LE L A N D SYNCOPATION SYNCOPATION LEL AND BOSTON THE POETRY-DRAMA COMPANY 79/9 Copyright, 1919, by The Poetry- Drama Company SYNCOPATION 470840 SYNCOPATION There by the river that first fair day of Spring Or in the vague romance of a city night Always your face before me. What was the night? I remember you, The blue of your eyes, The wistfulness of your flesh Somewhere in the city Looking down upon the park Moonlight and the monotone of people in the streets Or over a cafe table on a Sabbath afternoon; August, a secret room beside the sea Far off the throb of 'cellos and the lilt of lithe violins Cinematic, transitory. . . memories of glamored days, Flashes from romanced nights Sagan's at Christmas . . . and heard your voice again A damask room, lights dim And tearing the silks and laces That half-concealed your beauty . . . Traffic And the drone of plodding men below Fools, fools they were, but naught could tell them so ... May-flower road, a car, what was the year? Citylight palloring your frail, wanton face Your eager flesh that sobbed with quick desire . . . A song to Eros ... a dance to Syncopa . . . our symphony of life vivacious . . . Autumn. . . the rush of crowds. . . the caress of color. Obbligato to our youth . . . I touched your hand and you swayed There is pleasure Catch it, snatch it Through a snowfall arm in arm Don't worry, dear, there is no harm Hold me that way, Ardente! The vagrant loves are all that live . . . Climbing apartment stairs eagerly Opening doors into soft, cerise bedrooms Lovers of mine Breathing their perfume, sensing their lure Here we'll be happy . . . the world pauses Transient, inconsequent Cherishing only the illusions of the here-and-now . . . April, a Colonial inn, the town historic, Staid in the legends and landmarks of antiquity; Why did I first possess you there? Pagans of the contemporary in the land of the Puritans. The ironic verve of it had a thrill to eternally dramatize the night, the month, the year Flesh and spirit . . . the old hymns yielding to a madder syncopation. Looking out that night upon the relicted square Elthia, beloved. . . beauty at last The radiant flower of passion triumphant over the fetid garbage of the Puritanage; [8] Historic, dear? Our night of passion made it so ... September again . . . cadenza . . . youth silks by. Turnpike, camisole, cafe chartreuse Through the park and up the river Staccato whispering, your voice all fire and desire. Sudden . . . swaying . . . soft buff through pastel pink Quick continuity Life is so short; can you capture it. Furious, curious, insatiate Why do you always want to kiss me in public. Stop, they're looking. You're darling. You order. It's cute here, isn't it. All stucco. Now your hand at a matinee We hug our secret. Here's a Florentine inn Sit in this alcove and I'll tell you why the whimsical is never art. Hush, dear, Tis better you're illiterate of all but love; The more the pretension, the less the charm. Snap out that light and climb in I love that chemise As delicate and restiff as your arms; Kiss me like that again, I'll make an artist of you yet . . . Let's take the canoe and paddle down the river; Sorbet, nougat and the latest records; and if you're good We'll snug in at Jansen's for a canter and a cognac. [9] Yes, the river's historic But don't throw that bottle overboard They've passed laws against it. Let's paddle over to the shade and lie in close. This day will soon be over. There's the 5.26 on the bridge The clock watchers' special from the hive of industry, As the dailies say. You know, Fran, I'd rather be an idler here Than the greatest schwab that ever cleaned a Street; We'll tarry the carry at Jacot's, and check out. I've got the roadster there ... a little whirl to Sorncroft. Now give me your hand, dear; there's a mirror. It'll make a hundred an' ten; five gears forward; some bus . . . What a pretty town . . . slow down a bit. Yes, the white old-Colonial somehow thrills . . . A Wayside inn . . . now there's tradition I'd like to take over the place, put a live revue in there, Get Art to write some sway songs, A cute chorus of twelve, three principals, And speed the intimate all over the room; Open up the taproom, dust out the chambers, And stock the buffet with some rare Margaux Wouldn't old Longfellow turn over once or twice; Twould be a new thrill anyway, and that's what counts . . . Spring in Philistia, [10] Do you remember, Sestra? Motoring through the provinces Amused at their petty rule of rote Sunday evening to a little village church, Degage agnostics To their great Lord God, the Jesuschrist. Your hand in mine as during prayer I half -slept and dreamed: As if one drab Sabbath You had come down the dun-lined aisle A radiant flash of orange-rose charmeuse, Frailly exotic, naively