg the " infinite " nights at the jail, where '' all keep awake- 
and think the same maddening thought." 

"All my ideas, my thoughts, my dreams are congealed in a little key of shiny 

All my brains, all my soul, all the suddenly surging latent powers of my life- 
are in the pocket of a white-haired man dressed in blue." 

In the work of the two poets, there is the difference that while 
Whitman spreads out his interest to include life in general,. 
Giovannitti has one specific purpose to which he subordinates 
everything else. 

'• Charter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be, 
I project the history of the future," 

says Whitman. Giovannitti's theme is *' industrial reform,"" 
and he concentrates all his fiery energy upon it, bringing the 
varied experiences of his life to bear upon his subject. 

Though Giovannitti and Whitman alike use the free versifi- 
cation, Giovannitti seems to have held it up more continuously 
to the exaltation of his thought. Whitman does not hesitate to- 
use colloquial expressions, such as the Yankee " I guess," and 
the reader cannot but feel that this has no place in true poetry. 
Giovannitti has nothing of this kind. When he brings in 
every-day things, like bread, and bed, there is not the least sense- 
of the commonplace, whereas with Whitman there comes from 
time to time a '' slump. ^' 

It is not strange that Whitman, though he had no religious- 
training, in the end found God — not the conventional God of 
the churches, but nevertheless a real, vital God, whose influence 
is felt in every page that he has ever written — for the way of a 
poet and lover of life leads straight to God. It is remarkable, 
however, that Giovannitti with his natural religious fervor 
aud after his extended connection with church work should 
have become an atheist. The case is perhaps as significant a 
criticism of the inadequacy of the present-day church as could 
be found. It is not God who has failed Giovannitti and hi& 
countless comrades of the Industrial Workers of the World 
who bear the banner, "No God, no Master" ; rather it is the 
church which has failed to interpret God to them. 

The marvelous thing about Giovannitti is that his acquaint- 
ance with Eaglish literature has just begun, and he stands at 
the beginning of his life as a poet. When at the opening of his 


career he has outstripped the " Good Gray Poet" both in inten- 
sity of thought and in consistency of form, what may not the 
future expect from him ? It certainly may look with confidence 
for hard work, vigor and quick enthusiasm, all of which were 
absent from Whitman's " tasting of life." It is of great signifi- 
cance, too, that Giovannitti has found thus early in life his all- 
absorbing theme. 

It is not likely, either, that Giovannitti can permanently 
*' drop God out of his program." " I," he says of himself, "used 
to think of love and life and the flowers and song, and beauty 
and the ideal." Of these he thought, and of these he cannot 
but think again now that the prison experience with its "one 
maddening thought" is ended. And all who think of "love 
and life and the flowers and song and beauty and the ideal " 
come in the end to God. There are indications in " The Cage '* 
that Giovannitti is already finding his God, when he leaves 
us with 

"The mighty life of the world outside, that throbbed and thundered and 
clamored and roared the wonderful anthem of labor to the fatherly 
justice of the sun,'* 

It is not God as he is preached in the churches that Giovannitti 
suggests here, but a God who has far more bearing upon "the 
mighty life of the world." 

Perhaps this is the true significance of Giovannitti, that to 
the thousands of workmen who in rejecting the church think 
that they have given up God, he will bring a God whom they 
can understand, and who will be the vital force of their lives. 
Then when the poet and his people have found their God, in his 
" fatherly justice" the problems that harrass them now will fall 
into place, they will see in a new licjht the significance of the 
institutions represented by "the green iron cage." This is the 
task of Giovannitti — to lead to a better understanding of life, its 
meaning, and its relationship with the ruling spirit of the uni- 
verse, his great army, "the Industrial Workers of the World.'* 



T'rom the world where my glad heart has tarried too long. 
-From a world that is shifting, colourful, gay, 
Warm with deeds brewing, brave from its books, 

Mother, I'm turning the homeward way. 
Tell me, what golden gift shall I bring 
Welcome enough to make you sing ? 

Mayhap new tales of folk and fairies, 
Wrought in the skill of the world's old age, 
Or verse just created. Mother o' my heart, 
"Shall it be laughing, wistful or sage ? 
Ope these gray covers and there will be 
Music in words, taste of wild Bacchic glee ; 

Or, haunted with sorrow, lengthier lines 
Saddened as wind through the sand-drifted pines. 
Mother o' my heart, over their pages 

1 see your blue eyes burn with glad fires, 
And in my heart I know it presages 
Treasured fulfilment of your desires. 

I need not ask, so well I know, 

What the fair gift you have waiting for me ; 

Over the winter miles I have been longing, 

Listening for music and melody, 

Listening to hear on some glad spring morning 

Your touch on the keys as you rouse to glad life 

A misty world that has lain night-long 

Drowsy yet restless with winter's strife. 

I have left in your hands the gray book of poetry ; 

You know to love it better than I. 

But the songs you played me they must die, 

Fair phantomed echoes to pursue 

■(Ah, Mother, if you but knew, but knew ! ) 

In the rooms once filled with their singing. 

The last note stirs the vines by the door, 
Stirs the frail heart of an August rose, 
Fades like the wavelet tumbling to 
Oblivion on a lonely shore. 
Ah, the rose heart throbs but little knows, 
When drooping to earth it bids me depart 
A winter's space, 'tis I, not you, 
That must be lonely, Mother, at heart. 




It was the kind of department store whose front windows are 
very bright and whose back windows are very dull. Mr. Fuller, 
the sleek, lean floor-walker, always dressed in chocolate brown 
from top to toe, was fully three inches taller, and his chest was 
•expanded to a degree which endangered the brown buttons on 
his brown coat, whenever he approached the ribbon counter. 
By the time he reached the toilet articles he was dangerously 
inflated, and only the return trip past notions, hosiery and 
ginghams saved him from self-destruction. Bed linen finished 
his collapse, taking every line of conceit from his figure and 
•adding a droop to his shoulders, which made him harmonize 
completely with the dusky corners and marred counters of the 
^Rear of the Store. ^^ 

There was one corner of the first floor, however, to which Mr. 
Fuller had penetrated but once. Now, he led his customers to 
the hosiery counter, bowed stifily with a sweep of his large 
brown hand, and with the air of a person inviting you to enter 
a snake-hole, he scoffed : 

^'Thoid to the right." 

And if you followed the direction, you found yourself, not in 
a den of thieves, nor a dentist's office, as you might have expected 
from Mr. Fuller's attitude, but before a music counter. It was 
like every other music counter, racks and racks of sheets, whose 
•covers were vividly decorated with impossible people, in impos- 
sible positions, singing the impossible words of impossible tunes. 

At your arrival, a plain, grey-eyed person in black accosted 
you, and when you remembered the name of the desired song, 
you remembered that it was very silly. And as 3^ou took your- 
self very seriously and thought everyone else did the same, you 
•disliked to give a perfect stranger a direct invitation to " Come 
along and marry me." So you murmured blushingly that you 
wanted the song that " Rosie McLacey " sang. 

The Plain Person gazed at you as though you were not twenty- 
two, six feet tall, and, you flattered yourself, rather good-looking» 
and then she smiled and said, as though repeating A-B-C to a 
child of six : 


" Oh ! you mean ' Come along and marry me/" 

Then of course you felt more foolish as you watched her 
fingers flying over loose sheets, selecting one like lightning, and 
wrapping it in a sheet of yellow paper. In a flash there it lay 
before you and a white hand was extended for your "Fifteen 
cents." Luckily, you had the change, for you couldn't have 
endured those clear gray eyes a second longer. You uncon- 
sciously wished you hadn't promised to take that music to a 
certain young lady that evening. Then you went out mentally 
kicking yourself. 

And the strange part of it was that all this did happen, and I 
from the elevator saw it all. And I saw you disappearing 
around the hosiery counter the next day, as I brought my iron- 
cage to a stop and shouted : 

'' Main floor— this car to the basement." 

After many such appearances and disappearances, I deter- 
mined to watch one entire visit, for I was interested in the Plain 
Person myself. So, as I said, I decided to watch one visit from 
beginning to end, regardless of bells and calls. * 

However, just as you "appeared, a very stout lady entered 
what in my dreams I imagined to be my private office, and 
shouted^' Silk Petticoats" in my ear. I was so startled that I 
slammed the door and shot up, up, up, past "Misses' and 
Ladies' Suits, Coats, Dresses and Hats," past " Underwear, 
Shoes and Art Goods," and deposited my passenger at " Boys^ 
Clothing and House Furnishings." By the time I had corrected 
my mistake and returned to the first floor, you were leaning 
confidentially on the counter and the Plain Person was busily 
searching through stacks of music for a song, whose title you 
had that moment invented. And though the Plain Person's 
back was turned to you, I could see from where I sat that she 
was listening to you and when she turned she said : 

"Thank you— I guess I can. Thursday here at six. Shall I 
order that music from the publsher ?" 

You stammered "Fine! No, don't bother. That is,— well, 
you see, I don't believe I care very much about that song. 
Thursday," and disappeared around the hosiery counter. The 
Plain Person turned sharply and caught my eye, and the next 
thing I knew I was staring at her back, and I thought I under^ 
stood why Mr. Fuller avoided the music department. 

That night the Plain Person in black rode up to the "Em- 


ployees' Floor " in my elevator. I was determined to begin an 
acquaintance with her. 

*'I wish to beg your pardon," said I, ''but I couldn't help 
seeing and hearing — this morning — Miss — a — " 
"Avison,'' she supplied. 

And she must have told herself afterward that she would 
never have answered me, had I not been old and lame. That 
was the beginning of our friendship, which, once begun, pro- 
gressed rapidly. She rode up or down with me once or twice a 
day, and when rush hours were over she played for me. You 
used to hear of me as " The Elevator Man'' and I never spoke 
of you. Once or twice she mentioned "dinner with a friend," 
and I knew whom she meant. 

Miss Avison wasn't an heiress in disguise or anything of that 
sort, by which I mean that she was herself, a little more refined 
in manner and dress than the average girl in the store. I liked 
her because she did not wear dirty white shoes with a dirty 
dark dress, and because she knew when, where and how to 
laugh. We laughed at everyone, — the customers, Mr. Fuller 
and ourselves. 

I wish you could have seen us the first time we had luncheon 
together. My fat, German landlady supplied me with certain 
provisions securely packed in a tin box, and by her own sugges- 
tion Miss Avison brought sandwiches and cake. We sat in a 
bare, unused, little store-room on the top floor, I on an old 
ohair and Ruth (as I had now begun to call her) on a box by 
the window. 

" It's funny, you and I being here," she said. 
"Yes," said I, "it is.'' 
"You seem so lonely, are you ?" 

And before I knew it I had told her things of which I had 
scarcely allowed myself to think for years. She listened quietly, 
looking out over the roofs where the snow swirled thickly and 
little puffs of white steam and black smoke pricked through 

"You'll think me very unsympathetic," she said, "but really 
isn't it romantic, so much of love and life, and then when you 
are old, none! And all through one brave deed ! " 

I looked down at my worse than useless foot and was glad 
that she answered as she did. 

"You love romantic things ?" I asked. 


'^ I know so little about them, and I never had a real romance — '^ 
she, knowing that I knew to the contrary, crimsoned, which 
made her really pretty — ^* until — " 

'^ Until/' I went on, *'one Thursday night at six." 

"'Eavesdropping V she chided. 

" I wish I had been—" 

"It wasn't so very romantic," she continued. 

" Not romantic ! " I exclaimed. " I should have thought 
better of the boy, from his appearance. Mind, I wanted to da 
you a good turn." 

"'Well, perhaps it was, mostly because we had known each 
other such a short time, and had never been introduced, but 
did that make any difference, really ? " 

" None," said I, and I believe she was glad I approved, for 
she had given the matter some thought. 

** We had dinner in a little restaurant, dark with green and 
red lights. Oars was red and the fringe on the shade made- 
shadowy ridges on the table-cloth. After dinner we — Tie — talked 
— and — well I guess I was the only unromantic thing about it. 
I felt it, but I couldn't say anything." 

I was silent, wondering, and then asked, "' Well, what are you 
going to do ? " 

For an answer the whistles blew, and when comparative quiet 
came she said, "' I'm going back to work." 

So we rode down in silence. 

All the afternoon the piano jangled merrily, and once or twicb 
as Mr. Fuller approached, shrinking with every step, a taunt- 
ing, saucy, popular song or a clear laugh greeted his ears. I 
judged that he had heard both before, under different circum- 
stances. For he was openly trying to ignore the sounds and 
gather pompousness for the next trip. That night you came 
again and went out alone. Mr. Fuller gave you a peculiar 
look, more like a facial exercise than a smile. Then he turned 
to the girl with the fluffy blonde hair whose unwinking blue 
eyes peered out at him from piles of scented soap and bottles of 
green toilet water. Had you not been so preoccupied you would 
have heard something that you wouldn^t have liked. That was 
the last time you came. 

Gradually Mr. Fuller's attitude toward the music department 
changed. He came nearer and nearer to it with customers and 
one afternoon, after an especially busy day, he went to the 


counter with more sternness than he had ever before carried 
past the ginghams. He scolded Ruth sharply, and said in a 
loud tone that several complaints had been made at the office, 
which she knew was untrue. The tone of the reprimand was 
in itself an insult. I would have given anything I possessed ta 
have seen you enter at that moment, rout the villain and depart 
with the heroine on your arm and a copy of the Wedding March 
in your hand. But Romance, once shunned by Ruth, did not 
pursue her now. The matter was dropped, though I knew Ruth 
felt herself disgraced, and as she told me a week later she must 
keep her position. 

"You see," she said, "if I don't take care of myself no one 
else will, aud it's rather nice to be spoiled, even when you have 
to do all the spoiling yourself." 

"Your maid, Mignon,'^ said I, "what will she say when she 
sees you so tired ? " 

And she laughed back, " Oh, she won't be nearly so cross as 
your valet would be if he could see that hole in your coat-sleeve. 
So rU mend it before you go home ! " which she proceeded to do. 

And hardly had she begun when Mr. Fuller came puffing 
down the aisle toward her. It seemed that an irate customer 
had spoken about "incivility on the part of the Person at the 
perfume counter." And when Mr. Fuller spoke to that Person 
concerning the matter, using his softest tones and most compli- 
cated and tiring facial exercises, she had loudly denounced him 
as "rude an^ no real gentleman," and turning her lacy back on 
him had cast over her shoulder, "' I've another engagement for 
this evening." 

Plainly Mr. Fuller had to retreat and as he approached Ruth, 
he could not keep from venting some of his wrath upon her. 
The fact that he began by saying that she was " rude an' no 
reil lady" showed where his thoughts were. Next he listed her 
as incompetent, impertinent and lazy— and finally spying the 
coat he added a few remarks, which I can leave out, sang a 
finale of " rude an' no real lady," and stopped for lack of breath. 

The Rear of the Store had never seen Mr. Fuller so tall. 
They had never seen that brown coat stretched to the twisting 
pc)int. In fact to those behind the bed linens he was regal — if 
anything regal was ever of chocolate hue. 

While he was still in the tallest stage, I limped up to him 
and spoke in a few well-chosen words of one syllable. I've 


never seen chocolate melt so fast. He had to retreat again and 
IVe heard that the girl behind the bars of soap was moved to 
call him " Shorty " ever after. 

I didn't see Ruth again until the morning after when I took 
you both up to the '* House Furnishings/'' and I'll wager I could 
guess what music you bought as you went out. 



I cannot sleep to-night 

For the crescent bow of the moon, 
And the fingers of the wind 

That pluck me a bitter tune. 

Time was, the wind and I 

Went racing a-down the lane, 
Tapping with all my might 

At some yellow window-pane. 

Time was, the moon from me 

Was very far off, — and far I 
But now she shines in my little room 

And shoots my brains with a star. 

Better friends with me now 

They should be. I would court the moon 
If I were alive again. 

And I'd not pass the wind too soon. 

O, I cannot sleep to-night 
For the crescent bow of the moon, 

And the fingers of the wind, 
They pluck me a bitter tune. 



A dark-haired young man knocked timidly at the door of 
Rocco Spinoso's living-room. When Mrs. Spinoso came to the 
door, he bowed very low. 

*' Hallo, hallo," he said nervously. 

" Hallo, Tony," answered Mrs. Rocco, frigidity mingled with 
surprise, **you want see Rocco V 

Tony bowed again, followed Mrs. Spinoso into the living-room, 
and stood with his hat in his hand, until the man of the house 
appeared. Rocco had all the geniality of a prosperous olive oil 
vender, living in the best tenement of Catharine street. And he 
was respected by all salad-eating Uticans, because his olive oil 
was pure though his price was high. 

'• Tak' a chair, tak' a chair, Tony," he began. '^Nice day. 
You goin' tak' Sat'day aft'noon off too ?" 

Tony struggled for speech ; he bowed again, sat down, and 
clutched his hat frantically. 

" I want-a see you," he said. " I-I-I — " he paused and began 
again. " You gat-a more black-a hand-a letter ? " 

" Naw," laughed Rocco, "I gass-a da perleece got da right 
fallers. Wanted free hunder-a doll off'n me," he added with a 
grieved air. 

Ton}^ nodded sympathetically. There was a silence in the 
room for a moment, and then Rocco's visitor, with a desperate 
plunge, came to his errand. 

'•I come-a ta see you," he said, " I-I-I-like-a Angeline. I 
like-a Angeline-a ta marry." It was out at last. Tony breathed 
a deep sigh of relief. 

" I no tall my sister who she marry," objected Rocco. " Go 
ast Angeline. I no theenk she tak you; she got many young 

Tony sighed and nodded. 

" I go gat her," continued Rocco, "you gotta ast Angeline; 
maybe she tak' you," and he disappeared into the kitchen, clos- 
ing the door after him. He was back in a minute, with the 
sauciest, prettiest, and most gaily-dressed young woman in 
*' Little Italy " following him. 

2 146 


*' Here-a Angeline now, ast her," said Rocco. " Tony want ta 
marry you/' he explained, turning to his somewhat bewildered 

Tony was startled by the swiftness of the announcement. He 
jumped to his feet, clutched his hat with both hands, and started 
to bow. But something in Angeline's eyes arrested the motion, 
as she stood before him coolly looking him over. Rocco with- 

"You want-a be marryin' me ?" she questioned. 

Tony nodded, looking away. "I gott-a two hunder-a dol?,"' 
he vouchsafed. 

*' Two hunder-a doll' ?'' Angeline mocked him scornfully. " I 
mak-a eight a week. I no-a theenk I'm marryin' a man till he 
gotta five hunder-a doll'." 

"You marry-a me when I gotto five hunder-a doll'?" Tony 
asked eagerly. 

" I no-a theenk you ever be gattin' so mooch," was the dis- 
couraging response. " You ver simple man, Tony. Black-Hand 
be gattin' all your-a mon easy. You no so smart-a man like my 
brother Rocco. He gattin' 'em all put in jail." 

" I loove-a you much," Tony's voice bore no reproach, only 
timid entreaty. 

" Wal," deliberated Angeline, "I geeve-a you a year. You 
mak-a five hunder-a doll' in wan year, I marry-a you. See ?" 

He nodded eagerly. 

"Now," she continued, " you batter-a be gattin' back ta work.. 
I gotta some shoes-a be fix. I'm bringin' em down pretta soon." 

Tony backed to the door, repeating, " Five hunder-a doll. 
Wan year. You marry-a me." And then with a last adoring 
sigh, he turned, opened the door, and came face to face with a 
handsome, flashing-eyed, curly-haired young Italian who was 
coming in. The two men nodded as they passed and Tony 
slackened his steps enough to hear the pleased tone of Angeline's 

"Hailo, Domineek." 

"Hallo." Dominick closed the door and sat down before he 

"Say, what-a for Tony Dago ben here ?" It was more than 
a question, it was a command, and Angeline resented it. 

" He wantin* ta marry me," she said defiantly, " I tal-a heein 
he gotta be makin' five hunder-a doll' in wan year. " 


'' Yoii naver tal me dat. You tal me, ' Don't ast me taday/ 
an' ' Don't ast me taday,' an' now you goin' let dat Dago cut me 
out ? Don't I know mor'n Tony ? Ain't I ben in Amer'ca ten 
year ? Ain't I ben ta night school all winter ? Ain't I takin' 
you around lots mor'n dat— dat" Dominick paused for an 

'* Sure ! " Angeline put in hastily. ''But I no-a theenk I 
marry-a you. You no gotta da mon, Domineek. You makin' 
da mon wan day an' spendin' heem da next. Tony gotta two 
hunder-a doll'. I no-a theenk I'm marryin' any man till he 
gotta five hunder-a doll'. I no-a geeve up my eight a week for-a 

" Nothin ' ! Look here," invited Dominick, and from the 
pocket of his fancy white vest, he produced a tiny blue velvet 
case, and before her eager eyes, balanced the little box in his 
hand for a deliberate moment, and then suddenly snapped it 
open. Angeline caught her breath as she gazed in rapture at 
the big stone that flashed and sparkled and threw beams of 
colored lights from its velvet cushion. 

"Ah!" Dominick's voice was proud. "Dago Tony ain't 
buyin' you no diamon' like dis I gass." 

Angeline's mind worked quickly. "He gotta two hunder-a 
doll'," she said. "You no-a payin' so mooch for a ring." But 
her eyes were on the glittering gem still, and Dominick was not 

" Maybe I kin save five hundert in a year. Five hundert and 
da ring. You marry me if I do ? " Dominick's voice was very 
soft and his eyes were tender. Angeline hesitated a second, but 
when a ray of afternoon sun glanced from the brilliant in a 
thousand different colors, she yielded. 

"Domineek," she asked shyly a moment later, "ees eet real?" 

He rose a bit indignant. " Real ? Sure its real ! Gar'nteed 
for twenty year ! Tan-fifty cash !" and with a sharp click he 
shut the box and replaced it in his vest-pocket. 

" I keep it till I gat dat five hundert," he remarked, "Tony 
got two hundert. Tony ver simple man, I gass," and he laughed 
as he blew a kiss to Angeline and departed. 

Still smiling, and gayly humming a tune, Dominick hurried 
up th9 street to his rival's shop on the corner. 

sign over the door of the little shack which was at once Tony's 


home and the workroom where he mended the shoes of all 
** Little Italy." He was alone and hard at work when Dominick 
entered, but he looked up with a word of greeting and pointed 
to a chair. 

" How do, Tony," began Dominick. 

'^ Hallo, hallo," replied Tony, ''You want-a some shoes-a be 
fix ? " 

His visitor took the appointed chair, leisurely. 
''You work-a too hard, Tony," he said, "You ought ta tak' 
Sat'day aft'noon off," he paused, and looked around. "Nice 
little shop," he observed condescendingly, " you mak' much 

Tony shrugged his shoulders and kept on nailing a shiny new 
sole to a dirty yellow shoe. 

"Angeline say she gon marry you." Dominick's tone was the 
mournful sigh of a rejected lover. " She sting me. You lucky 
man, Tony." 

Tony looked up in surprise and wonder, but before he could 
speak, Dominick went on. 

" Look here — I bought dis ta give ta Angeline," and he 
brought forth the diamond in its blue velvet box. 

" She no tak-a j^ou ? " asked Tony eagerly, "She no tak-a 
you ? She say she-a marry-a me ? " 

"Yes," sighed Dominick, "and I gotta get rid-a dis ring. 
You bought her a ring yet ? " 

Tony shook his head. He had not counted on buying a ring. 
" I give you dis here diamon' ring cheap. I gotta get rid-a it." 
■ " How-a mooch ? " 

" Wal, I pay two hundert an' fifty, make it ^bout two hundert 

"Two hunder-a doll'!" Tony paled at the thought. Then 
he shook his head vigorously. " No can-a pay. Angeline-a say 
mak-a five hunder-a doll' in-a wan year. No can-a gat ring." 
He dismissed the subject, and returned to his work. 

"You gat a good bargain," purred Dominick. "Dis here 
ring worth maybe four, five hundert doll'. Ver' big stone," and 
he flashed it in the sunlight until Tony was blinded by its 
brilliance. " I bought it fer Angeline. She like it ver' much, 
but she no like me. She most tak' me when she see da ring." 

" I can-a sail heem ?" questioned Tony, " I can-a gat four-a 
fi\re hunder-a doll' fer-a heem ? " 


" Sure ! I gotta sail it now er I'd gat more out of it. I bought 
it fer Angeline. Day give me da laugh if I go around an' try 
ta sail it. Angeline say she goin' marry you." Dominick sighed 

For a brief space Tony considered, the dirty yellow shoe held 
tightly between his knees, his hammer poised for a blow. It was 
a crucial moment ; Dominick held his breath. Then suddenly 
the hammer came down, sharply, decisively. 

*'I tak-a heem," said Tony, "maybe I can-a sail heem fer-a 
four-a five hunder-a— " 

** Hallo," interrupted a voice in the doorway. The two men 
looked up with a start. Dominick with a quick gesture replaced 
the ring in his pocket — and there stood Angeline, looking from 
one to the other a trifle suspiciously. 

" What you two-a doin ? " she demanded, and before Dominick 
could prevent it Tony was eagerly telling her of his purchase ; 

*' I can-a sall-a heem fer-a four, five hunder-a doll'," he finished 
jubilantly, " iio-a must wait-a wan year. Domineek sall-a heem 
ver cheap— two hunder-a doll'." 

*' Cheap !" echoed Angeline, and there was a wealth of scorn 
in her voice, " Domineek-a gattin' your-a mon' easy. Dat-a ring 
cost-a tan-a fifty," and she turned to Dominick, " I no-a marry 

But at that moment, the door slammed. Dominick and his 
ring were gone. When they were alone, all Angeline's scorn 
and anger melted very suddenly. 

'* You ver seemple man, Tony," she said softly, "You needin' 
some-abody ta be takin' care a you." 

"I loove-a you mooch," Tony replied. 



Dull grey trees and a dull grey sky, 
Grey snow beneath, where rain is falling. 

Slow drips the water irom eaves near by ; 
Within, the darkness is still and appalling. 

Cheerless and dead the wet leaves lie. 

Dull grey trees and a dull gre}' sky, 

And in the dim west no sign of clearing. 



She looked up good-naturedly, her broad face beaded with 
perspiration, her plump arms flecked with foam from the tub 
in which they were plunged. I had been bewailing the dullness 
of a village summer and commiserating her on being obliged to 
spend a hot summer morning in a hotter kitchen, deluged with 
the hottest of soap-suds. But she had seemed to feel the need 
of my sympathy so little that I was about to attempt a more 
successful topic of conversation, when she picked up the thread 
I was about to drop. 

"Waal, o' course I'm pretty hefty, ^n^ sometimes my feet git 
to dartin' like toothache, before nightfall, 'n^* these last years I 
been havin' a stitch in my side so bad that last month I jest hat 
to tell your ma I couldn't do her wash that week. Es you say, 
one day is about like the next in Riverdale, an' I been livin' 
here forty years come next June. But land ! I ain't got no call 
to complain, with Pa 'n' Jim. Of course," she added apologet- 
ically, '' Pa ain't been doin' much work for some time. His 
health was so poorly this spring, I thought he'd orter not. You 
know he's started on another invention, too," with a tinge of 
defiance. She drew a wet hand across her forehead, pushing 
back the hair. " It's dretful hot," she said, and her face looked 
tired. "But fine hayin^ weather," she added with a cheerful 
smile. " Pa's inventin^ a patent hayrake." 

Before my mind's eye rose a picture of "Pa" as I had seen 
him from my earliest girlhood, and might still see him any 
day ; a slouchy, loose-jointed figure braced against the post- 
office door, or the little wooden station, elucidating theories on 
perpetual motion, or the management of the commonwealth. 
" Pa " had been " restin' " since my earliest recollection of him, 
and was never known to bestir himself except about his meals. 
Those he allowed no matter, however urgent or vital, to prevent 
being served to him, hot and punctual at their appointed hours. 

"I suppose you hear from Jim often," I said. 

Her face beamed with love and pride as she opened a window 
of the steaming little kitchen. " Mercy, yes ! He writes regu- 
lar, every Wednesday. His letter's due to-day." 

1 5o 


** Let's see, Jim is — ah — railroading now, isn't he?" I ven- 
tured, caaking a wihi guess. I had rather lost track of the 
restless Jim since he left, six years back, to seek his fortune. 

*' Land no, that was two years ago. He's worked in a mill in 
Trenton 'n' run a street car in Philadelphy since then. No, it's 
minin' this time." She straightened her back, with a troubled 
furrow between her eyes, and then bent over the tub again. " It 
worrits me to think of it. Jim says them coal mines is safe as 
^ettin' in church, but I dunno. I wish't he'd a went clerkin' fer 
Hen Skinner down to Shelby, after he finished high school. 
Then I'd a had him with me, nights, and like's not he'd a been 
head o' the firm by now. He's dretful smart, Jim is, if he is 
my boy. He had a good chanst over to Otis, but he says to me, 
' Ma,' he says, ' I wanta see the world, "n' I'm goin' to work my 
way around it. I can't stay mewed up here in Riverdale for 
nobody, not even you. Ma,' he says. 'And besides,' he says, 
*some day I'll come back a rich man, and then I'll buy you a 
black satin gownd, and a velvet hat with a big purple feather 
on it' — he's alius so jokey, Jim is — 'and take you an' Pa around 
and show you some places a little bigger than Riverdale, or 
even Shelby !'" 

" Let's see, just how far West is he now ?" I asked. 

" Pennsylvania. That ain't very far around the world, is it ! 
But then I ain't never been as far West as York State, so it 
seems a long ways off to me. He says he likes the work fine, 
for a change, it's so different, and he's gettin' awful handy at 
it. He can turn his hand to anything, though. He's smart, 
Jim is, if he is my boy." 

My murmur of assent was lost in the rattle of wheels, and Ed 
Haskins, the rural free delivery man, drew up at the door, 
waving an envelope. " Letter from Jim," he cried genially. I 
Tan to take it, while she wiped her red hands on the roller towel, 
her face alight with happy anticipation. She read it slowly and 
laboriously at first, and then with surprise and excitement. 

"Jim's comin' home," she cried, her eyes shining with joy. 
" He thinks he'll get home next week. He's alius been promisiu' 
to conbe ever since he went away, but he ain't never been able 
to work it before. But this time he says he's almost sure, he 
thinks mebbe he'll stay a week or two. My, won't I be glad to 
see my bo}^ ! " and a little sob caught her throat. " I ain't goin' 
to fret about him no more, he'll be home pretty soon, mebbe I 


kin persuade him to leave this job, when he comes back. And 
besides/' and the patient smile came back, " f rettin' don't do^ 
much good 'cept to make you down sick. And I want to be 
well when Jim comes. Sakes alive, I guess I'll bust right out 
cryin' when he does, Til be that glad to see him ! Four years t 
I got his room all ready the day after he went away, so when 
he came back he'd find me expectin' him. . . . Jim comin^ 
home! . . . I'll fix up my black alpaca real nice to wear to- 
church Sundays. He alius liked that black alpaca. . . . 
Land o' mercy, don't tell me it's quarter past eleven ! I'd orter 
be gettin' dinner started for Pa. He gets so riled if his meals 
ain't ready." She wrung the suds from her hands. "It's a 
dretful hot day," she said, her flushed face paled slightly, " but 
fine fer dryin'," she smiled cheerfully. 

I rose to go, amid her hospitable protestations, and she fol- 
lowed me to the door, wiping her hands on her apron and apolo- 
gizing for the room in which she had received me. "Next 
time you come in the afternoon," she said heartily, "and we 
won't sit in the kitchen." 

As I closed the front gate and turned down the street, Miss^ 
Maxim, the village bird of evil omen and smug bearer of bad 
tidings, hurried in, but paused and turned toward me, her 
solemn face set in an appropriate expression, and a bit of yellow 
paper peeping from her hand. " Have you heard the news ?' 
she said in a sepulchral voice. " I was down to the station just 
now, seein' Cousin Lib off — Frank's wife, you know, she's been 
visitin' me — and Mr. Torrey sez to me 'Bad news here. Miss 
Maxim,' he sez. 'If you're goin' up High Street you might 
drop in 'n' deliver this here. There's been an accident, 'n' 
Jim — '" she stopped in the middle of a breath, her eyes turned 
toward the little house in embarrassed surprise. I turned also, 
and saw Jim's mother coming down the gravel walk. From 
the door she had seen Miss Maxim's lank, black-swathed figure,, 
the yellow slip in her hand ; and in Riverdale, a telegram means 
only one thing. 

She held out her hand, still hot and red from the suds, and 
road the dispatch in silence, once, twice, three times. Then she 
looked up. "Jim's dead," she said, dolly. " They'll bring him 
home to-morrow. . . . His room's all ready. . . ." The 
clock in the village church struck the half-hour, and the sound 
brought present duties back to her. "Land, I ain't got my 


dinner. Pa'll be riled, he sets siicli store by his victuals/' She 
moved a few steps toward the house, then turned to us. "Jim's 
dead," she repeated, as if expecting contradiction. Then, as we 
stood silent, she raised her hand mechanically and pushed back 
her hair. " It's dretful hot," she said. 



The quiet of midsummer's afternoon 
Has settled over the forest pool, 

And in it are seen reflected 
The shadows, grown dark and cool. 

The grasses are still at the pool-side, 
And deep where the water seems 

Darkest is shadowed a moment 
A blue-bird — the bird of dreams. 



There's a soft gray fog low-hanging over the sea, 

And it muffles the cry of the sea-gull as it flies. 

There's a long uneasy swell in the gray-green waves 

That shift and rise, to fall with a stifled moan. 

The long waves run high up on the wet, black rocks, 

And with their rise and fall the seaweed sways 

Like the arms of a drowning man, clutching in vain 

At the slipp'ry stones, to fail, to strive — to fail 

Again, and yet again to try, and then 

Each time to be sucked back relentlessly 

By the remorseless sea. 

There's a terror that grips at the very heart of you 

And a fear that will not be dispelled — 

Hark ! Hear the toll of the bell-buoy on the bar. 

Like the knell of souls that are lost fore'er ! 

And the gray-green waves slowly rise and fall, 

And the gray fog drifts in cold from tbe sea ! 



They were half a dozen Sophomores, who had found one an- 
other during the first week of college, had "hung together'^ 
through Freshman year, during the summer had gone on the 
same week-end parties and were now all in the same house on 
campus. They had worked and played together, had shared one 
another's triumphs and disappointments and were all equally 
elated when Mary Sarah made the team. 

*' I was sure she'd make sub,'' exclaimed Frances as the senior 
team trailed away across campus, Mary Sarah borne proudly in 
the front row. " But I didn't dare dream of the reall" 

" Isn't it swell ? " babbled Catherine. '' I'm going to telegraph 
to Connie right away ; she'll be so thrilled." (Constance was 
■one of the six who was away over Sunday at a house party.) 

Betty, a dear little thing, said nothing but dimpled with 
pleasure and telephoned to Meadow's for "a dozen Mrs. Aaron 
Ward roses, to be sent to Miss Mary Sarah Frothingham. Craven 
House, just as soon as you possibly can, and thank you so much." 

**Mary Sal is a sure 'nough celeb, now," ejaculated Nell. 
'^' Come on, let's beat it to chapel and get good seats. I want to 
see her march out with Dot, Helen and the rest." 

So the four friends ran through the snow to the Auditorium 
and Rubber Row, to crane their necks in an effort to catch 
a glimpse of their companion, in senior seats. 

*' I wonder if Catherine will think to telegraph Bob when she 
does to Connie," whispered Nell to Frances at the close of the 
prayer. Bob was Mary Sal's brother at Princeton, who had been 
s, member of the camping trip the six had taken the past sum- 
mer and who had even braved the terrors of Northampton with 



^ve of his kind on their way to the Harvard Game in the fall. 
*' Bob's been all agog to know if Mary Sal was improving and 
whether she had any chance for the team.'' 

" I'd be glad to do it if I didn't have classes all the morning," 
replied Frances, "but I have German and Physics and then a 
tutor lesson 'way down atthe Students' Building — " 

"If I had a nickel to put in the slot, I could telephone to the 
office from the house," returned Nell, "but I'm broke." 

"Here they come!" interrupted Catherine and the four 
leaned forward in their seats to see their friend pacing up the 
aisle arm in arm with the captain of the senior team. Then, 
with mutual felicitations, they separated to the various duties 
of the day. 

Catherine had the first period free and went at once to the 
telegraph office in College Hall, to boil down the exciting events 
of the morning into a ten word message to Constance. 

"Yes, I'll pay for it," she told the operator and unknotted a 
fifty-cent piece from the corner of her handkerchief. 

"A quarter, please," replied the operator. " I'm sorry, but so 
early in the morning I have no change. Will you have it 
charged ?" 

Catherine started to assent, then on second thoughts she re- 
plied, "No, I'll send another one besides." And she wrote the 
following message : 

"Mr. Robert Frothingham, 

145 Benton Hall, Princeton, N. J. 
Mary Sarah made the team to-day. 

Catherine Chase." 

So, feeling virtuous at not having begun the bad policy of 
■charging things, she left the office. On the way to the Library, 
she met Betty. 

" ' Where are you goiug, my pretty maid?' " 

cried Catherine. 

" ' I'm going to College Hall,' she said," 

returned Betty. 

" ' And what will you do there, my pretty maid ?' " 
" ' I'm not going to tell you, sir ! ' she said." 

and Betty tossed her pretty head, laughed and entered the tele- 
graph office. It had occured to her that Mary Sarah's family 
would be as delighted at the good news as the Six. But Betty 


knew that Mrs. FrothingLam was an invalid and that a telegram' 
would excite her needlessly. "So I'll just let Bob know at 
Princeton and he can send word as he thinks best." The oper- 
ator was busy when she went in, so she painstakingly wrote the 
telegram, laid it on the desk with a quarter and left as quietly 
as she had come. 

During her first recitation Frances' conscience was troubled. 
" I really would have time to wire Bob before Physics and he'll 
be so anxious to know. Nell's so scatter-brained she won't think 
of it again. I'll just write out the message now and hurry 
over after class." Accordingly she wrote the telegram in her 
note-book, signed her name and the injunction to ctarge it to 
Miss Frances Daabar, Cravea House and flew over to College 
Hall as soon as the gong sounded the close of the hour. 

The operator looked perplexed when she read the message : 
"Robert Frothingham, Princeton." The name sounded familiar 
but girls had been pouring in all the morning sending news of 
elections to friends and relatives in every part of the country 
and she was overworked. Thus it happened that three messages 
within one hour went clicking over the wires to Robert Froth- 
ingham in Princeton— all from the Western Union office in Col- 
lege Hall. 

Meanwhile, Nell was ensconced in a morris chair in her sunny 
bay window. She had studied her French, read over her history 
and was now deep in her favorite short story, Elsie Dinsmore. 
She was re-reading the famous episode of the piano stool, when 
she closed the book with a bang — "There ! I knew I'd forgotten 
something. There's nothing like Elsie Dinsmore to make one 
remember that one has left undone those things ime ought to 
have done. Who'll lend me a nickel, I wonder ?" 

In the hallway she forcibly extracted the required amount 
from a friend who was bent on a shopping expedition to Spring- 
field. Then she entered the telephone booth. "Hello! Postal 
Telegraph, please— I want to send— all ready ? Mr. Robert 
Frothingham, Benton Hall— no, I don't know the number — 
Princeton. Mary Sarah made the first team this morning. No 
signature— and charge it please to Miss Helen Foster, Craven 
House. There, that's over!" She heaved a sigh of relief and 
returned to the bay window and Elsie Dinsmore. 

So a fourth telegram followed its companions to Princeton. 


Mr. Robert Frothingliam lay in bed^ reveling in the blissful 
-sensation that otily the hoar of ten a. m. can give. He yawned 
and stretched, resolved to get up, then crawled down again 
under the blankets. He had been to the city for the theatre and 
a dance the night before and had returned to college on that train 
designed for the convenience of Princeton students, the "Owl," 
and the memories of a pleasant evening, combined with the 
knowledge that he had no classes until that afternoon, gave him 
a feeling of satisfaction with all the world. When he heard his 
room-mate fumbling at the door he, loth to be disturbed, closed 
Ids eyes and faked slumber. The room-mate stood a moment by 
his bedside, then shook him vigorously. 
"Get out," murmured Bobby. 

"Get up !^' replied the room-mate. "Here's a telegram for 
you. I found it underneath the door. I hope it's not bad 

Robert seized the yellow envelope and tore it open anxiously. 
Then his face lighted up with pleasure. 

" I say. Mack I" he exclaimed. "The kid has made the team 
— basket ball, you know. Means a lot up there at Smith. She's 
been crazy about it ever since she went to college." 

" That's great ! " rejoined Mack, then, more slowly and blush- 
ing furiously, for Mack was very shy, " I'd like to send Mary 
^ome flowers if you think she'd let me. That's what people do, 
don't they?" 

"Sure ! go ahead," laughed Robert. " I guess I'll telegraph 
some up myself. Meadov^'s is the name of the florist there." 
" Roses— pink," mused Mack. 

Now Robert had been thinking of sending roses himself but 
a brother must not be outdone by a friend, so with outv^^ard 
calm and inward trepidation, he said : "Send an order for me, 
too, will you ? Violets, a good-sized bunch, with a couple of 
orchids. And, before you go, get out the stove. I'm going to 
make myself some coffee." 

Mack, good natured in all things, produced the percolator and 
lit a fire in the burner. Then, while Robert turned over for a 
list snooze, he tip-toed out of the study. On the landing Mack 
met Patrick O'Brien, blue-coated and brass-buttoned, in all the 
magnificence of his ofiBce as Princeton's only messenger boy. 
"Another wire for Mr. Frothiugham, sir," said Pat. 
"Give it to me, Pat. Mr. Frothingham isn't awake yet." 


Mack opened the envelope and chuckled when he read the mes- 
sage. '' Patrick, would you like to earn a dollar ? " 

Pat's eyes fairly popped from his head. Then Mack, with hi& 
quiet, good-natured smile, and Pat, all Irish grin, slowly des- 
cended the stairs of Benton Hall. 

Half an hour later, Robert and several of his friends were en- 
joying their breakfast before the fire, when their reminiscences 
of the night previous were interrupted by a rap at the door and 
the unceremonious entrance of a little red-headed messenger boy. 

" Telegram for Mr, Frothingham, and the divil of a time IVe 
had findin' out where ye roomed," this said with a twinkle in 
his Irish eye and a glance around to see if ** Mr. Mack" were 
there. ** It's just sent to Princeton, N. J. 'Tis lucky yer name- 
ain't Smith, ye wouldn^t have got yer wire. 'Tis from a girl, 

" Here's a quarter for your trouble, sonny," said Bob, amid 
the shouts of laughter. Then he read to his friends: **Mary 
Sarah made the first basket ball team this morning. Elizabeth 

It was with great presence of mind, he thought, that he pre- 
tended to be as surprised as the rest. 

'' Let's send a telegram of congratulations !" suggested one of 
the group. "Come on, Bob, chip in." So the friends dived 
into their pockets, producing nickels and dimes, and Bob made 
up the sum with the others. 

** Flowers and a telegram ! " he muttered. " Gee ! I'm getting 
in thick." 

The fellows "guyed" him a little about Elizabeth Morrrison ;: 
he was glad he hadn't mentioned the receipt of a telegram from 
another girl earlier in the day. 

Alas ! Such concealment was not for long ! Telegrams began 
to arrive thick and fast; telegrams stating rather indefiiiitely 
that "your sister has just made the team," to the detailed ac- 
counts of the actual " taking in." Then, the messages began to 
repeat themselves; Catherine Chase's name was signed to three; 
Betty's and Frances' names to two each ; some signed with the 
names of girls he knew ; others with names he had never heard 
before ; one telegram bore no signature at all. 

The delight of Robert's friends and the dismay of Robert him- 
self increased at each arrival. All his small change was used ta 
tip the messenger boy. When his last quarter was gone, Rob- 
ert's temper went too. 


** If one more telegram comes, Patrick," he exploded, **you 
may telephone it up but don't you dare come near this house 
again ! " 

Then Robert's friends leaned back in their chairs and howled 
with joy. " Your lady friends are far too fond of you, Bobby, 
for the good of your temper," said one. 

'^ His acquaintance at Smith is certainly not limited !" hinted 

The telegrams stopped coming. Robert was called twice to the 
telephone but he refused to answer it. Then (to paraphrase 
Browning) *' all calls ceased." 

Toward evening Robert had almost regained his equanimity, 
and smiled loftily at the jeers of his friends. Alas again ! that 
evening came the knock-out blow. They were smoking in the 
study when a timid tap caused Mack to yell, *' Come in !" Pat- 
rick allowed his snub nose and china blue eye to be visible at 
the crack. He pushed one of the hated yellow envelopes at 
Robert and fled. 

"There's a quarter due on it, sir, but you can pay it at th& 
oflfice," he yelled from the foot of the stairs. 

Robert ripped open the paper and read these words : 

'* Congratulate me, Bobby, I play in the game next Saturday. 

Mary Sarah." 

Bobby squashed the yellow sheet and hurled it into the flames. 
Then, with an inspiration, he ran to the window and yelled to 
Patrick : " Hey you boy, come back ! There's an answer to 
that message ! " 

With diabolical care to revenge himself on his sister by mak-^ 
ing the answer eleven words, he wrote : " Heartiest congrats — 
sure do wish you best luck in the game." 

'*Too late to countermand those flowers and the telegram the 
fellows sent must have reached her hours ago. Bat, by heaven, 
I hope this one wakes 'em all up at twelve o'clock to-night and 
that Mary Sarah won't have a cent to her name ! " 

Then he, too, sent his telegram collect. 



The Western people dwell in the mists, 

In the pale of the land of dreams ; 
The hosts of faery well they know, 
Meanful shadows that come and go. 

And the vision by night that gleams. 

A song I would of the Western folk, 

Mystery prisoned in word. 
They sang me little, daily things : 
Hearth fire agleam as the mother sings, 

Note of the trill of a bird. 



'* Useless" they say you are. You do not know 
The way to work, the way to bear life's woe. 
You are so light of heart, so fancy-free, 
A butterfly, too slight a thing for me. 

Yet God once made a rose, a perfect flow'r. 
That lived its frail, sweet life for its brief hour, 
A rose of flame, with heart of purest gold, 
Deep hidden 'neath the petals' satin fold, 
A rose so beautiful, so perfect, sweet, 
That every common workman in the street 
Who smelled its fragrance, went upon his way, 
To feel a sweeter something in his day. 

God made you, too, for none but He could know 
The way to mingle fire, rose and snow 
To make so fair a woman. On your lips 
He crushed the rose's red. Your finger-tips 
He fashioned slenderly and softly there 
Above your brow he heaped your sunny hair. 

And weary souls who pass you on their way. 
Look up and smile at you and haply say 
A word of thankfulness, a word of prayer, 
Because the world and you are wondrous fair. 

Ah, you are light of heart, how should you seem 
More than fulfilment of a precious dream, 
Yet they who call you "useless " cannot know 
'Twas God's dear purpose just to make you so. 

1 60 





This is the most deliciously amusing hotel you can imagine. 
Everyone is English and every other one is a clergyman. Ap- 
parently every countrj^ vicar who ever comes to London, with 
or without his wife, stops at this hotel. It is a very modern 
place. There is a bath-room on each floor and the hotel is 
immensely proud of the fact that baths are free. (In most 
places, you know, you have to pay sixpence for them.) You 
order your bath when you are called in the morning, the 
chamber-maid draws it for you and then you wrap your kimono 
about you and dodge after her through miles of hall to the 

The parlor and lounge are on the second floor. The parlor is 
rather a stiff affair. All the furniture in it was brought from 
Versailles, goodness knows why ! But the lounge is great fun. 
It is a sort of large-sized sitting-room, exactly the place to have 
tea, with a long row of book-shelves at one end, filled with 
bound volumes of Punch, and at the other end a big bay- 
window looking out on the Embankment. It is great fun to 
watch the trams and the people going by but the best of all is 
the morning when the men are coming in to the city to work. 
There is an exit from the under-ground right below the window 
and long lines of men keep popping up from below, all looking 
wQvj spruce and unbusinesslike with their cutaways, silk hats, 
umbrellas and buttonhole bouquets but all smoking pipes, 
which rather spoils the effect. 

The most interesting and English place in the house is the 
dining-room. In the middle is a table with cold joints, which 
the head waiter carves for you if you don't like the hot dish. 
We have a charming waiter who treats us as if we were the 
royal family, at least, and says, " Peas, miss ? Oh, thank you, 
miss!"' in a most heartfelt manner if I help myself to some. 
The first night at dinner we, having no finger-bowls, made bold 
to ask for some. The request created great consternation. We 
saw the head waiter hastily rummaging about the room. After 

3 161 


a long interval he produced two glass bowls from a cupboard 
beneath the sideboard and bore them towards us in triumph, 
dusting them vigorously on the way. We accepted them with 
gratitude but never again ventured to violate the sacred tradi- 
tions of the place. 


Shalford, Surrey. 
Englisher and Englisher ! We are now ''lodging" with the 
*'tax gatherer's wife" in this pretty little village which is so 
small that our letters have to be addressed to "Shalford near 
Guilford." We are in the corner one of a row of cottages facing 
on the common, each with its neat little two-by-four garden 
surrounded by a stone wall which a baby could step over and 
each with gay window-boxes. Ours, which are the prettiest, 
have red geraniums and blue verbenas. We have the living 
room, which runs the length of the cottage, on the ground floor 
and three bedrooms up-stairs, one with a feather-bed and all 
lighted by candles — there are lamps down-stairs. The stairs, 
by the way, are very steep and narrow and we had a terrible 
time getting our American "boxes" up them. One absolutely 
refused to go and is now gracing our living room opposite the 
piano. The tax-gatherer's family occupy the rest of the house 
but we have seen very little of them except Mrs. Hoxton. We 
know that there are two boys whom their mother always ad- 
dresses collectively as "Cyril an"* Ernie." "Cyril an' Ernie, 
get up ! " " Cyril an' Ernie, come to breakfast ! " Housekeep- 
ing is a delight. Mrs. Hoxton cooks and serves our meals and 
every morning after breakfast she comes in to suggest the 
menu for the day. She has in her garden the most delicious- 
peas that I have ever eaten, so we usually decide to have fresh 
peas for dinner and the peas of yesterday made into soup. 
Then we make a list of the other things needful and sally forth 
to do our marketing at the little row of shops across the com- 
mon. The most delightful of all is the butcher's, which, with 
its open front, is like a little toy store. While waiting there 
this morning we heard the following dialogue between the 
butcher and his wife : 

" Mrs. Shipley wants to know, have we a duck ?" 
"To be sure, we have a duck, but it's not dead yet ! " 



From the farthest point of the far away. 

As I gaze o'er the surging sea, 
To the nearest crystal of gleaming sand. 

Comes the shaft of the moon towards me. 

I see midst the ceaseless glimmer of light, 

Midst the splendid peace of it all. 
Myriad wavelets flicker and flame, 

And myriad ripples fall. 

Now a crest leaps high from the seething foam, 

Dares pause at hazardous height ; 
A flash, and 'tis gone, another is there, 

Gay plummet of marvelous light. 

On either side of the highway of light, 

Vast billows all murky and deep 
Waver and writhe with the wind and the tide. 

Sea dragons that never may sleep. 

Far off to the left, a wave-fretted pier, 

Half aflash o'er columns and floor, 
Reaches out like a hand from the shadow-veiled sand, 

And fastens the sea to the shore. 



The gray fog- spirits slowly rise 
From dim sea-caverns no one sees ; 

Slow raise their cold arms to the skies 
And shroud behind them land antl trees. 

A host of phantoms, cruel, cold, 
'Mid treacherous silence faster come, 

And in their still embrace enfold 
Belated sailors, going home, 

Who know not whether rocks or lands 

Or open sea before them lies, 
For the spirits touch with chilly hands, 

And breathe salt fog before their eyes. 



Many visitors flock to Harpswell Neck in the summer time ; 
they appropriate the one crooked street, the post-office and the 
general store ; the dock is theirs ; the sailing craft riding so 
gracefully at their moorings, resplendent in their polished ma- 
hogany and glittering brass, are theirs ; the hotels and the 
cottages of shingles left to weather a silvery gray like the rocks 
they are built upon, are theirs. But notwithstanding these 
extensive possessions, the visitors often intrude themselves 
inquisitively into the fishermen's huts exclaiming enthusiastic- 
ally over their quaintness, and expressing a determination to 
*'do" them in charcoal, pastel or water color, as the case may 
be, and then go away wondering why the humble occupants 
seemed to resent the honor. In fact, the summer visitors are 
such an overpowering element that it is only when the first 
chilly breath of autumn has blown them back to their cities 
that the perennial inhabitants of the place, birds of a more 
sombre hue, come into evidence. At such a time one is likely 
to discover that Steve Toothacre is a pillar of the town. 

No man was ever more long and lean and guant than Steve. 
When standing still in his high rubber boots and ill-fitting 
clothes his awkward lankiness was almost grotesque and yet 
there was a free and easy grace about his lithe and powerful 
movements. From continual exposure his face was as tough 
and brown as cow's hide and the sun and salt water had so 
wrought upon his hair that it had no more texture left than the 
tuft at the end of a cow's tail. The hard lines about his mouth, 
stern witnesses of hardship and privation, made him seem much 
older than he really was. He was unusually dignified and 
grave for one of his years, this air probably being augmented 
by the habitual sadness of his face or a sort of melancholy 
common to all people who inhabit the barren coast and wrest a 
precarious living from the sea. To his regular occupation of 
deep sea fishing Steve added in the summer time the work of 
piloting pleasure craft. 

Thus it was that Steve became the skipper of the Constance II 

1 64 


fifteen years ago. We children cannot remember the time 
when we did not know him ; our earliest memories of vacation 
time center about him. It was he who guided our childish 
hands as they grasped the sheet ; it was he who initiated 
us into the mysteries of the tiller and taught us to appreciate an 
expanse of wave and sky with a stiff breeze blowing. Although 
we grew with the years in mutual respect and understanding, 
we conversed very little. There was a shy and primitive reserve 
about him and no amount of artful suggesting or gentle coaxing 
would draw him out if he wished to be silent. But when he 
did speak his voice was very surprising. Instead of being deep 
and powerful, as one might expect coming from so great a 
frame, it was high, thin and squeaky. This quality of voice is 
found in many fishermen of that community and is the result 
of their calling to each other across long distances when at sea. 
Their shrill and piercing cries sometimes carry for miles. 

When on our many sails Steve's favorite position was in the 
stern, where he would stretch his lanky self at full length, the 
personification of careless laziness but with his chin in his hand 
propped up by his elbow, his face never losing its vigilance, his 
keen blue eye ever searching the smiling waves for a sign. His 
look was of one who knew the treachery of the sea but whose 
daring, tempered with prudence, could conquer any situation. 
This look always gave us a sense of security in his safe-keeping. 
But strangers never saw Steve in his inspired moments. He 
disliked strangers with all his stubborn heart and whenever we 
took any of them sailing he became morose and irritable. Steve 
also had a deep aversion for new sails, he was offended by their 
flashy and impudent whiteness, and so we never had a new sail. 
Our old one grew dingier and more weather-beaten and finally 
a gale blew a big hole in it. A white patch appeared, which 
made the old sail seem blacker and dingier than ever by con- 
trast. Two years later a gale blew a hole in the patch but 
Steve's ingenuity was a match for the occasion. A small white 
patch appeared upon the large one, which then seemed a dirty 
gray. Our neighbors laughingly remarked that soon we would 
have an artistic scale of color values. 

Our peaceful tenor of existence was disturbed one day by 
two remarkable events. One was that Commander Peary was 
reported to have discovered the North Pole. The news was 
telegraphed to our little post-office and three rough fishermen 


started out in a pound boat to bear the message to Mrs. Peary, 
who lives about four miles distant on Eagle Island. The other 
remarkable event was the disappearance of Steve. We were 
all the more surprised as our descriptions of the world beyond 
Harpswell N"eck had always failed to move him and he clung to 
his native rocks as if with a secret insight into Longfellow's 
sentiment that 

" Home-keeping hearts are happiest." 

At the end of a week, however, he returned, with the explana- 
tion that he had been to Portland to get his teeth '* corked, 
plugged and varnished." By degrees it also leaked out that 
Steve had got himself a wife, no other than Maria, the Pearys' 
€ook ! Perhaps the glory that now surrounded the residents of 
Eagle Island suffused its golden rays even around the cook, 
making her an extraordinary being in the eyes of Stephen 
Toothacre. At any rate we all approved highly of Maria and 
were glad that Steve had someone to keep his little hut neat 
and homelike for him and sit beside him on the beach among 
the lobster-traps, where he mended chinks in his fish-nets with 
a mammouth needle and thread dipped in tar. 

The last we saw of Steve was from the deck of the steamer. 
We were leaving Harpswell and on the dock below us were the 
upturned faces and floating handkerchiefs of many friends. On 
the outskirts of the crowd, standing quietly, with Maria beside 
him and a background of mist, was Steve. No doubt he had 
come to see us off but he seemed much more interested in the 
cargo of salted fish. Presently the gang plank was drawn in, 
the ropes were thrown off, we moved and a sheet of fog closed 
them all from our view. 

Now we sail in different waters and with a new skipper but 
we have the same boat and the same old sail. Yesterday, when 
we were returning at sunset from a run to Portsmouth, the new 
skipper intimated that our sail was very shabby. He knew 
where we could get a good one. Would we have it ? We all 
looked up at the old sail and smiled at the big gray patch with 
the white patch upon it, sewed with stitches that resembled 
nothing so much as hen-scratching. No, we do not want the 
new sail, at least for a while. Such a work of art is sacred to 
the past and our old friend Steve. 



I think of cool green shadows of late afternoon 

Lying upon the grass, 
The sigh of the summer breeze in the swaying tree-tops, 

Of wind-blown clouds that pass. 

I dream of apple-blossoms 'gainst a deep blue sky, 

Of the lilt of bird-song, 
And the joyous, rippling laugh of a meadow brook 

Winding its way along. 

And as I dream, I lose the present's sadness. 

Forget to-day is gray, 
And deep down in my heart thrills matchless ecstasy, 

For joy comes when you play I 



Robert Moulton leaned back in his chair and leisurely lighted 
a cigar. We had dined together and had talked of many things. 
But now I felt the great moment was come, for after a quiet 
dinner Moulton always had a story to tell and his stories were 
greatly to my taste. 

Moulton sat in silence a few moments watching the smoke 
-curl from his cigar. His delicate face was alight and his well- 
bred person would not to the average mind suggest his calling, 
for he was a circus clown. 

"Did you ever hear me speak of Rosa Abellini?" asked 
Moulton. "She was a lion tamer and had three great lions, 
vicious brutes they were. We called her the * Great Abellini/ 
for she did not know fear. I used to watch her for she fasci- 
nated me and pretty nearly everyone else, I guess. Fear is a 
part of man's nature but Abellini did not have it. Her lions 
cowered at her feet and whined with terror when she punished 
them. I can see her yet as she stood, a splendid figure, her 
black eyes gleaming and her lions fawning at her feet. 

" There was a young Swede in the circus. He was a carpen- 
ter and a good sort of fellow. He never seemed to notice Abel- 


liai or to hang around her the way the others did. He went 
about his business, as stolid a Swede as ever you saw. Pretty 
soon I saw that Abellini was watching him. It was strange 
that she should for no human creature was anything to her. 
She had no friends, no family, yes, even no God. 

" This went on for a long time and then I saw a change in 
Abellini. She trembled when a lion snarled at her and once 
cried out in terror when a lioness crouched to spring. The lions 
felt the change and waited their chance. One day all the lions- 
turned on her at once. I was near and with the help of the 
others got her out unharmed. She was as white and trembling 
as any woman. 

''She sold her lions and gave up her work, for a lion tamer 
cannot be afraid. I knew she loved the Swede and her love had 
made her a woman." 

Moulton paused as if his story was ended. 

'' But what of the Swede ?" I asked. 

'* Oh, he never understood," said Moulton. " He was as blind 
as a bat." 

Moulton threw away the stump of his cigar and delicately 
dusted a few ashes from his sleeve. 

"What became of Abellini ? " I demanded. "You can't leave 
her this way. Tell me what became of her." 

"Well," said Moulton, "we've come to the point at last."' 
He brushed off some imaginary ashes slowly and carefully.. 
" The truth is," he said apologetically, "Abellini, having for- 
gotten the Swede, is going to marry me at noon to-morrow, and 
I need a best man." 



Daddy's coming home to-morrow, 

Gee, I'm glad, hurrah, hurroo ! 
Guess he'll think I'm growin' up 

When he knows what I can do. 
So call me early, don't forget it, 

I just wonder what he'll say. 
For, you know, I've learned to whistle, 

Just since Dad has been away. 


(TO F. L. B.) 

The night wind goes flowing so soft and low, 

Singing a bedtime song, 
And the sharp stars glitter against the bine, 

Like diamonds strewn along, 
They're the candles, I think, baby angels hold, 

All going to bed in a throng. 

Their bed is a big, warm, fleecy cloud, 
That rests on the winds that blow. 

And rocks the baby angels to sleep, 
With a motion even and slow. 

And now the angels are all asleep, 

For their candles are dark on high. 

And you, little human child so tired, 
Half asleep in the grass you lie, 

So we'll light your bedtime candle, too, 
And say good-night to the sky. 



Asleep shall I be 

When I no more feel 
A thrill at the throb in the robin's throat, 
Pain at the whip-poor-will's plaintive note, 
Yearning to see the dark birds float 

"Gainst a blue-breasted sky. 

Asleep shall I be, 

But now it is sweet 
With the softly stirred trees to murmur a sigh. 
To yearn to be with the bird in the sky, 
To thrill at the call of his mate floating by 

'G-ainst a blue-breasted sky. 





Personally I don't believe there is such a thing as " something 
•different in suits." It is an elusive but most mysteriously tan- 
talizing will-o'-the-wisp. For weeks I have been going to 
Springfield every Saturday, my mind fully made up to catch 
that will-o'-the-wisp and come back with "something different 
in suits," but so far I am a miserable failure. 

The trouble began when I opened my weekly letter from the 
family and read the sentence, " Now don't get a tailored suit, — 
get something a little different." I smiled. How nice ! for I 
was tired of tailored suits. I would go right down to Spring- 
field on Saturday to get it. 

I did go Saturday — I did not get the suit. I walked into the 
^rst shop I saw and asked to look at suits. A most imposing 
lady in black bore down upon me with an armful of — tailored 
suits. I smiled patronizingly. " I don't care to look at tailored 
suits," I said, in my most grown-up tone. 

" What do you want, broadcloth, velvet or corduroy?" she 

"E — why — ah — yes, no, that is, different, you know, some- 
thing different." It was funny — I couldn't think exactly ivhat 
was different. 

She disappeared and came back in a moment with a brown 
velvet suit with a yellow and green plush collar. "Very dif- 
ferent," she said as she bundled me into the suit. I thought 
it was. 

" But don't you think that yellow plush next to red hair — " 

" Beautiful, miss, just grand," she replied, trjnng to make a 
button and a button-hole six inches apart meet, "and it just 
fits, too." 


After being forced to look at myself from all sides till my 
«yes ached with the yellow and red, I at last freed myself of the 
awful coat and picking np my own, I murmured as I bolted for 
the door, ''An important engagement — I'll be down to-morrow. 
But then," I thought as I reached the street, "that's only one 
shop. I don't believe it's a good one, anyway. I'm going to 
try the one across the street with the adorable purple petticoats 
in the window." But forewarned is forearmed. When the sales- 
lady came up to me asking what I wanted, I said, "Suits, but 
nothing tailored— something rather different." 

" I have exactly what you want," she said, and left me, happy 
in the knowledge that I had chosen the right store. 

A moment later and she was back, carrying a suit ; a perfectly 
plain coat, not even a bright button on it, and a skirt with one 
tiny tuck in the front. "Ah, but I want something different — 
odd — peculiar — striking — you know. 

"That's just what this is. Look at that jauntily draped 
skirt," she said, pointing to the solitary tuck. 

" It will not do," I said. I would be firm. 

" Well, that's the newest thing we've got— of course if you 
want something of last year's—" and back she went, returning 
with a green velvet, trimmed with innumerable glass buttons. 
It made me dizzy to think of fastening them. " Here is this, — 
very good-looking but not nearly the style of the suit I showed 
you," referring to the lone tuck again. I told her I didn't like 
the buttons. " Everything's buttons this year," she said. Once 
more she brought me a suit, a mahogany shade. Meekly I 
offered the opinion that red hair and mahogany clashed. 
"Everything from Paris is this shade," she replied ; but when 
I saw her diving under the pile of suits on the table for that 
tucked skirt, I arose. 

" I didn't intend to get one to-day, anyway. 1 shall be down 
to-morrow," and I left. 

Many, many Saturdays I have repeated this performance. 
The results are always the same. I wrote my family, " I think 
■a, girl who spends all her money on clothes is missing a great 
many things. So I have decided to buy a little Victrola and 
not get a suit. 

Miss Jordan's note : "And I must say that in a campus house 
-even the green suit with glass buttons would be preferred." 



She is battling with her Webster's, 
Striving desperately to win, 

For the note she would make clever 
Must return an Alpha pin. 

There's a flower in Field's window 
That would do it better far, 

But Opinion says she mustn't — 
That should be her guiding star. 

So she struggles bravely onward, 
Thinking, rhyming with great pain, 

'Till she ends with an inspired 
" Thanking you so much, again ! " 

TO H. T. 


Oh thou so fresh and fair to look upon, 
Perfect in form, delight of every eye, 
Cheering with radiant promise those who come 
And gaze on thee with longing eagerness ; 
Promise which thou wilt never now fulfill — 
What has become of all that freshening glow 
Which radiated from thee even now? 
Why art thou cold beneath my eager touch, 
That burst before my gaze not long ago ? 
It must not be I My need for thee is great ! 
Thou'rt manna to my weary, hungry soul — 
I cannot live without thee I Come relent 
And summon back the warmth that's life to me. 
What ! No response? No answer to my plea ? 
Thou wilt not glow again — nor heed my prayers? 
Forever then persist in thy decree ! 
Forever coldly then repel the hand 
That seeks Hot Toast ! 




It was not a " handkerchief shower " nor a " dishcloth shower ' 
nor an "egg-beater shower" nor any other kind of a shower 
•directly or indirectly connected with a wedding, and by '* di- 
rectly" I mean when you are the bride, and by "indirectly" I 
mean when you aren't. It was merely that time-taking, shriek- 
producing, inevitable complem.ent of "gym," a shower-bath. 

I hope that no one will interpret the adjective "first" as 
meaning that I belong to "the great unwashed," for I have 
had a large, in fact an almost unlimited experience with baths 
of many kinds, beginning with that instrument of torture, the 
daily cold plunge, before which you stand shivering for many 
minutes, and then, murmuring the fatal words, "One for the 
money, two for the show," deliberately inflict upon yourself 
great discomfort, and make the bath-room unnavigable for 
many who are to come. I also include in my experience many 
battles with breakers, and peaceful swims in mountain lakes, 
and that religious rite — and I use the adjective "religious'^ 
a<lvisedly, since cleanliness is next to godliness — which used to 
be held sacred to Saturday night. But throughout all this vast 
experience, I have always deliberately and carefully avoided 
the shower-bath. Hence my predominant sensation on learning 
that what was expected of us from twelve till one on Mondays 
and Tuesdays, and three to four on Thursdays and Fridays, 
was not unalloyed bliss. 

I marched across the gymnasium floor after my first lesson, 
with chin proudly erect, shoulders back, and body rigid with a 
conscious effort to imitate Annette Kellermann. Then I hurried 
to the basement and after plunging into a number of dressing- 
rooms that didn't belong to me, and being summarily ejected 
by the irate and scantily clothed occupants, I at last found my 
own. My section (Section B) was to take the "shower" first. 
The words rang ominously in my ears, and something told me 
that I had better hurry. With energy I fought my way out of 
my gymnasium suit, struggled with the strings of my shield, 
aud vainly strove to unfasten shoe-lacings that were usually 
only too apt to become untied at critical moments. In spite of 



all my haste the first bell rang before I was ready. Doors^ 
opened all along the hall. The slap of unslippered feet sounded 
on the rubber matting, and then came another bell, a sound of 
rushing water, and many excited squeals. I was too late for 
Division B ! For a moment hope awoke in me. Perhaps I 
wouldn't have to take a shower after all. I was, however, 
doomed to disappointment, for a moment later a knock sounded 
on my door, and the voice of an instructor, making itself heard 
above the noise of shrieks and running water, sharply inquired 
what I was doing. Sullenly I explained that I was "unavoid- 
ably detained. '' 

"You may take the shower with A division," she announced 
cruelly, and with a groan I returned to the task of undressing. 

All too soon sounded the second bell. A long line of drippings 
girls trooped down the hall, and I, tucking my hair under a 
tight rubber cap, and draping the combination towel and bath 
robe about me, joined Section A. They were a forlorn-looking- 
collection. Their sheets had been arranged with varied skill, 
but all could be divided into two general classes, those who 
sheltered their shoulders at the expense of their legs, and those 
who, with true early-Yictorian modesty, shielded their "limbs'^ 
at the expense of their shoulders. All looked cold and miser- 
able. Soon another bell rang, and we fled into the "torture- 

"Enter the shower-room, turn j^our back to the entrance,, 
remove the sheet, and suspend it from the buttonholes in the 
upper corners, thus forming a door." The directions were quite 
clear. Cautiously 1 backed into the shower, and started to hang 
up the sheet, but just then there was a sudden rush of water. 
Blinded, breathless, sputtering, I hunted for those buttonholes, 
but not a trace of them could be found. To hold up the sheet 
was a little trying, as I thereby received the full force of the 
water just at the back of my neck, from which it trickled chillily 
down my spinal column. That something must be done I 
plainly realized. I decided to trust to the sheet's staying on 
the hooks if I twisted it a bit. This seemed practicable, and I 
stepped back under the shower. A second later the sheet 
dropped with a thud, and the water streamed out into the corri- 
dor. Wildly I seized the now hated thing, and hung it up 
again, but this time I made no attempt to make it stay of its 
own accord. I spread myself out crucifix-like against the 


dripping expanse, and waited. After an eternity came the 
signal. Never has and never can Tetrazini's highest, clearest 
note sound more exquisite to my ears than did that clanging, 
penetrating, raucous-toned bell. The water diminished to a 
thin stream, and then finally stopped entirely, and I, with that 
sensation which Mrs. Ewing describes as the most blessed of all 
others, relief, wrapped myself up, and shivering, slunk away. 
It was over ! 



I. Find the key. Do this at least two weeks beforehand sq 
that you may have that delightful fore-handed feeling. 

II. Drop the key into a jewelry box and pack this well in the 
bottom of the trunk. This will cause excitement just before 
you leave and thus prevent you from being homesick. 

III. Pack the roll of paper for your bureau drawers in the 
bottom of your trunk. 

IV. Pack the coat to your traveling suit and your veil in the 
lower tray. 

V. Open a bottle of Carbona. Then pack it between that 
picture of the Elysee Palace Aunt Nell gave you and your new 
pink evening gown. This will probably serve to break the 
picture frame and save you the trouble of hanging the picture. 

VI. Leave out of the trunk your opera boots, dictionary and 
all of your music. This makes a nice little package for you to 
carry and gives you a sort of nonchalant air as you board the 


I. Place your trunk in the narrowest part of the hall. 

II. Take out all the trays and arrange them in a perfect 
hexagon around you. 

III. Get the paper for your bureau drawers from the bottom 
of the trunk. This saves a great amount of work as it exposes 
almost everything in the bottom of the trunk thus allowing you 
to get things more easily. 

IV. Dump the top tray out on your bed. 

V. Go down to Beckman's for an ice. 


Realized Longings 

At last the first half-year is o'er, 
The taxi's waiting at the door, 
The girls are rushing to and fro, 
It's Christmas time, I'd have you know. 

To Lilly, College, Seelye, all, 

They wave farewell to every hall. 

To McCallum's, Kingsley's and Niquette's, 

They sigh and wish they'd paid their debts. 

And so they clatter down the street, 
A thrill runs through from head to feet, 
They know they're going home to-day. 
They intimate they're home to stay. 

The trains puff in, and then pull out, 
Bearing the girls along their route, 
They realize it is no myth, 
Vacation has begun for Smith. 

Julia Tandy 1917. 


Sunset, star, and moonlight night, 

Winter's leaden skies, 
Blush on maiden's cheek so bright, 

Tears in maiden's eyes ; 
Summer, sailing, mermaids, seas, 

Woodland melody — 
A wealth of poetry lies in these, 

A wealth — but not for me ! 

My mind must dwell on sterner things, 

A rocky road tread I 
And dare not heed the bird that sings 

The rose of sunset sky ; 
The path where errant laughter plays 

No longer beckons me ; 
I think of nothing nowadays 

Except my English C. 

Adelaide Heilbron 1915. 


The Recent Exhibition of Paintings 

Written with the assistance of Professor Churchill. 

During November the college was very much interested in 
an exhibition of paintings at the Hillyer Art Gallery loaned 
through the courtesy of the Worcester Art Museum. At present 
a fine collection of prints from the Congressional Library at 
Washington is on view. These two exhibitions are but the 
beginning of a series to be offered by the Art Department 
during the college year. We may expect two more exhibitions 
of paintings and three of color prints, etchings and other mate- 
rial. These exhibitions are very significant in the history of 
the Art Museum. It means that new life will constantly be 
brought in and that the educational value of the college art 
€ollection will be ever on the increase. It is hoped that these 
exhibitions will be of interest to people in and round about 

In the summer four pictures were sent to the Albright Mu- 
seum in Buffalo. It is gratifying to know that they were given 
places of honor and to hear that splendid things were said of 
them. Since the Hillyer Art Gallery is in a position to return 
the compliment, it can ask the loan of pictures from other 

The November exhibition, though small, showed the work of 
six prominent American artists. 

" Winter Morning," a charming study in greens and reds, 
was by Childe Hassam of New York, the most characteristic 
representative of modern Impressionism in the United States. 
A girl in a blue-green kimono sits peeling an orange before a 
large studio window. Out of the window in bewildering per-* 
spective through a thin film of muslin curtains, a typical New 
York horizon can be seen. The atmosphere possesses an elec- 
tric vitality, a piquant spiciness, characteristic of the painter. 
We are led at once to a comparison with the two of his pictures 
in our gallery. These two pictures have the same exhilarating 
tang. Hassam's individuality is too strong to allow of his being 
thought of as a servile imitator, yet his vision and his tech- 
nical methods are distinctly a part of the French Impressionist 


4 m 


Of these pictures perhaps the least interesting to most of u& 
was the "American Girl," a delicate harmony in grey and 
lavender by J. Alden Weir. Nevertheless the subject is charm- 
ing and her charm seems to lie in her spirituality. 

"The Girl Playing Solitaire/' by Frank Benson, was disap- 
pointing. , At first it attracted the eye more than any other paint- 
ing in the room, but it failed to hold the interest. This may have 
been due to its one-sided color harmony. The yellow and grey 
needed something for contrast, perhaps a violet note. The yellow 
could, then, have been more subdued without appearing less 

" Sally," a portrait of the young daughter of the artist, Joseph 
DeCamp, was a general favorite. It is a fine direct piece of 
painting done by a good draughtsman, yet we expect something 
more from the truest art. This painting was a shade too photo- 
graphic in quality, and possibly too obvious to retain its hold 
on the imagination. 

Mary Cassatt, who, though an American woman, is one of the 
most prominent of French Impressionists, was represented in 
this exhibit. " Mother and Child " is light in key and the tech- 
nique is of the same general type as that of " Winter Morning." 
It seems to have been painted in shreds and patches of pure 
color. Miss Cassatt shows a remarkable knowledge of child 
psychology in her work. Indeed in this painting, the climax 
of the whole is the child's head, so true and fine and yet so 
inscrutable in its expression. It is to be regretted that as yet 
Smith College owns nothing from the brush of this artist. 

The gem of the exhibition was generally considered to be 
" The Venetian Blind," by Edmund C. Tarbell. The Venetian 
suraptuousness of color, the rich, full and varied technique, 
makes it seem as if the brush had "changed," as Fromentin 
says, " with the diflterent emotions of the painter." It is this 
variety that makes the picture ever charming — the patina of 
the wood in the antique sofa, the softness of the robe, the 
rounded beauty of the form, the fluffiness of the hair, the 
whole body supple and flexible, and yet firm and solid. Presi- 
dent Seelye characterized the picture as "romantic," a peculiarly 
happy adjective. No realistic study this, but a breath from an 
uncommonplace world. To try to visualize what DeCamp 
would have done with the same subject is an interesting feat of 
the imagination. We have in our own permanent collection 
the "Blue Bowl" and a portrait of President Seelye, both 


by Tarbell and considered by the artist to rank among his best 

Perhaps the most interesting and instructive feature of this 
exhibition was the opportunity it gave us to compare the 
pictures loaned to us with our own. Beautiful as some of the 
former are, they helped to give us an increased sense of the 
qualities of those in our own collection. 

