WHERE BOHEMIA IS
by John William Sargent.
Bohemia’s not a corner hid in Paris or New York,
Not a corner in a cellar where we eat and drink and talk,
Nor a corner that is set aside to poverty and art:
No, Bohemia’s just a corner in the right man’s heart!
A u t u m n
by Arthur Stahlschmidt.
Decoration by H. K. Cranmer.
HE long sweep of the wind across the moor,
The cry of plover bird on flapping wing,
The faded grass and bracken near the shore
Of the deserted pond where robins used to sing.
No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound,
Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the naked boughs
And rustle of dead leaves along the barren ground.
A t t h e S i g n o f t h e C h e a p T a b l e d ’ H o t e
by Helen Rowland.
Illustration by E. M. Ashe.
MOKE, and spaghetti, and crimson wine,
And the laughing notes of a violin!
From the Seine, from the Loire, from the Thames, the Rhine,
Hail the guests of the cheap table d’hote—Come in!
What if your hat be a battered one?
What if your coat be a trifle thin?
There’s a chant of cheer for Bohemia’s son
At the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!
Feel not your pocket, for here’s a feast,
And your fill of wine for a few mean pence—
Fish and fowl and a loaf, at least—
And all for a matter of fifty cents!
Oh, wonderful things you’ll discover there
In the midst of the clatter and smoke and din,
For Genius is child of the very air
One breathes at the cheap table d’hote—Come in!
“Oh, wonderful things you’ll discover there
In the midst of the clatter and smoke and din.”
Out of the smoke there are statues carved,
And daring dreamers their day-dreams spin;
For never a poet’s soul has starved
On the notes of a table d’hote violin.
At that table yonder, perchance, was born
A sonnet that brought the singer fame—
And there, in a jacket frayed and worn,
Nightly, a world-known painter came.
Here, once reveled a popular wit,
There, a composer, now rich and fat,
Here, a diva—just think of that!—
Flirted and laughed, ’neath a home-made hat!
Where are they now? Who knows? Alas!
Dining, perhaps, in a dinner coat,
Sipping champagne from a rich man’s glass—
For Success sits not at the table d’hote.
But what does it matter to us, I say!
This is “Going-to-be” and not “Has-been”—
The Land of “To-morrow,” not “Yesterday,”
Is the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!
“ H e l l o ! ”
by John Edward Hazzard.
ELLO, girl!”
“Hello, boy!”
Thus with hand-clasp was our greeting,
Seems as though at our first meeting.
“Hello, girl!” and oh, what gladness
In her echo, “Hello, boy!”
“Hello, girl!”
“Hello, boy!”
This, and then a moment’s kissing,
Gave us what in life was missing;
“Hello, girl!” and oh, what madness
In her echo, “Hello, boy!”
“Good-by, girl!”
“Good-by, boy!”
Thus we spoke it at our parting,
Just a little tear was smarting;
“Good-by, girl!” and oh, what sadness
In her echo, “Good-by, boy!”
T h e W i l d R o s e
by John Jerome Rooney.
Illustration by Louis Rhead.
SAW a wild rose in the wilderness;
It was so sweet, so sweet
It seemed the one thing in the world
That God had made complete.
It grew beside a mossy road
In the deep northern woods,
And oh, its simple beauty lit
Those savage solitudes.
And, as I plucked it where it blew
All trembling in the wind,
It seemed a meet gift unto her—
The flower of womankind!
“The flower of womankind!”
T h e O l d O l d P r a y e r
by John W. Postgate.
UR Father, which art in Heaven,
We glorify Thy name,
And pray our sins be all forgiven,
Our hearts all cleansed from shame;
Our vain desires we beg Thee check,
Our footsteps lead aright,
And from our eyes remove each speck
That blinds us to the light.
Hallowed be Thy name, O Lord;
Let Thy sweet mercy reign;
Within our hearts sink deep the Word
That heals all grief and pain;
Our wand’ring thoughts restrain and cheer,
Our cares and doubts dispel;
From timid hearts cast out each fear,
And teach us, All is well!
Give us this day our daily bread;
And fervent be our creed,
To suffer none to go unfed
While we may end his need;
Let love and pity fill our hearts,
And charity for all;
Sustain the strength that hope imparts,
To bless both great and small.
Thy Kingdom come, in Thy good time,
Oh, comfort us till then!
Thy will be done in ev’ry clime
There toil the sons of men;
And let Thy grace descend and glow
Within each weary breast,
So we may all Thy goodness know,
Thy love and peace attest.
Our faults forgive, as we forgive
The faults by others shown;
Teach us the way to rightly live
Our follies to atone;
From evil aims our minds set free,
And from temptation save;
And let the Cross of Calvary
Redeem us from the grave.