sensual, Slender, silken legs Straight to the pulpit And suddenly warm, tender arms Clasped the startled pastor, Your eyes a pagan flame of carnal promise; Then quickly your lightly-perfumed lips on his Releasing him with an amused faire debonnaire, A pirouette on the platform edge Then with a rippling mime step Lightly past the pens of the oafish phils and phlegs A youthful, laughing, romanced vision of beauty, Composite anathema of their life entire . . . And is it not an easy quest of beauty, Merely to love all that the pureswine hate; To search out from the slag-heap of their disap- proval The brilliant jewels of beauty; Scrape from them the rusty coatings of their bans, And see them splendent at last, Vividly, intensely beautiful . . . Then fling our challenge madly, gladly down At ways and days and praise of men; Was beauty duty; then laughed their sophistries to scorn. Ah, let them mouth their mob moralities They could not sense the splendor of a dream; Pledge them a smile, cherie, as we pass on And leave their laws as trampled dust Upon the road of our rebellion . . . June evening, and lights of the ships at sea, A motor-inn on the Arnton road Could I ever forget your words that night: Well, be a genius And a hundred years from now, when you're a long time dead, Some fatandforty matron will enrapture the Woman's Club Reading jems from your work. Was it to bring them a douche of beauty; An eternal curtsy to their gods of tin and pewter . . . Across the railside cemetery, over the sorden marsh And the squant gastanks Stood the factories Be a poet, There's a pretty garret for you; An oak commode in a crumbling attic over a reeking delicatessen Thank you, but Ambre Evette has a more tangible thrill . . . Looks like a nice job; But I want the body old-rose and the wheels of silver- white ; All right, send me the sketches for approval That line of windshield and cowl; it must be so; And don't forget the nine special lights And the buffet by the dash . . . Swing your hips, beckon, Lift your eyes slyly, pirouette; You are charming, little ones, Vivid virgins of a first blooming Thank your Gods, my dears, for me; That I never let tragedy stalk into your romance That the blooming never bore fruit . . . Sentimentalist . . . well rather I enjoy it ... it thrills me Legs always allured me ... silken . . . seductive Then the body . . . the face ... it has to be pretty. A trifle degenerate perhaps Yes indeed . . . that thrills me too . . . Bohemian in the land of the Puristines, Aristocrat to their clown mobility, Pagan to their spawning instinct, Poet born out of time . . . And then when fame came, Well, a Swift end to them The dream triumphs Cause, custom, curriculum, current event; Bankers and bakers, preachers and fakirs. Here are your bans I circle them easily, Your laws I evade cleverly, Your taboos I detour adroitly . . . Somewhere they crossed my path The senile moralists In their everlasting discordance of " Naughty, naughty; " The empty prints forever stuffed with the tedious sobbing of the slob sisters; The old-maid mummers of the virtuous, hating the beautiful, Jealous of life and those who loved; Critics female, neuter, epicene ... a cynic smile for all of you; Your decorous dirges already tire . . . The drama of the trivial sublime, A slapstick scherzo for the gods: Pale pastors from the provinces frocking by, Bramae browsing, purists sniffing, Gelid spinsters reading over their teacups, A member of the Law-and-Order Committee peering into a suspected vintner's Was this the worship of beauty? Poets polishing pallid verse in dreary hall-rooms, Hucksters yawning over the evening paper, Dirty children bawling in street-cars, Shoe-buyers herding off to take in a show, A side-street preacher in a hell of a fury over Hell, A semidemi crying over a blasted life, A financier enravished with a red-blood story, An art student idylling at the museum, Epic, indeed! Twould make a ripping novel for the story-tellers, The plodding plothawks, The histrionic historians of the commonplace . . . I saw him on the train, a 2/8's mind was all he had, Reading the investment pages greedily, Squinting face and fishy eyes; His wife one of those women who make virtue a virtue And ugliness beauty . . . both of them average and there's the comedy . . . The musty mould of a small-town Baptist church; Rusting tin and rotting wood, Rancid carpets and reasty cellars; The hollow hokum of the righteous creed, The petty pulpiteers forever gibbering the glory of God; Pious, rut-worn devoutists Endlessly shouting their damns and shams . . . Out of wind-swept city streets into cosy taverns tedesco, Perfumed and furred in February, And saw her face go white like years that die Or words to that effect . . . Sometime, vaguely, Whirling down