Dorothy Lilian Spencer 1914. 

Once Upon a Time 

The dragon is fast asleep, 

Saint George nods by the fire. 
The holly glows upon the wall, 

It's " O my heart's desire." 

Fun and frolic and singing, 

Dawn, and the chimes'.sweet ringing, 

For it's Christmas day, 

And the world is gay. 
A red star in the east is swinging. 

It's Tipsy Parson and boar's head 

Apples and cider wine. 
It's mistletoe and Yule logs. 

That make the night divine. 

The waits stand out in the snow. 
And they swing their lanterns bright. 

The waits stand three in a row, 
And they carol. Heart's Delight ! 

Fun and frolic and singing, 

Dawn, and the chimes' clear ringing. 

For it's Christmas day. 

And the world is gay ! 
Down the road, we all go swinging ! 

Dorothy Homans 1917. 

Who Knows? 

If I get B in English A, 
And C in English B, 
And D in English C — I may 
Rewrite my English D. 

Marie D. Graff 1915. 


Senior Dramatics 

A Conversation with a Visiting Aunt 

^'My dear, I have always heard that Smith girls dress in a 
rather extreme and extravagant fashion but I am glad to see 
that the report is quite unfounded. When we were walking in 
the neighborhood of the excavations this afternoon I noticed at 
least ten girls wearing plain white shirt waists and exceedingly 
full dark skirts." 

** Yes, Aunt, a great many of the seniors have adopted that 
costume lately. You see, when you are trying for dramatics 
you have to wear bloomers and of course that does tend to make 
one's skirt rather full." 

" What are senior dramatics ? " 

'* Why, every year the senior class gives a play ; at least they 
usually do. This year it is not a play but an achievement." 

*' What do you mean by an achievement ? " 

*' I don't know. But the other classes think that the seniors 
know, and the seniors think that the committee know, and as 
for the committee, no one knows what they think about any- 

'' What is the committee ? " 

**The committee is what Dr. Gardiner calls the * sine qua 
non.' You might have dramatics without the cast, you might 
even have them without Shakespeare, but you could not have 
them without the committee." 

*' What does the committee do ? " 

'' Oh, in the spring they really work very hard, but in the 
fall they haven't much to do ; they simply have trials every 
Wednesday and Saturday afternoons from two to six." 

*' Trials of what ?" 

''Trials of the committee's imperturbability. You seethe 
essential quality in a committee member is the power to conceal 
her thoughts and feelings and of course it does require con- 
siderable training to overcome the practice in self-expression 
which we have had during the past three years in aesthetic 
dancing, class-meetings and English C. So the committee have 
to be trained to conceal their feelings and it takes the whole 
class to train them. The committee sits in a semi-circle in the 
big hall in the Students' Building and the members of the class 
come in one by one and try in a four-minute ' stunt ' to make 


the committee either laugh or cry. If they succeed they are 
asked to give the committee another trial, and if on the fourth 
trial the committee still laugh, then that person gets a part in 
the play." 

'*Are people anxious for parts ? Are the parts good ones ?" 

'* Oh, they are wonderful ! They demand the best that there 
is in you, particularly what Miranda calls 'imagination, the 
pearl in my crown.' They give opportunity for so much origin- 
ality, too. There is one line of Prospero's for instance, ' Ye 
elves of hills, brooks, standing-lakes and groves,' — you would 
scarcely believe the number of different ways in which that line 
can be said. And all the parts are full of action, especially 
Ariel : ' Where the cowslips, there slip I.'" 

"What is this remarkable play that seems to have caused 
such a commotion in the college as a whole and in the senior 
class in particular ?" 

'' It has a very appropriate name : it is called ' The Tempest.' " 

Margaret Louise Farrand 1914. 

In the Art Gallery 

There are heroes all around me, 

But they're plaster casts and still, 
They're not a bit congenial. 

And they seem so stiff and chill. 

I almost wish they'd come to life 

But second thoughts reprove — 
I cannot draw them as they are 

And what if they should move ! 

Hazel Wyeth 1916. 


* 'An editorial about Christmas!" — echoed our solicitous in- 
quirer in a tone of blank surprise and disapproval, and then 
apologetically, " oh, of course that's very lovely. But isn't it a 
bit trite, my dear, just a bit trite. It's been done so often, you 
know. Now why not deal with 'the ethical standards of col- 
lege life ' or even — '' in a glow of inspiration as she launched on 
her pet theme, " ' is man the intellectual equal of — ' " But we 
had retreated hurriedly and thankfully into undisturbed editor- 
ial imaginings of our own. For who can think of logical 
treatises when the mystical, sweet fragrance of the Christmas 
spirit is already casting an elusive glamour over even the most 
commonplace of ideas and we are already athrill to the first 
softly whispering breath of mysteries to be fathomed and hopes 

And Christmas trite ? We have been two thousand years 
trying to express even a shade of that infinite spirit of selfless 
love and we have had but a glimpse of the surface of its un- 
fathomable deeps. Christmas trite ! it's only our repeated 
failure to catch a little more fully the spirit of its message that 
is trite. 

But we can't escape it — this wave of joy and thankfulness 
that engulfs the world. Some of us think we would be Scrooges, 
but we can't. For the beauty of Christmas is that there is 
always some little "Tiny Tim" of a thought or an act that 
comes out to us where we think we are impregnably barricaded 
on our lonely desert isle and our fortress of selfishness and 
brooding melts before it like mist before the sun. 

Yes, it's joy that is round about us everywhere— and joy for 
a reason. We used to think it was Christmas because the shop 
windows were bright and the air was crispy and the snow sang 
under our feet as we ran along, and because there were gifts 



a,nd feasting and red ribbon and holly and lighted tapers and 
-carols in the dusk. And our little Australian Editor's Table 
says Christmas still brings memories of the heavy, sweet odor 
of tropical flowers and the copper glaring sunshine and garlands 
and armsful of nodding j^ellow bush flowers and children run- 
ning, singing through the dusk of midsummer Christmas eve 
and the mysterious wavering flare of lights in the starry sky — 
the reflections of the December bush fires of the plains. But it 
is the same Christmas, the same spirit of love and unselfishness 
that spells happiness. And the season is just a background and 
the customs are mere symbols, — our inarticulate strivings to 
express our overflowing gratitude. 

Perhaps, during the year we have grown thoughtless of others 
We have been engrossed in our own lives because the rewards 
have come richly upon us, or maybe because they have seemed 
to be withheld from us. In either case it has been so easy 
to be unmindful of our neighbor in the street. But now we 
must turn back to buy a bunch of partridge berries from 
the little, bent, old lady who, day after day, has stood peering out 
with dim, wistful eyes from the sheltered corner of the great 
morose building at the hurrying streams of passers-by. And 
the little boy whom we saw standing with his face pressed 
against the glass looking longingly at the prancing tin reindeer 
in the shop window runs home in breathless joy, his treasure 
hugged tight in his arms. And we stop in our haste to help the 
timid, tottering old man in his fruitless efforts to secure his 
fluttering plaid tippet more firmly about his neck and to guide 
him over an especially slippery bit of sidewalk. And we pause 
to send a fleeting smile up into the hard face of the stiff black 
figure standing so alone at the step of her waiting machine but 
who has turned to gaze with mute yearning into the flowing 
stream of happy careless faces crowding close around her. 

Yes, that is what Christmas means— our reawakening to a 
truer sympathy for others, a desire to make everyone a sharer 
in the happiness of the world. Our gifts are not mere bits of 
silk or silver but they are the carrier pigeons bearing messages 
of hope and joy and love. "We may all give as lavishly as we 
will of these treasures. And may each one of us this happy 
holiday season become so filled with its spirit that it will abide 
with us the whole year through. 


The scientist always aims to express his knowledge of pheno- 
mena in terms of measurement. He is not satisfied with the 
statement that water is composed of two elements, hydrogen 
and oxygen, but he must know the proportion existing between 
their ultimate molecules. To help him to his exact knowledge 
he has five instruments of great precision : the metric scale, the 
thermometer, the barometer, the microscope and the spectro- 
scope. With these he strives for objective expression, in exact 
words of measurement. But in the arts, where expression is of 
an individual or subjective nature, there is always a great 
temptation to depart from the accuracy of science. Such words 
as humor, tragedy, and romance have a different connotation for 
every writer and every reader, because definition, the great in- 
strument for artistic precision has not been applied' Sometimes 
a great man makes the application and with it a permanent dis- 
crimination. Here lies the value of Coleridge's distinction be- 
tween imagination and fancy. Of course we can not all be 
Coleridges and we can not expect to pass on to others every idea 
exactly as it impresses us, but we can at least be sure of what 
we ourselves intend by our words, and that the intention cor- 
responds to the fact. 

The most severe criticism made upon us by competent judges 
both within the college and without, has been upon our lack of 
accuracy. In technical and industrial schools accuracy has to 
be the foundation of all training. The products of the students 
may or may not be artistic or interesting, but they must be 
exact. Mechanical drawings and business letters must convey 
correct information in the fewest possible lines. But in a col- 
lege of liberal arts there are comparatively few courses that 
constantly require such accurate observation and strict con- 
formity to fact. So we tend to become lax along these lineSj, 
and lose one of the dearest assets of both science and art. 


Our indiscriminate exaggeration dependent on a few over- 
worked expressions hardly needs to be pointed out. It is only 
too evident to all who have ears to hear. Our inaccuracy of 
scholarship is perhaps less glaring than our indiscriminate voca- 
bulary, but it is nevertheless a deep seated flaw. There is always 
the ready reproach of spelling. But beneath this lies a careless 
mental attitude in a great part of our work. We slip over geo- 
graphical, mythological and historical references with the easy 
consciousness that we knew such things existed and are content 
with that. We have absolutely no conception of the number 
and variety of dictionaries and encyclopsedias at our disposal 
for just such occasions. We confuse terms. We draw what 
we think we should see under the microscope without regard 
for what is actually there. It must be obvious that no matter 
how many instruments of precision are placed in our libraries 
and laboratories, we shall not profit by them until we have 
secured an accurate mental attitude. R. C. 

In the college magazines for November there is a great deal 
of verse that we may term fairly good, but only a small quantity 
that we may call excellent or even fairly good. Many of the 
stories this month are extremely interesting ; many, however, 
are rather poor, and after reading them we turn with relief to 
the essays and more serious articles. Of these there are not 
many, but they are of a high quality. 

The Wesleyan Literary Monthly contains several good essays. 
'^Robert Bridges " is a well written article concerning the new 
poet laureate of England and his poetrj^. The statements made 
are not exactly flattering to him, but they are very fair in spite 
of the fact that the author of this essay is evidently not a 
devotee of Dr. Bridges'. Another essay of interest is called 
''Savonarola, the Reformer." It is concise and clear, giving 
one in a few words an idea of the spirit of the time and also of 
Savonarola's influence over the people of Florence. " Steven- 
son's Foundation in Learning" is an ambitious essay from an 
unusual point of view, and is evidently based upon a careful 
study of some of Stevenson's works. But do people really think 
of Stevenson merely as the "artistic exponent of optimism?'* 
Even if they do, is it not because optimism as an important 
factor in his life is reflected in his writings so that it becomes 
very evident ? Do not people take for granted Stevenson's 


learning, and think nothing of it while enjoying his books ? 
We raise these questions merely as suggestions, with no inten- 
tion of criticising harshly; we hearken to the plea of A. N. 
Onymous in '' Prima Verba " of the Eandolph Macon Monthly. 
"This is our book, our prose, our verse, 
Remember this, they might be worse." 

In the Minnesota Magazine, '*The Realistic Tendency in 
Modern Fiction'' contains a great deal of truth. We hope, 
however, that modern fiction is not in quite such a bad state as 
this writer seems to believe. That would be indeed deplorable. 

''William Blake" in the Wells College Chronicle is an essay 
that is admirably planned, as is also "Alice Meynell " in the 
Trinity College Record. They are both very interesting. 

In the Clark College Monthly "As a Man Thinketh" raises 
the question " What shall we do with our slums ?" The writer 
suggests no remedy for existing conditions, but in the space of 
a few pages he states forcefully some of the main problems. 

There is one essay of importance in the Harvard Monthly, 
" The Ancient Theme."" There is also in this magazine a review 
of John Galsworthy's " The Dark Flower," which is interesting 
in connection with an article on "John Galsworthy" in the 
Normal College Echo. The latter speaks of Galsworthy as a 
poet and a reformer, with reference to the problems presented 
in his plays, and to his poetry and prose. The former concerns, 
of course, only his latest book, "The Dark Flower," and the 
writer takes the point of view that " out of epic material . . . 
an expert craftsman has evolved a loose, disunified, but sporad- 
ically charming result." D. O. 



1914 presents " The Tempest.'" 

Applications for Senior Dramatics for June 11 and 12, 1914, should be sent 
to the General Secretary at 184 Elm Street, Northampton. Alumnae are 
urged to apply for the Thursday evening performance if possible, as Satur- 
day evening is not open to alumnae, and there will probably not be more than 
one hundred tickets for Friday evening. Each alumna may apply for not 
more than one ticket for Friday evening ; extra tickets may be requested for 
Thursday. No deposit is required to secure the tickets, which may be 
claimed on arrival in Northampton from the business manager in Seelye 
Hall. In May all those who have applied for tickets will receive a request 
to confirm the applications. Tickets will then be assigned only to those who 
respond to this request. The prices of the seats will range on Thursday 
evening from $1.50 to §.75 and on Friday from $2.00 to $.75. The desired 
price of seats should be indicated in the application. A fee of ten cents is 
charged to all non-members of the Alumnae Association for the filing of the 
application and should be sent to the General Secretary at the time of appli- 


Contributions to this department are desired before the end of the month, 
in order to appear in the next month's issue, and should be addressed to 
Eloise Schmidt, Gillett House. Northampton, Massachusetts. 

■'08. Rose Dudley is Professor of Physics and Geology at the Illinois Woman's 
College, Jacksonville, Illinois. 

Besse Mitchell is teaching in the High School at New Milford, Con- 

Margaret C. Rice is assisting Miss Amy Sacker in her School of Design. 
739 Boylston Street, Boston. 

Elizabeth Seeber is teaching German in the Newton High School, New 
York City. Address : 62 Montague Street, Brookljm. New York. 

Florence Thomas has announced her engagement to John Harvey Dingle. 

Charlotte Wiggin is a Montessori teacher in Litchfield, Connecticut. 



eaJ-'08. Bertha Shepard is Printing Agent for the Women's Educational and 
Industrial Union of Boston. Address : 8 Ash Street, Danvers, Massa- 

'11. Alice Brown. Address : 2271 Parkwood Avenue, Toledo, Ohio. 

Jane Donnegan is teaching in Scranton, Pennsylvania. 

Harriet Ellis is teaching in Somerville, Massachusetts. 

Josephine Fowler is teaching in the Hitchcock Free Academy, Brimfield,. 

Helen French is at home, studying Domestic Science. 

Mollie Hanson is teaching English in the High School at Dedham, Massa 
chusetts, and is Alumnae Editor of the Sigma kappa Triangle National 

Clara Heyman is doing volunteer social service work in Detroit, Michigan. 

Anna Isabel Hunt is Extension and Membership Secretary in the Young- 
Women's Christian Association at Jackson, Michigan. 

Marjorie Kilpatrick is doing settlement work at the Neighborhood Settle- 
ment House at Bound Brook, New Jersey. 

Lila King is Preceptress in the High School at Knoxboro, New York. 

Else Kohlberg has announced her engagement to Dr. Branch Craige of" 
El Paso, Texas, The marriage will take place in January. 

Merle Shidler has returned from a two months' visit in California. 

Harriet Smith. Address: 1316 Monroe Street, Northwest, Washington. 
District of Columbia. 

Rebecca Smith. Address : 4920 Greenwood Avenue, Chicago, Illinois. 

Margaret Townsend is taking a course in Shorthand and Typewriting. 

Freda Gertrude von Sothen is teaching Mathematics in the High School' 
at Pleasantville, New ^ork. 

Louise Wallace is teaching in Bluefield, West Virginia. 

'12. Mrs. A. O. Andersson (Ruth H. Harper). Address : 3734 McKinney 
Avenue, Dallas, Texas. 

Katharine Bradbury is taking a graduate course in Household Economics- 
at Simmons. 

Prances Carpenter is doing secretarial work for her father. 

Isabelle Cook is chairman of the Department of Public Safety of the- 
Civic Club of Portland, Maine. 

Harriet Codding has announced her engagement to Wellwood Hugh 

Margaret Doyle is teaching in the English Department of the Technical 
High School of Fall River, Massachusetts. 


■'12. Helen Forbes is doing club work among department- store girls in 
St. Louis. 

Elsie Fredriksen is reporting for the Utica Press. 

Ruth Lawrence is student secretary for King's Chapel in Boston. 

Gwendolen Lowe is teaching at Miss Finch's School in New York. 

Mary Nickerson is doing social service work in the Orthopedic Outpatient 

Department of the Massachusetts General Hospital. 

Louise Pickell is studying at the Sargent School of Gymnastics in Cam- 
bridge. Massachusetts. 

Arline Rorke is teaching in the High School Department at the George 
Junior Republic, Freeville, New York. 

Matilda Vanderbeek is tutoring two little girls on a cattle ranch, sixty 
miles from Silver City, Mexico. 

Margaret Wood is teaching in the Eleanor Miller School of Expression, 
in Pasadena, California. 

Correction : Ruth Lewin has announced her engagement to Graham 
Foster of New York City. 

Ruth Paine has announced her engagement to John Henry Blodgett. 

'13. Margaret Adler is studying at Columbia University and doing practi- 
cal work in a club for the study of social work. 

Phebe Arbuckle has a fellowship for training in social work at the Col- 
lege Settlement in Philadelphia. Address : 502 South Front Street, 
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 

Avis Canfield is taking a secretarial course at Simmons. Address : Stuart 
Club, 102 Fenway, Boston, Massachusetts. 

Katherine Carr is student worker in the Women's Educational and Indus- 
trial Union of Boston. She is also taking a course in Stenography at 

Florence Dale is studying Domestic Science and Music at the University 
of Minnesota. Address: Kappa Kappa Gama House, Minneapolis, 

Hazel Deyo is correspondent for the New York Journal. 

Elizabeth MacFarland and Lucia Smith are teaching in a Sugar Planta- 
tion Camp School on the Island of Main, Hawaiian Islands. Address : 
Camp 1, Puunene, Main, Territory of Hawaii. 

Mary Worthen is at home in Hanover, New Hampshire. 

Gladys Wyman is taking special courses at Bryant and Stratton's Com- 
mercial School in Boston. 



'04. Anne Gregory to James Watts Young, November 5, 1913. Address : 
99 Claremont Avenue, New York. 

'08. Mabel Boardman to Robert Weyburn Laylin. Address : 2096 Summit 
Street, Columbus, Ohio. 

Elizabeth Evelyn Enright to Julian Ira Lindsay. Address : 446 South 
Union Street, Burlington, Vermont. 

Katherine Clara Kerr to Herbert Alexander Crowder, June 24, 1913. 

'10. Alice May Otman to Gilbert R. Baumback, October 15, 1913. Address : 

114 High Street, Peoria, Illinois. 
'11. Helen Ames to Earl Morton Fischer, September 10, 1913. 
'12. Gladys Gherryman to Howard Tilghman, October 29, 1913. 

Gladys Crowley to Dr. Fergus Almy Butler, November 3, 1913. 

Gertrude Lake to Clinton Merrick, November 27, 1913. 


'99. Mrs. Roland Rogers Cutler (Mary E. Goodnow), a son, Edward Roland, 
born September 6, 1913. 

'02. Mrs. Charles S. Fallows (Eda Bruna), a daughter, Elizabeth Bruna,^ 
born October 31, 1913. 

'05. Mrs. Paul L. Kirby (Inez Barclay) , a son, Paul Franklin, born August 
10, 1913. 

'07. Mrs. G. Houston Burr (Muriel Robinson), a daughter, Muriel, born 
September 27, 1913. 

'08. Mrs. John Benjamin Porteous (Edith Frances Libby), a daughter, Fran- 
ces Swasey, born June 25, 1913. 

Mrs. Henry Wood Shelton (Dorothy Camp), a son, John Sewall, born 
September 2, 1913. 

Mrs. Neil Dow Stanley (A. Florence Keene), a son, Herbert Neil, born 
July 23, 1913. 

Mrs. Silas Snow (Frances Ward Clary), a son, Davis Watson. 

ea?-'08. Mrs. Clarence Arthur Mayo (Marjorie Chase Robinson), a son, Clar- 
ence Arthur, born September 2, 1913. 

'10, Mrs. John M. Ely (Jessie Laurel Sullivan), a daughter, Laurel Eliza- 
beth, born June 12, 1913. 

Mrs. E. K. Swift (Katherine "Whitin), a daughter, Elizabeth Robinson, 
born June 8, 1913. 

Mrs. C. Warren (Margaret Cushman), a son, John Cushman, born 
August 13, 1913. 


Mrs. C. N. Waldron (Dorothy Waterman), a son, William Augustus, 
born August 1, 1913. 

'11. Mrs. William J. Best (Flora Ray), a daughter, Mary Best, born Septem- 
ber 22, 1913. 

Mrs. Alfred L. Clifton (Gladys Burgess), a daughter, Margaret Lee, born 
October 21, 1913. 

Mrs. Maurice Bower Saul (Adele Scott), a son, Maurice Bower, born June 
17, 1913. 

Mrs. Quincy W. Wales (Isabel Guilbert), a son, Guilbert Quincy, born 
November 18, 1913. 

Mrs. Richard Chute Potter (Bertha Bod well), a son, Richard Chute, born 
November 21, 1913. 

ex-'W. Mrs. Arthur Curtis Judd (Edith Henley), twins, Estelle and Robert, 
born in October, 1913. 

ea;-'12. Mrs. Jamison Handy (Ethel Tremaine), a daughter, Chaille, born 
June 27, 1913. 

Mrs. W. Pearce Raynor (Nelle Tyler), a daughter, Helen Edwards, born 
May 19, 1913. 

Mrs. Raymond Varney (Mary Adams), a son. Burton Adams, born June 
16, 1913. 


December 17. Oratorio, "The Messiah." 

" 20. Group Dance. 

** 23-January 2. Christmas Vacation. 

'' 10. Group Dance. 

Tyler House Reception. 

" 14. Fourth Concert in the Smith Coilege^Concert 

Course. Fritz Kreisler. 


Smitb Colleae 

3anuarp^ 1914 
®wneb mb pixbllebcb b^ tbe Senior Class 


Shakspere's Substitutes fob Scenery 

The Border Line 

In the White Birch Wood 

The Criminal . 

Closed Gentian 


Dorothy Ochtman 19 U 193 

Eloise Schmidt 1914 207 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 210 

Katharine D. Kendig 1916 211 

Hyla Siowell Waiters 1915 215 

Ruth Cobb 19U 216 


A Matrimonial Bureau 

The Harp . 

The Necessity for Courage 

Under the Sea 

The Cold, Grey Dawn 

Playin' 'Possum . 

The First Storm . - 


The Song of ihe Waitress 

A Portrait 


Frances Milliken Hooper 1914 218 

Jeanne Woods 1914 223 

. Ellen Bodley Jones 1916 223 

Marion Delamater Freeman 1914 227 

. Margaret Louise Farrand IDI4 227 

Blanche Rothschild Lindauer 1915 228 

Helen Virginia Frey 1915 230 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 230 

Mira Bigeloio Wilson 1914 231 

Anna Elizabeth Spicer 1914 233 

Eleanor Louise Halpin 1914 233 


Behind the World . . . Marion Freeman 1914 234 

An Eye for an Eye . . . Barbara Cheney 1915 234 

Pathetic Fallacies and Matters of Course 

Hannah White 1914 236 

An Enlightenment 
Concerning the Art of Building 
In Line .... 
The Wail of the Tailored Maid 

. Annie Minot 1915 237 

Eff^e Oppenheimer 1914 238 

Elka Saul Lewi 1915 239 

Mary L, Wellington 1916 241 


. 242 



. 247 



. 249 



. 252 


• « . 

. 256 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Massachusetts, as second class matter 
Gazette Printing Company, Northampton, Mass. 


Smith College Monthly 

Vol. XXI JANUARY, 1914 No. 4 


Lois Cleveland Gould 
Leonora Branch Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Margaret Louise Farrand Marion Delamater Freeman 
Rosamond Drexel Holmes Frances Milliken Hooper 

Margaret Bloom Dorothy Lilian Spencer 

Ruth Cobb Dorothy Ochtman 

Eloise Schmidt 

business manager and treasurer 
Ruth Hellekson 

assistant business managers 
Esther Loyola Harney 
Bertha Viola Conn 



At the present time we are so accustomed to the use of scenery 
in our theatres that a play almost wholly devoid of any accom- 
panying scenery is practically unheard of. Probably the sole 
examples of this on the modern stage are the plays given by the 
Ben Greet Players, and the majority of people prefer a play of 
Shakspere^s that is staged with, beautiful scenery to one that 
is presented with little scenery in ,the Elizabethan manner. 
We enjoy the gorgeous scenic effects ; mere physical beauty 
appeals to us for its own sake, and we need make no intellectual 
effort, but simply enjoy what we see and hear. 

* Editor's Note. This essay received the prize for 1913 offered by Mr. H. H. Fumess 
to the juniors of Smith College for the best essay on the specified Shaksperean subject. 


The attitude of people, however, toward plays and stage- 
settings was different in Shakspere's day. Critics tell us that 
practically nothing that we would term scenery was used at 
the time^ and probably had never been used on the English 
stage. For indoor scenes some furniture was used, but there 
was very little in the way of painted scenery such as we have 
on the stage to-day, and the audience was apparently satisfied 
with this, for plays were well attended. To one for the first 
time introduced to this subject, it seems hardly probable that 
an Elizabethan audience that had never known sceuery should 
need a substitute for it, so why should we look for anything of 
the sort in Shakspere's plays ? It is, however, possible that 
people did not feel the lack of scenery for the very reason that 
its place was filled by some means within the matter of the 
plays themselves. Before the truth of this may be determined, 
it is necessary to consider in what the various functions of 
scenery consist. 

The most obvious use of scenery is that of making plays seem 
more real. A king and his court seem natural and life-like 
when surrounded by the splendor of a palace, and robbers in 
the woods are more like real brigands when seen in their accus- 
tomed haunts. There is no doubt but that good scenery adds 
greatly to a play by making it more actual and real in the 
minds of those in the audience. Poor scenery, on the other 
hand, takes away from the effect of the play, because discrepan- 
cies of any sort distract the attention of the audience. If scenic 
effects had been attempted in the theatres of London at the 
time of Shakspere, it is highly probable that the result would 
not have been particularly good. A play of Shakspere's pre- 
sented in the Globe Theatre with such scenery as could be com- 
manded at the time would have been very like that given by 
Bottom and his fellows before Theseus in ^'A Midsummer-Night's 
Dream," though it could hardly have been so enjoyably ludi- 
crous. One would hardly care to see the rest of "A Midsum- 
mer-Night's Dream " presented in this way. But with beautiful 
scenery, such as we are able to have now, plays are apparently 
more real to us than they are with none at all. 

Good scenery, also, appeals to the sense of beauty possessed 
by those in the audience, so that the play as a whole is much 
more impressive than it would be without scenery. Theatrical 
managers take advantage of this fact in producing plays and 


one will generally find the most beautiful scenery where it will 
either strengthen some weak portion of a play or make a climax 
more powerful by appealing to the sesthetic consciousness of 
those in the audience. This, and the fact that scenery makes a 
play seem real, are the most important functions of scenery, 
and they are botb large factors in the success of a play. 

Taking into consideration these advantages of having scenery, 
one readily sees that a play given without it, as in the time of 
Shakspere, must necessarily lose a great deal of its charm and 
perhaps even of its power, if there were nothing to take the 
place of scenery. And that there are in Shakspere's plays cer- 
tain definite means by which the functions of scenery are per- 
formed, is evident even to a reader of Shakspere who cannot 
profess to be a critic. These things that, in conjunction with 
the imagination of the audience, form substitutes for scenery, 
were possibly never brought into the plays by Shakspere for 
this purpose. Whether he did so or not is indeed a fact of ver}^ 
little importance here. These substitutes for scenery are of two 
varieties, those that aid people to imagine the scenery of the 
plays, and those that take the place of scenery by their appeal 
to the sesthetic sense of the audience. Of course the audience 
that we are to consider here must be as far as possible an Eliza- 
bethan one, and not a typical audience of to-day. 

The means by which people are helped to imagine the scenery 
are various. The one occurring most universally in Shakspere's 
plays is the picture quality of the words and speeches. Elegant 
and stately language, long, flowery speeches, gracious compli- 
ments, and epithets sucli as "Your Majesty" and "My Lord,'^ 
all indicate scenery such as a king's court would have, and 
influence each person in the audience to picture the scene for 
himself with practically no conscious effort. In the same way, 
scenes of battlefield, of the army in camp, in taverns, or in the 
streets of Rome, all tend to imply their accompanying scenery 
by the very words and speeches characteristic of the place. 
This means by which scenery is supplied is to be found through- 
out all of Shakspere's plays, early plays as well as late, so that 
it would necessitate needless repetition to take this up in each 

It is principally in the historical plays and in "Cymbeline," 
"King Lear," "Hamlet," "The Winter's Tale," "Macbeth*' 
and "Antony and Cleopatra" that substitutes for court scenery 


are required. "King Henry YIII^^ opens with a scene in an 
ante-chamber in the palace. The audience is of course informed 
by means of placards or something of the sort that the scene 
takes place there, but there is no actual scenery to make it 
appear real. The speeches of the Duke of Norfolk and Buck- 
ingham, however, with their easy grace and sometimes elabo- 
rate use of metaphor, serve at once to put the audience in 
sympathy with the scene and aid them to imagine the richness 
of the palace for a background. The effect is heightened by 
the use of titles when near the end of the scene Buckinghana is 
arrested with these words : 

"My Lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl 
Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I 
Arrest thee of high treason, in the name 
Of our most sovereign king." 

The greater part of the scenery throughout the play is of the 
same character, and substitutes take its place in a like manner. 
'^King Richard II'' opens in much the same way that "King 
Henry VII " does ; the audience is immediately given the setting 
of the play. In this play the speeches of the characters are 
often extremely long — so long that they would never be toler- 
ated upon the stage to-day, except perhaps in Germany. But 
in Shakspere's time, these long and often intricate speeches 
with their abundant use of metaphor and picturesque words 
served to take the place of the gorgeous scenery that accompa- 
nies plays that are presented now. In "King Richard III" 
most of the speeches are shorter than in "King Richard II," 
but they form substitutes for scenery in no less measure. In 
this play the frequent repetition of significant words or phrases 
strengthens the speeches and makes them forceful as well as 
elaborate, as befits the language of the court. In both parts of 
"King Henry IV," the scenes in the palace and in the houses 
of nobles are much more effective by reason of contrast with 
scenes in the street and tavern. The audience is refreshed by 
the change from scenes of one type to those of another so dis- 
tinctly different, and because of increased interest in the play, 
is more ready to imagine the scenery. In "Hamlet," " Cym- 
beline," " The Winter's Tale," and the historical plays "King 
Henry V" and " King Henry IV," the scenery of the palace or 
court is supplied in much the same way as in these other plays. 
In "Macbeth" and "King Lear" the action is rapid and there 


is less to take the place of scenery in the court scenes. Where 
the characters are so strong as to dominate a scene and hold the 
attention of the audience completely, the scene seems real and 
there is less need for scenerj^ than if this were otherwise. 
''Antony and Cleopatra" contains few substitutes for Cleo- 
patra's palace. Reference to the Nile and Egypt frequently 
remind the audience that the scene is laid in such a place, but 
these references are too few to create a definite picture in the 
minds of those in the audience, especially an audience that has 
never seen Egypt and in all probability heard little of it. 

Very similar to the way in which court scenery is represented 
is that belonging to the houses of noblemen and wealthy people. 
The greater part of the scenes in " Twelfth Night '^ takes place 
in the house of Olivia and in that of the Duke of Illj^ria. The 
speeches in these scenes are much simpler than those in the court 
scenes of the historical i>lays, so that they imply less in the way 
of elaborate scenery. There are, however, the unmistakable 
traces of the nobility of the personages, to be found in their 
courtly manner of speaking and the deference of their retinue 
to " My Lord '' or " My Lady.'' This lends the background for 
the action and takes the place of scenery to some extent. The 
scenes in Olivia's house in which Sir Toby and Sir Andrew first 
appear, would seem to require the scenery of an inn or tavern 
rather than that of a house. But the audience is reminded that 
these do belong in Olivia's house from the frequent reference to 
her, and later on in the play Olivia appears in the same scenes 
that Sir Toby and Sir Andrew do. In "The Taming of the 
Shrew," the scenery for the houses of Baptista and Petruchio 
is suggested by the wealth and prosperity evident from the 
speeches and general character of the scenes. This is the case 
also in " The Merchant of Venice." Here the audience is led to 
expect that Portia's house is sumptuously furnished from Bas- 
sanio's description of her in a scene prior to the first that is laid 
in her house. Very like this in "The Taming of the Shrew " is 
the way in which Baptista's wealth and position are given in 
the scenes preceeding that which takes place in his house, so 
that tlie audience may imagine a house suitable even before the 
scene itself is presented. The scenery belonging to houses of 
Dukes and Lords of wealth and renown is represented in a like 
manner in many of the })lays. 

There are few plays in which the life of the middle class is 


set forth. Probably the people of these classes, who, we are 
told, made up the greater part of the audience typical of the 
theatres of Shakspere's time, preferred, on the whole, plays of 
some other variety. At any rate, it was the fashion among 
plaj^wrights to portray the life of the nobility rather than that 
of the common people. Shakspere's " Merry Wives of Wind- 
sor" is the only one of his plays that deals entirely with middle- 
class life. The substitutes for scenery for the houses are, how- 
ever, of the same nature as those in "Romeo and Juliet" or 
"Othello." From the speeches of the characters and the lan- 
guage they use, the audience recognizes the type of people and 
imagines their surroundings. The audience probably does this 
the more readily because scenes of this kind would be most 
familiar to an Elizabethan audience. Closely allied to the 
scenery of "Merry Wives of Windsor" is that of the tavern 
scene in the first part of " King Henry IV." Falstaff and Poins 
appear first with Prince Henry in a room in a palace and there 
is here almost nothing to take the place of scenery. From the 
speeches of Falstaff and Poins one would scarcely expect the 
scene to be laid in a palace, while on the other hand the atmos- 
phere of the tavern is also lacking. An audience would not be 
likely to know from the scene itself where it was supposed to 
take place. And this is of very little importance ; the main 
interest of the scene is in the characters and in what they say 
and plan to do. In Act II scene 1, however, which represents 
an inn-yard, and in the scenes which take place in the Boar's 
Head Tavern, substitutes for scenery are to be found in the 
speeches, whose wordings and subject matter are both charac- 
teristic of the place and powerful in producing the imagery 
which causes the audience to imagine scenery. 

We must now turn to scenes which may be somewhat un- 
pleasant, but fortunately there are few of them. These are 
prison scenes which are to be found in "'Measure for Measure," 
"The Two Noble Kinsmen" and "Cymbeline." Very little 
scenery is needed for a prison ; perhaps the less there is the 
better, and there is little here to indicate scenerj^. The general 
attitude of the prisoners or their desire to be free, occupies the 
undivided attention of the audience. This is true also with 
scenes laid in the Tower of London, though that is no ordi- 
nary prison. People of London are, almost without exception, 
familiar with the Tov\'er and know of the mysteries and horrors 


connected with it. The scenes in the Tower in "King Richard 
in" need no scenery to make them more real. There are con- 
tinual references to the Tower through the whole play, and its 
gloom penetrates scenes that do not take place there. In those 
that do, the sympathy of the audience is excited for the unfor- 
tunate ones imprisoned there to a degree that could not be 
greatly heightened by the effect of scenery. The scenes are 
real as they are, for their very bareness is characteristic of the 

Other places where scenery is required are the cells of friars, 
monasteries and nunneries such as are to be found in " Measure 
for Measure " and in "Romeo and Juliet.'^ Speeches that are 
easily recognized as typically those of friars or nuns help to 
carry out the idea of austerity and simplicity that is usually 
connected with them and the places in which they live. Very 
different is the scene at the church at the supposed burial of 
Hero in "Much Ado About Nothing," which is made realistic 
without the aid of scenery, by means of tapers carried by attend- 
ants, and the solemn hymn and music. The earlier scene in 
the same play where Hero and Claudio are to be married, is so 
full of incident that there is no need for scenery to make it seem 
real and there is, for this reason, nothing to take its place. 

We have now taken up the most significant types of scenes 
that take place indoors. When we proceed to the scenery neces- 
sary to the outdoor world, that of forests, villages and the lake, 
a new substitute is to be found. This consists in the description 
of the scenery or frequent allusions to it by the characters. It 
is often used in conjunction with the other substitutes that we 
have discussed, so that an idea of the scenery is given the audi- 
ence through the character of the speeches, and the picture 
completed by definite allusions to certain details. The whole 
serves to heighten the reality of the scene. These two varieties 
of substitutes are often, however, used independently. The 
second, or the description of the scenery by the characters, is 
practically never used in indoor scenes, the one important 
exception to this being the description of Imogen's room by 
lachimo in "Cymbeline." There is much more need for it in 
scenes that occur out-of-doors, since people appearing there are 
often not in their accustomed surroundings. 

The second rather than the first sub^-titute is generally to be 
found in scenes of parks or gardens belonging to the houses of 


nobles. In many of these scenes, however, there is nothing to 
take the place of scenery. This is the case throughout the 
greater part of '^Love's Labour's Lost" which takes place 
almost entirely in the park of the King of Navarre ; the play is 
so full of humor and vivacity that the audience, in attending to 
that, has little regard for scenery. And indeed it is of no great 
importance here, for the play seems real without it. There is 
likewise nothing to take the place of scenery in the first scene 
of *^ Cymbeline" which is laid in the garden behind Cymbeline's 
palace, but which might just as well be in the palace itself so 
far as any indications of scenery are concerned. On the con- 
trary, in ''King Richard II," Act III, scene 4, the scene in the 
Duke of York's garden is graphically represented and could 
take place nowhere else. The speeches of the gardener, filled 
with words and phrases characteristic of the place, help the 
audience to imagine a well-cared-for garden and reference to 
"these trees" and " yon dangling apricots " make the picture 
fairly well-defined. No such detailed picture is likely to be 
imagined of Capulet's garden in "Romeo and Juliet," Act II, 
scene 2 ; here the only direct references to the surroundings are 
those to the night and to the moon "that tips with silver all 
these fruit-tree tops." In the same play, the next scene in the 
gardeii (Act II, scene 5) has nothing in the way of substitutes 
for scenery. This is simply another case where the audience is 
so deeply interested in the play that there is no need for scenery. 
The scene in Windsor Park, in " Merry Wives of Windsor," is 
one in which no very elaborate scenery is needed ; the general 
background of the trees of the park lighted up by the tapers of 
the "fairies" may easily be imagined and the words of the 
speeches in connection with the " fairies" make the effect more 
picturesque. The orchard scene in " Much Ado About Noth- 
ing," Act III, scene 1, is made realistic by Hero's descrip- 
tion of the 

' ' Bower 

Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, 

Forbid the sun to enter . . ." 

and the reference to the '' woodbine coverture." But two other 
scenes of the same orchard (Act II, scene 3, and Act V. scene 2)> 
one coming before and one after this one, have no substitutes 
for scenery and there seems to be no reason for this since the 
three scenes are similar. The last of the three, however, is not 
a scene that is localized or peculiar to any one place. 


In scenes that are laid in the country, the scenery is supplied 
by means of the characters and their speeches rather than any 
description of scenery. Such is the case in ^' Timon of Athens/ 
in the scenes of Timon's cave near the seashore and the woods 
near by. Here the picturesque element is supplied by the 
stormy character of Timon and his bitter speeches and the deso- 
lation and barrenness of the place made very evident. The 
scenery proper to the mountainous country near Milford even 
in "Cymbeline^^ is not so clearly represented; the audience is 
interested in what is taking place and the rapid action precludes 
the need of scenery to some extent. What scenery there is 
must arise from the speeches that refer to nature, the mountains 
and the cave, and the fact that the inhabitants of the cave are 
outlaws. A much wilder scene is depicted in " The Tempest" ; 
the audience feels that the island is very wild and rugged, and 
Prosperous magic, the fairy Ariel and the monster Caliban 
combine to make the whole more strange and unearthly. Ex- 
cept for the storm scenes, there are few parts in which the 
scenery is actually described, and for this very reason the effect 
is more mysterious. The opening scenes of the play with their 
graphic representation of storm and shipwreck, prepare the 
audience for the wonders that are to follow. The play is one 
that stimulates the powers of the imagination so that the char- 
acter of the speeches more readily forms a substitute for scenery. 
This is the case also with the scenes in ^' Macbeth" in which the 
witches appear ; their weird speeches impress the audience with 
the bareness and desolation of the heath. In the scenes on the 
heath in ''King Lear" the scenery is applied in a similar 
manner. The storm is made very vivid indeed by Lear's half- 
crazed utterances that defy it, bidding the winds to blow and 
crack their cheeks, and the lightning to singe his white head. 
And then he says : 

"Nor rain, wind, thunder. jBre. are mj- daughters : 
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ; 
I never gave you kingdom, called you children, 
You owe me no subscription ; then let fall 
Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave, 
A poor, infirm, weak and despised old man." 

The pity of it and the feebleness of the old man make the storm 
seem more terrible than before, perhaps with one of those 
ominous lulls in a storm that are forebodiiii^: of worse to follow. 


Later on in the same play, in Act IV, scene 4, Edgar makes his 
father believe that thej are climbing the hill at Dover that he 
may leap down from the cliff, when they are really upon a level 
field ; this gives the audience an idea of what the scenery actu- 
ally should be. 

The scenery surrounding happy rural life is a contrast to this 
that we have just discussed, but the substitutes for it are the 
same. Scenes of this type are to be found in "The Winter^'s 
Tale" and "As You Like It." The feast of sheep-shearing and 
other rustic scenes in the "Winter's Tale" need little scenery, 
and the place of this is taken by speeches characteristic of 
country people. In "As You Like It" this is the case with 
scenes of the same variety, where the scenery is described in 
only a few places. 

The greater part of "As You Like It" takes place in the 
forest of Arden, and the scenery belonging to the forest arises 
from frequent references to it on the part of those living there. 
They are not the inhabitants usually associated with a forest, 
such as fairies, robbers, or country people, and their speech 
smacks of the court rather than of the woods. But allusions to 
the surroundings such as are to be found in Act II, scene 7 : 

". . . in this desert inaccessible 
Under the shade of melancholy boughs," 

and in Act III, scene 2 : 

" O, Rosalind ! these trees shall be my books, 
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character," 

help the "audience to imagine the scenery. This substitute for 
scenery is the one most widely to be found in the forest scenes. 
It is used to a less extent in " The Two Noble Kinsmen" and in 
" Titus Andronicus," where the action of the play is rapid, and 
in the forest scenes in the second part of "King Henry IV. ^* 
In "The Two Gentlemen of Verona" there are few references 
to the scenery in Act IV, scene 1, and Act V, scene 3. Outlaws 
are known to frequent woods and solitary places ; their speeches 
are peculiar to themselves and to the forest and from these the 
audience may imagine the scene. In the first part of Act V, 
scene 4, however, Valentine, who has not been with the outlaws 
long enough to acquire their speech, talks of "this shadowy 
desert, unfrequented woods." In the third part of "King 
Henr}^ VI," Act III, scene 1, takes place in a forest and at the 


Deginiiiiig of the scene the two keepers speak of shrouding 
themselves ''under this thick-grown brake" to wait for the 
coming of the deer. This gives the audience the setting for 
what is to follow, where the interest in the action is great and 
there is little to indicate the scenery. In "A Midsummer- 
Night's Dream " the wood near Athens is made real to the audi- 
ence b}^ means of references to it by the lovers who are wander- 
ing there, and also by the presence of the fairies and their airy 
speeches and songs which belong to no place so much as a forest. 
In Act III, scene 2, the fact that it is night is made plain by 
various allusions, such as Helena's speech, 

" O weary night. O long and tedious night, 
Abate thy hours ; shine, comforts from the east." 

This idea of the passage of time, of the change from night to 
day, is nowhere so well carried out as in " Romeo and Juliet.'^ 
In Act II, scene 2, Romeo speaks several times of night and the 
moon. At the beginning of the next scene the time of day and 
the scenery peculiar to it are given at once when Friar Law- 
rence says : 

" The grey-eyed moon smiles on the frowning night, 
Conqii'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light, 
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels 
From forth day's path. . . ." 

In Act II, scene 4, there are allusions that make it obvious that 
it is morning, and in scene 5 Juliet tells of waiting three long 
hours, from nine to twelve, so that here one feels the atmosphere 
of noon. This may not be strictly accorded scenery but the 
notion of the passage of time cannot easily be represented on 
the stage without scenery except in this way, so that it is in 
reality part of the stage setting. The idea of night is repre- 
sented in much the same way in "King Lear" and in the 
" Merchant of Venice,'' Act V, scene 1. 

There are in several plays scenes that take place at the sea- 
shore or on shipboard. One of these is to be found in "Peri- 
cles.-' Critics tell us that this play is not wholly Shakspere's, 
bnt there is reason to believe that he wrote Act III, scene 1, 
where the scene is a ship in a storm. Here the storm is de- 
scribed by Pericles, and the speeches of the sailors, which pecu- 
liarly belong to the sea, help the audience to imagine the 
scenery. In the first scene of " The Tempest,'' too, the speeches 
of the mariners, the ship-master and the boatswain form substi- 


tutes for scenery. A scene in "Antony and Cleopatra" that 
takes place on a ship is of a very different character and the 
scenery is, indicated only by occasional words that remind the 
audience that the scene belongs on a ship near Egypt. These 
reminders cannot be said to form substitutes for scenery to any 
great extent. There are few scenes which require the scenery 
of the seacoast and these are really unimportant. Two of them 
occur in " Twelfth Mght," Act I, scene 2, and Act II, scene 1, 
and in these it is the conversation of the characters that in some^ 
measure takes the place of scenery. In the second part of 
"King Henry VI/' howevei, the scenery is not described, in 
Act II, scene 1, nor do the characters present belong particu- 
larlj to a place of that sort. The audience is interested in what 
is going on and no scenery is needed to make it seem real ; the 
scene might almost be laid in some other place, except that it 
occurs after a fight at sea which is not introduced into the play. 

The many scenes of battle which are presented on the stage 
are all of them on land. These scenes are to be found chiefly in 
the historical plays and in those which deal with Rome, and the 
action is in general so rapid that not much scenery is required. 
The scenes are made realistic by means of speeches charaflbter- 
istic of the battlefield. Men engaged in battle can hardly be 
expected to describe the scenery and this is not often the case. 
There is more room for the description of scenery in scenes of 
the army in camp and we might reasonably expect to find thi& 
substitute in connection with such scenes but, as a matter of 
fact, it is seldom present. In "Julius Csesar " the camp is indi- 
cated only by such characteristic words as the challenge "Stand 
ho !" and the talk about the army ; the same is true in "Corio- 
lanus" and in " Troilus and Cressida." 

There now remains one variety of scene which is important, 
since it occurs in nearly all of the plays with, in most cases, 
nothing to take the place of scenery ; this consists in street 
scenes. These are mainly scenes that are not localized, belong- 
ing to no particular place necessarily, and they are of use in the 
plays chiefly as a means of informing the audience of certain 
facts or of completing the plot. A good example of this use is 
to be found, in " King Henry VIII." In Act II, scene 1, and in 
Act IV, scene 1, two gentlemen meet each other in a street in 
Westminster and tell each other the news, and from this the 
audience knows what has happened. There is no substitute for 


scenery here as the scenery is not essential. Scenes of a similar 
character are to be found in most of Sbakspere's plays. There 
are, however, some street scenes in which scenery is of use in 
making the scene seem real and where substitutes for it are to 
be found. Such occur in "Julius Caesar'' and in " Coriolanus," 
where the language used combined with frequent references to 
Rome or to the Capitol suggest scenery that is appropriate. In 
scenes of a highway at night, as in the first part of "King 
Henry IV," Act II, scene 2, the scenery is indicated by refer- 
ences on the part of Prince Henry, Falstaff, and his compan- 
ions. This is also the case in the second part of " King Henry 
YI" in Act II, scene 4. Here the punishment of the Duchess 
of Gloster takes place in a street and the audience is kept in 
mind of the fact by such words as 

" Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, 
To tread them with her tender-feeling feet," 

and the Duchess' speech : 

"Methinks I should not thus be led along, 

And followed with a rabble that rejoice 
To see my tears. . . ." 

Most of the street scenes in Shakspere's plays are not of this 
variety, and, belonging to no particular locality, require neither 
scenery nor any substitute for it. 

We have now taken up the most significant varieties of scenes 
to be found in the plays and it becomes evident that the func- 
tion of scenery that tends to increase the reality of a play is 
performed by the effect upon the audience of the character of 
the speeches and of actual description of scenery. Where the 
scenery of a play is left almost wholly to the imagination of 
each one in the audience it will surely be such as to suit every- 
one and there can be no dissatisfaction caused by inadequate 

There is still to be considered the other function of scenery, 
that of appealing to the sense of beauty possessed by those in 
the audience. The substitute for this is to be found in the 
poetry of the plays, if the word poetry be used in a wide sense 
as the expression of imaginative feeling. Most of us at the 
present day would not be likely fully to appreciate " King Lear" 
and "The Tempest," which are among the most poetical of 


Shakspere's works, if they were presented without scenery. 
Bat in the time of Shakspere, when people were accustomed to 
very little scenery on the stage, poetry itself filled the place of 
scenery to a great extent. Beautiful and effective scenery 
appeals to the sense of beauty inherent in each person in the 
audience, and fills out and completes a play, helping to empha- 
size certain parts and subdue others. Poetry accomplishes the 
same end by its appeal to the aesthetic sense of those in the 
audience, and it will be noticed that as a rule those parts of a 
play in which the imaginative power is highest are those that, 
for aesthetic reasons, should be emphasized. Poetry, then, 
performs one of the functions of scenerj^, and so is possibly one 
factor that served to take its place on the stage of Shakspere's 
day. This substitute for scenery is to be found in all of the 
plays, though of course to no great extent in some of the 
inferior ones, so that there is no need of discussing each play 
even if an amateur reader were capable of criticising the poetry 
of Shakspere. 

In general, then, we find that the substitutes for scenery to 
be found in Shakspere's plays are of two varieties, the one com- 
pleting the work of the other. To make a scene look natural 
and real, we have the scenery imagined by the audience from 
the suggestions in the speeches that are peculiar to certain 
places, often made more concrete by descriptions of the scenery 
itself or direct allusions to it. As the substitute for the beauty 
of a scene and its effect upon the audience, we have the poetry. 
It is customary to have scenery now, and an audience of the 
present day usually prefers it for this reason ; one cannot help 
wondering, however, whether an Elizabethan audience did not 
profit more from the plays than we do. In Shakspere's time 
people could not miss the beauty of the language and the poetry 
by looking too often at the scenery, and the use of imagination 
could not be other than a benefit to them. 



Miss Myrtle and Miss Nancy were perhaps the only neighbors 
in old Norcross who had never quarrelled. They had lived side 
by side for fortj^ years and had never had occasion to build a 
fence between their cottages. They were indeed unusual neigh- 
bors, for there was hardly a house in Norcross which was not 
carefully fenced off from the contact of another. 

Many a house had a high board fence at the back, for a back- 
door neighbor is apt to be the most trying ; some neighbors were 
separated by great spiked fences which could not possibly be 
stepped over or crawled through, and others by little stiff 
hedges. The Bourne's big house on the corner went unfenced 
for a long hot summer and then one week a high iron fence ap- 
peared on the edge of its lawn, separating the Bourne estate 
from the little grass plot of the Scragg's yellow house. Then the 
climax in fence-building was reached in Norcross. No sooner 
was the high iron fence erected than a higher, spikier fence re- 
inforced it on the Scragg's lawn. It probably cost Mr. Scragg, 
the little bookkeeper, two or three months of his tiny salary, 
but oh, the glory of reinforcing a Bourne with a finer Scragg' 
erection ! 

And so, gradually, most of the houses of Norcross were fenced 
on one side, two sides or all four sides. Election-day caused the 
high iron enclosures ; Miss Trigger, the village dress-maker, 
caused the little stiff hedges, and family disagreements, parties 
and wills caused the plain wooden fences. 

But while the rest of the village were disagreeing and building- 
enclosures, Miss Nancy and Miss Myrtle lived side by side and 
agreed. Inwardly they felt a little aloof from the rest of the 
neighborhood, for their quarreling and haggling seemed so ridi- 
culous. They smiled happily at each other and agreed that 
they, at least, were not narrow. They cleaned house, trimmed 
their summer hats, canned fruit and ate Sunday dinners to- 
gether the year around. Even their gardens grew together. 
The vegetable garden was in Miss Nancy's yard and the flowers 
in Miss Myrtle's. When Miss Myrtle was younger her lonely 


father had planted and tended a flower garden while Miss 
Nancy's thrifty mother was digging in her vegetable garden. 
Gradually Miss Myrtle's flowers scraggled across the small space 
between the gardens and the two were one. 

One day Miss Myrtle and Miss Nancy were working over the 
vegetables — Miss Nancy, in her blue-checked apron, kneeling 
over the potato vines and Miss Myrtle in her white ruffled break- 
fast jacket tying up the pea vines. 

"You remember cousin Eichard, who went to Calif ornia ? " 
questioned Miss Nancy. 

"Oh 5^es, the one who sent you the poinsettia postal last 
Christmas, Nancy ?" 

" Y9S. Well, he's going to London on business next month 
•end he wrote and asked if he could send Chickering down here 
for a little, while he was away. Chickering is his little son, you 
know. He was always so sudden. Cousin Richard was, that I 
never have time to stop him even if I want to. So Chickering 
will be coming some time this week I guess." 

"Well Nancy, think of us with some young life among us ! 
Just think!" exclaimed Miss Myrtle. "Let's see, how old is 
Chickering ? He was born the year Sara Porter and the Mac- 
Leans fell out, wasn't he ? — that was eight years ago. What 
room will he have, Nancy ? The little brown room ? And 
shan't I bring over something to put in it ?" 

By the end of the week Miss Myrtle could no longer bear to 
have Nancy planning for company, and she not. So after much 
consultation Miss Myrtle decided she too would have a guest. 
Thereupon she invited her great grand-niece, Tessa Marianna, 
to occupy the little gray room at the head of the stairs. The 
two neighbors planned tea-parties, rides, and trips to the woods 
for the children. 

The first week after Chickering and Tessa came, seemed a 
busy whirl for the two quiet housekeepers. Miss Myrtle had to 
cook twice as much for her meals and poor Miss Nancy four 
times as much for her guest. After the children's first ferocious 
appetites were satisfied and they began to feel at home, the 
neighbors found a little time to sit together. They would rock 
gently on Miss Myrtle's piazza and watch through the vines as 
the children romped on the grass. 

Chickering and Tessa played for a week very happily at circus, 
school and farm. But one day Chickering found " a bunch a' 


fellas'' down the street and then, early before breakfast, and 
soon after dinner, Chickering would run off alone. Tessa waited 
patiently on the steps the first morning, sulked and waited in 
the afternoon, and whined about alone in the evening. Miss 
Myrtle planned a little tea-party, the first day, when she saw 
her grand-niece was lonely ; the next day she read to her, but it 
seemed useless. Tessa would get up while Miss Myrtle was 
reading and follow Chickering down the street only to come 
back rebuffed and sobbing. 

'* On Sunday he'll surely play with her," Miss Myrtle thought. 
**They can play tea-party in my flower-garden. Nancy surely 
won't let him play with those rowdy boys on Sunday." 

But Sunday afternoon came and, right before Miss Nancy's 
eyes, Chickering ran away from Tessa down the street to the 
rowdy gang. Monday morning was hot and sultry and Miss 
Myrtle felt that on washday at least Chickering should be kept 
at home to play with Tessa. But again Chickering ran away, 
as Tessa tried to join him. Miss Myrtle left her washing 
resolutely, hung up her apron and crossed the grass-plot be- 
tween the two houses. The front door slammed as Miss Myrtle 

The front door slammed harder as Miss Myrtle left the house. 
As she crossed the vegetable garden she stepped on one of Miss 
Nancy's tomatoes. That afternoon Miss Myrtle left the house 
«arly with Tessa. It was the first time in ten years that Miss 
Myrtle had gone to Sewing Circle without Miss Nancy. 

The next morning Tessa did not bring over the usual bunch 
of flowers nor come for the morning vegetables. Later Tessa 
and her great-aunt left the house with a picnic-basket and they 
did not return until after twilight. 

"They've been gone a long time. I guess Myrtle took Tessa 
out to the cave where we planned to go with the children," 
thought Miss Nancy as she sat alone on her porch. Miss Nancy 
sat alone the rest of the evening listening to Myrtle and Tessa 
talking in the garden and the loud shouts of Chickering's friends 
down the street. But she did not call Chickering home nor join 
Miss Myrtle and Tessa in the garden. 

All that week Chickering left Tessa to play alone and Miss 
Myrtle amused her defiantly. One hot night after a strenuous 
evening with Tessa, Miss Myrtle picked up her yard-stick and 


crossed the lawn. She dropped down on her hands and knees 
by the flower garden and felt along in the grass. 

'^ There must be some marker between our lots," she whispered 
as she felt in the grass inch by inch, " I won't give her an inch 
more than necessary, I'm sure. Maybe it's down by the path." 
She crawled around the big bridal-wreath bush and then for an 
instant Miss Myrtle's heart stopped beating, for there on her 
hands and knees, feeling in the grass was Miss Nancy. The two 
looked at each other. Just then Chickering's voice rang out^ 
" Come on Tess ! Let's do it again. Ain't it fun ! " 

Miss Myrtle and Miss Nancy looked at each other and laughed. 



Fleet song fled away in the Spring 

To the white birch wood. 

I followed her, for I thought her fair, 

And I canght a glimpse of her red-gold hair, 

And I heard her laughter's joyous ring 

In the white birch wood. 

Apple blossoms are like her cheek, 

Deep blue are her eyes. 

And deep down in a woodsy hollow 

I found her again — I was bound to follow— 

She stood there waiting, all maiden, meek. 

Deep blue were her eyes. 

So I drew her close to my heart 

In the white birch wood. 

And then, with an echo of joyous laughter 

She fled — it was useless to follow after — 

And she left me there, with the pain and smart. 

In the white birch wood. 



" Next sto — p, ' Rin rin — / " announced the conductor un- 
intelligibly and banged shut the door, leaving to the few pas- 
sengers still sitting near the back of the car the work of puzzling 
out the meaning of his statement. With a yawn, the Boy 
dropped his Popular Mechanics and picked up the time-table. 

"Springfield next. Only about a half an hour more!" he 
said to the Girl beside him, who, interrupted in her perusal of 
a poem in Scribner's looked up murmuring an absent " that's 
good," and fell to studying the passengers around her. 

There was the Boy, of course, who was her brother. Then 
directly in front of her was a Busy Woman who was eternally 
hunting through her belongings for things she could not seem 
to find, never at rest for one minute and at present engaged in 
a monologue addressed to the small, weary man beside her. 

"Jerry, aren't we almost there now? Hadn't we better get 
the bags together ? Reach down my hat for me now, do, and — 
and — " The weary man's only response was an occasional grunt, 
and finally the girl turned her attention to the man across the 
aisle from her. "Foreigner!" She sniffed and nudged her 
brother. "Doesn't he look like a villian from a melodrama ?" 
she asked. "Look! he hasn't changed his position since he 
first sat down !" The villian, oblivious of his recent classifica- 
tion as such continued to sit " all hunched up in a heap," glaring 
ahead of him under black brows, his large frame almost con- 
cealing the sulky little child beside him near the window, — the 
child who was a small counterpart of the man, from his black 
matted hair to his sitting posture. 

" Ugh !" said the girl and began to examine the dapper one 
in the seat in front of the villian. The dapper one was a small 
man, very neat, very precise, moving, whenever he did, with 
little bird-like gestures. He was rather nervous, it seemed, and 
threw occasional half -frightened glances over his shoulder, tak- 
ing off his gloves, putting them on again, opening and shutting 
the little black bag beside him, yet never for a moment losing 
the appearance of being a very fashion-plate of a man. He 



glanced over toward tlie girl once, and she, as their eyes met, 
buried herself in her magazine again, losing all interest in her 

Meanwhile the train was going more and more slowly till, 
after a few minutes during which it had scarcely progressed at 
all, it stopped completely. When it is all dark outside, and the 
lights within are only dim, flickering ones ; when the noise made 
by the train as it clicks over the rail ceases completely ; when 
the train seems miles away ''from anywhere," the effect of its 
stopping is very disconcerting. After a few prolonged minutes 
of silent waiting, the passengers on this particular train began 
to get uneasy. The busy woman became yet more busy, the 
weary man more weary, and the dapper one tied his gloves up 
into a hard little knot. Only the villian remained as he had 
been, although the girl imagined that he glared somewhat more 
threateningly than before. 

The boy became very restless. '' I'm going to see what's up," 
he announced and went out on the platform. He was back in a 
moment. " I can't see much of anything," he said, " It is pitch 
black, but I think we're on a sort of bridge. I saw a gleam on 
some water below us." 

The busy woman heard him. "How long do you think we'll 
be here ?" she asked. "Jerry, hadn't you better ask a con- 
ductor ?" Jerry merely grunted again in answer, and his weari- 
ness became even more evident, if that were possible. There 
was another period of waiting during which the busy woman 
wandered down the aisle. 

" Hah !" she said suddenly, "little lad, where did you come 
from ?" The girl turned to see who the little lad might be. Be- 
hind her sat a small boy, wrapped in a red mackinaw many 
sizes too large for him. He was occupying as little space as 
possible, huddled up near the window. On being addressed he 
seemed to shrink into his mackinaw further, but the busy 
woman was not to be withstood. 

" Did you get on at New York, little lad ?" she asked. "And 
are you all alone? Aren't you lonesome?" The little lad 
screwed around uncomfortably. 
"Um-huh !" he muttered. 

" Aren't you a brave little lad ? " she said. " My ! we wouldn't 
think of letting our little boy travel alone, would we, Jerry ? 
What can your folks be thinking of ? Little lad, don't you 


want to go and ask the conductor what is delaying the train, 
and come tell us, like a dear boy ? Jerry won't ! " Here she 
flung a disgusted look at the weary man who on meeting her 
eye grunted again. 

There was a burst of delicate laughter from the dapper one, 
who immediately stifled it, and sat bolt upright, looking very 
self-conscious and foolish. But the busy woman did not take 
her eyes off the little lad so that he finally disentangled himself 
sulkily from his mackinaw, and walked slowly down the aisle 
and out to the platform. 

After some time he returned, his eyes big with excitement. 
" Aw, gee ! " he said. " What do y' 'spose ? Some one on this 
train's a big wallopin' crim'nal, and they ain't goin^ to let us go 
on until the perlice have searched the whole train ! Gee ! " he 
added, '' we're on a bridge, and y' can't git off it ! They'll git 
the crim'nal O. K. ! " 

The dapper one sprang to his feet with a little start. 
'"Nd they are men gaardin' each door" said the little lad, 
looking at the dapper one triumphantly, while he himself snug- 
gled back into his seat again, conscious that his tale was receiv- 
ing due attention. 

The busy woman cast an instant glance of suspicion on the 
dapper one, who also had seated himself again, and had become 
more bird-like than ever. 

"Jerry," she said, " move over. I'm going to bring the little 
lad here with us. He'll bo safer." 

" Nothin' doin' ! " came from the owner of the mackinaw. 
^'Yoii might be the ciim'nal !" 
The busy woman threw up her hands in amazement. 
" Me !" she exclaimed. '* Jerry, did you hear that ? I never 
did a thing wrong in my life I '' 

"More than of us can say," whispered the boy to his 
sister, and the weary man became less weary for a moment 
while he glared at the little lad. The dapper one glanced ner- 
vously over his shoulder at her, and, after a tense silence, she 
sat limply down beside her husband. 

" I don't like the looks of that foreigner," said the girl to her 
brother. " I wish the policemen would hurry to this car." 

The boy trrinned a little, "It is a sort of funny feeling," he 

admitted, " sitting here with a ' criminal' maybe in our midst ! " 

A man who had been sitting at the further end of the car— the 


only other passenger beside the group in the back, arose sud- 
denly, and started down the aisle. He was an extremely portly 
gentleman and his gold watch chain glittered in the flickering 
gas-light. ''Anyone got a match ?" he queried pleasantly, as he 
reached the nervous group. 

There was an instant blaze of suspicion on the faces of all save 
the villian who still glared ahead. The weary man sat bolt up- 
right. The little lad chuckled. 

''What do you want with a match 9 " asked the busy woman. 
Suspicion had fallen from her for a moment to rest on this new 
arrival. " Why do you want a match ? " she repeated. 

The portly gentleman looked a little aghast at the hostile 
faces ; murmured that he had thought of going to the smoker 
but could find no match. The situation was explained to him 
very tersely, and the weary man, egged on by his wife said, ''So 
you don't leave this car if loe can help it ! " while the portly 
gentleman sat stiffly down, very red-faced, and with all his 
geniality gone. 

After a long, long silence the boy suddenly said, "Fm going 
to find out about this ! " and started to walk toward the plat- 

Then came a voice from a most unexpected quarter. The vil- 
lain, without any change in his expression, still glaring under 
black brows at the red velvet seat rumbled forth, " Sit down ! " 

It was the boy's turn for despair. He sat down indignantly, 
and said, "Aw, shut up !" to the little lad who had chuckled 
again. The girl was furious. 

"Oh!'' she whispered, "that hateful man. 1 knotv he's the 
one. I hate him ! '' 

Fifteen minutes more passed in furtive suspicion. The girl, 
still watching them all with speculative gaze, whispered to the 
boy her opinions. The dapper one continually glanced over his 
shoulder at all his fellow passengers : the portly gentleman 
gazed balefully (for no apparent reason) at the sulky child with 
the villain ; the weary man sank back into his seat. But the 
busy woman was by far the most agitated — now standing up, 
now sitting down, now searching for that uufound something 
among her belongings ; so visibly distressed that at length the 
eyes of all — for they remembered the little lad's accusation — 
were fixed upon her, and she found herself very uncomfortably 
the centre of interest. 


Suddenly came the conductor. 

'* We'll start at once now ! There's been a delay ahead — sev- 
eral sections," he explained and passed on to the next car. The 
whistle blew. There were shouts of "All aboard," and the train 
started forward. The passengers gazed in amazement at each 

The busy woman marched down to the little lad's seat. The 
girl craned her neck to see. The lad was huddled up against 
the window as he had been before tho disturbance, but now 
there was a positive gleam in his eye. 

'^ Explain ! " the busy woman said shortly— quite the shortest 
speech she had made. 

Said the little lad — " I ain't no "little lad.' Fm big and ma 
had to send me on the train — she didn't want to any mor'n you'd 
want to send that kid of your'n. They wasn't no crim'nal. I 
made it up, but I'm glad if I got you scared ! " 



Richer blue than the rippling stream, 
Deeper blue than the August sky, 

Blue like eyes that are seen in a dream, 
Blue like a swallow skimming by. 

Singly here in the tall green grass ; 

There a group like a wondrous sea. 
Hearts close-hidden from rts who pass,- 

Hearts disclosed to the lover bee. 



They all played together in the big attic, the boy, the girl and 
the other children. The place was airy with walls of delicate 
green, and windows that let the sun stream in from its rosy 
dawn to its rosy setting. The place was very neat too. There 
were no musty trunks that scatter their quaint finery and for- 
gotten toys among the cobwebs on a rainy morning. From one 
window the children could always watch the clouds where they 
drenched the round topped hills of the Pacific Heights, but if a 
daring shower ventured down the slope it must spatter in the 
very face of the sunshine, and arch the mountains with a brilliant 
bow. The boy and the girl could stand silent for a long time with 
the rainbow, while the other children spun their tops of painted 

At one end of the attic was another window where a telescope 
stood adjusted to the full range of ocean lying between Diamond 
Head and the harbor. The children knew to a minute when 
every steamer was due from the mainland, and with the first 
glimpse of a prow nosing the Head they crowded around the 

"She's five hours and forty minutes late — thirty minutes 
ahead of last trip. Left 'Frisco on time, Jack ? '' questions one, 
following the vessel's track across the violet waters, 

" Yep," answers Jack, consulting the scrap book of shipping 
news at his side. " How's her decks ?" 

"Cleared. Storm in the ' potato patch,' I guess. Cap'n's on 
the bridge." 

" She's a bird ! Just see her skim ! " they say. 

But the boy and the girl stood a little longer after the other 
children turned back to their play. The boy wondered what 
lay beyond those marvelous ocean depths, and the girl loved 
the broad band of golden beach beside the blue. Cocoanut 
palms bordered it. Then a great splash of scarlet poinceana. 
drew her gaze inland and passed it over to a checkered expanse 
of glittering rice fields. Over the rice fields rose Diamond 
Head, sharp indigo. The boy's gaze had also wandered to it 

21 6 


from the ocean. So they stood together and searched out the 
glittering jewels in its caves of shadow, diamonds in the rough 
fohls of lava. 

**Aud that one — no, it)ok thern, in the top of his old crown — 
that one we will spend to travel. We'll go away out there 
where the transports run. And we'll sail uj) strange rivers to 
lands where no man ever set foot." 

"And the flowers," whispered the girl, "they hang in golden 
showers all the way." 

A flying missile struck the window above their heads, and the 
boy and the girl turned to join in the general sport. On one of 
the walls a peg had been driven in, and the game was to shoot 
rubber bands at the peg. With a little skill and a large amount 
of luck they could be njade to slip over it and hang triumphant 
before the admiration of the shooters. The fun was in full 
swing and tiny motes be^an to dance in the broad sun beam as 
skirts swished about and shoes clumped on the smooth boards. 
All the rubber bands were in use, so for a little time the boy 
and the girl looked on while the other children aimed, drew^ and 
let go. Then the boy spied a big red one lying neglected where 
it had fallen by the window. He pounced upon it, and turning 
quickly, let fly. The rubber hit its mark and dangled from the 

" Now me, now me," begged the girl. " Just one shot. ! " 

The tinkle of a lunch bell from the world below tripi)ed up 
the stair-case and the other children turned to meet it with a 
joyous shout. 

'* Just one then," assented the boy. '' Now this shot settles 
it," he declaied. "Can V(ai or can't you? Can \u\\ or can't 


"' I can, I can,''' she chanted, then turned away in bitter dis- 
appointment. But the boy was on his knees beside the bit of 
rubber. Carefully, not to disturb a curve of it, he placed it on 
his open palm just as it had fallen, and tiptoed to her side. She 
turned, ami her defiance changed to surprise. With a gallant 
little obeisance he placed it in her hand, a perfect red heart, just 
as it had fallen. Then with a .sudden impulse the boy fled to 
the stairway and hid behind the door while the otiier children 
trooped down. The girl lingered till they were gone, then he 
crept from his hiding place and slowly, hand in hand they left 
the sunny attic and their playtime. 



Chapter I. 

Mr. ISTelson turned slowly in his chair. " But I tell you again, 
I must first know the nature of your business. Can^t you see 
that we owe a certain guarantee of protection to our employees ? 
How do I know that you come for a good purpose ? What as- 
surance have I that the girl would care to have me give you this 
information ? Furthermore — " 

'* I— I — a — I would rather not tell, sir." 

" Very well ! That is all I can do for you," and swinging back 
to his desk, Mr. Nelson dashed his pen into the ink-well and re- 
turned to the unfinished report before him. 

" Then, sir, I think I shall tell, sir— I think I shall tell." 

Mr. Nelson's pen scratched ; the large office clock ticked. 
Scratch-tick-tick-scratch-scratch-scratch — 

*' I think, sir, you did not hear, sir. I said I was going to 
tell." There was a long pause. 

*^ Mr. Nelson, sir. I said I was going to tell." 

Mr. Nelson looked up. •' Haven't you gone yet ?" 

*' I — that is — no, sir," a twitching of the face and an uncross- 
ing and crossing of knees. ''If you would be so kind as to 
listen, sir. You see, it is very confidential." 


'* Well, you see, sir, I am from Montana ; I am a postman on 
Rural Free Delivery number four. I am unmarried but there 
ain't no unmarried women so how can I be otherwise ? " (more 
crossing and uncrossing of knees) "I — I — well, I am desirous of 
being otherwise, sir. I don't like the single life ; I want a home 
and— and I want someone to eat my three little humble meals 
with, sir, and I tell you I want to be married." 


**Now, for the past year, sir, I have been running my name 
an the * Matrimonial Magazine ' and I have had several appli- 
-cants, sir, but they don't none of them do. One of them almost 
^id; but I let her come out, just to see the place, and I had her 
put up at Bob Sartwell's and Bob has a mother he was living 
with then— well that ain't here nor there— excepting the girl 
married Bob." A long gaze was sent into Mr. Nelson's eyes and 
1;he pale face and plastered hair before him seemed so miserable 
•and weak. The situation was not humorous ; it was pitiable. 

*'Now Rosie, sir, this Rosie Palanski, has been in the Maga- 
zine for a little over two mouths and sir, I love that Rosie's face; 
I think I — sir, I think I would like to marry her. I think, sir — 
I think — she ain't got the same kind of looks as those others and 
she, sir, she— I think, sir — I think I would like to marry her." 

** Just a moment," and Mr. Nelson took down a large ledger 
from the top of his desk. " Pablinski, Padderax-)hagy, Pam- 
berino — " he followed down the index, " Palanski, Rosie ; here 
we are. Yes, there is such a girl in our employ. You can not, 
however, see her until lunch hour. For no reason whatsoever, 
excepting emergency, do we let the employees come off the floor. 
It is eleven o'clock ; the gong rings at noon. Wait here or come 
back, just as you choose. In the meanwhile, however, I shall 
interview the girl myself and if she does not desire to see you I 
shall have to ask you to leave." 

"Oh, sir, but she does want to see me. She says so. She 
thinks, sir — she thinks she is going to like me and, sir, if we do 
— that is, if she likes me and I like her, we are going back to 
Montana to-morrow." 


''Yes, sir — she says so, too." 

" Then the girl already knows you ?" 

"Oh no, sir, but we have corresponded several times through 
the magazine." 

'* How did you know she worked here ? Did the Magazine 
tell you that ? " 

"No, I — I think, sir — that is, the Magazine will not give ad- 
dresses. Everything must be done through its hands, for you 
know, sir, I suppose there is some who don't want their friends 
to know and those folks uses names not their own and it is only 
through certain red-tape in the Magazine that you find out their 


real names. Then there are some who would be afraid to let 
their families know, and that is the case of Rosie. She says 
that if her, Pa knew what she was doing he would lick her. He 
licks her a lot anyway and makes her work in the evenings for 
him. She never told me what doing. She ain't never had any 
fun ; she ain't got any notion of what an open country is and 
she can't believe that there is such places where people live 
miles and miles apart and where there is miles and miles of just 
land. She says that sounds like Heaven. She ain't never had 
a chance to meet men ; and it isn't so much a man that she 
wants, anyway — it's — it's — I don't know, sir, but if you ever got 
any idea of what it means to want somebody — and you ain't got 
a friend or person in the world who really cares for you, then 
you would understand ; and if you do understand, then it don't 
need explaining. Rosie says she's half sick of living and she 
says if something doesn't happen soon she is going to run away 
— she don't know where and she don't care. Just the other day 
I got a letter from her and it says she worked at the Eno Gum 
Factory. That's why I came here. Oh, sir, this meeting means 
a lot to me. I've come all the way from Montana to get her and 
and— God help us, sir." 

Chapter II. 

Burr, Montana, R. F. D. No. 4. 
Dear Miss Rosie : 

When I came down there for you I was just looking for a 
companion. I wanted somebody to care for me. I wanted to 
have somebody pour out the coffee for me and say good morning 
to me. I was lonesome. You were lonesome too but in a dif- 
ferent way. I thought perhaps we could make a bargain, but 
it didn't go. Miss Rosie, I didn't know then ; I didn't under- 
stand ; but every day since I've been learning. I've cut your 
picture out of the magazine and I keep it with me all the time 
and take it out and look at it and talk to it and — and I feel as 
though somehow, someway you must come. Oh Miss Rosie, 
you wouldn't say no if you only understood. I am sending you 
a ticket to Burr and with it this five dollars. I haven't more 
but I get fifty dollars a month you know ; we can live on that. 
I want you. I love you. 