For Thine the Kingdom must prevail
’Gainst all the hosts of ill,
Thy power and Thy glory quell
The arts that sting and kill;
And forever and forever
Hosannas let us raise,
That lures of earth may never
Divert us from Thy ways.
T h e B a s h f u l G i r l
by Fred S. Blossom.
Illustration by E. Fuhr.
HE threw around my soul a charm—
I threw around her waist my arm.
She was so bashful and seemed so shy—
Just made to kiss—ah! I wished to try.
We strolled along in the cooling shade;
I mustered courage and kissed the maid.
Her look! Her eyes! I’ll never forget
The touch of her lips! It lingers yet.
We kissed again! My heart stood still—
A joy came o’er me, a quiet thrill;
As the red blood pulsed, all seemed awhirl—
Wondrous change in my bashful girl!
Did her brown eyes flash, or a cry of wrath
Re-echo along that shady path?
Nay! But clinging close, as ivies climb,
She lifted her head to me each time.
“But clinging close, as ivies climb,
She lifted her head to me each time.”
I n v i t a t i o n
by Walter Gregory Muirheid.
Illustration by R. A. Lüders.
RAY, maiden of ye ancient time,
Fair stranger of a foreign clime,
Tell me, as gaze ye o’er the sea,
What thoughts arise to comfort thee?
Hast lover there in ship of state,
Or waitest thou beside the gate
To welcome him from war’s alarms
To the fond shelter of thine arms?
Perchance that through the ages vast
In prophecy thy gaze is cast
And to Manhattan’s glad and gay
Hotels, cafés and Great White Way
Thy fancies take their wing, and show
The Pleiades with lights aglow,
Till in thy limpid, lucent eyes
Bright visions of our feasts arise.
“Fair stranger of a foreign clime.”
Canst bridge the span of ages vast,
O maiden of a fabled past?
Then come! We’ll do our best to please;
We’ll make thee guest at Pleiades!
And ne’er in palmy days of Rome
Couldst thou, fair maiden, feel at home
More than at Pleiads’ tables round
Where fellowship and faith abound.
For ne’er in Rome were men like these
Good fellows of the Pleiades,
And ne’er were maidens half so fair
As they who seek diversion there;
Yet ne’er was time these fellows gay
Would deem another in the way,
And so make haste, fly o’er the sea,
The Pleiades will welcome thee!
Drawn by Wm. J. Steinigans.
See the lady? Does the lady want the soap? The lady certainly does. Will the pup bring the soap to the lady? It will not—the pup is a gentleman pup and the lady is a suffragette. The pup wants her to get it herself.
A l l Y o u N e e d i n N e w Y o r k
by Lee Fairchild.
Illustration by Wm. Van Benthuysen.
SHAVE and a dollar,
A shine and a collar,
Is all that you need in New York;
That is, if you’re clever
And never, oh, never
Are seen at the thing we call work.
When seated at dinner
Just for a beginner
Change waiters—a move for a bluff;
Talk “stocks” of the morrow
And then you may borrow
A crimpled crisp sign of real stuff.
Remember a story—
Quite new or quite hoary—
To quote to your host when you dine;
Be never a piker
But e’er a bold striker—
Aim high or the venture decline.
“Talk ‘stocks’ of the morrow.”
W a i t i n g !
by Mabel Herbert Urner.
Illustration by Luther S. White.
OU—you will come over Wednesday evening?” She asked it hesitatingly, timidly almost.
“I’m afraid I can’t Wednesday,” as he picked up his hat and cane.
“Then Thursday—have you an engagement for Thursday?”
“Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club.”
“Oh, yes; of course you must go to that.” There was a slight quiver in her voice now. “Could—could you come—Friday?”
“That’s so far ahead. I don’t like to make an engagement so far in advance. But I’ll phone you some time during the week.”
She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by he was gone. His step down the hall—the click of the elevator—then she ran to the window and followed him with strained eyes as he swung down the street.
If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as he used to—but he did not.
She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows—the ache in her heart keener than any physical pain. Was it hopeless—the fight she was making? Could she never win back the love she had lost?
“There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.”
And she had never known how she had lost it—unless it was because she had grown to care too much and to show it too plainly. Could it be that? Had he cared only for the uncertainty—the love of pursuit? And without that—being sure of his conquest—his interest had died?
Ah, no—no! passionately she denied that. The man she loved was bigger, finer than that! He could not have stooped to a merely cheap desire for conquest. If he had ceased to love her, it was some fault of hers, some failing, some lack within herself of which she was unconscious.
She had spent long hours of torturing self-analysis trying to find where she had failed—what it was that in the beginning he might have thought she possessed—and then found she did not. So great was her love for him that she felt she could almost make of herself what he wanted—just by the sheer strength of willing it!
If only she could be with him enough! If she could but have the chance to make him care for her again! He used to come almost every day—and now—now, sometimes many days would pass.