from the mountains with Eralie. Through a village quickly, hand to nose; Small-town toilers mill-bound Monday morn. A city and the burring twang of traffic. A street, a shop, a workroom, The dull, lacklustre eyes of those who rise at six. Apricots and prunes. Its horrible injustice and all that sort of thing . . . And one there was who seemed so like my Lyria; Life was so dreary, drab Seduction at least would be eventful. It was . . . On the Avenue they're putting out a canopy for Cordelia, She only came out six or seven months ago; Her father is the Blank of Blank & Blank-Blank With offices and boardroom on the street; Tis said their tastes are simple . . . they are ... Go make your pile in your asstigmatic way And leave it to your college or your school; That's all your life is, all it means to you. Here's your reward ... go, take it to your grave, Someday, mayhap, a verdant college calf may scratch a match upon your bust . . . Afternoon in the public library, The great unwashed rag-picking for an education; Forever turning the classic pages, Inhaling the must and rot of ages . . . "And Johnny's doin' awfully well, Though he's not as smart as Ned." Do tell! " Ned is a better scholar, yes." Now isn't that nice; well, I should guess . . . And saw them huddled at the grim machines [16] Slaves, and so forth ..." God! Was it right! " Well, what was right, or was there God. The lyric calls Had I time to be dominie and tell Mayme there aint none . . . And saw the critics dipping pointless pens, " Now this is bad, and this is best," Each one as futile as the rest . . . Spring again: Simple squaws shaking blankets from balconies of stock-ugly three-deckers, Snow melting from french-roofed houses; And I still can hear the old man's voice, and see him Worn out with family cares and business burdens: "What are your intentions, my boy; are they hon- orable? " And in my heart was sudden cynic pity, For already I had taken his daughter . . . The sadly stupid, drab and dreary, How they weary me; A brass-band screaking down the street With colors flying; The herding instinkt . . . small-towns and sewing circles. Ladies and the Whitman Club . . . Odd fellahs and odder women But never odd, more's the pity merely people And so it goes; They still believed in church And lifted weary eyes to the long-deferred salva- tion . . . Into a restaurant at noontime, Mothers material watching over prim daughters decorous With the eyes of the hawk and the face of the lynx. Velma Vergen, what a name for a nymph Someday . . . soon Well, your debut was charming . . . A keener thrill ... a deeper sensing Tis all that matters. And leave to the metric purists The vapid husks of the vicarious Sex is all ... Autumn . . . and leaves falling on the quadrangle of the alma material; Campus days and all that sort of rot. The griping nausea of the stunted minds, The tedious tradition of professorial ignorance; Who wouldn't sicken there, Conning their senescent formulae . . . A bold joke in a burlesque show Not enough comedy . . . too many dance specialties, and the plot needs bracing. Didactic? Sure. Let's go to a movie; Sit in and watch them suck the saccharine, Swill the syrup, lap the lollipop. Life well deserves one happy ending A fade-out to this luscious " art "... The kind of man who runs a newspaper, [18] A dodding stagnentity, prude- souled and puritan- idealed, A platonic platitude adrift. The fabled glory of the press; Another merry rabble-gabble mess. The mob, and as the leaders read, so runs the flock . . . And he's a great man in the Town. A banker-pillar of the church, A face steeped in business ... a whiskered hypo- crite. He never drops the mask, the pose ... it pays; Tell him what an ass he is, and see his guard go down . . . And passion proletaire: Tis Saturday night . . . the moralist a'tingle Races home to the breasts of his Agnes, Thrice mounts her casually, then falls asleep. Evil-minded where did I hear that word before; Who said it? Some prude squeaking falsetto from a sewer Clarence, recite! Camera . . . the silhouette spectacle flickers for a while, then fades Ambition always. What was the stage? I stood there singing But I remember only a blur of ecstatic faces And a fierce desire to cry at them, " Go home." One and all they hailed me master, Crowding the dressing-room when the opus ended. I heard them buzzing and caught words of: " Genius, greatest artist of the age." Artist? I denied it ... how could it be ... the opera an art! By the bessemer idols of the republic No. Utterly devoid of power or poignancy, The very reason of it all the theme Shallow, outworn plot pretension; The art of mistaken identity, bricabrac scenery and mouldy costume plates. Where was the master, the librettist, with a theme supreme; Then it would