Not a sign of excitement, not a degree of difference could Mr. 
Nelson see in Rosie Palanski. Her cheeks with the same pa] lid 
color and her ej'ea without a spark of keenness or wit or appre- 
ciation of anything, her poor little bent-over figure all remained 
unchanged. Rosie had liked the little postman with his fidgety, 
rigid body, his pale face and plastered hair. She had liked his 
frock coat and his red necktie. He was indeed a grand man. 
Rosie liked him. Yes, he was quite handsome, too. Then why 
didn't she marry him ? Why didn't she go with him to the 
country she called heaven ? Why didn't she go ? Mr. Nelson 
asked himself this question many times. He told the story to 
his friends and now and then they would say to him : 

"Well, Nelson, how goes your Matrimonial Bureau V or: 

" Has the girl gone to Montana yet ?" 

For a month or so, if Rosie had only known it, she had been 
the subject of much talk, the butt of many jokes, the pivot of a 
thousand arguments. And then, in the rush of business and 
the rush of life, Rosie was forgotten. Mr. Nelson had forgotten, 
Mr. Nelson's friends had forgotten — but not the little postman. 
He wrote to Rosie many letters. 

She wrote letters too. 

Chapter HI. 

The Matrimonial Magazine, 
Co. Jackson and Clark, Chicago, 111. 

Dear Sirs : — My husband and I are very happy. We have 
been married a little over a year. We met through your 
columns ; that is why I write. We want to thank you and to 
give you a testimony that may perhaps help others. My hus- 
band saw my picture in the magazine and thought if he could 
only see me he would be sure not to be disappointed and that he 
might take me back to Montana with him. He was a Rural 
Free Delivery man. I was working in the Eno Gum Factory. 
He came and we both liked each other. Bat I didn't go back 
with him. I wanted to go but I didn't dare. Bat when my 
husband one day really sent me a ticket and some cash and told 
me to run away, I couldn't help it, I couldn't resist no longer. 

We have the dearest little cottage with green vines which 
climb up the front stoop and lots of red geraniums in the front 
yard. There isn't any roar and buzz and there ain't a person in 
the world to beat me or to scold at me. There is ground and 


land and trees everywhere. And oftentimes I go with my hus- 
band in the little buggy when he delivers the mail. 

With gratitude forever and a God bless you in your noble 
work from my husband and 

Yours truly, 

RosiE Palanski Brown.. 
Burr, Montana, R. F. D. No. 4. 



Long, peaceful hospital corridors 

Cool silences fill, 
And I lie in my little white chamber, 

Musing and still. 

Curtains float white at the windows 

In the sunset breeze, 
And yellow leaves drift down beyond them 

From golden-hued trees. 

The sun slants down the quiet street, 

Through the lazy rain of drifting leaves, 

I've watched them fall, half-dreaming, hour on hour. 

But hark I the hush is shattered ! Silence breaks, 

And sudden, like a ripple of bird song, 

A harp's gold strings are swept in ecstasy 

Far down the street. My heart leaps, gypsy-like 

With longing to be out, be out, and off ! 

Wide-eyed, I listen. Still the golden strings 

In ecstasy vibrate and there is heard, 

'Mid falling autumn leaves, the rush of brooks, 

The bluebird's note, the music of May winds, 

The rustle of young leaves and silver grasses 

A-shine with dew — a sparkling song of spring. 

And then— 'tis gone 1 the silence rushes in. 

I strain to hear one liquid note the more, 

One bird call but the fairy harp is gone I 

And once again the sunshine quiet lies, 

The leaves drift slowly down from autumn trees. 

Long, peaceful hospital corridors 

Cool silences fill, 
And I lie in my little white chamber, 

Musing and still. 



** I don't think you'll get much this time, do you ?" The tone 
was quiet and even, of that peculiarly resonant and melodious 
quality seldom heard nowadaj^s in this age of screaming motor 
horns and loud-mouthed men. 

The man in the black mask had started back at the first sound 
of the voice, dropped his match-box and now stood with his 
back against the door, peering into the darkness with straining 
eyes to locate the speaker before raising his revolver. Over by 
the window something moved and then, at the click of a switch, 
the room was flooded with electric light. As his eyes became 
accustomed to the glare, he made out the figure of a man in a 
Morris chair. 

The face of the speaker was admirably akin to the voice, quiet 
and serene, yet with a look of almost impenetrable severity and 
dominance. *' Because if you do, maybe you'd better takeoff 
your shoes before you begin." He leaned back against the 
green plush cushion in the attitude of a tired child and reached 
for a cigar from the box near him on the table. 

Somehow, he never knew just how, the burglar was staring 
open-mouthed, while his revolver hung limply by his side. 
Under his black mask his quick eye, long accustomed to notic- 
ing details, had seen a slender, pearl-handled revolver peeking 
around the side of the cigar-box but, to his surprise, the other 
made no move to reach for it. 

" Here, have a cigar," the man in the morris-chair continued, 
tossing one towards the figure by the door. "It is the proper 
thing, I have heard, for the trapped man to offer the gentleman 
burglar refreshments. If this were a strictly orthodox scene you 
should have me covered by now and should be telling me that 
one move on my part meant death, while I, in the tones of the 
hero, dared and defied you to shoot me dead. But you, checked 
by some noble instinct before choked up by your vile passion, 
suddenly decide that it is a cowardly and ignoble thing to kill 
a man unarmed, so, tossing me your revolver, you calmly walk 
out the front door, while I magnanimously refrain from calling 
up the police. Isn't that the way it goes ?" 


The man in the mask stood motionless, alert, listening for 
the faintest sound and watching the slightest movement on the 
part of the man before him. But no mouse could have been 
more docile than he. 

" Don't they usually read that way ?" the man in the morris- 
chair asked again. 

" Maybe they do. Look here now, you press that button and 
you're a dead one," said the burglar, raising his revolver for 
the first time level with the breast of the man opposite. He 
seemed wakened from his stupor. 

''Oh, this is rich ! Yes, that's the thing to say ! To think 
that I should be a part of a living melodrama ! I never believed 
half they said on the stage until now. Would you mind if I 
reached for my note-book ? I am an author, you see, and any 
such material as this, to me, is invaluable." 

" Never mind the note-book ! You just keep still." 

"It really is quite a problem, isn't it?" mused the other. 
*' What are you going to do with me ? You don't quite like to 
kill me, any more than they do in the books, and yet, if you 
don't, how are yon going to rob the house ?" His face had an 
expression of quizzical amusement together with a shade of 
anxiety, not so much for himself as for the annoyance he was 
causing his guest. '' Of course you're probably a great deal 
brighter than I," he drawled, "being in the business, but I 
would suggest handcuffs and a gag. There are a pair in the 
upper right-hand drawer of that desk, valuable relics, too, the 
very ones they took off Benedict Arnold just before he was 
huQg. Really historic, you know. You can reach for them 
with your left hand and still cover me with your right. As for 
the gag, I"m sorry I haven't one handy but there are several 
clean handkerchiefs on the mantelpiece which, in a pinch, 
might do very well. What do you say?" He smiled good- 
humoredly, showing an even row of teeth white as a dog's. 
The burglar looked at him nervously. Was he laying a trap 
for him ? 

" Or, possibly, you wouldn't like to use the necessary violence. 
Well, here is another scheme. Behind you on the table is a 
bottle of chloroform. I killed some kittens this afternoon. 
One of those handkerchiefs soaked in that would put me off to 
sleep for an hour or two in no time. Don't forget, my friend, 
that you have me covered. I am merely putty in your hands. 


Why are you so uneasy ? Here, have a cigarette. They're 
wonderfully soothing to the nerves. Come, don't be anxious !" 
A wagon rattling by on the street outside caused the perspira- 
tion to stand out on the burglar's temples. He began shifting 
for the door knob. 

''My friend," the man in the morris-chair continued, "cour- 
age is necessary for any profession, above all for the profession 
of burglary. Why just think of all the ways I might have to 
trap you ! A spring in the floor under my chair might ring a 
bell 'way down-stairs in the servants' quarters. In fact, it 
might be a special kind of burglar alarm. By this time, a 
policeman might be waiting for my signal, the pressing of this 
mysterious button under my heel, to enter. I might even have 
a patent catch on that door behind you, so that when it was 
once closed it could* not be opened without a combination. Try 
it and see if it will spring. Behind you, next the door, is a 
secret panel. Wlio knows but what a man may be standing 
there now, with a revolver cocked in your face ? Oh, do not 
glance around, I was only saying he might be there. Or per- 
haps, even if you cross the threshold into the next room for 
plunder, a dog, trained to lie without a sound until just the 
right moment, may leap at you. One leap— that is all, for 'my 
hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind.' And even should 
you escape the dog, on all the thresholds may lie burglar alarms, 
ready, on the mere pressure of a spring, to raise up a perfect 
hell of a racket, a racket that might be heard to heaven itself. 
Look at my eyes ! See how they snap in the light. I may be 
a hypnotist, that can, by the mere uplift of my hand, make you 
drop your revolver and you yourself telephone to the police to 
come and take you. You see how great the need of courage is 
in any profession. What do you say to it ? Shall it be chloro- 
form or the handcuffs?" The burglar was shifting uneasily 
and now had his gun barrel aimed squarely at his neighbor's 

"You cut out your gab ! You want to die ?" 
"Now, that's another place where courage is needed. You 
might shoot me and escape but what about that goading, tortur- 
ing hell of remembrance ? What about the dread of the gal- 
lows ? Look at my eyes!" The burglar looked. They were 
snapping like fire and resembled those of a snake about to 
■charm a bird. They were glued, with the intensity of a mad 


man's, on the burglar's face. It seenied to the burglar that 
they looked through him, and far beyond. 

" How would it be," the other resumed slowly, never lowering 
his gaze, ''to have those eyes always on you ? Kill me, and 
you'll have their companionship always. Companionship is a 
great thing. You'd better decide. It's nearly five minutes 
since I might have pressed that button ; it only takes the police 
five minutes to get up here from Main Street." 

A machine groaned around the corner, and stopped. 

"That may be they now. Perhaps I'd better get down the 
decanter. Reach for it, will you?" He glanced towards the- 
burglar only to hear the door slam and a rush of feet down the 
hall. The burglar had departed. 

The man in the morris-chair yawned, and idly picked up the 
pearl-handled revolver. It was not loaded. Then he sighed 
again, as he felt in the empty match-box. 

" Deuce of a thing to have your legs paralyzed so you can't 
even get up and get a match. Now I suppose I'll have to wait 
until one or two o'clock, until the servants come home and help 
me to bed, just because I was so good-natured as to let them all 
go out at once." The electric light was blazing down in his 
face but he seemed not to mind it. In fact, he acted like one in 
the dark. In a moment he reached for his cane and began 
moving it along the floor until it struck against the box of 
matches the burglar had dropped. He fished it along with his 
cane and, when it was safely in his hand, a broad smile again 
brought to light those rows of even teeth. He lighted a cigar 
and as he inhaled the first fragrant breath he again settled 
back with the movement of a tired child, with a sigh of con- 

Soon alow laugh broke the quiet of the room. "To think 
that a husky burglar ran away from me, a blind cripple," he 
chuckled. " I tell you, the necessity for courage is a pressing^ 
one, for, if I hadn't routed that burglar, how, oh how would I 
have gotten these matches ? " 



Down ill the green depths under the sea, 
I'd love to wander, to and fro, 
Where the sea anemones like to grow, 
Down in the green depths under the sea. 

Down where the gold fish gleam and dart^ 
I'd roam in the coral castles tall, 
By the light of a starfish, lest I fall, 
Down where the gold fish gleam and dart. 

Down where the sunbeams never reach, 
Under the sea, I would frolic all day. 
With the little sea-horses I would play, 
Down where the sunbeams never reach. 

Up, up where the foam-tipped waves dash high, 
I'd rise and dash through the cool salt spray. 
If only I were a mermaid gay. 
Up. up where the foam-tipped waves dash high. 



The cold, grey dawn is on the height, 
The cold, grey dawn is on the hill. 

And he has left me, my delight. 
And yet I love him still. 

He left me with a bitter smile, 
He left me with a word of scorn, 

Have I stood here a little while. 
Or a thousand years in the cold grey dawn? 

The joy in my heart is turned to grief. 

But oh my love it will not die. 
It flutters like that single leaf 

Against the cold, grey sky. 

He has gone stepping down the hill, 
As blithe and gay as a summer's morn ; 

But all my life I shall live still 
In the cold, grey dawn. 




^'G'wan dere Niggah, t'ain't no use ter pertend with me, I 
nose you wants ter go a 'possum huntin' and de parson's comin' 
fob dinner ain't nothin' but a low-down 'scuse." Lizah filled 
the little cabin door with her dark portliness and shook an 
accusing finger at little Uncle Mose, who was wavering from 
foot to foot on the solitary step. Behind Lizah, a little wooly 
head protruded and a series of facial contortions signalized to 
Uncle Mo" that Riifus was eager to join in the 'possum hunt. 
Finally the child gathered up courage and begged to go *'jes 
this once, coz he'd been a pow'f al good chile an' he was mos' a 
man now." But Aunt Liz was in no tender mood and dismissed 
her eager pickaninny with a command to go straight to bed and 
stop " pesterin' " her with fool ideas. One 'possum hunter in a 
famil}^ was enough. 

It was a glorious night with the full August moon lighting 
up the cornfields that were baking up outside the little cabin. 
Tennessee was in the clutches of its midsummer drought and 
only the eerie light of the moon could transform the parched 
and sun-baked country. As Uncle Mo' turned into the first 
cross-lane that led to the bog of 'possum fame, a little dark 
figure waylaid him and looking down he saw his small son 
Rufus grinning broadly at his escape from maternal vigilance. 
Now Mo' was much relieved at the thought of company for his 
naturally timid soul shrank at the thought of traversing the 
fearsome bog, so he grasped Rufe by his tiny hand and refrained 
from all allusions to paternal discipline. Along they crept, 
skirting the border of the thick woods and seeking the moonlit 
ways that held no fears. But soon they reached the bog and 
leaving the reassuring light behind, plunged into its tempting 

" Oh Lord," shrieked Uncle Mo', ''the debbil has sure got dis 
poh ole sinful nigger," as he felt his foot sink into the mire and 
was unable to extract it. 

"Oh Daddy, I caynt go no farther, fob I sees de mos' terrible 
ghostes and dey's creatures biting an' a holding me," quavered 
the still more frightened child, as the shadows and the sucking 



earth' conspired to terrify him. But on they proceeded with 
continued cries and moans until suddenly Uncle Mo' let forth a 
joyous shriek, " De Lord be presarv^ed, we is saved, we is saved, 
foh I feels de good earth under me and sees de very tree I wants 
foh good or Towser is a barking at its trunk louder dan de call 
ob Judgment Day." 

Then came the task of shaking down the animal and Uncle 
Mo' proposed sending Rufus up to shake the limb while he held 
the bag below. The child was afraid but saw nothing to do but 
beard the enemy in its den. Slowly he climbed up, until finally, 
paralyzed with fear, he saw the two green eyes staring at him. 
He knew he could not proceed, for an instant he was wild with 
fright and despair and then an idea seized him. 

Meantime Uncle Mo' was watching below, his hands grasping 
the open bag, his eyes tight shut, his mouth open and cold 
sweat pouring down his face. He heard a shout, then felt the 
bag heavy and clapping his hands over the opening he threw it 
over his shoulder and shouting to Rafe to follow him, hastened 
home. The bag had lost its terrors, the way seemed to disap- 
pear under his flying feet and eager and excited he panted into 
the little cabin, cautiously deposited the bag and then for the 
first time wondered at Rufe's delay in following him. Aunt 
Liz also forgot to scold about Rufe's disobedience at the sight 
of the squirming bag and with arms akimbo and a broad grin 
wrinkling her black face she watched Mo' cautiously shut all 
possible exits and venture toward the bag, stick in hand. 
Timidly he opened the string and stood ready to subdue the 
beast as it tumbled out. There was a moment of unaccountable 
silence and then a very scared Rufe crawled out of the bag and 
hid behind his mammy's skirts. Mose and Lizah were speech- 
less with surprise and Rufe fearing the worst burst out : 

" Oh please don't be terrible mad, hones' I didn't want to do 
it but dos green eyes shinin' right through me, scared me plumb 
stiff and de Lord done sent de idee to me," and then a twinkle 
crept into his eyes and made its way into his sobbing voice, 
**an'— an' you know, mammy, you oughtn't fer ter whip me, 
foh I'se jess been playin' 'i)ossum." 



Venturing timidly, half afraid, 
Touching the earth but to melt away, 
Wavering scouts of a winter's day, 
Ventured the snow. 

Merrily rollicking, freakishly frolicking, 
Tumbling and turning and twisting on high, 

Quicker and quicker. 

Thicker and thicker, 
Forth from the battlement clouds of the sky 

Sallied the snow. 

Angrily whirling, ruthlessly swirling, 
Cruelly hurtling its lances of cold, 

Bitterly lashing, 

Recklessly dashing 
Down from King Winter the fearless and bold, 

Battled the snow. 

Steadily, endlessly, shifting and drifting, 
Burying earth in the winter's white, 
Winner at last in the hard-fought fight, 
Conquered the snow. 



We wandered down the garden path 

But yesterday ; each thing that grew 

You loved ; you stooped to kiss a rose, 
And gave it life anew. 

To-day across the garden path 
The rose lies broken-hearted ; 

The garden's glory's faded quite. 
Since you departed. 

Dear lady, Autumn's winds blow chill, 

And sadly falls the rain ; 
The rose is dead ; but your return 

Would give it life again. 

Ah, suffer not so great a change. 

No longer cruel be. 
Heturn and with your golden smile 

Restore the rose — and me ! 




No man has lived well who has not sometime been in love 
with a craft, a trade, a thing he does with his own hands for 
the sake of his next meal. Your steel magnate finds the ex- 
perience a practical asset for his business. You yourself can 
perhaps remember the thrill of pleasure at a dinner at Rose 
Tree or a theater trip to Springfield earned (shall we say ?) by 
darning stockings for your opulent and otherwise occupied 
roommate. Or possibly you attained your wealth by the uu- 
thanked but not profitless task of shutting windows and waking 
sleepers o' mornings. 

Some of us, since that was the way the adventure of our lives 
was turning, have daily earned our dinners before we ate them. 
The knack of this waitress craft is fine service and silence. The 
spirit is not at bottom un- Christlike for such crafts are created 
fundamentally because they are needed, not because someone is 
greeedy to earn. 

But to me it seems that no one has ever properly voiced the 
craft-song of the waitress. Perhaps that is because it is essen- 
tially a song of the silence. They of the barrack-room, the gal- 
ley oarsmen, the cotton pickers, the blacksmith, the gondolier 
have had their dues. Even " Cnut, King " could sing to hearten 
his sailors as they rowed. But we sing neither to or with the 
maid. We merely suggest in terms inaudible to other ears, 
^' Serve the judge's wife first and be careful to crumb the cloth 
■after the salad." 

So be it. The roast beef and salad appear and disappear ; off 
go the crumbs, now begineth the third lesson ; coffee is served. 
It all happens silently, the waitress, merely a moving object in 
the background, a shadow in tones of black and white, slips in 
and out at a swinging door. 

And it will happen as silently the next time, water flashing in 
crystal glasses, shimmering brass finger bowls arranged in con- 
nection with fragile china, silver, linen, and lace ; and the whole 
offered up to your ordinary, practical diner as brazen bowls of 
sacrifice and incense might be presented to an East Indian 
•divinity. The service is so fine that it is forgotten ; and conse- 

23 1 


quently the conversation flourishes and the waitress, if she be- 
not an unwilling listener, draws an early reward. 

Ah, the waitress ! If the group about the table but appre- 
ciated the subtle understanding way of her. I would sing 
warning of the waitress and admiration for her and envy. I am 
convinced that the normal person has an overpowering desire at 
times to be seen and not heard. It is our natural delight in 
observation, nor is it a perverted desire, for on it surely rest our 
knowledge and our ethics. And the waitress has for an hour 
three times a day just this enviable opportunity to observe. The 
observations of a waitress, an ordinary Northampton, non- 
restaurant, un-collegiate waitress would, I dare say, astonish a 
psychologist and frighten a moralist. To my knowledge the 
judgements of the butler's pantry are fair and fundamental al- 
together. The maid behind her chair can determine from the 
way Miss Jones converses, serves herself to the cranberry sauce 
and passes the butter to her neighbor exactly what Miss Jones 
is, whence she came and whither she is going. The insight of 
some of the waitresses I have known has been almost super- 
natural. And it holds unless Miss Jones happens to be the mis- 
tress. Then the judgement is no longer disinterested. A barrier 
of greenbacks and the demands of service is apt to rise between 
the maid and that essential condition of one's doing table work,, 
the mistress. But heaven protect Miss Jones, the stranger at 
our gates, from the frank and searching gaze of the waitress- 
who passes her the gravy. 

All this ability that the maid gains is not through any virtue 
of her own, but owing to the admirable experimental conditions- 
under which she works. I have shuddered sometimes to serve 
people whom I wished to call my friends for fear the secret of 
their worst selves should be revealed, they should be disinclined 
to eat the crusts of their bread, they should do selfish things 
either actively or passively with the conversation, they should 
be greedy rather than hungry. 

Perhaps we are a bad lot, wielders of trays and platters, 
pitchers and pickle forks and of that deadly weapon of observa- 
tion, yet we deserve a song. And it turns out to be our silence^ 
your silent approval. The test of our efficiency is the rythmical 
beat of that silence, broken, only that it may be apprehended 
the better, by the rattle of a stove lid far beyond the swinging 
doors. That is from the cook^s realm, another realm, incom- 


parable with ours. By much lifting of stove lids and shutting 
of oven doors, rolling of rolling pins and flourishing of pepper- 
shakers the cook develops a noble craft ; but we — we have added 
to our craft (though to be sure through no fault of our own) 
something not unlike a science of humanity. 



A wreath of primrose on her shimmering hair, 

A stack of bluebells in her small white hands. 
Nearby, a daisy chain, woven with skilful care, 

On the westward slope of the little hill she stands. 
The butterflies troop through the sunshine in fluttering bands 

Like dizzy rainbows. She poises like one of them ; 
Her eyes gaze toward distant, half- visible lands 

That border the far sea's hem. 



I love to have adventures. 

Don't you? 
And after I'm tucked into bed at night, 
I alwaj^s pretend I'm a truly knight, 

I do. 

I love to play I'm an Injun brave. 

Do you ? 
And I love to yell and whoop and shout 
Around the house, when the folks are out, 

I do. 

I love to lie bj^ the fire. 

Do you? 
And pretend I'm a real and truly king. 
Like the one in the song that Nora can sing, 

I do. 

I love to have adventures. 

Don't you ? 
They're the nicest things that a kid can do, 
And they come whenever you tell them to, 

They do. 




How long does it take, I wonder. 
For a message to reach the sky? 

I've pnzzled and pondered and figured, 
And I'll tell you the reason why. 

I want to find out the hour, 
The minute, the second, when 

The stars will have heard the verdict 
And put out their lights at ten ! ! 



One of the advantages of education is that it banishes from 
our minds many of the fancies and superstitions of youth. I 
am being educated. One, at least, of the fancies and supersti- 
tions of my youth has left me. Shades of my hard-working 
ancestors, rejoice ! 

I used to think that a cyclops was a strange and terrible 
creature. When Ulysses encountered them, I really felt a 
great deal of anxiety and sympathy for him. Now I am forced 
to consider him a fanciful and superstitious youth. The world 
is full of Cyclops and has been for years. Some of them have 
been very useful citizens, and educated people much more timid 
than Ulysses have stopped in their homes without harm. 

Thomas Jefferson was one. My evidence for this would 
please even Mr. Kimball. A certain duke, whose name I will 
not mention, because I have forgotten it, made a detailed 



description of his personal interview with the president. He 
describes Jefferson as having ''a gray, twinkling eye, full of 
-good humor." Now if both his eyes had been gray the duke 
would surely have mentioned the fact, or if one had been gray 
and one brown he must have told that, too. We once had a cat 
with one blue eye and one green and no member of the family 
ever thought of giving a detailed description of her without 
calling special attention to this peculiarity. So I am convinced 
that Jefferson was a cyclops. 

Napoleon was one, too. I hope this statement will give you 
a little shock for it did me when I first heard it. My knowledge 
is due to no less a person than "Albert Bushnell Hart, LL. D., 
Professor of History in Harvard College." He speaks of the 
great man as having "a prophetic eye peering far into the 
future." As Professor Hart is praising Napoleon he certainly 
would give him two far-sighted eyes if possible. On the other 
hand if the other eye had been near-sighted, the poor man 
would have had to wear glasses and we know he didn't. Isn't 
it all simple, but isn't it astonishing ? Just think of a cyclops 
having the power to make folded arms dignified and fashionable 
in spite of all the footmen in the world. At any rate Ulysses 
is supported by the English nation in his dread of the one- 
eyed race. 

Here are two beautiful examples of cyclops who were famous 
and highly respected, but more are needed to show how widely 
they are scattered over the world. And more are not wanting. 

Think of Little Willie's adventures at school. What a cold, 
penetrating eye his Severe Teacher had I Remember, too, 
Lovely Cecilia. ^'She regarded him with an eye that would 
have melted a heart of stone." Perhaps your sympathies have 
been with her hitherto, but recollect : she is a cyclops and per- 
haps made Uncle Will seem less cruel to you. 

I would leave one lesson with you to-day, my friends, as my 
Sunday School Teacher used to say. It is this : Do not, please 
do not increase the number of cyclops in the world. We have 
grown used to them. We do not fear tliem as Ulysses did, but 
we can't quite like them yet. There are many cross-eyed people 
in the world ; people who are able to hurry down the street to 
save a human life, with one eye on the clock in the distant 
tower, the other on the narrow road before them. These are 


bad enough and numerous enough. Let those who insist on 
optical peculiarities be content with these, and let us stick to- 
the more cheerful fashion of two eyes per head. 



That the 13th is unlucky 

Is not a superstition new, 
But it's only when we're seniors 

That we know " 19th " is too. 

Once people thought that ill luck came 
From a hare that crossed your path, 

But now we know that's nothing 
To the power that " Bunny" hath. 

Politeness isn't a lost art, ' 

In spite of what " they say" ; 
Of course we learn it here, and get 

More "civil " day by day. 

In Bible lore 'tis told us 

That few dared Jordan cross ; 
If we cross "Jordan " here we know 

That it will be our loss. 

Class spirit is quite overdone, 

At least it would so seem, 
When every senior greets us 

With the query "Art 14 ? " 

We hope to pass our courses — 

And yet of course it's Fate — 
But in the course of time, we're sure 

That we will graduate. 



I am an old bachelor and never knew much about college girls 
except that I had heard they were a narrow-minded, selfish lot 
of girls, only interested in their own activities and in having a 
good time. I had always believed this report because not 
knowing anything about it I had no reason for not believing it. 

The other day I happened to be in Northampton and wanted 
to read some old records about the colh^ge and so went to the 
college library. I got my records and sat down near the libra- 
rian's desk to read, but I couLln't seem to get very far for the 
gills took np most of my attention, and besides I thought I'd 
see for myself if the reports I had heard of them were true. 

First a girl came up and asked for books on " Life in China 
To-day." My imagination began to work immediately. She 
was rather a serious-looking girl, probably she was to go as a 
missionary and was now preparing herself. This didn't seem 
narrow or selfisli, but probably she was an exception to the rule. 
She was followed immediately by a girl who seemed to be 
getting her resources together to fight the Bill Board Plague 
after she graduated. Another rather sad, worn damsel seemed 
to be trying to convince some friend to take Latin, for after 
looking over an essay on the "Practical Value of Latin," she 
said almost in despair, " Oh dear, I never can write an argu- 
ment which she'll accept." 

The next one in the never-ending line of applicants was easy. 
She wore a mannish tailored suit and linen collar and asked for 
information about Mrs. Pankhurst. "So they have suffragettes 
here, too," I thought. She looked rather harmless. I wondered 
if she were a militant or one who made the careful distinction 
that she was a "gist" not a *'gette." Then a group of three 
rather young, worried looking girls came up and anxiously 
scanned the papers for developments in Mexico. I gathered 
that they had relatives or friends there whose lives were in 
danger. And so for an hour there came iti quick succession 
girls— girls — girls— inquiring for books on Palestine, the Devel- 
opment of Schools, Gjvernor Salzer, the Balkan War. Such a 



diversity of interests ! Why did people call these girls narrow ? 
I had never seen a group of people so broad. 

At five o'clock I gave back the records and came home, after 
having been whisked from Palestine to the Shaw case and from 
there to James Whitcomb Riley and the Northampton Players^ 
and my head was in a whirl. I had read one paragraph some 
twenty-five times and remembered that Smith College was 
founded by Sophia Smith in Northampton, which facts I had 
known years before, but I had learned one great lesson, and 
now I know that for breadth of interests and zeal for publia 
welfare and serious views of life, go to the college students,, 
especially Smith students. 



I'm not a critic 
Nor yet a connoisseur of art, 

And yet, at times 
An awful " something " grips my heart, 
When I behold in Hamp the pot-pourri 
Of architectural styles ; it nettles me. 

Ionian, Doric, Romanesque, 

Egyptian, Celtic, Arabesque, 

They vie in splendor ; side by side they stand — 

A variegated group — some mean, some grand I 

The Auditorium and the Libe. 
Two structures whose fagades imbibe 
The Grecian cast, while Washburn boasts 
An English scheme of newel posts ;— 
The Catholic Church and College Hall 
Are Gothic (if they're art at all). 

Oh, what a medley of design ! 
No aesthetic taste in shade or line, 
Where Doric, Gothic, Romanesque, 
Produce a hodge-podge so grotesque. 



I am waiting to see Miss Jordan. For the next two hours I 
expect to be engaged in that pleasing occupation. It is not 
that I am perishing for the sight of her — oh no, I can gaze my 
fill at her almost daily, as she makes the front row of faculty 
stand out by her presence. Also, I can see her any Tuesday at 
Hatfield House between the hours of four and six. But also, 
she would see me, officially, before the Thanksgiving recess, 
and, since she does not want to see me one-twentieth as badly 
as I, officially, need to see her, I am, at 2.15, waiting for her 
four o'clock office hour. 

I need to see her very badly, for I have never written an argu- 
ment outline ! It sounds shocking, but it is true. I have de- 
bated, time and again —principally on woman suffrage (pleasing 
generality of ante-collegiate days !), when I always had to lead 
the negative because no one else felt that way, and on the advan- 
tages of two half-holidays a week over one whole one. In this 
matter my athletic tendencies made me combatively affirmative, 
and quite pig-headed about appreciating the other side of the 
question. So I know nothing about making out an argument 

There are fifteen other girls waiting to interview the Empress 
of English C (Adams-Lund) and D (Adams-Mainland), I am 
first through my determination to be so, aided by chance. I 
was bound not to repeat yesterday's experience, when I de- 
scended from elocutionar}' heights and took my place in line, 
only to be third from the door when the clock struck and Logic 

I wonder if she realizes that I am hot and weary of sitting 
and long for the cooling breezes that blow upon Dippy Hill ? 
The idea of an ice at the Clab House is attractive, and hot 
chocolate with English muffins and home-made strawberry jam, 
to be had for an hour or so's brisk walking seems — well, worth 
walking for. And this with luncheon only an hour behind, 
and still an hour and a half to wait. 

Never have I been in so studious a company. I brought 
embroidery to occupy me, but the little song with which I 



always accompany my efforts in this line proved irritating to 
tlio others, so I ceased scalloping. If I could only sing, I know 
it would make me feel better; but I cannot blame my com- 
panions for disliking that tune. My voice is distinctly a " left- 
over'' — I could not get on even the Commencement choir, in 
spite of the fact that I can reach low C ! — and the motif that 
goes with scalloping is rather nondescript. If anyone else tried 
to palm it off on me, I know it would bore me to decisive action. 
But I quite enjoy it— it makes me feel so. virtuous and efficient 
— singing at one's work, you know, and all that. 

After the patience of the community had given out, I wrote 
up my diary. That did not take long, as I write only a page a 
day and am very prompt at keeping it up to date. 

Then I turned to my newspaper. I knew this would not hold 
me for more than half an hour, for the only things in it that 
interest me are the Editorial, Home, and Sporting Pages. But 
this time it took me a shorter time than usual to get through it. 
The Editorial page contains a column — known by the author's 
disciples as "The Colyumn "—entitled "Always in Good Hu- 
mor." This entertained me until I struck a quotation from 
"The Custom of the Country," which brought my thoughts 
back from Broadway to the empty office at my right hand. 

The Home Page held me not at all, for it was positively sensi- 
ble, so I turned in despair to the Sporting Page. There I found 
temporary relaxation, for across the top was a cartoon of a 
turkey preparing -for the holiday season by making his will. 
This brought up pleasant thoughts of home and family and 
friends, until suddenly I realized that if I had not learned to 
write an argument outline by Tuesday next, the aforementioned 
family and friends would celebrate without me while I struggled 
with refutations and principles up in Northampton. This was 
very fitting, but not very optimistic, so I folded up the paper 
and tried the embroidery again. 

The victim of my attacks is a collar. It began as a Com- 
mencement present for a 1913 girl, but is now being completed 
as a Christmas present for my aunt. Probably if I did not feel 
musicallj^ inclined the minute a threaded needle is in my hand, 
the persons for whom my things are originally intended would 
get them more often. Occasionally this does happen, but all 
concerned feel as if there had been an accident. 

I soon found that, without the inspiration of my little ditty, I 
was a failure as an embroiderer. Black despair fell upon me. 


I believe in our required English papers ; in fact, if the out- 
come of ray impending interview be favorable, I shall write an 
argument in their defense. Bat why should I have to spend 
two and one-half hours decorating the not-too-well-heated-and- 
ventilated corridors of Seelye Hall when my exercise card is 
crying for food ? The answer is, ten minutes in time saves 
hours of waiting. I have procrastinated, I know, and I am 
quite resigned to my punishment. Besides, just look at the 
English 13 I have half-done ! 



My winder suit I've given S. C. A. C. W. 

It was oh I so long and chnging and with drapery so new, 

I've sold every frill and ruffle 

And have tried in vain to muffle 

My longing for a floating veil or two. 

But no ! All frills must vanish 

For she said she liked me " mannish. 

So masculine I'll be if I must die, 

And in collars high or choking 

And a skirt whose width's provoking 

I stride about the town a tall white lie ! 

For I'm really very feminine 

I just love lorgnettes and everything 

That Fashion has decreed for women's wear. 

And a single pleated frill 

Can give me such a thrill 1 

You'll never know just how till you've been there. 

Now ! After all that I've endured ! 

Just so her love might be assured 

By whom think you she sets a greater store? 

By me? Ah no, the little rogue 

Is now "all for"' the girl in "Vogue" 

And there's no use for my string ties any more. 







. OF 
















When The Girls Are Away 
(A tragedy iu one act.) 

Time: Christmas Vacation. 
Place: Smith College Campus, Northampton. 

Characters, in order of appearance as played by themselves ("It all de- 
pends on the point of view."): — 

LiBE, ...... LlBE 

Obsie, the Star, 

Graham Hall, the Airy, 

Spirit of Christmas," 

Collie Hall, 

John M. Greene, 

Lilly Hall, 

Campus Houses (Chorus) 

Harmon E., 


Lyman Plant, 

Time: New Year's Day. 

Libe. It's one half hour past midnight, so let's assemble here 

For one last talk before it's time to say, '* Happy New Year." 
Myself, I'm rather lonely, there's not a single sound, 
The world is not itself at all when there's no girl around. 

Obsie. I beg to disagree with you, the sky's been fine to day; 

The Moon's fine now; as for the girls, they're happier away. 

We all need this vacation, so come and make amends 

For your uncompliment'ry words, and chat with your old friends. 

G. H. Spirit of Christmas, flying by, come stay with us a minute, 
Giving us cheer for this New Year before we must begin it. 

S. of X. Aye, for a minute, friends, 1 may for far I've had to roam; 
I've been to visit every girl and welcome her at home. 
Northampton town's a fair town and students hold it dear, 
And I alone am not allowed encouragement while here. 
But let us all celebrate to-night before our time is done. 
And use each precious minute before the clock strikes one. 



C. H. Methodical's my habit and my nature isn't fast, 

I strike on time though no one heeds until ten minutes past. 
I would like a vacation; I don't have too much fun. 
For people watching the New Year must wait till I say " one." 
J. M. Gr. Though people love my organ " Vox humana" best of all, 
I sometimes wonder if the tune that's sung by Collie Hall 
Is not more welcome; though my bells like Christmas Spirit say 
" Be Happy," your bell tells them all it's time to run and play. 
L. P. If any of you would dress up, I'll lend you all my green, 

There's holly, mistletoe, and the only green rose ever seen. 
LiBE. You need not boast, for quantity's not quality alway, 

And I have all the trailing vines they plant on Ivy Day, 
Chorus of Campus Houses: 

We're glad, we're glad, we're glad we're here, 

We're proud to be on hand. 
There's nothing like the campus life 

In all the college land. 
We sung a song of youth and joy 

That every year unfurls, 
And here's a Happy New Year 
To all Smith College Girls ! 
S. of X. And while we are about it, now, how jolly it would be 
To send a cheerful message off to each poor faculty. 
They work so hard they have forgot the day of girl or boy, 
So let's by wireless telegraph send each a wish of joy. 
All. Here's to the absent Faculty, 

We give a rousing cheer. 
Let's hope vacation will seem long 
And likewise short the year. 
C. H. I have a sad foreboding, so much goes on in me. 

That something's going to happen that will not joyous be. 
I've given many "warnings," " excuses" too in time. 
My " list's" worn out, it is no doubt 'cause I'm not in my prime. 
I hate to spoil your pleasure, but must insinuate 
That, by my spiral, I'm afraid it must be getting late I 
M. H. I never like the tunes you choose, their monotones do pall, 

But I must say this gloomy "One" is quite the worst of all. 
L. H. Of people to complain of tunes I place j'ou at the last, 

Such bedlam falls within your walls and has for ages past. 
You've no right to complaining; now just what would you say 
If you had to lose your prestige all for a rival gay? 
The thought that worries me is, what naming will they do 
About the new one? Do you think they'll call her Lilly II.? 
S. of P. There's no more time to argue. Peace ! Good will ! We must run 
Unto our sleep. Hear Collie Hall ? His clock is striking one. 
All retire silently. 


Time: 8.55 P. M. January 7, 1914. 
Obsie. The night is fair and all bodes well as far as I can see, 

I think we are to dwell in peace, untouched by student glee. 
G. H. A pretty picture there you paint, that's rather good, for you, 

1 do love a vacation, perspective rare and new. 
C. H. Oh, woe betide ! What do I see from up here on my tower ? 
There is a train; and it's almost my time to strike the hour; 
And getting off this train are girls; each now runs for a hack. 
Alack-a-day, what shall we do? The students have come back I 
Chorus of Campus Houses : 

Oh, what to do ? Oh, what to do ? 

The answers never learned. 
We love the girls when far away. 

But now they have returned ! 
Though absence makes the heart grow fond. 

This nearness strikes us cold. 
We must look neat, the girls to greet, 
Or scandals will be told. 
L. H. Are you glad to come, friend Seelye, to the end of this revel thine? 
What do I hear? To greet the year ? It's Collie saying, Nein ! 
(Silence until all students are apparently girl-cotted for the night.) 

Time: 10.15 P. M. Same night. 
M. H. There's not a sound a-breaking the stillness night has sent, - 

I wonder if each student had her light-cut 'fore she went? 
L. H. Don't talk to me for I must rest and in sleep drown my sorrow, 

Here was I full of hope, but I'll be full of Lab. to-morrow. 
J. M. G. But you are lucky both of you and ought to thank your fate, 

Just think, I must be up iu time to keep my chapel date. 
C. H. I go one worse: you have that time on which a sleeper dotes, 

While I'm on watch 'fore half past eight to get '• important" notes. 
LiBE. I must say I won't so much mind being full of buzz once more; 
There are worse things in life than girls as I have said before; 
They have their tragedies, as to us they mean tragedy. 
So I shall make the best of them, as they try to, of me. 
All. We'll try to make the best of it, 

And hope the girls will too. 
Smith girls of nineteen fourteen 

Happy New Year to you ! 
Don't be too hard upon us. 

Our troubles are no myth, 
And know " Cooperation " 
Is what we want at Sojiith. 
S. H. " Q-ood-night,"— It's time to say it, a foi*eboding comes again. 

We always hurry here — What's that ? It's Collie t 
0. H. Half past ten. 

Rosamond Drexel Holmes 1914 


I wish I could begin this with a quotation — I 

Her Week should like to start in by saying breezily: "I 

remember once reading soraewliere that even 

the best sense of humor sometimes goes back on one," or " I was 

reminded recently of that familiar saying : " There is no one so 

lucky as to possess a sense of humor which never fails him.'^ 

The only (but vital!) reason that I do not resort to this 
method of procedure is that I never read nor heard a quotation 
even dimly resembling either of those of which I have made 
use, so I shall have to forego any such apt introduction and 
come plainly down to the facts themselves. 

I have a friend who has a sense of humor. I have, for that 
matter, a great many friends all similarly endowed, but this 
particular friend's particular sense of humor is, to my way of 
thinking, unusually keen. 

Now had I been able to use the quotation I couldn't quote, I 
might have here reverted to it with fine effect, but under the 
circumstances I shall be forced into being content with merely 
stating that this unusually keen sense of humor suffered an 
eclipse during an entire week. It happened as follows : My 
friend (whom I shall call Mary mainly because her real name is 
as un-Maryish as possible) had recently what she termed "The 
hardest week in the history of college." I was well prepared 
for this week of Mary's, which should have made it easier for 
me, for on Friday of the week before she began preparing me. 
This she did by cutting short my " I haven't time to — '^ with 
'* Don't speak to me ol time. If you only knew what I have to 
do next week you'd never mention time again !" or, when some 
ill-starred person on Sunday mentioned '^work for to-morrow," 
^'Work, my dear ! I'd just like to tell you the amount of 
work I ve got to do to-morrow. If you knew what I've got 
ahead of me this week you wouldn't mention work in my 
presence ! " 

But Monday the real excitement began. She came into my 
room after breakfast when I was hurrying into my coat and 
hat, and there was that in her face which should have warned 
me, but " Coming to chapel ?" said I cheerily. 

"Chapel!" she shrieked, "Chapel!" and I wonder that I 
lived to regret my words. "If you only knew what I ve got 
before me to-day you wouldn't mention chapel to me. Why, 
at nine I have Logic, at ten an English written, at eleven I 


tutor and I have Historj^ at twelve. After luncheon (which I 
shall probably cut to study) I have Art until four and tutor 
until six. And you talk of chapel to me ! Why at seven — " 
by this time I was at the front door but the window flew up and 
her head appeared — "at seven to-night," she continued, "I 
study history, from eight to nine—" but I never did hear what 
she did at nine. Her voice couldn't carry that far. 

I did not see her again until dinner, I took good care of that, 
and then by my own arrangement I sat at the other table. But 
during a momentary lull her voice rose loud and clear. "At 
eight to-morrow morning," she was saying. 

From then on life for me became one grand game of dodge. 
I went out to meals, I came in late at night, I locked the door 
of my room, but all to no avail. I went out to the tune of 
" How can you take the time— Tve been working since seven 
o'clock. '' I came wearily in to be greeted with a grudging 
"You look tired, too, but if you only knew what I've been 
through. Why last night — " and I locked my door only to 
hear, "If she had one-eighth as much to do as I have there 
might be some point in being so exclusive. Why, since nine on 
Monday morning — " 

I finally arrived at the stage of open rudeness, but I passed 
Mary again and again rushing frantically to and from classes 
accompanied by a bewildered looking friend, and always as I 
passed I caught the too familiar words, "At twelve, Friday, 
my dear !" or " Three hours' sleep last night and up at — " 

Even the most wretched week, however, must eventually 
come to an end and on Saturday night I entered the house with 
a blessed feeling of relief — no more avoiding of Mary, no more 
locked doors or dining out. Her awful week was over, and she 
would be her old amusing self again. Lightly I ran up-stairs 
and she stuck her head out of her door. 

"Oh hello!" her voice was cordiality itself. "Come right 
in here. I haven't seen you for an age, and I do want to tell 
you all about the week I've just been through." 

Adelaide Heilbron 1915. 


Quite the most unpleasant time of the college year and one 
that conscientious as well as shirking students approach with 
dread is examination week. This period is a bugbear to the 
students and to all in touch with them, not so much because of 
the character of the examinations, but because of the spirit of 
nervous excitement and unnatural agitation in which the ma- 
jority of the gills approach them. 

Each year there are a few feeble efforts to lessen this evil. 
There is always some sane student who appreciates the value of 
the " air of academic calm " and in a fervent appeal through 
*' Public Opinion ^' begs those who are prone to give audible ex- 
pression to their fears to have compassion on their neighbors 
and curb their desire to voice their feelings. Also, in many of 
the houses, examinations are not discussed in the dining room. 
In this way there is at least one common meeting place that is 
free from their blighting influence. 

But when scrutinized calmly away from the artificial glare of 
examination week what is this fear that grips the student body 
and what foundation has it ? Most of the girls have done their 
work honestly and have reviewed conscientiously and they have 
a reasonable amount of confidence in their own ability to ex- 
press what they know. Yet they weakly and with no thought 
of sane resistance, let themselves be swept away by unfounded 
fear and engulfed in a turbulent stream of nervous imaginings 
that, if they would but stop to analyse them, they would know 
were groundless. 

There is but one way for this evil to be met and that is through 
individual effort. If each one of us would decide not to let her- 
self be needlessly wrought up about examinations the frightened 
people, happily for the rest of us, would be in the minority. 
And if those few would keep their seemingly well founded fears 



to themselves and thus not inoculate all with whom they come 
in contact, the greatest burden of examination would be lifted^ 

For in giving free reign to our nervous imagining we not only 
are undermining our own capacity to think clearly but we 
are harmful to every one around us. Fears are as contagious 
as yawning. Two or three girls with their " I'm scared to- 
death/' " I don't know a thing/' " I know I'm going to flunk/^ 
can infect a room full of composed students if the latter do not 
refuse to be disconcerted by them. 

Why is it not as much a matter of pride to go into an exami- 
nation calmly as it is for an athlete to enter his contests calmly. 
No athlete would permit himself to dwell upon his fears and 
conjure up unknown terrors. He would know this would un- 
dermine his powers and keep him from doing his best work.. 
And yet we college students who of all people should recognize 
the value of clear-headedness deliberately permit our mental 
efficiency to be hacked at and mutilated by every tramp and 
beggarly fear that whines for admittance into our minds. 

This year with but little effort on the part of each one of us 
the evil of too much flower giving has been stopped. If we 
could make as definite a crusade against this most foolish habit 
of bowing before groundless fears, much of the gloom that en- 
gulfs us as we enter upon examination week would melt away 
like mist. And we should find that in reality this is not such a 
fearful time, in fact that examination week has more distinct 
merits than we had ever before seen. 

If Smith College students had the reputation for taking ex- 
aminations sanely it would be something of which we could be 
as justly proud as of our college spirit. Furthermore, the atti- 
tude of calmness cultivated now will stay with us through life. 
Refusing to be disturbed till we have proof that there is cause 
we shall find that nine-tenths of our fears simply do not exist 
at all. 


Seven days have slipped away since we came back. 
Words and more than seven times we have turned to catch 
the echo of a happy Christmas laugh. It grows 
faint as the vista of days lengthens, but the clasp of the home 
hands and a vigorous rub with the world have braced us for 
the work of the new term. Just one more long breath and we 
are ready for the midyear plunge into a sea of words. There 
they are all eager for the fight : big surging words that bowl 
you over in their steady advance and little surf breakers that 
trip you up unawares and a constant undertow of commonplaces 
tliat insist on being known. They are everywhere. Names, 
dates, statistics, laws, rules, tables will confront us at every turn 
to deluge our waking hours and haunt our sleeping minutes. 

This matter of words is a grievous one and much depends 
upon it. A single word may make or mar a record that has 
been skillfully balanced on the narrow nondescript for sixteen 
weeks. That single word is a tyrant. Its absence is even more 
powerful than its presence. Omit it and yon are lost. Commit 
it and still you may not be safe. It is no wonder that we shrink 
before such a motleys host of tyrants. And yet there are smaller 
cliques of these little monsters that are more deadly than the 
assembled multitude. They run in couplets or quatrains and 
the end words of the alternate lines are apt to bear a striking 
resemblance to each other. Such contrivances should be ac- 
companied by a diagram that will graphically illuminate the 
whole, each individual idea, the relation between the ideas and 
the relation of each to the whole. Old Janet McGillavorich 
from Mauchline expresses our sentiments with terrible honesty. 
'* Ttiis trick of not saying i-ight out what you mean turns my 
stomach. Padding out some lines to make them a bit longer, 
and chopping off ends of words to make them shorter ought to 
be beneath any reasoning creature.'' 



Words are a great trial. They are so great a trial that to tell 
the truth about them we have had to lie about them, as they 
say of the weather iu Arizona. For we must admit it true that 
even words have their fascination. They turn jester, play parts, 
pop up where you l^ast expect them and perform a variety of 
tricks and ca[)ers. Sometimes with Spooner we find ourselves 
cherishing "half- warmed fishes^' and sometimes we find a pun 
that is worth the laugh. A rare epigram always finds favor in 
our sight so we were amused to the point of forgetting that 
words may be tyrants when we heard to-day that " The Harvard 
of the species is more deadly than the Yale." R. C. 

We must confess that we are in a quandary this month. In 
the first place, onr exchanges are limited in number, so that we 
can give no criticism that will be representative of this month's 
magazines as a whole (obviously we cannot attempt to criticise 
those which have not yet put in an appearance). And in the 
second place, those that we have are excellent in some ways 
and poor in others. There are a few good short stories, some 
good verse, two or three excellent essays, and a few editorials 
of interest. Unfortunately we have not space in which to con- 
sider all these, and after due deliberation we have decided that 
it will be best to criticise the poems and stories, since there is a 
greater quantity of good material to be found there than else- 

The Occident and the Yale Literary Magazine stand first 
among the magazines that we have at hand, both for quantity 
and quality of their literature. In the Occident there are three 
stories that are particulaily good. "The Sieep Walker" is an 
ingenious story, the plot of which ceuteis about a murder in 
which the circumstances are a little out of the ordinary. The 
scene is laid on shipboard during a storm and this increases its 
dramatic effect. " Tres Dedos" is also an nnusual story, which 
is grimly humorous at the end. " Kaffeklatsch" is another 
good story. In it the character of Frau K. K. Oberauinspektor 
is very well drawn, and the story is told in a delightful way. 
There is a quantity of verse in the Occident this month. Per- 
haps the best poems are "Julia," "Cutlar Macculluch," and 
"The Western Dawn." "The Western Dawn" is a long poem 
well sustained ; it is a more ambitious attempt than is usually 
to be found in the college magazine. "Cythere" is another 


long popm, but tlie treatment here is not quite so successful as 
that of tbe poem just mentioned. 

Of tlie poetry in the Yale Literary Magazine "The Lonely 
Road/' "A Vision" and "Ballade" are worthy of mention. 
We quote the first verse of " Ballade" : 

" 'A pili^rim cowled in light is love 

Who kneels at man}' shrines and prays,' 
So sang I. knowing nought thereof, 

'He kneels beside the thronging ways. 
And even in the dust he lays 

His reverent soul at Mary's feet 
Beneath her a 11 -caressing gaze, 

For only dreams of love are sweet.' " 

In this magazine there are two good stories. "The Age of 
Chivalry " is very well written, and probably to a great extent 
true, but a little unpleasant for this very reason. " The Ambi- 
tion of Jean-Claude" is also very interesting. 

In the Pliaretra for December, "For Father" is a story with 
a great deal of human ititerest, and well told; the atmosphere 
is well-nigh perfect, "Kintaro, Little Son of Gold," too, is an 
excellent story. Two other stories that are worth reading are 
"The Way of the Tiaiisgressor," in the Normal College Echo, 
and "The Rolands," in the Sorosis. 

D. O. 



1914 presents *' The Tempest." 

Applications for Senior Dramatics for June 11 and 12, 1914, should be sent 
to the Gi-eneral Secretary at 184 Elm Street, Northampton. Alumnae are 
urged to apply for the Thursday evening performance if possible, as Satur- 
day evening is not open to alumnae, and there will probably not be more than 
one hundred tickets for Friday evening. Each alumna may apply for not 
more than one ticket for Friday evening ; extra tickets may be requested for 
Thursday. No deposit is required to secure the tickets, which may be 
claimed on arrival in Northampton from the business manager in Seelye 
Hall. In May all those who have applied for tickets will receive a request 
to confirm the applications. Tickets will then be assigned only to those who 
respond to this request. The prices of the seats will range on Thursday 
evening from $1.50 to $.75 and on Friday from $2.00 to $.75. The desired 
price of seats should be indicated in the application. A fee of ten cents is 
charged to all non-members of the Alumnae Association for the filing of the 
application and should be sent to the General Secretary at the time of appli- 


Contributions to this department are desired before the end of the month, 
in order to appear in the next month's issue, and should be addressed to 
Eloise Schmidt, Gillett House. Northampton, Massachusetts. 

'10. Grace Briggs has announced her engagement to Philip Walters. 

Mrs. Walter Doll (Eva Barns). Address : 54 Elm Street, Westerly^ 
Rhode Island. 

Rachel Eleanor Donnell. Address : University of Michigan, Ann Arbor^ 

Margaret Gilbert has announced her engagement to Reverend William 
LeRoy Haven. 
'11. Florence Angell is assistant to Dean Comstock of Smith College. Ad- 
dress : 42 Franklin Street, Northampton, Massachusetts. 

Lois Cunningham will spend the winter travelling in Europe. 



"'11. Miriam Levi is with Otis Skinner in the "Kismet" Company. At present 
the company is touriiij^ through the West. Address: Number 4, The 
Antwerp, Avondale, Cincinnati, Ohio. 
Vita Slater is teaching- in the High School at Newton, Kansas. Address : 

333 East Ninth Street, Newton. Katisas. 
Mary Tweedy is Assistant in Biology in the Wadleigh High School, New 

York City. 
Mrs. Lawson W. Wright (Josephine F. Tripp). Address: 1014 Main 
Street, Evanston, Illinois. 
■*12. Marion Denman is in Boston for the winter, studying at the Burdette 
Business College. 
Maida Herman is doing secretarial work in the firm of Ham, Frederick 

and Yont in Boston. 
Helen Hulbert is Physical Director at KempeiHall, Kenoska, Wisconsin. 
Grace Kroll is doing social work in Boston. 
'13. Eleanor Abbot is teaching Mathematics at St. Helen's Hall, Portland, 
Marjorie Anderson is acting as Secretary in Miss Spence's School. 

Address : 80 West 55th Street, New York City. 
Lucile Atcherson will be travelling in Europe until February. 
Christine Babcock is teaching Latin and French in Franklin Academy, 

Malone, New York. 
Maude Barton is doing volunteer settlement work at the South End 
House in Boston. In January she will begin a three years' nursing 
course at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. Address : 
21 Orient Avenue, Newton Centre, Massachusetts. 
Edna Balch is teaching English and Mathematics in the High School at 

Marshalltown, Iowa. 
Rose Baldwin has announced her engagement to Robert L. Meech. 
Annie Batchelder is teaching an ungraded school at Harbert, Michigan. 
Barbara Bell is studying Art in Minneapolis. 
Emily Brander is Secretary at Irving School, 35 West 84th Street, New 

York City. 
Mabel Bray is teaching at Hillside School, Norwalk, Connecticut. 
Helen Claflin is studying at the New York State Library School, Albany, 

New York. 
Anna Cobb is teaching French and English in Rockland High School, 

Rockland, Maine. 
Jessie Coit is studying Organ and Piano in Newark, New Jersey. 
Blanche Dow is teaching Expression in the Milwaukee-Downer Semi- 
nary, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. 
Amelia Dutcher is at home. Address : 37 Linwood Avenue, Newton, 
New Jersey. 


'13. Phyllis Ferirns is In'^tructor of Harmony, Orchpstration and Piano in the- 
Sherwood Masic School, The Fine Arts Building. Chicago, Illinois. 

Marietta Fnller is taking the Library School Course at the New York 
Public Library, Fifth Avenue and ^2nd Street, New York City. 

Helen Gould is doing secretarial work in a private office. Address r 
Riverside, Illinois. 

Helen Gillette is raising berries and small fruits at "Wilder, Vermont. 
Elizabeth Greene is a field worker for the Phipps Psychopathic Clinic of 

the Johns Hopkins Hospital, Baltimore, Maryland. 
Louise Hale is instructor in French in Purdue University, Lafayette, 

Juliette Halla is teaching in the Mary Warren Free Institute, Troy, New 

Helen Hodgman is doing volunteer work for the Brooklyn Bureau of 

Charities in preparation for professional social work. 
Eunice Hinman is at home. Address : 189 Summit Avenue, Summit^ 

New Jersey. 
Elizabeth Johnson is teaching Botany and English in the Virginia Col- 
lege for Young Women, Roanoke, Virginia. 
Helen Kaox is studying Design at the Westfield Normal School. 
Gladys McLain is at home, doing private tutoring in primary work. 

She is also studying Interior Decorating. 
Mary Mead is doing library work and filing in the Bond Department of 

the Guarantee Trust Company of New York City. 
Dorothy Merriam is at home in Washington. District of Columbia. 
Harriet Moodey is at home. Address : 603 Watchang Avenue, Plainfield^ 

New Jersey. 
Dorothy Olcott is studying French and Music at home. She is also chair- 
man of a King's Daughters' Day Nursery. 
Elizabeth Olcott is at home studying Art and French and teaching in a 

Home for Girls. 
Marian Parker is taking a course in Household Economics at Simmons 

College. Address: 43 Stedman Street, Brookline, Mas.'achusetts. 
Nellie Paschal is teaching German and Mathematics in Brantwood Hall, 

Bronxville, New York. 
Gertrude Patterson is at home. Address : Piketon, Ohio. 
Caroline Paulman is teaching German and English in the High School at 

Peabody, Massachusetts. 
Winifred Praeger is at home studying at Kalamazoo College, Kalamazoo, 

Madeline Pratt is at home. Address : 414 Union Street, Elmira, New 

Helea Readio is working among the mountain people at Saint Thomas*^ 

Mission, Polk County, North Carolina. 


Clara Ripley is at home. Address : 173 Harvard Street, Dorchester, 

Mildred Roberts is teachin.i? Languages in the Newmarket High School, 
Newmarket, New Hampshire. 

Helen Sewall is Reader in the Music Department. Smith College. Ad- 
dress : 2(jl Crescent Street. Northampton, Massachusetts. 

Sophia Smith is assistant to Reverend Mr, Keeler of the First Church of 
Northampton. Address : 53 Crescent Street, Northampton, Massa- 

Mary Strange is teaching Latin. French and English in the High School 
at Three Mile Bay. New York. 

Mildred Tilden is Assistant Secretary at the Fessenden School, West 
Newton, Massachusetts. Address : 37 Banks Street, Waltham, Massa- 

Lucy Titcomb is teaching Violin in Augusta, Maine, and studying Music 
in Boston. 

Emily Van Order is Supervisor of Music in the Winsor School, Long- 
wood. Boston. 

Margie Wilbur is Instructor in Latin and German and Preceptress at 
Hobart High School. Hobart, New York. 

Clara Williamson. Temporary address: The Beaconsfield, Brookline, 

Marguerite Woodruff is teaching Science and Music at Croton-on-Hudson, 
New York. 


*10. Eva Barnes to Walter Doll. Address : 3816 Park Avenue, Chicago, 

Florence Curtis to L. E. Harrah, September 10, 1913. 
Abbe F. Feirin to Charles Skinner, Junior, November 27, 1913. 
Margaret Hart to Herbert T. Patton. November 8, 1913. 
Mary Chase King to James Payton Leake, October 4, 1913. 
Caroline Montgomery to William H. Nelson. September 18, 1913. 
Amy Wallburg to Benjamin G-. Southwick, September 2, 1913. 
Constance Watson to James W. Pollock, October 25, 1913. 
Olive Watson to G. Willard Freeman, October 6, 1913. 
Ednah A. Whitney to Herbert T. Gerrish, September 25, 1913. 
'11. Jean Johnson to Thomas Jewett Goddard, December 13, 1913. Address : 

157 East 81.-t Street, New York City. 
Mary O'Malley to William M. Hnssie, August 28, 1913. Address : 2309 

West Lehigh Avenue, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 



'10. Mrs. W. S. Chilson (Helen Evans), a son, William Wallace, born Sep- 
tember 25, 1913. 

Mrs, P. T. Coons (Elizabeth Brown), a daughter, Elizabeth, born Septem- 
ber 18, 1913. 

Mrs, R. A. Delesderniers (Frances Mann), a son, Dwight Maynard, born 
August 3, 1912. 

Mrs. W. McP. Goodrich (Helen Jeffers), a daughter, Carol, born August 
16, 1913. 

Mrs. C. M. Hart (Adiene Bergen), a son, Carman Bogart, born October 
13, 1913. 

Mrs. Karl Kiedaisch (Katherine Jenkins), a son, George Jenkins, born 
September 9, 1913. 

Mrs. J. A. Migel (Margaret Dauchy), a son, Julius Dauchy, born Novem- 
ber 5, 1913. 

Mrs. W. W. Taylor (Marjorie Wells), a son, Walter Williard, born Octo- 
ber 17, 1913. 
'13. Mrs. Betts (Esther Cook), a son, Nelson Benjamin, born November 1, 


January 17. Meetings of Alpha and Phi Kappa Psi Societies. 
Latin Play. 
'' 19-27. Midyear Examinations. 

27. Senior Class Party. 
'* 29. Second Semester Begins. 

" 31. Group Dance. 

February 4. Concert under the auspices of the Western Massa- 
chusetts Branch of the A. C. A. 
** 7. Junior Frolic. 

*^ 11. Freshman-Sophomore Basket Ball Game. 

Junior-Senior Debate. 
'* 14. Meetings of Alpha and Phi Kappa Psi Societies. 


Smitb College 

]februar?^ 1914 
Qvoncb an& Ipubll9be5 b? tbe Senior Claee 


A French Precieuse and an English Blue Stocking 

Ruth Bartholomew 1915 257 


In February 

Afternoons . . ^ 

Dusk .... 

Salem and Hawthorne 

The Affairs of Lizzie 

At Twilight 


Mary Sarah's Glee Club Man 
"O Changing Swallow" 
Passers-by . . . . 

Last Night 
The Eternal Feminine . 


Grace Angela Richmond 1916 270 

Leonora Branch 1914 270 

Katherine Buell Nye 1915 271 

Helen Violette Tooker 1915 274 

Martha Chadbourne 1914 ^'74 

Esther Loyola Harney 1914 375 

Marion Delamater Freeman 1914 283 

Ellen Elizabeth Williams 1915 284 

Dorothy Lilian Spencer 1914 292 

Leonora Braiich 1914 293 

Jeanne Woods 1914 294 

Annie Preston Bridges 1915 295 

Applied Logic 

Experience as Teacher 


Barbara Cheney 1915 299 
Marion S. Walker 1915 301 


Entered at the Post Ofllce at Northampton, Massachusetts, as second class matter 
Gazette Printing Company, Northampton, Mass. 


Smith College Monthly 

Vol. XXI FEBRUARY, 1914 No. 5 


Lois Cleveland Gould 
Leonora Branch Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Margaret Louise Farrand Marion Delamater Freeman 
Rosamond Drexel Holmes Frances Milliken Hooper 

Margaret Bloom Dorothy Lilian Spencer 

Ruth Cobb Dorothy Ochtman 

Eloise Schmidt 


Ruth Hellekson 

assistant business managers 
Esther Loyola Harney 
Bertha Viola Conn 




The woman of France first came into prominence in the intel- 
lectual world in the seventeenth century, when after years of 
warfare, both civil and foreign, the people had time to turn 
their interest away from the business of protecting their country 
to the higher development and refinement of themselves as indi- 
viduals. A desire for self-improvement and culture, socially, 
morally, intellectually, gradually became predominant. It was 
in this refining that the Preci^use of France stands out as a 
great positive influence. 


The name itself implies several of the prominent character- 
istics of the French woman of that time. Freely translated, a 
''femme pr^cieuse" is a woman over-nice, finical and precise to 
the point of affectation, logical to the point of absurdity. It is 
easy to see the effect that such a mentality would have when 
once it applied itself to general refinement. Culture became 
the goal of ambition and women pursued it regardless of mod- 
eration. In the reaction against the coarseness and vulgarity 
of previous camp-bred generations manners, customs, language 
and literature underwent a sort of false purification resulting 
for the time being in ridiculous exaggeration. 

Among those intimately connected with this refining move- 
ment, Catherine de Vivonne, better known in history as Madame 
de Rambouillet, is the most prominent ; partly because she was- 
the first to enlist but mostly because she represents the highest 
type of French woman of her day. It is true that she was only 
half French. Her mother was an Italian noblewoman, her 
father, a French ambassador to Rome. Until she was twelve 
years old she lived in Italy, where she very naturally absorbed 
the Italian's love of culture and refinement. At twelve, she 
married the Marquis de Rambouillet and went with him to 
France. There she was immediately received into the court, 
but the coarse vulgarity of it was distasteful to her, so after a 
few years she retired to her residence in the Rue St. Thomas 
du Louvre, where she formed a miniature court of her own, 
called THotel de Rambouillet. 

The marquise's idea in withdrawing from the court and form- 
ing her own private circle was purely one of revolt against the 
low standards and base character of the kingly following and 
her instinctive craving for higher ideals in all phases of life. 
She believed that only by careful attention to each word and 
action could the language and manners of her people be brought 
to a nobler level. Farther, she thought that in order to instil 
such ideals into their minds they must have constant association 
with the beautiful and the sesthetic. They must live in con- 
genial surroundings where their ideals could be always before 
them. She held that people should be judged not by their 
nobility of rank, but by their nobility of character. Rich and 
poor alike were held up to this one consideration and their 
innate ability to appreciate the fine and pure determined their 


In her family relations, Madame de Rambouillet felt that 
these same principles should dominate. The home should be 
the center of all that is finest and best, a sweet family life, 
pervaded with harmony and enriched by the highest cultural 
influences. Thus the children would grow up knowing no 
other tendency of life, peculiarly sensitive to delicacy in any 
form. So, education whether for young or old was a process of 
refinement through constant association with all that is best in 
art, literature and science. 

The Marquise believed that women naturally possessed more 
of these desirable qualities than did men and so she placed 
woman first in the scale, emphasizing her superiority and her 
consequent need of higher education in order that she might 
exercise the greatest possible influence on man. With true 
perception she saw that if women could meet men as their 
intellectual equals, they would at once become more congenial, 
more sympathetic, and therefore more mutually helpful. 

In carrying out these ideas Madame de Rambouillet first 
gave her thought to the building of the home itself. She 
planned it with great foresight and much originality. The 
decorations were magnificent, the furniture was chosen with 
exquisite taste. There were the most artistic color combina- 
tions and rich blendings of heavy velvets and tapestries. The 
gardens, too, were beautiful with their flowered walks, secret 
arbors and a great crystal fountain. All this the Marquise 
chose as suitable surroundings for people of the highest intel- 
lectual type. Through her entire life, THotel de Rambouillet 
remained the principal seat of her activities. There she assem- 
bled her friends, such friends as I have already described, fine 
men and women with true appreciation of culture. There she 
exercised her influence over them, prompting them to complete 
denunciation of the common and unrefined. She had a ver}^ 
strong personality, so charming tha.t those who came into con- 
tact with it were quick to respond and proud to own its sway. 
So her friends were eager to help her realize her ideals. Almost 
constantly associated with her in her home, they strove to 
perfect themselves in the ordinary things of life. Manners 
became more polished, conversation more select. At the morn- 
ing levde, in the daily strolls about the gardens, in informal 
gatherings in the Blue Room or at the luxurious banquets in 
the evenings, their aim was always before them. Everything 
was done precisely " au fait" ; etiquette was all important. 


The Marquise also laid particular emphasis on literature. 
Her followers read all of the current books. In fact, many of 
them were the greatest literary lights of the time, — such as 
Corneille, Bossuet, Mademoiselle de Scudery, Madame de La 
Fayette and Madame de S^vignd. Often they met together to 
hear these authors read their own writings or to listen to the 
madrigals and lighter work of those of less genius. Every one 
was encouraged to write, but all their work was subjected to 
the highest criticism and heavy censure fell iipon any trace of 
vulgarity or grossness. 

These gatherings were not always confined to literary discus- 
sions. Their talk ran from topics of religion, politics and war 
to an analysis of the sentiments and the meaning of love. In 
all these pastimes the women met the men on an equal footing. 
Their ideas and arguments were discussed and judged by the 
same standards as those of the men. Not only tbe marquise 
herself, but all of the women associated with her became as 
well versed and as well educatsd as the men. 

But with her declining years, when the marquise's power was 
failing, exaggeration crept in and her ideals grew to be a fad. 
In their eagerness to reach excellence, the people went to 
extremes. Manners became absurd and conversation was so 
over-refined that it was necessary to edit a dictionary ^'prdcieuse" 
in order to understand the meaning of the thousand ridiculous 
words they coined. 

Madame de Rambouillet has always been so closely linked 
with her '* salon" that her character has come to be emphasized 
in that connection only ; but I feel that back of her public life 
there was a private life which, though largely overlooked by 
after generations, meant more to her than anything else. So 
much stress has been laid on her duties as a hostess and on her 
efforts as the guiding intellectual spirit of a great institution 
that we are ioclined almost to forget that she had any other 
interests or at least to wonder how she had the time and energy 
to give her attention to her more intimate family life. 

Though Madame de Rambouillet was only twelve years old 
when she married, and so could hardly have had anything to 
do with the choice of her husband, had such been the custom of 
those times, she found in the Marquis de Rambouillet a very 
congenial, lovable husband. He was eleven years older than 
she, but from the first he recognized her fine qualities and 


admired, respected and adored her. One of the king\s ambassa- 
dors, he had to be present at the court most of the time that he 
was in Paris. There the marquise did not accompany him, for 
besides her great task of hostess to her friends, she had a large 
family to demand her care, — seven children in all, five girls and 
two boys. In the home life there was the same delicate spirit 
of refinement ever-present. The relations between father and 
mother were so entirely happy, so unusually beautiful, that 
there was practically no element of discord. They were exceed- 
ingly fond of their children, consequently it was a great sorrow 
to them, when, in 1632, both of their sons died within the year. 

At this time as at all others, Julie d'Angennes, the marquise's 
eldest daughter, was a constant comfort and help to her mother. 
Of all her children, Julie seemed to have more nearly the same 
tastes and ideals as the marquise herself; hence their great 
congeniality and Julie's ability to understand and sympathize 
with her mother. Later on, when, in 1652, the death of the 
marquis seemed to be the culmination of a long series of disap- 
pointments, due to the disloyalty of Claire Diane, her second 
daughter, the marquise found Julie and her husband, Monsieur 
de Montausier, an even greater comfort. And their little 
daughter was an inestimable delight to the marquise in her 
declining years. 

The history of Julie's romance with the Marquis de Montau- 
sier, though not bearing directly on the character of the mar- 
quise, does, I think, show negatively an interesting phase of 
her thought. The romance occupied ten years, — ten years of 
constant, insistent effort on the part of the young marquis and 
of equally insistent refusal on the part of Julie, who even more 
pr^cieuse than her mother, felt that marriage should come only 
after a long series of "romantic adventures," as she called 
them. Of course, there were doubtless other reasons that influ- 
enced her. In the first place, there was her great attachment 
to her mother. Secondly, both Julie and her mother were 
ardent Catholics, while M. de Montausier was a Protestant. 
Thirdly, the marquis was three years younger than Julie. But 
besides these reasons, certain it is that Julie deliglited in keep- 
ing the marquis in suspense and that for several years she 
thus played with him for simple enjoyment. In the mean- 
time the marquis in order to win her had chang»-d his religion 
and had won fame for himself in numerous campaigns. The 


'^Guirland de Julie" represents bis last gallant attempt to gain 
her hand, and it proved a "coup d'^clat.'^ A large album con- 
taining a flower for every page, with a suitable poem under 
it,— this conglomeration of art, done by the greatest painters 
and poets of the day, accomplished the desired result and Julie, 
with the encouragement of her mother, became Madame de Mon- 

The very fact that Madame de Rambouillet did not discour- 
age Jalie in her conduct during these years showed that she did 
not disapprove of her attitude ; so that though the marquise 
was not so extreme in her ideas as those who followed her in 
the next few years, we can see in her traces of that same ten- 
dency which soon reached a point of positive absurdity with 
the French women. 

Though Madame de Rambouillet was herself on the verge of 
this exaggeration, her fine sense of things kept her from going 
too far. Bat she recognized in others about her this tendency 
and it was one of the sorrows of her last years to realize that 
the fulfillment of her ideas, once so promising, was now far 
from accomplishment. For the people in their mad rush for 
culture had lost all sense of proportion and had gradually 
shifted their aim to that of being different from everybody else. 

There were other things, too, darkening the end of the mar- 
quise's life. The meetings at I'Hotel de Rambouillet had grad- 
ually dwindled on account of the marquise's poor health. She 
could receive only a few of her most intimate friends. Most of 
her old followers had already died. No one quite realized how 
greatly she suffered from the loss of her husband. They had 
been such congenial companions for fifty years that she hardly 
knew how to live without him. Julie and her family were the 
only ones left. Their ceaseless devotion did much to sweeten 
the passing of those last days. 

Finally, in 1663, Madame de Rambouillet died. During her 
life-time, she was universally loved and admired and after her 
death the feeling remained unchanged. People were quick to 
recognize in her a keen mind, clever wit, innate refinement and 
a great, irresistable charm of character. It is a notable fact 
that, great and prominent though she was, there is practically 
no record df her having an enemy or of there being anyone who 
even disliked her, except in the case of Claire Diane, the daugh- 
ter who denounced not only her mother but her entire famil5\ 


This can be said of very few public characters who were as 
great and did as much as Madame de Rambouillet. 

Almost fifty years aft«r the death of Madame de Rambouillet 
and practically one hundred after the French women first became 
active in their self-improvement, the English women began to 
show signs of the same tendencies. But nowhere and at no 
time was the movement carried on under any such well-planned 
organization or with such consistency as in France. The 
nearest point of correspondence in England lies in a certain 
literary club in London, called the Blae Stocking. This was 
made up mostly of women and aimed to introduce into society 
a healthier, more intellectual life and to supplant gossip by a 
higher type of literary discussion. The Blue Stocking Club, 
however, was not the idea of any one person and did not have 
back of it the consistent effort of a competent leader, such as 
Madame de Rambouillet. It was simply a social gathering 
which came into being and drifted out again after a short, 
almost unorganized existence. It has been called an "angli- 
cized Hotel de Rambouillet/' but the only justification for the 
name lies in the fact that its aim lay along the same lines as 
that of I'Hotel de Rambouillet, though it did not possess any 
such compass. Still, in the same way that the term " prdcieuse" 
came to have its meaning in France, the term " Blue Stocking" 
grew up in England. The name was applied to anyone who, in 
making an effort toward a higher intellectual standard, had 
overstepped the mark and become pedantic. But the term 
implied in it, too, several of the prominent English character- 
istics, those of carelessness and slovenliness. This last idea, as 
also the name of the original club, came from one of its mem- 
bers, a Mr. Stillingfleet, who always wore blue stockings, the 
fancy dress requirement, no matter what style of suit he had 
on. Hence the idea of inconsistency of dress, unconvention- 
ality, slouchiness. Thus a Blue Stocking was characteristically 
Entrlish as a " prdcieuse " was French. 

The very best example of these English characteristics was 
Lady Mary Pierrepont, afterward Lady Mary Wortley Mont- 
ague, who was born in Nottinghamshire about one hundred 
years after Madame de Rombouillet. She, too, was of noble 
parentage. Unfortunately, her mother died when she was only 
four years old, so there was no restraining hand to guide her as 
she grew up. Her father, who was very proud of her beauty. 


oversaw her education and took care that she was versed in all 
the fashionable accomplishments. The little Lady Mary had a 
keen, quick mind. She was a good Latin scholar, had a read- 
ing knowledge of Greek and a passionate love for books. From 
the day she was born she began to think, and her extensive 
reading while young gave her unusually mature ideas which 
she was ever ready to express. 