She knew it was a mistake to ask him when he was coming—to try to name any particular time. He seemed to resent that now. If only she could let him go without a word! But the thought of the long, silent absence that might follow always terrified her. Once, for two weeks, she had not heard from him; and the memory of those two weeks’ suffering always weakened her to the point of trying to make some definite engagement to escape the sickening uncertainty of the days to come.
Oh, she was so helpless—so pitiably helpless! Wholly dependent on him for her happiness, yet powerless to break down this wall he was placing between them!
She slowly arose and threw herself into a chair. There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.
Then gradually there stole over her a sense of quiet—almost of peace. It was partly the relaxation that comes after any emotional strain, and partly because of a faint hope, a belief that sometimes came to her and that comforted her above everything else—the thought that because she gave of her best—because the love she gave was a great and good love—some time he could come to know, to understand, and to love her again, if only for her unfaltering love of him!
If she could but wait long enough—patiently enough—in the end the love she so wanted might be hers!
T h e B l i n d M e s s e n g e r
by Annabel Lee.
Illustration by Walter Meyner.
F I could feel the song of faith still singing
In my heart, once filled with melody
Of all you seemed when love was bringing
Me to the shrine of your adolatry.
Ah! If the years and gods were but content
To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand
And give instead, the meed which heaven meant
Should crown each woman’s life in every land.
If the dead past would but one hour deign
A lonely pilgrim travelling byways rough,
An hour when love and peace would ever reign—
That hour indeed were happiness enough.
“. . . . . . .
To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand.”
T h e P l e i a d e s
by Hector McPherson.
LL hail! my brothers of palette and pen;
Of science and buskin, too;
You daughters of beauty and tuneful mien—
The joy-ship’s merriest crew.
Can this be Bohemia, realm of mirth,
Where the grave and gay unite?
Where genius now finds its nobler birth
And shines with a lustre bright?
Men here tell stories, their pictures paint,
As they burn life’s flick’ring lamp;
They toil and they sweat, yea, mayhap they faint,
Yet with care they refuse to camp.
When hand grips hand in friendly grasp,
Just jot this down in your book:
It is Nature’s heart that you fondly clasp,
Not an empty, outward look.
The flower of friendship sweeter blooms
Where all hearts are good and true,
Each nobler art richer form assumes
And shines with a fairer hue.
Ye Pleiades of the heavenly throng,
Down here you do bravely shine.
May your hearts be light and your way be long,
Lit by genius most divine!
Then forward from conquering field to field,
Nor heeding life’s battle-scars;
Nor malice, nor envy’s tongue shall make yield,
Who brothers are to the stars!
Table d’ Hote Bohemia
Here’s to “Table d’Hote Bohemia”
Where all may dare,
But only the brave
Can stand the fare!
L o v e r s
by Howard S. Neiman.
N her leafy, shady bowers
Grew a rose among the flowers;
Queen was she among the bloom,
Dainty with her sweet perfume.
And the flowers did homage pay,
Love by night and love by day,
Daisies fair and tulips sweet,
Bashful violets at her feet,
Thistles strong and lilies white
Told their love by day and night.
But she spurned their love so true,
She had lover no one knew.
And each morn when faintest light
Told the passing of the night,
She would lift her blushing face
For her lover’s fond embrace.
And when other flowers did sleep,
Softly to her he would creep.
In the dawning thus alone
He would call her all his own;
On her lips a kiss would press,
Leave them moist with happiness.
Love so tender, Love so true,
Fairest Rose and Morning Dew!
All my life-time would be sweet—
All my happiness complete—
If I were the Morning Dew,
And the Rose, Sweetheart, were you.
F a m e
by Katherine Fitzhugh McAllister.
Decoration by D. S.
HERE have been men whose souls were filled
With dew of knowledge thrice distilled,
Who bored holes in Time’s masonry
Thru which the stupid world could see;
Yet Envy with the pen of rage,
Wrote “Failure” on the title page!
Fame stood aloof, with scornful head,
And crowned them—after they were dead!
T h e T a l e o f t h e S t o r e G i r l
by O Hana San.
Illustration by Adrian Machefert.
ES, ma’am, to the right. No, ma’am, not this store.”
“Say, Sade, ain’t those dames a terrible bore
With their questions all day?
Perhaps now I can say
What I want to you, of me friend Johnny Ray.
Was the party real swell? Well,
I’m dying to tell
You of the dandy fine floor, and just what I wore
The price of that, ma’am? Well, ain’t she a ham
To get off her ear just because it’s too dear?
As I was just sayin’, there was dancin’ and playin’,
And cute Johnny Ray, say! was with me all day
Two yards of that lace? (My, Sade, what a face!)
Sure, ma’am, I’ll attend;
I don’t mean to offend
Either you or any other old lady.
Fresh? Can you beat that now, Sadie?