be art, and singing beauty Another day, another hour, A white arc of faces and lentezza violins As I betrayed the second-maid to the chupchup of the maternal gum-chewers . . . lovers of the drama. A blue-and-orange poster on that theatre wall; One arm about her waist, the other pressing her down, Lip-to-lip, her head thrown back in passionate sur- render A six-sheet tribute to the lure of love, Eye-enticement for the yokelry; Ring down this curtain; damn, I should have fixed this 'script; Why should I have to stay on till the close, and clasp this loricated clothes-rack for a curtain. Could this be glamor ? [20] Night after night, day after day, Mouthing these varnished lines; The same, inane farrago of words, with that silly tag A caramel catering to the canaille. Acting of greatness, acting of genius for these Beotians ! Ever the artist of words, Equally triumphant over the twelvemo pantry- enchanters And the academic, campus-cultured stalewits. Whenever one of these chillpens Feels a twinge of doubt as to his importance in Letters He hastily summons his brothers to conclave, And they speedily form a Society, Conferring upon themselves Celebrity, Supereminence and Renown; The elemental press soberly chronicles the event, And the farce fades to bathos. An amused shrug as they pass on to their oblivion . . . And I who knew all, probed all, saw all clearly, Their petty strivings and my great ideal, Could I cut it to their format And slap it out to the 87^ climacteric critics of the periodic press . . . Only self counts, And that's why your book failed, Your poetry, your drama. You photograph mediocrity; [21] I probe self, and triumph That is my supremacy . . . Born the lover, and found women utterly atonic; Born the poet, and forever heard the multitude re- citing the dainty doggerel of the day; Born the actor, and saw the theatre barren of art, a tawdid thing of real estate . . . Here again the emollient sex has given art the leni- tive. The torpid, turgid tribe Cramming the presses and galleries With their gargoyled grotesques, their drooping imi- tations, Their self-confessed ignorances of life and beauty . . . Women who talk of the passion grande, Failing and paling to futility ... Lover supreme when no women loved, Sensualist ever to their lyric lure; Seeking the epic and finding only doggerel. From brothel to boudoir, Making the descent easily, And all I captured was an eager imperfection. Sad eyes pleading wistfully, hopeful and hesitant, And no Pierrette for Pierrot . . . well, a smile for that ; They all run nicely to form and on schedule Another'll be along in a minute. Bold cues from Avenue cuties, Veiled, awkward looks from matrons over teacups, Was this the cost of being beautiful? Or was it ... well, here is the drab composite: [22] An actress, famous as it were, But she couldn't act ... I learned that soqn. She was one of those women Who make capital of the burne Jones parable for the long-eared garishtocracy; About her an exoticism of the East side, With a crafty, Semitic talent for business; And she took a good photograph But a lover! Boutade bathetique! Her cheapness sickened ... a sublimated shopgirl With the heredity of the lowest peasantry. She pecked her kisses parrot-like; Impassioned she made delicious, gurgling sounds, Prattling about the wonder of it all; And to this day she wonders why I fled from her A notorable woman writer, Supposed to be sensational in amour. You read her trush between covers; they blurb it out by the yard. A half -thought that perhaps she'd be intense; She seemed to have sophistication. Well, she utterly lacked passion; Loved like a collegegirl sparked or a flapper frivved. I still shudder at the way she had Of clutching me by the lapel, and simping, "Kiss ime, darling," her mouth puckered like an ingenue's . . . Quick conquest, swifter boredom. Kiss an' tell . . hell . 2 3 A painter by grace of a dictionary, Smugging her stupid question One night in her gairish studio, " Possession or desire, which is most beautiful? " The clinquant dilettante trembling in my arms. Why couldn't I have taken her grotesquery for a warning Before I pushed her over She was as passive as a verb. And so it goes Aesthete, harlot, goodwife, duchess; An absolutist ever, Had I patience to be forever guiding them past the trivial. Another . . . the fatras press dubbed her " The famous society leader." She had one foot in a blast-furnace, The other in a peerage, And lacked the wit to know there was nothing between them. Her monosyllabled idea of the scheme of things might have been lisped by a debutante. She thought Indian music and baseball adorable, Europe a synonym for art, The world created for optimists, And all the other stock puerilities of the provinces. I suppose she even thought