First of all, she possessed a peculiar scorn for custom, conven- 
tion and style. In a letter written at nineteen, Lady Mary, in 
reference to the study of grammars and dictionaries, says : " In 
making my pleasures consist of these unfashionable diversions, 
I am not of the number who cannot be easy out of the mode. I. 
believe more follies are committed oat of complaisance to the 
world than in following our own inclinations. Nature is seldom 
in the wrong, custom always; it is with some regret that I 
follow it in all the impertinences of dress ; the complaisance is 
so trivial that it comforts me ; but I am amazed to see it con- 
sulted even in the most important occasions of our lives ; and 
that people of good sense in other things can make their happi- 
ness consist in the opinions of others, and sacrifice everything, 
in the desire of appearing in fashion. I call all people who fall 
in love with furniture, or clothes, and equipage, of this number, 
and I look upon them as no less in the wrong than when thej^ 
were five years old, and doted on shells, pebbles and hobby- 

A.gain, Lady Mary takes an antagonistic attitude toward the- 
then prevailing opinion concerning woman's sphere and educa- 
tion. She revolts against the fact that women are encouraged 
in all the effeminate pursuits of life but that they are laughed 
at when they strive after higher learning. On the other hand, 
she recognizes the ridiculous appearance of a '' learned woman. '^ 
She aims at a happy medium. For while she she believes that 
men are the superior sex and that any woman who denies it 
rebels against the law of the Creator, she maintains that igno- 
rance in a woman makes it possible for a man to corrupt her 
and to convince her to any way of thinking because she has not 
the knowledge or ability to argue for herself. 

As far as regards marriage, Ladj^ Mary had some very high 
ideals. She felt that happiness consisted in perfect congen- 
iality ; that marriage based on love alone would be unhappy, 
because the ability to be good-humored, agreeable and cheerful 


determines a person's lovableness and people are not always 
disposed to be aimable. Furthermore, the conple must make 
up their minds to be content with what thuv l.ave, wherever 
they are, otherwise dissatisfaction will result. Here again she 
emphasizes the fact that the woman is really inferior to the 
man and that she therefore must be willing to follow whatever 
is best for his good and development. 

So much for a few of the big principles in Lady Mary's 
thought. It is almost impossible to give a definite statement of 
her other ideas, as she is constantly changing from one side to 
the other without always apparent reason. In this case it is 
easier to take up these ideas in connection with her life. 

When she was twenty-two, she married Sir Edward Wortley 
Montague. She met him through his sister. Mistress Anne, her 
very dear friend. He was a very quiet, reserved, not particu- 
larly brilliant man, so it is hard to see just what attraction a 
woman like Lady Mary could find in him. Still, it cannot be 
doubted that she found something to hold her, although it is 
hard to tell whether or not she really loved him. They had 
constant quarrels during their engagement, which was broken 
off time and again only to be renewed immediately. Their dis- 
putes were not over arrangements for the time after their 
marriage ; concerning these Lady Mary agreed perfectly with 
Mr. Montague. She professed not to care for wealth and seemed 
willing to do anything he wished. They quarreled jealously 
and pettishly as to whether or not they really loved each other. 
Throughout the correspondence of this period, it is easy to see 
that Lady Mary is not sure of herself, that she instinctively 
feels she will not be happy with Mr. Montague, and yet she 
goes ahead in opposition to her family and finally, after putting 
off the decision until the day before, still unsettled in her own 
mind, she elopes with him. 

Shortly after their marriage, parliamentary business called 
Mr. Wortley to London, while Lady Mary went to visit some 
friends in Nottinghamshire. Then, there seems to be a com- 
plete change in the tone of her letters. They are those of a 
devoted bride. Apparently, Mr. Wortley does not write her 
often enough and the worry, doubts and fears expressed in 
those letters make me wonder if this is not really, after all, the 
expression of true love. The same tone prevails in her letters 
after her sou is born, but gradually they begin to show her 


interest in another line. Her ambition for her husband takes 
the lead. She is anxious for him to be a prominent politician. 
She urges the necessity of money in order to gain power. She 
seems to realize that Mr. Wortley is not making the best of 
every opportunity and she tells him to be more "impudent." 
Finally he is elected to parliament again and Lady Mary goes 
to London, where, for a time, she becomes a true woman of 
fashion. She is a great favorite at the court ; she caters to 
style in dress, to convention in manners, but she goes no further. 
Following the tendency of the court, she does not hesitate to 
use the low, vulgar language of George the First's followers and 
she seems to have felt very little if any repulsion at the thought. 

It is during this stay in London that Lady Mary became inter- 
ested in the Blue Stocking Club and took part in its meetings. 
But her literary interest was not limited to this field. Through- 
out her letters, she gives plenteous criticisms of the books she 
reads. She has a keen insight into character, a clear judgment 
and a taste for good literature that make her views at once 
interesting and valuable. Lady Mary's greatest contribution 
to literature is of course these letters which I have so frequently 
mentioned. They are fascinating, vivid, clear, full of life and 
representative of life. 

In 1716 Mr. Montague received his appointment as ambassa- 
dor to Constantinople and Lady Mary accompanied him there. 
While in the East, she became acquainted with the use of inocu- 
lation for small-pox. This she had the courage to introduce 
into England on her return. Indeed, she even was brave enough 
to try it on her own family as proof of its efficacy. That Lady 
Mary appreciated the beauty of cleanliness, we see from her 
letters written during this first trip abroad on her way through 
Holland. There she notices the clean streets and houses of the 
Dutch towns and points out as a result the clean character of 
the people, the absence of beggarj^ and the noticable presence 
of cheerfulness. She says, " Here is neither dirt nor beggary 
to be seen. One is not shocked with those loathsome cripples, 
so common in London, nor teased with the o^jportunity of idle 
fellows and wenches, that choose to be nasty and lazy. The 
common servants and little shopwomen here are more nicely 
clean than most of our ladies ; and the great variety of neat 
dresses is an additional pleasure in seeing the town." Yet, 
though Lady Mary realized the importance of health to such an 


extent that she was willing to meet considerable opposition and 
ridicule in Ens^Lmd in order to introduce vaccination, though 
she saw the favorable results of cleanliness so practical in 
Holland, she failed to make any effort to keep herself clean or 
to urge others to do so. She seemed to realize that the dirt and 
filth of London was responsible for such miserable conditions, 
and yet she did not even so much as move a finger or suggest a 

After her return to England Lady Mary and her husband 
resided at Twickingham, near Mr. Pope, to the great joy of the 
poet, who was very fond of Lady Mary. Then comes their 
famous quarrel, the whys and wherefores of which I shall not 
attempt to deal with here. Suffice it to say that this quarrel 
is one of the bitterest in history and became a matter of large 
public comment, for by this time Lady Mary was well enough 
known to have many friends and many enemies who took sides 
accordingly. At any rate scandal was certainly provoked by 
Lady Mary's unconventionalities. 

This perhaps gives us a clue to the reason for Lady Mary's 
separation from her husband in 1739 and her long stay of 
twenty-two years abroad. Leigh Hunt, who judges her in a 
rather censorious manner, says : "In certain matters her inde- 
pendence of conduct was such as to render it impossible for her 
husband either to live with or to separate from her without 
scandal." But we cannot be absolutely sure that this was the 
cause, for there is no real evidence of it. Even Lady Mary's 
family professed to know no adequate reason. The separation 
was apparently brought about in a perfectly quiet, friendly 
manner. It was not a legal arrangement, — just a mutual acqui- 
escence, making it possible for Lady Mary to retire abroad. 
During all her stay she corresponded frequently with her hus- 
band, and there is alwaj^s a marked friendliness of tone, some- 
times even affection in her attitude towards him. On the other 
hand, Mr. Wortley constantly gives her his confidence in all his 
concerns; he shows evidence of gre^t resy)ect and care for her 
well-being. Whatever the true circumstances of her long stay 
abroad, I believe that it was certainly wise for Lady Mary to 
leave Eagland, because as she grew older she became more and 
more erratic, with even less regard for appearances. She had 
already many enemies who would have jumped at the least 
-chance of further attacking her. Of course Lady Mary con- 


tinned making enemies while abroad, but the opposition was 
less intense. 

Daring these twenty-two years Lady Mary settled in Italy. 
She bought a house and became much interested in gardening 
and the rearing of silkworms. The letters of this period are 
full of the most interestiag descriptions of the customs of those 
about her. Many of these letters are written to Lady Bute, her 
daughter, who seems to have been one of the very few to hold 
her mother's affection through her whole life. There is na 
doubt of the fact that Lady Mary loved her daughter dearly 
and found in her a congenial companion and valuable friend. 

In these letters there are also frequent interesting allusions 
to things happening in England. One of them is an admirable 
example of Lady Mary's unconventional frankness. She says : 
** I am sorry for the untimely death of poor Lord Cornbury ; he 
certainly had a very good heart. I have often thought it a 
great pity it was not under the direction of a better head." 

In another of her letters she describes her household. With 
this same household, shortly after the death of her husband, in 
1761, she returned to England. Her cousin, who then went to 
visit her, describes her establishment thus: " I was very gra- 
ciously received and (you may imagine) entertained by one- 
who neither thinks, speaks, acts, nor dresses like anybody else. 
Her domestic establishment is made up of all nations ; and 
when you get into her drawing-room, you imagine you are in 
the first story of the Tower of Babel. An Hungarian servant 
takes your name at the door ; he gives it to an Italian, who 
delivers it to a Frenchman ; the Frenchman to a Swiss, and the 
Swiss to a Polander ; so that by the time you get to her Lady-- 
ship's presence, you have your name changed five times without 
the expense of an Act of Parliament." Imagine such a thing 
happening at THotel de Rambouillet ! 

Lady Mary had not long to live in England. Her health was 
failing rapidly and she died ten months after her return, in 
August, 1761. Even after twenty-two years of absence, Lady 
Mary had enemies who were ready to exaggerate her uncouth 
appearance and make her more eccentric than she really was. 
She had such vivacity of spirit, such a lively disposition, that 
unfortunately she made as many enemies as friends. Delight- 
ing to follow her own free will, in thought, speech, action, she 
fretted a^ifainst the convention of the times. She had in her 


nature a biting streak of sarcasm, which made her unusual 
endowments doubly dangerous. She herself was as tactless as 
she was headstrong; but had she married a man who could 
have managed her and sympathized with her, she might have 
proved a devoted wife, for her long, lasting affection for her 
daughter, Lady Bute, shows her capable of a deep, perma- 
nent love. 

In a comparison of Madame de Rambouillet and Lady Mary 
as individuals, we recognize first that they are both superior 
women, of high intellectual qualities. They both had a desire 
for reform, but Madome de Rambouillet went much farther, 
carrying that desire into every phase of life, while Lady Mary 
applied it to intellectual standards only. Consequently, the 
influence of the marquise was much greater than that of Lady 
Mary. Lady Mary lacked that instinctive love of refinement so 
dominating in Madame de Rambouillet. Her great tactfulness, 
sweet character and charming personality further insured her 
influence, while Lady Mary's corresponding tactlessness, biting 
sarcasm and fiery disposition so offset her more attractive char- 
acteristics that they lessened, rather than increased, her power 
over the great majority of people. Wherever Madame de 
Rambouillet attracted notice, she did so in a quiet, delicate, 
yet fascinating way, but Lady Mary shocked the world into 

Considering these two women not only as individuals, but as 
types offering examples of the chief points of difference between 
their respective races, we find even more contrast. Madame de 
Rambouillet and the French are a logical, tactful, consistent, 
conventional, careful, law-abiding people ; while Lady Mary 
and the English are illogical, tactless, inconsistent, unconven- 
tional, careless, always looking for the exception rather than 
the rule. 



Now am I free ; no care nor toil to bind, 

In endless space eternally I fly; 

A wind-swept flame, a flash of sunshine, I, 

A cloud that drifts before a joyous wind. 

Eternal life and happiness — and yet 

The hawthorn blooming in the crooked lane, 

The scent of lilacs after summer rain, 

A note of music, — passion thrilled with pain- 

And I remember what I would forget, 

And dreaming, dreaming feel regret. 



" Daffy-down-dilly lias come up to tovni 
In a yellow petticoat and a green gown.'' 

She passed along the city street 
With hair unbound, her dimpled feet 
All bare and rosy, in her eyes 
The azure promise of the skies, 
The green and yellow of her gown 
Lighting the greyness of the town. 

I did not see her wandering 

The city through — who looks for Spring 

In February ? — but I saw 

An old man with a hat of straw, 

A cane, and in his eyes a smile, 

A look of knowing things worth while ; 

And farther on I met a maid, 

In gown of green, that tender shade 

The willows wear, what time the stream 

Breaks, babbling, through its wintry dream. 

And, hurrying upon my way, 

I caught a glimpse of boys at play 

With tops, and at the corner there 

I felt a something in the air — 

A fragrance, faint, elusive, sweet. 

Stole from the pavement 'neath my feet, 

And stooping down to breathe my fill 

I saw the yellow daffodil 

You'd dropped,— and so was sure at last, 

That it was Spring herself, had passed. 




"One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready 
and — four to go I " Down from the third step you jumped and 
landed in a pile of leaves, where you lay, listening to the faint 
rustlings and whisperings and cracklings. But over the con- 
fused sounds came clearly, 

"Eighty-five, ninety, ninety-five, fi-ve hundred! Ready, — 
coming ! '^ 

You lay concealed until you heard, 

" One, two, three for Eddy.'' 

"One, two, three for ' Maryon'." 

Then a long silence and, 

" Rotten eggs an' beefsteak for Jim an' Harry." 

Unable to remain quiet a second longer you rushed up to 
"bye," and were made " it " because you were the last to come. 
Yoa screwed your eyes up and started boldly. 

"Five, ten, fifteen, twenty," but from there on you didn't 
know the numbers and kept up a sing-song imitation, guessing 
at the intervals, then ; 

*' One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred,^ 
five hundred, ready, — coming ! " 

It took no time to decide where to look, for you knew the 
rules of the game,— first the garden, then the barn. In the 
garden you peered behind small stones and jumped around big 
trees, you gazed up into the branches, and through the layers 
of brown leaves the blue sky glowed. Then you crawled 
through thickets of low shrubs and felt that you were a giant 
in the forest, for the branches begaii at the height of your knees 
and by jumping you could see over their tops. But there was 
no one in the garden. 

At last you stood in the barn door, a small blue figure in the 
big dim square. Way over in the corner the afternoon sun 
poured in at a small window and yellow dust particles danced 
up and down the narrow path of light. To your left there was 
darkness, and over all a silence, throbbing with suppressed 
breathing and scarcely broken by the horses' stamping and 


switching their tails. Unsteadily you tiptoed to the row of 
carriages, with their shafts braced high in the air. They were 
empty. You passed the stalls, made a thorough examination of 
the hay-mow and still more stealthily approached the harness 
room, progressing slowly and balancing yourself with out- 
stretched arms. 

Halt I There was the faintest sound, not unlike the softest 
stirring of the falling leaves, a slit of pink seen through the 
crack of the door. You turned and sped through the echo- 
ing barn. Your footsteps thundered behind you, but grew 
lighter as you reached the open door. Across the scrunching 
gravel and over the soft grass you ran and fell exhausted on the 
back steps calling, 

" One two three for Mary on I " 

When the barn grew so dark that the terror overbalanced the 
pleasure of hiding in it, a bonfire attracted your attention, and 
you all helped Michael -rake leaves for the privilege of burning 
them in big smouldering piles. How the smoke followed you 
around and got in your eyes ! Later you made fiery fans in the 
air with glowing sticks, then red snakes against the purple haze. 

Awful orgies ensued, accompanied by war dances, moans and 
groans, shrieks and wails. The back porch was the prison and 
there lay the captives bound and gagged awaiting their end in 

Suddenly a shaft of light appeared beyond the wall of smoke 
just back of the fire. The gloomy dungeon was illuminated, 
and a well known voice called, 

" Supper time ! Come right in and get cleaned up ! " 

The captives were saved. 

Again the afternoon was before you. The sun bored a queer 
hole through the grey sky and made a shining path among the 
snowflakes as they circled toward your window. Afternoon ! 
and what a multitude of things you could do. Faint memories 
of things you had done, on just such days as this, flitted through 
your mind and were chased by other memories. '* The host of 
things you longed to do !" But soon these stole away and new 
thoughts crept in. Thoughts of games you had never played, 
stories you had never read, dreams which you had never 
dreamed — and so you built new castles which to-morrow would 
be as familiar as their predecessors of to-day. 

Up and up you gazed, through the fine falling snow which 


tumbled from the flat gray sky. You watched the tiny flakes, like 
pills, first catching sight of one as it grew dark against the cloud 
and careened nearer and nearer, now circling downward and 
now caught up and twirled giddily until at last the sun touched 
it and glistening white it settled on the sill before you. There 
it lay, that brave ship, with frozen rigging and icy prow, whose 
tiny cabin contained the warmest of stoves, the cosiest of bunks 
and piles and piles of books and charts. Down, down you had 
been carried on that shif), before a capricious wind, now in a 
black storm, now wedged in binding ice fields, and at last you 
had sailed into port, home at last from *' The Land Beyond the 
Winter Sun." 

You turned from the window slightly hazed by your sudden 
return. How natural home seemed, nothing changed since you 
started on that long voyage. The fire burned briskly and there 
lay the costume which you wore one morning when you played 
Indian. There were your books and your paints. Paints ! 
The very thing ! So no sooner were you home from your 
journey than you settled down to your life's work. 

You were to be an artist. You had always liked to paint, and 
nothing appealed more strongly to your imagination than a 
clean white page, neatly mapped out into little spaces, which 
you transformed into brightly colored scenes from farm life. 
You confessed to a weakness for blonde hair and large, bright 
blue eyes. All of your milk maids were blessed with these and 
they usually wore pink dresses, which contrasted advantage- 
ously with a red or yellow cow. 

And what a difference- you could make in milk maids I You 
could do them hurriedly and run over the lines, in which cases 
the cows usually had pink noses and tails, and the blue eyes 
were alarmingly large — or you could take great pains and make 
^'really truly, curly, hair," a pink and white striped, or, — with 
the greatest care,— a checked dress I With such a milk maid 
you always made spotted cows. 

But soon the " paint water " grew dirty, the face died down. 
It was cold and dark outside the window and, glancing over 
your shoulder, you saw that the snowflakes were little white 
fingers, tapping— tapping. So you ran through the dark hall 
and down the stairs to the bright, warm kitchen, where kettles 
simmered, and steam tipped and clicked their lids. Sizzling 
sounds came from pans on top of the stove, and smells of fresh 
bread and roast meat from the pantry. ^ 



Shy Dusk passed slowly through the silent land, 
And gently o'er the earth her mantle trailed 
Till every leaf and flower was shadow-veiled. 
And in the twilight sky the breezes fanned 
The sparkling stars to life, and here, below, 
Like swift reflections gleamed the fire-flies' glow. 



Across his path 

A shadow lay. 

He paused or hastened on, yet still, 

'T was there, his ceaseless follower, 

A thing all mixed with gloom and gray. 

Dim shadow, speak ; 

What was thy goal f 

He saw thee once 

In summer time 

Fall fleetingly upon the rose. 

Winged by his eager discontent, 

None sought a rest where less of grace 

And ease were found 

What was thy goall9 

Stern winter came. 

In silhouette 

Thou didst appear upon the page 

Of crystal. Not till then were seen 

Thy outline's firm austerity; 

He knew it well. 

What was thy goal 9 

Didst thou not aid 

His power to paint 

In coloring subdued, yet clear 

As aye to him thy phantom was 

The consequence of Human Sin ? 

Grim shadow, speak ; 

Was this thy goal 9 




To begin with, we have always lived in Salem. Salem is the 
most conservative and old-fashioned town in Massachusetts. It 
is now a city, but being a city does not affect Salem much. 
Salem always considers itself a town and that town to which, in 
the glorious days of the Revolution, the port was transferred, 
after Boston had its "Tea Party." Our forefathers had the 
good luck to be transferred to Salem town in the filthy, straw- 
bottomed boat of the seventeenth-century colonizing companies 
instead of in the steerage of an eighteenth-century steamer. It 
is a town which progress has gently aroused from a colonial 
afternoon nap of "forty winks" after the danger had passed of 
the little nap becoming a long sleep, like that of Rip Van 
Winkle. Antiquity, old lace, real silver and that enduring 
quality, " genteelness," is stamped upon every door-knocker. 
We have "knockers" on our doors in Salem, never "bells." 
When the other colonies, in the early days, were busy making 
" pine-tree shillings" or cultivating tobacco, the town of Salem 
was busy stamping that quality upon its men and women, the 
dignity of aristocratic " genteelness." To be sure, the business 
sections of the city are like any other cities, or as nearly alike 
as it is possible for Salem to adapt itself, but this story has not 
business to deal with, but with Salem and two old maids or, 
properly, "spinster" ladies, as we are legally designated in all 
our papers. 

My father was a doctor. His shiny, old-fashioned " shingle" 
or door-plate is up-stairs now in the attic of our home among 
all our old heirlooms. There were three children, the eldest 
John, who is now a doctor, myself and Lizzie. Mother died 
when Lizzie was born, and so neither of us two girls remem- 
ber her. Father was killed when I was twelve and when 
Lizzie was eleven years old. His horse threw him and, since 
then, the Doctor, who was at that time twenty years old, and a 
student at Harvard, has refused ever to ride horse-back. I 
have always ridden and still keep my own mount. Lizzie pre- 
fers automobiles, but more of Lizzie's preference later. Father 



had two maiden sisters, who are still living, and who shut up 
our old house, which was the original family home, and took 
both Lizzie and me to live with them when father died. The 
Doctor went abroad to Dublin to medical school, and then to 
Paris to finish his training. He came back finally and settled 
down in Salem to practice his profession. It was a great relief 
to Lizzie and me when Doctor came back ten years later. We 
were naturally very gay and frivolous girls. But our maiden 
aunts soon took us in hand and we were modelled on the Salem 
''genteel" statue. We both went to Washington to boarding 
school for four years and came back to be introduced. Lizzie 
always did hate society — from the back window view which she 
had of its doings at home. She naturally fretted more and was 
more restless than I was. Nothing mattered to me as long as I 
could have all the books I wanted and my beloved horse. But 
Lizzie was afraid oP horses and hated books. She really didn't 
know what she wanted — until she got her automobile. After 
our one winter season of dignified festivities, consisting of very 
formal teas, a "ball" or two a season, many long and wearying 
series of " calls," during which Lizzie sat straight-laced, in her 
chair, answered very politely and spasmodically my aunts' 
attempt to draw her out, shook hands stiffly with our hostess, 
and heaved a deep sigh of relief when once out into the open 
air, Lizzie and I were " out." We were expected to be married 
off right away — so people thought. Oar aunts looked to our 
brother for eligible husbands, but the Doctor was a busy man 
professionally, and then, too, he was busy himself trying to 
induce a Lynn maiden to marry him and come to Salem. This 
infuriated our aunts ; so much so that a family rupture seemed 
pending. The Doctor politely but forcibly reminded my aunts 
that he was capable of choosing his own wife for himself, and 
that he would brook no interference ; also, that since he was 
supposed to have such an excess of very fine-quality blood in 
him, he didn't think it would matter who the girl was or what 
she was. 

To all this, happening as it did in our presence — we were 
usually asked to go to our room when such things were dis- 
cussed — we were attentive listeners, Lizzie and I. Lizzie for- 
got herself and cried out ''Bravo!" when the Doctor threw 
out his gauntlet of words to the aunts, and this was the last 
straw ! Our aunts plainly asked us on which side we stood, the 


*^ family-pride " side, tbeirw«, or the other side (with a contempt- 
uous sniff at this point). Lizzie jumped up immediately and 
ran across the room to the side of our brother. My aunts looked 
at me. Aunt Eleanor, for whom I am named, gave me an 
appealing look, but Aunt Edith was like a stone statue. I did 
not hesitate. I walked over after Lizzie and stood by the 
Doctor. I was the eldest, I already considered the Doctor as a 
married man ; so, "Aunt Edith," I began, " Lizzie and I will 
move out this afternoon to the Doctor's house and stay there 
while our old home will be fixed over. We will live in the old 
home, Lizzie and I. I am twenty-three and feel my responsi- 
bility. As mistress of our old home, I want you to know that 
you and Aunt Eleanor will always be welcome. Please have 
no ill feelings toward us about this decision. We must follow 
the dictates of our own conscience."' I said this very firmly, 
feeling, as I did, that alread}^ I was an old maid like my aunt 
before me. My aunt bowed stiffly, excused herself with exqui- 
site politeness, and withdrew to her own room. A.unt Eleanor, 
left alone, melted into a flood of tears. I flew into her arms, 
and tried to soothe her. The Doctor came up and patted her, 
man fashion, on the shoulders, telling her that it was all right, 
and we would all soon be just as calm as ever. He retreated 
hastily, however, leaving Lizzie and me to say farewell. Aunt 
Eleanor helped us get our clothes together. Aunt Edith 
remained in her room with the door locked. Twice Lizzie and 
I knocked, but to no avail. At length Lizzie ran off in high 
spirits, and I called in, " Good-bye for a while," to Aunt Edith's 
old-fashioned, white-enamelled door. Aunt Eleanor kissed us 
"good-bye" and promised to come to see us no matter what 
happened, and I promised to come back and pour for her at a 
tea which she was giving the next Saturday. She warned us 
not to let the story of our " misunderstanding " — '* scandal, you 
mean," put in Lizzie — leak out. The same old story that we 
had had dinned iiito our ears since childhood — the honor of the 
family, our pride, our unity, etc., etc., — were terms to which 
Lizzie and I had become so accustomed that we recited them off 
by rote as we did our Catechism. Already Lizzie had cast 
them aside, and even my own slow and steady self was formu- 
lating a new doctrine of independence. On our way to the 
Doctor's Lizzie and I decided that we were "democrats," she a 
radical one, if there is such, and I, the more conservative sort. 


We had the old home all fixed over. Lizzie and I each paid 
half the expenses out of our own money. We had new lighting- 
fixtures put in, more bath-rooms, a large sleeping porch on the 
back side of the house, overlooking our back garden and the 
high shrubbery which separates our home from the home of 
our aunts. I forgot to say that we were near neighbors, sepa- 
rated from each other by high shrubbery through which was a 
high connecting gate. The houses were not near together, 
because each house had a large back lot and garden. The 
Doctor supervised the renovation of the house. He insisted 
upon having a tennis-court, to my surprise. Since then he has 
used it considerably. He it was who suggested the tearing 
down of the partition between the two back-parlors, and trans- 
forming them into a huge, long living-room with a big modern 
fireplace. I had all the rooms done ovei. It does a house no 
good to keep it shut up so many years, and it was autumn 
before the Doctor would let us move in. When we did move, 
it was into a very beautiful home. All Salem gasped at our 

In the meantime the Doctor bought an automobile. Aunt 
Edith always detested them and refused to give up her horses, 
and so I, having my saddle-horse all the time, naturally thought 
them detestable, too. Lizzie, however, used to get all her 
young men friends — when she dared — to take her out in their 
motors. She loved them, and thereby hangs the tale. 

Lizzie wanted a machine. Lizzie was her own mistress and 
could command her own money to a certain extent, and, at any 
rate, she could buy an automobile. So Lizzie went about auto- 
seeking. She wanted a '' red-devil" — she used the word fre- 
quently and delightedly, now that Aunt Edith wasn't around. 
One morning she came down to breakfast with a daring look in 
her eyes. " Tm going to buy an automobile," she announced. 
1 looked up from my coffee enquiringly. "Don't you dare to 
stop me, Eleanor Grey," — she usually called me Nell, — ''for 
once in my life Fm going to do wliat I feel like doing." In less 
than an hour Lizzie and I were on our way to Boston to buy a 

In Boston we found not only one " red-devil," but one thou- 
sand. Lizzie stubbornly refused to let the Doctor know what 
she was about. "Besides," she argued, "he's so head-over- 
heels in love that it's all he can do to attend to his patients." I 


meekly agreed with her. I always do. First we went up to 
Park Square, where we found ourselves among what we called 
*' horrid men."' I could feel them laughing up their sleeves 
when Lizzie said she wanted "something red." If they had 
politely referred us to Jordan, Marsh Co., as I feared they 
would, I would have called a policeman, I was so tired and 
bewildered. I don't think that they thought Lizzie had the 
price of a pair of gloves to her name, the way they acted. 

We went to lunch at one o'clock. Lizzie ordered lobster. I 
began to fear for her. Red is an awful color to get on one's 
mind. I objected, therefore, when she ordered tomatoes and a 
strawberry ice. " Betrer have a neutral color," I murmured. 

"Nell," she said sharply to me, "are you still thinking of 
decorations for the house ?" But she ordered " caf^ parfait." 

In the afternoon we walked down Boylston Street to look in 
at the shops. " Perhaps we'll see something in red coats for 
the machine,'' Lizzie said to me. But I hustled her on to a car, 
and soon we were in the most exclusive shops where they sell 
autos. We knew it when we opened the door. A very cordial 
and polite gentleman ushered us to two chairs. I was spokes- 
man, for Lizzie's facilities of eye and tongue were all directed 
in looking at the cars lined up against the wall. 

"We want to see the models of your car, — " 

"Something in red," interrupted Lizzie in an absent voice. 

" Something that a woman can drive herself," I continued in 
a tone as cold as ice. My training with Aunt Edith began to 
show itself, when Lizzie failed to take the initial step, /was 
now buying the machine. We walked down aisle after aisle of 
the stock-room, the man talking volubly about cranks, carbu- 
retors, ignition, battery, and other equally unintelligible terms. 
An inspiration seized me. The blind way we were going at the 
whole affair suddenly showed itself to me. " What concern," 
I asked in a bored tone, causing Lizzie to start and look over 
her shoulder for Aunt Edith, " makes your car ? " Never would 
I let him see that we hadn't had sense enough to look at the 
blazing sign over the door I He told me and I truthfully had 
never heard of "the concern" before. I didn't tell him that, 
however. After we had examined the cars, Lizzie burst forth 
impetuously, despite my warning glances : 

"Haven't you any ^red-devils' ?" 

The man smiled politely and said that the color in fashion 


now was blue or grej in their cars, but if a customer wished^ 
the color could be changed. I thanked him and took his circu- 
lar and busiaess card. He looked at Lizzie curiously, as he 
ushered us gallantly out. She had hardly spoken and had acted 
as if she was walking up above this sphere of existence. 

'* Lizzie,^^ I said when we were out on the sidewalk again,, 
''we are crazy old maids, that's what we are. We ought to 
iiave a man with us." 

^' Pshaw, lot of good a man would do us I I want an automo- 
bile," she answered. 

We walked on. I read the signs now. Lizzie was subdued a 
bit. I was the one to blaze the trail into the next store. Sud- 
denly I caught sight of a sign that looked familiar to me. 
''The American Roadster Company,'' I read aloud. Where- 
had I seen that before? "Come, Lizzie," I said decidedly, 
'Hhis is where you find your devil, red, white, or blue, I don't 
care which." I remembered noiu. I had seen that sign on the 
Doctor's machine. 

We entered. I asked to see a demonstrator. The attendant 
smiled and answered that they kept no supplies in their stock- 
room, only "show" cars. Very haughtily I informed him that 
he misunderstood me, /wished to see the manager of the firm. 
The man left us for a minute. Lizzie walked off alone. She 
was looking for a red car and I watched her. Suddenly she 
turned and sped quickly up the aisle. I couldn't see where she 
went, for the man was approaching me. It was a different man. 
Perhaps, I thought, this man is the manager. I began to tell 
him what I wanted, when I was rudely interrupted — and 
shocked, too— by a voice calling, " Nell ! Nell! Oh Nell Grey ! 
Come here I" I fled down the aisle, followed by the aston- 
ished man. 

There was Lizzie in the car, a low, grey thing that looked all 
tlie world like a sleeping grey-hound ! She was turning the big 
wheel around with fingers that were as loving as thej^ were in- 
expert. I stared speechless ! 

She became aware of our presence but didn't look up. " Nell, 
look at the darling pedals, and the funny little tubes of shiny 
brass, and look at the nice brakes I " she cried breathlessly. 

I stared at her. 

The man broke the spell with a nice quiet, little chuckle. 
He sprang into the low seat beside her. "It is a beauty," he 
answered, "and it just fits you.'' 


'' I want it'" said Lizzie. " Fll take it/' 

Then, we all laughed, and only /thought of Aunt Edith and 
Salem. The very idea of Lizzie and that little low-strung car 
which had a look of enormous power! I didn't think of the 
extravagance. I thought of the horror in Aunt Edith's eyes at 
the sight of Lizzie behind that wheel. Salem had lifted its eye- 
brows at our leaving the aunts ; my assisting at Aunt Eleanor's 
tea set it wondering. The Doctor, I knew, would just sit down 
and laugh and laugh ; then he would wipe his glasses and go 
out to ride with Lizzie, /would have to explain. 

Lizzie broke into my thoughts. " I can have this very one," 
she cried, and turning to the man, "you ivill come down and 
teach me, won't you ? I am sure it will be very easy to learn to 

" It is getting late, Lizzie," I said coolly, " and we must go." 
I turned to the man who was watching Lizzie's pretty face ex- 
pressing all her animation and delight. He is a little too much 
interested, I thought. So it was agreed that he should bring 
the car over the road the very next day. I suggested that per- 
haps he couldn't be spared and that a mechanic might serve as 
teacher. To this suggestion, he replied courteously that it was 
his business to do the demonstrating and that he would be 
delighted to have such an interested pupil. To which I replied, 
in as business-like a manner as possible, considering how much 
like a sixteen-year-old girl my sister was acting. I gave him 
our cards and referred him to our bank. He was very polite, 
too much so to Lizzie, I thought. We left him, Lizzie in an 
exalted frame of mind, which bordered on the talkative state, 
and I, in a more thoughtful mood than ever I had been before. 
Truly, thought I, my training and habits of life are beginnings 
to crop out. 

When we got to Salem we met a friend of Aunt Eleanor's at 
the station. She offered to take us home in her limousine. 
I refused politely but Lizzie broke forth into a " Wait until you 
see my new roadster." I felt the cold astonished stare — right 
through my left shoulder — whicli answered this announcement. 

" Lizzie," I said, horridly, " we are about to pass the ofiSce of 
the newspaper. Why don't you drop in and leave a notice 
about your new car ? " 

*' Don't be cross, Nell," she said, " I'm so happy ! " 

" Who told you it was a roadster ?" I asked her. 


'''He did, the man, and tie said it was the classiest little car 
made," she answered. 

What ! could my eyes behold the truth and my ears hear it 
correctly ! our Lizzie, flushing prettily and looking ten years 
younger, talking slang ! We had reached our door. ''I trust,'' 
I said in a cold voice, 'Hhat you will not take on any of these 
modern fashions of slang-talk with the acquisition of your 

She dropped a curtsey and opened the gate. '*No, Aunt 
Edith, I promise you, no." But she burst into merry laughter 
and I joined in with her. We laughed and laughed and both 
of us felt like naughty school children returning home from 
some mad prank. 

After dinner, I sat down to read quietly. Lizzie began to 
play the piano softly in the next room. 

"Nell," she called in, ** you don't suppose Doctor will be 
jealous ? " 

'' No, dear," I answered. '^ If it makes you happy, he'll love 

Her fingers played over the keys in a soft absent-minded 

'' Lizzie," I called," aren't you glad you didn't get the red 
things in the shops ? " 

She came into the room then and sat on the arm of my chair. 
She began to laugh. *' Something in red ?" I said softly, and 
then we both laughed. 

'' He luas a nice man, wasn't he Nell ? " she asked. 

"I have never met the gentleman, Lizzie," I said, pretending 
to be stern. 

'*The Doctor has," she said after a pause. ''Yes," to my 
astonished exclamation, '' the man said that he was in his class 
at Harvard ! " 

*' Harvard is a large college," I said quickly. 

"And Doctor is a big man," she answered teasingly. 

I thought for a moment. "How did he know who you were ?" 
I asked suddenly. 

" I dropped my handkerchief and he picked it up and saw 
my name on it. Then he asked me about the Doctor," she 
replied with a little blush. 

" Lizzie," I said, and I felt, as if I were Aunt Edith and 
sweet Aunt Eleanor combined, " the Doctor and J will be the 
chaperones henceforth ! " 


I closed ray book. My little sister was irresistible. Pride, 
lienor, traiuiiig, all, aielted under the touch of the slim fingers 
that were caressing my hair. Let people talk and let my aunts 
gasp, I didn't care ! All the haunting visions that ran through 
my head of militant women, suffragettes, mannish women, and 
so forth, chased themselves into the corner and were choked to 
death. Lizzie would never develop that way ! I smiled. To 
think that an automobile could bother two old maids that way ! 
We were children after all. 

•* Lizzie,^' I said, as I pulled her down nearer to me, " I hope 
that ' red-devil' of yours won't make too much trouble.'' 



Dim ships against a twilight sky, 
Gray-winged, drifting slowly home. 

Over the still, pale sea they float, 
Wanderers, wearily home they come. 

Out of the dusk of the twilight sky 
Seagulls, voiceless, drifting come, 

Over the faintly glimmering sea, 
Silently, wearily drifting home. 

Out of the silent twilight world, 
Out of the strife of the day I come, 

Into your outstretched arms, dear heart. 
Silently, wearily. I come home. 



Five of " The Six'' were congregated in Frances's room, dis 
cussing the Glee Club Concert. Outside it wag snowing and 
one by one the friends -had drifted in to dispose themselves in 
Harrison Fisher College Girl attitudes upon Frances's bed or on 
the floor. The choice of this particular room may be explained 
by the fact that their hostess was making fudge. No one knew 
Frances's receipt. She had a knack of throwing the ingredients 
hit or miss at the chafing-dish and of cooking whatever stuck 
there to just the right consistency. When the exact degree of 
perfection was obtained, she would beat the mixture on the 
window-sill. To be sure, such vigorous treatment whipped up 
great blobs of liquid candy, which dropped onto the side of 
the house and there left souvenirs of many a good time but 
this extravagance was justified by the success of the finished 

"I wrote to Harry but he's in business now and didn't dare 
ask for leave of absence and Wallace is in training for the 
track team and so I had to ask Charlie after all," Catherine was 

" I don't know what I'll do about my dress," sighed Frances. 
*'It's torn right across the front and I can't match the chiffon 
here or in Springfield. Now, Nell, it's your turn to beat the 

*'Whew !" ejaculated Nell as she obeyed, " I'm glad I'm not 
planning to fuss ! None of this wild uncertainty about men or 
clothes for me, thank you ! I'm going off to Springfield that 
day and enjoy myself." 


"It's not a bother I" contradicted Catherine. "We've got 
everything planned and it's still two weeks till Glee Club. All 
our men are coming, our dance cards are filled out and Fran has 
plenty of other dresses besides the apricot chiffon." 

" Here, Nell, dump the fudge in this plate. You may lick the 
pan if you like but promise to wash it afterward. Listen to 
that stamping in the hall. That's Mary Sarah coming home 
from basket-ball. When she bangs like that it means that 
practice has been bum — " 

"Bum — bum — bum— bum — bum — bum," finished the others. 
Mary Sarah appeared tragically in the doorway. She waved 
a white epistle in one hand. " Girls I what do you think has 
happened ?" she moaned. 

" What ? " chorused the five. 

" IVe been asked to the Haughton prom and I can't go !" 
"Can't go!" "Why not?" "When does it come?" " Is it 
because you're in training ?" " Let's see the invite." "Who's 
the man ?" 

Mary Sarah shook the snow off her coat and sitting down on 
the floor, unbuttoned her Arctics. These she flung to the other 
side of the room as the outward and visible sign of her inward 
and spiritual rage. 

" Listen, then," she said, spreading out the various engraved 
cards included in the invitation. "They're all bids to teas and 
fraternity dances and Germans and to think I can't go to one I" 
"Well, why can't you go?" persisted Frances. "See, the 
first dance isn't till the eleventh and you'll be out of training 

" Out of training, of course I but, goosie, don't you see the 
prom is the twelfth of March and that's the night of our Glee 
Club Concert and that hateful John Stevenson is coming up 
from Thrale as my guest ! " 

The blow had fallen and with its weight it crushed the five. 
Mary Sarah lay prostrate on the floor. The rest sat in dejected 
attitudes or silently admired the club and fraternity seals on 
the invitations as they passed from hand to hand. Nell poked 
the fudge to see if it had hardened. 

" I'll write to John Stevenson and tell him you're dead," she 
suggested cheerfully. 

" You're crazy," responded Mary Sarah ungratefully. 
" Or sick," pursued Nell. 


"' Now I've got the man on my hands I can't back out, can I ? "" 
grumbled Mary Sarah. "It's all Edward Winslow's fault, 

'^ I've never heard of Edward Winslow but I don't see what 
he has to do with it/' protested Nell. 

"Oh, don't you know about him?" exclaimed Frances. 
" He's the man Mary Sarah asked first and when he couldn't 
come — " 

"The tall, handsome one ?" Constance interrupted. 

" If you'll just be quiet a minute," suggested Nell, " maybe 
Mary Sal will tell the story herself. As she seems to be the one 
most concerned, she'll be more likely to get it straight." 

" It was this way," Mary Sarah explained, grateful for the 
restored quiet. "Ed lives across the street from us at home 
and we've * paled' together ever since we were that high. After 
he went to Thale we rather lost track of each other but he asked 
me out a lot when I was- at home Christmas and so I thought 
I'd get back at him, as it were, by having him up here for Glee 
Club. Well, everything was arranged, when about three days 
ago came a letter saying he had just been elected to Shell and 
Beans, or some such society, and the initiation comes the twelfth 
of March. Of course it would just kill his reputation if he 
weren't there." 

"So you asked this Stevenson instead ?" 

"No, Ed suggested it. He said he knew how inconvenient it 
was to have a guest give out so late in the game and might he 
suggest his roommate, John Stevenson, as a substitute. I'd 
heard a great deal about ' Steve ' and he about me, though 
we've never met, and he's splendid from all accounts. Besides 
I don't know any other fellows this side of Haughton and I was 
awfully pleased at Ed's thoughtfuluess and wrote him that I'd 
be ^charmed to entertain Mr. Stevenson.' I can't go back on my 
word, can I, and telegraph him not to come after all ? " 

"Ed is a model of virtue to be so considerate," Catherine 
sighed from experience. 

"Oh, Ed's all right," acquiesced Mary Sarah, without enthu- 
siasm, "only I've known him too long to be crazy about him." 

" Now if it were Colin MacDonald — " hinted Nell. (Colin 
roomed with Mary Sarah's brother at Haughton.) "Aha ! he's 
the man who's invited you to the prom ! Talk about your 
Sherlock Holmes ! " 


Mary Sarah blushed. *' Yes/' she acknowledo^ed, *' Mack has 
asked rae and I want to go more than anything I've been invited 
to in my life." 

Betty leaned over and kissed her. "No wonder you want 
to go, honey, and go you shall, John Stevenson or no John 
Stevenson !" 

*'How, pray ? You're not going to poison him off instead of 
killing rae as Nell sugsjested ? " 

"Listen to your fairy godmother," advised Betty. "You 
said John Stevenson has never seen you — how is he going to 
recognize you then ? Nell, here, wasn't going to have a man. 
Now can you add two and two to make four ?" 

" You mean — " gasped Mary Sarah. 

Betty nodded gravely. "Nell takes your dance program, 
your concert tickets, your man. You go to Haughton," 

" Betty I" cried Nell reproachfully. " This from you of all 
persons ! " 

" It staggered me a little when I thought of it myself," con- 
fessed Betty, "but it works out very simply." Theu she out- 
lined her plan. 

Mr. Stevenson, knowing Mary Sarah only through the descrip- 
tions of Edwai'd Winslow, could never tell the difference be- 
tween his proposed hostess and any other girl, especially as 
Nell and Mary Sarah were so nearly alike in height and coloring 
that a description of one might easily fit the other. Nell was to 
be crammed with information concerning Edward Winslow, 
his character and career, in order, by mentioning various child- 
hood escapades, to cap the climax of reality. The plan was to 
be revealed to only the most necessary persons and a secoud 
member of The Six was to be constantly near to ward off the 
uninitiated. They all agreed that Nell was just the one to 
make a success of their plan. 

"I won't do it, I won't do it I " she reiterated. "I can't 
dance ! I hate men— can't talk to them I I'd let slip some 
awful slang and disgrace Mary Sal for life. It's a crazy idea, 
anyway. Why, suppose I should meet the man afterwards ! " 

" It wouldn't happen once in a hundred years," pleaded Mary 
Sarah. "He lives in Golddust, Wyoming — or somewhere out 
West. You've never heard of him before and you'll never see 
him afterwards. And, oh Nell, I did think you were a true 
sport ! " She had hit Nell's tender spot. 


^^All right, ril do it ! " she agreed suddenly. " I'll be as like 
you as I can be. I'll convince 'Steve' I'm you. Only don't 
you blame the consequences on me ! " 

Nell went out and banged the door behind her. 


The Glee Club concert came as usual on a Wednesday and 
Mary Sarah left for Haughton Monday night. She felt very 
happy and calm. "The Plot," as the six conspirators called 
their plan of substituting Nell for Mary Sarah, yes, " The Plot " 
was advancing perfectly. 

To be sure, a letter from Edward Winslow to Mary Sarah 
had at first considerably discomposed Nell. He had written : 
*'I wish I had a photograph of you to show Steve but I've 
painted such a beautiful portrait of your character to him that 
he's just waiting for the "^on-your-mark-set-go ! ' signal to make 
tracks for Smith next Wednesday." The fear that she would 
not fulfill ' Steve's' expectations had so frightened Nell that it 
required all Betty's persuasions to keep her from breaking down 

"You must be as Mary Sarah-ish as possible. Why, Nell 
dear, you're an awfully good actress, it ought to be easy for 
you. You're the only one in our crowd who could do a thing 
of this sort." Thus they wheedled Nell into a half -fearful 
anticipation of " fussing Glee Club." 

"Steve" was to arrive a little early on Wednesday in order 
to get acquainted, so at half-past two that afternoon, when the 
maid announced that a young gentleman was waiting for Miss 
Frothingham in the parlor, "Mary Sarah," morally bolstered 
by her encouraging friends, descended the stairs. She was 
wearing her first train dress, for she was not planning to dance 
and as it dragged a little at every step it made her feel very 
grown-up and theatrical. On the landing she paused and 
peeked through the railing towards the parlor. For a moment 
her heart stopped beating and she clutched the banisters with a 
little gasp. Alone in the great parlor, leaning nonchalently 
against the mantel in a typical Gibson pose, stood the hand- 
somest man Nell had ever seen. He was tall and dark, with 
perfectly-fitting shoulders and an Arrow-Collar expression. 
Nell's heart had long been founded on man-hating principles 
but now that the only man was come — well, perhaps taking 



Mary Sarali's place would not be such an unpleasant ordeal 
after all. 

With a self-conscious start to compose herself, Nell trailed 
down the stairs into the parlor. The man did not seem to notice 
her. Nell advanced, her hand outstretched, and began the little 
speech she had prepared : 

"Mr. Stevenson, I believe? Yes, lam Mary Sarah Froth- 
ingham. (Shades of George Washington!" thought Nell.) 
" It was very kind of you to come here this afternoon to take 
Ed's place. I hope we shall be able to give you a good time." 

John Stevenson stammered, " I assure you the pleasure is 
entirely mine, Miss— er— Frothingham." His sentence had a 
<iueer, questioning turn. 

"You've never been to Smith before ?" purred Nell. 

" Positively first appearance,^* rejoined the other but he didn't 
seem quite sure of the fact. 

There was an awkward pause. Nell was sure she was being 
examined from top to toe and she objected to such a procedure 
from any man, even from this Adonis. 

"I'm afraid I don't come up to Ed's description," she said 
coldly. "El has too smooth a tongue, I am afraid, perhaps it's 
because he kissed the Blarney Stone— yes, he really did, you 
know. Didn't he ever tell you about that ? His family and 
our family went abroad together when we were about twelve 
and I remember being so jealous of Ed because his mother 
would allow him to be let down by the heels and my mother 
said I couldn't." 

As Nell talked she gained assurance. She remembered how 
Mary Sarah had told this story and she now embellished it with 
one of Mary Sarah's characteristic gestures and a little of what 
was familiarly termed "Mary Sal's Pittsburg Patois." 

John Stevenson stared. " You are like Mary Sal— like Mary 
Sarah's description," he hurried on, "only I don't think even 
Ed with all his Blarney did you justice." 

"You know," laughed Nell, leading the way to the Ingle- 
nook, " I think Ed is a bit biah^ don't you ?" 

John Stevenson looked taken aback. " Oh, do you ? I never 
thought so but of course," this rather slowly, "I know Ed so 
well, I guess I see beneath the surface more." 

"Oh, I know Ed through and through," Nell assured him 
with unnecessary vehemence. "Why, we've 'paled' together 
•ever since we were that hiiih." ^ 


They were joined by Catherine and an Amherst youth. ''Is 
that you, Mary Sal ? Please let me introdnce Mr. Kensington. 
Miss Frothingham— Mr. Kensington." 

*'And Mr. Stevenson — Miss Chase— and Mr. Kensington." 

The four now esconsed themselvss in the Ingle-nook to await 
the opening of the dance. They were soon joined hj the other 
members of The Six with their guests and by skilfully shielding 
Nell from the chaperone, they avoided the embarrassing situa- 
tion that might have arisen had that lady addressed the girl by 
her rightful name. 

The afternoon passed like a dream to Nell. It was really 
marvellous how smoothly "The Plot" unrolled itself. The 
men were all very attractive, Mr. Stevenson was appropriately 
attentive and, all in all, Nell was nervously happy in piloting 
Mary Sarah's guest through the intricacies of a Smith Glee 
Club Concert. It was only when the men left to dress for 
dinner and she went slowly up-stairs that she realized how 
tense had been her fear of making a break. She threw herself 
down wearily on the bed. 

*' Go away, girls," she told her friends as they crowded in. 
*^ You know 'most as much about it as I do. I'll come in for 
you to fasten me a little later ! " 

* 'Jack Stevenson is good looking," sighed Constance. "He 
must run the far-famed Edward Winslow a close second." 

As for Nell, during the evening the strain began to tell. At 
sapper, she was strangely silent and found herself gazing 
abstractedly at Jack Stevenson when she thought he was not 
looking. She was feverishly flushed and, had she known it, 
looked better than ever before. Jack watched her admiringly 
and when she caught him staring at her she became rapidly 
self-conscious and wondered if she had done anj'thing that 
could cause him to suspect that she was not the genuine Mary 
Sarah. Then she would throw herself into her role with 
redoubled vigor. 

It was strange how frequently their conversation returned to 
Ed and Nell blamed or praised him according as she remem- 
bered points from Mary Sarah's instructions against him or in 
his favor. 

She was glad that she was not obliged to talk a great deal at 
the concert. It was nice to lean back and listen to the music 
and feel the eyes of a very stunning man fastened on her with 


an expression which showed that — well, that she was not repul- 
sive to him. They walked home from the concert across the 
star-lit campus in silence. It was only when they were again 
on the steps of Craven House that tht3y spoke. 

"Good night, Miss Frothin2:ham," he said. ''You have 
given me a very enjoyable day." Then he added in a curious 
tone, "Will you let me come and pay my ])arty call before your 
spring vacation ? Please don't say you think that Ed should be 
the one to come, just because you invited him first and I was 
playing second fiddle. Why not let us both come?" As if 
struck by the desirability of that idea, he pursued it. "Yes, 
let us both come. How about a week from Saturday ? " 

Awful thought I Suppose Ed should arrive too and find out 
the deception that had been practiced on them. No, she must 
keep Ed away but would ' Steve' come without him ? She did 
want to see 'Steve' again. After a moment's hesitation she 
laughed. "I'm afraid Ed's too lazy to want to come all the 
way to Hamp. just to see me, especially as he will be at home 
when I am this spring, but if you — " 

Jack seized her broken sentence eagerly. " Then I may come. 
Miss Frothingham ? I'd like to know you better. You are — 
er — one of the most unusual girls I've ever met. And— er — tell 
me, do you really think Ed is blase, lazy, conceited and all the 
other things you said about him ? I'll swear he's not too lazy 
to make that long trip up from New Haven to see you." 

"You needn't tell him what I said," remarked Nell. " I gave 
him some very pretty bouquets as well. Didn't I say he was 
good-looking ?" 

"Au re voir. Miss Frothingham." 

"Good night, Mr. Stevenson." 

Mary Sarah returned Thursday night, brimming over witli 
excitement. " How did it work, girls ?" was her first question. 

" Like a clock," responded Catharine. " No one let the secret 
out and Nell says he never suspected. I think she's quite crazy 
about him, too, though she hasn't said anything. She's in your 
room now. Here, let me carry your suit case up-stairs and 
we'll tell you about it on the way." 

Mary Sarah was triumphant over the success of "The Plot." 
" Here we all are, hale and hearty ! " she said. " Didn't I say 
it would come out all right ? You've had a good time, I've had 


a good time and it was ver}^ simple after all." Then she swore 
eternal gratitude to Nell. 

''There are some letters on yonr desk that we didn't forward 
to you/' said Frances during a pause. 

"Here's one from Ed," nuumnred Mar 5^ Sarah, opening the 
topmost envelope. She read it, she paled and, in a voice of 
mingled hope and dread, she said, "Girls, what did you say 
John Stevenson looked like ?" 

" Tall — " "Dark aud handsome — '' " Blue eyes, Roman nose/' 
chorused the Five. 

Mary Sarah sank in a little heap on the bed. " Oh Nell, you 
are sure he thought you were me ? He didn't say anything 
queer, he didn't look funny ? Ob, tell me, tell me quickly." 

*'Why, we told you all that happened," said Nell, a little 
frightened. " Mary Sal. what is the matter ?" 

"It's dated Monday and reached Hamp the morning after 
I'd gone," moaned Mary Sarah. Then she re-read the letter : 
"'There's an epidemic of scarlet fever here at Thrale, so our 
initiation is postponed for a week. I've told Steve he's got to 
take a back seat — ' and, Oh girls !" she finished tragically, " it 
was Ed Winslow who came after all I " 



I'd love to be a bird aud fly 

Away np, up, so high, so high. 

I'd sniff down at the tiny world 

That 'way beneath me twirled and twirled. 

Fd love to light np in the air. 

And then swoop down without a scare. 

rd make my path a wave of blue, 

And I wouldn't even think of you ! 

On the verj" topmost branch I'd swing. 

Aud sing a thrilling, trilling thing. 

I'd peek in windows where there'd be 

Things 1 had no right to see. 

But after years had passed — well then, 

Maybe I'd come horns again. 



You sit just at twlight in your room, 

And the firelight gleams or your burnished hair, 
And the shadowy fancies come and go 

As you dream and dream by the fire there. 

But down in the cold, dark street below 
Other shadows pass to and fro ! 

You're dreaming, perhaps of the years to come. 

Of living and loving that is to be, 
And the delicate gossamer of your thought 

Is fashioning, haply, your destiny. 

But what of these others in the street, 
That pass and re-pass with weary feet f 

Dovs^n 'neath your window, if you looked, 

You'd see a beggar, old and blind. 
" Impostor?" It's likely, yet you, perhaps, 

May be an impostor of your kind. 

How often yovCve heard it, upon your knees. 
Those words, "As ye do it unto these!" 

And there where the lights shine clear and bright 

There's a ragged urchin at his trade, 
Calling his papers right manfully, 

Cold, perhaps hungry, imt undismayed. 

You icho dream of t/our future sons, 

What have you thought of " these little ones!" 

And there is a woman with painted cheeks. 
Devoid of beauty and youth and grace. 

You would turn aside from her in the street. 
Or glance, half-curiously in her face. 

Yet the uiinisters in the churches tell 
The tale of the tconian at the well! 



But you sit at twilight in your room, 

With the firelight gleaming upon your hair, 

And the shadowy fancies come and go, 
As you dream and dream by the fire there. 

And down in the cold, dark street below 
Those other shadows pass to and fro, 
And little you heed of their want or woe! 

I would that your clear young eyes could see 
The load of your common humanity ! 
I would that their sombre lives could seem 
A part of your glad, prophetic dream, 
Or that dream be shattered by their cry, 
"Are we nothing to you. we passers-by? " 



Last night in my dreams j'-ou came to me, 
Sweet and star- eyed as of old ; 
And we walked together under the trees, 
Down the moonlit pathway under the trees, 
And you drew me down to meet your lips, 
And you kissed me then— as of old ! 

And then I awoke ; but a question burned on 
Till my heart was aching and sad. 
For why was all of this only a dream ? 
What was once sweet reality now but a dream ? 
Oh, I was careless, and you were careless. 
And we let things creep in between. 

We let new faces and interests creep in 

Till we, both of us, forgot. 

But now, at the fates I hurl a challenge ! 

At mere circumstance I hurl a challenge ! 

For dreams are fleeting, though sweet they ba ; 

And to-mo.Trow shall bring the real you back to me 

In the pathway under the trees ! 



She was only eighteen, fluffy-haired and charmingly frivolous, 
with dancing blae eyes and the most fascinating dimples in 
the world. He was twenty-two, just graduated from Yale ; he 
thought his only interest in life was Margaret. Now Margaret's 
latest fad was the novels of Scott and a matter-of-fact, foot-ball 
playing youth with a recently shaved head did not accord with 
her idea of a lover. They were sitting out a dance in a secluded 
corner of the hotel porch. 

" Oh, Dick, this moonlight makes me think of some of the 
nights in Ivanhoe." Margaret clasped her hands and leaned 
back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. '^Wouldn't it have 
been marvelous to have lived in those lovely times when men 
were so strong and brave and warlike and — '^ 

*' Look here, Margie, when are you going to stop raving about 
those fool books of Scott ?'' ijiterrupted Dick. 

*' Why, Dick, aren't you ashamed to talk like that to me ? " 

" No, I'm not I " Then repenting, " Margie, dear, you are too 
pretty and have too much intelligence to lose your sense of pro- 
portion in this way," adding to himself proudly, "Now, how 
did I ever get all that out ? That ought to bring her around." 

" Dick, you are such a flatterer ! Who could get mad with 
you, you dear boy ? " 

" Boy," thought Dick indignantly, " Til show her !" 

" But, Dick, now don't you think it would be fun if I had 
lived in a huge castle with dungeons and things and my father 
had threatened to make me marry a fierce lord like Brian de 
Bois Guilbert and when I had refused he would lock me up in 
a tower room and you would come some wonderful moonlight 
night like to-night and play on a harp beneath my window 

This was too much for Dick. "A harp I For goodness sakes, 
Margie, if you are going to put me in your story, at least let 
me be a man." And then he laughed. 

" Well, that's my point, Dick," rather nettled this time. 
" Men were men in those days — instead of going to pink teas 


and rah-raliing at baU games they journeyed abroad to prove 
tlieir valor and to win their lady's love by deeds of bravery.'^ 

•' Let's stop talking about the Middle Ages and talk about 
ourselves. When's our wedding to be, dear ? " Sentimental 
this time. 

" Dick, I have told you a hundred times in the past two years 
that our wedding wasn't going to be." Then in a dignified 
manner, " The man I marry must have proved his love for me 
by some deed of bravery in which he risked his live for my 
sake. Since you insist on being unpleasant to-night, take me 
back to the ballroom." Then in a different tone as the orchestra 
began another dance. ''Um-m that's a peach of aonestep!" 
And down the porch they whirled to the tune of " Too Much 

Two nights later they were sitting in the same place. 

"Dick, wasn't that tennis match fun to-day ? You know yoii 
played a splendid game ; I was proud of you." 

If Dick had been a woman he would have said, '* Why should 
you be proud of me ? " and Margie would have asked herself 
why and become angry; but being a man he said, " You know 
that was a good game, Margie," and in his enthusiasm he stood 
lip and swung his arm around in the motion of tennis playing. 
It was quiet at their end of the porch and Margaret, to whose 
nature quiet was offensive, was jumping up to join him in a 
mimic game, when a piercing howl came to them from the forest.. 

** Oh, Dick," said a frightened little voice, "let's run," and 
Margie caught his hand and started towards the ballroom. 

Dick was pulled a half dozen steps, then he stopped short. 
*' You think I'm going to enter that ballroom running from a 
noise ? It's just that mountain lion that's been prowling around 
here lately. He's not coming up on a hotel porch." 

In spite of Dick's protestations Margie was pulling him along 
the porch. " Oh, Dick, come on ! He might jump up here on 
the porch and you haven't anything to defend yourself with." 

This concern on Margie's part pleased Dick hugely. "You 
silly little girl. He's not going to hurt me. But if you really 
are afraid we'll go in and dance." And the affair ended that 
night without further disturbance. 

But that was not the end of the mountain lion. He prowled 
around the hotel at night, howling, until the women almost had 
hysterics and the men looked secretly for their revolvers. 


Numerous tales were circulated, of how the lion appeared one 
night in a farmer's fold and killed two sheep; another night he 
actually killed a cow. The peculiar part of it all was that 
nobody ever saw the lion, until one night he attacked a moun- 
taineer I After that the mountaineer was the hero of all the 
meetings held around the stove at the Crossways Store. He 
even came up to the hotel and told his story to the guests. He 
was unarmed when the lion attacked him, he said, but he was 
carrying his big mountain stick, and when the lion sprang at 
him he swung his stick and struck him a mighty blow across 
the nose. This stunned the lion and the mountaineer made his 
escape before the animal recovered. '' How big was the lion ? " 
asked a round eyed little girl. 

*' Well, I didn't take time to exactlj^ measure him,'' answered 
the mountaineer, " but I reckon he was quite some size. When 
he sprung at me he was taller than I be because when my stick 
swung round it cracked him on the nose up above my head ; 
and he was quite some bigger around than I be because it were 
a moonlight night and he hid the light from me entirely." 

This was too much for the excited minds of the Hotel guests, 
especially when they considered the size of that giant of a 
mountaineer. Several of the assembled company slipped up- 
stairs and began to pack, and the rest talked excitedly of the 
carelessness of the Hotel management in allowing a man-eating 
lion to prowl freely around the country. This reached the ears 
of the management and a mesesnger was dispatched immedia- 
tely to the newspaper office of the neighboring village. Fifty 
dollars was offered to the man bringing in the dead body of the 
lion. Then the famous hunters of all the surrounding region 
began to appear. So interesting were the stories which they 
told that the guests stayed from day to day fascinated. Each 
day the hunters went out and each day came back defeated, but 
with more and more exciting tales about deeds of former days. 

Margie and Dick listened to their stories. Margie's attitude 
toward Dick became more aloof than ever. Here were men who 
did brave deeds, even if they were rough old mountaineers — 
their hearts were worthy of Ivanhoe himself. Such was the 
credulousness of Margie. 

Still the tales came in of slaughtered sheep and disastrous 
midnight prowls. After several days of this exciting existence, 
Dick had an idea : since the lion could not be found by day^ 


trap him by night. The management entered heartily into his 
plan and all the men cleaned their guns. 

The preparations were finished by nine o'clock that night. 
The women and children cowered together in the hotel parlors 
with every door and window locked and bolted except one and 
toward that one they looked with fear and apprehension. Out- 
side the men, hunters and guests, stood with guns in readiness, 
s> throng to fright the heart of the boldest lion. They kept 
their eyes on the forest beyond, and talked in whispers. A 
huge bonfire lighted up the picture and cast mysterious sha- 
dows along the edge of the forest. Before the fire stood a spit 
upon which roasted a piece of bacon sending out into the air 
an odor so appetizing that not even a man-eating lion could 
resist it. The stillness was broken only by the crackling of the 
fire. Then a noise was heard : the hungry-sounding shriek of a 
mountain lion off in the distance. The men clutched their guns. 
Nearer and nearer came the sound and the men, some of them, 
looked furtively towards the door. Nearer and nearer the 
lion approached and knees began to look suspiciously stiff. 
And then with one dreadful, ravenous howl the lion bounded 
from the forest toward the fire. That last howl was too much- 
hunters and guests, clinging madly to their guns turned and 
fled into the parlors, deadly serious in their efforts to escape 
death and live to prove their manhood. 

As Dick came in he stumbled over his gun and fell into the 
arms of Margaret who was waiting for him. '* Oh Dick, Dick ! " 
said a tearful voice as she clung to him desperately, "how could 
you risk your life against that dreadful lion. Promise me you'll 
never do such a foolish thing again." 

And outside a brave young wild cat was walking innocently 
oil with a luscious piece of roasted bacon in his mouth. 




Mary was returning from Christmas vacation in the 5.02 from 
New York. As usual the train was crowded and, as usual, late. 
She gazed gloomily at the blank windows and reviewed regret- 
fully the past two weeks. One incident recurred unpleasantly 
to her mind. It was a speech delivered by her father. 

*'The trouble with you," he had said, "is that you don't 
apply what you learn. You study your lessons for the day and 
then forget them. It doesn't seem to occur to you that knowl- 
edge may be useful outside the class room." 

At the time Mary had been rebellious. She had recalled with 
secret' amusement her father's disgust when a cousin of her 
mother's had entertained the family with such interesting ques- 
tions as : " What is America's greatest effort ? " She had even 
imagined his recitation of the " Decline of the Birth Rate'' if 
introduced by herself. Now, however, it was different. The 
train had left Springfield and father seemed the personification 
of all good things. 

" I'll try it," she resolved. " I'll apply everything I learn to 
everything in sight." 

In the excitement of getting herself and her suit-case into Mr. 
Kieley's hack before anj^one else and in meeting Lncy, her 
dear roommate from whom she had been separated for two 
weeks, she forgot her resolution, but next morning the chilly 
breakfast room and the arrival of the mail " stabbed her spirit 
broad awake." She went to her room full of determination. 
Ten minutes later her roommate bristled in. 

" Hurry up, Mary ! I've been waiting downstairs for ages. 
We'll never make chapel if you don't come this instant.'* 

Mary gazed at her helplessly. 

*' Shall I wear rubbers?" she asked. (To tell my readers 
that it was raining is, of course, unnecessary. It is enough to 
say that this was the day after vacation.) 

** Why, yes, if you want to ; it really doesn't matter, only do 
hurry — " 



Mary grew dignified. ''Such hasty decisions are worthless. 
You must go at it logically. Now : all prudent people wear 
rubbers in the rain. I am a prudent person. Therefore I wear 
rubbers in the rain. That won't do, you see, because I'm not 
very prudent. And I can't say everyone wears rubbers, because 
they don't. What shall I do ? " 

Lucy was surprised, but she was a placid person and adapted 
herself to the situation. 

"You are timid. 
All timid people are cautious. 
All cautious people wear rubbers. 
Therefore you wear rubbers. 

That's a Goclenian sorites. Put on your rubbers and come!" 

Mary obeyed meekly. She allowed herself to be led down 
the stairs while she hastily resolved the sorites into its compo- 
nent syllogisms, but a further test of her new mode of life 
awaited her in the hall. The House Matron greeted her with a 

''Is your cold better, Mary ?" she asked. 

Mary rallied her failing forces splendidly. 

" That's a complex question," she returned icily. " 1 refuse- 
to answer." 

The walk to chapel was uneventful. Lucy, fearing for her 
reason, clung tightly to her roommate's arm, while that young 
person contented herself with wondering how one could walk 
logically. Professor Ganong and her idea that a straight line 
was the shortest distance between two points seemed cruelly 
contradictory. Once in chapel, she sank wearily into her seat 
and prepared to enjoy the rest which President Burton had 
assured her could be found here. But cruel Fate I The lesson 
read was the Beatitudes and the task of completing each enthy- 
meme before the next was read left her limp and exhausted. 

There is a limit to human woes. Mary's release came a& 
unexpectedly as the appearance of Raffles from the clock, 
through no less a person than Mr. Creighton himself. She was 
reviewing Chapter I and came upon these statements : 

*' I do not think that logic can be regarded as an art, in the 
sense that it furnishes a definite set of rules for thinking cor- 
rectly. Students whose only interest in the subject is the prac- 
tical one of finding some rules that may be directly applied tO' 
make them infallible reasoners are likely to be disappointed." 


She closed her book with a joyful slam which caused a twenty 
minutes' discussion in the next council meeting. 

And so ends my story. Lucy's peace of mind was restored. 
The House Matron returned to her theory that colh^ge did not 
<lestroy the good manners of young girls and Father received a 
letter which convinced him that his daughter had an active if 
misofuided mind. 



''And some have greatness thrust upon them." I have always 
heard with incredulity of this third class of the great. It has 
been my lot in walking up and down upon the earth, and in 
peeping into its written records, to meet a few of those who 
were born great. More familiar to me are those who by *' pain- 
ful steps and slow" have achieved greatness — but this matter of 
having it thrust upon one is quite beyond the range of my 
experience. If however, I become at any time a famous play- 
wright, my doubts will be resolved, and I shall pack myself 
without hesitation into the third compartment of the great. 

For be it understood at the outset, I have never had any n - 
tention of writing a pla3^ Not even in my optimistic days, 
when at the age of ten I wrote a Masterpiece of tlie Worhl's 
Literature, and thought how future generations would thrill to 
read its concluding sentence "and her footprints died away in 
the distance." Perhaps it was due to the influence of stern 
Presbyterian ancestors, to whom the theatre was the abode of 
Satan, and the play his amusement, that my youthful ambition 
never turned toward dramatization. Perhaps, too, the lack of 
brothers and sisters to serve as audience, held me back : I real- 
ized with some bitterness that my cats, entirely satisfactory 
though they usually were as companions, could not be relied 
upon to be fully in sympathy with my literarj^ asi)irations. So 
up to the time when I came to college, the idea of writing a play 
had never entered my head. 

When during my freshman year, a prize play was written by 
a senior, and all the world went to the Academy of Music and 
marvelled, I too was thrilled, and I remembered with a feeling 
akin to awe that I had walked home from the Browsing Room 


one night with that very senior, never dreaming that she was a 
genius. After the production of " Purple and Fine Linen " its- 
author was the object of my reverent admiration, but no pre- 
sumptuous thought of emulation arose in my mind. 

Toward the end of sophomore year a notice was read in 
English thirteen class of a prize of ten thousand dollars offered 
for the best play submitted by an American playwright before 
August fifteenth. We were told that there was nothing what- 
ever to prevent one of us from getting the prize. Thus assured 
and allured by the promise of golden reward, I turned to the 
friend of my bosom and whispered '' Let's write a play. You 
can have five thousand and I'll have five thousand." 

*' Yes, let's. And 111 buy a Steinway Grand." 

*' And oh, do you suppose" I break in excitedly ''' that I can' 
buy an island for five thousand — a little rocky island in the 
Atlantic, with a house on a bluff, and some books and a fire- 
place ? " 

Straightway we are lost in the contemplation of the Steinway 
Grand and of the island, and the play — a minor detail, after all, 
sinks into oblivion. 

It is only this year that the matter has taken a serious turn. 
Let me reiterate here, before it is too late, that I am still of the 
same mind, now as always, whatever else I may plan to perpe- 
trate, I have no inclination desire or ambition to write a play. 
I am taking this opportunity of saying so in order that if any- 
thing should happen, my friends may know that I am not en- 
tirely to blame — that I am acting against my better impulses, 
because circumstances have been too strong for me. 

First, a month or so ago, came the offer of a prize for a one- 
act play. It was brought to my notice one evening at the 
dinner-table, and Isabel suggested that I write a play. I ex- 
plained carefully that I couldn't possibly do so, having neither 
desire, time nor ability. But my friend persisted. 

^' For the honor of the house, you know, someone should try. 
And my dear ! If you should get the prize, wouldn't it be 
wonderful 9 " 

" What do you want us to give you, if you get the prize ? "^ 
This from Ethelinda, our cheerful giver. 

"That gorgeous Chaucer-book of Percy MacKaye's?" I paused, 
enraptured at the vision. 

" Will you lend it to me ? " comes a little voice from the foot 


of the table, where Ellen, our bookworm, sat. I was deei)ly 
interested in this turn of the conversation, and if left to myself 
would doubtless have stopped with the Chaucer-book, even as 
the year before I was stranded on my island. But Isabel, she 
who proposed that I write a play, is of a capable and practical 
nature, so she insisted upon bringing- me back to what she con- 
sidered the main issue — I didn't think it was, at all. When 
Isabel makes up her mind that Tm to do something, I usually 
acquiesce at once. It saves so much useless effort. So almost 
before I knew it, I found that I had purchased by proxy — 
Isabel was the proxy— two tickets for the model play. When 
Ellen and I had made use of the tickets^, I came home of the 
same mind as before, with the single difference that my resist- 
ance, previously a general state of mind, was now developed 
in outline form, with a proposition and four main heads, as 
follows : 


I cannot write a play. 

for 1. I cannot write a romantic comedy 

because A. I am unacquainted with the 
nature of man. 
and B. I am proof against the ro- 
mantic appeal of a waste- 

2. I cannot write *'A Study in Psychology" 

because A. I don't know enough. 

and B. We don't have it until next 

3. I cannot write a tragedy nor a melodrama 

for A. I earnestly desire to sleep 

the sleep of the just, 
and B. I have a sense of humor. 

4. I cannot write a farce comedy for the 

thought is unthinkable. 

**And the moral of that " would seem to be that I cannot 
write a pla}^ at all. Not so convincing was my reasoning t(> 
Isabel the Practical. I rise at the sound of the breakfast-bell to 
be greeted over the coffee with " How's the play getting along ? '^ 
and of late ''You really must get down to work on that play." 


I could have survived this, for one can avoid Isabel. Be 
prompt, and you will never meet her at the break fast- table — 
her motto is " It is vain to rise up early in the morning," and 
she abides by it religiousl5^ But a new peril drew near, when 
there was posted on the bulletin board a request from the Lend- 
a-Hand Dramatic Societj^, for a three-act play. The girls in 
the house knew better than to approach me on the subject, 
early rising had not improved my temper. But there are others. 
I will not dwell upon this second danger, however, except to 
hint darkly that deliverance is in sight. 

A graver menace is impending, and from a most unexpected 
quarter. In the few frantic pre-Thanksgiving days, a series of 
accidents happened in our house. Among other things, Eth- 
elind's window lost two panes, Ellen's radiator ceased to radiate, 
and my bed suffered what my roommate (who is majoring in 
biology) describes as a compound fracture of the anterior 
appendage. So the campus surgeon of broken beds and of 
incapacitated radiators was much about our house in those 
days. He came among us glowing with a great enthusiasm, 
and as he labored to restore Ellen's radiator to its radiation, he 
demanded, " Can you write a play ?" 

^' No, indeed," said Ellen the unassuming. 

*' Well, do you know anyone who can ? I have a corking 
story for a play — entirely original, too." 

*' One act ?" inquired Ellen, mindful of the house ambition. 

*^0h no, no. Complete four-act play. Business the main 
interest — scene in the stock exchange— thatll take with the 
men — a love-interest woven in — got to have that ; a humorous 
scene somewhere — that's always good — " and the enthusiast 
held forth at length over the still-suffering radiator, concerning 
his marvelous plot. I will not tell the story, that is his secret, 
but sufiB.ce it to say that Ellen— wretch that she is — nominated 
me to write the play. 

''Well, who is this girl?" demanded the Enthusiast. "Is 
she qualified to write it up ? What does she write ?" 

"Well," drawled a voice from the hall, where the carpet- 
sweeper was being trundled vigorously, "she writes for the 
Springfield Union reg'lar." 

Down came the fist of the Enthusiast on the radiator with a 
thump. "She's the girl I want! If she can write for the 
Springfield Union she's the one to write my play. It needs to 


l)e worded up good y'know — I can't do that. She can. I'll be 
the silent partner. She gets all the credit and half of the 
money, five hundred dollars down, and four hundred a month 
in royalties for six or seven years if it makes a hit — and it's 
bound to. But if it don't take on the stage, we're sure of a 
hundred and fifty at least from the movies, though there, of 
course, the wordin' don't stand. Where is that girl ? When 
can I see her ? " 

My faithless friends searched high and low, but "the ladie 
isna seen." The Enthusiast was nothing daunted. " I'll keej) 
coming till I see her. But I know she'll do it. There's no 
doubt about it." 

" She's pretty busy," suggested the voice from the hall. 

"Oh, that may be. But Christmas vacation is coming — 
there's her cliance. She won't be busy then. I must see that 

Since then my life has been spent in dodging the Enthusiast 
by day (he has called six times) and in writing plays by night. 
I always awake with a start just before the end — and with a 
terrible fear that the end is going to be in the movies — where, 
thank goodness, " the wordin' don't count." 