She’s gone to complain to the floorwalker chap—
It’s all up with me, maybe, but I don’t give a rap.
“As I was just sayin’.”
’Cos Johnny wants me for his own little pet,
And maybe I ain’t lookin’ for marriage just yet!
I can beat it—and quick—to a store on Broadway.
Hear me hand that to him,
With a merry ‘Good day?’”
And she did, and what happened is easy to write;
She married young Ray; that’s her end, so good night.
MORAL.
And the moral is simple for girls high and low:
You’ll never get left with two strings to your bow.
A good business one to pull at your will,
Or, a true lover’s knot may be better still
In case you get “fired,” like the girl in the store,
Who had two strings to her bow
And who knows?—some more!
A T O A S T
Illustration by Krieghoff.
I drink to the Pipe, which, at eventide,
Is dearer to me than a blushing bride.
As its perfumed clouds float on the air,
They curl into myriad visions rare:
Pictures of comrades of long ago
I see in the shadows that come and go;
And the long-lost love of my boyhood seems
To be kissed into life by my Pipe-o’-dreams.
A S o n g
by Eugene Geary.
Illustration by G. Michelson.
OUNG Love forsook the highways,
All decked in their robes of Spring,
And, far into silent by-ways,
He fluttered on golden wing.
Blithe youths and maidens chased him,
“He is only tired,” they said.
To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,
Then sighed that Love was dead.
On, on through the shining meadows,
As the rays of the evening fell,
He sped ’mid the length’ning shadows
Till he came to a lonely dell.
The flowers, with teardrops laden,
Bent their heads as he flew along,
To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden—
His sigh was a poet’s song.
“Then sighed that Love was dead.”
T h e C a v e r n s o f t h e S o u l
by Charles Louis Sicard.
Illustration by H. B. Eddy.
ITHIN the mystic caverns of our souls
There is a labyrinth unexplored;
Where dim aisles, winding far beyond the poles,
Have secrets of the ages stored.
Unheard far in the twilight mists of time,
Are weirdly haunting strains that sleep,
To be resounded through your soul or mine,
For those we summon from the deep.
Oft times I wandered in those ancient caves,
Seeking to pierce the crowded past;
’Midst endless hosts submerged ’neath lethal waves,
The all in one, sans first, sans last.
For Truth alone thus strangely did I grope,
Daring, despairing, yet in vain;
Until one wondrous hour, while stirred with hope,
My search revealed a slumb’ring strain.
One blast of barb’rous melody flung clear,
Swept back the veil, removed the ban,
And demon-ridden, and accursed with fear,
I stalked, once more primeval man.
Ah me, this thing, cast from the pit of night,
Knew naught but savagery and lust;
I searched in vain for truth, for love, for light,
Then bid him vanish back to dust.
“Within the mystic caverns of our souls.”
Undaunted through my soul again I sped,
A strain unheard, for cycles flown;
Adown the shadowed deeps this message fled,
Come ye, who first, love’s thrill hast known.
From distant ages dim, at last, I came,
With shining eyes of glim’ring dawn,
And throbbing heart aglow, destined to flame,
In love, through those as yet unborn.
I saw this self ancestral slowly fade,
To voiceless chambers of the gloom;
Where rest those throngs, who have so fully paid,
That Life’s dank weeds, might flowers bloom.
’Tis on the scroll, graved deep, that I now pay,
And Life must quaff the poison’d wine;
But Love and Hope, if star-strewn on the way,
Can purify the living vine.
O Soul, the tallied years of men count not,
For life eternal sweepeth back;
As life unending is predestined lot,
And I am I, from love, from rack!
This vibrant flame, entombed in human clay,
Divine spark from the æons blown,
Through loins of countless forbears to this day
Shall ever reap as all have sown.
Drawn by Albert Sterner.
L o v e ’ s F l o w e r
by Frank L. Norris.
Illustration by M. Torre Hood.
HROUGHOUT this life a moral runs,
And ye who read may learn
That God has placed in every heart
A sacred fire, to burn
And flash so long as life may last—
A priceless treasure trove,
A garden fair, beyond compare,
Where blooms the flower called love.
A flower that’s warmed by passion’s flame,
And fed by pleasure’s dew,
Its curling petals reaching out
Like beckoning hands to you.
But pluck it! ere with perfume gone,
It hangs its drooping head,
Nor passion stay from day to day
Until that flower is dead.
“But pluck it! ere with perfume gone,
It hangs its drooping head.”
T h e R e v o l t o f t h e S t a r s
by Maud G. Pride.
Illustration by R. S. Ament.
VERY long time ago, when the Heavens were quite new and the Earth was still in the Golden Age, a strange event occurred—quite unheard of even in those early times.
The Sun, vigorous and lusty, had rubbed his blinking eyes and hurried away to the west. The boy-child, Twilight, his chubby hands still clutching after the last red rays left behind by the Sun, winked his sleepy eyes, as, protestingly, he was pushed along in his crimson cart by Old Sandman. Close behind came his three sisters, the Evening Shadows, in their long, trailing, gray robes. A hush fell upon the Heavens. From far below came the hum of the Crickets and the low murmur of the Katydids, having their final good-night gossip, but in the Sky all was still until the Moonlady came softly creeping along, her silver mantle enfolding her slight form, her long silken hair caught by the Evening Breeze, who followed close in her wake. At her appearance there arose from the Earth songs of gladness and hymns of praise. Lovers looked up at her enraptured, poets sang of her, and even the brute creation sent Heavenward their low murmur of joy at her being. Silently she smiled down upon them all as she passed on her way.
“The Moonlady stole softly across the sky.”
Then a strange thing happened. Black clouds skurried here and there across the Heavens, and low mutterings were heard. The Stars had revolted!
Venus, her cold beauty marred by a frown of discontent, was the center of a murmuring group, to whom she spoke in words of passion:
“Let us take a firm stand. Why should we go on shining, shining through countless ages? We are not appreciated. We never receive any praise. There are so many of us and our light is so feeble, who cares whether we shine or not? The Moon comes along and takes away our glory; let her do all the work then. Why should we waste our light trying to outshine the Moon and the Sun? Unless we can be as brilliant as they and receive as much praise, let us not shine at all.”
Each Star blinked a sullen assent, and gradually each little light flickered and went out. The Dog Star barked and the Great Bears growled—the low mutterings became a loud rumble, and the Heavens for once were dark, save for a faint light that still gleamed away off in the north. Seeing the feeble light still shining, all the Stars rushed to it, surrounding the feeble Star that persisted in shining, and jeered at her folly.
“Put out your light, you foolish one. Do you hope to vie with the Sun or the Moon with that feeble flame of yours? What use can you be in this great space of darkness?”
“I do not know,” replied the Star, faintly, “but I can go on shining and do my best, though my light is small and goes but a little way. I do not envy the Moonlady her glory. Is it not a great thing that she can shine so radiantly upon the Earth and make so many happy? And if there were no Sun, what would the poor little Flowers do, and the Birds and the Beasts? My little light cannot do much good, but I can do my best to keep it bright, and if it reaches to Earth but faintly I shall be grateful. I had rather light one soul onward and upward than to have a choir of Angels sing my praises; I had rather one person should be glad he had seen my rays, than to be crowned with a crown of brilliant jewels and never have made anyone glad; I had rather one tearful soul should look to me and find comfort in my steady light than to have a million people bow down to me in worship of my beauty; I had rather one soul should be truly sorry when my light goes out than that a thousand should praise me for my brilliancy and not know when I ceased to shine; I had rather a baby’s face looked up at me and smiled and called my name than to be praised in a poet’s song and know he was paid so much a line for it; I had rather send one faint ray of hope into some troubled heart than to light the World’s Great White Way; I had rather shine on for ages unnoticed than to shine with borrowed light and be afraid of being blown out; I had rather
” But the little Star found herself all alone, and as she looked about her she saw that each Star was in its accustomed place, and that each light was more brilliant than it had ever been before. Even the dark clouds had vanished, and a little child looked up at the Sky from her bedroom window and said, “O, mother dear, see how beautiful are the stars to-night! They are God’s jewels, set in His Crown of Glory, aren’t they? If we are very good shall we be beautiful stars some day and shine for Him?”
And the Stars looked down and smiled Good-night. And the brightest of all the Stars were the Pleiades.
Drawn by Hy. S. Watson.
Eavesdropping.
T h e J o y o f L i v i n g
by Carrie Van Deusen King.
Illustration by Eleanor Schorer.
“This precious stone set in a silver sea,
This blessed plot, this realm, this earth.”
—SHAKESPEARE.
OULD heaven be sweet, if you and I were there,
And would the angels bear us globes of wine,
Grown rich with many a hundred golden years?
I fear me not, for one might deem you fair
And take away what I had known as mine,
To make my paradise a vale of tears.
Give me, then, earth with its humanity,
Born like a zephyr, soft, among the trees,
While sunlight dries the dewdrops from the rose.
Give me the earth, I crave not what may be
Beyond the height of skies or depth of seas;
I only ask the love that mortal knows.
If heaven be heaven to steal away the soul
Of all my rapturous hours, then give me life—
Its fog and dew, its sunlight and its shade,
Its day and night—but ever let me fold
Thee to my heart, to keep from thee all strife,
Whatever woe, whatever ill betide.
“. . . . For one might deem you fair
And take away what I had known as mine,
To make my paradise a vale of tears.”
T h e C a l l e d H a n d
by Laura Fitzhugh Lance.
Illustration by George Kerr.
