Each moment in your arms, my love, Is, for my flaming heart, a coal Snatched, smoking, from an altar high; So lifted up, the horns thereof Are by each passing cloud embraced ; Those soft, white breasts pressed idly there Hold for this altar which they dare approach, A passing fancy. As woman's love May rest but for a moment ere A breath will blow, and, as a cloud It passes on .... Would I Were stronger metal to resist The temper on me placed. Yet here, sworn tho I be, If later yet forsworn ... the life of me Shall up in arms to gain Revenge for such a wrong. So, love, Always be true to me And in return
Be sure my love will never wane, Nor height nor depth can sound The chamber of my heart Where you shall dwell Forever and forever!
A RIVER
By PAUL CALE
There's a river by lovers called Pleasure, That is cool and is peaceful and calm, On her breast many lovers at evening Come to live for a while in her charm; For the air is enchanted with fragrance Which is wafted from flowers ashore, And it mingles with music from rowing As the drops trickle down from the oar.
Here the moon sprinkles millions of jewels
Whose reflections are seen from afar, And it seems as they dance in their splendor That they each are embracing a star, And when lovers are filled with the rapture With soft whispers they murmur their love As they drift in her shadowy waters Which contain every light up above.
At the end of this river of Pleasure
There's a current which sweeps down below To a pool that is called Separation Which to them is the river of Woe, Here the waves loudly groan in their fury As they break on the rock covered shore, And they leap in the air as though mad-men, Now to rush back again with a roar.
And it's often when lovers are sailing
Just above in the river that's cool, They are caught quickly up in the current And are crashed in this black, angry pool, But this pool which is called Separation, Which so madly and furiously roars, Never touches the lives of her captives, Only puts them on opposite shores.
SONNETS
By PAUL CALE
I
She smiled, and o'er my being crept a fire
Which set aglow my throbbing heart with joy, And lit within my soul a new desire'Twas love, alone, no more, and no alloy. I knew her not, but such a grace and form Seemed out of place upon this earthy earth
As would a child within a desert storm, A storm that knows not what a life is worth; She held me by a mystic, magic charm, And gladly stood I there, her captive prey, While in my heart she read without alarm Those words I fain would have but dared not say:
0, eyes, you did my open heart betray, She saw, and sighed, and turned away.
II
A distant rumble far away foretold
The coming of a storm; a fresh cool breeze Now swept across the grass, and in the trees Nearby it stopped, and sighed as though 'twere cold; A host of twinkling stars now hid from view Behind a rising cloud-another flare a moment, A moment lit her face ! I saw her there And felt a joy which ne'er before I knew, A hand which slowly crept into my own
With each new flash and sound became more tight, While nearby trees sang now with wild delight
To see her tresses o'er my forehead blownAgain bright stars came forth to twinkle glad; It did not rain, but my soul felt it had.
III
When aged winter on my hair doth snow, And eyes look dim as stars that glow through rain; When wrinkles plow my forehead, row by row, And seed my brow with sorrow and with pain; When age hath made my voice a feeble quake, And time hath caused to bow my sturdy back; When hands as branches blown by breezes shake, And tottering feet their strength and cadence lack; When music which was once my greatest joy Shall lose its sweetness to my failing ears; When childish mind shall make me youth annoy, And I forget my friends of former years,Be kind to me, and know if death delay, You, too, must shortly pass alike this way.
IV
0, Time, with speeding feet and slaying hand, How oft hast thou a kingdom leveled low, And left instead a lone and des'late land To ponder former glory in her woe. The earth recedes before thy parching breath, A sea is left where once blue violets grew, Thou leadest prince and fool alike to death, And leavest old things in the place of new; 0, changing Time, with such a mighty arm, Thy matchless deeds forever shall be told, But yet there lives a thing without thy harm, Thou canst not take its youth or make it old : For in my heart there dwells a love for one, Which still shall live when thy last race is run.
WORDS, WORDS, WORDS
(The time is out of joint ••. )
By HAROLD COOPER
JOHN ASHLEY, upperclassman in the bright little University of Westmond, sat in a street car on his way to the campus. He was a . "town student."
He shifted his books to the other knee, fitfully arranged his overcoat and was distantly irritated by the sickening pssssshh ! of the air brakes and the senseless, jerking rattle of the whole vehicle. "Seven cents, seven cents," he thought fruitlessly, "seven cents. Peculiar. Why not a seven-cent piece? I hate these motormen's hands. Dirty, mechanical. Uplifting life they lead-seven cents. Seven ; significant number. Occult. Seven sorrows the priests give their virgin. Seven-rimes with Heaven, leaven. And I saw in the midst of the elders, a lamb standing, as though it had been slain, having seven horns, and seven eyes, which are the seven Spirits of God. . . . The theologians must have a great time interpreting that hallucination of Saint John. There are seven plays each remaining from Sophocles and Aeschylus."
The street car turned the curve toward Dale A venue. The sun flashed on the book-page which he was idling over. He drew the shade down like an automaton. A loud clump! clump !-the trolley had jumped its wire again, right on schedule. Ashley scarcely noticed it. He read:
"When I consider how my light is spent. "
"Bad business to consider how one's light is spent," he thought feebly, "it makes one--" His eyes wandered and he found himself reading the advertisements on the car. "Subtly placed-these car cards. I refuse to buy a product that is vulgarly blatted forth: 'At last, the crowning achievement in vegetable butter. How many colors can you distinguish? Tote tokens, keep abreast of the times! He never knew why she said no.' Tragic. Euripidean. I must remember that, tell it to Nina. She is acting oddly of late. Trying to get adjusted to the new long skirts and low-necked dresses, I suppose. Ho hum. . . . Tum tiddle tum."
The car turned again and he pushed the shade up.
"Pretty day. Wonder what sparrows believe! Hail to thee blythe spirit!"
THE MESSENGER
He saw the sheet of the girl across the aisle. She was working math. He winced. "The fact that girls study such subjects kills Schopenhauer's argument about women. Conrad got around the woman question easily: 'I consider women as human beings, very much like myself.' Wise. Profound. Deep. Profound. j' etais, tu etais, il etait. Movie signs: Woman Hunger. A Soldier's Plaything. (Why not Man Hunger?) Did she have the right to love! Appalling. Today, the youth of the world is confronted by a million sex-stimuli where before there was none . Sounds like a sentence from a sociology text. Well, there's always Nina, even though she does read D. H. Lawrence. His restless women. We live in a restless age-sure, everybody says so. Sermon title on a church advertising board: Where Is God in the Machine Age? Seven cents. Three pennies and a ticket for a dime. Dimes are too thin. One has to pinch them anxiously or else they drop. Too many people. Girls with Physics books, boys with newspapers, and men with cigars,"
A torpedo-like automobile whoofed past. The wheels of the street car clicked regularly on the rails.
"The front wheels are iambics ; the rear ones are trochaics," he thought with increasing drowsiness.
Gradually he slumped down in his efforts for comfort. A stupid dozing overtook him.
The street car made such a terrific clatter that he looked out and saw that it was drawing to a shuddering halt at the campus. He lighted a cigarette, buttoned up his coat, squeezed his books under an arm, and filed out through the rear door-bump, bump, bump, went the steps as each passenger jumped down. Another day of lectures was before him. -
His first class was in ichthyocoprolitology. The professor came in, laid down in his chair, focused his intellect, and looked over the old familiar faces. He mentally divided his scholars into two groups : those who studied and forgot because they were not interested, and those who never studied. They lolled before him, exhausted at 10 A.M.
John Ashley was meditating over the excellent, though misplaced, gloss shimmering on the trousers of the collegian in front of him.
The professor of ichthyocoprolitology broke the solemn stillness with a cough, and--
"Gentlemen,"
WORDS, WORDS
Ashley often wondered at the exact shade of voice-texture behind that word ....
"today we shall endeavor to ascertain the idiosyncrasies of the more pronounced inhabitants of the latter day period in our arrangement of the development and involutions common to the more homogeneous species under consideration." The professor started slightly, and struggled to shape his ideas. "Confound it! I can't get my mind off that vibrant, adorable--" He gazed vaguely out the window, shook himself--
"And we are indebted to the painstaking research of Dr. Sqoethe of Vienna, who, in collaboration with a select group of colleagues, has at last come to a distinctly rich conclusion."
"Prof. is particularly glib this morning," reflected Ashley. "Must have something on his mind."
The lecture droned on. Cummings, on Ashley's left, slept peacefully with a suggestive grin on his face. Ashley examined him with insolent impersonality.
Cummings, by the grace of his steatopyga, was reclining at ease in the hard oak chair with his feet hooked in the back of the one in front, and his head resting in a cupped hand. His hair was still damp from the morning shower. His face was plump. The two days' beard of the typical college man showed its scattered growth here and there. He was comfortable and looked it, so thought Ashley enviously.
"Mr. Ashley, what do you think of its possible results?"
He looked up. The professor was now at the blackboard. There was a primitive sketch of something or other there. Ashley couldn't help but admire his brass.
"Tell us, Mr. Ashley, of the implications shown here."
"Well, the co-ordinating of the superficially apparent indices in the various conglomerations of nerve ends will eventually produce an effect hitherto - that is, prior to Dr. Sqoethe's experiments - unknown. But with--"
"Very good. That carries us up to an approach to the speculative side of the question. Of course, true scientific strictures are not evaded in order to pursue these ends, indeed--"
But the hour was up and they straggled out, bound for the nearest cococola.
HIDDEN BEAUTY
By HALDER FISHER
She passes when my back is turned. She is as rare, as beautiful, To me,
As any great truth I have ever learned, All this she is-that one I never see.
Careless and free as the native hare I range the woods, seeking the Beauty of God. The hills are mine And all He has placed there, But I never see (I must overstep, roughshod) The opening into that fairy grove. I miss it; and all the world's rich dross Cannot repay me for that loss.
Deep in my brain there lingers A faint and vague impression. And yet my mind now fingers The door-way of the Deep. I'll never knowI cannot knowThose thoughts I almost have. Before them pale to nothingness The thoughts that I can keep.
I'll never know the best there is. Something , more was meant for me. My clumsy soul can never guess The beauty it just failed to see.
THE ENCHANTED GARDEN
By MAROL (Fragment)
0 subdued retreat, englamoured by age, Cooled by tinkling shafts of waters, Untroubled by life's exacting wage: Ineluctable toil from him who loiters In hidden vales forlornTo you I come, 0 refuge!
Within your peaceful, quiet gloom, And green -enfringed solitude , Flowers tall, of golden bloom
Perfume the air to lull my mood.
A timorous faun is here in the glade Wistfully dancing an ancient riteBeneath the violet velvet shade, Where spreading boughs have dimmed the light Of the moon that towers on high.
And fragrant, dancing dryads
Cavort and laugh to the sky,Some kissing their sister naiads With kisses eager, yet shy; And streaming oreads from the waterfall Weave lotus blossoms in bowers, While gentle tones of music call To the gatherers of winey flowers
Upon a mossy, granite wall, O'er grown with trailing vines, Love's tiny elves with flutings small Parade in fragile lines.
THE PRODIGAL
By JOSEPH HOLLAND
TEN YEARS AGO! Gosh, what a lot of things can happen in ten years! He could hardly believe that he was going back. He had gone out to learn about the world at first hand. Had he been a fool? The disturbing thoughts of things back home had come upon him for the first time last week. Suddenly he had wondered whether or not his wife was still living in the same house. Silly idea! As if he cared! He wondered if his mother was still alive and if his father had changed. He wondered why he had not thought of this before. He must have almost forgotten.
A queer thrill ran through his body now. He was home again, but it was night and he could distinguish nothing of the scenes from without from the lighted interior of the street car. He had remembered the conductor whom he had known when he had ridden on this car as a boy. Strangely enough, the man seemed not to have changed much in those ten years. The conductor had not recognized him. He must be quite different from the boy of ten years ago. Then maybe he was believed to be dead by now The thought stuck in his mind. Somehow he felt like a dead man who was once more walking the earth.
He had cared for a while, but always nourishing his wounded pride and recalling his hot anger he had remained resolute. He had been terribly angry and had gone away because he was afraid . . . afraid of what he might do if he became so angry again. He could pretend to himself no longer. He had thought of his father and mother many times, and of his wife ... and maybe there had been a baby soon after . . . He knew that he had smothered these unwelcome thoughts. He had fought against them for ten long years. He had tried so hard to make good-to show them that he was great and powerful . . . then they would be sorry! Such childish reasoning had long since died out in his tortured bosom, but the old obstinacy still remained until a week ago. Even that was dead now and he was coming home !
Again this thrill of home-coming seized him. Then a doubt cast its chilling shadow on his spirit. What would happen? Did they want him to come back?
Gosh, but a lot can happen in ten years! Travel, adventure ... all that the wide world offers. Not all of it as glorious as it is pie-
tured. That tiger in Sudan had amost relieved him of his troubles in life and the necessity for continuing the struggle. But human beings, and lesser animals, too, for that matter, do not take kindly to a sudden and premature departure from this life, however vile it may be He had been no exception to the rule. The tiger had lost. He still had a scar on his face and several on his back. . . . Good thing Bill had his Winchester handy.
That Sing Fing gang were a nasty bunch. For a fact, he preferred tigers! At least there's something lordly and admirable about the big cats, but those tallowy Chinks of the Sing Fing ! Ugh!! ... He shuddered and put his hand over his eyes as if to shut out a disgusting sight. He well remembered his final clash with this organization. He had had to knife that big plump, greasy one with the broken nose. Lord! How the blood did spurt! It brought back to him remembrances of a hog-killing he had participated in when he was a boy.
The Turkish pirate ship. . . . That dirty little Cockney rat that had shot at him; his arm would always be stiff from the bullet wound. That terrible train wreck. He had been the only survivor. His nights haci been made horrible for months afterwards by remembrances of those grewsome scenes . Bodies with no . . . Oh! How could he think of the gory flesh strewn about him when he came to himself there beside the track! He shuddered again, fiercely. Why not turn his thoughts to pleasanter things?
Pat ... now there was a man for you! A good-natured old salt who had painfully taught him the art of knot tying and rope splicing. The best friend he had ever had. Even his cursing was on a plane almost reaching sublimity as cursing goes. After all it's not such a mean accomplishment to be able to express one's self in strong language upon occasion. The art is abused by vulgar usage. But all great souls must pass from this world; they seem to get the first chances on the outgoing of the tide while the dross is left high and dry on the shore. So, when the storm came and the winds blew, the little schooner and Pat had gone bravely down into the deep. A convenient plank had come along for him. The old tenacity toward life had asserted itself and so here he was, now. Fate had willed that he should live and come home again. Many times he had wished that he had thwarted the Sisters by casting himself back into the wrathful sea and had ceased to fight against its will.
THE MESSENGER
Come to think of it . . I must be a charmed being: a sort of modern Archilles without even a pregnable heel. Things just can't kill me. . . . To the devil with such bosh!
Well, I suppose I'll have to get out my old name now and brush it off! ... Hall ... sounds funny now, I haven't used it for so long. Better see Mamma and Papa before I go to see Mary. It may be easier. Wonder if they'll be glad to see me!
By instinct he realized that the next stop was home. . . . He pressed the button with a great, overpowering satisfaction. At that moment there seemed to surge up in him all of the pleasure and pain of returning to scenes once dear.
The car had stopped. He got up and went to the door. He stepped out into the darkness onto the roadway in front of his home. The dim, familiar outlines of the old house loomed ahead. Suddenly, he heard a roar behind him. A speeding car bore down upon him at breakneck speed. He turned toward it only as it was upon him. A blinding flare of headlights, a frantic grinding of breaks his terrified shriek died in his throat.
* * * * * * *
The body was badly mutilated, particularly about the face. No one recognized the man. His clothes were poor; a pipe, a few matches, a bag of tobacco, and twenty-three cents in change constituted his worldly possessions. A grave was prepared for him in the beggars' corner of the cemetery.
* * * * * * *
One little bouquet of white roses rested on his grave. Some curious individual had found out that old Mrs. Hall had placed them there.
"Queer how women folks do carry on," drawled a native as he bit a "chaw" from his neighbor's plug. "Them posies ain't <loin' the pore critter no good. She's plenty decent old 'oman, though; then she 'lows that some un '11 prob'ly do the like fer her kid when he gits kilt off. She still believes he's comin' back home to her some day." The wad was shifted to the opposite side of the mouth and the cuspidor was viciously but unsuccessfully aimed at before he continued: "That's the way wid women folks. . . . You kin pull they hyah and tramp on they toes .... Wonder if that Hall kind'll ever turn up?"
THE STORY OF CARSON
By H. H. COOPER
HIS name was Carson. I never knew him well enough to find out any other. He lived a singularly withdrawn life and seldom came to the irregular meetings of our little writing group. J ohn Wharton, who was getting together a club anthology of verses, chanced to see some of those rare lyrics by Carson, and so invited him around. These poems of Carson's were immaculate bits of craftsmanship, expressing a haunting, evanescent beauty.
He often walked alone at night, when the quiet and sheltering darkness protected him from the stares of people and the harsh noises o f the city. One night, after walking further than was his habit, he stopped in at a small restaurant; the comfortable and reserved air of the place charmed him, so he made it his favorite turning point for future strolls.
Now this restaurant was owned by a black-haired old fellowa Polish refugee-whose daughter sometimes waited on a customer or so, when business was dull, and the regular waiter was out. Since Carson never , went there except in the odd hours of the evenin g , he saw her from the very first. Looking back on it all, after these five years, I can easily understand how he was attracted to her, rather than to the standard girls of the day: for she was beautiful with that subtle touch of the exotic which escapes the average eye; a nd Carson's verse reveals a soul enamoured of all this. He loved the strange things in the world, and longed for an understanding which was not in the hearts of the brilliant women of his inherited circle.
Well! she was uneducated, naturally, but her nature was sensiti v e-just how sensitive, I am not sure. However, she listened with impulsive sweetness as he read to her the exquisite verses which she had inspired. Yes-that "delicate child of life" gently reading to her, as she sat opposite him, with her long eyes searching his wistful face, and her now immortal hands fluttering gracefully to caress his own expressive ones. . . .
But of course she never understood him : he was simply a novelty to her, and his blindness was complete for over a year. He was one of those unlucky devils, born for the ceaseless worship of one woman.
THE MESSENGER
She saw only the more obvious element in his love, and therefore married the waiter who was heartily endorsed by her father . I stopped speaking and looked at Lynnwood. He sat quietly before my dying fire, while a slim, blue vapour mounted from his forgotten cigarette. This was his first visit since returning from Europe. He, himself, had occasioned my monologue by a revelation brought back from France. This revelation was in the form of a very few poems in manuscript. He showed them to me with the fervor of a discoverer-"For surely," he had exclaimed , "they are poignant and glowing "
I saw at once that they were undeniably Carson's own work, but I said nothing until Lynnwood had finished his part of the story. It was painfully simple:
One night in a lonely section of Marseilles, Lynnwood had helped a broken and starving man to a bed and some food ;-but the chap had died before morning, leaving only this ragged manuscript with not even a signature.
Lynnwood slowly paced the floor in front of me, then softly quoted from Carson:
"I wander-forlorn, and seekingThrough ethereal gardens at night, Where cooling and glimmering fountains Lull my feverish sight.
"And oh! the exquisite roses That unfold their hearts to the moon,They are pale and delicate and fragrantToo fragile for the blaze of mid-n oon.
"These things-all these-relieve m e , And soften my anguished dreams,Tenderly soothing my sorrows From the world of unlovely things. "
THE MESSENGER
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EDITORIAL
FOR the past year THE MESSENGERhas had the not unenviable experience of being noticed. In fact, there are reports that it has been read by some who were not contributors. This is hartening. And the coming Autumn will find THE MESSENGERbasking in the glow of attention from the campus at large, for there are hints passed that some writers among us will be back with their familiar, feverish gleam,-waving ink-spattered papers at the gloating editor. Although, as usual, the flower of the campus graduates this June, there are eager buds pregnant with (yes, possibly) celestial fire, and these buds need to be lovingly husbanded if one is to see them luxuriate as they can.
Since neat poetry is easier to write than good prose, this, "the rush issue," exudes some interesting psychic documents in the form of verse, some of which will be selected for The Anthology of Richmond College Poetry (1876-1931) to be published in 1932.
INANIMATE THINGS
By LOUISE DINWIDDIE
There's a friendliness in inanimate things ; The clarion note of a bell that rings, The cheerful sound of an old clock's ticks, The turn of a knob, and a key that clicks. The scent of lavender on soft cool sheets, The warmth of a smile that mutely greets. The sound of a spoon in a cup of tea, Remembrance of a long said word, for me; A note of music loved that clings. . . . There's a friendliness in inanimate things.
SEA NIGHT
By LOUISE DINWIDDIE
Far, far out on a silent sea, The ships passed in the night. Far, far. in on a distant shore, I saw their drifting light.
Sea and sky, Sky and stars, Burning lights of life's dream fires.
Far, far out the night was still, Its stars dropped in a silent sea. Far, far in waves found my shore, Brought my lost stars back to me.
A SEA SHELL
By LOUISE DINWIDDIE
A quiet shore of silver sand, Lies far away near an empty sea, Where the soft return of endless waves Drank all the words you gave to me.
The wild gorse blew as your hair in the wind, As we wandered alone on the quiet strand, Where the seaweed sketched the flicker of foam, Where you found a shell to place in my hand.
The quiet shore with silver sand Lies far away near its empty sea, While only the echo of your voice I hear in the shell you gave to me.
TO PAN
By MARGUERITE
Pan, the great god, come and see What the world has done for me. Decked with garlands, robed in light, I would sport me in thy sight, Wildly dance and loudly sing, Praise the gods for lovely spring. Here in these walls of brick and stone, How can my ecstacy be shown? For civilizations' iron bands Have bound my feet and tied my hands. Pan, the great god, come and see What the world has done for me.
TRANSLATIONS FROM BEQUER
By BESSIE BURNS
Your eyes are blue, and when you laugh Their tranquil glory recalls to me The tremulous brilliancy of the sunrise That is reflected in the sea.
Your eyes are blue, and when you cry The translucent tears in them Appear to me as beaded drops of dew Glistening, sparkling gems.
Your eyes are blue, and in their depths As a gleam of light offering trust, They seem to me as a lost star In the heavens at dusk.
What is poetry? You ask while your blue eyes Look into mine. What is poetry? Why do you ask me? Why? Poetry ! Ah . . . It is you !
Tears are but water, and they go to the sea. Sighs are but air, and they go to the air. But tell me, dear: when love is forgotten Where does it go? Where?
THE QUEEN ARRIVES
By JOHNNIE ADAMS
HE stumbled and fell against the low, wooden fence that ran along the front of a small yard. He lay for a moment, not stunned, but too surprised to rise immediately. Then slowly he raised his shy gaze to the level of the fence, and looked about to see if anyone had seen his sudden prostration. Yes, the people were still there, stretching their heads about and looking with curious eyes before them. He rose slowly to his feet and brushed his soiled hands against his trousers legs. No one had seen. Their backs were turned. They would not have noticed him if they had seen. Why should he hurry? He was sure to get there before the Queen passed. And if he didn't. ... The jarring fall ' had taken away some of his eagerness. It did not matter now if he were not able to push his way through the long, dense files to the front. It did not greatly matter if he could not see the brilliant procession.
The gradually deepening silence was suddenly broken by a series of joyful shouts and sharp barks that seemed to start around the corner somewhere and flow down the narrow street at a great speed. The harsh sounds fell upon the crowded spectators with sudden and alarming force. The old master had rather timidly hoped to have his boys march in double file and stand at attention while the Queen was passing, but with wild shouts and laughter, they had fled down the school steps and were now headed in reckless flight for the dark, swaying mass that lined the street. Be quiet on a halfholiday ! They would as soon have thought of shrieking aloud in the class-room. But now . . .
The slightly impatient groups were still. A whisper, like an envious sigh or an awed gasp, sprang from mouth to mouth and left the hundreds of pairs of lips parted and eyes staring. Then silence like a disturbed bird of prey settled down once more on the watchers. It, too, was destined to be disturbed, and this time by a slow, soft strain of music that fell in measured beats upon the throng. Small silence crept in between the sounds.
Slowly out of the mists the long black line came. The horses, treading with quick, light steps, came first. They seemed to know that majesty was near, and at that moment might be reclining above the painted wheels that rumbled close behind their feet. It was but
THE MESSENGER
the nobility that they drew, not majesty. But it was all the same, perhaps, better so. Doubtless the ladies carried more feathers, fans, furs and flowers than the Queen anyway. They certainly were gayer and just as beautiful. The procession was black, all black, but brilliant with the lustre of a black diamond. The carriages were dark as bits of storm clouds; the lords and ladies were dressed in black. It was a foggy, cheerless day.
But the Queen? She lay among her pillows with closed eyes, serenely oblivious of the sea of faces that showed a strange emotion as she passed. The back of the last guard passed from view. The mists closed in. The cry that had been rising to meet the hovering silence same swiftly, brokenly.
"The Queen is dead ! Long live the Queen !"
OFFERINGS
By HATTIE HABEL
You bring me violets
Shrinking 'mid dew-drenched leaves; You bring narcissi, Golden from a glowing sun; You bring me showers Streaming mistily down, And in return ?
I offer ecstasy of admiration, Sheer abandonment to your sensuous beauty.
MOON MIST
By MARGARET HILTON
( Continued from preceding number) II
AFEW hours later Ann was aboard the Boston boat looking back at the place where the island had disappeared half an hour ago in a faint streak along the horizon. She had escaped her mother to be alone so that she could think of Caleb. Nothing was real to her except the thing that had happened last night. The boat and all these happy people seemed like a dream and only Caleb's arms were real. She had promised to marry him and she was going away from him as fast as this tiny bright steamer could make its way north.
But only a few weeks and she would be coming back. She would meet Caleb the first of August in New York when he came to interview the packers. Four short weeks and she would be Caleb's wife. They had arranged all that. Caleb was happy only when they had decided that she would go to New Yark on the pretext of visiting Aunt Kate in her Grenwich apartment. He had held her sorrowfully and wistfully until she promised to meet him at the Grand Central. They would be married, let her people know and then they would be on their way back to the island.
Further than that Ann had not ventured. It seemed so impossible, but of course they would work it out somehow. Caleb was a dear and he loved her so much. She supposed they would have to live in his little weather-greyed home until they could afford something else. There was Caleb's father, the old sea-broken Quaker whom she had seen only once, a kindly bent man. She would make him love her, make him comfortable with little things she would do for him and for Caleb. It wasn't, of course, the sort of a bride's home that she could write to the girls about, but she could do wonders with it. Gay cretonne curtains and the old furniture given a coat of bright paint. And Caleb would be there praising the clever things she did. She would help him build up a great sea food business, and later he would read books that she suggested and be more careful about his speech, because he loved her so much. Dear old Caleb, back on that island thinking of her. . . .
"So this is where you have hidden yourself?" Ann was aware
THE MESSENGER
of her mother's voice behind her. She turned and saw Mrs. Hilliard with a young man beside her.
"Ann, this is Kenneth Gerould. Isn't it luck that he happened to be on the same boat !"
"It was good luck for me," the young man said as he shook Ann's hand. Ann liked the way the corners of his grey eyes wrinkled when he smiled.
"Kenneth is going up to the cape for July, so we will see much of him," her mother went on.
Vaguely Ann was aware that this was the son with the law practice and a Harvard degree. She would have had to meet him some time, but now she wanted to be alone to think of Caleb.
"I must get back to your father, dear," said her mother. "He is already beginning to talk to me about a new book."
"And now, Ann," said the young man as Mrs. Hilliard disappeared around the deck, "you're Ann, of course, and I'm Ken. You see I've worked fearfully hard this winter and I'm going to make this month's vacation count. I think I'm in a bit of luck to have you to play with."
Ann liked that; he was so frank. There was keen appraisal in his face as he looked at her so that she was glad that her wooly green coat and small hat had a dash of style about them and looked well with her dark eyes and light hair. Ken was the sort of a man who appreciated good clothes and taste in a girl's dress.
"I haven't been to the cape since I was a little girl," Ann explained to him, "but I know there will be lots doing."
"I guess so. My sisters usually are in the thick of it, so we'll hope for the best. They're dancing on the lower deck, Ann. Shall we go down?"
Ann found that Ken was a good dancer and she could tell that he was pleased with her as a partner. She felt a heady pride in being with this tall good-looking man. She wished that Caleb could dance. Maybe she could persuade him to, , learn.
Later they sat on deck and listened to the ukulele chorus of some college youths. They fell into the gayety of the group. Ken was going to be a good playmate, a good sport. Ann could see his cleancut face in the light that came through the cabin windows. It was a fine face with a well -shaped forehead, and finely modeled nose, not handsome as Caleb was, but distinguished looking.
He offered her a cigarette. Ann lit it and the two points of light gleamed companionably in the darkness.
She had not smoked with Caleb. She knew that he objected firmly. "\i\Tomen have no business smoking," he said, "they have to keep things right and any woman that smokes is bad." Ann had flamed at that, "women have no business," but she admired him for it. Dear old Caleb had such a high ideal of women. After all, the only ones he had seen smoking were the bold things at the actors' colony. He couldn't know that nice women sometimes did.
"You don't mind smoking with a girl?" she asked.
"No," he replied, "I did at first, but there's nothing really wrong in it. It's up to them."
"Up to them." She liked that. No lording it.
At the cape they landed immediately into a swift round of pleasure. They had barely arrived before Panny and Cush bore down upon them with a collection of youths.
Cush and Panny were gay little things, but Ann liked them greatly. Ken had told her that Panny ran the college tea shop efficiently in winter, while Cush, older, was studying music in New York. She and Ken kept an apartment together, presided over by a widowed cousm.
"These are Ann and Ken," Panny introduced them. "Ken is a dear, but he's a bit high-hat since he has been collecting bills for Smith & Featherstone. I can't vouch for Ann, but we'll find her out soon."
"Well, I can vouch for her," laughed Ken. "She dances like a dream and she has a sense of humor."
"That's a family joke, my sense of humor, or rather lack of it," explained Panny as she linked her arm with Ann's and led her down to the water. Cush caught Ken's arm and they came along with the others.
It was late in the evening before Ann managed to escape to her room. Pleading that she was tired she left them still dancing on the porch. She hadn't written to Caleb. All day and the day before on the boat she had tried to find time, but Ken had been at her heels. She pulled a chair up to the window and sat with her pad and pen. She would write him a long letter, her first real love letter. She tried to tell him about Ken and the girls; she described weakly the cottage and the view from the porch across the bay. Poor old Caleb.
THE MESSENGER
He had probably been watching for the letter she should have written yesterday. She wished that he could share some of the fun. But she had difficulty in picturing him with Cush and Panny and Ken. He was so serious. And he had worked so hard every day in his boat with his lines and traps. Some day she would teach him to play, to enjoy parties and good times. They would play together as she and Ken had played yesterday on the boat.
The laughter and music came to her from the porch. It was rather hot in her room and the porch would be cool, but Caleb would be waiting some word from her. It seemed so long ago that they were together on the beach. She tried to put into writing some of the thoughts she had had yesterday as she stood looking back towards the horizon where the island and Caleb had disappeared. But with that laughter floating up from the porch it seemed mawkish, the moonlight and Caleb's arms. She was tired. Tomorrow she would write it out, and when she was in his arms again she could tell him far better than she could write.
The days followed one; another in riotous color. In the mornings they played tennis. She and Panny were a good match for Cush and Ken. They played whole heartedly, set after set, until the heat made them drop in the shade, hot and laughing. Then with the breeze cooling them they exchanged their young philosophies and their views of life. There were never any bitter arguments. They were too well bred for that, but they were only eager and serious and intent on living. Ken called Panny a theorist and a radical. She would get over her ideas after she left college or at least she would change them. She was keen now on labor problems and class inequalities and that sort of thing. Ann sided with her, but Ken laughed at them. His added years and experience in the every day world dampened their enthusiasm and theories.
Ann respected Ken's ideas. He made her feel a little immature, but she tried her opinions aloud.
"Isn't it a matter mostly of environment and opportunity? If people had the same chance at life, the same kind of home and education and all that, wouldn't that make the difference between the classes?"
"Yes," he admitted, "that makes a difference, but the classes remain just the same. You and I speak the same language and with the others that speak it, we make up a class. Don't misunderstand me, Ann, I'm not a snob. I believe in democracy, in being friendly with
all sorts, but I wouldn't pick a person out of my own class for a companion. I wouldn't marry one. You think me a snob, Ann, but I'm really just talking common sense. The people we have to live with have to be as near like ourselves as possible in tastes and ideas and that sort of thing."
It was then that Ann realized that she would never go back to the island with Caleb. She had told no one about him. Not even to Panny, with whom she had become intimate, could she reveal her plan to marry him.
The three weeks that she had been away from him had brought her too far back into. her own world to ever leave it again.
After a few short letters her writing had ceased. As she had read Caleb's first letter a dull flush: crept over her cheeks. The misspelled words and crude sentences shocked her. She stuffed the letter far back in her bureau drawer. One part of it had hurt her and brought a wave of pity for Caleb. "I met the mail boat today expecting to hear from you. There's nothing to write you about here, but I can't help thinking of our last night together."
She thought of him at the wharf, standing in line while the mail was sorted.
After that she had barely read the letters that came from him and torn them up as soon as she had finished.
During the last week she scarcely had time to think of Caleb. They were crowding their last days of vacation together full to the brim. They swam in the afternoon, and lay on the hot sand "letting the air and sun soak through us," Panny said, "enough to last through the winter."
There were picnic suppers and evenings spent dancing and long motor rides in the cool night. The four of them were always together. Sometimes two youths accompanied Panny and Cush, but the four of them were good company. Ann liked the way Ken made chums of his younger sisters.
"Gee, Ann, it's a shame to leave you up here alone," Cush said one afternoon towards the last of the week. They were lying on the beach. She and Cush were playing "holes" in the sand.
Ken stopped his digging and sat up. "It's a devil of a shame," he said. "We could have a jolly time if you'd come along with us to New York."
"Can't you, Ann?" urged Panny. "Haven't you a relation you
THE MESSENGER
could park on for a week or so? I wish we could invite you to stay withi us, but Cush is going to occupy the only spare sleeping place."
"There's Aunt Kate," Ann replied, "she'd be glad to have me."
"That's fixed," Ken said with a smile. "We'll plan a good time. You haven't seen the new exhibit at the Metropolitan and there are several good shows that haven't left town."
"Oh, I'd love it," said Ann. It would be great fun to do things with the three of them. They were such good pals and they liked to do such jolly things - pictures, the Metropolitan, plays, exploring queer places. There wasn't a dull minute in their company.
Ann was hot and tired, but expectantly happy as they pushed through the gates into the Grand Central three evenings later. New York always thrilled her, and with Ken and the girls it would be a new adventure.
"You stay here," Ken told them as he went for the checks.
Ann glanced at the great clock hung high above the scurrying people. How authoritative it looked, telling them just how many minutes they had to make a train or warning them that they must hurry to an appointment. Five o'clock, now.
Suddenly a calendar beneath the clock flashed before her. August the first. The first! This was the day she was to have met Caleb, and until this minute she had not even thought of it. She wondered whether he had come, after all. Probably he had, since it was a business trip for him. Of course, he had not come to the station since h~ must have known days ago that she would never meet him. She should have written him, but she had been a bit of a coward about that. Just letting it slip, not writing, not mentioning it. The easiest way yet perhaps the kindest. If she had not met Ken and Cush and Panny would she be here with him now? Would she have met him two hours ago as they had planned, and gone with him to be married?
Her eyes swept the figures about the rotund desk in the center of the great station. He was to have found her standing there. Suddenly her heart was beating wildly. There he was, standing watching the crowds as they swept through the gates. She was afraid that he might see her, come towards her, claiming her before Panny and Cush and Ken.
Then suddenly a great wave of pity surged over her. He was so lonely standing there in his poor clothes. So out of place among all
these people, hunting for her. His eyes were strained towards the gates, searching, eager, waiting for her. He must have been standing so for hours, expecting her, becoming tired with doubt as each minute passed.
"Ann dear," Cush was saying, "don't you adore to watch all these people? Some of them are so funny."
Funny, that was how Caleb would look to Cush! In his rough green jacket and leggings he was strong looking and handsome, but in that cheap blue suit, he was funny looking.
She saw him glance at the clock and then stoop to pick up a shabby brown suitcase. He turned and walked slowly towards the stairs. There was something so pitiful about the droop of his shoulders. She longed to go after him, to touch his arm, to see the joy in his face as he saw her.
He was disappearing up the stairway. Cush and Panny were so absorbed in watching the crowd that they would not see her hurrying towards the stairs. Caleb had come for her and she had hurt him. In one minute all the sweetness, all the beauty of their night together came back to her. She started to run. He was just ahead of her. She would call to him.
But she couldn't do that; he wouldn't hear her. And as she leaned weakly against the stair rail she realized that she didn't want to call him back. He reached the top of the stair. Then the street and the crowd caught him up.
Hot rebellion swept over Ann. Why did you have to crush the first love out of life, beat down the beauty and the passion of it? Why couldn't you have first love in all its youth, the sweetness, and the strength of it.
A man jostled her. "Beg your pardon, miss." Ann turned and walked down the stairs to where Cush and Panny and Ken were waiting for her.
The following June Ann was married to Kenneth Gerould.
III.
It was seven years later that Ann went back to Nantucket Island. Kenneth suggested it.
"Ann," he said, "there's a little island up near Boston that they
THE MESSENGER
say is pretty quiet. Not much doing, just a good place to rest. If it suits you I'd like to spend a ten days there."
"Oh, any place that's quiet, Ken. We both need a rest. When shall we start ?"
"How about tomorrow?"
"No; I have a paper to read at the Century Club tomorrow afternoon and I can't think about packing until after that."
"The day after, then, and, Ann, I think we'd better not take Doady."
"No," agreed Ann; "she'll be better off here with the nurse."
Ann, busy with her paper, did not give the holiday a thought until the following night, she wondered vaguely what place Ken had picked out. It didn't matter, just some spot where he could sleep and walk and read. In the six years that they had been married Ken had only taken one vacation. She wished that he could take more, they did him so much good.
Since it was an island, little Doady would enjoy the beach, but Ken was right in not wanting her to go. It would do them both good to be away from her for a while.
It was not until they were on tl'le small steamer out from Boston that Ann realized that she was going back to the island where she had met Caleb Marshall. It came to her with a start. Of course, why hadn't she thought of it before. But she really hadn't thought of the island and Caleb for some time. Why it was years, actually years.
She wondered whether Caleb would still be there. But he would, of course. He was the sort who stayed in one place always.
She had never told anyone about Caleb, not even Ken. At the time she could not reveal his poor secret, and later she had remembered it only vaguely, almost forgotten. She could tell him now. On the steady light of eight years it was easy to see the thing calmly.
"Ken," she said as they stood watching the island lighthouse come into view, "I had my first real love affair on this island."
"He was a native, a fisherman and a Quaker. It was the summer that I met you and I think that you saved me from marrying him."
She could speak of it lightly now, with only a queer drawn line in the corner of her mouth to betray how much it had once meant to her.
"And will you want to see him again?" asked her husband.
"No; I'd rather not. He probably married one of the village girls -years ago, and has a lot of children. I'll venture they live in the same cottage and that they are poor and very grubby. Of course, I won't meet him because the hotel will be across the island from his house."
And yet one afternoon a week later, the impulse seized Ann to go out to Squaw Head. She wondered how the beach would seem now, and the moors. She suddenly wanted to see Caleb Marshall. After all, to see him happy with a family would be a better picture to have of him than the one she had, a forlorn figure standing in the station, his eyes searching the crowd. Kenneth had gone for a look at the old museum, but she left word with the hotel clerk to tell him where she had gone. Ken must not think that she wanted to keep it from him.
She took the sail boat across the bay to Wauwinet, then she walked along the road which led to Squaw Head. The beauty of the island returned to her as she trudged along in the sandy dust of the little road. Everything was the same here, the bayberry bushes covering the rolling moors, the red cliffs and the sweet warm air.
Soon the cottages came into view. There was the one in which they had stayed, there was the beach where she had spent hours lolling in the sun, and beyond was Caleb's house.
Ann wondered whether she dared knock at Caleb's house. If only she could come upon him by chance upon the beach. If she went to his door it would probably be opened by a dull looking wife from behind whose skirts, small faces would stare wide eyed. She wondered whether he would look the same in his leggings, and rough sea green coat. She knew that she looked scarcely two years older, but would she appear the same to Caleb? After all, wasn't she a bit of a fool for doing this thing, trying to recall something that was dead? Better to go back now before it was too late.
There was a man drawing water from the well at one of the cottages. By his voice when he spoke to her she knew him for a native. This man could tell her about Caleb and then she would go on back.
"Is the-could yem tell me," Ann tried to sound.Jcasual, "whether there is a man here by the name of Caleb Marshall?"
The man set the bucket on the well rim, and stood for a moment, eyeing her quizzically.
"Well, no," he said; "not now."
So Caleb was gone from the island. But why didn't the man go on? He seemed to regard her curiously. He had a story to tell, but he was holding it back, checking it on his tongue, dramatically waiting to loose it.
"Did you know Caleb Marshall?" he asked, looking from her smart hat to her small, well-shod feet.
"Yes," said Ann tensely; "he was a friend of mine."
"And you didn't hear about him?" Why didn't the fellow out with it!
"Caleb there was a fine fellow, fine a fisherman as the island ever had. He had a deal of promise to him. There was a New York packing company would'a give~ him their lobster business. He went to New York to see 'em that summer before."
"Before what?" Ann asked a bit sharply. She wondered if the man noticed the rush of blood to her face.
"I'm getting to that now," he went on. "No one ever knew what happened in New York, but he come back here sort of cross and melancholy like. He wasn't his real self. It went on that way all fall and winter, him a-gettin' more and more quiet and sad like. We never knew what it was, but we always thought it was some girl he had met in New York that had jilted him. He wouldn't pay attention to any of the island girls. They was one girl here that was wild about him, but he wouldn't look at her. He took to walking up the beach alone at nights. Oh, he was all right in his head; it wasn't that, but he was just sad and melancholy. It was one day the last of June that it happened. It was a terrible day. Sam Coffin says he told him not to go out to his lobster crates-that there was a fog acomin' up. But he went out anyhow. They found his boat tied to one of the crate anchors. The oars were gone and there wasn't nothin' in the boat but his tackle and his coat with a page cut out of a newspaper two weeks old in the pocket. It was a New York paper-the society part with the picture of a lady that was to get married. Of course, though, that wasn't the girl. No one thought that, because she was a society lady, the daughter of some writer of books."
"Did they-did they ever find him?" Ann was glad that the brim of her hat was large enough to hide her eyes.
"No, ma'm, nothin' more. We never knowed whether he lost
his oars and tried to swim for the shore or not. There was a terrible fog and a heavy surf and he couldn't a-hoped to make it. Some blame his melancholy, and says he'a did it on purpose, but I don't think that. Caleb wouldn't a-done a thing like that, but his melancholy may of had something to do with his takin' such a chance as that. Seven years ago last June it was, the eighteenth of the month."
The eighteenth of June-her wedding day.
Ann stumbled along the sandy road back to Wauwinet. There were tears in her eyes and she felt old and tired. The sun was pitilessly hot and clear, while she longed to feel again the island mist about her, holding her in its pagan coolness.
Only Ken and the memory of Doady's little head against her shoulder were real and clear-like the sunlight, but out there in the mist was Caleb. The moon mist that had meant so much to Caleb Marshall and to her so little-youth and love, first love in the moonlight.
MISTS
By FRANCES SMITH
Grey skies, Grey low-hung clouds, Pressing the tree tops to their soft bosoms, Pressing their faces down to the damp earthKissing the earth with their moist, cool lips.
Grey mists, Grey phantom mists, Tenderly hovering o'er placid watersWrapping in soft folds the jewel-bright droplets, Shrouding and secreting mystery.
WATERFALL
By EVELYN COOGLER
Still as the evening is the water here at my feet, Calm and hushed and motionless. But yonder in the distance I hear it steadily pounding. Vaguely know that it slips over a fall and beats on the rocks below.
Still, smooth as a darkening mirror is the water here at my feet And, all night long the stars glow in it like bits of silver, But in the morning always they are gone, I wonder if they, too, slip over the edge And fall to gleam on the rocks below?
NOCTURNE
By EvELYN CooGLER
When the moon-man crosses his knees at his ease And props back his head on his hands, I lie on the beach just out of the reach Of the sea as it runSI up the sands.
When the Man in the Moon drags his toe through the clouds, Swings his foot till the crescent tips high I lie in my hammock and push with one foot And dream that I'm riding the sky.
INEVITABILITY
By VALERIE LE MASURIER
THERE were only the two of them. At one time there had been a horse named Nelly, but that had died; and so had the little white dog. They had lived together some twenty years in the old corner house. Ever since I could remember they had been there; they were a part of my childhood. The old man used to keep chickens, and for years I went regularly, twice a week, with my little basket, to buy eggs. , I rang the bell and the old lady asked me in to wait while she filled the basket. The hall was always in semi-darkness and I could see myself vaguely in the wavy glass of an ancient hatrack. The parlor was never used unless there was important company. Once I slipped in, curiously. The shades behind the stiff lace curtains were drawn almost to the bottoms of the windows and in the dimness there were two faces staring down at me from either side of the mantel shelf-the old lady and the old gentleman when they had been quite young; it was hard to imagine them young. There were artificial flowers, prickley horsehair chairs, and a massive family Bible. The room had a musty, dank, odor, funereal. It frightened me and I crept back into the hall.
On winter days I waited in the sitting-room, warming my reddened hands before a great black stove. In this comfortable room the old couple spent most of their days, playing checkers for hours at a time. The old man would sit on his side of the checker-board, waiting to resume the interrupted game, and talk pleasantly to me. He was a short, fat little individual, resembling the pictures one sees of St. Nicholas, save that he had no beard. He would talk about the weather and his chickens, and inquire about my parents' health and my progress at school. These subjects of conversation grew into a sort of formula that was used each visit. Finally his wife would return. She was a kindly woman and would often slip in an extra egg or some ginger cookies. However, the best gift of all came when the big tabby had a litter of kittens. I would be ecstatic when she presented me with one. The next morning I would reappear tearfully with the tiny cat in my arms; in spite of my pleading Mother was always firmly convinced that the one cat we already owned was sufficient.
I began to grow up. Mother stopped taking eggs from the old
people and I never went there any more. Sometimes on fine days they rode by in an old fashioned buggy that looked very odd in the midst of hurrying motor cars. But after the old horse died they scarcely ever went out except to walk around the block. When I passed by the house I would see the old lady pottering about among her flowers, while her husband worked in his vegetable garden. Of evenings they sat on the front porch. They scarcely ever talked, yet they appeared contented. In winter I would never see them, but I knew they followed the same little pattern of life, playing checkers before the fire and retiring soon after dark. The ordinary amusements of life did not seem to con cern them. They never read, because of poor eyesight; they ne v er heard music or saw a show. They did not seem to require anything but mutual companionship. They had each other; that was enough.
Last summer the old lady became ill. She was bed-ridden for weeks, and soon the neighbors began to take her sickness for granted as something rather permanent and not very alarming. The old g entleman seemed fairly cheerful when you inquired about her. You couldn't think of him as anything but cheerful.
One very beautiful afternoon late in the summer I stopped and called to the little man who was mowing the lawn, and asked about his wife. He looked up and his face was drawn in lines of agony. As soon as his eyes met mine he dropped his head downward again and began mowing furiously on a strip of grass that did not need cutting. After a few seconds he said slowly, desperately, "She ... don't seem to get any better."
I was embarrassed, knowing that I had glimpsed the inner torture of a man who sees the thing in the world that means most to him, slipping away, and is powerless to hold it. I wanted to say something that would help, but there wasn't anything to say. I murmured something about how sorry I was. He hardly acknowledged the words, but kept on pushing the mower doggedly. He didn't want to be pitied.
After that for months I saw him only at a distance. One night he walked by the house. He was a queer, lonely, little figure, barely visible in the darkness. At the corner he paused for a few minutes under the glare of a street lamp. His head was lifted and I imagined he was praying there in the light. Then he moved off into the blackness beyond.
INEVITABILITY
Fall merged into winter and still the old lady lingered on. I had almost forgotten about her. Then one day early in January I was returning from school, plodding along through the snow, singing some silly popular air. In the middle of the tune I stopped suddenly, staring at the corner house. There were flowers on the door.
The following day I went to the house. In the dark parlor the old lady lay in state. It seemed quite fitting that she should be there. I had the same feeling about the room now that I had had as a child. I wanted to get far away from its frightening mustiness.
As I was leaving I looked back through the open door of the sitting room. Before the stove the little man crouched, immovable as a stone thing.
The checker game had ended.
HAND SIGHT
By MARY LUCILE SAUNDERS
HER fingers were playing with the piece of paper, a tiny white slip of paper, and very thin, almost transparent enough that one might see what had been written without unfolding it. The crease of the paper was very marked where it had been pressed together many times.
People were such utter fools with their minds open to any flow of words about them, eagerly drinking in any ideas that tumbled past, believing anything that they hadn't thought of, and drowning with childish happiness in a flood of superstitions. Certain indeed was it then that with such beings as people the palm-reader was a successful and cruel leader of a throng that surged close, willing to give even themselves for a few many-meaninged words about themselves and their future.
Her fingers were still for a moment and in the girl's eyes there stole a grimness that merely paused before it went away, and she laughed under her breath at herself, the greatest fool of them allbecause she knew herself to be a fool, and yet she was wise. She had always been able to remember what a fascination the lines in her hands had held for her, how she had watched the everincreasing number that had made up the fine network on her palm. There had seemed to be a queerness of design there, slightly different with each glance. A design that had held her eye, but whose meaning she could never quite catch, lines that made pictures she could not see.
The girl studied the tanned beauty of her hands as they fingered the note that had not yet been opened and breathed deeply. She probably wouldn't want to realize those pictures that might be ghastly and make her hate the vision that showed her so much more than she dared know.
Why must one have an imagination to blind the sanity, to break down the reasoning, to pain one in an agony of apprehension that brought a terror at no one thing? A terror that could not be conquered because there was nothing to battle, a fight that took away the senses because it was of the intellect and not of action. It was the mind that weakened and sickened people until they were fools,
prey to words that were not said, insinuations that were not made lines that could not be read. '
The girl looked at the folded note, but she could not distinguish the written words. It was not that she was afraid to open it, but the woman had asked her not to until her return home, and there had been no reason why she couldn't wait a little longer. Still ...
There had been a strange fear about the palm-reader when she had first looked at her fingers and then turned her hands over, palm upward. This fear had come close to her when the woman had refused to read her hand. It had gripped her heavily when she had seen the pain on the other's face as if she were suffering from a deadening hurt of knowledge, a helpless realization that her vision gave sight without strength to save it or those that it showed. A light that damned and saved for evil.
Her fingers twitched as she shivered in the coolness. A few more blocks and she would have to be getting off the bus and arriving at home. She would have to explain to mother why she was so late before she could go to her room and really read the note. She would finally know why her hand had silenced the palm-reader.
This absurdity of continually explaining one's actions was such useless doing. One's movements were purely personal, but the world never permitted the individual to remain so. Instead people were forced on their own pedestal to be molded by the world into fools that served all equally insanely, that were driven mad by the crushing force of stimuli, that warped their sanity under the proddings of a social system that welded them into the fine parts of the huge machine of the generation.
Her fingers firmly placed the note in her pocketbook and the girl got up slowly from her seat and made her way to the steps leading down from the top deck of the bus. The road was quite rough and she had a hard time to keep from falling to one side as the big car lumbered on.
Somehow, she wasn't worried about the excuses she would have to make her mother; they seemed so far off, rather as if they never would happen. The note had stopped mattering when she had put it away and she felt curiously different. Her mind wasn't thinking and yet it was quite pleasant, a contentment that was almost a drug. This blankness made the world and its people so very small that she
felt free to rush into a new realm of her own being where she could develop with freedom into herself.
As the bus jolted to a stop the girl's foot turned and she fell before her fingers could clasp the rail. There was no fright in the expression that came on the girl's face. She was almost happy when a blow brought darkness that stopped everything.
(The girl never regained consciousness. Upon her body there were found no means of identification other than a slip of paper addressed to M. L., bearing the words, "you have no future.")
A PRAYER
By JOHNNIE ADAMS
Don't break my heart with a withered rose I gave you when full of bloom. Don't shatter the silence with bitter tears, Nor tarnish my love with gloom.
You laughed last night when the moon came up, You laughed, as you thought, with love, "I'll send you a pansied wreath," you said, "Tied to the wings of a dove."
One day I found the pansied wreath. The dove was not close by. His wing was caught on the broken edge Of a cloud high up in the sky.
If you love the flower that was once my heart, You may kiss its face again. But when you have kissed it once, my dear, Throw it out in the rain.
EPILOGUE
By RUTH FISKE
Purple cloud now turning grey Once more this arena grows di,w, Shade of the day, would you Whisper its secrets before you go?
Tell of the argosy outward bound That passed on the river bank, A young boy watching; while the wild Bird set his windy oboe plaint Echoing softly, and Far on the waves came a sailor's chant.
Tell of the vagabond's long highway That twists with every stream Until it sinks to the sun's lair; And tell how a bent gypsy paused In its low flaming dust, Frightening the ants as he tapped his stick.
Enough! Be mute with the deepening night, Vanish until my eyes
No longer see your curtain face, Thou ashy phantom of the day.
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