From my earliest menace, the one-act play, and its less men- 
acing successor in three acts, as I have already hinted, deliver- 
ance is at hand. The time-limit for both of these is December 
first, and even as I write in the radiance of my light-cut, the 
last day of November is drawing to a close. But I could almost 
wish that I had yielded, and had written one of these, if by so 
doing I might have averted the greater calamity which impends. 
Christmas vacation ! Alas ! For me no youthful merry-mak- 
ing, no hope of calm repose. But double, double, toil and 
trouble, with the movies at the end of it all. I feel a numbness 
coming over my spirit, and it bodes no good. Circumstances 
have been too strong for me ; I know that I am going to yield. 
But when in ages yet to come, further generations shall spell 
out from a tomb-stone my movie-immortalized name, may they 
never know the depths of tragedy concealed within its epitaph — 
^'And some have greatness thrust upon them." 


Bread may be the staff of life but I am sure 
Excitement excitement is the arm chair — nothing else re- 
vives our weary minds as does a few momenta 
spent in this delicious state. I don't mean hectic, wild excite- 
ment, but just the nice, respectable kind. If President Burton 
knew what pleasure he gave by whispering to Professor Ganong 
in chapel, if he realized how many delighted eyes were follow- 
ing his every move during the mysterious proceeding, he would 
do something of the sort every week. Perhaps the faculty 
would join in the good work, too. A wheeze from the organ at 
the wrong time is very nice, but suppose several members were 
to sit with their backs to the students, or Miss Jordan were to 
sit on the other side of the platform I really think an improve- 
ment would be noticed in our work that day (and probably in 
the attendance of chapel on the next day). Fve often thought 
of screaming out loud during one of the pauses, but I haven't 
arrived at a degree of enthusiasm quite high enough yet to 
offer myself as a martyr to the cause. The consequences of 
such an act seem enchanting, it must be admitted. 

And now they say we must not be excited over exams. 
Really this is too much. What would be the use of that trying 
period without excitement ? Sometimes I am not worried at all; 
I feel sure that I shall pass and life seems very dull. Then I go 
down to breakfast ; some one appears and says ''Oh I'm just 
petrified. I don't know a thing ! '' I begin to have a little 
creepy feeling. Someone else assures me that " It's sure to 
be a fright. They always are." By the time breakfast is over 
** Life is real and Life is earnest." A shivering group of 
ignorant friends who haven't " a single thought, my dear "' 
await me on the steps of Graham Hall at nine o'clock, and so 
the work goes on. 



Now I insist that without this prelude those two hours spent 
in writing my views in a horrid little yellow book would be un- 
bearable. But to be raised from the depths of despair to bliss- 
ful relief in the same period is an experience. 

Then if you are scared, the element of chance is so much 
more interesting. You have time to look over one more chap- 
ter, shall it be six or nine ? and the inevitable remark " Such 
luck!" is uttered as you drink chocolate after the fray. The 
remark is always the same whether or not he asks about your 
chapter, but the tone is different. 

I suppose I shall have to be outwardly calm and not scare 
others, but I hope, yes I reaJl}^ do. that Fll be scared to death 
inside during all my exams. 

Barbara Cheney 1915. 


Come heah yo' h'l' darky chile, an' res' 

Yo' tired head upon yo' mammy's breas'. 

She gwine to hole j'eh 'til you'se fas' asleep, 

An' then she'll hole yeh longer jes' to keep 

Away the ghostses, an' the boogey-boos. 

An' the great big. awful debbil in his long-toed, squeaky shoes. 

An' if yo' is a bad chile when it's dark you'll lie awake. 

An' mos' prob'ly you'll heah him comin* fo' to take 

Yeh, whar' it's always col' and gloomin'. 

An' quare, white things come a-loomin', 

An' all the time yeh don't git nothin' fer teh eat — 

But the great big, awful debbil call fo' darky meat. 

An' li'l' hump-back men with beards and piercin' eyes 

Comes a-snoopin' ronn", until they spies 

Yeh hidin' in the corner, shiverin' an' scared. 

An' they laughs an' sez they wonders if yo' is white when yo' is pared : 

Or if yo' mammy'd know yeh, if she seed yeh in a dream, 

As you wus bein' served up on a platter all a-steam. 

An' then liT sonny you'll sho wish yo' wus hyar 

A-rockin' with yo' mammy in this good ole rockin' cheer : 

An' you'd vow yeh wouldn't play no mo' when yo" mammy's tuckered out, 

An' don't feel like chasin' naughty chiles about. 

So leave off a-foolln', honey, now it's time to go to bed, 

An' yo' mammy's gwine to hole yeh til' yo' li'l' sleepy head 

Jes' naturally go a-noddin' agin her breas '. 

An' then she gwine teh pray the Lord teh bless 

Yeh, and to let yo' stay right hyar, 

A-rockin with yo' mammy in this good ole rockin' cheer. 

Ruth Hawley Rodgers 1916. 


Sometimes I wish I had what old. Hiram 
The Gift of Gab Baldwia used to call "the gift of gab/' 
With Hiram it was a term of contempt, 
to be applied to a man addicted to too many "fish stories," or 
to too highly colored religious experiences, and to women con- 
tinually scolding or constantly using the neighborhood tele- 
phone line. Since then I've heard it applied to sewing machine 
agents, promoters of mining stock that was rank fiction, and to 
anyone who monopolizsd conversation. 

The gift which I desire is a smaller edition, one that would 
enable me to speak well, to gtdd my contribution to whatever 
was being discussed. Yet there are many times when I am 
glad I have not even this. In a company of girls, all of whom 
are well able to express themselves and take the same time in 
which to do it, it would only be one more wave which I could 
contribute to the ocean of sound. When I hear a person unfa- 
vorably spoken of, although I may think volumes on the sub- 
ject, yet what I think does not harm the person and what is 
said may, unless it is said to a stone wall. If a person is hold- 
ing forth at length on a subject about which I know very little, 
instead of side-tracking that person by trying to show what I 
do know, I can either ask questions or go to sleep, according to 
the time, place, and circumstances. 

But sometimes, as I have already said, I want this gift very 
much. Once in a great while I long to overwhelm with a fl.ow 
of words, a torrent of phrases, and a cataract of well-related 
sentences anj^ person who dares to suppose that my silence 
betokens a lack of gray matter. Also in entertaining some 
callers, I need the "gift of gab." If a young man is bashful 
(which happens about once in a blue moon, but I always seem 
to have a partnership with that blue moon), m}^ tongue never 
stimulates conversation to a bright and ruddy glow, but barely 
keeps it from going out entirely. Only the calls of the minister 
do not bother me. It's a minister's life work to talk and I am 
a good subject to practice upon. In some classes I desire this 
gift. If I know" the answer to a question I usually put it into a 
dozen words when there is need of a paragraph. And if I don't 
know it, I say so, when by starting in at random I would in 
time arrive at the proper answer and give much information on 
the way. Others do it, but I can not. People are not equally 
gifted in this world. 


Although practice will do much along lines in which we are 
deficient, my series of lectures to myself seem ineffectual. But 
if by practice I should obtain the "gift of gab," I intend to 
keep it in proper training so that it will be a benefit to me and 
a source of enjoyment even among those who have such gifts of 
their own. And as a last resort, if it becomes uncontrollable 
(and only when it does), I shall endure it as gracefully as possi- 
ble and make my living by it like the college students who 
work their way by selling "Paths to Heaven" or patent pan- 
cake turners through the summer. Elsie Green 1916. 

The Gardener 

He stood one morning at the garden gate, 

His trowel in his hand, for he had come 

To tend the garden's pride, a wondrous rose — 

That graced the distant wall, with promise rare 

Of lovely blossoms. At his feet he saw 

A tiny floweret drooping its limp head, 

So choked with weeds it was. He bent at once 

And nursed and cared for it until it smiled — 

And then beyond he saw a daisy pale 

That cried for water, and behind it stood 

A bed of pansies, that had grown too thick — 

A vine had fallen and was creeping now 

Upon the tender sprays of mignonette ; 

He cared for all — and all in turn revived, 

But when at last he reached the garden wall 

The suu was set, the wondrous rose was dead. 

Ellen Veronica McLoughlin 1915. 


Of late we have heard much about the relationship of the 
student to the outside world. We are told that we are being 
fitted for the outside world. But exactly what is this outside 
world towards which we are being ]ed ? How may we know if 
ever we reach it ? ' May we not be in it now ? 

To most of us the term outside ivorld signifies the place where 
people do things, the world of business and politics. It is a 
place in which life shows all its varied and complicated aspects ; 
a place of broader view where events and circumstances show 
their relative importance or unimportance. 

We are more or less intimately in touch with this so-called 
outside world during vacation. And most of us doubtless felt 
its effect in the readjusting of our standards and the shifting 
of our emphasis. Certain college honors, the attainment of 
which had seemed to us essential to our happiness, were seen, 
when away from the glare of college light, to be trivial enough. 
We were unexpectedly exuberent when the children clamored 
^'Tell us one of your stories," and '' tell it again." The honor 
of writing the Ivy Song seemed far away. 

But we also saw that merely to live in this so-called outside 
world does not mean necessarily the acquisition of " outside 
world '' qualities. For side by side with men and women who 
are occupied in seeing problems and in coping with difficulties 
in a large way are those whose lives are shallow and narrow, 
those who seem asleep to the activities around them. So we 
may infer that the outside world is not a matter of geography 
or dwelling therein depends upon our own attitude towards life 
and our point of view. 

In one sense there always must be an outside world. For we 
cannot live everywhere at once. We can only strive to know 
more phases of human interest. To the business man or the 



politician, the world of art and letters may be an outside world, 
although if he would, he could find it in the heart of his next- 
door neighbor. And to the city-bred man the farmer's probably 
is an outside world, — the world farthest from his familiar 
knowledge and comprehension. 

In another sense we create outside worlds for ourselves. Our 
chief interest should center not so much in what is done as in 
the attitude of mind and in the qualities of character that 
made achievements possible. We begin to see that college 
activities in and for themselves are not all important. But 
their value lies in the training in loyalty, earnestness, persever- 
ence, tolerance and thoughtfulness for others, which they afford. 
These are the elements important in any world — the world out- 
side of pettiness and selfishness and shallowness. And these 
are the qualities that we can have with us now and always, 
wherever we are and whether our occupations are important or 

We are told that we are being prepared for the outside world. 
But is not the best preparation our effort to develop now and 
here those qualities that are found in the ideal outside world ? 
In coming into closer touch with the community in which we 
are college residents for four years we are given the opportunity 
to enlarge our horizon, if we will. If the college students 
would be alert to the interests that surround them it could 
no longer be said that the college atmosphere is narrowing and 
leads to self-centered interests and misplaced emphasis. It is 
possible for us to make the college interests coincident with 
those of an outside world. 


All the signs of the times show us that Smith College is- 
steadily pushing ahead to the realization of her careful plans. 
The Million Dollar Fund was completed last June and when we- 
returned in the fall the ground was already broken for the new 
biological building. The speakers this j^ear have been except- 
ionally fine and we have profited by a series of well chosen ai t 
exhibits. And last month a committee of Smith College Alum- 
nae met here to consider how their association could best further 
the interests of the student body. And yet, in spite of it all, 
we feel that we have a certain kind of need that is being over- 
looked. It is like the need for a direct route between the Penn- 
sylvania and Grand Central Stations in New York. There we 
duly enjoy the little twinkling stars that shine down from their 
azure setting, and the marble columns, and the broad stairs, 
but we cannot help feeling that we would prefer humbler 
stations if it meant a more convenient transit. We waste so 
much time and energy—all for the need of a perfectly obvious 
convenience. We wish to express a feeling somewhat akin to 
this about the college house. 

Hygiene is always tjie first consideration and we met our 
screens this fall with joyous gratitude. Now the thing that we 
need most is a downstairs cloak room for the house. It shouLl 
have plenty of hooks, set basins and a well lighted, full length 
mirror. It has been said that the Smith girl is known by a 
peculiar misjudgment concerning the bottom of her skirt. But 
we feel confident that there would be no further ground for such 
criticism if she were only given a chance to inspect it for herself. 
Perhaps the record of promptness for lunch would also be im- 
proved by such an addition. Among the smaller accessories it 
goes without saying that every tub should be supplied with an 
appropriate bath mat. A dumb waiter and a clothes shoot from 



the fourth floor down are thrown in as suggestive possibilities. 
It would be pleasant, too, if the parlors held seating capacity for 
the whole house. On formal occasions it is not from choice that 
we sit on the tables and the floor. Corner seats and window 
seats built in might prove an economical solution for this diffi- 

Perhaps the boon that we most often wish for is what maybe 
broadly termed a tool room. In this room must be a sewing 
machine, a guillotine paper cutter, letter scales, a simple car- 
penter's kit and a large table — or even wooden horses and a 
smooth board to be set up at will. One end of the room might 
be kept for electric appliances. Many a time we would gladly 
save half a dollar by pressing our own skirt. And some of us 
would be grateful for the chance to do for ourselves what the 
college laundry list must needs leave undone. An electric 
cooker, used with discretion, would be invaluable for those 
whose infirmity will not allow them to partake of the usual 
fare. We do not by any means expect to have all these desires 
satisfied at once, but we feel more and more the need for a few 
domestic conveniences. R. C. 

It is possible to compare college magazines with standard 
y)ublications of the larger world, and this method of criticism 
may be of advantage, in that it shows clearly the limitations 
and defects of the college magazines. But the limitations are 
as a rule unavoidable, and the defects are apt to receive undue 
emphasis by this method of criticism, so that the real worth of 
the college magazines is lost sight of. And we must be opti- 
mistic as well as just. A more constructive method of criticism 
is to be found in the comparison of college magazines with each 
other, for in this way the real merits of the magazine may be 

We were greatl}- pleased with the college magazines of late 
December and Januai-y ; very few of our exchanges contained 
mach poor work, and many of them contained literature excep- 
tionally good. And the best literature of our exchanges is for 
the most part that in which the subject or theme is a little 
unusual ; it is for this reason more interesting to the average 
reader. This is particularly true of the short stories. 

In the Normal College Echo ''The Four Brides of Aunedal- 
shoren " is exceedingly good. The title itself arouses one's 


interest. The quaint atmosphere of the place is enjoyable, and 
the undertone of pathos throughout the story appeals to the 
sympathy of the reader. " In the Dato's Harem " in the Har- 
vard Advocate is a well-written and interesting story ; it seems 
to us a trifle improbable, however. "Cayotte Falls" in the 
same magazine is exceedingly good ; the story is cleverly told 
and the incidents well chosen. There is a story in the Sepiad, 
*' The Making Over of Dante Ventione," the scene of which is 
familiar to almost everyone. The theme of the story is not 
unusual ; indeed, the adoption of a little boy by two maiden 
ladies may be termed a commonplace theme. But the inci- 
dents are a little out of the ordinary, and the characters are 
very well drawn. 

The " Two Gipsy Songs" in the RadcUffe Magazine are excel- 
lent, particularly the first one of the two. An ambitious poem 
in the Minnesota Magazine is entitled ''Warum"; seldom do 
we find poems in the college magazines written in any language 
other than English, and the attempt is praiseworthy. In the 
Williams Literary Monthly for January, there is a long poem, 
"The Battle of the Reuss," which is much longer than the 
usual poems in the college magazines, and well sustained. 
These poems in particular are a little above the average. 

The editorials this month are for the most part personal and 
of no great interest to outsiders. The essays are, as usual, 
good. We have space only to mention "The Pyschology of 
Book Binding" in the Williams Literary Monthly for Decem- 
ber, **The Isle of Solitude" in the University of Texas Monthly, 
and ''Georgian Poetry" in The Eidge ; these essays are espe- 
cially good. This month there is not quite such a wide variety 
in the subject-matter of the essays as one usually finds, while 
the contrary is true of the stories. D. O. 


Pine Mountain Settlement School, Harhin County, Kentucky, 

January 2, 1914. 

My dear Friends:— Just before Christmas * * we decked our windows 
-with holly wreaths and tied the posts of our narrow little porch with spruce, 
pine and ivy and one of our little school boys referred to our house as " The 
■Christmas House."" Crowded as that little five-room cottage was through all 
the holiday season, it was overflowing with Christmas cheer and had the 
happiness to be a center for such a Christmas time as never had been in all 
our country. For our neighbors, December twenty-five has in other year.s 
been a day of drinking and shooting, uncelebrated by any tree, any Santa 
Claus, or any telling of the story of the Babe at Bethlehem. So when we 
planned to invite every one to the first Christmas tree on the "fur side of 
Pine Mountain," we tried to --norate" it about that we did not want any 
drinking or shooting. When I went to the last day of school exercises at 
the Big Laurel Schoolhouse the week before Christmas, I asked one of our 
local advisory board to let it be known that we wanted folks to "be nice,' 
which with us always means to be sober. To my surprise, after I had made 
a little speech inviting everyone to come, he rose up for what proved to be a 
speech on Proper Manners for Christmas Time. He said. " Hit's been put 
upon me to tell you folks you that the school women don't want no whiskey 
on Christmas day. Now. know Christmas is a great time for drams for us, 
but we want to try to do what they say. Let us drink none on ChristmaH 
day, but we take our drams the day before or the day after, and then we wiU 
make Christmas twice as long." So almost total abstinence was the rule of 
the day out of courtesy to us, and all the Christmas drams w^ere consumed at 

We began to practice Christmas Carols early in December, and bince our 
new organ had not come then, we learned the melodies by the aid of the old 
English dulcimer which suited well the ancient song of "The First Noel." 
Every night we played on our Victrola, Madam Schumann Heinck"s "Stille 
Nacht," and the children sat around the supper table as quiet as mice, learning 
to love the beautiful song. The post rider came in three times a week loaded 
with parcels post bundles and had to take an extra nag everj' time he went 
across the rough mountain road to the railroad. We hardly see how Pine 

?, 1 6 


Mountain or Hell-fer-Sartan"could have had any Christmas at all without the 
parcels post, which brought ns safely ''play pretties" of all sorts, poppets, 
gum balls, horns, the " prettiest tricks you ever did see." 

On Christmas Eve just at dusk our entire household made a pilgrimage a 
mile one way to Uncle John Shell's and then a mile the other way to Uncle 
William Creech's. To each household we carried a tiny tree gay with tinsel 
and shining things, and stockings full of presents for Uncle John and Aunt 
Sis, Uncle William and Aunt Sal. Silently we crept up to Uncle John's 
house, lighted the tree, and then sang. " O little town of Bethlehem," 
*' Noel," and " It came upon the midnight clear." At the first note Aunt Sis 
opened her door and stood, a quaint, stoop- shouldered old figure in old-time 
linsey-woolsej'. listening in absolute silence. When our songs were done we 
tamed and went away, while she stood there looking at a sight such as she 
had never seen before. While the others went on to make ready the tree for 
Uncle William and Aunt Sal. Miss Petitt and I stood by the road to watch. 
Not knowing what to do with so bright a wonder, the old woman went in 
and closed her door. Some neighbor men, just finishing their day's work on 
our farm, came by, and we told them to tell her to take the tree in before the 
candles burned it up. We still stood watching while they walked around 
the tree and said, "Ain't that the prettiest sight you ever did see?" and "I'd 
love to see that by daylight." We heard Aunt Sis tell them she just didn't 
know how to behave when we ail come, how our doin's was quare to her, and 
slie didn't know to take the tree in. We heard the men advise her, "No, 
don't set it on the bed, you will have to sit it on the floor" ; but she told us- 
afterwards that she had •• sot it on the bed" and locked her door (a most rare- 
proceeding in our country), so as nothin' shouldn't bother it, and how every- 
body had come from all over to see her tree, folks she had never known, 
folks that had never been in her house before, and she had unlocked the door 
to show it to them. We had to make our way to Aunt Sal's by the aid of 
fatty pine torches, and after our carols there, we were asked in. The house 
was full of Aunt Sal's grandchildren come to "take the night" with her sa 
as to be ready for our big Christmas tree on the next day. You could not 
imagine a more interesting sight than Aunt Sal. her bandanna over her head,, 
her pipe in her mouth, sitting on the side of the bed, pulling little packages 
out of her stocking with her grandchildren all around her. and she like a 
queen in the midst. 

That night thirteen stockings were hung by our chimney, but the unlucky 
number did not scare our Santa Claus, who put a doll in the toe of every one. 
He must have heard our eighteen-year-old Will saying that he would like a 
doll to play with on Sunday afternoons. 

In the morning our little boys. Charley and John, promptly sat on the floor 
to pull out their presents. Each had five little toy cavalrymen down toward 
the toe. When Charley had pulled out three he exclaimed, "Gee! Oh. if 
there ain't a terrible sight of mules ! " John, absorbed in his own stocking, 
was setting his up one behind the other, and suddenly he called on us, say- 
ing, "Lookie here, the three wise men a follerin* the star." He had been 
learning in school, " We Three Kings of Orient Are," and had sung it with 
the greatest delight coming home in the starlight from Aunt Sal's Christmas. 


tree. Each little boy interpreted the cavalrymen after his own fashion and 

We had to pnt away our play pretties long before we wanted to, to get 
ready for our Christmas tree. Because we had no room large enough for it, 
it had been set up out-doors the day before at the foot of a little hill near the 
cross roads and not far from a big cliff so that people could find shelter 
under it if it rained. The young folks for miles around got a " soon start " 
that morning, and •• gathered in and holp" make ready the tree. I suppose 
it was a beautiful tree to us all because we all had a share in trimming it 
with baubles that looked as if they had come from fairyland. All the while 
neighbors were coming from far and near, men with their wives behind 
them holding wee little babies, and some mules carrying little folks plumb 
down to the nag's tail. We had a busy time writing the names for Christ- 
mas piesents that people had brought to put on the tree. It hardly seemed 
possible that our neighbors could have been as pleased with their sacks of 
candy and the gifts the school put on for them, as we were with the pokes 
full of chestnuts, the fresh eggs, the tig sweet potatoes, the "Sasifras"' root, 
and the old-time hunter's pouch that were put on for us. 

Nobody had any idea how Santa Claus would come, but when we heard 
the sounds of horns and bells way off behind the laurel thickets people rushed 
to the cliff, the hillside, the fence post so as to get a first glimpse of him. 
All we could see at first was a jolly red figure that seemed to be riding 
a mighty slow mule, but as it disappeared and reappeared from the ivy 
thickets, we discovered to our intense joy that he was astride an ox. Never 
did Santa ride a more deliberate steed, and he himself seemed the most leis- 
urely creature in the world till you discovered that the proverbially swift 
old saint was impatiently prodding the ox's side with his heel. I am sure 
that the people who live on Greasy Creek will always believe Santa Clans 
had all the time in the world. Never was such laughter as greeted him or 
such mirth over his unavailing efforts to hurry up the ox. When he got up 
to the tree everybody called out with one accord, " Christmas Gift, Santa 
Glaus, Christmas Gift I " Fortunately his pack was so full that he had a gift 
for everybody, but before he could get everything distributed the rain that 
had been threatening for days came down. Some people took shelter under 
the cliff, some people hastily rode home, thinking they might as well get wet 
early as late, others came to see us. We learned that day how to make three 
chickens do for more than thirty people by the aid of dumplings, gravy, 
and rice. 

The young people spent the afternoon in their favorite way, running sets 
whose very names suggest hilarity and merriment of the figure. Boxing the 
Gnats, Caging the Bird, The Wild Goose Chase, and Killie Crankie is My 
Song. Of course we could not send them home in the rain, for some of them 
came from eight or ten miles away. So our little house with only one extra 
single bed, let out a reef and kept eleven guests that night. They said on 
leaving the next day, ''We've had the best time. We did not know you 
folks were so clever." 

On Saturday Mr. McSwain and I started for our fifty-mile trip to Hell-fer- 
Sartan. We felt like knights of Malory's time going forth^for adventure, for 


people predicted that Cutshin and Middle Fork would be tip past fording-. 
hnt we said if we could not have a tree in one place we would in another. 
We filled our pockets with tiny gifts in case we found children on the way. 
and down the length of Cutshin we found them a plenty. Children with 
bright, eager faces, not shy, but with the prettiest ways of saying, "Thank 
yon." I wish those of you who sent us things to distribute could have seen 
the pleased surprise of the many little boys and girls who had a Christma* 
trick dropped into their hands by us unknown strangers, and the way they 
hf^ld the " play pretty" like a little bird in their hands as if they were afraid 
it would get away, and then ran with it to show Maw and the Younguns in 
the little gray house back up from the road. Cutshin is very remote and the- 
homes on it are most of them very old-fashioned little log cabins. No one 
would take any money from us for meals or lodging, but said, when we asked 
what we owed, "Nothin' but to come again." I am sure no home could look 
more inviting than the one we reached on Sunday night, a great old log 
house with glowing firelight shining on the snow through its open door and 
its two windows. As we stopped our mules, the widow Begley came out to 
the gate and bade us " light and staysail night." 

Next morning when a great party of us rode over to the little house 
near Devil's- Jump-Branch that is near to Hell-fer-Sartan, we found the tree 
set up and the room garnished with spruce pine. We turned everybody out 
while a dozen or more of us decked the tree, and asked everybody please not 
to look in the windows. You would be amazed to see how even the curiosity 
did not overcome their wish to do as we asked. The tree was the prettiest 
one we have ever seen, just the sort children dream about, with dolls and 
drums and horns and ribbons hanging from every limb. Yet in spite of the 
joyous laughter with which everyone hailed it, there was the utmost quiet 
in the close-packed crowd while we told the Christmas story, and while the 
school teacher made a speech of welcome. ''These folks have come a long 
way to show their love and friendship for us, and we want them to know 
they are welcome. They are welcome, we are welcome, and everybody is 

Mr. McSwain as Santa Claus had to shake hands with grown women as 
well as little boys and girls, and enjoyed immense popularity. People 
wanted to know, when the presents were off the tree, if they might have the 
ornaments, and in no time the tinsel and the red balls were stripped off, to 
go into a dozen or more homes, so that the younguns who didn't know there 
was going to be such a " tree or they'd a come," might draw up some notion 
of it, the prettiest sight that was ever in these parts. People wanted to take 
us home with them as much as the tree trimmings, and could not imagine 
why we would not spend a week with them ; but we started on our two 
days' journey back up Cutshin as soon as the tree was over. 

Yet with us the festival season extends over to Twelfth Night as it did in 
the days of Queen Elizabeth, and our last Christmas tree, to be held over on 
the head waters of Line Fork, will come on old Christmas Day, January the 
6th. It is the common belief in our country that on midnight the night 
before, the cattle mourn and low, and kneel down to worship our Lord. 
Perhaps nobody knows for sure, because they are scared of the solemn feel- 


ings they would have — as one eighteen-year-old boy put it, ''hit would make 
yon mighty solemn to see them kneel. — you wouldn't feel like beatin' on them 
no more." It seemed to us fitting that the holiday season should close with a 
tree in this remote neighborhood on old Christmas Day. 

The girls and boys are mending toys that have come to us broken, fixing 
eyes in dolls that have been badly shaken, gluing on arms and legs so that 
the children over on Line Fork will have as fine a Christmas as anybody. 

We are sure that our little house can never forget the happiness it has held 
during our first Christmas season on Pine Mountain. 

Sincerely yours, 

Ethel de Long 1901. 


Contributions to this department are desired before the end of the month, 
in order to appear in the next month's issue, and should be addressed to 
Eloise Schmidt, Gillett House. Northampton. Massachusetts. 

The Committee of Five of the Alumnae Council met at Northampton, Jan- 
uary 15 to 16. to confer with the president, faculty and undergraduates in 
regard to efficient lines of service open to the Alumnae Association. The 
Committee for this year consists of Mrs. Alice Lord Parsons 1897. president 
of the Alumnae Association : Miss Ethel Gower 1898. secretary pro tem. of 
the Alumnae Association; Mrs. Lucia Clapp Noyes 1881, Alumnae trustee; 
Mrs. Charlotte Stone McDougall 1893 and Miss Helen Forbes 1912. 
'11. Ruth Barnes has announced her engagement to James Carvel Gorman 
of Baltimore. Maryland. 
Irene Bishop is Reference Librarian in the State Library at Springfield. 

Lesley Church. Address : 8334 Holmes Street, Kansas City. Missouri. 
Virginia Coyle is teaching Gymnastics at the Bennett School, Millbrook. 

New York. 
Mary Dickinson. Address : -IS Claremont Avenue. New York Cit}'. 
Genevieve Fox is Assistant in the Editorial Department of the Silver^ 

Burdett and Company Publishing House. Boston, Massachusetts. 
Mary Gottfried is teaching in the Misses Hebbs' School. Wilmington, 

Miriam Gould is teaching in the University of Pittsburgh. She is also 

working for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. 
Paula Haire has announced her engagement to Robert Ray Van Valken- 
burgh. She is now acting as accompanist for Madame Jane Osborn- 
Hanuah of the Chicago-Philadelphia Grand Opera Company and will 
go abroad with Madame Hannah in May. 
Agnes Heiutz has announced her engagement to William H. Kennedy. 
Marguerite Lazard is acting as Recorder at the Psychological Clinic of 
the University of Pennsylvania. 



Arlyle Noble is doing Bacteriological Research for Parke Davis and 
Company of Detroit, Michigan. 

Gladys Owen is doing Graduate Work in Political Economy at the Uni- 
versity of Wisconsin. 

Maude Pfaffman is acting as Secretary in the Yale Forest School. Ad- 
dress : 331 Temple Street, New Haven, Connecticut. 

Ruth Segur has announced her engagement to Clinton Burke of Plain- 
field, New Jersey. 

Rebecca Smith has announced her engagement to Buckingham Chandler 
of Chicago, Illinois. 

Winifred Wentworth is acting as bookkeeper for her father, 
eaj-'ll. Isabel Howell has announced her engagement to William Jay Brown 

of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. 
'12. Helen Houghton has announced her engagement to R. J. Shortledge of 
Wallingford, Connecticut. The wedding will take place in Septem- 
ber, 1914. 

Ruth Watts has announced her engagement to John Newman. 

















Concert by the New York Philharmonic 

French Club Play. 
Rally Day. 

Open Meeting of Greek Club. 
Lecture by Miss Ethel de Long. 
Alumnae-Student Rally. 
Group Dance. 

Dickinson House Reception. 
Orchestra Concert. 

Meetings of Alpha and Phi Kappa Psi Societies, 
Big Game Daj^ 
Glee Club Concert. 
Division A Dramatics. 


Smitb College 

flDarcb*» 1914 
®wne& an& pubUebeb b? tbe Sentor Claae 


"The Other Man" According to Kant and to Mill 

Marguerite Daniell 
Dreams ..... Grace Angela Richmond 
Laddie, Ye Little Thought Marion Delar.iater Freeman 

After All .... 

America's Ideal . . 

How New Americans Are Being Made 
A Modern Fable 

Night ..... 
Love in a Hurry 

19U 321 

1916 326 

19U 326 

1915 327 

Katherine Biiell Nye 

Marion Sinclair Walker 1915 329 

Marion Sinclair Walker 1915 331 

Kathleen Isabel Byam 1915 337 

Helen Whitman 1916 341 

Hester Gunning 1915 342 


Little Things 

Self Recognition 


Tea for Two 

The Girl Who Didn't Care 


A Pair of Gloves 

Fritzie's "Faux Pas" 


Anna Elizabeth Spicer 1014 347 

Madeleine McDoivell 1917 349 

Mira Bigeloio Wilson 1914 350 

Marion Delamater Freeman 1914 350 

Barbara Cheney 1915 351 

Leonora Branch 1914 352 

Constance Caroline Woodbury 1917 354 

Anne Eleanor Von Harten 1914 359 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 362 


A Fallen Star 

Cold Comfort for Freshmen 

"Simplex Munditiis" 

A Mid-year Resolution 


The Course of True Lov;-: 

Dorothy Thayer 1915 363 

Rosamond Holmes 1914 364 

Phyllis Eaton 1917 365 

Barbara Cheney 1915 367 

Mary Neiiibury Dixon 1917 368 

Margaret Far rand 1914 369 








Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Massachusetts, as second class matter 
Gazette Printing Covipany, Northampton, Mass. 


Smith College Monthly 

Vol. XXI MARCH, 1914 No. 6 


Lois Cleveland Gould 
Leonora Branch Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Margaret Louise Farrand Marion Delamater Freeman 
Rosamond Drexel Holmes Frances Milliken Hooper 

Margaret Bloom Dorothy Lilian Spencer 

Ruth Cobb Dorothy Ochtman 

Eloise Schmidt 

business manager and treasurer 
Ruth Hellekson 

assistant business managers 
Esther Loyola Harney 
Bertha Viola Conn 




The other man is a delightfully comprehensive term, for it 
embraces a three-fold signification, namely, a special person as 
one's mother, any person as a college student, and an aggregate 
of persons as one's townsmen. The other man in Philosophy 
differs from the plain, every-day other man only in that he is 
an object of philosophical study, therefore by using this term 
as a title for my paper I can correctly bring in several phases 
of the Kantian and Milliaii doctrines. These phases of the 
Kantian and Millian doctrines are to be treated in the way that 
I treat many subjects, for instance sociology and mathematics. 


If in matliematics I am endeavoring to find by calculus the 
dimensions of a cylinder that will hold a certain volume of 
liquid, instead of working with meaningless figures I mentally 
construct a percolator that will contain the required volume of 
coffee. If in sociology I leai-n the various effects of certain 
influences on mankind I find living examples if such a thing i& 
possible. Living examples are possible in the ethical subject 
which I shall now begin with the Kantian significance of society. 

Kant emphasizes the significance of a society in which every 
member is at once sovereign and subject; sovereign because 
he helps make the laws and subject because he obeys them. 
Thus the college girl whose council member helps make the 
college rules and who herself obeys them is both sovereign 
and subject. We cannot understand this significance until we- 
know the basis upon which the treatment of society rests. 

The true basis of all phases of the Kantian doctrine is, " Duty 
for duty's sake." Wordsworth expresses this idea in his " Ode- 
to Duty," the first and last verses of which I quote. 

" Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

Duty 1 if that name thou love, 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring and reprove ; 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost set free ; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity. 
* * -jr * * * * 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

1 call thee : 1 myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
O, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give ; 

And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live ! " 

This principle is the motive of all social actions. An illustra- 
tion of this is the girl who despises receptions but goes for 
duty's sake alone. Having given the motive of social action let 
us see if there are a.nj rules that guide the Kantian individual 
in his social actions. 


Kant has two famous maxims which should alwaj^s guide 
man's social self. The first is "Act as if the maxims of thy 
action were to become by thy will a universal law of nature." 
The girl who will not take two note books in a written lesson 
where there are only enough to go once and a quarter around is 
illustrative of this maxim. Kant's second maxim is, " So act as 
to treat humanity, whether in thine own person or in that of 
any other, in every case as an end witbal and never as a means 
only." The girl who refuses to call on another merely because 
the latter has an automobile, is following this principle in her 
relations with societ}^ Now turning from the other man as 
society let us study him as an individual. 

Kant maintains that the good for any man as a social element 
is that in which the welfare of others counts just exactly as 
much as his own. The girl who refrains from opening a win- 
dow lest someone feel a draught is a Kantian, if she does it for 
the above reason. When Kant is thinking of the welfare of an 
individual he also lays stress on the moral code of an action. 

The Kantian emphasis of action is laid on the "how" a thing 
is done. A girl passes in a written lesson which has many mis- 
takes. It is the best that she could do under the circumstances. 
She unintentionally had seen the answer to one question on 
another girl's paper and could have changed hers to agree with 
it, but she did not. She passed in her own work done in a fair 
and honest way. This example may help us in the question of 
consequences. Kant never appeals to consequences. Had an 
appeal been made by the above Kantian girl she might have 
copied from her neighbor and saved herself from a low mark. 

Having briefly but satisfactorilj^ dealt with consequences, let 
us consider a moment the real ends to which men's special acts 
are directed. Virtue is the means to which all special actions 
are directed. Miss Kant never casts a vote for any girl unless 
the latter seems in every way worthy of the office for which slie 
is a candidate. Let us now turn to Mill's treatment of the 
other man. 

In the case of an individual as the other man Mill says, "Man 
never conceives himself otherwise than as a member of a body " ; 
"He identifies his feelings more and more with the good of 
others" ; "The good of others becomes to him a thing naturally 
and necessarily to be attended to like any of the physical condi- 
tions of our existence." " The social state is at once so natural. 


so necessary, and so habitual to man that except in some un- 
usual circumstances or by an effort of vohintary abstraction he 
never conceives himself otherwise than as a member of a body, 
and this association is outlined more and more as mankind are 
farther removed from the state of savage independence.'' We 
find similar ideas in this quotation from Charles F. Dole, "Be 
a good comrade. Learn the secret of good comradeship. Many 
men do not know it at all. Be just, strong, frank, fearless, 
independent, but add your strength to the strength of your 
fellow. Do not stand aloof, or sulk, or be unsocial. Do not 
jeer at other men and find fault with them. Learn to do ' team 
work.' Learn to cooperate. Give and take in friendly conver- 
sation. Be generous." This sympathy and desire for the 
happiness of others cause the Millian girl to neglect her own 
lessons, personal health, and comfort. She is always ready to 
do any errand for others, to help them, and give them a good 
time. In her zeal for this happiness of others upon what moral 
code does she lay her emphasis ? 

Mill says that the " what" in an action is the moral code. If 
a girl offers a member of the faculty a chair just to create a 
good impression. Mill maintains that the deed is all right, Here 
again we are brought to the question of consequences. The 
appeal to consequences is an important factor in the Millian 
doctrine. The Millian girl who is proctor refrains from quiet- 
ing noisy pupils in the halls lest they dislike her. Thus we can 
see to what end her special acts are turned. 

Mill thinks that the special acts of men are a means to happi- 
ness. Miss Mill votes for a certain girl because she thinks her 
action will bring happiness to others. Speaking of others let 
us change our meaning of "the other man" from an individual 
to society. 

In Mill's society the interests of all are equally regarded. 
The Millian girl who is taking on a bat sandwiches enough for 
ten others will consult each one of the party as to the kind 
which she prefers before she makes them. This principle 
reverts to the basis of social actions. 

The true basis of all phases of the Millian doctrine is " Happi- 
ness for happiness' sake," where happiness means the happiness 
of the greatest number. This is plainly seen when a girl is told 
that she may bring home one girl for two weeks or ten girls for 


several days and she chooses the latter. This girl believes in 
the little verse by an anonymous author. 

" If any little word of mine 

May make a life the brighter. 
If any little song of mine 

May make a heart the lighter, 
God help me speak the little word, 

And take my bit of singing, 
And drop it in some lonely vale 

To set the echoes ringing. " 

This happiness principle serves as one of the motives for all 
social actions. 

The other motives of social actions are sympathy and the idea 
of a good end. Taking an example of these motives we have 
a girl inviting several freshmen to a party in her room not only 
to make them happy but also because she thinks they are lone- 
some and because she wants ''to get in right" with them. 
Does the Millian person have any definite rule to guide her in 
her social relations ? 

The Millian rule for social guidance is not punctilious. It 
may be stated thus: "Be in unity with your fellow beings." 
The girl who goes with an unchay)eroned evening moving- 
picture party rather than be odd is following out this rule. 
Now I have reached ray last Millian example. Let us reca- 

We have taken up "the other man" from the standpoints of 
Kant and of Mill and in each case have studied him as an indi- 
vidual and as society in general. Under the meaning of society 
we have discussed his siofnificance, also the motives for social 
actions and rules for the guidance of man in his social relations. 
Under the meaning of the individual our topics have been the 
good of man as a social element, the moral code of actions, the 
appeal to consequences, and the final end to which man's special 
acts are directed. In brief wliat do all these t0]:)ics reveal ? 

We find in the Kantian and Millian treatment of the other 
man a marked difference in the basis for social action, in mo- 
tives for social action, in moral codes, and in the appeal to 
consequences. On the other hand a certain similarity of tieat- 
ment is found. Mill maintains that in societj^ the interests of 
all should be equally regarded. This is similar to the principle 
which Kant upholds when he says that the good for any man 


as a social element is that in which the welfare of others counts 
as much as his own. Both of these principles involve the same 
general thought found in Kant's maxims. Two neighboring 
prisoners see the same wall and some of its same characteristics 
or qualities, but they can never see the same side of the wall. 
Thus while Kant and Mill see the same '^ other man," they can 
never see him from the same point of view. 



The slim, sweet maiden, Sleep, 

Has dreams for thee ; wilt buy her wares ? 

Here's one that cost a faded rose ; here's one 

That cost a tear : that dream is calm and deep. 

And here is one that cost a weary day 

Of toil and strife and half-forgotten love. 

This rainbow dream a pearl will buy ; and this 

A mem'ry laid in lavender away. 

The slim, sweet maiden, Sleep, 

Has dreams for thee ; wilt buy her wares? 



Laddie, ye little thought on yesternight 

That when ye took me in your big, Strang arms 

An' kissed me wi' your hot young lips 

That ye could bring me sorrow wi' that joy ! 

But all at once I heard, somewhere 'way down 

Within my throbbin' heart, somethin' that said, 

*' Ye've lost your girlhood, lassie, for a kiss I 

An' womanhood is full o' grief an' pain." 

An' laddie, I was sorry for a while. 

For girlhood days are sweeter than ye know. 

But laddie, then I looked into your eyes, 

So true, so blue, so full o' love for me. 

An' somethin' there said, " This is sweeter yet ! " 

An' with my lips on yours, I knew t'was true ! 



Have you ever prepared a surprise for yourself ? This may 
sound paradoxical but it is nevertheless possible, and one of the 
easiest ways of doing it is this : allow yourself a definite allotted 
time for which you plan nothing. Refuse all alluring invita- 
tions for that time and at the appointed hour place yourself 
among congenial surroundings and take a vow that you will 
follow the first opportunity for adventure. If you wish to be 
successful in this form of self-amusement you must be in that 
frame of mind in which you choose a book with your eyes shut, 
open it at random, and above all you must stick by your first 
choice. If you give in once and promise yourself three out of 
five chances it will grow to thirteen out of fifteen and even 
seventy-seven out of one hundred and twenty-three — then you 
never can stop and doubtless you will waste all your time cast- 
ing about for an opportunity. So, I say if you wish to be suc- 
cessful abide unswervingly by your first choice. 

John Dillingham closed his desk promptly at twelve-thirty. 
It was Monday and business was slack. 

'* Nothing ever happened on Monday," he told himself and 
rather admired his own courage in choosing this day to court 

It was raining and there were few people on the street. He 
hurried to his club and found the lounging room full of blue 
smoke perforated by long white bored faces. 

" Serves them right," thought Dillingham, "they never give 
themselves a chance. Work all day and sit around in a room 
like this. Heavens I " 

He ran his finger over the list of members, which hung by 
the elevator. He described a circle on the glass and then 
stopped with hi>? finger on the name — John Dillingham I 

"Of all the — I" he muttered and started again, but realizing 
that it was a breach of rule, he lunched alone. 

Lunching alone is not unusual but it was unusual for Dilling- 
ham, and he avoided several animated groups, enjoying the 
solitude of a little table by the window from which he looked 
out on the busy street. 



He found himself in a mood to enjoy the noise and hurry of 
it. He watched one man until he went out of sight around the 
corner ; then another and another. A stranger or at least an 
unfamiliar figure stopped at the entrance of the club, and then 
passed under the huge projecting door- way. Dillingham won- 
dered idly who it was and then returned to his reverie. 

Automobiles whirred by, street cars clanged, feet shuffled and 
scuffed. There below him were hosts of unknown faces hidden 
beneath black shiny hats and bobbing umbrellas. He became 
lost in the tangle of weaving figures — each going heaven knows 
where and each an adventurer. Countless numbers of — " Good 
morning, Dillingham ! They told me I'd find you here. I — a — 
wanted to talk over that advertising scheme with you. You sea 
it means a lot to me to fix it up today. Now if you could just — '* 

^' Sorry Bingham, I was just going out. Appointment at the 
dentist's at two," said Dillingham, whose mind was so thoroughly 
made up for adventure that he left his favorite dessert untouched 
and hurried out with Bingham's words still in his ears — " means 
a lot to me to finish this deal up to-day." 

'* Business, business, business," muttered Dillingham as he 
shrugged himself into his coat and lighted a cigarette. ".Why,. 
they can't think past their waste-paper baskets ! I'd rather be 
an office-boy with a lot to do outside the office, and one after- 
noon a week to do it in than any old advertising man who 
works like a mill six days a week and gets a big commission 
once in a blue moon. I say, take a day off once in a while. 
Forget yourself. Get in with the crowd— let yourself go and — 
see what happens." 

He stepped into the street and was carried on by the passing 
crowd; he loitered on the edge of the stream and watched the 
people. To trace something, to follow someone ! That is what 
he would do. He added to his sleuth-like mood by turning his 
hat down, and his collar up, and once more stepped into the 

An arm was thrust through his. He found himself led to the 
curb and pushed into a taxicab. His companion's face was as 
invisible as his own, and he admitted that he was thoroughly 

" He's got the wrong man," he mused, "but I'll work 'him for 
the plot and then spring the surprise." 

Dillingham kept his head turned from his companion, wishing 


to disclose himself at a dramatic moment, and after the purpose 
of the abduction had been discovered. 

'* Never saw anything so quick and effective in my life ! Al- 
ways wondered how they could make a fellow do something that 
he had absolutely no notion of doing. Easy as punch — it is. 
Hook him, lead him to it, stick him in, and there you are ! 
Pretty neat. Quickest connection I ever made. Pretty cocky 
and confident, this fellow. This kind certainly has more ability 
and enterprise and nerve than those boys who plug away at a 
desk all day. Hundreds and hundreds of them with their noses 
in books, counting up the money they have or want to get. 
What do they know about anything like this ? And me riding, 
Lord knows where, with — " 

** It's about that advertising scheme, Dillingham. You see, 
it means a big commission to me if I fix it up to-day. Now if 
you'll just come up to the office we can go through those plans 
again and — " 



When Washington, preserver of our land, 
Through gloom of dark oppression's brooding night, 
Uplifting Freedom's torch with dauntless hand. 
Set it on high to be the beacon light 
Of all the world ; that liberty's fair goal 
Was not in freedom loosened bondsmen know, 
But perfect liberty of mind and soul, 
And room to grow. 

'Tis said that though the fast-revolving years 

Have brought our nation growth from sea to sea, 

Mere mind a vainly glorious kingdom rears 

While soul is prisoned in prosperity. 

Never to worship God were men more free. 

Nor have we sold our birthright. Liberty, 

Nor reared unto ourselves a golden god, 

Nor kneel to worship him on Freedom's desecrated sod. 


All no ! Still Freedom's never-failing light 
Illumes afar this consecrated strand. 
For hark ! What glad shout breaks the gloom of night 
As eager pilgrims hail the "Promised Land" ? 
Their tongues are many, but they speak one mind. 
"America ! Thy torch shines o'er the sea ! 
The old world, spent and weary, left behind. 
We come to share thy perfect liberty — 
And thou canst give. Shining from pole to pole 
Thy gleaming torch bids struggling nations know 
That thou hast Freedom — yea, of mind and soul, 
And room to grow ! " 

The liberty they seek in faith and love 
They find ; there passes unregarded by 
A long procession, bearing gifts above 
To where God's altars rise to meet the sky. 
It matters not. The " alien on our shore" 
Turns from the pomp ; he seeks, nor fails to find 
Freedom's broad road : beyond, an open door 
Reveals to him the " city of the mind." 

Because from distant lands the pilgrim throng 
Has borne the dream of Freedom in its soul. 
The vision real, most radiant and strong. 
Springs forth to meet them as they reach the goal. 
Because they loved, with love that can endure, 
The beautiful of body, soul and mind ; 
Because they loved things noble, high and pure, 
'Tis these they seek for. and 'tis these they find. 

Freely receive, ye who so freeh^ give ! 
We turn from yonder gilded idol's hill. 
And may the common life we learn to live 
This nation's wondrous destiny fulfil. 
Ye bring us treasures from the storied past, 
High deed of valor, noble thought of truth, — 
Ye bring us dreams ; our treasure — guard it fast ! — 
Is Freedom and a Nation's glorious youth. 
We owe no barriers of tongue or race. 
Our common country's dee^tiny we trace, 
And. brothers in her service, we shall find 
Guided far-seeing by the beacon's glow 
Freedom complete, of body, soul and mind. 
And room to grow ! 



We hear a great deal about the immigrants who are pouring 
into this country at the rate of twenty thousand a day, aijd 
iibout the problem of how they are to be Americanized. Our 
ministers preach about this problem, our learned men discuss it 
learnedly in books, our college students settle this, along with 
the rest of the world's questions, in sociology classes, and the 
good ladies of our churches hold missionary meetings to con- 
sider, with prayerful attention, "the alien on our shores.'' 
But just what is it that we think we can give these foreigners 
when we Americanize them, and what are we giving them ? 
Are we quite sure that our civilization is something that is well 
worth handing on, and if so, what are the American ideals on 
which our faith rests ? 

There are some of us who have never gotten over the belief of 
our childhood — the belief in America as "'the land of the free." 
Freedom, which means not only the negative absence of thral- 
•dom, but positively, the time, the room and the opportunity to 
grow, in bodj% in mind and in spirit — this is to us the great 
American ideal. 

There are, however, pessimists in our midst, who say that the 
only American ideal which exists at the present day is the 
money-making one, that all interests of body, of mind and of 
soul are passion for the " almighty dollar." "And," these low- 
spirited individuals continue, "since the sum and substance of 
our so-called civilization is this passion for money, why are we 
so sure that we have something worth giving— why our tirm 
conviction of the advantage of being Americanized ? "' 

A great many of the immigrants are claimed by the industry 
concerned with providing our food. One branch of this indus- 
ti-y is to be found in the kitchen of a summer hotel. Here, 
though the third of the trio may be absent, you are sure to find 
his associates, the butcher and the baker, with tlieir numerous 
assistants ; then there are cooks who roast and cooks who broil 
and cooks who fry in deep fat, with the mighty chef presiding 
over all. The store-room has its force who, like slot-machines, 
respond to " two-on-the-orange-marm'lade " or "five on the 



demi-tasse," and shove out the desired articles with clock-like 
precision. There are the dish-washers, too, but they are in a 
class apart, and somehow don't count — perhaps because their 
industry is not a creative one, like that of cooks. 

The hotel of my experience had almost as many nations as 
occupations represented. A huge square kitchen was presided 
over by the prince of chefs, a Frenchman, big, capable, calm, 
*and the possessor of patience, that virtue rumored never to be 
found in a man, and let me whisper, more seldom still in a chef. 
To the left was the door of the bake shop, where Joe, the baker,, 
was never too busy to discuss Home Rule for Ireland, as he 
rolled out his piecrust, and Alec, the Greek boy, his handsome 
young assistant, sent melting glances in your direction as you 
came in to demand 'Hhree-on-the-baked-Indian-puddiug-with- 
brandy-sauce." It was remarkable, too, how quickly Alec 
found out just where those glances were and were not effective. 
If he saw that you were interested in certain other things, and 
not at all in flirtation, he could talk very entertainingly about 
his travels, for Alec in his four years in America had seen a 
great deal more of j^our United States than you had yourself. 

Next to the bake-shop door you could usually find Prudence 
(French, and accented on the last syllable), ver}^ hot and irrita- 
ble, as you would be yourself if you had to make toast and fry 
griddle cakes for a living. At the range was Chester, true son 
of Italy, with more melting glances, and a tendency to try to 
hold your hand as he placed in it " one-on-the-baked-potatoes.^' 
This, too, before he knew jou, for Chester, like all the others,, 
changed his tactics very soon. Then there was the deep-fat- 
man (bewildering term!) and presently the broiler man, with 
whom you had to contend periodically for " two-on-the-sirloin- 
sfceak-very-rare." Just about here you were sure to find Hannah, 
the vegetable woman, watching over her " p'taters, boiled 'n' 
mashed," which she cherished tenderly, and could with diffi- 
culty be induced to part from. 

In the butcher shop was Peter, the Greek, of whom more 
anon. Alphonse, too, must not be forgotten — little Alphonse 
who scoured the kettles and pans till they shone like his own 
dark skin. He was just seventeen years old, and newly arrived 
from Italy, not knowing a word of Eaglish. 

This then is some of the material out of which new Ameri- 
cans are being made. A place and occupation less favorable 


for their development could not perhaps be found. The heat of 
the kitchen, especially for those who work at the ranges, is 
almost unbearable, and is likely to work havoc with health and 
temper. The constant nearness to and emphasis placed upon 
food is by no means uplitting, and moreover, the spirit prevail- 
ing in a hotel kitchen is a distinctly commercial one. The out- 
side world (represented by the guests) is judged by its varying 
degrees of " fussiness," and even more sure criterion, its tipping 
propensities, as reported with more or less accuracy by the 
waitresses. Here "the almighty dollar" is being held up to 
*' the alien on our shores'^ as an American ideal. His ideal of 
American womanhood is not likely to be a high one, with the 
average waitress as material for its formation. There is nothing 
in the religious side of life to hold his attention. A clatter of 
I'ising at five and trooping to early mass betokens the arrival of 
Sunday morning, but that is all. The holy names are used 
as carelessly after mass as before ; with not even a shock of 
transition, the early church-goers have slipped back into their 
habitual sordid and slipshod lives. 

And yet, strangely enough, " the alien on our shores " is not 

taking America at this, its face value. He is not taking the 

average, the prevailing, the predominant, but is far-seeingly 

and persistently choosing the best. The explanation of this 

surprising fact may be found in large measure in the answer to 

a question, one which it would seem we consider too little when 

we deal with the immigrant problem; namely, "When the 

immigrant comes to us, what does he bring with bim from his 

native land ? What are his antecedents, what his background ? " 

Every one of the hotel " help " presented a different aspect of 

the problem. Alec, though just nineteen years old, had, like 

his countryman of long ago, "seen men and cities." He had 

not been in school very much at the time when he left Greece, 

but he had a keen, alert mind, of the kind that makes over 

experiences into knowledge. The wanderlust, perhaps, had led 

him to travel far west in these four 3^ears, until, having tried 

many cities he chose Boston and decided to call it home. "It 

is to me almost like Greece," he said with shining eyes. Alec 

cannot go to evening school, for his work, that of baker, lasts 

until eight o'clock at night. His education, however, is not 

suffering. He reads the newspapers, both Greek and American, 

and knows very well what is going on in the world. More 


significant still, lie realizes the value of education, and there he- 
iris advanced a step beyond many young Americans, who, 
living in the shadow of the school, look lightly upon its oppor- 

Alec's companion, Peter, who had been in America just four 
months, was a high school student in Greece, and had studied 
French there. Without Alec's eagerness of mind, Peter had a 
certain quiet interest in things, a persistent studiousness, which 
will accomplish like results. " I am going to look for work 
that stops at five o'clock," said Peter, in slow, careful English. 
'' Then I can go to evening school." 

Both Greek boys had a keen interest in the events taking- 
place in Greece. When Alec found out that I could read 
Greek, he ran to Peter, and after a five minutes' excited conver- 
sation they came to me with the day's Greek newspaper, and 
listened with beaming faces while I read to them in my careful 
college-Greek. They pointed out to me very courteously that 
I read the same things as they, but produced a slightly different 
result, and although amused, still they rather liked the preci- 
sion with which I pronounced words that they slurred together^ 
They came to me often after that, to tell me the news from 
Greece. It made them feel at home to find an American who 
knew their native tongue, even in the rude way that I did. 
But my privilege was the greater one ; it was stirring indeed to- 
talk with a person no older than myself who had lived within 
sight of the Parthenon, and with another whose cousin was 
even now rocovering from a wound which he had received 
while fighting for the liberty of Greece. 

With Alphonse, the little Italian, it seemed harder to make 
ccnnections. He knew no English whatever, his work brought 
him little into contact with others, and moreover, his was the 
hardest work in the hotel. He was very young, yet he had to 
get up before four o'clock every morning, to start the fires in 
the range. From that time on till afternoon his work was con- 
stant — scouring pots and kettles, running hither and thither 
with his noiseless, hoop-rolling motion, to do the bidding of the 
chef. He had no easier lot to look forward to, for he had 
engaged to do the same kind of work in Boston during the 
winter. Chester, the other Italian, was the only person Al- 
phonse had to talk to, and he had none of the native refinement 
that was easily discernible in Alphonse. There was something. 


very sweet and wholesome about the boy ; it was marvelous to 
see how quick he was to respond to real interest in him, while 
all the coarseness of the hotel passed quite over his head — he 
was not looking for anything- of the sort, so he did not under- 
stand it. 

I used to wonder about Alphonse, and what was to become of 
him, with his singularly bright and attractive nature, and so 
little opportunity for development. Very earlj^ in the season, 
however, Alphonse was ably taken in baud. Two teachers of 
wide experience were at the liotel as waitresses that summer. 
They noticed little Alphonse, his possibilities and his limitations, 
and for the rest of the summer they devoted most of their after- 
noons to teaching him English. Sometimes his mind worked 
slowly ; small wonder for he had already had an eleven-hour 
day of work when the lesson began — but he struggled on man- 
fully, and at the end of the summer could talk with us quite a 
bit. Of course he cannot go to the evening school— his work 
does not permit that— but the teachers have his address, and are 
going to send him books. In short, we all felt that there was a 
ray of hope for Alphonse, that he had taken the first steps 
toward making the connections with his " Promised Land." 

With the girls who represent "the alien on our shore " the 
situation is a little different. I did not find one of them who 
was interested in education. They apparently did not feel the 
need of it. Prudence, the French girl, was not at all disturbed 
because she could not write in English. She came occasionally 
to one of our teacher friends and asked her to write a letter for 
her, but showed no inclination to learn to write. With her the 
matter of personal appearance, in its bearing upon a certain in- 
nocent coquetry, was the main issue. With little Bessie who 
had just came from Ireland, the situation was practically the 
same. Yet these girls were open to influence, and America was 
doing something for them. Although much in the hotel life 
was unwholesome, with them, too — and all this tends to contra- 
dict the people who believe in the original depravity of man — 
the influence of things better and higher in the end prevailed. 
The majority of the waitresses were addicted to cheap flirtation, 
one form of which was calling out from their windows to 
loungers who sat on the fence, and little Bessie began to do like- 
wise. The teacher who had helped Alphonse went into Bessie's 
room one evening and said, "Bessie, I wouldn't call from the 
window. It isn't nice. The men out there aren't the right sort.'* 


"All right," said little Bessie. '*I don't care. But I heard 
the others, so I thought I'd just * jine in.'^^ 

The French girl, at the opening of the season, brought art to 
the assistance of nature, often and obviously, in matters con- 
cerning the rosiness of cheeks and the brightness of eyes. She 
was quick to see that this type of adorment was not practised 
bj' the best of her associates, and before end of the summer, her 
natural really beautiful coloring and her soft brown eyes were 
allowed to show themselves. 

Though perhaps as in these instances, we contributed some- 
thing to the here and there, to the development of " the alien on 
our shores," yet here, as always, the benefit was mutual, and I 
think we received much more than we gave. To hear little 
Bessie talk, and to see her dance the strange, intricate dances of 
her country, was more illuminating to us than many volumes 
of folk-lore. Prudence, too, represented a type different from 
anything we had known, and not at all negligible. Her femin- 
inity, her gentle coquetry, spoke of maidens as we had read of 
them in romances concerning the France of long ago. 

This it is that strikes the keynote of the relation to us and to 
our America, of "the alien on our shores." He receives much 
from us, because he has much to give. To those only who have 
an ideal in their hearts is the ideal made manifest. Because 
these pilgrims who are coming to us from many lands have a 
background of the high and glorious, thej^ are drawn to that 
which is high and glorious in our civilization ; because they 
have something beautiful in their souls, they can see the beauti- 
ful in ours ; because as patriots they love the lands of their 
birth, they can join with us as loyally in loving our America. 
When we recognize our common humanity ; when we realize 
that these are other human beings, with lives, with interests 
like our own and where different, of like significance ; that we 
are not benefactors, but that those whom we would Americanize 
have a definite contribution of their own to bring, and are ready 
to be co-workers with us in building up a more glorious America; 
when we have grasped this, the true situation, then and then 
only will our activities be turned in the right direction, for as 
soon as we stop thinking about differences, and, emphasizing 
the one great similaritj-, work together as brothers for the glory 
of our common country, then there will cease to be a problem 
of " the alien on our shores." 



Veau8 was feeding the Turtle Doves when Cupid came flut- 
tering into the Home Bower with a broken wing. 

" What is the trouble, Cupid, dear?" Venus cried in alarm 
as the little fellow sank to the earth, quiver and bows forgotten. 
She dropped her pan of dove-feed and ran to take the sad little 
son in her arms. 

" Tell mother, dear," she said. " Who has hurt you now ? It 
wasn't the suffragettes again, was it ?" 

She watched him anxiouslj^ as he wriggled his head deeper in- 
to the hollow of her arm. Her face was troubled ; life had been 
discouraging of late. All her slender income went into Cupid's 
arrows : but almost every day the erstwhile happy little fellow 
came home, bruised and tearful, with arrows broken or lost. 

His sobs quieted after a few moments and he straightened up, 
digging his fists into his eyes. 

''There's no use in trying to do anything for people nowa- 
days," he stormed. And then he told how for days he had been 
shooting arrows at a Girl, all to no purpose. 

"And she wasn't a suffragette, either," he said, "I don't 
bother with them any more.'' 

He said he wouldn't have used so many arrows on the Girl if 
it hadn't been for the Man. You see, he had hit the Man only 
once, real hard, when the Man had noticed the Girl. Then when 
the Man noticed her, he wanted to talk to her. And when the 
Man talked to her, although she made him talk about her career 
he loved her. But Cupid said it wasn't the Man's fault. He 
really was a nice, sensible Man, as men go ; but, you see, 
he still had a primitive susceptibility to Cupid's arrows. Of 
course, Cupid didn't say exactly that — but that's really what it 
amounted to. 

Cupid continued in his story. The Girl, he said, talked about 
her great, big, beautiful career. And the Man said : 

" What is a Career ? Is it work ? '' 

The Girl simply looked at the Man. She said : 

" My Career ? It is the Inspiration of my Life ! " 


WheD Cupid told his mother what the girl said about her 
Career, Venus looked puzzled. Then she smiled. 

Cupid said that he didn't see how the Girl's Career couhi be 
the inspiration of her life. He had seen the big ugly thing. He 
wasn't sure whether it was a great watch dog or a sort of clumsy 
hobby-horse. Anyway she always had it with her. Whenever 
anyone came to see her, she unchained the awful thing and let 
it walk all around and step on everybody's toes. And finally ^ 
that very day, while Cupid was hiding in a corner, the Career 
had walked over one of his wings and now he was hurt and 

But Venus said to " never mind." She had a plan. She told 
Cupid not to waste any more arrows nor time ; she had had ex- 
perience with Careers before. So she bound up Cupid's sore 
wing and while he slept she mended his broken arrows and 
polished them and made some new ones barbed with a brand 
new bard. 

And meanwhile the Girl was happy and the Career grew and 
made itself heard and everybody came to stroke its head until it 
grew glossy under the many caresses. And the Girl built a 
splendid place for it to live in ; rather, she cleared a broad ex- 
panse in the place that she cherished most, swept out all the 
old-fashioned things that cluttered it. And she loved the Career 
more each day. 

And the Man was the only one who did not come and purr 
over the Career. When he did come, which wasn't very often, 
he tried to be agreeable but that Career-thing got on his nerves. 
It kept on growing and taking up more room all the time ; in 
fact, the Girl was the only person whom it did not crowd. 
Everyone else had to move when the Career began to walk 
about. And whenever the Man tried to look at the Girl (he 
never tried to talk any more ! ) its big blundering hulk got dir- 
ectly in front of him. And even then he tried to be agreeable. 
But once he was just getting a good look and thought perhaps 
he would have a chance to tell the Girl again how miserable he 
was, when that Career's great big hulk walked straight between 
them. And the Girl smiled at it and forgot about the Man. He 
did not say anything — but he was not trying to be agreeable. 
He just went out and on the way across the broad expanse that 
the Girl had cleared for the Career, he met the beast again and 
this time he forgot to be afraid, he forgot to be agreeable for 


the Girl's sake ; lie kicked it. And the Career snarled and 
chased him over the hedge. And the Girl watched him do it. 

Now, don't think that the Girl was cruel or unusually selfish. 
She was not. She was naturally a nice girl but she loved her 
Career so much that she expected everyone else to do likewise. 
And that was because she did not know any better. 

When the Man did not come back the Girl was relieved. And 
she gave still more attention to the Career. And everyone said, 
" What a Remarkable Woman ! " 

All this time Cupid had not been very far away although he 
often became cold and longed for his cosy home and his mother. 
She had told him not to use any of the shiny new arrows she 
had made for him until she told him it was time. 

When the Man was chased away by the Career, Cupid wanted 
to try a shot at the Girl and ran to his mother, begging her to 
let him. 

But "Not yet," she said, smiling. 

And when the Girl became relieved and happy because the 
Man had gone he ran to Venus again. 

But '* Not yet,'' she said firmly. 

And when people called the Girl a Remarkable Woman and 
the Career grew larger and glossier, Cupid curled up in his cold 
little corner and cried. Venus comforted him but still warned 
him, "Not yet!" 

Then one day a Friend came to see the Girl. And she talked 
and talked about the Career, because everyone knew that was 
the thing to do. And when the Remarkable Woman had told 
her all about it, how she loved it, the Friend said : 

'' Oh, my dear, how I admire you. You are wonderful I If I 
could only raise a Career — but that wouldn't do for me, I'm 
afraid. You know, I— well, can't you imagine me handling a 
Career." And then she kissed the Remarkable Woman on the 
tip of her nose (which had no powder on it I) and hurried away. 

Now Cupid was surprised for Venus said, *' Now's the time, 
dear." She had come to him and selected an arrow from his 

" Use this one first," she said. 

So Cupid, happy to shoot at last, let it fly whirring, swishing 
straight at the Remarkable Woman as she stood patting the 
Career absent-mindedly. And that arrow was barbed, not with 
Love like the old-fashioned ones, but with Reflection. Cupid 


had never heard of such an arrow before ; he waited to see what 
would happen. The Remarkable Woman stood still a long 
while, as if looking at something a long way off ; but she did 
not forget to give the Career his supper. And Cupid was dis- 
appointed. But Venus smiled and selected another arrow from 
the quiver telling him to use it next but not until she bade him. 

'• Wait and see," she advised. 

Many times the Remarkable Woman seemed to be looking 
across the hedge that enclosed the place set aside for the Career, 
at something far off. But she always turned back to the Career 
with an extra pat. 

One day the Friend came again : this time with a sample copy 
of herself toddling beside her, clinging to her hand. The Re- 
markable Woman was delighted with the toddling little one; she 
picked her up and loved her and quite forgot about the Career 
even when it nosed about her to be petted. Then the Friend 
went away with the little Girl holding fast to her hand. And 
the Remarkable Woman watched them till they disappeared be- 
hind the hedge— and looked a long, long time at something far 
awa}^. And Cupid was bored. 

But that night the Remarkable Woman forgot to give the 
Career his supper I And Cupid let fly his brand new arrow 
tipped with " Might Have Been ;" and hugged himself while he 
waited to see what would happen. But nothing more happened 
— except that the Remarkable Woman finally heard the pleading 
of the Career and gave him his supper without seeming to 
see him. 

Then the next day mother Venus came to Cupid and said : 

''You can shoot your third arrow to-day, it will be the last. 
You won't need any more." So when the Remarkable Woman 
came out and gazed across the garden where her Career was 
sleeping in the sun and over the hedge around it, Cupid slyly 
let fly the last arrow. It was barbed with Loneliness. And 
.when it went home, straight to the Woman's heart, she only 
shivered a little and went inside. And Cupid threw down his 
bow in disgust. "This world is too much for me. If they're 
going to have Suffragettes and Careers and things, I'm going to 
give notice." Just then Venus arrived. 

"Just wait, dear," she said. "The Man will come back now 
and you'll see what this modern method of slow doses of mine 
has done." 


But the Man did not come back. Venus forgot that he was 
not still waiting beyond the hedge. And she forgot that even 
one of Cupid's strongest arrows could not be expected to retain 
its original effect when a man had a Career to contend with. So 
they waited and he did not come. And the Remarkable Woman 
seemed to be waiting, too. She made a note of the Career^s 
mealtimes, so she never forgot. But the Career started to get 
thin and moth-eaten and peevish because people did not pet him 
as they had. But the Remarkable Woman kept him alive and 
working. And Venus was so ashamed that she hurried back to 
ber Home Bower and resolved to have nothing more to do with 
her son's business — unless it were to do modest mending. But 
her son went out of business, too ; he left his bow and arrows 
right where he dropped them. He vowed he would not touch, 
them again — but I'm afraid he did. 

And the Remarkable Woman went on caring for her Career. 
Her friends went on saying " My dear, how wonderful you are ! " 
And the Remarkable Woman knew in her heart, where Cupid's 
barbs of Reflection, Might-Have-Beens and Loneliness were 
lodged, that she was not wonderful. And all this came about 
because she had allowed her Career to wander around until he 
bruised poor Cupid's wing. 

Moral: — Be careful about pet animals, particularly Careers ; 
don't let them step on other people's toes. 



Far oer the eastern wave doth queenly Night 

Sweep forth from Pluto's ebon battlement 

In shimm'ring. shadowy robes of purple dight. 

From whose soft folds there falls a fairy scent 

Of dewy flowers and Orient perfumes blent : 

Clusters of pearls above her temples gleam, 

And quiv'ring at her breast the pale crescent 

Of the new moon casts its silvery beam 

O'er starlit summer seas that silent lie and dream. 



Frances Bray ton powdered her nose with more than usual 
care, secure in the knowledge that a caller who had waited 
twenty minutes would wait the extra two necessary to produce 
the proper shade on her most prominent feature. It would be 
good for him to wait, she reflected. 

^' Good evening, '' she greeted him cordially as they shook 
hands. " Have I kept you waiting ? " 

''Why — er— yes — I mean I'm always impatient to see you," 
he adapted himself clumsily to the situation. Why did girls 
ask such questions ? No man would. He was used to men. 

"You men are always impatient and in a hurry," said the 
girl mockingly. "It's your business, or your lunch, or your 
train, something you've got to catch in the wink of an eye. 
Some day you'll miss everything you're hurrying for. I'm sure 
I'll outlive you all ; I never hurry." 

"Yes, and some day you'll find yourself in a position where 
you have to hurry," replied the man with a quick appreciation 
of her last statement. He had not waited twenty-two minutes 
without discovering that Frances Brayton did not hurry. 

"But hurry is the great American evil and I'm sure you'd 
never countenance evil," Frances teased. "You're not that 
kind of man." 

"Nothing but a necessary evil, there are enough of those to 
sink the rest of the tribe into insignificance." 

" I suppose I'm an evil," said the girl with sudden malicious- 
ness. " I keep you waiting and you hate to wait ; I disagree 
with you and you hate to be disagreed with. Why do you 
come here at all ?" She fingered the books on the table nerv- 
ously, almost wishing her question back. 

"You are a necessary evil, then, Frances," he said slowly. 
"Very, very necessary to rae. Do you realize that ? I want 
you to marry me, to help me do the things I hope to do. Will 

The color mounted into the girl's face. The suddenness of it 
all took her breath away. She wasn't ready to answer that 
question yet. ^*2 


" Do all you Westerners do things that way ? " she asked. 

"What way?" said Burleigh, stung by the lightness of her 
answer. "Honest and straight and true? Yes. Can't you 
play the game that way ? Can't you get away from the artifi- 
cial forcing of your hot-house culture and come down to real 
facts and live issues ? Won't j^ou answer me directly ?" 

The girl shook her head. " 'Twouldn't be natural. You 
can't expect a hot-house plant to enjoy a snow-storm, can you ? 
Besides, you get too much that you want. If you want some- 
thing else to-morrow you'll forget what you wanted to-day." 

"But I'll always want you." Burleigh asserted earnestly. 

"Supposing I wanted you to give up all j^our political ambi- 
tions, would you ?" She looked at him directly for the first 
time. "Aren't those ambitions about the dearest things to 
you ? It's your turn to be honest now." 

"What would you make of me — a household ornament ? The 
only thing I have to offer you is myself and my desire to make 
good at whatever I undertake. I'm not rich, — no man who 
mixes in politics has a chance to get i-ich on the road to success, 
— and I haven't any of those social graces I notice the young 
men of this town cultivating so carefully. Wouldn't I make a 
fine figure at a pink tea juggling a plate of cake in one hand 
and spilling tea over tne surrounding company with the other ? 
Would you have a man or a puppet ? " 

"You haven't answered my question— why should I answer 
yours?" retorted the girl wickedly. "You boast of your 
Western frankness, your innate fairness. Is it any fairer to 
ask me to transplant myself to your atmosphere, to merge 
myself in your interests, while you do just as you please ? 
Come now, Tom, do you call that playing the game ?" 

"You'll play, no matter what the game is, or how serious 
it is, won't you ? Can't I make you believe my sincerity ? 
It's only by playing together we'll ever get anywhere, don't 
you see ? " 

"Tom, we're not getting anywhere — just wasting perfectly 
good energy — and you're getting all excited. Too much hurry, 
Tom, always. I told j^ou that was your trouble. Now you're 
trying to huiry things again and this time maybe you won't 
get your train." Her eyes sparkled. " Tom, we can be awfully 
good friends — why do you want to tumble things topsy-turvy 
like that?" 


She wandered across the room to the French window and 
gazed out. *' Come look at the moon/^ she invited him. " It's 
a glorious night and I really think you need cooling off. I 
don't wonder Jessica eloped with a moon like that encouraging 
her. You know, I think that's the nicest part of elopements — 
the setting is so much more romantic than ordinary wed dings. "^ 

*^ I wonder you ever thought of elopements at all," Burleigh 
said slowly. *'Is there any opportunity for such things in a 
hot-house ? " 

"You're awfully fond of that figure, aren't you, Tom ?"^ 
replied the girl, somewhat nettled. '*It seems to me you over- 
work it." 

'* But I want you to feel the real air, the sunshine, not to wilt 
away in a hot-house. I want you to stand under the stars with 
me and know the real meaning of life. Haven't you any desire 
to get out and breathe again ? " 

"I'm afraid I'd gasp like a fish out of water," she laughed. 
" Tom, whj^ will you be so serious to-night ? How do you sup- 
pose I could ever stand such persistency all the time r Why, 
I'd never have a moment's peace. I believe you'd even try to 
convert me to your absurd idea of hurry — now wouldn't you ?" 

" No, I'm afraid that would be hopeless. Converting you to 
anything is hopeless," he replied dully. 

A knock on the door interrupted them. 

"Telephone call for Mr. Burleigh," announced the butler. 

The girl looked at Burleigh and laughed. "You see you 
can't get away from business even when you're with me," 
she said. 

"You do like to rub it in, don't you ?" Burleigh said as he 
turned toward the door. " Have I your highness' permission 
to answer mj'' call ?" 

"Yes, my full permission, since I know you'll answer it, 

"Thank you, Frances," and he was gone. 

Left alone, Frances sank into an armchair, relieved that she 
could have a moment to collect her thoughts. He was so per- 
sistent and took things so seriously. Yet, in spite of that, or 
perhaps because of it, he interested her. Certainly he was 
different from the other men of her acquaintance. He knew 
his own mind and he never flattered. There was much about 
him to be admired. Francers found herself wondering if living 
with a very admirable person would become monotonous. 


The opening of the door aroused the girl from her reverie. 
In response to an ungovernable impulse she turned sharply. 
'*Well?" she queried. Something must have happened, she 
felt sure. A strange nervousness, a sudden tenseness took 
possession of her. ^'Anything wrong ? " she managed to say. 

Burleigh came and stood in front of her without speaking 
and looked down at her steadily. 

" For pity's sake, Tom, what's the matter ? You stand there 
like a wooden Indian and glare at me." 

''Frances," said the man, *'you must promise me that you'll 
marry me. Tell me now, right now, that you will." 

The girl recovered her poise. " Is that what your telephone 
message was about, Tom ?" she asked. 

Burleigh kept his temper with difficulty. "Be serious for a 
moment, please. I mean it. Fve got to have yoiir promise 

'* Always in a hurry, Tom. Why this — let us say— precipi- 
tancy ?" 

"At 10.06 I leave for the West on business. Something's 
gone wrong with the mine ; they need me. It may be six 
months before I'm back. Won't you send me back with some- 
thing to work for ? " 

" Don't you think what's worth working for is worth waiting 
for ? You go out there and get absorbed in your precious basi- 
ness. How about me in the meantime ? " 

" There isn't time to quibble. My train goes in twenty min- 
utes. I must get it. One word from j^ou will make me the 
happiest man in the world.'' 

"You're too sure of your success, Mr. Burleigh." 

" But I can't go till I'm sure some day you'll come with me. 
I don't ask you to come now ; I only ask you to send me out 
knowing you care for me and will wait till I come back." 