O matter what the game you play,
Play it well;
No matter what the price you pay,
Never tell.
This life is but a game, of cards
Of mostly losses, few rewards,
The signs of Destiny’s regards,
Or Friendship fell.
The Ace of Spades, King Edward’s card,
Or William’s crest,
Each representing different games,
Each played with zest;
One stands for mystic power unknown;
Two play an act upon a throne,
Both wanting this fair earth to own
And all the rest!
“. . . . .
Each representing different games.”
What counts the cards when all is done
If king, or clown—
If Cæsar, Hohenzollern’s
Written down!
What—in those palaces on high,
In astral cities in the sky
Where we shall all meet by and by—
If hod, or crown?
For when we reach Infinity
The dwellers there
Won’t know the vassals from the kings,
Nor will they care;
King, crown and sceptered royalty,
The Here, the There—I, You and Me
Out there, out there!
P a s s i n g T h r o u g h
by John P. Wade.
ELLO, Central! give me Heaven! (This club of ours, I trow,
Is near enough to ‘Heaven’ for a mortal here below.)
Just tell me, is the President all ready for his cue
To start the talent flowing—while I am passing through?
“I just reached town this morning and now I’m outward bound;
I’m waiting at the grating like a ‘purp’ that’s in the pound.
Yes, I’m waiting with a heart-ache—I don’t mind telling you—
Sick with longing to be with you—instead of passing through.
“I know just what they’re doing. I can hear the old gong ring.
The toastmaster is asking now some angel fair to sing.
I wonder who the Guests of Honor are, and what they’ll do
While gathered ’round the festive board—as I am passing through?
“Hello! are these the Pleiads? Well, before I take my leave,
I wish to say I envy you this pleasant Sunday eve!
Here’s hoping that I’ll see you all before you say adieu
To the season on the circle. So long! I’m passing through.”
S p r i n g t i m e A g a i n !
by S. Frances Herschel.
Illustration by W. D. Stevens.
P from the Southland the sweet Spring is stealing;
Up by the brooksides and over the fields!
Valiant old Winter goes scuttling before her;
Force which has ruled us reluctantly yields.
Where is Spring’s pathway? ’Tis everywhere round us!
Over the hillsides and over the plains.
Kist is the broad old Earth back unto Life, until
Never a vestige of Winter remains.
Isn’t there ever a corner forgotten,
Far to the eastward or far to the west?
Some lonely hillside or coarse little meadow,
Some quiet woodland away from the rest?
Never a hillside or valley forgotten;
No little corner unkist by the Spring;
Each little bush has been touched and awakened,
Each little robin is trying to sing.
In through the depths of the woodland she’s stealing,
Seeking and finding each little live thing,
Waiting so surely the thrill of her coming—
Joy universal—the Coming of Spring!
“Springtime Again!”
F r o m t h e F u l n e s s o f t h e H e a r t
by William J. Lampton.
OOD God,
What is our living?
What is our thought and deed?
Have we, professed believers,
No substance for our creed?
Belief is ours, and mighty,
They tell us, faith is, yet
The things we seem to live for
Have made us all forget.
And love of wealth and station
Shines bright above the goal
That we have set for gaining
At sacrifice of soul.
Oh, God,
How vast the distance
Between the earth and sky,
Between man and his Maker
Is measured by that cry!
The hollow vault of silence
Rounds o’er us and we stare
Up through the depths and wonder
If echo answers prayer.
So far as Strength from Weakness,
So far is Day from Night;
Faith stumbles in its groping
Through Darkness toward the Light.
By God
We shall do better;
Be better, we must rise
Above the low horizon
Of selfish enterprise;
Be men and women, truly,
As we were made to be,
With souls for high ideals
And hearts of bravery
To lead us to the summits
Above the sordid strife
That make mankind forgetful
Of what is best in life:
To lead us to the summits
Of spirit and of mind,
Where man, close to his Maker,
Comes closer to his kind.
T h e W a n d e r e r
by Francesca di Maria Spaulding.
Illustration by Henry Raleigh.
E comes from a country where setting sun
Proclaims that the day and its work are done;
Where moon and stars shed the only light
On trails that are hushed and dim by night.
He wanders alone in the crowded town
Where skies are forgotten when night comes down,
Where torches alight in traffic’s name
May broider the streets with threads of flame,
May blazon the walls in strange designs,
May rive the darkness with flashing signs,
But quench the beam from each torch in the sky
As well as the soul of each passer-by.
Aweary at heart of the careless throng
He drifted and reveled with all too long;
He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,
For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill,
For the infinite heights of starry skies,
When the moon makes the world seem paradise.
But he ne’er returns, and up and down
He wanders—alone—in the crowded town.
“He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,
For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill.”
T h e A n s w e r e d C a l l
by George Elliott Cooley.
TAR-DUST awhirl in a vortex,
The infinite moving through all;
Called to the soul of the atoms;
And the Pleiades answered the call!
Thus on the earth when our souls thrill,
We gather in groups at the call;
It’s yearning for love that impels us,
It’s the Infinite moving through all.
TRUE TRANSMUTATION
In this world there are people scrambling for coin;
There are others, we know, who are seeking for fame.
All will-o’-the-wispers seem eager to join
In this harassing, harrowing, hectoring game.
But missing Dame Fortune, they sit down and moan,
And oft grumble because through their fingers she flits:
They should dig for the tramp’s philosopher’s stone:
“I can’t git what I wants, so I take what I gits.”
Drawn by Charles W. Kahles.
The Annual Dinner.
H a l l r o u m a n i a , o r T h e B o a r d e r l a n d
by Irvin S. Cobb.
Illustration by O. Cesare.
HE Boarderland is a drear domain bounded on the north by top-floor bedrooms, lying above the frost-line, because the steam register always gets discouraged and quits one story below. It is bounded on the south by basement dining-rooms, where it is night six months a year and just before daylight the rest of the time; on the east by an entrance hall agreeably perfumed with the combined aroma of kerosene, mother-of-onion, veteran linoleum and the stuffing in the red-plush sofa, and on the west by a parlor nine feet wide and thirty-two feet long, with one window in it and a doctor’s sign in the window. The doctor’s private office lies just back of the parlor, so the parlor smells mildewed when the connecting door is closed and iodoformed when it’s open.
Boarders, as the natives of this land are commonly called, are never allowed in the parlor except once, that occasion being when they first apply for board. Thereafter they entertain their company on the front stoop in the summer and on the telephone in the winter. Winter company is the more expensive.
“Thereafter they entertain their company on the front stoop.”
The ruling classes of Hallroumania are known as Landladies and may be classed generally into the following subdivisions: Landladies who belong to Old Southern Families and formerly rode in Their Own Carriages, but suffered Heavy Financial Reverses through the Cruel War brought on By Your Mister Lincoln; Landladies who never married and don’t regret it; Landladies who did marry and frequently regret it; Landladies who have no use for husbands, and Landladies who have husbands and use them to take the dog out.
The inhabitants are indeed a weird race, including unrecognized geniuses, earnest hopers, chronic grouches, back files and innocent bystanders; also single gentlemen who are believed to have had what is known as A PAST, and who are suspected of leading the dissipated life because they come in of an evening with the odor of rum and Business Men’s Lunch on their breath; also young women of undoubted dramatic power, who won the first prize for elocution at the Rome Centre School of Expression and came on two winters ago to put Julia Marlowe out of the business, but are being kept back temporarily owing to a jealous compact on the part of the theatrical syndicate; also other young women who think they are entitled to bird-like notes because they had the thrush once, and were sent here at heavy expense by fond parents who imagine New York as a place full of talented voice-plumbers who know how to weld Nellie Melba pipes on a Ruth Ann larynx; also single ladies who spend part of the time drying handkerchiefs on the window-panes and doing light laundry work in a toothbrush-mug, and the rest of the time making life brighter and sweeter for a pug dog with the asthma.
Also dashing gents connected with leading brokerage offices downtown, who wear priceless marquise rings on the little finger of the right hand, and go secretly away at night owing for two weeks; also persons of both sexes who have been misunderstood by the world and crave A Little Sympathy—that is all; also ladies who are constantly on the verge of moving to a perfectly delightful place up in Ninety-third Street because a fur-bearing foreigner has opened a Pants-Pressery next door and the neighborhood is rapidly losing its tone; also, just plain boarders.
A boarder is often likened to a worm. And this is a proper comparison if it is a tapeworm that is meant, because a tapeworm always knows in advance what it is going to have for dinner, and so does a boarder. For instance, he knows that on Monday night he will have a New England boiled dinner that tastes like the family wash on Friday night, one gill and part of the dorsal fin of a boiled fish, and on Sunday evening that nourishing repast known as cold Sunday-night tea.
This cold tea is probably the most noted of the established institutions of Hallroumania, being constituted as follows: A dank cold platter, veneered at rare intervals with specimens of the Old Red Corned-Beef Period of Geology, cut to the generous thickness of gold leaf; a peculiar variety of potato-salad, in a free state of perspiration and garnished at intervals with slices of pickled beets, like a few red chips strewn on the kitty; four small squares of petrified pastry (not suitable for food, but could be given to hardy children to cut their teeth on); a prune-floater, bloated up and nine days drowned in its own juice; a cup of ostensible tea.
The common recreations of The Boarderland are rushing the washstand-duck in a dress-suit case; wondering how the other boarders can afford the clothes they wear; progressive knocking and raising scandals from the slip. The prevalent disease is Furnished Rheumatism, brought on by living in a single-breasted apartment, and is marked by a cramped, choking sensation, the symptoms being almost identical with those of Harlem Flatulency.
Drawn by Henry Reuterdahl.
“THE FIGHT OF TO-MORROW”
From a painting on the wardroom bulkhead of the Battleship “New Jersey.”
L e s Y e u x
by Jeffie Forbush-Hanaford.
Illustration by Thomas Fogarty.
IRST I loved two eyes of black—
Two fascinating eyes of black!
They glanced at me and won my heart
Till of my life they seemed a part,
And I their willing captive;
But black eyes can so treacherous be,
That even while they smiled, you see
They tried to break the heart of me.
Then I loved two eyes of gray—
Two limpid eyes of gray!
“Love!”—cruel word—I smile in scorn;
Soon I was left alone, forlorn,
For when I told my love’s deep passion
Gray eyes smiled in careless fashion—
No love for me they ever knew,
So I left them for two eyes of blue.
“Gray eyes smiled in careless fashion.”
Two eyes of sunny, heavenly blue—
Two beautiful eyes of blue!
They gave me a tender glance so sweet,
I felt my happiness was complete
And their light was warm and true;
But when at last my mistake I found,
I fell in love with eyes of brown—
Two glorious eyes of brown.
Bright eyes! Brown eyes of beauty rare,
No other eyes with you compare!
Glancing from under lids drooped down,
Sparkling eyes of dusky brown.
Can I but win you, I’ll ask no more:
All my life I’ll worship—adore;
Live for you, work for you—always content—
If only, dear brown eyes, you’ll consent!
Drawn by Alexander Popini.
“The Pleiades Girl.”
H e r a n d M e
by Paul West.
ER locks were the glow
Of a dollar or so,
Her height it was few if not less;
Her eyes were as gray
As the end of the play,
And she wore, so they told me, a dress.
So I said, as I came,
“If you’ll whisper your name
I’ll reply, though I’m tempted to laugh.”
But she said, “Let me see—
More and F equals three,
Which, when added, is him and a half.”
“Are you certain?” I cried,
As I breasted the tide.
“If I do,” she insisted, “say no.”
Whereupon with a frown
I invited them down,
For it never grows well in the snow.
There were more, I’ve no doubt,
But I never found out,
For the cook sent the grocer away;
But I cannot forget
That she wrote, “Do not fret,”
Though her uncle advised me to pay.
So I sit all alone,
Writing things on a stone
With a pen dipped in beeswax and lard;
Which I know I shall be
When she comes back to me,
Though at present it’s dreadfully hard.
Drawn by F. B. Masters.
T h e V e r d i c t
by Charlotte B. Scott.
Illustration by Karl Hassmann.
HAT is most important? The rich man says, “Wealth!”
The sick man cries feebly, “Ah, no! it is ‘Health!’”
Inventor and poet contend it is “Fame”;
The worldly want “Titles” prefixed to their name.
The preacher chants solemnly, “It is the ‘Soul!’”
Ambition says, “Power and Place” is man’s goal;
“’Tis ‘Pleasure’ we seek!” laughs the crown-sceptre throng,
“The world to amuse us—Wine, Woman and Song!”
What is most important? “’Tis ‘Love!’” cries the lover;
“No!” frowns the physician, “’Tis but to discover
Some polysyllabical lotion for Pain—
New ways to cheat Death and new Honors to gain!”
“All false!” claims the scientist, “Pain may be drowned,
Love, Pleasure, Fame, missed, but the ‘Truth’ must be found!”
L’ENVOI.
Since no one can tell you What Is nor the Whys—
Since even the scientists but theorize,
Then, truly, the thing most important to do
Is the thing most important and pleasing to you.
“Ambition says, ‘Power and Place’ is man’s goal.”
A f f a i r e d ’ A m o u r
by Harry Johnson.
Illustration by E. H. Miner.
HREE-POINTED crescent—laughter-loving moon,
Thou Regent of the Pleiadesian skies,
I’ll mock thee if thy waning comes too soon,
Yet toast thy beauty ere its glory dies.
This Night bewitched me, and the friendly throng
Was sharper, clearer, with its merry jest.
Like one inspired, I rippled into song,
Feeling love’s loveliness was love’s behest.
All hearts responded;—still the echoes ring
In jolly welcome to my joyous song;
Oh, human harp! If love but touch the string,
Adieu to discord, dissonance and wrong!
Nay, one was mute—one only; but his eyes,
Brimmed to the lashes with sweet, wistful tears—
So, lovely crescent, as thy beauty dies,
I quaff to thee, to him—the cup that cheers.
“Three-pointed crescent—laughter-loving moon,
Thou Regent of the Pleiadesian skies,
I’ll mock thee if thy waning comes too soon,
Yet toast thy beauty ere its glory dies.”