me a brute when I left her. Well, I was a snob and proud of it; a brusq in a world of bores . . . March, mud and manhattan; The vivid poetry of industry, The mighty dreamers of commerce Juvenal, fox-trot! Selfmade illiterates crowding the prints, too doltish to know the joke's on them. Drygoods aristocrat, toady and sucker, Drop-shop patrician, proletarian, mucker, When they think, they stink. Always the delicacy of Jasmin or Muguet, The subtle essences that served another purpose besides the sensual Less beautiful, but vastly more utilitarian Forever to keep the stench of their atrophy from contracting my nostrils . . . Downtown that roaring travesty they call Big Business, And wonder why a poet cannot write it down; Could they but know, So great is the grime and slime of it, Tis all a poet could do to live it down. Madrigals to machinery, sonnets to soap, Lyrics to textiles, teething-rings and tungsten! An endless vomit of system . . . Genius in a land of technicians, Ego in a perpetual rigmarole of science Company, corporation, factory, shop, Whistled my fingers at its cheap pretension . . . "And this book of yours; Somehow it's pitched too high; too rosy; too ro- mantic." [25] Well, did I dip my pen for fools, The feeble statusquo of age. Romantic, to be sure . . . and always so, As long as the intensity of youth makes art supreme. My life both lyric and epic, And I pen it as I please . . . Could satire melt the filthy film of your aggregated ignorance, Or irony drive a wedge of wisdom into your gaping, babbling mouths, The pen trembles before the task. The din of the rabble swarming along, There was your romance, and there was your song . . . People, people, people, Come, let me put you in the book, The lithe libretto of my life; Stand in your place, and take the lines I give you; Wear the fool's cap, mouth the dummy's part, I direct; you play the mummy's part: Mildewed critics and altered professors Flimsily propaganding the angloenglish conventional; Poets, male and feeble, eternally praising each other; Women who write dainty, decorous lyrics to love Poor dears who've never known a passion; Adjective poets, polishing, prefacing, diagramming, Copying, classifying, annotating, Culting their sick criticism, Herding their pale classicism. Was life to be taken up listlessly by lumpish artisans, 26 Hamstrung with trochees, And castrated with iambic pentameters! One side, finikins, Perfection does not lie that way. Stiflers of emotion, suppressors of self It was as well; you never had a thing to tell. And I rode over you ... a deep smile for your inanity . . . People, people, people, I bury you here . . . tis your only monument: Small-talk women with eyes forever on the >main chance, Ex-preachers newly-converted to ways of liberality, Blackneck socialists and putty-faced bohemians pass- ing proclamations over rotten red ink, Editors and critics who grew up with the soil, and are still dirty, Rubberstamps of the counting-room, Pack-horses mired . . . prize students still monarchic, Academic asses that weep at a thought of their alma maternity, Red-blooded He-men awkward about teawagons Metropolitan as a magazine, Men who praise women as artists and think politics a noble calling . . . Radical academists . . . professional women, Whole-souled democrats, Compilers of anthologies the cataloguers of medi- ocrity, Women who lecture on the Higher Mysticism, Women who lecture, Women, Little reviewers, new republicans, Juvenile publishers of menopausic school-teachers, Neverclever critics, Actresses who haunt the boards and memory with atrocious puppeting, Husbands, wives, Wives, husbands, Maids who have slipped by Spring's awakening, Young composers, violinists, pianists earnest vir- tuosi in the continent convention, Indian poetasters, Hispanic hoofers latest discharge from polyglot privies, Maggoty maidens co-relating the obvious in anaemic ochre, Best-cellar illiterati recreating literature, And pale-stale poets who deify vegetation, An ever-ridiculous pageant of blustering inferior- ity ... Mechanic, pedagogue, housewife and clerk, Write a jingle about them and see how they perk . . . Horribly married . . . marriage . . . the word sickens. Upon it is based their drama, literature and song And so tedium . . . Crowds, crowds, where is the thrill? As poignant as a time-table or a bill-of-fare . . . There is a city: They call it New York, and often say with grotesque pride that it is the biggest thing of its kind. [28] It is ... I wont dispute The thing is ugliness; There in that rotspot of the world All the loutish ragtag of the republics Have congregated to consecrate the Philistine tradi- tion . . . The charming intensity of the common people, Another sickly shimmy of the democratic creed, This Sue or Sadie