" If you cared more for me than for your business, for mate- 
rial success, you wouldn't go. I must have time to make up 
my mind. You're asking too much. How do you know J love 
you 9 Or hadn't you thought of that ? " 

Burleigh was silent. After all, how did he know she loved 
him ? Conscious only of his love for her. he had never doubted 
tliat it would be reciprocated. She was worth winning, he 
thought, worth more than his business success, future wealth, 
political preferment. He decided quickly. 


'' Frances," he said quietly, '^ I'm not going. You're more to 
me than tbe mine. I am going to settle this before I undertake 
anything else. Are you satisfied ?'^ 

"No," replied the girl with suddenly flashing eyes. "I'm 
not. What kind of a man would you be to leave your duties 
and play Jack-in-the-box with a girl ? You said you were a 
man ; would you become a puppet ?" 

"Why, Frances — " began Burleigh, astonished at this change 
in her attitude. 

•• Stay here, leave your men in difiQculties, neglect your affairs, 
to dance attendance on a girl ? How much respect could she 
have for a man like that ? She might fare no better when a 
new fancy turned his way." 

" But it's only because — " Burleigh tried to explain, utterly 

" Do you think I would ever marrj^ a man I couldn't respect 
thoroughly ?" she rushed on. 

" You're unfair, Frances." Burleigh reddened as he spoke. 
"' You don't understand — " 

"Yes. I do understand," she retorted hotly. "You're willing 
to sacrifice your duty to your desire. You can't see yourself 
balked. You must always win. Do you think I'm going to 
see you do that ? " She looked him straight in the face, her 
cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling. 

" Frances ! " cried the man, a light breaking on him, " I am 
going West to-night with your promise. Only ten minutes for 
that train. Tell me quick — you will, won't you?" He took 
her in his arms. 

" Do hurried people always take a lot of things for granted ?" 
came a choking voice. " I haven't said anything about it yet." 

" But you will, you know you will. Now I can get that busi- 
ness straightened out in half the time ; then I'll be back to get 
you and we'll be married right off. Now for that train." 

Together they hastened to the motor waiting at the door. 
When they reached the station, he silently helped her out of 
the motor to the platform and they almost ran to the train. 
At the foot of the steps he turned. She looked up at him and 
smiled. " Good-bye," she murmured, " and hurry back I" 




Madly rushing torrents and precip)itate mountain streams 
oarry force which the clear depths of the inland lake can never 
hope to know. After reading the startling, crashing articles in 
which the modern magazine abounds, one turns in search of 
quiet peeps at life to the gentle backwater of the Contributor's 
Club. And here, as never in the eternal unrest of the more 
powerful waters, one maj^ see reflected the blue sky, the white 
clouds, all the most characteristic paraphernalia of a summer 

In the Contributor's Club of the Atlantic Monthly for Decem- 
ber, 1913, is to be found an article on "Little Things." The 
writer show us how important are the little things in life. '*We 
love little things, we hate little things, we fear little things ; our 
lives are knit up with little things from the time we are born to 
the day we die." '' It is the little things that count." (Here one 
thinks instinctively of a dinner-table, around which sit mother, 
father and three ''little ones'' and on which is, amongst other 
things, a plate with eight ])ieces of cake). And the writer's 
conclusion of the whole matter is a summary of the supreme 
importance of "these same insidious little things which so often 
pretend to hide themselves away in the background, when in 
reality they are the most important part of the whole picture.'' 

Here then, in the quiet lake, we would seem to have a reflec- 
tion of that which is a very important pai-t of the aspect of life 
to-day. In other places we hear the same thing. Edward 
Fitzgerald says that he wishes we had more biographies of 
obscure person ; quo obscirrum, quid divinum is become, for 
sooth, a motto for many brave hearts. The flower in the cran- 


nied wall is yet, and ever more, an epitome of the mystery of 
God and man. And down through the years come dancing 
forms of the Little People, whose part in the history of the 
world has assuredly been no small one. 

Edward Fitzgerald is right, I think ; and the flower surely is 
an epitome of that sacred mystery. But the danger lies in 
thinking that obscure men are enough ; that the flower needs 
not God and man to complete it, to make it of any meaning at 
all. As Alfred Noyes recently reminded us, this is a day of 
specialists. The mechanic proudly leads us through his shop 
and to many of us, according to our new-found philosophy, the 
most notable thing is the tiny screw that enables a massive steel 
machine to do its work. The chemist assures us that the most 
trivial mistake in composition will enable a hitherto apparently 
harmless mixture to make of our surroundings little things 
indeed ! In our psychology laboratories we learn that the droop 
of an eyelash, the patter of an autumn leaf on the ground may 
mean destruction to a nation, the course of the world has been 
changed by the beauty of one woman; the rulership of the 
world lost because one road was not where an emperor supposed 
it to be. 

But each of these statements is a perfect poem ; if only we 
will read it aright. What makes the tiny screw so wonderful, 
if not the results which, on account of it, the machine can pro- 
duce ? The possible mistake of the chemist is important for its 
consequences, not in itself. There is a true relationship which 
must not be lost sight of. 

Biographies of obscure person let us have, by all means. 
They may clear up many points for us. But for them would 
we give up our knowledge of Julius Csesar, of Alexander, of 
Charlemagne, of Napoleon I, of Washington, of all other truly 
great men whose influence has changed the very courses of the 
stars and added new melody to the music of the spheres? 

We may ^'turn but a stone and start a wing," but to us the 
matter of greater importance is, not that we have moved a 
stone, but that we have come upon an angel. If we ^* cannot 
pluck a flower without troubling of a star," the flower is the 
agent by which we perform a miracle, and we love the flower 
fur the star's sake more than the star for the flower's sake. 

I had thought to have found a clear reflection in the lake ; 
but overhanging thickets with their tiny, interlaced twigs often- 
times make of the sky in the lake a queer confusion of lines. 


May we not hope that the final purpose is to discover the 
exact relationship between flower and star ? Perchance some 
things which we call little, we shall find ourselves obliged to re- 
classify; perchance when we have searched long and diligently 
we may find the flower as important as the star. But we shall 
not pride ourselves on loving things, fearing things, hating 
things for their mere littleness. And perchance we shall find 
that the picture is not important because it is made up of little 
things ; but that the little things are important because they 
make up the picture. 



One day, with sudden sight, I saw at last 
The part I play, the garb I really wear, 
The lowly role to which I have been cast, 
The cap and bells, the dress at which men stare, 
The motley of a fool ! 

I want to sing of life and death and love, 
Of dreams and visions, glorious, half -glimpsed truth, 
Of shy, half-formed beliefs in Him above. 
Of truths to Age so old, so new to Youth. 
Not prattle of a fool ! 

But when to voice my thoughts I do my best, 
My blundering crudeness makes men hiss me still, 
"Nay, nay," they cry, " thy part is but to jest, 
And make us laugh until we've had our fill t *' 
The duty of a fool I 

And so I crack my jokes and tell my tales, 
And make each trivial doing yield a jest, 
I play my part, for wailing naught avails. 
And, secretly rebellious, do my best, 
In this dull role of fool. 



If I were a soul and you were a soul, 

And we met in some lost land, 
And you had left off your scarlet cloak, 
And I, my hat with the golden band ; 

If I met you there alone. 
Would you love my soul as you love me, 
Would I love your soul as I love you 

In your garb of flesh and bone ? 
Crimson is crimson and gold is gold, 
Without them our love might be cold. 

And you whom I may not call my friend, 
You have lived by me and I by you 

For summers not a few; 
But the backyard fence is a picket fence, 

A fence without a gate. 
You sing the songs that I do not love, 

1 plant the flowers you hate ; 
And behind the songs and the crimson cloak 
And the flowers, all barriers great. 
Two souls are lost, will they yet be found 
Under or over the ground ? 



Snug and warm in a twilight room 
After a tramp through the falling snow,- 

What could be cozier, Polly dear. 
Than tea for two in the fire's glow? 

While the dancing firelight's a-gleam 
On the shining silver and cloth of snow. 

Over the teacups you smile at me, 
Polly, my heart, in the fire's glow ! 

Over the teacups you smile at me, 
Smile, as you make the tea — iust so ! 

And I laugh back, I'm so happy, dear. 
Just alone with you in the fire's glow. 

Snug and warm in a twilight room 
After a tramp through the falling snow. 

What could be cozier, Polly dear, 
Than tea for two in the fire's glow ? 




It was after ten but we had taken a light cut to talk. Some- 
how I like to talk to Mary. I don't know her well, in fact I 
almost never see her, but once in a while on Sundays or at night 
we have a chat and she always leaves me something to think 
about. To-night she was more serious than usual. She sat 
huddled on my cot almost lost in the folds of her big gray bath 
robe, her queer little face pillowed on her hand. 

*' You're tired," I said. 

"No, just pensive. I!ve had a good day. Did you ever won- 
der why you were here ? " 

This was abrupt but I waited. I knew she would go on and 
she did. 

'' It's a privilege to live in this world and it's a special privi- 
lege to live as we do here with all the advantages. We worry 
about unpaid bills but we have one most of us will never pay 
and it's so big we forget about it. What do I do to justify my 
living at all ?" She smiled her queer, sunnj^, wondering smile. 
She was not in the least gloomy or morbid, just thoughtful. 
"I always feel," she went on, *^that I'd like to do something 
big but there really isn't an opportunity for a person with no 

I murmured something platitudinal about little things count- 
ing but she only smiled again. 

" I've never seen a little thing that was worthy of the name 
' thing,"^ she said. 

Next day she came into my room uninvited, a thing that had 
never happened before. Her eyes were shining and I could see 
from the expression of her usually plain face that something 
unusual had occurred. 

"Do you want to know something nice?" she said. "I'm 
going to Springfield to see the ' Russian Dancers.' Oh you just 
can't know how much I want to see them!" She chatted on 
about dinner at the Kimball, her own in spending the money, 
etc. I knew what the treat meant to her. She had been unable 
to go home for Thanksgiving and her Christmas had been spent 
in caring for an invalid aunt in the country. Moreover, she 

3 81 


was not bright and had had to work hard and steadily through, 
the year. 

'' I didn't know you liked dancing," I said. 

Mary blushed. " I don't dance myself," she said, '' but I love 
to watch other people." Then after a pause, "I — I watch 
esthetic almost every time." 

•' When do you go ? " 

*' Next Wednesday. Oh I can hardly wait !" 

On Tuesday I dropped into Alice's room. She is a gloomy 
soul, chiefly because her main object in life is to take care of 
Alice, but I was feeling cheerful and had hopes of dispelling 
her gloom. Mary was sitting on the window ledge and as usual 
no one seemed to notice her. Alice held the center of the stage. 

'' It's the monotony of this life that kills me !" she was say- 
ing. (She really looked very healthy.) "Nothing but bells 
from morning to night ; eating and classes, eating and study. 
Each day just like the day before. If only something new 
would happen." 

She seemed to ignore the fact that others led the same life, 
but that was characteristic of Alice. Suddenly I noticed Mary's 
face. It was cheerful and thoughtful as usual but something 
in her expression told me what was coming. I wanted to run 
from the room, to hear her do it would be unbearable and it 
was bad enough. She was so nice about it. She was tired, 
ought to studj^, needed the money. Of course Alice accepted 
the ticket. I knew she would before Mary began. 

The worst came after Mary left the room. Alice smiled 

'* I wouldn't take it," she explained, "if I didn't realize that 
she doesn't want it. I can't imagine her caring for such things ; 
I really think I'm doing her a favor." 



I wonder whence they could have come, 
These flitting, faery thoughts of mine, 
That hang my heart's dim. empty rooms 
Like cobweb curtains, frail and fine, 
Wrought, maybe, on some magic loom. 
Of rainbow lights and sunshine gleams, 
A tapestry of fancies fair, 
The fragments of my dreams. 


For often through my thoughts there st«al 
The clear, soft love-notes of a bird 
That sang, long since in Arcady, 
Whose liquid tones Pan, haply, heard 
And caught upon his magic pipes, 
And then breathed forth a m^^stic strain 
Sweet as the laughter of the breeze, 
Soft as the drip of summer rain. 

Or else there pours a sudden shower 

Of perfumed splendor o'er my sense, 

Like dim rose-gardens, warm, wine-sweet. 

Throbbing with odor, rich, intense 

As all the spice of Araby, 

Or keen and cool as woodland pine 

On forest hill-tops carpeted 

With leaf and moss and trailing vine. 

And sometimes in the firelight's glow 
A host of proud white cities seem 
To rise, dim, stately palace halls 
Where burnished gold and ivory gleam, 
And there at eve sit ladies fair. 
And noble knights, a merry throng, 
To hear brave tales of loves and wars 
That live anew in minstrels song. 

And sometimes, too. I feel the strange, 
Exquisite thrills presaging birth 
Of love in hearts of man and maid. 
And sometimes honest, carefree mirth 
Sweeps through me or my eyes are wet 
With tears for some forgotten woe. 
Or else my heart throbs with a joy 
That died a century ago. 

And^so IjWonder when they come, 

These flitting, faery thoughts of mine. 

That fill^my heart's dim, empty rooms 

Withvisions mystic, half divine. 

I wonder shall I ever know 

The real from this that only seems. 

And^must my soul be satisfied 

With these_dim fragments of my dreama ? 



The soft spring twilight was slowly descending over Versailles 
one April evening in the twenty-fifth year of Louis the Great's 
reign. In that part of the vast gardens — known as the Salle des 
Marronniers a young girl was walking up and down accom- 
panied by an officer clad in the blue coat of the king's body 
guard. Deep silence reigned among the trees, broken only by 
the occasional chirping of a late bird. 

" But, cherie," the officer was saying, " why should I not ? 
Not only are the gloves thy gift but thou hast 'broidered name 
and crest thereon with thine own fingers." He looked down at 
the white gauntlets on his hands. 

The girl answered him in perfect French but with a faint, 
lisping accent. " I could not tell whether thou wouldst care for 
such a gift but I had naught beside." She paused and for a 
moment they walked on in silence. 

'^Thou knowest that a gift from thee is thrice welcome," said 
the officer. " Be not so sad, I marked that thou sat mournful 
through the play. Thou shouldst be merry, now that we are 
all come home safe from the wars — though, indeed, the cam- 
paign in Flanders could scarce be called a war." His laugh 
echoed through the darkness. 

^' But thou," the girl complained, " thou wert wounded and 
did not tell me. I must needs learn it from another. O, Ldon," 
she burst out, '' they told me that thou, — that thou—" 

" That in the skirtnish at Lille a horseman rid me of hand 
and sword at the same time ? There, cherie, do not weep. 
Thou seest I came to no real harm." 

'' But, L^on, thou hast both thy hands." 

He laughed again, "Nay, then, give me thine." She placed 
her fingers in his right hand but it was hard and motionless. 
**'Tis of iron," he said; then seeing her look of amazement, 
" I do not jest, sweetheart. A one-handed man would not be 
a welcome sight at court. Thus— I wear gloves and soon 'twill 
be forgotten. When thou gavest me these I thought that thou 
hadst heard— or else the fates guided thee." 



He felt her hand tremble on his arm. '' Come," he went on, 
'* let us sit here." She sank onto the bench and Dubois}^ seated 
himself beside her. 

" How didst thou come to the fete, little Puritan ? " 

''Ah, Leon, my uncle would have it so." 

'' Four years in thine uncle's house have not taken away that 
Puritanism of thine. Thou'rt still as demure as the quaint child 
that came overseas from England. France has not changed 
thee, nor the life at court, save that thou canst dance the 
' branle ' and the ' courante ' with the best. Thy father must 
have been a stern old puritan. But, tell me, has the fetepleaf-ed 
thee not all ?" 

" 'Tis indeed a brilliant assemblage and a magnificent sight, 
but yet—" 

" Thy tastes lean not to such things ? When thine uncle con- 
sents that we two wed, thou'lt be better pleased with my 
chateau at Beam than with all the splendor of Versailles." 

"Would that he might consent soon. I — that is — " She 
stopped suddenly. 

''What is it, cherie ? " asked Duboisy, taking her hand. 
" Thou'rt trembling I Has anyone annoyed thee ? " 

" I — I think mine uncle would fain give me to the Due de — ^' 
She could not bring herself to speak his name but added,- 
almost in a whisper, "to the king's favorite." 

"No need to name him. I know. Before that man should 
have thee I — . How can his majesty endure the fellow ? He is 
a scoundrel, a turncoat, a " 

" To me," said a cool voice behind him, " It seems that you 
speak treason against his majesty — you and this-er-person." 

Duboisy turned sharply. " You lie in your teeth," he cried 
and, springing to his feet, struck the duke a sharp blow across 
the face. The favorite staggered, tried to recover himself and 
then, with a strange, choked cry, fell forward. 

" Now you have provocation," the captain went on. "You 
would not fight before but surely no one who even pretends to 
be a man of honor could now refuse. 'Tis quiet here. No 
other will come by. Rise, man, and draw your sword." The 
duke lay motionless on the grass, huddled together as he had 

"Do you fear the king's wrath?" cried Duboisy, angrily. 
There was no response from the man on the ground, not even a 


" Leou," cried the girl, •'What hast thou done ? Now he will 
be doubly thine enemy." 

The captain stood still for a moment, then bent slowly down. 
" Come," he said, in slightly altered tones. " Let me help 
you to rise." There was no answer. 

^' Perhaps he has fainted," said Duboisy, although the hor- 
rible truth was forcing itself on him. " Go, walk up the all^e 
until I come to thee." 

She had gone but a few steps from the bank when she heard 
him stumbling after her. She turned, a question sprang to her 
lips but it died there for, at a little distance, the captain threw 
himself on his knees before her. The moonlight, shining- 
through the chestnut branches, flickered on his upturned face 
like the wraith of a fire long since dead. The silver lace on his 
coat gleamed frostily. In the silence around them she heard 
his labored breathing and, very faint and far away, an echo of 
laughter. He bowed his head. 

" Thou must know," he murmured, " He is dead." 
"Dead! Dead!" It seemed to her that the sunshine had 
gone out of life and that she had been standing forever in the 
ghastly light of the moon. She looked at him again while the 
shadows leaped and danced about them. She found herself 
trying to say something, anything, but the only words her stiff 
lips could form were, " The blow was but light. " 

His voice was low but the words penetrated even her numbed 
senses, '"Twas my right hand." She stood motionless, her 
thoughts in a whirl ; then she took a step forward and laid her 
hand on his shoulder. 

"Thou canst not stay here." 

" But if I flee all the world will judge me guilty." She struck 
her hands together. 

"What wilt thou do ? If only he were not the king's favorite ! 
I cannot tell— is there none to advise thee ? Not Jacques ? " 

"The very man !" cried Duboisy, springing to his feet with 
almost a return of his old-time vivacity. " Not only is he my 
staunch friend but he can tell me what it is best to do. Come." 
She hung back a moment. " I pray that Duval may not 
come hither. He is ever spying about for somewhat to raise 
him in favor. If he should discover — " 

" He is with all the world at supper. Come I " 

He hastened on and soon they gained the All^e de I'Hiver 


and passed down the Allee du Printemps until at last they 
reached the branching of the way where, in the bosquet, was 
the ballroom constructed by Levan. 

The girl spoke for the first time. "I must leave tliee here, 
Ldon. His majesty will soon come hither from sup])er." Steps 
were heard in the allee and moved by a common impulse they 
stepped inside the room. It was open to the sky and was lined 
with orange trees in silver tubs. Lights were everywhere. 
The steps died away. The girl exclaimed " Thy gloves ! " 

He looked down in horror. The white gauntlets were smeared 
and spotted with blood. They were both silent while he stripped 
off the gloves. Then he said slowly, "Art thou lost to me ? '' 

She burst into tears. ''I know it is not right," she sobbed, 
"but, whatever thou hast done or may do, I love thee still." 
He took her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. 

" I am not worthy,'' he said, for even at this moment the life- 
long habit of the courtier did not forsake him, "but it may be 
adieu rather than au revoir." In another moment he had gone 
and she was left alone among the myriads of twinkling lights. 

Carefully avoiding the salon of verdure where the court was 
at supper, Duboisy had reached the Allee des Trois Fontaines 
when the sight of a guardsman a short distance before him 
caused him involuntarily to grasp his sword hilt. As he did so 
a sudden thought forced an exclamation from him. "Jesu 
Maria ! My gloves ! " They were gone. For a moment he 
stood motionless but the new misfortune had cleared his mind. 
Of course he must have dropped the gauntlets as he bade her 
good-bye in the ballroom. Name and crest broidered in gold 
thread marked them for his. He turned and ran through the 
gardens but when he reached the bosquet it was too late. The 
court had arrived and to him it seemed as if the whole assembly 
rang with his name. 

"Ah, my friend," said a voice at his elbow, "I have been 
seeking you." Duboisy turned, hand on sword. 

'*Let us go in to the dance together," and the young noble 
caught him by the arm. The captain suffered himself to be 
drawn along in silence but, once inside, he hastened to rid him- 
self of his unwelcome companion and set out to find the girl. 
It was better to know the worst at once. At last he found her 
and, pushing through the surrounding circle, "Mademoiselle," 
he said, " you promised me the next ' branle' did you not ?" 


She was pale but her voice did not falter as she said, " I had 
begun to think you were not coming to claim it, captain." 

"Hast thou the gloves?" asked the captain, in a strained 

"Yes, I have them," she returned, smiling as if he paid her 
a compliment. Then, with a quick movement, she lowered 
her fan and passed him the gauntlets which he thrust into his 

" Come," he said, " we can still have our ' branle.' " 

"No, no," she replied in a vehement whisper. "For God's 
sake, L^on, do not wait. I fear evil will come of it." 

" But I have promised," he answered, laughing and leading 
her to her place, " and I could not miss a dance with thee." 

So occupied was Duboisy with the stately steps that one of 
the gauntlets slipped unnoticed to the floor and few saw a little 
man pick up a dusty glove, glance at it and then, concealing it 
with a furtive air, seek the king where he stood among his 

Some time later the dance ended and, under cover of the loud 
applause, the girl whispered to Duboisj^. "It is indeed time 
thou wert gone." 

" Farewell cherie," he said, " be brave. I will surely return." 

"Adieu, Leon," she answered, "and may God guard thee." 

She watched him as he crossed the ballroom, pausing here 
and there to accost a friend. At the door he turned, a hand- 
some figure in all the bravery of his blue coat, and looked back 
at her, smiling. Then he passed out. The cool breeze fanned 
his heated forehead refreshingly. The door closed behind him. 
As if it had been a signal a hand was laid on his shoulder. 

"I must trouble you to come with me, monsieur," said a 
voice. The light glittered on the muskets of four soldiers. He 
followed the officer and in another moment they had reached a 
closed carriage. At last Duboisy found his voice. 

" What is it ?'' he cried. " Where are you taking me ? By 
whose authority ?" 

"By the king's order," returned the soldier, enteriug the 
carriage after him, "and we are going" — the carriage door 
slammed and the horses dashed forward — "to the Bastille."- 



With a sense of importance, tempered with an air of well-bred 
reserve, which became liis nineteen years, Fritzie settled himself 
in his chair. He felt happy. Behind him lay a year of satis- 
factory' acliievement, and the many friends whose abundant 
good wishes had folUjwed him to college in the fall, had not 
been disappointed. For Fritzie, as the common expression goes 
had " made good." Not that he had deliberately set about such 
a thing, his disposition was too sweet to harbour that uncom- 
fortable guest, personal ambition, but Fritzie had always been 
gifted with that unconscious art of doing what was required of 
him without making a " fuss'' about it ; he smiled at the world 
a.nd the world smiled at him, that was all. Before him, at the 
present moment, lay one of the pleasantest events of the whole 
year. He was on his way to his first '^Junior Prom," at Wood- 
land College. " Sister Marie was a brick to ask me," he thought 
to himself, ''for she might have had any one of six or eight 
fellows from home, who would have been pleased enough with 
the invitation, I can w^ager." 

This soliloquy was interrupted by the Conductor who asked 
for his ticket. Fritzie drew from his vest pocket the new suade 
case, wherein the ticket lay beside the perfumed hankerchief. 
(Do not laugh at Fritzies's perfumed handkerchief. He is a 
dear boy and that is one of his little failings. Time was, when 
he used alarming quantities of Florida Water on his hair. For- 
tunately we broke him of that habit.) With the business of the 
ticket over, Fritzie again leaned back in his chair, and sighed 
contentedly. The even rythm of the wheels had a lulling effect 
upon his nerves that had been somewhat over-wrought by the 
excitement of going away for three days. There was the pack- 
ing of the suit case, and the choosing of the flowers for his 
lady's bouquet and all those millions of little trepidations that 
only " Prom Men'' know. 

As I said before, Fritzie was happy. The pleasant country 
landscape, clothed in the dainty garb of its first spring color, 
partly hidden b}^ mystic veils of haze, appealed to him. For the 
first time he felt the beauty of Nature. Ordinarily the Italian 

3 5 


Lakes at sunset, would have had no more effect upon him than 
the clam-flats in Maine, with the tide out. But our highest 
flights in the aesthetic world are not protracted and Fritzie soon 
tiring of the landscape, began to cast about for more enlivening 
occupation. Suddenly he caught sight of his own reflection in 
the narrow strip of mirror, between his window and the next. 
The little smile died from his face and he regarded himself with 
solemn and earnest, though approving criticism. 

It was a well-groomed person that he saw in the mirror, 
though perhaps with too much of that youthful rosy freshness, 
that makes one look as if he had not been more than half an 
hour out of the bath tub. The dark hair was combed with 
glossy precision back from the forehead. The conspicuously 
inconspicuous lavender necktie with its pearl scarf pin was be- 
ing re-adjusted, when — dear me I — it is very disconcerting when 
communing with one's image in this fashion, to catch the laugh- 
ing eyes of the stranger across the aisle, looking straight into 
one's own eyes, over one's own shoulder. Fritzie was abashed, 
but finally annoyance gave place to curiosity and he ventured 
to glance furtively at his opposite traveling companion. 

''Nice looking chap," he mused. "Guess he must, have 
thought he knew me." 

During the next two hours, Fritzie had ample time to specu- 
late upon the nature of this stranger, who for some unaccount- 
able reason seemed to captivate his attention. 

"Wonder if he could be the full-back on Yale," said Fritzie 
to himself. "Looks somethin' like him. Seems to me I re- 
member those light eyelashes. Light eyelashes do give people 
a funny look. He's a big one, though — guess he's the full-back 
all right." 

Several elderly and learned looking gentlemen, passing through 
the car on their wsly to the " Diner," stopped to talk to the in- 
teresting stranger. In the bits of conversation that floated in 
Fritzie's direction, he frequently heard the name " Woodland/' 

"Wonder if he's a Prom Man," continued Fritzie. "No 
doubt he's going to Woodland and what would he be going 
there for, if not to the Prom ? " 

A few minutes later the Magazine boy passed through the car 
and the auburn haired stranger as well as Fritzie bought an 
Atlantic Monthly. 

" Our tastes are alike," thought Fritzie. " We read the same 


magazines. He looks like my sort anyway. I'd like to know 

''Woodland, Woo-o-o-dland ! " cried the conductor at this 
point, and immediately ensued a stir and rustling of people col- 
lecting their bags, and making their way out of the car. In the 
general tumult Fritzie lost sight of his stranger— and I fear 
would have completely forgotten him in the excitement of his 
new experiences, had he not found himself seated opposite the 
auburn-haired gentleman in the cab that was to convey him 
from the station to the boarding house. After the cab had 
jogged slowly along for perhaps a hundred yards, Fritzie who 
found the silence unbearable, took fate in his hands, and said: 

*'I noticed you coming up from New York on the same train 
I did. Going to Prom ? " 

''Yes, indeed," answered the stranger, smiling. 

" This your first Prom ? " pursued Fritzie. 

"No. indeed." The stranger smiled again, delightfully. 

" It will be a jolly affair. Hope I'll see you there," continued 
Fritzie, warming to the conversation, for the stranger's smile 
was more delightful than ever. At just this point, the carriage 
gave a lurch and stopped before a white New England house, 
the house where Fritzie's sister had engaged a room for him. 

" So long, old chap I" he called as he bounded to the pave- 
ment. "'Awfully glad to have made your acquaintance — you 
and I seem to be the same sort. Oh — by the way, you haven't 
told me your name. Mine's Dobson." 

"Ellis," called the stranger, as the cab drove away. 

"So long, Ellis," cried Fritzie cheerfully, flourishing his suit- 
case at the retreating cab. 

That night, after a gala afternoon spent at a garden party, 
which was followed by a dinner ^iven at the chief restaurant in 
the little town, Fritzie found himself mounting the steps of one 
of the college buildings, where the long talked-of Ball had al- 
ready begun. The night was very black indeed, but the air was 
soft, and laden with the woodsy odor of growing plants. The 
campus was dotted with the soft orange glow of many Japanese 
lanterns. Within, all was a blaze of light. Through the ball- 
room doors, Fritzie caught sight of the whirling maze of 
dancers. In spite of himself his feet began to tap the floor in 
time to the music. His eyes sparkled as he looked down at his 
pretty sister, a graceful little peison in a pink gown and with 
a wreath of pink roses about her golden hair. 


In the midst of tlieir journey down the receiving line, 
Fritzie's usually deferential manner of attention suddenly 
changed and he seemed to be suffering from distractions to 
such an extent, that his sister found it necessary to reprove 
him. The explanation of this strange conduct v\^as that Fritzie 
had caught sight of his auburn-haired friend at the end of the 
Receiving Line and was very impatient for the opportunity to 
speak to him. But finally he was near enough to rush at him 
in the rather unceremonious fashion that boys often use with 
each other. 

*'H©llo, old chap," he said, grasping his friend's hand. "Guess 
we're some big bug, aren't we, standing in the Receiving Line! " 

'* Oh ! " came an inarticulate exclamation at his elbow and he 
turned to see his sister quite pale with consternation. 

*' Oh Fritzie," she said. " What are you saying ? This is our 
President — President Ellis of Woodland College ! " 



What I write — it was written for you. 

Dear Heart. 
My words took wings like the birds and flew 
Over the land and the sea to you, 

Dear Heart. 
And your message came flying to me 
On the western wind's bright wings, 
Over the land and sea, 
And your message within me sings. 

Your courage have I, and truth, 
Power that never tires, 
And the eager hope of youth 
Kindled at your hope's fires. 
I weave them into a song; 
They fly to j'ou, happy things ! 
And my heart leaps all day long 
Because it is you that sings. 



It all begau with my being taken into Phi Kappa. Undoubt- 
■edly I was a deserving girl, but what did I have to recommend 
me ? I was not a literary light nor a dramatic star but merely 
one of those girls who was awfully willing and did good work 
ou committees. Little did I know what a career this entailed, 
but I was not long in finding out. 

I did not realize what a serious moment it was for me when 
before the second meeting I was asked to be on " costumes " with 
a Junior. Later I traced back to this the beginning of the re- 
putation which has been thrust upon me and clings persistently 
in spite of my efforts to escape it. At the time it sounded fas- 
cinating but in reality it proved prosaic and laborious. It in- 
volved frequent trips to Armstrongs and interviews with a youth 
-of sub-normal intelligence, with a few seedy suits as the result. 
It involved getting wigs large and wngs small, wigs light and 
wigs dark, none of which suited the varied and particular tastes 
of the cast. It involved going early and staying late, keeping 
perfectly cool and collected when everyone else was demanding 
something which could not be found or had not been furnished. 
Worst of all it meant arising early Sunday and returning arti- 
cles which I had borrowed right and left and which were so apt 
to disappear over night. 

When I had recovered from this first experience, I took great 
satisfaction in the thought that my duty was done for a while. 
But oh, vain delusion! Within three slioit weeks the Senior 
manager approached me and said that since I had had experience 
working with a Junior on '' Costumes" last time, I was now to 
break in a Sophomore. This time the costumes were eighteenth 
century, which necessitated a trip to Springfield and much fumi- 
gation. I gained so much new experience that it seemed to 
make me perfectly invaluable to the costumes committee the 



rest of the year. Then too, many of the Sophomores who were 
tried out in plays proved to have such histrionic powers that 
they were taken forever from the field of costumes, bringing me 
into more constant demand. 

My reputation thus established spread beyond the confines of 
Phi Kappa. One daj^, strolling late into a Division meeting, I 
was greeted with the news that I had been elected Chairman of 
Costumes. My one consolation after a week of toil was that I 
could not possibly be called upon to serve in more than one 

The real tragedy of the situation I have not touched upon. 
The fact is that deep in my heart lies the conviction that I have 
dormant dramatic ability which has never been given a chance 
to prove itself. Never once have I been called upon to take even 
the most minor part, and no one now expects anything of me 
but costumes. There is but one more height to which I may 
yet attain in my career. On the strength of my reputation I 
feel sure that I shall be costuming the Senior Dramatics cast 
while my inmost soul cries out in rebellion and whispers to me 
that in the leading part I would really have been '' at my best."" 



I stood in line two hours 

For a ticket to hear Taft 
And then I only drew a blank 

And everybody laughed. 
I forgot to hand my ticket 

To the old G. and F. A., 
So I can't sing in the contest 

In the morning Rally Day. 
I gave up hope two years ago 

Of getting to a game, 
And I don't see why so many 

People do try just the same. 
If Milton's right in what he says, 

Some day I'll have good fate, 
I mean his words, " They also serve 

Who only stand and wait." 
When I get to Heaven (if I do) 

And see the gate so pearly, 
Will Peter hand me out a blank 

Or — perhaps — a let-in-early ? 



Once upon a time there was a handsome young prince who 
lived in a far-away country on the very edge of the world. 
Now this prince, whose name was Fearless, besides being very 
tall and straight and good to look upon, was very, very rich, 
and so he might have had for his bride any of the noble ladies 
in the land. But the king, his father, who was as wise as an 
owl, issued a decree that his son should marry the lady who 
should prove to be more beautiful than all the others. 

Mounted heralds rode about far and wide to carry the news, 
and they even penetrated to the heart of the great forest, where 
lived a little peasant girl named Modesta with her aged father. 
And, as the people heard of the king's decree, there was great 
excitement all over the land, and all the ladies began to make 
themselves as lovely as possible in order to win the hand of the 
prince. Princesses gave orders to their maids, but the maids 
were too busy making themselves beautiful to obey them, for 
the poor as well as the rich had entered the competition. Fat 
girls began to diet to grow thin, and thin, scrawny girls ate 
five or six meals a day to grow fat. Hair-dressers all over the 
land were kept so busy that they could sleep neither by day nor 
night, and as for the dressmakers, well, they all made their 
fortunes, but they were so cross and nervous that after all the 
excitement was passed they had to take to their beds for a 
whole year. 

And in all this flurry and bustle only one girl remained calm 
and sweet, and she was the little maiden, Modesta. For she 
only laughed and said to her father, "A humble person like me 
could never hope to marry the prince." At last the great day 
arrived when all were to gather in the great field near the city. 
Modesta put on her little woolen frock and went with her 
father to stand with a few of the oldest women who knew they 
could never compete with the rest in beauty ; for she thought 
it would indeed be a wonderful sight to see. After all had 
assembled the king stood up and said, " I have decreed that my 
son should marry the most beautiful lady in all the land, and 
indeed I see before me more loveliness and grace than I had 



ever before imagined. But before I can choose my son's bride 
I want yon all to come with me for a walk to the heart of the 
forest." ~ 

Now the old king smiled to himself as he said these words, 
and the ladies looked at each other in surprise. However, they 
gathered up their silken trains and started off, but before they 
had gone half a mile many were limping and tottering on their 
high heels, and many more had stepped on their long gowns 
and torn them, and by the time the first milestone was reached 
fully half had given up and sat sobbing by the roadside. Now 
all the way Modesta had skipped merrily along in her bare feet^ 
for a mile was nothing to this little maiden, who had so often 
walked into the great city to buy food for herself and her father. 

Meantime the black clouds had been gathering and soon the- 
rain came pouring down in torrents, and then I grieve to say 
that the pretty color went running down the cheeks of many of 
the ladies in little red streams, and the curl began to come out 
of their hair so that it hung about their faces in wet strings. 
They shivered and shook in their wet silk and gauze and their 
pinched faces were far from lovely. Now Modesta's dress had 
known many rains, and her hair, which had never known a 
liairdresser's art, had only twisted itself into myriads of ring- 
lets, which danced about her face and peeped from behind her 
ears. And so they passed the second milestone. 

Soon the burning sun came out from behind the clouds and a 
great wind began to blow. Then away flew puffs and curls and 
every bit of false hair, and so many more were left behind 
defeated. Soon they came to a spot where a tiny brook crossed 
the path and the king said they must ford it. And here again 
they left many behind, for they cried out that not for all the 
kingdoms in the world would they put foot in the icy water.. 
As the few who struggled onward crossed the stream a little 
field mouse ran out of the long grass on the other side. And at 
that seven of the contestants shrieked and lifting up their drag- 
gled skirts, rushed away and never stopped their mad flight 
until they had reached their own homes. And how merrily 
Modesta laughed at the sight. 

And so it happened that when they reached the little hut in 
the heart of the woods there followed the king only three ladies, 
and pretty Modesta, who had come to look on. Out from the 
hut a half-grown puppy came bounding to welcome the new- 
comers, but as he frolicked about they cried, "Go away, you 


bad dog!" "Get down I " and frowned and looked so ill- 
tempered that they were verj^ ugly indeed. Then Modesta 
came forward to call her pet, and as she stood caressing him the 
sun lit up her golden curls, and her blue eyes shone with com- 
passion for the poor women, while there was such a lovely pink 
in her cheeks and her lips were so red that they were all struck 
by her beauty. 

Then the king took her hand, and leading her to his son, said, 
"She shall be your bride, for she has a beautj^ which the rain 
and wind cannot wash awaj^ ]ior the sun fade." And the prince 
smiled at the blushing girl for he already loved her, and so they 
were married and lived happily ever after. 

For Moral see Students' Hand Book, "Freshman Don't,"^ 
Number 14, and do thou likewise. 



Miss Jordan is reading my English thirteen 

But I fear she does not like it much, 
She has just frowned hard at a little detail 

Which I thought quite a delicate touch. 
She can't seem to read what I say very well, 

Tho' really I can not see why. 
My t's are not crossed but they're thinner than I's, 

You can see that they're T's if you try. 

Oh dear ! Why is everyone looking ? 

I know they are tho' 1 can't see, 
I'm staring as hard as I can at the floor 

And my face is as blank as can be. 
I always can tell who has w^ritt-in what's read, 

For they're sure to look conscious and scared. 
So I'm going to look calm and as bold as I can 

Tho' I'd run from the room if I dared. 

She has finished, and now with a puzzling smile 
Is putting my paper away — 

No comments are made. She goes on to the next- 
One lesson I have learned to-day : 

Hereafter, my papers I'll write when I can, 
But I'll keep them at home in my drawer. 

And I'll hand them all in just before the exam 
On the very last day— not before. 



I have stroked the golden fur of the will-o'-the-wisp. It was 
on a perfectly ordinary day, a narrow, slate-colored Monday. 
I had on ordinary clothes and I hadn't even curled my hair. I 
had missed out on breakfast, I hadn't had my dickey on in gym, 
in Math " She'' had asked me to do an original and passed on. 
The only note I'd had on the note-board was a notice of a 
Church Club meeting. For luncheon we had mince on wet 
toast, and later I went down-town alone to pick out a copy 
of Frangois' "Advanced Prose Composition" because mine had 
all the words written in and I didn't think it would be right to 
use it. Besides, it had belonged to a girl who had gotten a 
condition in French the year before. 

I was walking along Main Street when suddenly in the 
Woman's Shop I saw it. I knew it that very minute; you 
must have seen it yourself. I felt that I must stroke it. I 
rushed boldly in and asked the man to take it out of the window. 
Could I get in a chance stroke ? The man was kind, even 
deferential. I suppose he thought I would buy it. It wasn't 
really golden, only a sort of brilliant yellow. It looked thick 
and soft. I found myself wondering if they bite when they are 
caught. I guess they have little faces like rabbits and nose 
around in your hand. I wanted to know the price but I didn't 
dare ask. It must be very expensive ! Just think of the risks 
taken to catch the little animals in the swamps. I took two 
long, deep strokes. It was very soft, yet it prickled. A 
tingling sensation swept over me. Two strokes, that was all. 
Very much shaken, I went out of the shop. 

I felt that I must tell someone. I wanted to tell my room- 
mate the way they always do in " Heard on the Tar Walk," but 
I haven't any roommate. I had to go 'way out on Henshaw 
Avenue to tell my only friend in college. I only know her 
because her surname and mine have the same initial. 

" That yellow fur," she said coldly, "is fitch. They're wear- 
ing it a great deal this winter." 

" But I know it was will-o'-the-wisp," I said. '* I had a thrill 
when I stroked it. That proves it was will-o'-the-wisp." 

36 8 


I went home for the Christmas vacation and Uncle Brewster 
took me to "The Biltmore'' for tea just before the Smith Col- 
lege Special left for Northampton. In my purse I had a twenty- 
dollar gold-piece. I was going to buy the will-o'-the-wisp set 
as soon as I got back. I would have so many thrills that I 
wouldn't have to take gym any more. 

"Now,'' he said, "you can order anything you want." 

"Mince," I said. That was the only article of food I knew. 

As he was giving the order to the waiter I looked around. 

There, across the room, drinking tea and eating a brioche, was 

a member of the faculty, dressed in will-o'-the-wisp and velvet. 


(A rehearsal of any college play) 


He. — Trying to pretend that a red mackinaw and a blue serge 

shirt are a dress suit. 
She.— In her room-mate's prom, dress with a train, for practice. 

Scene— A stage. Chair right ; a sofa (i. e., two chairs side by 
side) left. 

Time— Seven P. M. The two leading characters have hurried 
through their dinner in order to have a private rehear- 
sal before the others arrive. 

Curtain rises (with a great deal of assistance from both char- 
acters. ) 

He— (striding up and down impatiently) (the dimensions of 
the stage require that striding be done standing still— a difficult 
art) — Well, why don't you enter ? What are you waiting for ? 

She (off stage)— My cue, of course. 

He — Oh yes (melodramatically) — Here she conies I 

She (entering, also nielodramaticly) — I must be alone. 

He— Drop your fan ! Drop your fan. 

She (looks about wildly for a fan, he hands her a pencil which 
she drops) — I must be alone and think it out. (sinks into chair 
right) — Three years ago he left me and he has just returned. 
Will he speak to-night ? (over her shoulder to him) Will he 
speak ? 


He— He will. Give him time. (Picks up pencil) Pardon me 
Miss Gordon, I think this is your fan. 

She (coldly)— Oh, thank you. 

He (passionately) — Mabel, I must speak. I can wait no longer. 
For three long years I have thought of nothing else. I — Oh hang 
it all ! How can I sit down beside you when you are on a chair 
instead of the sofa. Get over on the other side of the stage. 
(They cross and she sits on sofa.) 

He— Now where were we ? 

She— Go back to " Mabel, I must speak." 

He — You like that speech don't you ? They're the most idiotic 
lines in the whole play. I think I'll cut them. 

She (severely) — Please don't be silly and do go on or we'll 
never get through. 

He (mournfully) — Mabel, I must — 

She (gives him a disgusted glance.) 

He (resignedly) — Oh well ! (passionately as before) Mabel, I 
must speak. I can wait no longer. For three long years I have 
thought of nothing else. I love you (tries to sit down beside 
her) Move over ! (she moves. He sits down.) 

He— I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you 
— How many times do I say that, anyway ? 

She— Three's enough. Goon. 

He (counting on his fingers) I love you, I love you, I love 
you. Mabel, won't you speak to me ? 

SHE-Oh, Jack, I— Oh, what do I ? 

He— /don't know. You certainly don't expect me to remem- 
ber your part as well as my own, do you ? 

She— Well, I don't see why not. I know yours a great deal 
better than you do — Oh, I remember what it is now. Oh, Jack, 
I am so happy I can't speak. I — I — Oh, Jack — 

He — Well, are you going to let me embrace you ? 

She— Oh yes, but don't walk all over my train. 

He (kicking it out of the way and embracing her fervently) 
Darling ! 

She — Don't knock my hair down. Dearest. 

Both— Curtain ! Quick ! 


Local Color inTRhyme 

Everybody's writing verse, 

It really has become a curse ! 

Julia toils o'er lines that limp, 

Janet seeks a rhyme for " skimp." 

Every subject, grave or gay, 

Every doing of the day, 

" Bats" or " writtens," math or gym, 

In ode. in sonnet or in hymn, 

Alike are forced to do their part 

To give our Freshman poets a start. 

" Local color is the way," 

So our elders often say, 

'• By which you will win your spurs." 

But to them it ne'er occurs 

That the task that they do set 

Is one that's very hard to get ! 

'' First find the spirit of the place, 

Then put it into lines that race 

And flutter gaily on their way, 

Thus w^ill you Freshman win the day !" 

I, too, fain a poet would be. 

And so I've tried and tried to see 

What local color I could find 

That should be of the very kind 

In English Thirt. to win me praise 

And me to lofty heights to raise. 

I see the blueness of exams. 

The scarlet of my friends' bright " tarns," 

The greenness of my own mistakes. . 

The yellow •• writtens" for whose sakes 

We spend so many hours a day. 

When we would much prefer to play. 

But all these tints t cannot blend 

To make them give me at the end 

A picture vivid, new and true. 

That brings me fame in each bright hue. 

It's hard to write prose all the time, 

When I would fain burst forth in rhyme. 

Madeleine McDowell 1917. 



Moralizing is tedious ; besides, it's unbe- 
The Country : coming for a college girl to usurp such a 
A Closed Order ])rerogative. We instinctively close our 
ears to it when we hear it, and hurry 
away from it when we see it coming ; but sometimes it takes us 
unawares, and we are unable to recognize it as such, till we find 
ourselves conning over the episode and, in spite of our unmoral- 
loving selves, drawing a lesson from it and attempting to apply 
it to our own lives and tlie lives of those about us. 

The bell rang at 95 Rivington Street. It was not unusual for 
the bell to ring, for it was the afternoon on which the little girls 
were allowed to come and "scup " in the concrete make-believe 
of a back-yard. But the little group that came in did not ask if 
it was ''girls to-day ?" Three youngsters, a boy and two girls, 
ranging between five and eight years of age, looked up into my 
face with a stolid, yet pleading look. 

'' What can I do for you to-day ?" I asked. " Did you come 
to play?" 

''We want to belong to the country," said the eldest, wriggling 
his grim thumb around in his left fist. 

"We want to belong to the country," echoed the other two. 
The children had come to us as to a fairy godmother who 
holds the key to the land of dreams. They had come to be 
admitted to a closed order, an order that possessed a privilege 
that could be enjo3^ed only by members of its favored fraternit3\ 
That sentence has meant more to me than all the pleas for 
contributions to Fresh Air Funds that I have ever read ; it 
means more to me than anything I will ever read about housing 
conditions and congested neighborhoods ; it was the greatest 
plea I have ever heard, — "We want to belong to the country." 

Janet Weil 1914. 

Few people realize just how impor- 

Waste Baskets tant a waste basket really is. One item 

AND Their Owners of its importance is the completion of 

the furnishings of a room. A waste 
basket of a striking color can be a very jarring note in an other- 
wise harmonious color scheme of a room. A waste basket 
ought to fit its surroundings as to its size and shape. Accord- 
ingly, one of the Dutch wind-mill type does not belong in an 
office, nor does one of the sturdy, small wash-tub variety be- 


long at the side of a desk which measures eighteen by twenty- 
four inches. Truly it lies in the power of a waste basket to 
make or mar a room. 

The uses of a waste basket are much more extensive than is 
commonly supposed. It will receive and cherish all the unkind 
words ever written to you ; it will furnish you stationery for a 
note to your roommate ; it is a fine place to dry gloves ; it will 
conceal from public gaze the contents of a box from home until 
you wish to display them ; it will hide the mouse-trap, thus 
aiding and abetting murder (if the mouse happens to be an 
imprudent one) ; for the substantial part of a ghost, a waste 
basket is entirely satisfactory. 

As an index to the characters of their owners waste baskets 
are interesting. In the selection and placing of them is shown 
artistic temperament or the lack of it. A fondness for mathe- 
matics finds expression in the possession of a severely cylin- 
drical or prismatical waste basket. My own waste basket shows 
my liking for English History— it is the image of a Norman 
castle with windows near the top. A fastidious person never 
has a waste basket which is running over full ; a methodical 
person does not use a waste basket for anything except waste 
paper; an ingenious person uses one on all possible occasions. 
Therefore, look well to your waste basket ! 

Elsie Green 1916. 

I love to sing, 

I love to sing, 

I love to sing ! 
And when I'm perched up on a cloud, 
A-puflBn' and a-feelin' proud. 
When then I won't do anything 

Excepting just 

To sing and sing I 

Dorothy Lilian Spencer 1914. 


The Little Bird— and I 

Little bird upon a tree. 

Looking in my house at me, 
Dost thou wish that thou were I? 

If thou wert, thou could'st not fly ; 
Though the windows open be, 

Though thou feel'st so blithe and free 
Though the spring sky calleth thee, 
Little bird upon a tree, 
Though the spring sky calleth thee, 
Thou could'st not fly, if thou wert I. 

Frances Milliken Hooper 1914. 

The Treasure House 

My mind is full of the loveliest things ! 

If anyone could see, 
I'm sure he'd say 'twas a treasure house 

And want to explore it with me. 

My heart has its store of treasures, too. 

And anyone who knew, 
I'm certain would like to steal from it 

A precious jewel or two. 

But my tongue is the blackest ogre, 

That guards the door to my mind. 
And has hidden the key to my heart in a place 

That no one could ever find I 

Mary L. Wellington 1916. 


It is not striving to make a universal appeal, — this editorial ; 
nor does it expect even to arouse keen local interest. Yet it 
seems so eager to be written — yes, wistfully eager — that perhaps 
we may pretend its subject is of vital importance. For there 
are some editorials that are like the squirrel on our street. He 
is really a very mediocre squirrel of the commonplace red vari- 
ety, quite undersized, with a tail much too large for the rest 
of him and eyes so boldly inquisitive that they mark him at 
once as one of the Commoners— not a gentleman at all. Yet 
the airs that squirrel assumes are quite unbearable. To see 
him scurrying along the wire, stopping at everj^ telephone 
pole to sit up on his haunches and survey the country and 
then hurry on his way from St. John's Church — that is where 
his place of business seems to be — to Haven House — his resi- 
dence is in a tree in their yard — one would think him the 
most important person on Elm Street. It is plain that he 
thinks his daily supervision of Haven House and St. John's 
Church are necessary for their welfare, but we know if his 
route were changed he would be missed only by the few of us, 
who become foolishly attached to unimportant things and who 
take a sort of happiness in our self-deception. 

He is not clever, seldom is he even interesting. Yet he is our 
neighbor and evidently he thinks he has an aim in life. And 
judging b}^ the regular intervals at which he scuddles along 
those telephone wires to the next block, he even thinks he has 
obligations to fulfill. Conceited little squirrel I 

But to return to our editorial, — this editorial that would write 
itself and from "The Land of Unborn Children," clamors to 
set sail. We were in the "Browsery," tiptoeing around the 
room, reading the books ''through their backs," and feeling 
calmly happy and free, — yes, and wishfully expectant. Why is 
it, — none of us can be boisterous or self-assertive or heedless 
even in our thoughts ''in the room where the books live." 

Quite suddenly we came to "The Lost Art of Reading." It 
is an intimate friend of ours, but now we could not get beyond 



the title, which had become a sort of challecge. Its very abode 
was a denial of the implied assertion. For the Browsing Room 
is the retreat of girls who feel that they must, for a few minutes 
at least, escape from prescribed reading and in books of their 
own choosing rediscover the world for themselves. They have 
been tunnelling deep through the earth, following a route that 
is only too precisely mapped out for them. They must come to 
the surface to breathe and to get another glimpse of mountains 
and flowers and babies and blue sky. 

The art of reading is not lost were there onlj' a handful of 
such readers, but they are many. They have the "eager atti- 
tude" towards reading. We know them, — these quiet girls 
who delight in wandering among the stacks, discovering for 
themselves treasures folded between the covers of slender books. 
We come upon them in unexpected corners curled up on the 
tiny, low stools of the library, a shy book of poems on their 
knees. And very often, especially if we have an understanding 
heart, we tiptoe away as quietly as we came. But if we disturb 
them these travellers look up at us from their pages with unsee- 
ing eyes, their thoughts but half arrested and reluctant, eager 
to return to their dreams, 

'• To sit upon the shore of some warm sea, 

Or in green gardens where sweet fountains be."' 

Or when we see in the rooms of various girls among the books 
at the right hand well-worn copies of Dante and Swinburne and 
Thompson, slender Mosher editions of Fiona Macleod or William 
Morris, we cannot think the art of reading is completely lost. 

In under classman days we went to make our first call on a 
certain senior. There were in her room not many books, but 
carefully chosen, books that she had near her because she had 
made them her friends. She spoke quietly and naturally of her 
favorites and read to us passages from them, — books in French, 
Spanish and Italian. They were her companions whom she 
would have us know and love as she did. We went away 
almost in awe, impressed not so much by the bi-eadth of her 
reading as by her quiet air of considering such reading but 
natural and normal. 

We know that this girl is the exception. But there are others 
who read as intimately and richly as she. And while there 
even a few with such appreciation the art of reading is not 
wholly extinct. 


Plato believed that reason must be directed 
Plato and and can not be created. And so he calls nurture 
Education the essence of education. With the modern 
scientific tendency to emphasize the evolution of 
all things organic, we are able to appreciate the value of this 
view. We study our arboreal ancestors and understand why 
we have such a highly developed prehensile appendage as the 
hand. We consider the mind in its original capacity as an 
organ for material gain in a world of concrete fact, and we no 
longer wonder that it is such a poor tool for the investigation 
of the abstract and the unknown. We no longer wonder at its 
impotence in subjective realms, at its illogical confusion of time 
sequence with causal sequence, at its defensive self -justification 
and self-magnification and at its keen delight in the improbable 
wonders that gratify its vanity. We know now that the mind 
is not an empty vessel into which we may pour a quantity of 
facts, but a poor, struggling, evolving thing with splendid 
possibilities ahead of it for the individual and the race. 

The aim of Plato's education is to nourish citizenship and 
character in the individual. Education must begin with the 
mind in its youthful stage and exert upon it the best influences 
of an ideal environment. The stories of the nursery must be 
true in idea though there be no historical basis for the facts. 
All the heroes must act as heroes should, for imitation is one of 
the mind's inherent characteristics. The songs that the children 
hear shall be such as inspire courage and gentleness, the art 
that surrounds them shall be noble in proportion and of worthy 
subject. So the best principles of life will be assimilated 
through the senses and the emotions from childhood to youth, 
and the way laid for their permanent appeal to the reason at 
a later stage. This is a piece of sound psychology, and one 



to which we pay altogether too little heed. When sensuous 
dancing, slit skirts and gossamer gowns become the rule rather 
than the. exception in an institution of higher learning there is 
something wrong somewhere. There must be influences abroad 
that Plato would never countenance. 

One of the hardest influences to get away from is the cheap 
magazine. It enters boldly into public meeting places and 
private homes. It flaunts its red cover, its blue cover and its 
hectic page on every news stand. It even sneaks into the 
college room. The Saturday Evening Post sows a weekly crop 
of exaggerated feeling, uncontrolled emotions and false stand- 
ards over our land. The cheap magazines create an atmosphere 
of unnatural excitement for the mind, they exert a degenerating 
influence upon the taste of their readers and they waste time 
that might otherwise be spent in more profitable reading. Thej' 
have a strong confederate in the moving-picture rolls that are 
shown in many of the cheap centers of amusement. Imitation 
may be unconscious but it is steady and resistless, and the habit 
of frequenting these places is bound to t^ll in the long run. 

R. C. 

It is with some hesitation that we announce as our topic this 
month ^'' Plays and Dramatic Criticism,''' for the average reader 
may be surprised at the idea of pla5\s appearing in the college 
magazines. But in our exchanges this month we found three 
one-act plays. We were pleased, because the play is a form of 
literature that seldom appears in the college magazines, proba- 
bly because college students as a rule seldom care to spend the 
time and thought necessary ,to the construction of a play, 
and because plays are too long for publication in the college 

''The God Mars," \ni\\Q Harvard Advocate for February 6, 
is one of the three plays this month. The chief characters are 
a King, a Financier, and a General. The latter two persuade 
the King that for one reason or another it is necessary to have 
war. The King does not really want war ; he does not appear 
to care very much what happens as long as the General and 
the Financier are suited. The two other characters in the cast 
are a Sentr}^ and a Woman ; the Woman shows the attitude 
of women toward war, and the Sentry the attitude of soldiers 
toward the orov^ernment. The characters are all. @f course. 


^symbolic, as is clearly shown at the end of the play where the 
stage is fully lighted and the King is seen to be really a scare- 
crow stuffed with straw. The end is very effective, and the 
play is well constructed. 

A one-act play of quite another type is ''Beyond," in the 
•Occident. The Oriental setting is attractive ; the lure of the 
unknown and the supernatural are usually of interest. The 
story centers about an Arab who is a healer and magician, and 
his influence over a girl. The characters are well drawn, those 
of the girl's liusband and his friend, the doctor, who are sane, 
well-balanced men. standing out in Ixdd relief against those of 
the girl and the Arab. That the story is fantastic and improba- 
ble cannot be denied, but the play itself is good as far as action, 
plot, atmosphere and character drawing are concerned. 

"The Oath," in the Yale Literary Magazine, is a play which 
contains little action, being dramatic chiefly in the conflict 
between the man and woman, shown by means of dialogue 
except in the places where the child enters in. The essential 
differences in the characters are well brought out. There is a 
certain degree of dramatic irony throughout the play, particu- 
larly at tlie end, which serves to relieve the monotony that is 
apt to attach itself to dialogue. 

These three plays are very different from one another and 
ver}^ interesting. In some of the college magazines there are 
good criticisms of modern plays, which are of some value in 
showing popular opinion concerning the drama of to-day, as 
far as the college world is concerned. Besides these, there is in 
the Minnesota Magazine of this month an essay on "The 
Technique of Modern Dramatic Dialogue." which is excellent, 
and an article on "The Drama in the Schoolroom '" in Gaucher 
Kalends. This last may not of course be termed dramatic 
criticism, but we mention it inasmuch as it lias a bearing on 

D. O. 



1914 presents '• The Tempest." 

Applications for Senior Dramatics for June 11 and 12, 1914, should be sent 
to the G-eneral Secretary at 184 Elm Street, Northampton. Alumnae are 
urged to apply for the Thursday evening performance if possible, as Satur- 
day evening is not open to alumnae, and there will probably not be more than 
one hundred tickets for Friday evening. Each alumna may apply for not 
more than one ticket for Friday evening ; extra tickets may be requested for 
Thursday. No deposit is required to secure the tickets, which may be 
claimed on arrival in Northampton from the business manager in Seelye 
Hall. In May all those who have applied for tickets will receive a request 
to confirm the applications. Tickets will then be assigned only to those who 
respond to this request. The' prices of the seats will range on Thursday 
evening from $1.50 to |.75 and on Friday from $2.00 to $.75. The desired 
price of seats should be indicated in the application. A fee of ten cents is 
charged to all non-members of the Alumnae Association for the filing of the 
application and should be sent to the General Secretary at the time of appli- 


It is proposed to hold an exhibition of the work of alumnae, in painting, 
sculpture and decorative art, at the college during Commencement. Presi- 
dent Burton, on behalf of the college, has offered to meet the expense of such 
an exhibition. Mr. Tryon. Mr. Churchill and Miss Strong of the Art Depart- 
ment have offered their assistance and the exhibition rooms in the Hilly er 
Art Gallery. A jury of professional artists will pass upon the exhibits, and 
it is planned to have the standard of the exhibition as high as that required 
of Smith alumnae in other fields of professional work. 

A cordial invitation is therefore extended to alumnae and former students 
to exhibit their work in the plastic and decorative arts. Exhibits must be in 
Northampton before May first. The expense of transportation will be paid. 

It is hoped that many will accept this invitation to exhibit their work at 
Smith College. Those who are willing to do so are asked to communicate 
with the alumnae committee immediately, that they may receive exhibitors' 
blanks. The names of any former students who are doing professional work 
in art would be greatly appreciated by the committee. 

Committee: Elizabeth McGrew Kimball 1901, Chairman; Julia S. L. 
Dwight 1893. Elizabeth Olcott 1913. Florence H. Snow 1904. Address : 184 
Elm Street, Northampton. 



Contributions to this department are desired before the end of the month, 
in order to appear in the next month's issue, and should be addressed to 
Eloise Schmidt, Gillett House. Northampton, Massachusetts. 

'87. Mrs. W. J. Moulton (Helen Shute). Address : 331 Hammond Street, 

Bangor, Maine. 
'02. Mrs. C. K. Benton (Ednah Burton). Address: R. R. 1, No. 55, Hood 

River, Oregon. 
'04. Carrie A. Gauthier is now in charge of the Hampshire Branch of the 
S. P. C. C. Address : 18 Franklin Street, Northampton, Massachusetts. 
'05. Lillian M. Trafton. Address : 124 Huntington Avenue. Boston, Massa- 
*11. Marian Ditman has announced her engagement to Frederic Baylis Clark. 
Clara Franklin has announced her engagement to Enos S. Stockbridge of 

Baltimore, Maryland. 
Mrs. William W. Hay (Helen McManigal). Address: 1608 Second Street, 

Northwest, Calgary, Alberta, Canada. 
Mrs. Roger Hinds (Nancy Bates). Address : 31 Washington Street, East 

Orange, New Jersey. 
Mary Mattis is making a tour around the world, and is at present in 

Marj^ McCarthy is teaching in Derby, Connecticut. Address : 36 Fourth 

Street, Derby, Connecticut. 
Jane Swenarton is teaching English and Psychology in Erie, Penn- 
Gertrude and Marguerite Sexton sailed February 24 for Europe. They 
expect to motor until July through Italy. France, Switzerland, Ger- 
many and England. 
Marian Yeaw is acting as chairman for the Day Nursery at her home in 
East Orange, New Jersey. 
'12. Edith Gray has started on a trip around the world, going by way of 
Russia and Siberia. She expects to visit for several months in China 
and Japan and return by way of the Canadian Rockies. 
Marguerite Hickey is Principal of the Meadow Grammar School, East 

Hartford, Connecticut. 
Helen Marcy has announced her engagement to Oliver C. Lombard. 
Cyrena Martin is assistant in the Social Service Department of the 

Psychological Clinic of the University of Pennsylvania. 
Marion Tanner has been appearing lately in Baltimore, Springfield, 

Brooklyn and Providence in a one-act play of Paul Armstrong's. 
Mildred Wagenhals and Mary Hanitch are taking courses in Agriculture 
in the University of Wisconsin. 
6a?-'12. Emilie Auten has announced her engagement to Raymond Zabriski 


'13, Marian Adams is teaching Latin and Drawing m the High School at 

Morris, New York. 
Helen Bidwell is acting as teaching governess in the home of Mr. W. G. 

Langford, Fort Myers, Florida. 
Hazel Gray is acting as Preceptress in Crown Point High School, New 

Vodisa Greenwood is at home. Address : Farmington, Maine. 
Dollie Hepburn is attending the New York Library School. 
Marguerite Knox is studying for the degree of Master of Arts at Columbia 

Mally Lord is studjdng Domestic Science at Teachers' College, Columbia 

Ella Mathewson is at home. Address : 81 Cliff Street, Norwich, Con- 
Helen McLaughlin is teaching Mathematics and Biology in the Fort 

Edward High School, Fort Edward, New York. 
Annie Mather is teaching History and Mathematics in the High School 

at Skaneateles, New York. 
Elsie Robbins is working in the Bacteriological Laboratory of the Bureau 

of Health of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 
Elsa Schuh is teaching German in the High School at Atlantic High- 
lands, New Jersey. 
Madeleine Thompson is teaching English and History in the High School 

at Stonington, Connecticut. 
Mildred Tyler is doing Graduate Work in Latin and Greek at Wesleyan 

University, Middletown. Connecticut. 
Gertrude Walch is at home. Address : 14 Hillside Avenue, Amesbury. 

Margaret Woodbridge is soprano soloist in the Park Congregational 

Church of Grand Rapids, Michigan. 


'97. Anna Casler to Thomas Upson Chesebrough. Address : Bumsville? 

North Carolina. 
'04. Fannie Stearns Davis to Augustus McKinstry Gifford, January 24, 1914. 
Anna Frances Rogers to Charles F. Callahan. Address : 30 jMay Street. 
Worcester, Massachusetts. 
"05. Mabel Chick to James Owen Foss, January 1, 1914. Address: 326 Bay 
State Road, Boston, Massachusetts. 
Lucy E. Macdonald to Herman C. Pitts. Address: 48 South Angell 
Street. Providence, Rhode Island. 
'07. Margareth A. Pitman to Henry Gale Chamberlain, December 18, 1913. 
Address : 339 Charles Street, Boston, Massachusetts. 
Anna Reynolds to Bradish P. Morse, January 26, 1914. 


'08. Ruth Dunbar to Edward May Tolman, January 17, 1914. Address : 
1028 Cathedral Street, Baltimore, Maryland. 

Florence Adelaide Howe to William Strobridge, February 7, 1914. 

Edith M. James to Samuel Frederick Monroe. Address : 75 School 
Street, Manchester, Massachusetts. 

Margaret Kingsley to Omera Floyd Long. February 3, 1914. Address : 
1229 Judson Avenue, Evanston, Illinois. 

Luciie Parker to Eugene Leavens Mersereau, November 12, 1913. Ad- 
dress : Doty, Washington. 

Alvara Proctor to Richard R. Williams, August 29, 1913. Address : 
Grant, Washington. 
"09. Mildred Hill to John Lowry, January 29, 1914. 

Mary Leonard Palmer to R. T. Fuller. 
'11. Katharine Ames to Robert George, January 29, 1914. Address: 170 
Brookline Avenue, Brookline, Massachusetts. 

Blanche Buttfield to Harlan Pratt, January 28, 1914. 

Marjorie Gilmore to Carleton E. Power, November 27, 1913. Address : 
201 East Jay Street, Ithaca. New York. 

Dorothy Hickok to McClain Reinhart, February 11, 1914. 

Rebecca Smith to Buckingham Chandler, February 21, 1914. 

Alice Thompson to James Swasey Currier, February 21, 1914. 

Florence Watters to Clyde Bronson Stuntz, November 25. 1913. Ad- 
dress : Farley. Iowa. ' 
ea;-'12. Rose Colcord to Richard Nicks Weibel, January 21, 1914. Address ; 

Claviton, Pennsylvania. 
'13. Helen Laughlin to Emory Miller Marshall. January 1 . 1914. Address : 

Yerington, Nevada. 
ex-'ld. Carolyn de Windt to Harlan B. Hays, November 27, 1913. 

Mary Yardley to Frederick Garfield MacLeod, December 20. 1913. Ad- 
dress : 956 Park Avenue, Auburn, Rhode Island. 


'05. Mrs. Chester L. Whitaker (Louise Dodge), a son. Spottord, born Feb- 
ruary 5, 1914. 

'09. Mrs. Harold Gilmore Calhoun (Dorothy Donnell), a son, Donald Gil- 
more, born February 8, 1914. 

'11. Mrs. Amos Rogers Little (Ednah Hilburn). a daughter, Mason, born 
November 30, 1918. 
Mrs. Murray Seasongood (Agnes Senior), a daughter, Janet, born Sep- 
tember 25, 1913. 
Mrs. Alexander B. Timm (Rene Hubinger), a son, Alexander, born De- 
cember 26, 1913. 

ea;-'12. Mrs. Winfield Potter (Ruth Riley), a daughter, Dorothy Frances, 
born January 30, 1914. 



ea;-'79. Mrs. Frederick N. Kneeland (Adelaide Edwards), February 9, 1914, 

at Northampton, Massachusetts. 
'82. Theodate L. Smith, February 16, 1914, at Worcester, Massachusetts. 
'87. Rose M. Bodman, January 13, 1914, at Rutland, Massachusetts. 


March 18. Concert by Mme. Teresa Carreno. 

'^ 20. Lecture by Professor Giroud under the auspices 

of the French and Music Departments. 
" 21. Gymnasium Drill. 

Group Dance. 
'' 25- April 9. Spring Recess. 
April 10. Lecture by Professor LeFranc. 

Subject : The Legend of the Giant in Rabelais 
and Later Literature. 
" 11. Group Dance. 

15. Lend-a-Hand Play. 


Smitb Colleae 

®wnc^ anb publlsbel* bp tbc Senior Class 


Gerhart Hauptmann 



The Hermit Thrush 

The Return 

Pan Plays 

Jackson's Bull 

Love's Ritual . 

The Long Barque 

The Girl Who Didn't Count 

April . . . . 

Anna Elizabeth Spicer IOI4 385 

Hyla Stoioell Waiters 1915 390 

Adelaide Heilhron 1915 391 

Dorothy Ochtman 1914 391 

Marion Sinclair Walker 1915 392 

Dorothy Ho mans 1917 395 

. Ellen Bodley Jones 1916 396 

Mira Bigeloio Wilson 1914 403 

Margaret Louise Farrand 19U 403 

Eleanor Haller Gibbons 1915 404 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 407 


The Tenor and the White Feather Eloise Schmidt 1914 408 

By the Sea ... Rosamond Drexel Holmes 19 14 411 

Margaret Stone Gary 1915 413 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 413 

Anne Eleanor Von Harten 1914 414 

Marion Delamater Freeman 1914 416 

Margaret Bloom 1914 417 

Mira Bigelow Wilson 1914 420 

Anna Elizabeth Spicer 19 14 420 


Dusk and Dreams 

Madame Vigoreaux 

April Night 


At Music 

A Dream 


An Oration of Marcus Tullius Cicero Elsie Terry Blanc 1914 422 

An Improvement on History . . H. C. Cowgill 1917 425 

Adelaide Heriot Ai-ms 1915 428 

Dorothy Keeley 1917 430 


While There's Life 




Entered at the Post Office at ISTortliampton, Massachusetts, as second class matter 
Gazette Printing Compayiy, Northampton, Mass. 


Smith College Mointhly 

Vol. XXI APRIL, 1914 No. 7 


Lois Cleveland Gould 
Leonora Branch Anna Elizabeth Spicer 

Margaret Louise Farrand Marion Delamater Freeman 
Rosamond Drexel Holmes Frances Milliken Hooper 

Margaret Bloom Dorothy Lilian Spencer 

Ruth Cobb Dorothy Ochtman 

Eloise Schmidt 

business manager and treasurer 
Ruth Hellekson 

assistant business managers 
Esther Loyola Harney 
Bertha Viola Conn 



111 November of the year 1912, on his fiftieth birthday, Ger- 
hart Hauptmann was awarded the Nobel prize in literature for 
the year, this being evidence that Hauptmann, by some of the 
most able judges in Europe, was considered the author of work 
of the most "idealistic tendency" in literature; and by this 
award he took rank with Carducci, Sienkiewicz, Kipling, 
Eucken, Selma Lagerlof, Heyse and Maeterlinck. 

Since then I have heard Hauptmann called the greatest living 
exponent of realism on the contemporary stage. When one 
comes to read his work thoroughly, he is surprised by the great 
versatility of the man ; Hauptmann is by no means a "poet of 


one mood/' Die Versunkene Glocke ? Yes, but also Vor Son- 
nenaufgang. Hanneles Himmelfahrt, and Die Roiten. And 
Der Arme Heinrich must travel far indeed before he come to sea 
the Festspiel at Breslau. 

Of all the Scandinavian dramatists, some half-dozen, such as 
Ibsen, Strindberg, Bjornson are known to American audiences ; 
so it is with Russian dramatists, with Irish, English, and those 
of every foreign nation. And of those names of German drama- 
tists with which we are most familiar, that of Hauptmann prob- 
ably ranks first — for Hauptmann is known above all for his 
dramatic work. Not only is he known in America, moreover, 
but his reputation is international ; this last goes far to prove 
that there is, in some of his works at least, a certain universal 
element. Although his writings are, above all, German (the 
setting is Germany, usually his native Silesia) yet New York 
audiences have applauded heartily several of his plays, a& 
Hanneles Himmelfahrt. It has been said that Die Weber is too 
exclusively representative of one locality to interest an Amer- 
ican ; but with this statement I quarrel. Besides its dramatic 
power and technical skill, there is in Die Weber such a deep 
human sympathy that it cannot fail to arouse a responsive sym- 
pathy, even in a callous American ! And the truly heroic death 
of the old weaver at his loom is not an event which has signi- 
ficance for Germans alone. ^' The poor always ye have with 
you" does not apply to the members of one race only ; and it is, 
in many cases, of the poor that Hauptmann writes. 

One of his favorite subjects, in fact, is what Maeterlinck calls 
'' The tragic in every day life." This is indicative of a com- 
paratively modern spirit ; fancy Milton writing the tragedy of 
a mill-hand, or Skakspeare that of a poor waitress ! But Haupt- 
mann does both. Hassenreuter, of Die Batten, says, "Tragedy 
is not confined to any class of society. I always told you that I " 
Hauptmann himself was in some ways at least a prototype of 
Loth, the social reformer in Vor Sonnenaufgang ; he is deeply 
interested in "the under dog." Hannele of the idealistic dream- 
poem, is a poor waif, whose utmost misery is in telling contrast 
to the beautiful dream portion of the play. Hauptmann is one 
of those who have brought to the old verse a wide meaning of 
mortalia : " sunt lacrimae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt." 

The differences in thought are marked by differences in form ; 
from the beautiful, irregular verse of Die Versunkene Glocke 


and Der Arrtie Heinrich, to the every-day speech of the German 
people in Einsame Menschen, and the Silesian dialect, — most 
difficult to read, at least for one who is not a native German, — 
of Die Weber, Der Biherpelz, etc. 

It is, of course, utterly impossible for one not thoroughly con- 
versant with the German language to speak with authority of 
Hauptmann's diction. So far as I can tell, his verse is very 

The plays are written in three, four, and five acts, with no 
scene divisions. In some of them, more especially the earlier 
of social dramas, naturalism holds sway to the almost utter exclu- 
sion of '^ form." Die Biherpelz and Der Rote Halin have no well 
worked up plot; Die Weber has no dramatic structure in the 
ordinary sense of the word : it reminds one of Wallensteins 
Lager ; but, as a drama, is far superior to that piece. Many of 
the plays, Einsame Menschen, Die Batten, and Gabriel ScJiil- 
lings Fluclit, are very well worked-up ; interest is well sus- 
tained ; and there is a masterj' of material in some acts which 
Hauptmann would seem to have caught from Ibsen. The stage 
directions of all the plays are much fuller than is necessary or 
desirable. The novels are not so well-constructed as the plays ; 
Der Narr in Christo is about twice as long as it needs to be ; it 
would gain by condensation. 

One of the things that we demand, when it is claimed that a 
certain man is a great artist in any way, is : Is he sincere ? Is 
he really trying to say something ? Or is he merely toying with 
great things ? This is most important : for, as Chesterton, very 
strongly, puts it, "' Now, the message of Rudyard Kipling [of 
whom he chances to be speaking] '' that upon which he has 
really concentrated, is the only thing worth worrying about in 
him or in any other man. The only serious question is, what is 
that which he has tried to say ?'' 

One might think that, because Hauptmann is so '' versatile"' 
in a literary way, he might not be sincere ; he might be trying 
to " show off " merel5^ But on this score, it seems to me, we 
need have little doubt ; whether in his realistic or in his ideal- 
istic works, he is trying to say what he honestly thinks ; he 
may change his mind ; or he may see more than one side of life, 
but as to his sincerity we are assured. He himself tells us, on 
the fly-leaf of my edition of Vor Sonnenaufgang that this play 
is "a work that had its origin in pure motives." Life is as real 


for Loth as it is for "der arme Heinrich"; for Heinrich of Die 
Versunkene Glocke as it is for Wilbelm in Das Friedensfest. 
And as^ain he tells us, speaking this time of his latest work, the 
Festspiel of Breslau, " I had to give expression, as a fifty year 
old man and as a German, to my smcere conception of the spirit 
of the great period. I shall continue loyal to my motto : ' Go 
your own way straight and mercy will come to you/ By that, 
however, I do not mean mercy from anybody, but from God, 
who alone has it to dispense." Der Narr in Chrisio is one of 
his works that leaves the reader with an impression of the 
utmost sincerity of the author; Der Biherpelz and Der Rote 
Halin, and perhaps Atlantis are the only things about which 
one is not perfectly sure. 

Men have not yet forgotten what Aristotle, more than two 
thousand years ago, said about a play : tliat it must have a 
beginning, a middle, and an eiid. But Hauptmann, in many 
of his works, seems to forget or ignore the last requisite. In 
place of an end we are put face to face with a huge, inscrutable 
-question-mark. It is not only that we are so inescapably 
■equipped with the story-loving natures of our Elizabethan fore- 
bears ; but one does, from both a logical and a philosophical 
point of view, demand an end that shall not be that of a house 
■deserted in the building because the owner has suddenly left, or 
■died. Fiihrmann Henscbel, Johannes Vockeraut, Helene Krause 
■and others, suicide, shutting " the door-ways of their heads" to 
the sorrows of the world. But are we to believe that, because 
we have closed the window and lain down to sleep, the storm 
outside has ceased, and, as pessimistic Samuel Daniel would say, 
■all that for which we were but now contending, is nothing ? Is 
suicide really an end, or a solution ? No, we will never believe 
that the rest is silence ; that suicide is not a cowardly assertion 
of failure ; that life is not worth the living. With Rantendelein 
^nd the dying Heinrich we say : " the sun rises " — " High over- 
head the bells of the sun are ringing ! " — and know that in the 
dim east is visible a sure, if now faint, Morgenrote. 

As to what Chesterton is most insistent upon, the message of 
a man, we find it hard in Hauptmann's case to be very positive. 
Hauptmann has read Darwin, Marx, Zola, Tolstoi, Ibsen ; but 
he has also read and loved, we know, Shakespeare and Goethe, 
Schiller, and beautiful old German legends ; and, yes, even the 



One is tempted to expose a " progressive development," — that 
is what authors are supposed to have, — to trace, as in Shake- 
speare's works, "periods" which are beautifully and logically 
separate and progressive. But Hauptmann catches one up 
short in such a process. In 1885 his first work Promethidenlos, 
a romantic poem, was produced, to be followed in 1889 by one 
of his most decisively naturalistic plays, Vo7' Sonnenavfgang ^ 
but yet, naturalism was not to be Hauptmann's only resort ; for 
Die Vers,iinlcene Glocke was produced in 1893, and that is one 
of his most idealistic plays — and after that Filhrmann Henscliel 
and Die Ratten. And so it goes throughout the list of his works. 
He is at once the idealist of Nobel prize fame, and the realist 
than whom is none greater living. 

And what shall we say of Hauptmann now ? Is he one who 
believes that life is a walking shadow, a poor player ? Or does 
he believe in the ultimate reality of beauty and truth and 
goodness ? Rantendelein says : " The blue-bells are ringing. 
For happiness ? For sorrow ? Both at once, methinks." In 
another way, perhaps, he is doing that by which Shakespeare 
so often surprised us : in Romeo and Juliet, after the tense 
scene in which Juliet has drunk the fearful potion we are imme- 
diately transferred to the strange low-comedy scene of the hired 
minstrels. Does Rose Bernd follow Der arme Heinrich^ and 
Die Ratten, Griselda in order that we may understand the 
strange mystery of life? As Stevenson has said, in Pan's Pipes, 
■'What experience supplies is of a mingled tissue, and the 
choosing mind has much to reject before it can get together the 
materials of a theory." Hauptmann, however, is not "the 
choosing mind " — he leaves that role to the rest of the world. 

It is William Blake who has said that you only learn enough 
by too much. When we consider such plays as ''Vor Sonnenauf- 
gang and Rose Berne and Eirisame Menschen, we may well be 
disheartened at the thought that their author has gained the 
prize of idealism I But when we remember Der Arme Heinrich 
and Hanneles Hiinrnelfalirt and Die Versunkene Glocke, we 
forget our fears. We remember that even in Der Rote Halm 
old Rauchhaupt said, " Everything is sad in this world. It's all 
a question of how you look at it I The same thing that's sad can 
be mighty cheering." And, although it is dangerous to assert 
of the words of any creation of an artist tliat they embody the 
sentiment of the artist himself, nevertheless we may often find. 


a similar attitude in creator and created ; Loth, in Vor Sonnen- 
aufgang, said, of Ibsen and Zola : ''In the sense of being artists, 
they are not authors at all : they are necessary evils. I have a 
genuine thirst for the beautiful and I demand of art a clear, re- 
freshing draught— I am not ill ; and what Ibsen and Zola offer 
me is medicine." 

If Hauptmann passes from naturalism to idealism and back 
again — why, the world itself advances in a somewhat similar 
fashion ! And the chief thing is that it advances I In Haupt- 
mann's work, no one will deny that Fuhrmann Henschel and 
Die Batten and Gabriel Schilling's Flucht are better than the 
ghastly first play. 

As is the case with many of us, Hauptmann does not know 
exactly "where we are going." But he dares to hope, some- 
times ; although one could wish he were more confident and a 
bit less wistful. 

And perhaps in Der Narr in Christo, the bit of paper found 
afterward in the FooPs clothes speaks for more persons than 
the Fool — we can hear Hauptmann, too, saying softly, " The 
mystery of the Kingdom ? " But it is much to know that there 
is a Kingdom ! 

What will be, we cannot fully know. But if a prophecy may 
be made, it will be a very long time before Hannele and Der 
Arme Heinrich and Die Versunkene Olocke pass entirely from 
men's minds. - 



The fairy people's toy-balloons 

Are flowers, each anchored by its stem 
And fairies sometimes cut the ropes 

And make bright butterflies of them. 
I often try to make mine float, 

But then the flower always dies — 
I wonder what the fairies do 

To make them turn to butterflies ! 



Far and free, far and free, a world to roam at will, 
-Call of the frozen north to me, of rivers white and still ; 
Vast pale stretches of moonlit snow, and over a wintry sea 
G-aunt, green icebergs drifting slow, yet steadily — far and free. 

Far and free, far and free — only to choose have I, 

And I hear the call of the south to me, of a star-set tropic sky 

Where a full, low moon sheds a golden glow over palm and rippling sea, 

And flower-scented breezes go — wandering far and free. 

Far and free, far and free, the world before me lies 

And a voice from over the Western Sea whispers of almond eyes. 

Of gardens where golden lanterns glow, and the warm wind stirs each tree 

Until clouds of rosy blossoms go fluttering far and free. 

Far and free, far and free, the ways of the world are mine ; 
And a breath of the East brings the scent to me of incense before a shrine, 
Of dim green woods where monkeys swing from tree to moss-grown tree, 
And the cry of some strange, bright-feathered thing goes echoing far and 




Over the woods steals the soft morning light, 

And the merry birds there all chatter and sing 
While the red sun slowly comes up into sight ; 

And above all the rest sing the heralds of Spring, - 
Clear in the morning, the wild thrushes sing. 
Clear in the morning 
The deep woodlands ring. 

The forest grows dark and appallingly still ; 

Immense and unbounded for miles does it lie. 
Mysteriously hiding valley and hill ; 

And dark are the trees against the calm sky. 
Clear in the evening comes the sweet piercing strain. 
Clear in the evening 
The thrush sings again. 

39 1 



Imagine being whisked away suddenly out of the world of 
hurrying activities — of tasks that had grown unaccountably 
heavy of late, of duties that try as you would to keep with them» 
were always disappearing round the next corner — just imagine 
being picked up bodily from the midst of such a situation, and 
being deposited in a bare, quiet room, on abed beside a window,, 
which looked out upon a bit of water, some trees and field and 

Yon couldn't get back to the world, so you just let it slip 
quietly away from you, and you slept— slept with the sound of 
gently flowing water in your ears ; and in your mind, where the 
hurried, troubled thoughts had been, were cool, clear spaces of 
the greenness of field and theblueness of sky. The waking, too, 
was not as it had been of late — no rush of returning responsi- 
bilities, no frenzied hurry, no haunting sense of things forgot- 
ten—just the pleasant continuation of a dream, with a comfort- 
able sense of reality, for the trees and fields and sky were still 
there. There was a book, too. one of those rare books that 
bring to you your heritage of all the ages, that rest your weary 
little life in the vastness of the Infinite. And when you turned 
from the book to the window, there was the Universe to speak 
for itself, to hush the noisy troubled Now in the stillnes of the 

It was after a space of this experience, perhaps two days, per- 
haps a thousand years, that as you lay with closed eyelids,. 
'twixt waking and sleeping, you were aware of a Presence — of 
something looking at you. At first it was looking shyly, peek- 
ing at you round the corner of the door, then, gaining courage, 
it softly came nearer, and you knew that the mysterious Presence 
was bending over you, looking long and earnesth^ into your face. 
Then you stirred, and it was gone. Gone before 3'ou could open 
your eyes, and you felt, you did not hear it tiptoeing away down 
the hall. Presently it came again, but not so near : you felt its 
slow searching gaze from across the room. But always at your 
slightest motion, it was gone. Then you grew cunning and 
made ready for the mysterious Presence. You lay perfectly 


still facing the door but with eyelids opened, oh the merest im- 
perceptible fraction of an inch. Bye and bye it came. You 
looked, a long, slow look, even as did the mysterious Presence 
itself, and you saw, standing shy and eager in the doorway — 
the Spirit of the Girl you Used to be. 

You had not realized how you had missed her, until she stood 
before you — but now you knew suddenly where the gleam and 
the glow of your life had gone— you knew why the Girl that 
you longed to be stayed so far away, losing herself among the 

"Why did you go. Girl that I Used to be ?" So softly the 
question flowed from the silence, that even the shy spirit in the 
doorway was not startled. 

*'The Mask," she said, shuddering. "The hideous Mask. It 
was stifling me." 

There was a long silence, while you realized the Mask. Your 
first impulse had been not to understand — to say "What Mask ? 
What do j^ou mean, Girl that I Used to be?" But before her 
direct look your eyes fell. You instinctively knew about the 
Mask — you needed only time to fill in the picture. Yes, there 
was a Mask that went about doing the things that were expected 
of you — saying the little parrot- words that you heard the other 
parrots say, seeming to know the variety of little things that 
"one is supposed to know," things which suddenly before the 
gaze of the Girl you used to be, seemed not very important after 
all. Then, however, you had been overwhelmed by their im- 
portance, you became self-conscious and uncomfortable, till at 
last you shrank behind the Mask in very self-defense. The Mask 
took charge in good earnest, and was quite equal to the occasion, 
even ready to utter appreciative exclamations about the stars. 
Small wonder that the Girl you Used to be felt stifled. Why, 
as you remembered, she was a friend of the stars— and while she 
was loving them, the Mask was exclaiming about them I She 
used to know just where beside the gray rock under the dead 
brown leaves, the first white violet could be found, but she 
could not betray the violet by taking the Mask there. 

"So one day I just slipped out from behind the Mask, and 
away. You didn't know when I went — I did it so softly — and 
bye and bye you were so well satisfied with the Mask that it 
didn't matter." 

"Why did you come back. Girl That I Used to be?" you 


whispered. '^ It surely wasn't for me, and it couldn't have been 
for the Mask." 

*' No, it wasn't for the Mask, and it wasn't for you. It was 
the Girl you Long to be. I was looking for her as I bent over 
you just now." 

^' Oh, but don't you know ? She is not with me. She is very 
far away — much farther than in the old days." 

"Yes, of course. I feared so. The Mask is keeping her 

" But now it will be all right. You'll stay with me." 

"No," said the Girl you Used to be, sorrowfully she said it. 
^' I am afraid— of the Mask." 

" The Mask ! " you exclaimed. " Do you think I could endure 
it for a minute, after seeing it through your eyes ?" 

" You think that — here, now," replied the Girl you Used to 
be. "But remember the world of which you will soon be a 
part, in your old place. They say that Masks are necessary 

Still you pleaded, and still she stood in the doorway, sorrow- 
ful and resolute. 

Then suddenly you gave over arguing. You turned to the 
window and watched the world go to sleep. You saw the purple 
of the distant hills deepen into darkness ; saw the last faint tinge 
of gold fade from the clouds that hung above and glimmered in 
the water beneath. You heard the little drowsy voices of the 
night, the croon of a brooding mother-bird, the high, shrill note 
of the tree- toad ; the chirrup of the little lady frog with the 
second-soprano voice, and the sleepy baritone rejoinder of her 
mate — heard the murmured lullaby of the wind to the newlj^- 
budded tree-tops. You saw here and there a light twinkle on 
the far-away hillside, and bye and bye you watched the stars 
come out one by one. Then you fell asleep. 

When you awoke it was not yet daylight. The birds were 
waking in the nearby thicket. As your spirit joined with their 
little notes of thanksgiving for another day, all at once you knew 
that the Girl you Used to be had come back to you. Without 
urging, without persuasion, as quietly as she had gone away, 
in some strange way she had trusted you, and had come back. 

As the first faint rosiness of dawn came over the hills you had 
a vision, just for a moment, of the Girl you Long to be. Far 
away ? but not so far ; unattainable ? perhaps ideals always are 


that, but not unapproachable, for you felt a subtle comradeship 
between the Vision and the Girl you Used to be. 

In their hands, the eager, reaching hands of the Girl you Used 
to be, and the capable hands of the Girl you Long to be, you 
have left your life, to make of it what they will. Such a safe 
and happy feeling — to know that it is in their hands ; while as 
for you, — i:^ is very comfortable just resting, and looking out of 
the window at the stars. 



Austere white hills. 

A black carven pine stands against the glowing west. 

Asleep are the flowers, 

Asleep are the trees. 

Asleep and dreaming of the April breeze. 

Pan comes a-leaping down the hillside bare 

And strikes the frozen earth with his cloven hoof — 

'•Awake, awake ! Ye flowers fair ! " 

There's naught of color here, save the sky's bright roof. 

Then he sat upon a rock 
And played upon his reed. 

Spring ! 

Blue-birds wing ! 

Wild flower, 

Bright hour, 

Solomon's seal, 

Do you feel 

The call of Spring ? 

And the sombre sad sedges 

Flamed green. 
And on the hawthorne hedges 

A sheen 
Of blossoms pale 
Flame-tipped with pink. 

Then in the spring night 

Pan stopped his playing, 
And chin in his hand 

Watched the world a-maving. 



I find myself smiling even now as I pick up my pen. Last 
night, when I was sleeping in my chair after dinner, with a 
newspaper over my face to keep away the light, I suddenly 
awoke with a start and found that I was laughing loudly. 
Wife says I am going into second childhood as the result of 
overwork. Bob, my partner, who happened to be taking dinner 
with us, said that it was only because the golf season had 
started in. But how should they know ? I was only dreaming 
about Jackson's bull. All afternoon on the links the fresh,, 
damp smell of things sprouting under the snow gave me an 
awfully funny feeling. I couldn't quite make out what it was, 
but in the evening, with the comfortable lassitude after a good 
dinner, and with the knowledge that Bob didn't have to be en-^ 
tertained, I fell asleep and dreamed I w^as back on the Missouri 
prairies in the spring. 

It all happened in the summer of seventy-six. After school 
closed, I went directly down to herd cattle on " Uncle Pete's" 
ranch, a much more sensible occupation, so my family thought, 
than '' loafing," as they expressed it, in town. I had always 
lived in Missouri, and had spent my summers on the ranch ever 
since I had been old enough to sit a horse. My oldest sister had 
married Uncle Pete's son. They lived in the north, but she was 
to spend the summer on the ranch, and see that I acted in a 
seemly manner. Then too, there was Jim. 

Jim met me at the station — good old Jim ! He was four 
years older than I was, and as son of a native ranchman, pos- 
sessed a store of superior information much to be coveted. 
Ever since his big brother had married my sister, we had been 
thrown together in the closest kind of intimacy. The train 
pulled up at the little weather-beaten station with a jerk. My 
home-sick eyes caught a glimpse of the stretch of sandy road, 
and the prairies beyond, and then I saw Jim grinning as only 
Jim knew how, leading two horses to the edge of the platform. 

''Say," Jim said, smiling all over his face as he gave me one 
of the bridles, " have you forgotten how to straddle a horse, I 



wonder?" Yes, there was my same pony, ''Quicksand,'' so 
named from his propensity to balk. He nuzzled my hand 
softly, then gave the characteristic nip that I had learned to 
look out for. 

" Forgotten ! " I said scornfully. " I'd like to see myself ! '' 
I swung into my saddle, and we were off. 

'' Gee, but it's great to be on a horse again ! Why, up at 

S I used to get out my old corduroy pants and just smell 

'em, Pd get so homesick for a horse. And -as for cattle, why, 
boy, you have to walk a mile even to see a common cow ! 
I guess those people would faint if they saw a bull walking 
aroand loose. And as for riding ! Why, most of those follows 
could'nt even sit on a horse standing still." 

We rode on ; the bare landscape, dotted with its occasional 
barns and trees, was pleasantly familiar to me. When we got 
to the house, there was my sister waiting for us, holding in her 
arms a bunch of wriggling arms and legs that could "really 
talk, though," she said. And there, with a grin to which only 
Jim's could be compared, stood Uncle Pete. 

A fussy person would have been apt to describe him as a 
rough specimen. At least, he chewed tobacco and swore, hated 
to go to church and showed a marked dislike for good clothes 
and all that went with them. But on the prairie, he was, as 
every one said, "a wonder." He possessed all the real cowboy 
accomplishments, and, what was much more, a sturdy endur- 
ance that could stand days of wind, weather and hardship 
without having it phase him at all. He always got up at four 
in the morning, even when there was nothing whatever to do, 
and would go stamping around the house, calling his dogs, 
until not even the most persistent could sleep. His weather- 
stained countenance continually wore an expression of respon- 
sibility and care, which was completely dispelled when his face 
relaxed into its grin of cheerful good humor. Opposed to his 
active nature. Uncle Pete was not at all averse to being waited 
on, and he had an easy, pleasant waj' of suggesting it. For 
instance, if we were driving along, and came to a fence, he 
would always say quietly, "Could you get out, boy, and kind 
o' open that gate ? " 

But you just ought to have seen the way that baby could boss 
him around. He was meek as a lamb before her, and would 
stamp around all over the house to hunt for a lost doll, or any- 


thing the baby wanted. Any one at all observing would have- 
seen that Uncle Pete was a general benefactor to the com- 
munity. He was always getting people out of scrapes, patch- 
ing up quarrels, lending his horses, appearing in court for 
people, and, as for money, why, if the family hadn't persuaded 
him differently he would have given away all he owned. Uncle 
Pete was the kindest and most generous man I have ever seen. 
He'd go to heaven and back again to do anyone a good turn.. 
Anyway, if anybody's got anything to say against him, he's got 
to fight me first, that's all ! 

That summer it fell to the lot of Jim and me to take charge 
of about four hundred cattle. We were in the saddle from 
morning until night. Jim laughed when he read the letter from 
my old Greek Professor at school. 

'* I trust," he wrote, " that you are reviewing daily the work 
of the past year, and are reading further and are learning to- 
enjoy and appreciate the gems of the classics." 

"Guess if he knew the bunch of work you had to do every 
day he wouldn't think you'd have just all the time in the world 
for his ' gems of the classics !' said Jim scornfully. " I'd like 
to see some of those learned guys just once, with a bunch of 
cattle before 'em, scattering every which way, and them know- 
ing theyM have to round 'em all in, or no dinner. I'd like to- 
see 'em up against Jackson's bull ! " 

Yes, it was Jackson's bull that caused us all our trouble that 
summer. " He worried and worked us by day and the thought 
of him goaded and tortured our minds even in sleep." That's 
the way my Greek professor would have interpreted it, but it 
wasn't true. When our heads once struck the pillow, we never 
dreamed a thing until we heard Uncle Pete yelling at us to get 
up. But to return to Jackson's bull. He was a magnificent 
creature, a cross breed, half short-horn and half native, a 
powerful brute, inclined to have his own way, and to give more 
trouble in doing it than any other animal on the range. Stand- 
ing a full fourteen hands high, he displayed a thickness of neck 
and a strength of loin that became only too familiar to us 
during the summer. He was of a deep unspotted black, with 
strong stubby horns, and a thin tail forever swaying, either 
from nervousness or anger. I could never quite decide which ! 
His eye, large and red, gleamed with a fierce malignity not to 
be misinterpreted, and the bellows issuing from his wrinkled 
throat would start all the dogs barking for miles around. 


Never was there man or beast of such a mean, contriving, 
ugly nature as this bull. He loved to break down fences 
as a puppy loves to worry an old shoe. He was in his ele- 
ment, when tramping down fields of new sown oats or corn 
In short, he was the terror of the neighborhood. Allowed to 
roam at large, he would charge the length of the valley, head 
down and tail flying, bawling and pawing up the dirt. All 
fence posts in his course he would bowl over like so many nine 
pins, charge through, and go ba — awling along the line, leaving 
behind him a path of devastation and destruction. 

More than a hundred of our steers had been bought from a 
ranch down the river bottom. These occasionally got away from 
the herd, and returned to the valley, where they used to get 
into the brush, and it sometimes took us many days of hard 
riding to hunt them out and get them back onto the prairie 
land. In order to avoid the danger of losing these wilder 
steers, we were accustomed to drive them up to the farm at sun- 
down, and put them into a fenced-in pasture, which prevented 
them from straying away in the night. Jackson's bull fre- 
quently made a raid through our fences, and then all our cattle, 
excited by the noise, would go stampeding after him through the 
lines of flattened out fence rails, following him miles and miles 
down the river bottom. Next day, we would have to put in our 
time hunting them out and driving them back, to say nothing of 
the fences that needed repair. Then, when every rail was in 
place, and the round up was made, and Jim and I were en- 
joying a blissful period of exhaustion, old Jackson's bull would 
once more visit our neighborhood, and all our work had to be 
done over. 

So things went on, until herding cattle rather lost its glamor 
of romance to us. Life on a horse is all right, but I guess 
you can overdo even the best things there are, and we were 
working overtime in the saddle that summer. I began to look 
with a little more pleasure to the approach of the fall term at 

S , and I saw Jim was becoming cynical, and his customary 

grin had sort of flickered out. 

One morning a warm drizzle set in, and as Jim and I had the 
day before set everything to rights around the ranch, and there 
was no work particularly pressing, we got out our shot guns and 
started out to see if we could scare up some partridges. As I 
remember, we got only a few that morning. The summer had 


been unusually dry, and most of the game had gone north. The 
rain had blown past, and a fresh wind had sprung up with the 
promise of a good afternoon. We were standing in a corn field 
a little behind the farm, and were just picking up our things 
to start along home, when a low exclamation from Jim made 
me look up, thinking that perhaps he might have his eye on a 
flock. But only the gray prairie scene was before me, with not 
a bird in sight. 

" Say, are you crazy ? What are you swearing at ? " At this 
question, Jim held out his hand impressively. 

"Look what's coming and then ask me if I'm crazy!'' 
I looked again, and scanned the even gray landscape. Sure 
enough, there was a black spot that seemed to get larger and 
larger each second. Jim fingered his gun nervously, and the 
crease in his forehead deepened, as the black spot, approaching, 
developed into the figure of Jackson's bull, head down and tail 
flying, displaying it seemed a great many horns and hoofs. 
And even that far away, we heard his " bawl " steadily increas- 
ing in volume. We knew then there was trouble ahead. I 
could see that Jim was getting excited, for a quarter of a mile 
ahead of us stretched a neat line of stake-and-rider fence. Jim 
eyed it lovingly. 

"By Gee ! if he so much as touches a horn to that there 
fence, I'll shoot him full of holes/'' I gave one nod of silent 
assent. We waited. 

Straight on came Jackson's bull, his thick neck wrinkling 
and unwrinkling with every motion of his body. He snorted 
and began pawing the ground. I raised my gun, and knew by 
intuition that Jim had raised his. My finger was on the trigger. 
Without even looking to see where he was putting down his 
horns, that heartless beast just naturally ran into that fence 
like a ton of brick sliding onto a pile of eggs. There was a 
splintering of riders, and the whole line of fence rails toppled 
over like a house of cards. I never have seen anything neater. 
This was our cue. As he came " shasaying " into our fields, Jim 
and I let loose at him with both barrels. Our first shots hit him 
squarely. He snorted just once and came on. Bang ! Bang ! 
Two more barrels full of bird shot disappeared into his system, 
and with an awful bellow just chuck full of rage, he wheeled 
and tore off down the prairie like a guilty man with the police 
after him. You couldn't even see him for dust, and his hoofs 
marks in the sod made a path-way down the river bottom. 


All the way home we laughed fit to kill, and that afternoon we 
really enjoyed putting up all those fences. It was a pleasure. 

July passed, and August came along, a month to be dreaded 
in the prairie cou^tr5^ The thin grass withers and dries away, 
streams seep down under the sands, leaves wither on the trees, 
and the scorching sun beating down upon a flat country seems 
merciless in its intensity of heat. The cattle suffered terribly 
from the flies that summer. This last season, we heard, was 
the cause for the quick demise of Jackson's bull. 

It was Sunday morning, and we were on our way to church, 
my sister from a devout love of the religious services, Uncle 
Pete with the fortitude of one long accustomed to suffer; and 
Jim and I went because we couldn't get out of it. 

My sister and her father-in-law were in the runabout, while 
Jim and I rode alongside. 

'"Boys," Uncle Pete began in his easy drawl, " I was over to 
Abe Jackson's last night, and he said his bull was found down 
on the river bottom yesterday, dead, shot full of holes with bird 
shot. You boys don't know who did it, do jou ? 

"Jackson's bull dead !" I hastily exclaimed, " Why he was 
the stockiest beast on the prairie I Whatever made him die ?'* 

" Got fly-blown in his sores, I guess. But that surely is queer 
about the shooting. Whoever did it ought to look out what he's 
doing around these parts, and not get too easy with his gun." 

Jim and I had lagged behind. Jim gave a wink with the eye 
nearest me, and I noticed that the old grin had come back again. 
Then Uncle Pete turned around to ask a question, and Jim's face 
was typical of the youth on his way to compulsory Sabbath 

August and September was a golden time for us in spite of 
the heat and flies. Our cattle fed quietly in their own pastures 
without their former disturbing trips to the river bottom. The 
'' Diamond " ranch began to be noted for its trim fences. And 
as for spare time, why Jim even said to me one day, 

'• Say, you'd better start in that perusing of the classics that 
guy recommended. You certainly aren't doing any work around 

" I guess we'd better start up a society for the ' prevention of 
the ruthless destruction of property I ' " I replied, ''Anyway, 
we've a o:ood start in that direction.'' 


About twenty years later, I went back one summer to the old 
place. There were a lot of new barns, and they had the kind 
of gates that open automatically when you turn a switch, in- 
stead of the old way of getting out of the buggy and '' kind o' 
opening" them. Everything seemed to have shrunk a lot since 
I was a boy ; the bridge over the river was a toy in comparison 
with what it used to be, and the trees in the hickory grove that 
you passed going home from the station, the pride of the neigh- 
borhood, seemed to have gotten a lot smaller. But the prairies 
were just the same, God bless them, and the great sweet wind 
that blew up at night across the river bottom. 

One evening, I was sitting with Uncle Pete on the front porch, 
which was greatly altered since the old days. T looked at 
Uncle Pete, sitting in his old wooden rocker. He had changed 
but little. His brown, weather tanned face held all the sun of 
the years of sunny outdoor days he had lived on the prairie. 
He had lost a few teeth, but otherwise was as whole and hearty 
as ever. Why, sister told me, with tears in her eyes, that " he 
would pry his teeth out with rusty nails when they ached, in- 
stead of going to the dentist.^' 

We talked about all kinds of things, and finally Uncle Pete 
told me that Abe Jackson had died that winter. And then we 
drifted from Abe to Abe's bull, and this is how the story came 

"Uncle Pete,'' I said, ''did you ever find out who shot Jack- 
son's bull ? And then I told him the story. 

Uncle Pete leaned his head back, against the rocker and 
laughed until the old hound came out from under the porch and 
began to howl in sympathy. 

" Now I always did wonder who shot Jackson's bull, but I 
never should ha' supposed you boys v^ould ha' done it." Then 
his wrinkled face sobered into its most cherub-like expression. 
" O' course I know you boys didn't mean no harm," he said, 
'' but say, weren't you glad you had a doubled barreled gun ? " 




Suppose you had no need to care 
To have me lay the faggots on your hearth ; 
Suppose you had no pride to wear 
The frock, the frill I fashioned you ; 
Suppose you found that others could distil 
A costlier, subtler brew of mulberry wine ; 
Suppose your garden were so large I ne'er 
Could bring you gilly-flowers from mine ; 
Suppose you lost the shy habitual 
Fervor about your unexpected ioys 
Surely our love would still be our religion 
But where the altar and the ritual ? 



When the tall trees toss 
Bare limbs in torment 
And 'neath the grey sky 
Strive with the storm wind 
When the wild sea rolls 
Long wave on long wave, 
Roaring and foaming 
And tearing the sea-beach ; 
Oftimes a long barque. 
Lashed by the north wind, 
Splits on a sharp reef, 
Hid by the sly sea : 
Gold from the south lands. 
Pearls from the east lands, 
Sandal and osprey 
The greedy sea drinks ; 
Fair-haired and noble, 
In corslet and buckler, 
Many a viking 
Goes to Valhala. 



'^I know we can't afford it, for your father said that we must 
economize to the very limit this summer. You know he had to 
put all that legacy of Uncle Henry's into the company to keep 
it from going to pieces instead of dividing it up among you girls 
as he had planned.'' Mrs. Merriwether looked worried, and 
when she allowed herself that luxury her double chin always 
showed, and of all signs of approaching age and avoirdupois 
she hated worst that aforesaid extra chin. 

The whole family were sprawled around their little room 
which, in the ugly yellow light at noon, was the parlor, but 
which, at night with its flowers and shaded lights, was the 
music room. 

The Merriwethers were not having a pleasant conference, th.e 
Merriwether conferences were never pleasant, for Edith always 
knew that her mother managed things so that Louise got every- 
thing she wanted, while Louise, perfectly certain that Alice was 
her mother's favorite, had jealously to guard her rights as old- 
-est, and as for Elizabeth — but then Elizabeth didn't count any- 

This particular conference would not have been so unusually 
unpleasant if it had not been all threshed out before. They had 
discussed with great minuteness the exact income, or lack of in- 
come, of the family, and it was found to be exceedingly small. 
So they had decided to tell their friends of the anaemic tenden- 
cies of Alice, which required rest and fresh air, as an excuse to 
slip off to some inexpensive country place for the summer to 
spare the family exchequer. 

And now everything was spoiled, for Frederick Maurice Will- 
mington had come back to town after a five year trip abroad 
and Frederich Maurice Willmington had money. He had other 
things too, good looks, beautiful manners, a brilliant mind, a 
keen sense of humor ; oh, everything that the ideal man needs 
-except one, and that one thing was the reason for the changed 
plans of the Merriwether family. Frederick Maurice Will- 
mington had no wife. 



So there was nothing for it but to do what all "' our best peo- 
ple" in Muntersville did, for that first summer was of para- 
mount importance. Father frowned and said "Ridiculous/^ 
when they told him about it, just as mother had looked worried, 
showed her second chin and gasped, " Impossible," when first 
Louise, then Alice, and finally Edith had come to her to prove 
how necessary it was. 

For instead of running off to a deserted farm house and living 
on the apples in their own orchard and the vegetables from 
neighboring gardens they were now planning to spend a month 
on Jupiter. " Mrs. Willmington told me herself that they were 
having their house up there done over for the summer, Mother,'^ 
Alice insisted, and, " you know the Van Stones have gone up 
there ever since it has been 'the' thing to do it and that Evelyn 
Van Stone with those eyes of hers thinks all the men just belong* 
to her. Why he's been to the theatre with her twice already, '^ 
was Edith's quota. 

So it was decided, and Father with a sigh, partly from the 
relief of getting away from the stormy session and mostly from 
wonder as to where on earth the money was coming from, went 
back to town after the sumptuous repast of part of a can of 
baked beans. Who had time to worry about meals now? Why 
two weeks from to-morrow they would get there ! 

Those two weeks were crammed full of hard, unremitting 
work : making artistic things for the little rented cottage, sew- 
ing madly but steadily, — for when a woman has three daugh- 
ters. — oh yes there was Elizabeth too, but she didn't really 
count, — and herself to clothe for a month on exhibition, she has 
her hands pretty full. 

It had to be that, one long exhibition and an expensive one 
too. For Louise was twenty-seven and if some strenuous efforts 
weren't made in her behalf that summer she might pei'hapsbe — 
but then there was this summer and, more, there was Frederick 
Maurice Willmington. 

But Louise had made a bargain at that heated family confer- 
ence, — that if at the end of one week she hadn't made the slight- 
est impression on Frederick Maurice she was to withdraw in 
favor of Alice, who in her turn had made the same bargain with 
Edith. So they too were fitting and being fitted during the few 
short days that remained. Elizabeth had no clothes but she 
never wore anything but simple white and then she didn't really 


count. But her artistic fingers counted when it came to making 
curtains, pillows, rugs, all the things needed for the house and 

At last they were ready and by dint of much hard work the 
little house with its garden and pergola was really a work of 
art. Elizabeth said — but then Elizabeth didn't really count. 
Not that she was a child — she was twenty-one— nor yet an im- 
becile ; she was just what the family called '^ unfortunate." She 
was not an albino, but was as white-haired and eye-lashed as 
any real one ever could be, so of course she couldn't count as far 
as Frederick Maurice Willmington was concerned. 

The Merriwethers arrived early one morning and Mr. Frederick 
Maurice Willmington had accepted an invitation for the next 
night, "just to run down after dinner to re-meet his • childhood 
friends," Louise had cooed over the 'phone. 

Every night of the first week he had re-met, not his childhood 
friends but Louise, while the other girls had sweltered in the 
low-roofed bedrooms of the little house. 

Now Jupiter has eight mooms and this particular week the one 
which sheds a soft, violet light was full. But Louise had red 
hair and as night after night of that week, her week, as she ex- 
hibited one gown after another of shades varying from yellow 
through brown, green and blue she wondered why, with her 
carefully arranged scenery, her dainty dresses, and her quaint, 
old-fashioned lyre, she somehow did not seem to make much im- 
pression on Frederick Maurice Willmington. She even won- 
dered what was the matter with her color-scheme, which some- 
how was not as pretty as she had expected it to be. 

She had done her best, and failed, and with a bitter and un- 
happy heart she watched Alice, a vision in cerise with her dark 
hair and eyes, ready to receive Frederick Maurice Willmington. 
The mioon this week was red and all that week her vivid 
coloring and striking, dark gowns looked, somehow, pale and 
colorless as she lounged across the marble seat in the little 

Elizabeth didn't count, so each night she appeared, in the 
ridiculous white she always insisted on wearing, to preside over 
the chafing dish, carry in and out the thin-stemmed glasses, and 
somehow, under the violet and then the crimson lights, her 
colorless hair and clothes did not seem quite as "unfortunate" 
as they usually did to her preoccupied sisters. Thej' did not 


look iinfortuiiate at all to poor, color-harassed Frederick Maurice 
Willmington whose eyes followed delightedly and with sheer 
relief the charming simplicity of her. 

It was the last week of their stay and Edith, with her "real 
goldy"hair and fondness for red looked even worse than her 
sister had under the deep green light. Have you ever seen a 
girl with a green silk parasol on a brilliant day ? Then you can 
imagine the sigh of relief with which Frederick Maurice Wil- 
mington's tortured eyes sought Elizabeth as she wheeled the 
little tea wagon, with its bowl of soft green and white magnolia 
blossoms, along the path to the garden that last night, and turn- 
ing, smiled impersonally back at him as she disappeared within 
the door of the house. 

It was all over and they had failed, each in her turn, to make 
any impression on him, and that night he was leaving. They 
were going themselves the next morning, disgusted, disheartened 
and grouchy, all except Elizabeth, and Elizabeth didn't really 
count, you know. 



Cherry blossoms and fragile dreams. 

Dewy grass and a violet, 
Wandering breeze, and a song that seems 

All too happy to know regret. 

So have I seen her come in beauty clad ; 

Not tall, majestic, or in royal hues, 
But slender, child-like, full of mirth, and glad, 

Dancing with bnowy feet across the morning dews. 
So have I seen her wand'ring on the hills 

Among white birches or beside the little streams. 
Yea, I have found her sleeping all alone. 

Her dimpled cheeks flushed rosily with dreams. 
And I have seen her weep her childish tears 

For some sweet flower that was crushed and dead. 
And when I longed to comfort all her grief, 

She laughed — and turned— and fled. 

Cherry blossoms and fragile dreams. 

Dewy grass and a violet. 
Wandering baeeze, and a song that seems 

All too happy to know regret. 



Walter Brun picked up the hymnal and seated himself next to 
the soprano, gathering the tails of his black coat carefully away 
from her silken skirts. He glanced ahead and to the left at the 
floral decorations in front of the pulpit and then casually ahead 
and to the right. He then settled his thin knees finally and 
turned to the first page of the morning anthem. He had felt, 
rather than seen, that the corner seat in the sixth row was occu- 

Walter Brun was a modest looking man. Everything about 
him was unassuming. His clothes drooped from his shoulders, 
his necktie was palely unobtrusive and his hair hung just a little 
too long. His eyes alone were different. Their color was a deep 
rich blue and though they were unobtrusive they were more de- 
finite than the rest of Walter Brun. 

As Walter Brun turned to the first page of the morning an- 
them his hand shook slightly but his heart sang. 

"She's come again," he thought. " She's there again. For 
seven weeks she's come and she always sits in the seat where I 
saw her first." He grasped his sheet of music so violently that 
the soprano started and glanced sideways at him. 

" I must be careful," he thought with dismay. " Miss Wil- 
lets sees Tm excited and I must not let her know what it's 
about." So the tenor refrained from glancing at the corner seat 
in the sixth row until after the scripture lesson. Then again he 
looked to the left at the floral decorations and then casually to 
the right at the occupant of the corner seat of the sixth row. 
She was placing the hymnal in the rack as he glanced her way. 
She wore the same hat with the one white feather and the blue 


rose. He noticed a blue ribbon rose stuck in her button-hole 
and thought, "A Christmas present — from a lady Fm sure. A 
gentleman would never buy a blue rose." Just then she looked 
up and, as she turned her blue eyes thoughtfully toward him, 
his heart leapt and then sank heavily. 

" Maybe it was from a gentlemen.'' he thought, '^ blue to match 
her eyes." Disconsolately he turned back to the first page of the 

For seven Sundays Walter Brun had come to church and sung 
solely for the lady of the white feather and the blue rose. He 
had thought of her as he entered his boarding house after church 
and then often in the week. He lived ever for Saturday night 
for on the following daj^ he would see her. On Saturday even- 
ing he removed his black suit and sent it out to be pressed. His 
black Sunday suit was his business suit. It had been hard to 
wear black broadcloth in the office when the other clerks were 
in rough grays. But two suits were out of the question and 
black broadcloth was a necessity for the tenor of St. Dominic's. 
At first he felt that the other clerks would smile. But they had 
not noticed. People didn't notice Brun. He was the sort of 
man one would expect to go into black for a relation anyway. 

Seven Sundays ago had been a happy day for Walter Brun. 
He had had a short solo part and after he finished he was grati- 
fied and thrilled to see two tear-filled blue eyes fixed upon him. 
Brun felt that it was a beautiful tribute paid to his solo and his 
heart rejoiced. Each following Sunday he watched for the girl 
with the blue eyes and she always came. She was always alone 
and she always looked lonely. In the following seven weeks 
Brun had two solo parts. Both times he looked quickly to see 
if she were there, fearful that he was to be disappointed. But 
she was always in her seat, her gray-gloved hands crossed in her 
lap. She gazed a great deal at the stained glass window on the 
east ambulatory. She often stood and watched it, instead of 
joining in the hymn. It was a beautiful window, rich in deep 
cloudy blues. 

One Saturday night Walter stopped in at the big corner store 
and stood long, before the necktie counter. He selected a tie of 
the same dusky blue as the window of Dominic's. That Sunday 
he had the solo in the anthem. She was in her place as usual. 
After the anthem Walter Brun felt her devoted gaze upon him. 
He hardly dared look her way but he felt that she approved of 


the blue tie and that she knew he had been singing for her. 
That day he took a Sunday school class at Dominic's. As he sat 
with his knot of boys around him he looked nervously about. 
There were all sorts of Sunday School teachers — some heavy- 
looking matrons, a few pretty young ladies and many little wiry 
women with stiff hats but there was none with a white feather 
and a blue rose. Sunda^^ dinner was at twelve-thirty in his 
boarding house. That day Walter Brun walked the fifteen 
blocks to his room, carrying with him a bottle of milk and some 
graham crackers. Taking the Sunday school class had meant 
giving up Sunday dinner. 

The next week was Easter. The tenor of Domonic's lived from 
day to day, in happy expectation, for Easter at Domonic's was 
marvelous. He was to have a solo and a duet with the soprano. 
The notes of the duet ran constantly through his mind. 

'*' She's never seen Easter at Dominic's before. How she will 
enjoy the flowers — and the music,'' he thought. 

Easter morning tlie quartette took their places before a be- 
wilderment of flowers. The warmth and the soft fragrance 
surged over them as they entered . The church was very quiet 
although every seat was taken. Walter Brun settled the knees 
of his new broadcloth suit and grasped his sheet of music. He 
surveyed the flowers ahead and to the left noticing that they 
were more beautiful than ever before. Then he glanced casually 
ahead and to the right — looking for the white feather and the 
blue rose. But a big, burly man was in the corner seat of the 
sixth row. Brun recognized him at once from numerous pictures 
in the Sunday supplements. It was undoubtedly " Big Barney," 
the prize fighter. And beside " Big Barney" — just then Walter 
Brun's anthem slipped unheeded to the floor, for beside '' Big- 
Barney " nodded the white feather and the blue rose but they 
looked strangely different. The blue rose that had before 
seemed so demure, was now tucked coquettishly beneath the rim 
of a fluffy white hat and now the gaunt little white feather stuck 
jauntily upright. Just then the filmy white hat tipped up quick- 
ly and Walter Brun saw two blue eyes gaze adoringly up in- 
to the face of " Big Barney.'* 



The 3'ouDg minister idly kicked the pebbles with the neat toe 
of his span-clean buckskin pump ; the other foot was bracing 
him to balance on the log where he sat. It was a perfect sea- 
shore day and the young minister was pondering as to why the 
insides of things weren't as beautiful as the outsides. It's a 
question that has puzzled many of us — when we are not busy. 
He knew he was good to look at, the passers-by implied as 
much, and men at summer resorts usually know those things. 
But he knew that the " worth while " members of the little 
colony considered him. the elegant ones, '' a bit young," the 
plain ones, "not onto his job." He was well aware that even 
as he sat there some of the giggles that curled out of the hotel 
window behind him were at his expense. Well, it was funny 
that the one day when he had "called off" the five o'clock 
service at the little church on the point to goon a sailing-party- 
because The Prettiest Girl was going, should have been the 
same one day of his life that he should succumb to the roll of 
the sea he had always loved. 

"It makes me sick," he muttered and then laughed at the 
truth of his reflection. "Just what it did," he added, as he 
realized that those who had been the ones disappointed to read, 
"There will be no service this afternoon," had coincided with 
those who had laughed last to hear that the sailors " had to come 
home early because the Reverend Mr. Maynard was sea-sick.' 
It's always like that,'' he was deciding ; the part that seemed 
loveliest always had the homely lining. Here he had come to 
convert these Hedonists and had remained to follow epicures. 
Not one convert had he effected, and such a field. The people 
did go to church, though— and as the little incoming wave he 
was watching turned a somersault and scrambled up the beach 
rippling to itself, he decided that events might be lots worse. 
Sunshine and little gay waves help us in a crisis. 

As he looked down the beach his eye caught the twinkle of a 
scarlet parasol, the danger signal of The Prettiest Girl, and he 
kept on looking. Here was a cloud more silver than its lining. 
How could any one, even the best looking, most serious young 


minister that ever hoped, expect to talk to a girl like that ? 
Why should a girl be the prettiest one, and not ever think of 
her soul. She was near him now and the young minister 
sighed. He would try once more ; it was humiliating but such 
beauty couldn't disguise a really bad heart. 

^'Good afternoon," The Prettiest Girl was smiling and her 
dimples frightened the young minister more than her parasol, 
"Are you going sailing ? " 

The young minister surrendered for the second, confused by 
the direct attack, and wondering why her smile could at the 
same time be kind and yet recall that awful episode. 

" Miss Carroll ton," said he, noble in his aim, " do you ever go- 
to church ? " 

She started by a reference to " might have gone yesterday 
but then there wasn't any,'' when the hurt look made her change' 
and she said, "Why should I ? " and answering for him, " Yes, 
I *do go sometimes. In fact," looking over the dancing waves? 
far out to sea, " I love to go to church at least once a year — at 
Easter time. There's something about Easter Sunday that 
doesn't come at any other time. I love the big white lilies and 
the sort of hope in the air ; everyone seems to feel happier. 
But there's one thing that's made me never miss Easter Sunday 
at church since I was eight years old. Guess what it is, Mr. 
Maynard," coming back to shore all at once and looking straight 
into his eyes. 

" Is it the feeling that all the world is new, that there's some-^ 
thing worth beginning over again no matter how many mistakes 
we've made or — ." 

" No," she interrupted, " none of those. It's— it's — the hats ! " 
and with a gesture of dismissal and a sort of ashamed little 
laugh she left him to join those in lighter vein in the hotel 

The tide was going out and left even by the waves on the 
shore the young minister felt alone indeed. He felt much more 
alone than the solitary fish-hawk above his head, for the fish — 
hawk, he was sure, knew where it wanted to go, while the 
young minister had nearly decided there was no such place. 

If it had not been for one fleeting smile, part of its glow due 
perhaps to a scarlet parasol, as he went slowly to his room ; a 
smile not quite so mocking as the last, not quite so near the top, 
perhaps the young minister might never have gone to the dance- 


h at night. And then, perhaps, as the clock was striking twelve 
he might not have been looking up at the brightest star and 
muttering something about " God's being in his heaven." 



Rise. Spirit I Up ! Shake off the dews of sleep. 
And leap 
To greet the dawning day ! 

Fling wide the shutters and unbar the door ! 
Once more 
Let in the fleet sun ray. 

Let thoughts come whirling down as doves in flight 
When weary ; seek recourse 

Upon some pinnacled cathedral spire. 
Then higher 
Pursue their onward course. 

Rise, Spirit ! Up ! Shake off the dews of sleep. 
And leap 
To greet the dawning day I 



When dusk and dreams are near, 
And flick'ring firelight calls up memories, 
The book-lined walls fade out, and here 
Are sunny meadows and the shade of trees; 
And clover-scented breeze and blue June sky 
Where swallows, darting, skimming, turn and fly 
And you are there amidst the daisies too. 
And I am worshipping the world— and you. 



Across the street from our house in the city stood a large red 
brick mansion with man}^ slate turrets. About it stretched a 
lawn always trim and enclosing the lawn was a tall iron fence 
which, though of beautiful German workmanship, was forbid- 
ding. It was by far the most imposing house in the neighbor- 
hood and the business men who passed it going to and from 
their offices always looked at it with careful scrutiny, while 
their wives spent much time telling each other what a shame it 
was that a house so well fitted for balls and receptions should 
be wasted upon Madame Vigoreaux, who never gave balls and 
receptions and who was, well — eccentric. 

In spite of this scrutiny and gossip, however, the old house 
stood there in unchanged solemnity, with its window curtains 
closely drawn. Every day at just half after three a little old 
lady emerged by a side entrance and took her afternoon drive 
in the park. Like Emmanuel Kant, she was very regular in 
her habits-; so the neighbors observed from a distance, though 
they never dared approach her openly. 

But Madame Vigoreaux and I were great friends. I never 
felt toward her the natural antipathy that youth has for old 
age. On the contrary some of my happiest hours were spent in 
her company. I remember her best as she used to sit in her arm 
chair near the sunny bay window. Her gown was one of the 
brightest spots in the room, unless it were the look on her in- 
telligent face as it smiled at me from beneath the starchy frills 
of her cap. The same spirit of undaunted energy that flashed 
from her black eyes was probably responsible for the restless 
motion of her hands, unless they were occupied with some 
definite work of which she always took care to have a goodlj^ 
supply ; jn fact, she said she was happiest when working. This, 
to my childlike mind was very curious intelligence, for I knew 
that I was far from happy when Madame Vigoreaux set me to 
work over the mysteries of the French language. How my 
poor tongue tied itself into knots over the strange words and 
how merrily she laughed at my accent ! 


Madame Vigoreaux was herself wonderfully versatile. With 
a mind richly endowed by nature she had also a will or disposition 
to study and achieve. On a table close at hand were spread 
sheets of closely written manuscript, which for months I had 
seen growing from beneath her busy pen. To rest and divert 
herself during the hours of composition, she often went to the 
piano. Long afterwards I learned that the sound of her music 
drifted past the tall cedar hedge at the back of the garden which 
hid the prosaic street from our view, into the windows of a hos- 
pital ward, where the poor victims of disease listened to it with 
greedy ears. 

Madame Vigoreaux was as at home with the brush as she was 
with the pen. I used to stand spellbound before her pictures 
which were nearly all still life studies of flowers. ''You like 
them, mon enfant, but the world would not,'' she would say to 
me. " However, each picture has its moral. Here is little 
Mrs. Pansy for instance ; she represents the genial person who 
puts us at our ease directly ; she does not sit in company like a 
stone wall or a wet blanket but is willing to devote her best 
wits to the ordinary small talk of life. Here is the red Lautana 
who is often despised for his lack of reserve ; and here is the 
honest Bachelor's Button representing perseverance ; there is 
the yellow primrose of Intellect. Over the bookcase is the 
Calla Lily which represents a true lady, cool, serene and white ; 
while near the piano is the lilac representing Prayer." 

One surprising day I found the door of Madame Vigoreaux's 
room barricaded by a severe person in a blue dress with white 
apron, cap and cuffs. For three weeks I did not see her but at 
last I received a message from her that she wanted me to come. 
However, I did not find her in her usual place near the bay win- 
dow. This time she was propped up in bed with many pillows 
behind her. For once the restless hands were quiet, lieing help- 
lessly upon the counterpain before her, but the same old look of 
intelligence flashed from the black eyes beneath the frills of her 
nightcap and seemed even more intenselj^ brilliant than usual. 
It was not long before we were floating off to fairyland together. 
We could see the Sleeping Beauty's Castle in the shadows cast 
by the afternoon sun in the garden ; the golden forges of Mimi 
were perfectly evident to us in the glowing embers ; while the 
curling smoke rings shaped themselves into fantastic geni, in 
the open fireplace. 


At last Madame Yigoreaux drew from beneath her pillow a lit- 
tle necklace with moonstones hanging pendant-like from the 
links of the chain like so many drops of dew. ^' Here, mon en- 
fant, "she said clasping it around my neck, '^ is a little thing that 
you have often admired. Keep it to remember me by. You are a 
good child, ''^ she added rather irrelevantly, as she kissed me 
upon the forehead. Before I knew what was happening the 
blue-and-white person had led me away, and so I went home 
blinded with tears and with a great lump in my throat, though 
I hardly knew why, as I did not realize that I had seen Madame 
Yigoreaux for the last time. 

Several years have passed since then. The old house across 
the street still stands as majestic as ever, with its window 
curtains drawn. But the lawn has grown tall with grass and 
weeds, which elbow themselves at intervals past the rails of the 
iron grill fence, giving it a very frowsy and unkempt look, while 
over the stately entrance is an ugly sign, '* For Sale." But as 
yet no occupant has been found and the neighbors are beginning 
to whisper that the house is actually ''haunted" by its late 
owner who was, well — eccentric. But I do not share in these 
popular sentiments, for to me Madame Yigoreaux will always 
be a gentle and charming memory. 



The night wind sighs in the cedar trees. 
Out of the heavy darkness and the mist 
Rises the warm breath of the teeming earth. 
The heart of the world is throbbing with new life, 
Life that is all too perfect and too sweet, 
So that man's soul, o'ercharged with joy, 
Aches with the heavenly sweetness of it all, 
And happiness must vent itself in tears. 



I had been working rather hard in New York that winter and 
<;onseqnently had little faith in romance. If anyone had told 
me, when I boarded the train to spend Christmas at home, that 
twenty-four hours later in Bristol, Virginia, a fat justice-of-the- 
peace would be trying to marry me to a young man I didn't 
know, I wouldn't have believed it. 

When I took my seat in the Pullman in the Pennsylvania 
station, I noticed a young man in the seat opposite me. Time 
was when this would have awakened some slight interest, " some 
stirrings of my maiden heart." But now I merely glared at him, 
a habit I have acquired lately on looking at a strange male. I 
seated myself, put on mj^ spectacles which make me look like a 
oross between a meditative owl and a Boston infant. I then 
took out "Barchester Towers," by Anthony Trollope, and be- 
gan to read. Although I looked fairly well, this forever labelled 
me a bluestocking. All the sweet young things read " Laddie." 
All went well on board the train until the next morning. The 
man opposite me stayed in the smoker. But after breakfast he 
came and sat down in his seat just as I was eating fifteen malted 
milk tablets, '' a satisfying lunch," (I can't eat ordinary food on 
the train). I glanced at him and remember tliinking that he 
really looked unobjectionable aside from the fact that he wore 
eye-glasses on a gold chain. 

The train stopped for Bristol, which is a small town between 
Virginia and Tennessee. I had nearly consumed my last malted 
milk tablet when a long, lank, bilious-looking individual came 
into the car. He looked around, then coming to where 1 and 
the man with the eye-glasses on a gold chain sat opposite each 
other, he stopped, showed some sort of a badge and said, " Ah 
want you two. You all bettah come along with me quiet and 

It was horrible. For once in my life I was speechless. " But," 
said the young man opposite me, " what have we done ?" and 
besides, waving his hand toward me, " I never saw her before." 
His tone implied that this was a source of great satisfaction to 
him, *i^ ^ 


'^ They all say that," said the lank individual. '' Come along/^ 

I had the presence of mind to get my coat, hat and hand bag 
and then we filed out in a miserable procession. I planned for a 
second to mnrder the lank individual outside of the smoking- 
room, and I think tlie unfortunate young man with me did too. 
But the hump at the hip of our captor looked dubious. We de- 
scended to the platform into what seemed a black and white 
multitude. I remember particularly a little pop-eyed darkey 
boy whom I nearly stepped on. The circus had evidently not 
been to town recently and interest had been bottled up. I think 
I know what the fat lady, if a sensitive soul, suffers and I had 
only one hundred and twenty pounds on the outside of m^^ sen- 
sitive soul. The people on the train were also immensely inter- 
ested and I was glad when the lankey individual showed us into 
a depot hack and got in with us. I was rejoiced to see that the 
young man with me was purple with anger. I was also enraged 
and I was the first to speak. 

^' Maj^ I ask who j^ou are ? " I asked the lankey individual in 
a bitingly cold mode of speech I had found useful in the past. 

" I'm the sheriff (it sounded more like chef than sheriff) of 
the county," he said amiably enough. Then seeing that I was 
about to go on, he said, " Ah'm takin' yeh ovah to- Jestice 
Brown. Yuh pappy's in taown and he'll take yoh home, an' I'll 
take the young fellah to jail." 

This was a bunch of news to digest and I digested in silence. 
I was pleased to see that my companion was not as crushed by 
the news as I had feared he would be. He had taken off his eye- 
glasses and chain and looked delightfully fierce. 

The hack stopped and the " chef " led us into a dingy little 
office furnished mainly with a cuspidor. More of like furnish- 
ings would have made the surroundings more hygienic and in- 
viting, I thought. 

" Ah'll go ovah an' get the little gal's fathah," said the " chef' 
to ^'Jestice" Brown. " Little gal," to me, twenty-seven years 
of age and accustomed to conduct my own affairs and those of 
several other persons with considerable success I The '^chef " 
departed making an exit in tone. He had so far not shown the 
slightest interest in proceedings. 

I looked at "Jestice" Brown. He was fat, very fat, and 
looked like the walrus in the New York aquarium. He waited 
until the "chef" was well out of the office. Then he said,. 


*• Naow, ah know liow young folks feel. Naow, alr'll just 
make out a license, then ah'll tie the knot quicker'n a wink, an' 
when the little gal's pappy comes back the knot'll be some tied. 
Haow'll that suit yeh, young fellah?" giving my companion 
a roguish wink ; that is, it would have been roguish, that wink, 
if it had taken anti-fat. 

"But, I don't want to marry her," blurted out my unfortu- 
nate companion. ''That is — " he stammered. But it was too 
late. The rage of the walrus was awful. 

" So that's the weh yuh feel, is it ? Well, we'll see that yuh 
have a nice tight place to feel that weh in. In fifty yeah's ah 
ain't seen an unwillin' one befoah. We may've had a few, but 
we done thinned out ouah supply considabul." 

I am not accustomed to have hysterics, but I had them on 
this occasion. The walrus came over to where I sat and patted 
me ; that is, it would have been a pat if his hand reminded one 
of the '• dove brand." '* Neveh min', little gal," he said, "yeh 
pappy'll fix him. An' mebbe the boys'll tend to him." Sternly 
to young man. " Young fellah, where wuh yeh bawn ?" 

'' Bangor, Maine," said my companion in a subdued tone. 

" I feahed as much," said the walrus, taking a bite from some 
substance he took from his pocket and which bore some myste- 
rious relation to the cuspidor. 

The door opened and the " chef " entered, followed by an indi- 
vidual who was even lankier and more bilious than he himself. 
I judged it was " pappy." 

" Heah they ah," said the " chef." 

But "pappy," without interest said, " Thet ain't Carrie (pro- 
nounced Cee) May, an' thet ain't Joe Knox." 

After this the young man and I were objects of no interest 
whatsoever to anyone. We went to the station and soon got a 
train out of town. It was a local known as " the milk train." 
My companion in misery turned out to be quite pleasant and I 
felt no objections to his sitting with me on the train. 

" Now that was rather romantic," he said. "Ten years ago I 
would have been immensely thrilled. I'm afraid romance is 
dead for me," he went on, " my only sensation is disgust at hav- 
ing been in a ridiculous mix-up." 

" I know I am a born old maid," said I, getting out " Bar- 
chester Towers," and firmly adjusting my spectacles. 

Whereupon the young man put on his eye-glasses with the 
gold chain and began to read the " Atlantic Monthly." 



A thousand are at music ; and the lights flare high 
To sanctify the music : and the gowns are fair 
To supplement the music when the people stare 
Just across the gallery or down the other aisle. 
Glancing (could they help it ?) at you, Lady Claire. 

And there with the loneliness that wraps you round, 
A cloak of sorrow beautiful but grey, 1 know 
Too well how your torn heart is shrinking, low 
Before the glances of the gay accustomed folk : 
How from the glamour of the galleries comes but woe. 

Close thine eyes to radiance, forget the cloying rose ; 

Ope' thy heart without a fear and thine ear 

To music 'ere the music master goes. 

Lose thj soul within a greater soul than thine 

Ere the trembling strings of harp shall slumber to repose. 

For men have framed deep harmonies and on their hearts 
The sadness, all the sadness of the world, has pressed. 
And they have set the world to dance, yet all their arts 
Could not hide the memory of the gloom confessed ; 
Till dancing and weeping hand in hand by them are blessed. 

In the song that sets the tide of joy in my heart high 

I hear the chords of weeping meant to sing for you ; . 

And I pray their consolation stealeth close to you. 

Yonder in the gallery with your burnished hair. 

And the heart whose hurt I've fathomed, Lady Claire, Lady Claire. 



He lay at his ease on the grey-gold shore 

The length of a summer afternoon. 

And, hearing the white-tipped breakers roar, 

He hummed an echo, some strange old tune 

Heard i' the night, 'neath a harvest moon. 

And as youth may do, he wondered then 

At earth's beauty, the strange, short lives of men. 

A soft wind lifted a lock of his hair 

As he lay ; he raised his bright brown hand. 

Wondering at it; then, scarce aware. 

Slowly scooped up the golden sand 

Into palaces he had never planned, 

And dreamed of the wonders therein would be, 

If ever the wish of his heart had he. 


Then suddenly over the white-tipped waves 
He thought he had heard a sweeter sound, 
As when, past the mouth of cool green caves 
Dances the south wind over a ground 
More flower-strewn than he yet has found. 
Surer o' foot than the chamois, he 
Runs through the hills piping merrily. 

Nearer, clearer, sweeter it came 

Till the boy leapt up half-mad with a pain 

That was yet right sweet to him (never a name 

Has the faery music, on lock or in lane, 

The meaning of it is seldom plain, 

But who once has heard it will pay dear toll 

For to hear again, though he lose his soul.) 

Over the top of a foamy wave. 

As he watched, sailed a ship right gallantly. 

With silken sails hung with pennants brave. 

Red, blue, yellow, green as the sea ; 

A crystal mast ; full easily 

She rode ; in the glow of her moon-colored hold 

He saw beautiful women, knights in gold. 

It passed — so beauteously, scarce he knew 

It was winning swiftly from him : he fain 

Would have joined that brave and wondrous crew 

Of the strange, bright ship. He called in vain. 

For the faery craft turned not again. 

As he watched the shining sails bow in the wind. 

The jewelled trail that it left behind, 

A woman step])ed to the vessel's stern. 

A circlet of gold on her flaming hair 

That streamed behind her ; her great eyes burned 

Like stars, ashine in the frosty air. 

Proclaimed her queen of the good court there. 

With her white hand a pebble smooth and round 

She threw : it fell at his side on the ground. 

Picking it up, he kissed it. Then 

Waved farewell to the distant ship. 

The music died down,: he sighed : once again 

Touched the smooth pebble to his lip. 

Waked, started, paled like a frighted girl — 
In his hand he held a matchless pearl. 



Recently excavated in Northampton, Mass. 
Habite ad Studentes Colegentis Smithinis. 


You see this day. o studentes, this institution and all your 
rights, your fortunes and your privileges and this most fortu- 
nate and beautiful city, by the great love of the immortal gods 
for you, by my labors and counsels and dangers, about to be 
preserved and restored to you. Since we have by our affection 
and good report raised to the immortal gods the foundress of 
this place built and embellished by her, and since all' has been 
detected by me, I v^ill now explain to you briefly that you, o 
studentes who are as yet ignorant of it and are in suspense may 
be able to see how great the danger is and by what means It 
may be arrested and averted from you. I have continually 
watched and taken care of the means by which we may be safe 
amid such great and carefully concealed treachery. 

First of all, as I saw that those whom I knew to be inflamed 
with the greatest madness and wickedness were among us, I 
spent all my nights and days taking care to know and see what 
they were doing and what they were contriving, that 1 might 
so detect the whole business that you might with all your hearts 
provide for your safety when you saw the crime with your own 

When for some time tlie most noble and excellent students of 
the whole community have come in crowds in the early morn- 
ing, but were obliged to sit in the last seats in the senate cham- 
ber, for although the foremost seats were for the greater part 
vacant, yet in each reposed eitlier a folio or a part of the toga 

4 3s 


virilio as a mark that the seat was reserved ; when a venerable 
Senior has frequently entered a chamber where a most difficult 
and incomprehensible lecture was in progress ; and where such 
terms as "undistributed middle," "categorical imperative,*' 
** transcendentalism," "monad," "third dimension," etcetera, 
were used in a fashion unintelligible to great numbers of those 
present, and has observed upon the faces of those occupying the 
seals previously reserved, an expression of intense eagerness, 
immeasurable and sympathetic understanding, while upon the 
honest (jounlenances of the noble and excellent students in the 
rear rows could be seen the appearance of unaffected weariness 
and despair ; and when tlie attempt at rapid exit of those most 
excellent Studeutes has been tempered by the crowd gathering 
around the former lecturer and even following him into the 
ante-chamber as if to ask multitudinous questions bearing or 
not bearing on the subject, — then indeed I thought that an op- 
portunity was given me of contriving what was most difficult, 
that the whole business might be manifestly detected, not by 
me alone, but by the senate also, and by you. 

Therefore, yesterday, I summoned Lucia Flacca and Celia 
Poratina, Seniors brave and well-affected to the Republic. 
I explained to them the whole matter, and showed what I 
wished to be done. Being full of noble and worth}^ sentiments 
towards the Republic, without hesitation and without any delay 
they undertook the business, and when it was evening, went 
secretly to the lower city and so distributed themselves that the 
Institutio Boydensis and the Villa Frigidi Pabuli Beckmann's 
were on either side. 

In the meantime, about the end of the second watch, the am- 
bassadors of the usurpers of seats and pretenders to intelligence 
and devotion to learning began to assemble at the Villa Beck- 
mann's. Tliey possessed themselves at the secluded table in a 
corner. Then Lucia Flacca and Celia Pomtina concealed them- 
selves behind the ancient and venerable palm whicli by the will 
of immortal gods has been preserved to us from the immemorial 
times of our forefathers. 

In this manner, the fearless patriots learned through the con- 
versation of the conspirators that my fears and observations 
were not mistaken ; the honorable citizens were being basely 
deprived of democratic use of seats and of salutary explanation 
■of complicated matters, for the usurpation of the seats and the 
intelligent light in the faces of conspirators, who although even 


more ignorant than their compatriots utilized the seats and the 
expression of comprehending interest to mislead the instructor 
and gain approbation. 

In like manner, through our vigilance, and the favor of the 
immortal gods, a letter has been intercepted, addressed to an 
instructor who is generally shunned by the hopeful j^outh of 
this community, containing an invitation to a private festivitj^ ; 
we also obtained undeniable proof of former gifts and marks of 
attention, planned and extended by these wretches. We must 
not act with much leniency in view of so great a conspiracy, 
and such a number and multitude of domestic enemies. These 
deeds which would be appraised as honorable when performed 
in good faith as true marks of disinterested friendship, become 
base and disgraceful when undertaken with conspiratory mo- 
tives ; to obtain under false pretences the interest and good 
opinion of those who are in power. 

Now since, O Studentes, you have the proofs of the nefarious 
crimes committed in your midst you ought to consider in what 
manner these dangers should be warded off. Let all honorable 
and patriotic Studentes rise to prevent the evil ascendancy of 
these debased persons ; let us, armed with the consciousness of 
the wrong done to us, and our own integrity, boldly cast out 
from the desired seats the folios of the vicious usurpers. Let 
us unashamed express our ignorance, and boldly call for en- 
lightening explanations, by means of intelligent questions ob- 
taining the desire of our hearts, namely, the true knowledge of 

Concerning the matter of gifts and invitations to festivities, 
let us ignore such base methods, and disdaining the company 
■of those employing such nefarious means, ostracize them from^ 
our midst. 

Wherefore, O Studentes, decree a supplication at all altars, 
celebrate this day; for now you shall be snatched from the 
most miserable and cruel usurpation of your rights and privi- 
leges, and you shall be saved from the destruction of the true 
democratic spirit of this institutioi], without slaughter, without 
bloodshed, without an army, and without a battle. And all 
violence of domestic enemies being warded off, j^ou shall, O- 
Studentes, enjoy perpetual tranquility. I ask from you no re- 
ward of virtue, no badge of honor, no monument of my glory,, 
beyond the everlasting recollection of this daj^ 



You have doubtless stood near the fiction counter in a library 
and overheard a remark of this kind : 

*' Let's take this one. It looks interesting : there^s page after 
page of conversation.'' 

Now my sj^mpathies are with that young person entirely. It 
is a curious fact that unbroken expanses of print often repel, if 
they do not actuallj^ antagonize us. One feels heroic after com- 
batting three pages of uninterrupted print and takes a deep 
breath ]n-eparatory to engaging in an encounter with tlie next 
paragraph of perhaps equally gruesome dimensions. Personally 
I am ])rejudiced. and I shall tell you wh^^ 

Last summer 1 had to imbibe enough English History to be 
able to pass an entrance examination in the fall. 

'' You will have to do some collateral reading, of course," said 
a member of the Faculty to nu^ in June. '' I should advise 
Green's 'Short History of tlie English People.'" 

Green's " Short History of the English People" had a nice 
condensed sound. I ])ut it into my trunk without glancing in- 
side it. 

One day at the shore I decided to do Sir Walter Raleigh col- 
laterally. I try not to discourage myself by too hard tasks when 
I am attacking something new. Raleigh was a dashing cava- 
lier; the assignment to myself seemed lenient — cliaracteristically 
benevolent. I opened to Raleigh in Green. A disconcerting 
wall of solid print met me. I turned over the leaves to find 
some break in the ramparts, some tendrils of fresh leaves peep- 
ing forth. Not one showed itself, no crack made by quotation 
marks, not even a verdant sprout of italics. This wall of print 
shouted defiantly, " I am adamant ! " 1 sought for means to 
tunnel under, or for a ladder to leap over ; there was nothing 
for it but to precipitate myself through it. catapult-wise. 

This was but the beginning of such experiences. Even the 
text-book which I was using, which was not (piite so compact 
and remorseless, became an object oi^ bitter dislike. Mother 

4 26 


commiseratiiigly suggested that I place a piece of cardboard on 
the page, and draw it down line by line as I read, thus covering 
up what was coming — edging up on it by degrees — sugar-coat- 
ing the pellet. This was an alleviating measure, but I always 
knew what was under the cardboard, and it made me want to 
chew nails or something harder. 

My quarrel was not altogether with the appearance of the 
page ; the content came in for its drubbing. It was smooth, 
sonorous English ; but it was too smooth and too sonorous. It 
did not produce convolutions in one's gray-matter. 

*' Why does not some astute person write a history in the ver- 
nacular as parallel reading to the work of an Eminent Author- 
ity ?" I questioned. " Let the Eminent Authority serve for cul- 
tural purposes, the history in the vernacular to help the poor 
grinding student clinch facts in his memory." 

The idea has grown upon me. This history might run along 
somewhat as follows on the subject of the Duke of Marlborough's 
campaigns : 

" Where shall we fight this bloomin' war ?" said young Marl- 
borough, rolling a cigarette. " Where will be the best place for 
the moving pictures to take us in action ? It would be more 
diverting and infinitely more expensive to have campaigns in 
several places. '' Therefore," said he, turning to the press re- 
porters standing about him, " you may quote me as saying that 
the dog^ of war will be unleashed in several places." 

So he and his stalwart men faced the blawsted enemy in Bav- 
aria, Italy, Spain, on the Ocean and in the Netherlands. [Note 
to the student : the first letters of these names spell the name of 
a famous North American animal, the bison. You'll never for- 
get this !] The first chance that Marlborough had to display 
his budding genius was at Blenheim. It was a marvelous vic- 

"Hello !" said the Englishmen at home when they heard of 
it. You know that's quite decent of that Marlborough chap. If 
he only wins a few more like this, we shall have to build a stun- 
ning castle for him, we shall, really." 

The redoubtable general then grew even more desperately 
reckless, and won handsomely the battles of Ramillies and 

An episode of the struggle between Charles I and Parliament 
might read : 


Charles with a glittering group of armed followers rode to 
Hull in Yorkshire, where arms and ammunition which had 
been provided for the Scottish war had been stored. 

"Gimme that ammunish I " roared Charles, when he got with- 
in roaring distance of the castle. 

"Yes, by ginger I " shouted his men. " We need it." 

In charge of the castle was the commander Sir John Hothani, 
placed there by Parliament. He applied one e^^e to a loop-hole 
and glared out at the king. 

*' Haul up the drawbridge," ordered Sir John to his men with- 
in the castle. "Shut the gates ! Those impudent rascals shall 
not enter here I " 

"What in time — " sputtered the king, aghast at such high- 
handed proceedings. But the water gurgled in the moat, the 
fortification key;t on frowning, and the king and his valiant men 
had to meander homeward. 

While I offer the foregoing sim])ly as a suggestion, I do so 
keenly conscious that the book would not be an ideal history. 
Now Carolyn Welles has written a rhyme. It is about Timbuctoo. 
In speaking of the people there, she says : 

You see I know exactly what 

They say and how they look : 
For I read all about them 

In a big three-volume book. 

By substituting " The French Nation," "The Dutch," or 
^' The Icelanders" for the residents of Timbuctoo. and casting 
it in the past tense in her last two verses she has written my 
ideal history of any people whatever : 

•' To sum it up concisely 

Here's the gist of what I read : 
The Timbuctoozers rise — they eat 

And drink — and go to bed. 
And now, although 1 hate to end 

This interesting story. 
That's all I know af Timbuctoo 

And the Timbuctoozerfi' glory." 



Did you ever wake up in a strange place and find it difficult 
to connect your thoughts ? Contrary to the theory of the 
"Stream of consciousness" which I had been reading in 
''Stout," I felt a decided " Gap" in my mind the other morn- 
ing. I thought I was waking up in my own room. I was al- 
most positive that I had stretched myself on my bed in a hori- 
zontal position at ten the night before — and surely I would not 
have done that in a place other than my own room. But the 
more I thought, the more bewildered was my yawning mind. (It 
was in fact a chasm by this time — I defy any one to deny me^ 
for even though I should pass Psychology this semester, I shall 
be convinced that gaps and chasms do exist ; for I can prove it.) 

My own room is green. That is, the wall paper has a green 
stripe in it and our blotters and couch-covers are green, and we 
have some bulbs in the window, which will be green sometime. 
The rest of the things are pink and red, but those are comple- 
mentary colors to green. So, all in all, you see it is a green 
room. I am explaining this carefully so that you will realize 
more fully how strange it seemed to me, when I woke up in a 
room which was absolutely white. I was not sure at all that it 
was a room — and then I suddenly realized that I must be in a 
cave, for it was more round than square, and as I looked about 
me, I discovered round holes in proportionate places which let 
in a dull, gray light. Not far off, in a corner I could see a thin 
smoke rising in puffs and wreaths. 

I suppose it was very presumptuous in me, but then and there 
I decided that there had been a long gap in my mind. I could 
not remember when or how it had come about, but somehow or 
other I had come to Alaska or Labrador, and had taken up my 
abode in a cave. Of course these are not the exact thoughts 
which went through my mind, but I could not ''observe the 
process of thinking and think at the same time," so you must be 
satisfied with the after-image. 

I do know, however, that I seemed to have no toes, and when 
I tried to find my nose, I could feel only a hard cold something. 
I suppose these were just sensations, and at that time I took 

4 28 


great comfort in believiug them to be nothing more, because 
there is " so much to those particular members'' that I should 
be terribly upset without them. 

I was musing thus, when suddenly there was a jingle— jang- 
ling very near me. My ear drum drummed and set the hammer 
going oh the anvil which loosened the strings and finally my 
optic nerve told my brain that it must be sleigh-bells. Immed- 
iately I felt two of my synapses opening and I was making for 
the window — not only to satisfy my curiosity but also to throw 
a little light on my surroundings. I leaned toward the hole in 
the wall. To my dismay the wall around it began to give way. 
Something fell on my face and shoulders. It gave me the sen- 
sation of cold (in spots.) I drew back. (I do not know what was 
the process in my mind which made me draw back. I only 
know that I began to feel strangely shivery, and a lack of con- 
fidence in my surroundings.) Then I remembered the smoke 
which I had seen in the corner. I turned and made my way 
toward it. It took some time to reach it, for the floor of the 
cave was very soft, and sunk to my knees under each step. 

The smoke came from a slight elevation from the cave floor. 
I climed slowly up, and drawing my thin robe close around me, 
I stretched my numbed fingers over the smoke. I was just be- 
ginning to feel comfortable — when the whole ground seemed to 
shake — '"'An earthquake,'' I muttured as I rolled on the soft 

Before I could re-adjust my static sense, a voice spoke from 
somewhere. Looking up, I saw my room-mate's head peering 
over the top of a snow. bank. Then she was here too I Then I 
wondered if her consciousness had stopped flowing. 

Evidently not — my room-mate is a person of very strong- 
character and besides she understands her Psychology perfectly. 
She wasn't even bewildered — she seemed to be laughing. "Get 
up out of the c-cold," she said at last. " Did you ever see any- 
thing so funny as this room ? " 
" Room I '*' I gasped. 

Fortunately she shook me or I should have been frozen to 
death (chasm and all.) Then I helped her sweep the snow out 
and shut the windows. And I've been awfully polite to her 
ever since, because I'm afraid that if she should get " peeved" 
at anything, she might tell about my " Gap," and there are so 
many people who have unyielding faith in Mr. Stout, that they 
might think me queer. 



I am in despair. Tlie world outside is bright and sunny, but 
all within is steeped in unutterable gloom. Can I ever smile 
again ? No, I can never smile again. I have filled one large 
'* hanky '^ with tears of rage, and another with tears of discour- 
agement, and a third is readj^ in my lap. A Christmas " hanky"' 
it is, with butterflies desporting themselves on the neat hem. 
How can butterflies desport themselves even on Christmas 
" hankies" and I so '^ free of care ? " 

"And why this despair ?" you ask. The tears of rage start 
again. The wings of the gay butterflies grow limp and damp. 
I will tell you. 

I am a student of Smith College. I belong to the rising class 
of 1917. I take English Thirt with Miss Jordan, I tell my 
friends with a superior air that English Thirt is a fascinating 
course. English Thirt is a fascinating course. I love English 
Thirt. I love Miss Jordan. I love to sit and listen to Miss 
Jordan once a week in Eaglish Thirt. Miss Jordan is such a 
pleasant lady and she is reasonable too — so reasonable. All she 
asks of you is thirtj^ hours to be handed in at any time. "Thirty 
hours at any time " sounded pleasant to my freshman ears. 
"And" beamed Miss Jordan, "your old work may also be- 
revised and handed in." 

Oh, Perfect Miss Jordan I Perfect English Thirt ! 

Time went on. The interests of a member of the rising class 
of 1917 are many and varied. Once a week I went and chortled 
in English Thirt. Once I handed in two hours work and went 
self-consciously to class. Miss Jordan never read them. About 
a week before Christmas I overheard two juniors I 

" Say, how many hours of English Thirt have you got in ?'' 

" But twenty. How manyVe you ? " 

" But twenty-two." 

"We'd better hustle." 


^' Going to thelibe?" 



I gasped. I had two hours of English Thirt in. They had 
twenty and said they'd better hustle. What should I do ? 
What could I do ? Then I had a hope, a white, dazzling hope ! 
At home in my desk were themes, many themes. T would 
revise them over Christmas and hand them in. 

Monday I had my shoes shined. Tuesday I went home. My 
family quite like me. I have had a busy and a happy vacation. 
This morning I woke with a queer taste in my brain. You 
know the way you feel when you know you ought to think of 
something disagreable but can't think what it is. Than I 
realized that it was the taste of English Thirt. I went to my 
desk — I opened my desk. My hair stood on end. Instead of 
the dear old mess that I find each vacation it was in order. 
In spick and span order. Not a scrap of paper — not a dear 
familiar paint brush. I rushed to mother. Mother didn't 
know. I rushed to Katy. Katy did'nt know. I rushed to 
Sarah. Sarah didn't know. I rushed to Mademoiselle. "Ah 
yes. She had cleaned it out for Mme. because it wuz in zuch 
storrange orrder." 

But where had she put the papers ? Ah she had " trrown " 
them away. 

And now, dear reader, you know. To-morrow I go back to 
Miss Jordan and mid years and I have twenty-eight hours of 
English Thirt to write. 

The tears of discouragement have started. Oh Miss Jordan^ 
couldn't you count this for three hours ? 


Signs of the Times 

A wet- winged robin' calls its mate. 
Some tender green things hesitate 

To re-appear. 
A rain swept sky — and winds that blow — 
A flash of sun, and then we know 

That Spring is here ! 

A quick warm smell of good brown earth, 
A dizzy fly that reels in mirth 

We hope^-and fear — 
And in the heart there grow and glow 
Deep pulsing thrills : Ah then we know 

That Spring is here ! 

Dorothy Keeley 1917 

The Eternal Feminine 

My mother always hated dogs, 
She thought they were a bore. 

And when we said we wanted one 
She hated them the more. 

"Such horrid things," she said, "A dog 

I never could endure. 
'Twould always be 'round under foot 

Or on the furniture. 

I hate to touch the little beasts, 

I never would do that 
And hold one ? — never in the world 

Their place is on the mat." 

But now we've got a puppy dog 

She sings a different tune. 
" He is a darling " — yet I laugh, 

She changed her mind so soon 1 


I hear her telling visitors 

Of his behavior rare. 
'• He never leaps upon the bed. 

Or even on a chair. 

Right in his basket does he lie 

And there he takes his naps. 
He alveays stays there proi^erly 

Unless he's urged on laps. 

And he's so knowing, too, that dog. 

When he wants to take a walk 
He simply beats you with his paws 

— He doesn't need to talk ! " 

She pets him often, lovinglj', 

That horrid, dirty pup ! 
And once I thought I heard her say 

•• Does Puppy want-y up ? '' 

Katharine Boutelle 1915 

I will never go through a greenhouse again. 

The Cactus My resolution was formed yesterday after 
visiting the Lyman Plant House. A girl we 
l^new showed us around and she certainly made it interesting ; 
the flowers did not need anyone to make them beautiful. 

In the third house stau'ls a cactus — you may be acquainted 
with it yourself. Our guide told us its long, botanical name. I 
believe, but it made no impressi<-)n on me — I was looking at the 
cactus. It seemed so soft and velvety ! Now anything that 
answers to that description appeals to my sense of touch and 
my hand almost instinctively goes out to test the evidence of 
my eyes. Once in a New York street car I became aware that 
I was stroking affectionately the fur neck-piece of a perfectly 
strange woman. I was mortified enough when she and I dis- 
covered it at the same time, but my confusion then was as 
naught next to my feelings yesterday. 

I always knew that a cactus was dangerous, so I said to my- 
self, •' 'Tis these great spikes one must avoid," and threw myself 
wlioie-heartedly and whole-handedly into stroking the beautiful 
green spaces between. The others wandered around gazing at 
other things ; but I stayed and rubbed that cactus, which was 
just as soft and lovely as it looked. I even wondered why cacti 
were so much talked against —surely any fool would know 
enough to avoid those spikes ! ^ 


At last my tactile touch was satisfied, and I joined my com- 

Kind friend, have you ever played with a healthy cactus for 
something over two minutes ? If so, you can sympathize. The 
others went on to view the orchids, while I repaired to the 
entrance place to remove the numberless needles that were 
clinging devotedly to my hands. It was discouraging work. 
What I took off of one hand decided they liked the other just as 
well, and stayed there. Finally one of the students, who was a 
westerner and should therefore, I felt, have divined my instinct 
and warned me, offered a pair of tweezers. In fifteen minutes 
my hands were cleared of all save many thousands of stumps, 
which are even now embedded in my system. May be some 
day, having made the "Grand Tour," they will reappear in 
some remote portion of my body. As long as my eyes and ears 
are untouched, they may do what they please. 

Of course I realize that I need not make the same error again, 
of treating a cactus like a long-lost friend. I know now, from 
personal knowledge of its deceptive nature, that it is an outcast 
from the kingdom of green things. That is why it grows on 
the desert. But should I visit a greenhouse, I know I must see 
a cactus, and on such an occasion my thoughts, although vivid 
and to the point, could scarcely be described as holy. And 
what is not holy should not be encouraged. The only possible 
conclusion is, I shall never go through a greenhouse again. 

Elk A Saul Lewi 1915. 

Through and On 

"I am a part of all that I have met. 
Yet all experience is an arch where through 
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades 
Forever and forever as 1 move." 

— Tennyson. 

English D is over and it is a part of our Senior Privilege that 
we may ask ourselves now, at the beginning of spring term, 
what is the greatest gift of college ? What part of college has 
become the most real part of us ? There are so many parts of 
college : — friends, student activities, fun and frolic, and knowl- 
edge, — that it is hard to come to a point and say just which one 
of them means and will mean the most to us through the long 


years ahead. We shall always hold to our college frieiidships, 
of that we feel certain. The student activities with which we 
have been connected we shall always remember with pleasure — 
they give us a sense of having left our stamp on college in some 
small way at least. The fun and frolic has been one of the 
pleasantest parts of our life here : we have learned to play and 
to " play hard.*' We cannot forget that. And knowledge was 
what we came here to gain. Is it. then, these reminiscences 
that college means to us ? Do we look back on college or do we, 
rather, look forward with college ? Are the gains of college 
dead things or are they not peep-holes through which we look 
forth on the limitless unknown which seems to extend farther 
and farther on all sides the larger our peep-holes grow ? I love 
to think of my college experience as peep-holes. Yet always 
over me there hangs a sense of danger— the danger of this vast 
undiscovered. Shall I, in ni}^ bewilderment, lose myself in it or 
shall I see mj^ path, a straight, long, shining road ? Shall I let 
a bit here and a bit there satisfy me ? Shall I be content to let 
my knowledge be fit only for table talk, or shall I concentrate 
and in the end really know something ? I am still in college, 
still out of danger, but after college — what ? 

DoROTHy Lilian Spencer 1914 

This Demnably Regular Life 

We always have soups of a Monday, 

And codfish on most Friday nights, 

And ever there's laundry on one day. 

While on others our room's put to rights, 

On Wednesdays and Sundays comes ice cream 

Which follows a species of meat 

Which, though it's poor pickin', is honored as chicken 

By all save the more indiscreet. 

As surely as dawn Sunday morning 

We're summoned to join in House Prayers, 

To sinners it sh'd be a warning. 

To hear how we render those airs ! 

And after the Sabbath-day dinner 

We flee to the parlor, of course, 

And our musical talents are weighed in the balance, 

And discovered not "wanting'* but hoarse ! 


Each morning we're wakened b}' ringing 

Of a bell that once tinkled on kine, 

Each evening we join in the singing 

Of gems like ' ' The Fall River Line." 

And then when the day is well over 

At just ten o'clock every night. 

The proctor comes growling and we hasten howling 

And promptly extinguish the light ! 

There are those who will say that at college 

There's small luck attending the shirk, 

That the pathway to virtue by knowledge 

Is strenuous up-hilly work. 

My friend, do not let them deceive you, 

It's true there is struggle and strife, 

But there's fixed alteration in all occupation — 

It's a " Demnably regular life.^' 

Leonora Branch 1914 

Ode to Music Hall 

There comes a noise that smites my ear, 
That jangles through my brain, 
That brings my hands up to my head 
As if to ward off pain. 

And now the sound subsides a bit ; 
Now thunders like a squall. 
A tower of Babel verily — 
It must be Music Hall ! 

Hark, now a voice rings sweetly forth 
And tries to drown the war ; 
But instantly there come a crash — 
And it is heard no more. 

With plaintive note the violin 
Begins its mournful wail, 
But soon is overtaken by 
A piano's minor scale. 

A Bach prelude now bravely strives 
To overcome the din ; 
In chime Chopin, and Mozart, too, 
Determined, quite, to win ! 

Ah well, 'tis often that we preach 
" United strength the stronger," 
And though perhaps not quite so sweet. 
The sound will last mucb longer ! 

Ruth Saperston 1916 


There was a time when to be accused of originality was an 
incrimination. How far a cry from then to now ! At present 
we seem to be obsessed with a desire to be original. We see it 
manifested in our art and literature. We wish our methods of 
workmanship to be different, our plots new. Cubist art with 
its strange arrangement of line and fantastic color continues to 
astonish us. Mediocre poetry that can claim attention only on 
the ground that it is " different " confronts us in the pages of 
even our most dependable magazines. The heroes of our poems 
are men of primitive brutality. The heroines most prevalent 
in our short stories are creatures of nature, — untrammeled by 

Originality is not only rampant in our art and literature but 
it is dominating our amusements also. When hotels and rest- 
aurants advertise the dansants and dinner guests dance between 
courses, entertainment has certainly strayed far from the path 
of sanity. Even the fashions of the season have as their goal 
the bizarre in color and the grotesque in line rather than artis- 
tic suitability. 

The pendulum seems to have swung to the extreme. And 
having reached the extreme we can hope that it will again re- 
gain its normal eqailibrum. For originality in moderation is 
desirable and necessary. Because it is so indispensable to pro- 
gress and development oue is sorry to see it put to such abuse. 
Certain laws of symetry and harmon}^ must be obeyed if 
balance is to be maintained. Originality has tried to cast off 
these fetters but without them it can no more aspire to become 
art than there can be art without originality. 

Much of the so called originality of the day seems but a 
frantic effort to attract attention. It is mere uninteresting 
idiosyncracy. The best and surest way to attain originality is 


to think sanely and wisely and quietly and to express yourself 
sincerely and simply. And some day you will probably find 
that you have been original all along — and didn't know it. 

Dr. Gardiner, head of the Philosophy department, president 
of the Zeta Chapter of Massachusetts announced the names of 
those members of the class of 1914 who had been elected to 
membership in the Phi Beta Kappa Society. They are as 
follows : 

Margaret Charlotte Alexander of Brooklyn, N. Y. ; Elinor 
Isabel Bedlow of Dallas, Texas ; Wanda Dorothy Best of New 
York, N. Y. ; Marguerite Booth of Sewickley, Pa.; Madeline 
Claire Brydon of Lancaster, Mass. ; Martha Fabyan Chadbourne 
of Northampton, Mass. ; RuthCobb of Falls Church, Va. ; Hazel 
Louise Finger of Milwaukee, Wis.; Amelia Oilman of Worces- 
ter, Mass.; Marion Bowker Gilmore of Keene, N. H.; Ruth 
Hellekson of Indianapolis, Ind.; Gladys Lorraine Hendrie of 
Northampton, Mass.; Marie Louise McNair of Halstead, Kan.; 
Nellie Joyce Parker of Northampton, Mass.; Jean Agnes Paton 
of New Haven, Conn.; Ruth Ripton of Schenectady, N. Y.,; 
Margaret Spahr of Princeton, N. J.; Hannah Hastings White 
of Worcester, Mass. ; Mira Bigelow Wilson of Andover, Mass. ; 
Elizabeth Ann Zimmerman of Lebanon, Pa. 


In every discussion there is at least 
Vindicating one who holds that the river shall not 

THE Conservative be diverted from its course for the ob- 
vious reason that it always has flowed 
this wsij. Whatever is said he sticks to his point with a 
tenacity that is stronger than logic. He is too dogged to be 
-called violent aud too insistent to be called passive. He looks 
very much as the twelfth juryman to the other eleven. He has 
a variety of opprobrious titles : public danger, impediment to 
progress, menace to civilization. But in spite of the goodly 
number of conservatives in the long line of human discussion, 
we pride ourselves that we have made some advance over the 
folk of long ago. 

Fortunately it is the eternal characteristic of the radical that 
he refuses to be discouraged. His enthusiasm keeps its pristine 
vigor. Cheerfully he works to keep the kettle a-boiling, and 
then siezes on the pot, the saucepan and the spider, only stop- 
ping long enough to look around for any other available ware. 
His ceaseless, experimenting energy has its effect and the con- 
servatism of one generation becomes the antiquated prudery of 
the next ; the radical idea of a few leaders becomes the com- 
monplace of the rank and file. The life work of two brothers 
popularly supposed to be the failures of the family, has made 
aerial navigation a possibility. And the harmless and neces- 
sary house fly has developed into an insidious demon whose 
chief activity is the spread of disease. 

At first sight it looks as though all the credit for our progress 
should go to the radicals, and they do furnish the motive force. 
But the conservatives also have a function in progress that is 
valuable though less conspicuous. Their slow caution and 
mature deliberation force the scatterbrains to take time, and 

4 39 


time never fails to sift the wheat from the chaff. It is the con- 
servatives that are trying to retard the hasty passage of eugenics 
laws until science has bad time to la}^ a good foundation of 
facts. It is the conservatives in language that frown upon an 
objective case after the verb '' to be/' and upon " don't ^^ in the 
third person singular and ''a'i'n't" in anj^ person at all. In 
time perhaps these may become good form ; there are pure 
English expressions that had their origin in slang. But they 
will never be on the lips of the conservatives until time ha& 
proved to their satisfaction that the language needs them. 

In this country we applaud the radical idea vociferously : one 
on one day and another on the next. We like change, variety 
and experiment. Sometimes we seize on one of these new idea& 
and shout it loud when we have no more than a superficial 
speaking acquaintance with its real content. But we are rather 
reluctant to recognize the spirit of conservatism. It. is such a 
slow, homely, uninteresting old standby that we quite forget to 
see it ; then we neglect its sterling qualities to run after the gay 
fascination of the first new passer by. R. C. 

We are interested in the literature in the college magazines 
resulting from prize competitions, as it is almost invariablj^ of 
a high standard. We are inclined to think that one reason for 
this is the fact that the average person will work harder when 
there is some concrete end in view. That is all very well, but 
should not one work primarily for the sake of doing something 
really worth while ? A great deal of the poor work to be found 
in the college magazines is undoubtedly due to the writers' lack 
of inspiration to do well. The editors of a magazine must 
choose the best from the material that they have, but if the ma- 
terial be limited in extent, some work that is not as good as it 
might be must be published. Secondly, it follows that if every- 
one would honestly try to do his (or her) very best in every- 
thing written, the magazines would be considerably better. 

The two prize studies in the Barnard Bear for March, *'The- 
Homecoming" and "For Men Must Work," are exceedingly 
good, and there is a charming series of prize poems in the Jan- 
uary Occident. We hesitate to quote any of these, since they 
have been so often quoted in the exchange departments of other 
magazines : we will, however, venture to do so for the benefit of 


our readers. One of these little poems is particularly charming 
in its freshness and simplicity. It is called " Expectans." 

" Here stand I, a little maid, 

Holding np my empty cup, 
Waiting, still and unafraid, 

For Life's hand to fill it up. 

Whatso Life shall bid me drink, 

That will I, and smile at him ; 
Lips shall laugh, though hearts may shrink ; 

Fuller, Life I So— to the brim ! " 

Other good poems in the college magazines of the month are 
" The Sun-worshipper," " Sonnet" and " The Wanting Touch" 
in the Yale Literary Magazine; "The Fire Worshippers: a 
Garden Idyl" in the Sepiad ; '' Day Ends" and '* While Time 
is yet with Us " in the University of Virginia Magazine ; " Day 
Passes " in the Vassar Miscellany ; and '* The Evening Wind " 
in the Williams Literary Monthly, 

A few words will not be amiss here concerning the essays 
about poets that appear this month. '* John Masefield " in the 
Occident for February is a sympathetic interpretation of the 
poet and his works. In the Yale Literary Magazine '^ The 
Spirit of Swinburne's Poetry " is shorter and is no careful analy- 
sis of particular poems ; it is, however, more highly critical. 
"The Aspiration of Keats" in the D'yonville Magazine, is in- 
teresting, but unfortunately a little short for an adequate treat- 
ment of the subject. 

And now, before we hand over to our successor the piles of 
magazines that have become so familiar to us and lay aside the 
editorial " we" and become ])lain ** I " again, we should like to 
make one plea. We have observed that many college maga- 
zines have no exchange departments, and we are of the opinion 
that exchange departments would be an invaluable addition to 
many of them. The broadening influences of intercollegiate 
criticism cannot be denied, and we think that a number of our 
exchanges would profit by the introduction of an exchange de- 
partment—even at the expense, if need be, of omitting a column 
or two of jokes. . D. O. 



It is proposed to hold an exhibition of the work of alumnae, in i3ainting, 
sculpture and decorative art, at the college during Commencement. Presi- 
dent Burton, on behalf of the college, has offered to meet the expense of such 
an exhibition. Mr. Tryon. Mr. Churchill and Miss Strong of the Art Depart- 
ment have offered their assistance and the exhibition rooms in the Hillyer 
Art Gallery. Mr. Dwight W. Tr3^on, N. A., Miss Amy Otis and Mr. Louis 
G. Monte jwill act as jury. It is planned to have the standard of the exhibi- 
tion as high as that required of Smith alumnae in other fields of professional 

A cordial invitation is therefore extended to alumnae and former students 
to exhibit their work in the plastic and decorative arts. Exhibits must be in 
Northampton before May 10th. The expense of transportation will be paid. 

It is hoped that many will accept this invitation to exhibit their work at 
Smith College. Those who are willing to do so are asked to communicate 
with the alumnae committee immediately, that they may receive exhibitors' 
blanks. The names of any former students who are doing professional work 
in art would be greatly appreciated by the committee. 

Committee: Elizabeth McGrew Kimball 1901, Chairman; Julia S. L. 
Dwight 1893, Elizabeth Olcott 1913, Florence H. Snow 1904. Address : 184 
Elm Street, Northampton. 

Dramatics Tickets 

Applications may be placed on file at the General Secretary's Office, 184 
Elm Street, Northampton. Alumnae are urged to apply for the Thursday 
evening performance June 11 if possible, as Saturday evening is not open to 
alumnae, and the waiting list is the only opportunity for Frida3\ Each 
alumna may apply for only one ticket for Fridaj'^ evening, but extra tickets 
may be obtained on a Thursday evening application. 

The prices of seats will range on Thursday from $1.50 to 75 cents and on 
Friday from $2.00 to 75 cents. The desired price of seat should be indicated 
in the application. A fee of 10 cents is charged to all non-members of the 
Alumnae Avssociation for the filing of the application. The fee may be sent to 
the General Secretary at the time of application. Applications are not trans- 
ferable, and should be canceled at once if not wanted. 



In May all those who have api)lied for tickets will receive a request to con- 
firm the applications. Tickets will then be assigned only to those who re- 
spond to this request. No deposit is required to secure tickets, which may 
be claimed on arrival in Northampton from the business manager in Seelye 
Hall. Tickets will be held only until 5 o^ clock on the day of the performance, 
unless a request has be received to hold them later at the theatre. 

Alumn.*: Headquarters 

Each alumna returning for Commencement is requested to register as soon 
as possible in Seelye Hall, and obtain tickets for collation. Baccalaureate, 
etc. Registration will open at 9 o'clock on Friday. June 12. 

The postmaster asks each alumna to notify her correspondents of the street 
and number of her Northampton address at Commencement, in order to en- 
sure the prompt delivery of mail. Any alumna who is uncertain of a definite 
address may have her mail sent in care of the General Secretary at Seelye Hall. 

The General Secretary will be glad to be of assistance in securing off-cam- 
pus rooms or supplying information of any kind. Her services are at the 
disposal of all members of the Alniiinpe Association. 

Rooms for Commencement 

By a vote of the Trustees of Smith College the available rooms in the col- 
lege will be open to the alumnae at Commencement. The chairman of the 
committee in charge of the assignments is Dean Comstock. College Hall. 
Applications for the classes holding reunions should be made to their class 
secretaries. Rooms will be assigned to as many of these classes as possible 
in the order of their seniority. In view of the experience of the committee 
last year, no classes after the one holding its fifth reunion can be accommo- 
dated in the college houses. For the five days or less time the price of board 
will be five dollars. Alumuse to whom assignments are made will be held 
responsible for the full payment unless notice of w^ithdrawal is sent to the 
class secretary before June 1. After June 1, notices of withdrawal and re- 
quests for rooms should be sent directly to Dean Comstock. Except in cases 
where payment to the class secretaries has been made in advance, the five- 
dollar charge for a campus room should be paid at Miss Comstock's office, 
No. 2. College Hall. 


Tungchon, Peking. China, via Siberia. 
Dear Smith Girls : 

Perhaps j'ou think your missionary has forgotten all about you, for all 
these long fall months she has not written you a word. Her only excuse is 
that she has only been doing a little bit of the work, your work that you sent 
her out to do. There is plenty of it to be done, not just enough for to-day 
and to-morrow, but for years to come. too. Some people say that the work 
of the foreign missionary is nearly done in China, but it seems to me that she 
will be needed for a long time yet. Her work will be different from what it 
was at first. She will give more time to planning work and showing the 


Chinese how it ought to be done, and less to the actual doing of it. When I 
was at home last year, a volunteer said to me, "I am sure I never could 
teach ; my ability is entirely along the lines of organization and executive 
work, and I suppose there is not much opportunity for that sort of thing on 
the mission field." There is a great demand for just that, for we have now, — 
and every year the schools are turning out a few more, — teachers who can 
teach in our lower schools. Some of them are very good indeed, but all of 
them need a great deal of oversight and suggestion. Then there is always 
new work to be planned, or changes to be made in the old. It is very easy 
for the Chinese to get into ruts, unless some one, with a horizon a little 
broader than theirs, is near, with friendly suggestions. The high schools 
and colleges cannot get on without a foreign faculty for there are very few 
Chinese women ready yet to teach the higher branches. 

Beside this teaching and administrative work, there is a great deal that the 
foreigner can do in personal influence with the girls, in giving them high 
ideals, and in trying to produce such an atmosphere as we have in our schools 
at home. After all, the development of Christian character in our pupils is 
the most important and also the hardest part of our work. I told you how 
much the girls gained from the conference last summer. The school has felt 
the effect of it this fall but it is easier to begin with enthusiasm than to keep 
on, and as the end of the year comes, we are inclined to slump a bit. Miss 
Parson is coming down to-morrow to talk to the girls and I am hoping for 
much from the influence of her "meeting. It will seem quite like old times to 
be having a visit from a Y. W. C. A, secretary. 

Many of our girls are given both tuition and clothes by foreigners. They 
are so very poor, it is the only way they can go to school at ail, but. there is 
alwaj^s danger that they will be spoiled by it, and grow to expect things as 
their due. I have been trying to develop a little of the spirit of giving this 
Christmas, and have had every girl make a Christmas card for hor mother, 
during the drawing periods. They are most enthusiastic over their very 
simple productions and I hope they will realize that Christmas is a time for 
giving as well as receiving. The entertainment they prepared also brought 
out that thought. This year for the first time we had vacation at Christmas 
and the foreign new year instead of the Chinese new year, so the girls had 
more chance to be in their homes at Christmas. We closed school on Satur- 
day with the girl's entertainment, a Christmas tree with presents, some of 
them things from your box. 

I wish I could take you to visit my five or rather my seven little day 
schools. I said five, for two are in the country and do not receive visits as 
often as the others. They have from ten to twenty-five pupils each and I try 
to examine each school every two or three weeks. As soon as I enter the 
room, the children hop up, and making most profound bows, say. " Miss 
Leavens, how do you do ? " Then I sit down and one class after another 
comes to say its lesson. It was very embarrassing the first of the term, to be 
confronted wdth books I had not read, moreover, to have to give out char- 
acters from them for the children to write and then correct their writing. 
I used to hurry home and read a few lessons with my teacher to try to keep 
a little ahead my assignments. I sometimes wonder if they suspect that I 


give them easy characters because I am more sure of them, than because I 
pity my studeuts. I never cared much for arithmetic but now I love it for 
there I am on sure ground. Even the multiplication table in Chinese has no 
terrors for me. When it comes to geography I am not so much at home with 
the names of places, so I generally let the teacher ask the questions. We 
learned a Christmas song, so we sing that too. 

One of my schools is about two miles away, outside the east gate of the city^ 
while we live outside the south gate. I am escorted by a faithful colie who 
has aspirations to learn English, and considers that a convenient time for 
getting a little help from me. He carries a book and asks me what this 
word is and what that word is. Sometimes I understand, and very often, I 
do not, until he explains in Chinese. He certainly has some original pro- 

If you could see the zeal with which I read the Weekly, you would know 
that I am interested in all that is going on at Smith. I feel quite as if I 
knew you. and I hope you are having a very happy year. 

Cordially yours, 

Delia Dickson Leavens. 


Contributions to this department are desired before the end of the month, 
in order to appear in the next month's issue, and should be addressed to 
Eloise Schmidt, Gillett House. Northampton, Massachusetts. 

'98. Alice O'Malley. Address : 616 Pennsylvania Avenue, Manila, Porto 

'03. Mrs. Earl H. Brewster (Achsa Barlow.) Address : Minori, per Cariosiel- 

lo (Salerno,) Italy. 
'06. Mrs. Trevor O. Hammond (Alice Lindman.) Address: 421 Spruce 
Street, Helena, Montana. 
Ethel Spalding and Ada Carpenter '07 are teaching in Miss Catlin's School 
for Girls, 161 23rd Street. North, Portland, Oregon. 
'09. Mrs. L. H. Shepard (Elizabeth Alsop.) Address : 48 Sidney Place, Brook- 
lyn, New York. 
'10. Agnes Carter. Address: 3120 Humboldt Avenue South, Minneapolis, 

'11. Mrs. George C.Jones (Gertrude McKelvey.) Address: 247 Lora Ave- 
nue, Youngstown. Ohio. 
Olive Booth has been doing volunteer work for the Philadelphia Child 

Jean Cahoon is managing the ".Noonday" lunch room on 26th Street, 

New York City. 
Olive Carter is teaching English in the Meriden Connecticut High School. 

She took her degree of Master of Arts at Columbia in 1913. 
Elsa Detmold has announced her engagement to Terence B. Holliday of 
New York City. 


'11. Anue Doyle is teaching Latin and French in the High School at Lenox,. 

Myra Isabel Foster is teaching History and French in the High School at 
Lubec, Maine. 

Angela Keenan address : 38 Aldrich Street, Roslindale, Boston, Mass. 

Lena Kelly is a Chemist in the General Chemical Company of Brooklyn. 
New York. 

Edith Lobdell has had two songs published by the Willis Music Com- 
pany. They are **If Love Were What the Rose Is" and -'In the 

Sophronia Roberts has organized and is now running The Pittsburgh 
Clearing House of Charitable Information. 

Margaret Russell is Chief Guardian of the A. C. A. Camp Fires, and is 
teaching fourth grade in the Academy at Portland, Oregon. 

Margaret Shoemaker has been doing Volunteer work for the Philadel- 
phia Child Federation. 

Anna Smart is doing graduate work at the University of Minnesota, and 
is assisting in the department of Philosophy and Psychology. 

Alice Smith is taking the course in trained nursing at the Presbyterian 
Hospital in New York. 
'12. Marion Scharr is teaching at the New Park Avenue School, Hartford, 

'13. Alice Adams is studying for the Degree of Master of Arts at the New 
York State Normal College, Albany, New York. 

Helen Betterley is teaching Mathematics and Science at the Jacob Tome 
Institute, Port Deposit, Maryland. 

Ruth Brown is teaching English and Mathematics in the High School at 
Fair Haven, Vermont. 

Emily Chamberlain is at home. Address : 127 Mulberry Street, Spring- 
field, Massachusetts. 

Sarah Cheney is at home. Address : 30 West 86th Street, New York City. 

Helen Collins is acting as Secretary in the Extension Department of the 
Massachusetts Agricultural College, Amherst, Massachusetts. 

Vera Cole is the Assistant Principal in the High School at Patterson, 
New York. 

Dorothy Davis is at home. Address : The Alders, Redlands, California. 

Marion Drury is taking a Graduate Course in Music at Smith College. 

Helen Estee is Instructor in an open-air class in the Primary Department 
of the Park School, Buffalo, New York. 

Catharine Gowdey is doing Graduate Work at Columbia University. 

Helen Hood is teaching in the High School at Bethlehem, New Hamp- 

Frances Hunter is at home. Address : Hillcroft, Adams, Massachusetts.. 


'13. Elizabeth MacGregor is teaching Science and Mathematics in the Searles 
High School, Great Barrington, Massachusetts. 

Winifred McQuigg is acting as Substitute in the Public Schools of Kala- 
mazoo, Michigan, 

Merle McVeigh is living at home and taking a Business Course at the 
Bliss Business College, North Adams, Massachusetts. 

Lillian Pearson is teaching the Seventh and Eighth Grades in Meredith, 
New Hampshire. 

Ruth Remmey is doing Graduate Work in English and Comparative Lit- 
erature at Columbia University. 

Olive Tomlin is Resident Teacher in Miss White's School, Concord, 

Eleanor Welsh is teaching in the High School at Ridgewood, New Jersey. 

•Sara Wyeth is at home. Address : 728 North Twenty-Fifth Street, St. 
Joseph, Missouri. 


'10. Mrs. Kenneth S. Littlejohn (Josephine Keizer), a daughter, Virginia, 
born February 24, 1914. 

'11. Mrs. William A. Wells (Mildred Plummer), a son, William Edward, 
born February 10, 1914. 

e.r-'ll. Mrs. J. Blaine Korrady (Louise Rowley), a daughter, Katherine, 
born August 25, 1913. 
Mrs. Howard B. Snow (Alice Peck), a son. Richard Birney, born Feb- 
ruary 15, 1914. 
Mrs. Herbert Woodward (Ethel Warren), a daughter, Ruth, born Sep- 
tember 19, 1913. 


April 17. Lecture by Claude Bragden. 

Under the auspices of the Department of Art. 

" 18. Meetings of Alpha and Phi Kappa Psi Societies. 

^' 20. Lecture by Henry A. Stimson, D. D. 

Subject : Some Modern Minor English Poets. 

*' 21. Address by Rev. Dr. Samuel M. Crothers. 

Under the auspices of the Phi Beta Kappa Society. 

'' 25. Address by Hon. Bertrand Russell. 

Under auspices of the Department of Philosophy. 

" 29. Joint Meeting of the Vox and Clef Clubs. 

May 4. Lecture by Philip Churchman. 

Under the auspices of the Spanish Club. 

" 6. Lecture by Robert Woods. 

Under the auspices of the College Settlements 

'' 9. Division B Dramatics. 

" 13. Junior Promenade. 


Smitb Colleae 

flDa?- 1914 
©wne& ant) ipubllebcJ) b? tbc Senior Claaa 


Was Dryden's Treatment of the Cit Justifiable? 

June Love Song 


The Man with the Scar 


Out of Step 

Teotis . . . , 


The Epicure Club 


A Trip Down the Coast 

To a String of Green Beads 


Helen Violette Tooker 1915 449 

Helen Violette Tooker 1915 454 

Eika Saul Lewi 1915 454 

Eleanor Everett Wild 1916 455 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 458 

Marion Sinclair Walker 1915 458 

Mary Coggeshall Baker 1916 459 

Rosamond Drexel Holmes 1914 467 

. Ellen Bodley Jones 1916 468 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 470 

Lucie Belden Scott 1916 471 

Laura Mae Blue 1917 473 

Helen V. Tooker 1915 473 


Apples and Memories 


The Fountain 

Just Wait . 

Rainy Weather . 

Simon of Cyrene 


A Black Opal 

The Minister's Daughter 

The Vacuum Cleaner 

After Spring Rain 

A Portrait 

Marion Sinclair Walker 1915 474 

Dorothy Stockman Keeley 1917 477 

Marion Delamater Freeman 1914 478 

Adelaide Heilbron 1915 479 

Madeline Fuller McDowell 1917 .480 

Anna Elizabeth Spicer 1914 481 

Ruth Kingsley Wager 1915 482 

Laura Mae Blue 1917 484 

Dorothy Goldthwait Thayer 1915 484 

Natalie Carpenter 1915 488 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 488 

Leonora Branch 1914 489 


A Physics Phantasy 

A Comfortable Thought 

Those Thundering Feet 

Noteworthy Advice 

A Mark 

The Worst of War 






Esther Sayles Root 1915 

Dorothy Stockman Keeley 1917 

Madeleine Fuller McDowell 1917 

Barbara Cheney 1915 

Grace Angela Richmond 1916 

Dorothy Davies 1915 



Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Massachusetts, as second class matter 
Gazette Printing Company, Northampton, Mass. 


Smith College Monthly 

Vol. XXI MAY, 1914 No. 8 


Marion Sinclair Walker 
Mary Louise Ramsdell Adelaide Heilbron 

Barbara Cheney Katharine Buell Nye 

Annie Preston Bridgers Helen Violette Tooker 

Katharine Boutelle Ellen Veronica McLoughlin 

Kathleen Isabel Byam Eleanor Haller Gibbons 

Alice Lilian Peters 
business manager and treasurer 
Alice Bradford Welles 

assistant business managers 
Hester Gunning 
Eleanor Hollister Park 



There has been at one time or another in recent years much 
talk about the lamentable dependence of a writer upon the 
whims of the public. ''Freedom I Freedom I " is the cry. "Get 
the public out from under our feet so that we may have room 
to be Ourselves, and write beautiful things and become famous." 

" But who will make you famous," some one asks innocently, 
*'if you do away with the public ?" But the literary aristo- 
crats are suddenly deaf. 

Oar century cannot, however, lay exclusive claim to this 
problem of the dependence of an author. History has shown 
few great writers who could live without patronage of some 


kind. Many have needed financial support ; all have needed 
the intellectual interest and symptathy which joins one genera- 
tion to the next. This was a problem of the seventeenth 
century., John Dryden recognized it and asked himself the 
question, " In whom shall I trust ?" 

The custom of his time was to procure for each literary man 
a patron who should graciously receive all dedications and 
adulation and in return give to the '^servant" the protection 
of his name and more material support — a pension. Dryden, 
however, was not satisfied with this way of doing things. He 
believed that he owed a debt to the public. He conceived him- 
self not as a being who stood aloof from the multitude and 
untouched by the course of human events, but as an English- 
man whose mind and heart were the developments of the life 
and the customs of the world in which he lived. And this 
world was the public. To a patron he owed no debt. To the 
public he did. In some measure he could prove his apprecia- 
tion of this by showing his trust. At least if he must owe his 
support to someone it was better that it should be to a greater 
power rather than to one man. So Dryden decided, and appar- 
ently never regretted the faith which he had put in the '' Cit.'^ 

It has been maintained that Dryden's influence upon later 
writers in this turning for support from the conventional patron 
to the public, was injurious; that these writers were gripped by 
the desire for mere popularity, lost their ideals and sense of 
proportion, catered to their audience and became, in short, 
mere trucklers and high bidders for popularity when they 
might have been great men. An ignominious burden to lay on 
the shoulders of the public ! It is, of course, quite true that a 
man might be swept away by a desire for general approval 
either as the accompaniment of wealth or of a kind of transitory 
notoriety ; but it is probable that he had a tendency in the 
beginning toward such intellectual degeneracy and would not 
in any case have overcome his instability suflSciently to have 
done anything worthy of the preservation. 

Granting, however, that it were possible for such a man to 
produxje many good things in spite of his weaknesses, what will 
happen ? Give him a patron. The public is still there. That 
cannot be taken away. And while the public exists the possi- 
bility of fame exists. Of this possibility is born the desire, and 
all roads lead to Rome. 


Another objection has been urged to this practice of depend- 
ing upon the public for support. It is the uncertainty of 
income which results and which makes it necessary for the 
writer to pay too much attention to the financial side of his 
affairs, makes him worry and fret and hurts his work. Dry- 
den's own case will show how false such a theory is. In 1672 
King's Theatre burned down. Dryden owned part of the 
theatre and depended upon it for a good part of his income. 
In 1674 it was necessary to rebuild. This was distinctly money 
out of Dryden's purse. About this same time he was appar- 
ently in more or less disfavor at court and it is probable that 
his salary as court historiographer and laureate was not paid 
too promptly. So this was a time of extreme financial embar- 
rassment for Dryden — perhaps the worst time he ever knew. 
And yet in the year of 1678 he produced "All for Love," which 
is one of his best plays. 

Samuel Johnson is another man who was not harmed by 
poverty. He was poor during the greater part of his life and 
he did good work. In his later years, in a state of comparative 
prosperity, he produced very little. He himself acknowledged 
that this inactivity was the result of his increased affluence. 
There was no necessitj^ therefore no invention. 

" But," some people say, "the public does not recognize its 
responsibility toward the writer.. Look at Chatterton." Well, 
look at Chatterton. He almost starved and finally killed him- 
self, preferring that way to death rather than the slower way 
of starvation. But what right had Chatterton to ask help from 
the public ? He had cheated and fooled it. It owed him 
nothing except perhaps a grudge for having tricked it so nicely. 
Chatterton is not a fair example. Nor is there any necessity 
for a man's starving to death. If he cannot make his living by 
writing poetry or plots or learned discussions, let him turn 
fruiterer and drive his cart through the city streets. If he is a 
true poet he will make his poetry all the better for the presence 
of the oranges and the strawberries. Ruskin says that the 
maker of a real book writes because he must and for no other 
reason. In any case the fruiterer can earn his living. 

"All this is very well," some one will say, " but it is true that 
Dryden pampered the coarse and vulgar tastes of the people in 
some things. If he had had a patron he would not have had to 
do this and would perhaps have been greater." If Dryden had 


had a patron lie would have done just as he did do. The patron 
would have been his bank — nothing more. Dryden wanted to 
show the people how they looked to Lim, and he wanted to 
make them ashamed of themselves. To make them listen he 
had to keep them interested, and to do this he often had to be 
coarse. Moreover, part of this coarseness was merely a true 
picture of the times, which he was earnestly trying to place 
before his audience. It is not fair to expect even a great poet 
to be entirely in advance of his age, and in any case in spite of 
the vulgarity and coarseness the beauties of the poetry remain 
and are so much larger a part of the work that it seems hardly 
fair to lay much stress on the meaner element. ISTor is it really 
just to say that Dryden might under any given circumstances 
have been a greater poet. That is something which must 
remain undecided, and no matter how much arguing is done, 
one party will continue to think he would have been greater, 
and the other that he would not. 

Emerson, speaking of scholars, among whom he includes men 
of letters, says : " They are idealists and should stand for free- 
dom, justice and public good. The scholar is bound to stand 
for all the liberties, liberty of trade, liberty of the press, liberty 
of religion.^' And again, "It is a primary duty of a. man of 
letters to be independent." Emerson upholds independence for 
men of letters, and it is precisely this which Dryden gained 
when he broke loose from the old convention and put his trust 
in the cit. If he had been dependent upon just one man, his 
patron, it would have been necessary to praise him in all things. 
Willy-nilly, Dryden must have endorsed his master's opinions 
and elaborated them for the world to read. If he did not there 
would be no pension coming his way, and he would have had to 
take his second-hand self to another market. Would not this 
have been a kind of intellectual slavery ? And slavery, so 
Edmund Burke says, makes all men dull. But it may be urged 
that a man must humor a public quite as much as he would 
humor a patron. This is not true, for in a public there are 
many varieties of cits and citesses, and if a certain opinion of 
Drj^den's did not suit the taste of one it was pretty sure to suit 
the taste of another. So by his decision he gained as complete 
an intellectual freedom as is possible, and pointed the way for 
others to follow. 

It is true enough that a man need not cater to his public, 


but, on the other hand, there is no necessity for him to hold 
himself entirely aloof. There should be a sort of graciousness 
in the attitude of an author toward his audience, a willingness 
to listen to its opinions. He owes a debt there and in no way 
can he better cancel it than by meeting their wishes as far as is 
consistent with his own ideals and by giving his ideas on the 
subject in which they are most interested. This is very fine as 
long as he owes the debt to a large and heterogeneous group of 
people, but when he must make his payments to one single 
person, the results are not so pleasing. The writer^s inter- 
ests become narrower and probably less pertinent. If he still 
reflects the attitude of the times it is in spite of, not because of, 
his patron. 

Moreover, Dryden's scheme for making the public responsible 
for him is infinitely more educational for the public than the 
older method. It is generally conceded that the way to develop 
responsibility is to give the candidate something for which to 
be responsible. There is no reason why an audience should not 
take care of the man who amuses or instructs it, and on this 
principle Dryden's attitude was based. 

Since his time other men have realized the strength of his 
position and have gone and done likewise, and now the patron 
is entirely done away with. Has Dryden's influence been 
harmful in this ? A glance at the literature before his time 
and at that which came later shows, as far as it is possible to 
settle questions of the sort, that it has not been harmful and 
has been beneficial. Certainly, there have been more men 
writing since Dryden's time than there were earlier, for as 
Scott says, in the late seventeenth century few of the best men 
of the time were writing. 

Samuel Moore in The Library speaks of the difference between 
the reading public of the middle ages and that of modern times. 
In the fifteenth century the reading public was incredibly 
small ; now it is incredibly larger. So there has been distinct 
progress. Dryden stood in the middle of this period of devel- 
opment and certainly he seems not to have retarded it. Give 
him the honor which is his due and praise him for having real- 
ized that the public is, as Goldsmith's Chinese philosopher says, 
'' a good and generous master." 



All the world is a-loving, dear, 

'Neath the June night's witchery. 

The low wind is wooing the fragrant rose, 

Playing his love on the pipe he blows, 

The dream-woven airs that a lover knows. 

That I know for thee. 

All the world like a sweet-toned harp 

Sounds an exquisite harmony, 

For night, the dark master, has plucked the strings 

Till the Dreamer of Love leaps up from deep springs 

And his poppy-dust in the earth's face flings 

That thou mayest love me. 



Over the house on the hill 

A cloud is floating by. 

Gold in the saffron sky. 

It is drifting, drifting, drifting. 

In a light that is ever shifting 

And yet seems ever still. 

In a noiseless rush from the silent earth 
A bird is winging his eager flight, 
Up, up, up to his boat of dreams. 
Up, up, up, in defiance of night. 

Before he can reach it, the twilight dies, 
Leaving the clouds but a blot of grey — 
Its magical mystery melted away. 

The bird, despairing in sharp, shrill cries, 
Drops down like a stone. 

The night has come. 




We were all seated about a beach wood fire, excbangiug wild 
tales. The night lent itself to charm and mystery. It was clear 
and rather cold. Not more than twenty feet away from us the 
waves of the Atlantic Ocean broke in an even line, with an even 
thud, and the salt-soaked beach wood burned green, yellow, 
purple and red flames. 

One of the party had just finished an eerie tale and, after a 
pause — "You must have had something thrilling happen to 
you — tell us," said one gnome-like figure in the lurid light of 
the fire to me. 

There was a silence while I looked beyond the ruddy circle of 
the flames to where the band of sea stretched blacker than the 
surrounding darkness. Then I turned to the motionless circle 
of figures, gilded by the firelight. "Yes," I said, "I have." 
And this is what I told them, raising my voice to be heard 
above the crashing of the sea. 

" I was away at boarding school and it was the tag end of the 
winter, that mushy season when, during a period of three weeks 
one's feet are constantly wet and cold and one's shoes muddy. 
Everyone was tired and nervous and I was no exception to this 
rule. I was lying in m}^ bed one warmish night and without 
realizing it I fell asleep. And I dreamed the weirdest dream. 
I felt a presence in the room ; just felt it there in a way I could 
not explain, so that the perspiration gathered on my forehead. 
I turned my gaze slowly towards my open door and saw — a man. 
He loomed up in the dark doorway, a perfect giant of a man 
whose face I could not see. I screamed and he melted away into 
the blackness. I didn't realize that 1 had awakened myself, but 
was horribly frightened, so that the impression stayed with me 
throughout the following day. 

"A week from this Monday night, I dreamed again of this man. 
He stood in the doorway a moment, then took two steps, two 
faltering, swaying steps into my room ; then melted into the 
shadow and I lay shaking and trembling in the dark with no 
one in the room. 


"At first I did not realize that I was dreaming — I thought that 
these dreams actually occurred, but after three or four appear- 
ances of this dreadful apparition I knew that they took place 
while I was asleep. Every visit brought the man nearer to 
my bedside till I was a nervous wreck. Every Tuesday morn- 
ing I failed in my recitations. The other nights in the week I 
went to bed without fear of molestation but I lived in such 
dread of those Monday night visits that dark circles appeared 
beneath my eyes and the nerve-racking torture that I went 
through during the day was indescribable. 

"At last, one Monday night, when the moon was at its full 
glory, the huge dark figure swayed into my room, towards my 
bed and placed his big hands about my throat. I could feel his 
hot breath fanning my cheeks and his rough coarse hands were 
tightening about my neck. I must have fainted for when I 
opened my eyes it was morning. 

"Instinctively I felt that the next visit would be climactic. 
My nerves were so keyed up that I was twitching all over. I 
determined not to go to sleep, and I kept wide eyed and staring 
till three o'clock. In an instant I felt the presence of my terror. 
He came towards me. I caught sight of his face with the burn- 
ing red scar which I had seen the last night, and the whites of 
his eyes showed glistening. He had just placed his hot fingers- 
on my neck, when I screamed. I found myself sitting up in 
bed, gazing at the retreating figure of a man. He slid out of 
my door and by the time the matron of the corridor, and a 
hundred, more or less, of kimona-ed figures reached my room, 
there was no one in sight. 

" I poured the story into the ears of the stupefied matron. She 
was a rather phlegmatic woman. It took her quite a while to 
grasp the situation and when she did, she said ' Lay aside your 
fears, my dear. We smelled smoke and I ordered the furnace 
man to keep watch during the night, and undoubtedly that was 
he, looking for smoke.' 'No, no,' I said. 'I know the face 
of the furnace man. This man had a scar on his left cheek. I 
could recognize him anywhere,' and I insisted on investigations 
being made. Though the matron assured me there were no 
other men about the place, it was discovered that a man had 
come from the village about a week ago, asked for work, and 
was now working in the boiler room. ' He's going to leave to- 
morrow,' the matron assured me, ' but if you want to see him^ 


I can take you down there and you can walk casually through. 
Don't arouse his suspicions/ 

'' I took one of the girls with me and we wandered through the 
ill-lighted room. Standing by the furnace, into which he was 
shoveling coal, I saw the back of the new "boiler man." The 
red hot glow of the furnace shone on his dark face, making a 
certain red scar on his cheek glow like live coal. He turned 
away and kept on shoveling. I passed by almost faint with 
astonishment. He left the next day and I never saw him again 
either in dream or in life.'' 

At this point in the story I stopped and looked at the man 
sitting next to me. He had been fidgeting nervously and as the 
flame of the fire shot up for a moment, I saw to my horror that 
h.e had a deep red scar down the cheek nearest me. He saw me 
start. '' Rather a coincidence," he said. " I've studied psy- 
chology a bit, and I think I can explain this string of events to 
you. You said you were in a nervous condition. The first 
time you dreamt of the man it made a deep impression upon 
you, more deep a one than it would have made had you been in 
perfect health. It preyed upon your mind ; you remembered 
that it happened on a Monday night so on the next Monday 
night you dreamt of him again. Having dreamt twice of the 
same man you were really alarmed. You kept on dreaming 
till your nerves were in such a condition that you were com- 
pletely under their control. One day you saw a man in the 
village with a scar on his face. Unconsciously it made an 
impression. The man with the scar linked himself to your 
dream, and then by the merest chance this man in the village 
came to the school for work. The man whom you saw going 
out of your room was the man with the scar, but he had been 
sent to look for smoke by the furnace man. I think that ex- 
plains away anything of the supernatural in this case," he said 

" Yes," I answered, ''it would if any of this story had been 
true, but as it was all nothing but an airy fancy of mine in the 
beginning, merely concocted for the benefit of the assembly, I 
fear your reasoning is for naught. 

'* Yes,'^ he said, " I realized early in the story that you were 
manufacturing as you went along, from several inconsistencies, 
such as a furnace going in ' that mushy season ' or on ' a 
warmish night.' There's another thing I can explain, though. 


Several members of the party noticed my scar. It made so 
deep an impression on their minds that it reacted on yours, 
thereby putting the scar idea into your mind. I have unwit- 
tingly helped you to make a good story. I think I deserve your 
heartiest thanks." 

I looked at him a moment and then laughed. '* I thank you," 
I said. 



Orchards, all drifted with the rose-flushed snow 

Of apple blossoms ; breezes meadow sweet, 

The echo of a laugh — swift feet 

That dance the livelong day, 

And sudden silver rains that come and go — 

By these and other joyous sounds I know 

That it is May. 



Comrade of mine on the long high-road, 
I must travel a piece of the way alone. 
For the strange new-self that is rising in me 
That is out of step with our common pace 
I must seek, and strive to know. 

So to-day will I walk in a way apart. 
This bypath, that turns from the common road. 
And I may not ask that you tread it with me, 
O brave-hearted comrade of steady pace — 
This must be lonely road. 

It may be the path, when the sun is low. 
Returning, will merge with the common road. 
But I wonder (and with the wonder is pain) 
Can we, friend, side by side, step for step again 
Keep pace on the common road ? 



During the summer between my freshman and sophomore 
years at college the attenuated condition of my pocketbook, 
which in its most prosperous days is never too full, and which 
was then in a truly alarming state, made it necessary for me to 
adopt immediate measures to relieve the financial stringency if 
I were to return to college in the fall. 

Before starting out to look for a job I made a careful inven- 
tory of my accomplishments, in an effort to discover what I 
was especially fitted for in the business world. I could not 
tutor people who were to take their entrance examinations for 
high school, because, in the vulgar vernacular of the present 
day, I am what is known as a "perfect bonehead" in every- 
thing but Latin, and children do not begin to take examina- 
tions in Latin till after they get into high school. I am a very 
poor penman and arithmetic makes my head ache, so I couldn't 
offer my services to the lone bank in my native city. Stenogra- 
phy and typewriting have always seemed to me to stamp the 
ofiSce girl who knows them as an individual with supernatural 
powers which I have admired at a distance but never yet tried 
to acquire. I would not therefore be an invaluable acquisition 
in any of the business offices of my father^s friends, and I 
should have hated to serve them in a purely ornamental capac- 
ity. So I probably saved a good deal of time and trouble by 
going to work at once in the old red mill on the river bank. 

For a few days I sat alone, in solitary state, on a high chair 
at one end of a long table, pasting little bows of thread on 
sample cards. The little bows were of many colors, soft and 
silky in texture, and they had to be pasted each in its own par- 
ticular place on the cards, so for a while the novelty of the 
work kept me content. Then it began to pall, and the long 
hours and the ache between my shoulder-blades, due to the 
woi'k, which, though light, continued ceaselessly for five and a 
half hours in the morning and five hours in the afternoon, 
made me long for the companionship of my kind to take my 
mind off my troubles. All around the room I could see groups 
of two or three or more girls whose work kept them together 
and who seemed to have lots of good times when the boss was 
not around. Why did I have to work alone ? 

4 5 9 


^^If I could have even a little Polack to talk to," I mused^ 
"how nice it would be. I could teach her English and she 
could teach me Polish, and then in the fall when my roommate 
persists in talking Spanish to me, I could reply in a language 
as unintelligible to her as Spanish is to me. That would be- 
great. What interesting conversations we could have. Oh 
dear me ! " 

On the sixth day of my incarceration the work began to come 
faster and the Fates, or perhaps just the overseer, sent Teotis to 
me and my prayer was answered. But how should I- start 
things — what should I say to her to give the conversational ball 
its initial push ? 

"Are you a Polack ?" I ventured hopefully. 

" No. Are you a Dago ?" she replied. 

" Well, I should say not,^' I started to retort indignantly, and 
Teotis laughed at me. 

"I know it," she said, "you're a Yankee and I am French, 
but nobody ever thought that I was a Polack before. Do I 
look like one ?" 

" No, only I was just thinking of them." 

There was a short silence while each sized the other up. 
What Teotis saw in me I could not venture to say, being proba- 
bly prejudiced, but I decided that she must be awfully nice. 
She was not a startling beauty, but she was decidedly pretty in 
her own way. She had wavy brown hair and big brown eyes 
with a sad expression in them, which the merry mouth belied ; 
her complexion was dark and she had pink cheeks and a dimple, 
of which she was extremely conscious but not unduly proud. 
Now she smiled upon me. 

"You go to Smith's College, don't you, Mary?" she asked, 
and then, without waiting for an answer, she continued, " I 
heard some of the other girls say so. Do you like it up to the 
college ? " 

" Very much," I replied, " there are so many nice girls there 
and we have so much fun." 

" It must be grand. Do you have to study hard ? " 

"Yes, that's the only thing about college that I don't like." 

" Maggie says you're awful smart." 

"Does she ? That's news," but down in my heart I thanked 
Maggie, because nobody had ever said that about me before. 

"Say," continued Teotis, "are you the smartest person in 
your class ? " 


I thought of Myrtle Warner, 1916's brightest light whose 
lowest mark was a solitary A — , and disclaimed the honor. 

" No, I am not. I know at least one girl who stands higher,'^ 
I replied, but neglected to mention that there were some four 
hundred others between Myrtle and me. I might fall in her 
estimation if I said that. 

" I'd like to go to Smith's College," continued Teotis. " Do 
they take French girls there ? " 

*'Yes, if they can pass the examinations, or get certificates 
from their high schools." 

" Oh, do they have to go through high school before they can 
go to college V 

"Yes, most always." 

'' I guess I won't go to college then," laughed Teotis," because 
I only got as far as the seventh grade in the convent school. 
But my brother went to Canada to Le College de Ste. Hya- 
cinthe near Montreal and he never went to the high school. 
Smith's is different, I guess. There are two hundred boys at 
Ste. Hyacinthe. It's a pretty big college and my brother is 
going to be a priest." 

"There are sixteen hundred girls at Smith," I retorted with 
conscious pride. Teotis stared at me open-mouthed while that 
sank in. 

"My Gawd,'^ she said finally, "a-ain't that a-awful ! How 
many of you sleep in a bed ?" 

I never could make Teotis see college as it really is. She had 
a preconceived notion of one big building, adorned with a flag 
with "Smith's College" printed on it, in which we lived, attended 
classes and studied. There was a picture in her mind of a big 
dormitory on the top floor with rows and rows of beds in it in 
which Smith College, tightly packed, enjoj^ed its nightly slum- 
ber. And none of my tales about different campus houses, 
about the Libe, College Hall, John M. Greene and the others, 
had any effect on her. As a result of my elucidations she did, 
however, change the name on the flag to "Smith's Campus." 
She was not quite clear in her own mind as to whether campus 
was synonymous with college or just a stylish name for board- 
ing house. 

A chance reference to my fifth cousin over at Amherst College 
called forth a volley of questions from Teotis. " How does he 
look ? " she wanted to know. I described him in glowing terms. 
^* Does he come to see you ? " asked Teotis with a lively interest. 


John is devoted to his relatives, so I could truthfully answer in 
the affirmative. '^Oh, ain't that grand !" she cried, and added 
with a sidelong glance, " Does the teacher know it ?" 

"No," I replied, thinking of the individuals who survey us 
each morning so impersonally from the platform of John M. 
Greene Hall, "no, I don't think she does." 

"I got you," said Teotis knowingly. "You meet him down 
street. That's the way I see Emil because my mother thinks 
I'm too young to have a steady friend." 

"Who is Emil ?" I asked in an unlucky moment, and her 
answer consisted of a monologue, extending over two weeks 
and a half. During that time I saw Emil several times, for he 
used to come through the mill every morning on his way up to 
the shipping room, and he nearly always stopped to talk with 
Teotis. He did not tally at all with her description of him. 
True, she did not claim excessive beauty for him, "but he has 
such pretty eyes and such nice ways," she told me. The pretty 
eyes were sentimental, and the nice ways consisted chiefly of 
his taking oft" his hat when he met her and of not putting his 
arm around her in the moving picture theatres. "And he is a 
good spender," Teotis assured me. "We go to the movies every 
time the pictures change and we take in most of the dances that 
come along. Sometimes Sundays he hires a team and takes me 
out driving. Teams cost two dollars an afternoon, so you see 
he isn't any cheap sport." 

"Oh, you like him because he gives you a good time?" I 

"No," replied Teotis virtuously, "I'd love him just as much 
if he didn't have a cent, but it does make it nice to go every- 
where. Maggie's fellow never takes her around the way Emil 
does me. Maggie says he wants to, but she won't go, but T 
don't think he invites her. I don't see why she don't get a 
better fellow. Clarence Olin ain't much." She reverted to the 
subject of Emil again and described in minute detail their con- 
versation of the night before, which was about like the one 
they had had the night before that. 

This continued for several weeks until I became so tired of 
hearing about Emil that I began to hate the rest of the sex, and 
even stopped writing to Cousin John. Then I decided that I 
would just let Teotis talk all she wanted, only I wouldn't 
listen to her. That worked very well, because Teotis liked to 
talk and did not usually say anything that required an answer.. 


Then, just as everything was going smoothly again, and 
everybody was satisfied, the catastrophe occurred. Teotis came 
to work one morning without her usual smile. As she was 
coming up the center alley of the room Maggie was coming 
down. Instead of singing out " Hello," as was their wont, they 
stared coldly at each other a minute, then Maggie shrugged her 
shoulders and Teotis tossed her head and they both looked 

Teotis came over, put on her apron, and sat down to work 
silently. But Teotis never could be quiet long. " Me'n Maggie 
don^t speak any more," she announced abruptly. 

" I am awfully sorry," I said regretfully. " Why not ? " 

Teotis' lips quivered as she replied, "She's took Emil away 
from me." 

"No, Te, not really r' 

" Yes, she has," she declared firmly, " because I seen her with 
him last night. Oh, Mary, he looked grand. He had on his 
best suit and his new tan shoes. And he made believe he 
didn't see me. I wish I could die. Then maybe he'd be sorry." 

"Oh, cheer up," I said consolingly. "There are lots of 
others you can have." I was sorry she was " mad" at Maggie, 
but rather glad she had broken off with Emil. Now, perhaps 
she would be willing to discourse on other subjects. I was 
entirely wrong. After the first spasm of grief she relapsed into 
a deep melancholy. For a whole day she did not talk at all. 
This was bad enough, but worse was to come. 

The next morning she asked me if I had been to the " Gem " 
the night before. I had not. "You'd ought to go, Mary," she 
said. "La Belle sang the grandest song. I never cried so hard 
in my life. It — it reminded me of Emil so. Listen." She sang 
something to this effect : 

" You made me what I am to-day, 

I hope you're satisfied, 
You dragged and dragged me down until 

The soul within me died. 
You shattered each and every dream, 

You fooled me from the start, 
But though you're not true. 
May Gawd bless you— 

That's the curse of an aching heart." 

There, ain't that sad I " she cried with a shiver of delightful 


*' Pathetic," I agreed heartily. "It's so hopeless." Bad as 
the words were, the tune was worse, and Teotis is no undiscov- 
ered Tetrazzini. 

During the following week I had ample opportunity to get on 
intimate terms with the song. Teotis began to sing it every 
morning at 6.30 and I left the mill every night with the accus- 
ing " You made me what I am to-day" still ringing in my ears 
like a guilty conscience. Something must be done, for my sake 
as well as hers. She was heart-broken — she told me so herself, 
and she put a good deal of melancholy expression into the song. 
In fact, no person in a normal state of mind could have sung it 
as she did. At home I reproached myself for the mean things 
I nearly said to her while undergoing the torture. How terri- 
ble it must be to suffer with a broken heart ! Supposing John 
fell in love with another girl — and John is only a cousin, too ! 
I must do something to help Teotis, but what ? Finally I 
decided. I might "get in wrong" with Maggie and I liked 
Maggie for many reasons, but after all, Teotis was my best 
friend in the mill and she cared more about Emil than Maggie 
possibly could. 

That night I was walking down Main Street on my way home 
from the Library. Emil was standing on the edge of the side- 
walk, hands in his pockets, and cap pulled down over one ear. 
" Good evening, Emil," I said cordially. Hearing me call him 
by his first name startled him somewhat, but he tipped his hat. 
When I got past I half turned my head and smiled invitingly. 
He was by my side in an instant. 

'• Can I see you home ?" he asked. 

" Why, how nice, of course you can," I replied, trying to be 
sugary but achieving a merely saccharine result. I hate Emil. 
For a moment silence reigned, while I was deciding just what 
to say. 

" Fine evening," observed Emil, "lots of atmosphere." 

"Emil," I said, ignoring his remark, "don't you like Teotis 
any more ? " 

"Teotis Bombria ? Oh, Teotis is all right, but I am going 
wit' Maggie now. Been going wit' her for two weeks." 

" Why did you sting Te ? Do j^ou like Maggie better ?" 

"No-o," he admitted, "but you see it's just like dis. One of 
us has got to sting de odder some time and I fought it wouldn't 
be me wot got stung. No girl ever has frown me down yet — I 
always get ahead o' dem. See ? " 


*'I see, but Teotis wouldn't ever throw you over — Teotis loves 

**Aw, go awD," said Emil. 

" Really she does, she thinks you're grand." 

'*Den why does she have to flirt wid every odder feller she 
sees ? She always does, if I'm wid her or not. She just took 
me along to pay de bills and give class to de performance. No 
feller will stand dat, y'know. She's too fickle." 

" Emil, I'm sure you're mistaken. She^s awfully in love with 
you and she has been just heart-broken ever since you stopped 
going with her." 

" How do you know ?" he asked with interest. 

*'She says so, and she's been singing that sad song about the 
curse of an aching heart all the time lately.'^ 

" Prob'ly she just likes t' sing.'^ 

"Oh, but she would never choose that particular song if she 
were a music lover." 

''I don't t'ink you understan' Teotis," ho said skeptically. 

''Yes I do,'^ I replied confidently. " I get her point of view 
perfectly, even if she never gets mine." 

" Well,"" he said after a minute's thought, " I'll t'row Maggie 
over den and go back to Te. But if she won't have me no more, 
somet'in's goin' t' drop." 

"She will. Fm so glad— now everything will be all right 
again." And that night I slept the sleep of one who is con- 
scious of a duty well performed. 

The next day was Saturday and a half-holiday, so we were 
very busy in the morning and did not talk much. I had decided 
not to tell Teotis what I had done, but to let her find out herself 
from Emil. I noticed, however, that she was no longer singing 
*' You made me what I am to-day," but was humming with a 
spirit worthy of an undergraduate, " To Thee, Oh Alma Mater," 
and "Mid purple in triumph waving," which I had taught 
her early in the summer. Had Emil seen her already ? No, or 
she would have told me ; but certainly something had happened. 

Sunday night, as I was coming out of church, I met Emil 
with Maggie. When he saw me his eyebrows came together in 
a black scowl and he refused to speak. Now what could that 
mean ? I began to wonder if a college girl knew any more 
about a mill girl than a mill girl did about a college girl, and 
rebuked myself for meddling with what was none of my affair. 


Monday morning Teotis greeted me with her old-time sunny 
smile, and I felt relieved. Everything was all right as far as- 
she was concerned, anyway, and that was the main thing. 
Just then Alphonsine came along, and stopped as she was pass- 
ing by. '' Mornin', Te,*' she cried. " I seen you Sat'day night. '^ 

'' Did you ? " said Teotis, '' where ? I didn't see you." 

"* There's a reason,'" laughed Alphonsine. "You were 
lookin' at somebody else." 

Teotis smiled back at her. 

"I think he's grand," continued Alphonsine. 

" Yes, isn't he ? He's so pretty." 

Alphonsine passed on and Teotis turned to me. " Have you 
started going with Emil again ? " I asked. 

"Oh, Emil?" she said indifferently, "no, I haven't got any 
use for him any more. He ain't the only can on the dump 
heap. I got a new fellow now." 

"Who is it this time?" 

" Clarence Olin. Do you know him ? He used to go with 

"Why, Teotis," I said tactfully, "I thought you didn't like 
him. You always used to talk against him." 

Teotis did not answer for a minute, and then she laughed a& 
she usually did when caught. " I should think by this time, 
Mary, you would know that I don't always mean what I say." 

"But, Te," I persisted, "you pitied Maggie so much because 
Clarence never used to take her anywhere." 

" Well," said Teotis, prompt to defend her new lover, " he 
only gets six-fifty a week and that doesn't much more than pay 
for his board and clothes. I don't want him to have to steal 
just so I can go to the pictures, do I ? Besides, he is lots better 
looking than Emil, and looks is better than money." 

" You didn't think so once," I said, a trifle tartly, as I thought 
of my misdirected efforts. 

"No, but I've changed my mind," retorted Teotis with a 
saucy smile, " and who has a better right ?" 



The ocean gleams beneath a heavy cloud. 

The wave, exhausted by its tireless strife, 

Slumbers, leaving the rocks in turn to rest 

And gives the shore one last long kiss of life. 

'Twas as if in all places, at one time 

Life were dissolving evil, winter, grief. 

Darkness, and hate, and that the dead who sleep 

Spoke to the living — hope of new belief : 

" Love I " and a soul obscure now opening free 

Slowly approached, off 'ring to us its strength. 

A being from the darkness and the shade 

With open arms, and heart, and eyes at length 

In every vein receives from everywhere 

The depth of life always abounding there. 

The great peace from above falls like a tide, 

Each grass-blade waves through cracks found in the stones. 

The soul kindles. We know each nest is safe. 

Infinity seems full of rustling tones, 

One'd say it was the hour when all the world 

New-wakened hears the call of early day ; 

First steps of wind, and work, of love, and man, 

The door unlatched, the white dawn-horse's neigh. 

The sparrow, like spirit frail, with beating wing 

Comes to annoy the giant waves that smile ; 

Th' air plays with flies, the foam with eagle's wing. 

The peasant makes furrows and thus rules, the while. 

The page whereon the poem of the grain 

Will be. The fishermen are there below 

A climbing vine. Th' horizon seems a dream. 

Dazzling, where floats the sea-foam as if snow, 

A cloudy plume. A hydra is the sea, 

The cloud its bird of prey, and then a light 

Vague ray starts from the cradle which the wife 

Rocks, at the threshold of her hut at night. 

Gilding the fields, the flowers, the wave, and then 

Becoming light, touches a tomb that sleeps 

Near the clock-tower. Day plunges to the black 

Part of the gulf, ever goes on, and keeps 

To shade— kissing its brow 'neath water dark and awed. 

All — all is quiet, happy, calm, at peace 

Beneath the ever watching eye of God. 




The Long and Ruminative Boarder and the Summer Girl 
with silk stockings and scarf to match were sitting on the piazza 
of the Sea Side Hotel. 

** Speaking of celery," the Long and Ruminative Boarder 
remarked, flicking the long ash from his cigarette with his 
longer little finger, '' reminds me of a club I belonged to once — 
when I lived in New York, you know." The Summer Girl gave 
a sidelong glance and wondered how this remarkable young 
man got — here ! She decided to conceal the fact that in the 
winter-time she lived in Skunks' Misery, and that her father 
was head of the butcher shop in that metropolis. 
The Boarder had again relapsed into deep thought. 
''As you were saying — " ventured the Summer Girl. He 
roused himself again from his cigarette. 

*'What was I trying to recall ? Oh, I remember. My club — 
it was an Epicure Club." The Summer Girl didn't know 
exactly what "Epicure" was, but supposed it was something 
like "Keeley cure." 

" We used to meet once a week for our banquets," he con- 
tinued, "in the neatest little cafd possible, in the down-town 
district, somewhere in the neighborhood of Twenty-third Street, 
I believe. After our banquets we used to drop in to see the last 
act at the theatre, and end up at a cabaret. Oh, those were 
great days. There were ten of us in it — and the hall we engaged 
for our meetings was a marvel. Over the door we had our 
motto in green and gold, written in curling letters, and framed : 
"'Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.^ That 
was the motto of the Epicureans in the olden times, you know. 
They were rather fond of feasting, I believe." He eyed the 
Summer Girl with an elaborately casual air. She seemed to be 
an appreciative listener. 

" The room was a marvel of taste and elegance," he went on, 
"magnificent Oriental rugs, panelling of solid mahogany rising 
ten feet in height, and above, the best oil paintings. Whistler, 
Rembrandt — er — and all the rest, you know. But the banquet 

4 68 


was a sight for the gods. Ten magnificent young men. all 
broad-shouldered and of striking appearance, the kind the 
ladies all fall for, in full evening dress, reclining at a table." 

"Reclining", did you say?" asked the Summer Girl, with 
incredulous eyes. 

"Yes, reclining. You see in Rome, long ago, the Epicureans 
always reclined at their banquets. We merely carried out the 
tradition. It is so much more graceful than sitting up, you 

"And much more comfortable," assented the Summer Girl 
with enthusiasm. 

"The table appointments in themselves were objects of won- 
der and admiration to all who saw them — everything of solid 
silver and lined with gold — even the carving knives were made 
of hand-carved African elephant's tusks. All the dishes, of 
course, were cut-glass." 

" How wonderful I And what did you have to eat ?" 

"Oh — the thought of those delicious viands! Everything 
was prepared especially for the occasion. Every oyster was fed 
by hand, and every sprig of asparagus grown in a separate 
little green-house. Of course the cows that helped furnish the 
ice-cream were thoroughly sterilized before the milking, and 
each had to undergo a physical examination to make sure that 
it had no symptoms of tuberculosis. But let me tell of the 
banquet. When we were all seated the courses began. They 
were the whole point of the banquet, you know, the courses. I 
forget how many we had — fourteen, I believe it was. In 
between the courses we had our wine." 

" Oh, wine, of course," said the Summer Girl with no great 
surprise. She had heard of that terrible place, New York. 

"Yes, we had all kinds of wine. Port, Rhine, Burgundy — 
and all the other kinds, you see. And now comes the part 
about the celery. After we had indulged in one kind of wine 
we would eat olives, to take away the taste, you understand, so 
that we might more keenly enjoy the flavor of the next kind. 
But once one of us, I forget his name, but a magnificent fellow, 
partook — oh I hate to recall it I — partook of an olive that had, 
at some time in its previous existence, lain near a piece of 
celery, and, if you will pardon my saying so, had taken in 
the taste of the celery. Oh I It was horrible ! The young 
man, unsuspectingly, ate the olive. Of course it spoiled the 


whole banquet for him. Too bad— he was such a magnificent 
fellow, too ! 

"Think of actually eating an olive that tasted of celery! 
Not one of us could touch a thing after that. Even the thought 
of that olive sickened us. Of course we had to break up the 
club forever, for who could ever enjoy a banquet again after 
such an unfortunate circumstance ? We really couldn't." 

"No, of course you couldn't," said the girl sympathetically. 

A squalid, red-faced cook appeared in the yard below, with a 
dish of odorous sliced onions in one hand, and a large cow-bell 
in the other, which she rang loudly. 

"Dinner! Dinner!" she cried gutturally, "all yous that 
wants codfish hed better come quick before the cat gets what 
she didn't get before ! " 



By a little fern-fringed pool 

I met April. 
She was singing, plucking there 
Violets to wreathe her hair — 

Laughing April. 

In the woods, all still and cool, 

I met April, 
Smiling, yet with lashes wet. 
What had April to regret, — 

Laughing April ? 

April dancing through the grasses, 
White feet glisten as she passes. 
Whence she came and whither sped 
I know not, but she is fled, 
Laughing April. 



For three days there had been a south blow, and a south blow 
on the coast of Maine always spells dirty weather. There at its 
moorings in Portland Harbor the big coast liner heaved and 
tossed, and we who were used to the sea and her ways meditated 
on what were likely to be the conditions outside. Behind the 
city was a windy sunset — gold-bordered clouds of purple heaped 
up against a flaming west, and the towers and spires and roofs 
of Portland loomed an ominous black against the scarlet glory 
of the sky. Against the lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor 
the breakers hurled themselves with savage fury, sending their 
shattered spray twenty feet into the air, and then falling back 
on the teeth of the reef with an angry snarl. Beyond the mouth 
of the harbor was an unending, interesting expanse of gray, 
water and sky meeting in some far-off place which was not a 
line, merely a blending of the wet gray of the sea with the 
sodden gray of the stormy sky. 

As soon as we had passed beyond the reef and out of the 
shelter of the harbor the long rollers of the Atlantic began to 
make sport of the floating house. But her steel-sheeted sides 
were proof against the roughest sea, and her engines chugged 
smoothly along. Then we struck the swell. Up the first wave 
climbed the ship, poised herself a moment on the crest, then with 
a quivering heave from side to side, plunged down into the 
trough of the waves, burying her prow in hissing spray, and 
sending out cascades of foam from her dripping sides. Up the 
next breaker she went, trembled a moment, and then— down in- 
to the smooth, green valley between. Again and again, with 
perfect regularity, she took the breakers. By degrees the dark- 
ness came on, bringing with it a driving mist that the wind, 
shrieking always louder and louder through ropes and cables 
and cordage, dashed into our faces, mingled with the salt spray. 

We remained on the hurricane deck as late as we could, 
dreading the stuffy staterooms with such a splendid, exhilarating 
storm brewing over the water. At last, however, we went down, 
and were soon rocked to sleep by the steady roll and heave of 



the boat. About two o'clock I awoke, aware almost before I 
was awake, of a difference in the motion. I could see nothing 
from the window, but above the wind, and the slap and crash of 
breakers against the boat I could hear the far-off tolling of a 
bell, and I knew that we were just off" the Point Judith bell- 
buoy — the little framework of wood and iron that is the head- 
stone of the great Atlantic's " graveyard of commerce."^ Through 
the darkness I could see the white spray dash far above the deck, 
then fall in a hissing shower over the walls of the cabin, while 
always the wind shrieked and moaned, and a chain, loosened 
somewhere, clanked and dragged with the roll of the boat. We 
had indeed run into "dirty weather." Almost unconsciously I 
began to listen for the engine-throbs, and even as I subcon- 
sciously noted that the beat was perfectly regular the engine 
missed a stroke. Then the boat plunged, and as she came up 
the engine missed again. Then I realized what was hap- 
pening. The waves were running so high now that every time 
the boat paused on a crest her propeller was several feet above 
water ; which meant that once every fifteen or twenty seconds, 
with the regularity of a clock, the whole weight of her thou- 
sands of tons was balanced amidship. It was fun to feel that 
when we climbed up a huge breaker we were, so to speak, on 
top of a liquid mountain, but it was not nearly so much fun 
when the engines suddenly slowed down and the boat slackened 
her pace to less than half speed. For hours we crept along 
through the dark and the storm until finally a gray, watery 
dawn broke, and we went out on deck. Inquiry confirmed our 
suspicions as to the cause of the delay : one blade of the propeller 
had been completely wrenched off by the waves, and we would 
be anywhere from six to ten hours late in making port. 

All day it stormed, and all day we paced the deck, enjoying 
the rain and the wind in contrast to the hot cabin and the sick 
and complaining passengers. Ail the way down Long Island 
Sound we identified lighthouses and lightships and buoys, until 
at last, just at dusk, the Singer Building loomed up, big and 
gray and welcoming, and the poor, bedraggled boat limped to her 
pier in the East River, '* delayed seven hours by storm," accord- 
ing to the captain's log. 



I hold you to the light and turn you 'round, 

Beloved beads, and find in your cool depths 

The soft blue-green of shimmering eastern skies