married, this Jake or John in trade There is their literature; Primeval primprudes yelping at the erotic There is their criticism. Bathetic socialists forever at their silly code; I mourn for them, and so do their nails. Let's hope that in the millennium there'll be towels and soap for every Thomas and Richard . . . And Bohemia There too, absolute evidence of the rule of the com- mercial propieties, Reflecting all the stalely-wicked virtues of the rustic provincial . . . Women artists! Well, there is a magazine, there is a book, There is a theatre, there is a gallery I ask you, Sestra, are they art? Women novelists heaving huge obviosities wickedly, Women poets and painters chopping out lines as passionate as pastry. Married vestals who jingle chastely, [29] And prolipic critics who praise them. Women in art! God save the smirk! Bring them up to their indictment ... the verdict stands Back to your knitting and your slops; I tire of you Sob fiddle, mute cornet, bang banjo Mill-town, swill-town, Academists crowding the gutter Billboard, trolley-car, Wops and cattle herding, Opera House, livery stable, Star-Spangled Britannia God Bless Our Home America I Love You Jazz This was the land and the people, Caressa, This was the year, and the place Of our love. Drab days and futile hours, And would our love, then, prove as uneventful, Reading that night the everlasting question in your eyes . . . Moonlight over the city, Snatches of syncopation vivace across the park, And passion sang the answer in your last caress. What of that essay on the ethics of the flesh When you're older . . . put it away now . . . Live it ... Adorable, I do love you Even the way I sing love . . . what more? [30] Let down your hair . . . let's live a poem Hold me that way, dear, your lips yield a triolet. Beauty through beauty to beauty again. What of your fame? Fame in my own way, the lone way, Expatriat ever from the blight of this land . . . Somewhere hand-in-hand ... in the car ... An open road . . . and lilacs for Spring . . . Down at the sweep of the valley, and the river's sil- ver-blue ... we would make town by dusk . . . Let's have dinner in our room And watch the carmine evening loiter in. You're clever . . . Lilas was the one essence for to- night. Come closer, dear . . . this is our night for love Tomorrow we will be in Enfield Madness of May . . . not long ago . . . Wild roses sensuate across the dunes of Charldon What was it that came, unbidden, to our love . . . A new thrill when I had sated them all ... Starlight over the sands and the blue singing, singing . . . Was I not god . . . You granted it, my own . . . Kiss me again . . nations babble their way to oblivion . . This people has long outlived its epoch Gladness of May . . . well, this much supreme . . . I was a god, and they could not stone me ... A god, turning your body to flame And your warm, wan face to scarlet . . . Chill of your lips in passion ... I drain them again Sadness of May . . . another Spring . . . And ever the soft pathos that is you sorrowing each hour . . . Somewhere . . slumbering gardens . . subtly scented . . A waltz half-heard . . . and here The blare, the flare, cymbalic of this land . . . Again and again you came . . . and were gone . . . The soft intangible . . . the ever-sought . . . the never-found, Tempting me from disillusion to a new despair . . . Why did you always call me with music and color and magic of words . . . I remember, but I soon forget . . . Song for my singing, color for my painting, words that I played upon . . . Artist supreme . . . well, You granted it my immortality . . . Quick fever of Spring, and in my heart a cynic hate Of every God-damned thing these pureswine ven- erate . . . Sometime a brass-band played, and you stood in the throng, marveling . . . Peanuts and popcorn . . . and your mother had never told you Looking down upon the poppies of the park ... a room cerise . . . Syncopation for possession And never a doctor for denouement [3*1 Caresses pass, and now only memories You that promised so much . . . And someday he will come . . . genius indeed . . Eternally lingering between the lure and the laze . . . And what the hell has phantasy to do with poetry When art is ever self expression . . . And hours pass, and days pass, and months, and years . . . Give me your lips again . . . there was the song . . . What was the year, And whose were the hands softly, softly about me ... Was it you, Senestra? There had been a time, you remember ... Apartment stairs and lilacs . . . Eager idealists in a world of grooven fools . . . Pathos for the conflict . . . Well, it had all passed . . . another day . . . another way . . . Triumph [33; AN INITIAL TINE OF 25 CENTS OVERDUE. 470840 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY