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 -f(c7
 
 PROEM 
 
 11 ITHIN the portals of this 
 WW book abound. 
 
 Woven with beaten gold, the 
 thoughts profound. 
 
 That stir the soul to ecstasy and 
 bring 
 
 The Poefs flights of fancy on the 
 wing 
 
 To falter at thy feet. Here may 
 they reach 
 
 The silent chambers of thy heart, 
 and teach 
 
 That this, our only mission, is 
 to send 
 
 To thee a heart-throb. Comrade, 
 Brother, Friend! 
 
 Q. Warren London.
 
 LeWDES 
 
 K
 
 THIS • EDITION • DE • LUXE • IS • LIMITED 
 
 TO   SIX • HUNDRED   COPIES 
 
 OF   WHICH   THIS • IS 
 
 No. r-? CL
 
 Published in the Year 
 
 Sixteen of the 
 
 Pleiades 
 
 Copyright 1910 by the 
 
 Pleiades Club, 
 
 N. Y.
 
 C< o n 
 
 1 D u t 
 
 o 
 
 Aimee (ireene-Abbott 
 
 Rol)ert S. Anient 
 
 E. M. Ashe 
 
 A. J. Bjoi-ustad 
 
 Fred S. Blossom 
 
 Charles Itoy Bowers 
 
 Nell Brinkley 
 
 O. Cesai'e 
 
 Irviii S. Cobb 
 
 Carter S. Cole 
 
 Georj;e Elliott Cooley 
 
 Willard D. Coxey 
 
 II. K. Crannier 
 
 John Campbell Delano 
 
 Dorothy Dix 
 
 H. B. Eddy 
 
 Harry C. Edwards 
 
 Anthony II. Enwer 
 
 Lee Fairehild 
 
 Arthur Farwell 
 
 Thomas Fosarty 
 
 E. Fuhr 
 
 Eugene fleary 
 
 John II. (ire.us 
 
 William B. (ireen 
 
 Jeflie Forbusli-IIanaford 
 
 John Harrison 
 
 S. Frances Ilerschel 
 
 Kingston llengler 
 
 Karl Ilassmann 
 
 John E. Ilazzard 
 
 Dixie nines 
 
 M. Torre Hood 
 
 Harry Johnson 
 
 A. I. Keller 
 
 George Kerr 
 
 Carrie Van Deusen King 
 
 W. Krieghof 
 
 W. J. Lampton 
 
 Laura Fitzluigh Lance 
 
 G. Warren Landon 
 
 Annabelle Lee 
 
 Richard LeGallienne 
 
 R. A. Liiders 
 
 Katheriue Fitzhugh Mc.Vllister 
 
 Roy L. McCardell 
 
 Hector Mcl'herson 
 
 Adrien Machefert 
 
 G. Micbelson 
 
 Phillip Verrill Mighels 
 
 E. II. Miner 
 
 F. Luis Mora 
 B. V. Nadherny 
 Frank A. Xankivell 
 Howard S. Neiman 
 r'rank L. Xorris 
 
 O liana San 
 
 Alexander Popini 
 
 J. W. Postgare 
 
 Maud G. Pride 
 
 Henry Raleigh 
 
 Henry Reuterdahl 
 
 Louis Rhead 
 
 John Jerome Rooney 
 
 Helen Rowland 
 
 Maurice V. Samuels 
 
 Jehu W. Sargent 
 
 Eleanor Schorer 
 
 Charlotte P.. Scott 
 
 Charles L. Sicard 
 
 Dan Smith 
 
 Fraucesca di Maria Spaulding 
 
 Arthur Stahlschmidt 
 
 W. J. Steinigans 
 
 Albert Sterner 
 
 W. D. Stevens 
 
 Henry Tyrrell 
 
 Mabel IIerl)ert Urner 
 
 Wm. Van Benthuysen 
 
 John P. Wade 
 
 Ryan Walker 
 
 II. S. Watson 
 
 Paul West 
 
 Luther S. White
 
 by Henry Tyrrell. 
 
 Illustration hu Dan l^niilh. 
 
 "A criticism of life," says 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 "The rhythmic creation of 
 beauty," says Edgar Allan Poe 
 — defining the art of lyric poetry.
 
 What Is Arl? 
 
 "The end of art," says Victor Cousin (combining Plato 
 and Aristotle), "is the expression of moral beauty by the 
 assistance of physical beauty." 
 
 But apply these and other bromidic definitions to the art 
 and literature of to-day — measure them up against the Sun- 
 day newspaper, or "Peter Pan" at the theatre, or picture 
 exhibitions of the Independent Artists and the followers of 
 Matisse — and assuredly there is something wrong, either with 
 the definitions or with the art. 
 
 Then turn to Emile Zola, and take from him this follow- 
 ing dictum, which comes very close to being invulnerable: 
 
 ''A work of art is a bit of nature seen through a tem- 
 perament." 
 
 This takes in all the schools, as well as the fiery, untamed 
 spirits who would break away from schools altogether. Art 
 is always the same; temperaments differ and become 
 warped. The academician's temperamental glass is ruled 
 off into formal geometrical patterns, and he sees nature as 
 a kind of problem in perspective. The rabid "impression- 
 ist" looks within himself, and away from nature, and "sees 
 things" which don't exist for anyone else. The true artist 
 gazes straight out upon nature, and forgets himself, and art 
 comes to him "as easily as lying." 
 
 "What the poet writes. 
 He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits. 
 And that's success. If not, the poem's passed 
 From hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand. 
 Until the unborn snatch it, crying out 
 In pity on their fathers' being so dull, — 
 And that's success, too."
 
 "Music is a woman, 
 said Richard Wagner. We 
 may well go further and 
 say: Music is a mother. 
 It is by no mere chance
 
 M 
 
 USIC 
 
 that the Germans speak of Frau Musica. The devo- 
 tion of Music to humanity, in its varying, growing and 
 innumerable needs, is the eternal and utter devotion of a 
 mother to her child. Music is ever present, ever watchful, 
 ready to sing to man, whatsoever his need, whether of con- 
 solation, of courage, or of love. Nor does she forsake him 
 in his evil hour, when none but darker passions can touch 
 his heart. She will go with her children to the deepest 
 depths, and if thus terrible has become their need, she will 
 yield to them her heartbroken sympathy even in their hate 
 and their lust. 
 
 Music will make all sacrifice for men. At the cost of 
 fearful pains of growth, she will change her nature with 
 their growing, or even their perverse needs. Let her living 
 sons but call upon her to forsake her earlier nature to sym- 
 pathize with the broader and deeper consciousness which 
 they have wrung from life in their battle with circumstance, 
 and unhesitatingly she responds. She will indulge a prodigal 
 Strauss or a Debussy, even to his own harm, and she yields 
 her best only to him whose sympathy has made him one with 
 the deep and simple heart of humanity. 
 
 In America's present need of songs breathing the freedom 
 and courage of the New World, Music, the all-mother, is 
 present and watchful, and will stand by her latest son until 
 he is full grown and strong.
 
 <t 
 
 -=- ^ iterature 
 
 by Carter S. Cole. 
 
 niiistiation by Dan Smilh. 
 
 If it were proposed to give, 
 in a brief statement on this sub- 
 ject, even a succinct account of 
 the whole field, or the simplest 
 sort of scientific review, there 
 would be little room for any- 
 thing else to appear in this 
 volume. In fact, one deserv- 
 edly famous frankly avowed
 
 Liieralure 
 
 that he would not attempt to say anything on the subject 
 unless he had given the matter at least a month's careful 
 consideration, and yet it is much more than likely that the 
 clientele for whom this particular book is especially de- 
 signed would not take the trouble to read an article that 
 had been prepared after such prolonged and ponderous 
 thought. 
 
 The one thing that has characterized all literature, even 
 before the art of printing was known, no matter what may 
 be the definition of the word, is this: Whatever has pith, 
 human interest, originality and action, however slowly it 
 may have worried its way through the tired or befuddled 
 brain of those persons whose privilege it is to see the matter 
 before publication, will be quick to catch the eye of an 
 ever alert public. 
 
 This is as true of science as of fiction: as universal in 
 poetry as in prose. A single illustration will suffice: Quite 
 recently a book, in many ways abstruse, appealing, appar- 
 ently, to a limited class of readers, had just that touch of 
 tenderness, that trail of truth, that caused a tremendous sale, 
 and exhausted the edition in a remarkably short time. 
 
 It was once asked what part of a newspaper was most 
 interesting; the answer from many readers and from many 
 lands was practically the same: it depends entirely upon 
 who does the reading. This is quite as true of literature 
 in general as of one part. When we reflect for an instant 
 we must acknowledge that in every thinker's life there are 
 periods that differ materially in the attitude towards read- 
 ing; that some special line is apt to predominate, even in 
 one who is known to be a general reader: it may vary with 
 time, place, conditions — in fact, under almost all conceiv- 
 able circumstances — but there is never a time when there 
 are not more readers in any line than there are books worth 
 while to meet their needs, or to satisfy their demands; in 
 short, it is just as true to-day as before or since the thought 
 was expressed in words — Brains are always at a premium.
 
 "All the world's a stage. 
 And men and women merely 
 players." 
 
 The profession of the 
 player is one of the oldest 
 recognized and in its growth 
 and achievement stands fore- 
 most of all the arts. 
 
 In its crudest form little
 
 The Placer. 
 
 is known, but as a profession it may properly date from the 
 Chinese and Grecian periods, when players were chosen 
 from among the infant slaves and trained to the art by 
 masters, not unlike the painter and the bard. 
 
 To the immortal genius of Shakespeare does the world 
 owe its inexpressible appreciation of the artistic develop- 
 ment, realizing to the fullest degree the possibilities, and 
 subsequently the mastery, of the art, placing it at once on 
 the highest pinnacle of achievement and according to it the 
 laurel of universal popularity. 
 
 To this genius is added that of others, each attaining a 
 greater degree of appreciation, until to-day the art of the 
 player encompasses the highest attributes of the allied arts. 
 
 The player is one who loves, and understands, nature. 
 To do so he must feel, in the highest sense, the emotions of 
 the artist, the poet and kindred spirits, because from each 
 he must cull the choicest petals — the inspiration of the poet, 
 that he may portray the character; the genius of the artist, 
 that he may imbue it with life, and the passion of the bard, 
 and to this the sympathy of a Madonna, the tenderness of 
 an angel, the love of a mother and the strength of a giant. 
 
 The development of the art of the player records the 
 development of civilization itself. The player and his art 
 obtains wherever there is civilization. In its highest form it 
 is at once Literature, Art and Music in harmonious arrange- 
 ment. In its possibilities it is Religion, teaching the whole 
 world by its power: 
 
 "I've heard that guilty creatures at a play. 
 Have, by the very cunning of the scene. 
 Been struck so to the soul, that presently 
 They have proclaimed their malefactions." 
 
 The player, supreme in his art, is master of every emotion.
 
 r 
 
 Drawn by Nell Brinkley. 
 "Little Betty's."
 
 Venetian iw^ilight 
 
 by Carter S. Cole. 
 
 Illiistiation hy Thomas Foyarty. 
 
 Y gondolier lazily makes his way, 
 
 Threading along, humming a song, 
 While glorious tints of a dying day 
 Fill me with rapture; and earth, 
 sky, and sea. 
 In their aureole robes, are a mystery 
 Hidden from none, priceless, but free ! 
 
 The swish of the oar in the dark, quiet stream, 
 Rhythmical, clear, soothing to hear. 
 
 Scatters the mist as a little moonbeam 
 Kisses the lips that are mine by right. 
 And caresses the form with its mellow light 
 For which I am yearning to-night. 
 
 This world is a place full of trouble and pain. 
 
 None of us know, why this is so ; 
 In fancy, at least, when you suffer again, 
 
 Ride in my gondola, dismiss all care. 
 
 Hear the soft music that floats through the air. 
 
 At twilight, in Venice, so fair.
 
 'My gondolier lazily makes his ivay, 
 Threading along, Jiuinniing a song.'
 
 Best Bets of a 13achelo 
 
 by Dixie Hines. 
 
 llliiKlnitioiis 1)1/ Cltarlcs Roy Uoiccrs and A. J. Bjunmluil. 
 
 EAUTY is only paint-deep at times. 
 
 Only the brave can handle the fair. 
 
 A pretty girl envies but one girl — a 
 prettier one. 
 
 Many a poor husband is created from 
 a rich man. 
 
 While there is an engagement there's hope — of liberty. 
 
 Men can persuade a woman to do anything she wants to. 
 
 Men can be classified ; women cannot even be pacified. 
 
 A woman's idea of happiness is to be ideally miserable. 
 
 A woman will break a heart as readily as she will crack 
 a smile. 
 
 No married man ever was a fool without being told of 
 the fact. 
 
 The grass widow is not alone in making hay while the 
 sun shines. 
 
 A bachelor is a man who has given serious thought to 
 matrimony. 
 
 Bachelors form their opinion of marriage by experience 
 — of others. 
 
 There is nothing new under the sun except hat styles 
 for women.
 
 ^°"7/:f 
 
 "A zvoman iinaf^iiics she can cozier up her ivipcrfcctioiis 
 by pointing out those of other zvonien."
 
 Cesl Bets of a Bachelor 
 
 Every girl would love to be a thing of beauty and a 
 boy forever. 
 
 When a woman proves equal to all a man expects she 
 is a sur-prize. 
 
 It isn't nearly so hard to be a fool over a widow as 
 not to be one. 
 
 Every woman secretly admires the wisdom of the man 
 who flatters her. 
 
 A woman may conceal her faults, but a decollete gown 
 is less deceptive. 
 
 The blush of a bashful girl is a flush that takes any 
 hand — and heart. 
 
 "The cup of happiness" with men of experience has a 
 siphon on the side. 
 
 Every woman has a horror of old age, but not so much 
 as of young death. 
 
 Women are never satisfied. First they want a voter and 
 then they want a vote. 
 
 Some men are born to trouble, while others merely 
 achieve it by marriage. 
 
 There is but one kind of love, yet every woman has a 
 different idea about it. 
 
 Men, manners and morals change, but woman, never — 
 from the changeable.
 
 A man may he "out front" at the opera and yet be able 
 only to "see back" — // he is unth her.
 
 Best Bets of a Bachelor 
 
 Every woman expects a man to think for her, and then 
 she reverses his opinion. 
 
 When it comes to singing the praises of another, most 
 women have a sore throat. 
 
 Man's principal safeguard against matrimony is that 
 widows are made, not born. 
 
 Many a promising housekeeping career has been ruined 
 in an unpromising stage career. 
 
 Men have found many antidotes for a woman, but the 
 surest of all is another woman. 
 
 A woman spends one-half of her time telling lies for 
 men and the other half to them. 
 
 Women often know a man is in love with them when 
 the man riever discovers the fact. 
 
 Men often find it necessary to choose between the incon- 
 stant and the unattractive woman. 
 
 A woman keeps a man running all the time — first it is 
 after her and then it is from her. 
 
 If women did not know that men could overcome their 
 resistance they would seldom resist. 
 
 There are two ways in which a woman may win a man: 
 Her own brilliancy and his inanity. 
 
 When a man is at the feet of woman it is pretty sure 
 that another woman threw him there. 
 
 Every woman wants a man to be real devilish before 
 marriage and real angelic afterwards.
 
 Best Bets of a Bachelor 
 
 Anyhow, there was one woman who was never jealous. 
 Adam didn't have troubles about that. 
 
 A woman imagines she can cover up her imperfections 
 by pointing out those of other women. 
 
 Some men are born wise, some achieve wisdom by 
 experience, and some just don't marry. 
 
 Two kinds of women make trouble in the world — those 
 that are married and those that are not. 
 
 There is but one class of women who are not interested 
 in the fashions and they are the dead ones. 
 
 The philosopher said a woman could not argue — he 
 was too wise to say that she could not talk. 
 
 The reason so many men find marriage unattractive is 
 because life was so attractive before marriage. 
 
 It isn't a hard matter for a woman to make a man love 
 her. The difficulty is in making him keep it up. 
 
 A woman can make up two things at the same time — 
 her face and her mind; but her face lasts longer. 
 
 The world has no sympathy to waste on those reckless 
 enough to wed when both have been married before. 
 
 If a man does not tell a woman he loves her she thinks 
 him impossible; if he does, he knows himself foolish. 
 
 When a woman says that all she wants is what she 
 deserves she really means she deserves all she wants.
 
 Best Bets of a Bachelor 
 
 When a girl reaches that uncertain age and is yet 
 unmarried, she is often worse than she paints herself. 
 
 Sometimes there is more truth than sentiment when a man 
 tells a woman a thing is as plain as the nose on her face. 
 
 No one has ever yet discovered why a woman is afraid 
 of a mouse and tackles a six-foot man with confidence. 
 
 A woman will start a flirtation in fun and then won- 
 der why a man won't follow her when she gets serious. 
 
 If a man wants to make a fool of himself he can find 
 many opportunities, but the surest way is over a woman. 
 
 Men and women both agree that it is inadvisable to live 
 without each other and impossible to live with each other. 
 
 Whether a married man pities or envies his bachelor 
 friends depends entirely upon how long he has been mar- 
 ried. 
 
 If a man really wants to start something with himself, 
 let him try to love a woman just as a woman wants to be 
 loved. 
 
 The best way to find out what a girl who is in love with 
 a man thinks of woman suffrage is to find out what he 
 thinks. 
 
 A man may escape the measles, or automobiles, or even 
 being indicted, but no man has ever been known to escape 
 a widow. 
 
 No woman ever told a man she hated him without
 
 Best Bets of a Bachelor 
 
 meaning it; some women have told men they loved them 
 and meant it. 
 
 Rather than a man should be right and belong to 
 another woman, a woman would have him wrong and 
 belong to her. 
 
 The reason widows are so attractive to men is because 
 they will allow themselves to be taught things they already 
 know too well. 
 
 A girl will gaze for three hours and a half at the moon 
 and then wonder why she hasn't time to sew a button on 
 her brother's vest. 
 
 The happiest man is he who will take a woman's pro- 
 testations like he does a dose of medicine — with celestial 
 faith in the giver. 
 
 When a woman fails to see an opportunity to be gen- 
 erous to another woman it is not necessarily a sign of 
 defective eye-sight. 
 
 Don't misunderstand a man when he tells a woman she 
 is sweet enough to eat — maybe he is thinking of the forth- 
 coming restaurant-check. 
 
 Between the ages of sixteen and thirty a woman is a 
 general practitioner in the field of love; after that she is 
 satisfied to become a specialist. 
 
 A man is willing to worship at the shrine of a woman 
 with whom he is in love until he meets another woman 
 — then he changes his religion.
 
 Best Bets of a Bachelor 
 
 The question will never be settled between women as to 
 which will win a man quicker, a pair of silk stockings or 
 an ability to bake a good cake. 
 
 If ever the fact that there are no marriages in Heaven 
 is generally believed by women, half of the preachers will 
 be obliged to seek other employment. 
 
 If a woman were obliged to express a preference, she 
 would choose the man who pleases but does not love, to 
 the man who loves but does not please, her. 
 
 Women are said to be more "clean-minded" than men. 
 Men might meet feminine competition if they resorted to 
 the stratagem of changing their minds as often. 
 
 The greatest disappointment after marriage comes to a 
 man when he realizes that his wife does not look like the 
 models in the shop windows during a white-goods sale. 
 
 A man can protect himself from the things said about 
 him by the women who don't love him. It's the things 
 said about him by the woman who does love him that 
 keep him worried. 
 
 Women, says a sage, are like books: No man can judge 
 the inside by what is displayed on the outside. It is a 
 poor rule that wxjn't work both ways. Women are unlike 
 books: When one has finished with a book it can be 
 closed up.
 
 Draivn by E. M. Ashe.
 
 X n e M issing Rhyme 
 
 by Henry Tyrrell. 
 
 Illudinil ion hij E. 1 . .\ lullin iii/. 
 
 HE trouble was, no word would rhyme with 
 
 month. 
 And that was why my lovely birthday 
 
 sonnet. 
 Meeting this obstacle, was wrecked upon it. 
 
 ^~^^ I 
 
 "Oh, fairest day of springtime's fairest month"— 
 Thus I began, and there I stuck at "month." 
 
 Her birthday is the first of May. 
 
 "Dog-gone it!" 
 I cried, "I can't go on, now I've begun it — 
 Unless, perchance, I write of May the one-th." 
 
 Then went I to my lady love, with all 
 
 The story of my tenderness and trouble — 
 Explained how words in Poetry must double, 
 And how my sonnet's sweetness turned to gall 
 Because I couldn't find a rhyme for "month." 
 
 She laughed, and lithped the answer — "You're a dunth!"
 
 "She laughed and lithpcd the ansiver — 'You're a dunth!'-
 
 T 
 
 O 
 
 His -Heart 
 
 by Richard Le Gallienne. 
 
 O many times the heart can break, 
 So many ways — 
 Yet beat along and beat along, 
 So many days. 
 
 A fluttering thing we never see, 
 
 And only hear 
 When some stern doctor to our side 
 
 Presses his ear. 
 
 Strange hidden thing that beats and beats, 
 
 We know not why, 
 And makes us live, though we, indeed. 
 
 Would rather die. 
 
 Mysterious, fighting, loving thing — 
 
 So sad, so true ! 
 I would my laughing eyes some day 
 
 Might look on you.
 
 K i 1 1 i 
 
 by Wm. B. Green. 
 
 Illtislnitiun hy Ilarnj C. Eduanls. 
 
 n g 
 
 A shot rings out in the for- 
 est's side; 
 Its signal of death strikes 
 the Moose King's 
 heart. 
 And the Indian hunter views 
 with pride 
 How his skill as a hunts- 
 man has won its part. 
 , But the Shadow that falls 
 on the ground below 
 j Foretells the time 
 
 \jr when he, too, 
 
 shall go. 
 
 ^*|4^*^5
 
 N 
 
 a m 1 n g 
 
 tk 
 
 Bat 
 
 y 
 
 by John Harrison. 
 
 Itlusirutioit liy KiiKjulon Jlcmjlcr. 
 
 Y hair is gray, but not with years. 
 
 Nor grew it white in a single night. 
 As men's have grown, from sudden fears — 
 But gray all the same. 
 Just over a name — 
 A name for the baby; 
 Which I wish to remark. 
 
 And my language is plain — 
 
 Or may be 
 Ornate — if I try to explain 
 The trouble, anxiety, 
 Crass contrariety. 
 Strain on one's piety — 
 He wouldn't be quiet — he 
 Cooed to satiety — 
 
 (Cute little one) — 
 Yes — it was pitiful. 
 In a whole city-full 
 Name he had none.
 
 ^}., 
 
 "^%# 
 
 >1 
 
 (Oi- 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 "Now let there be a merry time throughotit all Christendom, 
 For the mother set her foot down — and the boy's named 
 
 'T o m: "
 
 NaiuinQ the Dahv 
 
 Cousins to right of us. 
 Uncles to left of us, 
 Gran'ma in front of us. 
 
 Mentioned a hundred; 
 Neighbors, and friends as well. 
 Aided the din to swell, 
 
 Talked, until out of breath. 
 And, when the dinner-bell 
 
 Rang, they all wondered. 
 
 A simple child, 
 
 That cries and holds its breath. 
 And kicks with either nether limb — 
 
 "What shall we call him? S' death! 
 Wait till he's seven. 
 
 Now glory to that wife of mine, from whom all glories are: 
 Add "Hallelujahs" freely, for I'm not particular; 
 Now let there be a merry time throughout all Christendom, 
 For the mother set her foot down — and the boy's named 
 
 Tom.
 
 ^^- 
 
 *■ ^^: 
 
 "^-^^^*^v 
 
 Drawn by R. F. Zogbaiim.
 
 Tke Rackelty-Snackelty- 
 G agelty-'Guz 
 
 by Anthony H. Euwer. 
 
 Itluxtntliini hji ihf Aidhnr. 
 
 HE awfullest thing that ever yet wuz 
 
 Is the Rackelty-snackelty-gagelty-guz, 
 
 That don't eat nothin' but httle 
 boys — 
 
 A crunchin' their bones with the terriblest noise. 
 
 If ever I see him floppin' around 
 
 I'll dig a big hole down into the ground 
 
 And crawl away in till he loses the scent, 
 
 Not even breathin' until he has went. 
 
 I guess that'll fool Mr. Guz all right — 
 
 But I hope he don't come when it's late at night!
 
 "The azvfullcst thing that ever yet wu^ 
 Is the Rackelty-snackelty-yagelty-gnz."
 
 Paul, the Piano- M over; 
 
 OR, 
 
 GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT! 
 
 A Tale or an Artistic Temperament 
 
 by Roy L. McCardell. 
 
 / lliisl I III inns Ijji II. Ml tlift Kscl. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MUSIC AND MYSTERY. 
 
 APA can stand no more ! How, then, can 
 I break this to him?" The speaker, a 
 radiantly beautiful young girl, stood sob- 
 bing in the great musical emporium of 
 Harry M. Daly & Co. 
 
 "Consider me a policeman and not a 
 As he said these words, Paul Postelwaite 
 
 piano-mover. 
 
 came forward with his hat in his hand. For all he knew 
 the damsel in distress might be a carriage customer, and, 
 besides, he was afraid if he left his hat in the shipping 
 department a member of the firm might steal it. 
 
 "Oh, sir," replied the beautiful young girl, "I saw a 
 pianola advertisement some time ago which said: 'With 
 this instrument an\;one can play the piano.' And I, taking 
 all my little savings, bought one for papa!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "It arrived to-day. Too late, I perceive that a pianola 
 is an instrument from which music can only be extorted 
 by the feet, and poor papa was run over by an electric car 
 and lost both legs.
 
 
 'As he said these words, Paul Postehvaite came forward."
 
 Paul, the Piano-Mover 
 
 "It was all my little savings, as I have said. The firm 
 will not take the pianola back, and my poor papa has no 
 visible means of support." 
 
 "But you can sue the street railway company for dam- 
 ages," said Paul, soothingly. 
 
 "We threatened to do that, but the railroad company 
 only said papa should consider he was sufficiently dam- 
 aged and they did not see why he should sue for any more. 
 However, they said we might bring the matter into court 
 and they would see what they could do to his character." 
 
 "Go home, little one," said Paul Postelwaite, kindly, 
 "and I will come around this evening and play the 
 pianola for your papa myself." 
 
 The foregoing will show that although Paul moved in 
 musical circles he was neither a sharp nor a flat. His 
 worst predilection was that he continually talked shop, for 
 his last words to his distressed young confidant were, 
 "Compose yourself!" 
 
 Paul Postelwaite had long resolved upon a musical 
 career. He knew the pitfalls of the profession. On every 
 side of him he saw and heard the unfortunates who played 
 the piano to excess. A hater of discord, he resolved to 
 save the victims of piano-playing from themselves. To 
 this end he studied piano-moving. 
 
 Most pianos are bought on the instalment plan. Most 
 payers for pianos bought on this plan fall behind in their 
 instalments. It was Paul's duty to call and take away 
 the pianos of those who had been remiss.
 
 Paul, the Piano-Mover 
 
 He bore abuse and vituperation, not with stolid indif- 
 ference but with the conscientious feehng that he was a 
 pubhc benefactor. 
 
 He had the reward of pubhc appreciation. People 
 afflicted by proximity to those who played the piano to 
 excess no longer complained to the Board of Health. They 
 ascertamed if any payments were overdue on the instru- 
 ment of torture, and then they sent for Paul. 
 
 Paul's father had been a piano-maker. But he had 
 been overtaken by misfortune. He made pianos for the 
 big department stores. 
 
 But while he only made one grade of piano, he was 
 compelled by the exigencies of his trade to stencil them 
 with so many different names that he forgot his own. And 
 one day, while suffering from loss of memory m this 
 regard, he signed a name not his own to a check and was 
 compelled to retire from business to Ossining-on-Hudson. 
 
 His father's parting advice had been, "Never forget 
 who you are, my boy!" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HARMONY IN A FLAT. 
 
 That evening, carrying with him a pair of wooden legs, 
 as a pleasant surprise for the abbreviated parent, Paul 
 called at the cosy Harlem apartment where dwelt the 
 young girl who had so attracted his attention that morning. 
 
 As the young girl opened the door for him with a glad
 
 Paul, the Piano-Mover 
 
 cry, Paul proffered the wooden legs. "These are for your 
 father," he said; "he has a heart of oak, I know, and now 
 he will have legs to match." 
 
 "Bless you, young sir," cried the father of the girl. 
 "This will place me on a better footing with the world! 
 And should I die they will be a legacy for both of you. 
 And now, thank gracious! I can play the pianola!" 
 
 "The grateful father adjusted the artificial limbs and zvas 
 soon playing Handel zvitli Itis feet."
 
 Paul, the Piano-Mover 
 
 So saying the grateful father adjusted the artificial limbs 
 
 and was soon playing Handel with his feet, extracting from 
 
 the music chords of wood, as it were, of a timbre most 
 
 surprising. 
 
 ;^ :ii * * V * 
 
 This was not all. Paul secured the old man a political 
 position as a stump speaker, at which he was doubly suc- 
 cessful, and how he stood on public questions is well known ; 
 his physical disability, of course, stood in the way of his 
 ever runnmg for office. 
 
 As for the daughter, Paul married her. There is no 
 need to tell you her name. She is Mrs. Postelwaite now 
 and that is enough. 
 
 They are still a musical family, and the pride of their 
 home is a Baby Grand. 
 
 A TOAST 
 
 by John R. Gregg. 
 For Success — initiative, concentration and perseverance; 
 For Happiness — love, cheerfulness and a sense of humor; 
 For Good-fellowship — the Pleiades.
 
 Lady Crinoline 
 
 by John Campbell Delano. 
 
 Illustration by Frank A. Nankivcll. 
 
 AINTY Lady Crinoline, 
 
 Frail as the frailest porcelain. 
 Memory doth take me back 
 O'er Life's long-forgotten track 
 
 Sweet as sweetest metheglin. 
 
 Dainty Lady Crinoline. 
 
 Dark thine hair as deepest night. 
 And thine eyes were stars alight, 
 Roses blushed thy cheeks to see. 
 Blessings on thee. Memory, 
 For this maid in bombazine. 
 Dainty Lady Crinoline. 
 
 Ankles slim as lily's stem. 
 Tiny feet from out the hem 
 Of thy dress my heart entranced 
 When the minuet we danced. 
 Sweet, angelic cherubin. 
 Dainty Lady Crinoline!
 
 "Dainty Lady Criuuliiic, 
 Frail as frailest porcelain; 
 Ankles slim as lily's stem."
 
 At tke Pleiades 
 by Maurice V. Samuels. 
 
 HE music sounds, my pulse responds; 
 
 My neighbor who is young and fair 
 Holds me in conversation's bonds — 
 And yet my spirit is not there! 
 
 Around me merry friends I see, 
 Gay laughter and saluting smile. 
 
 Here in the Hall of Jollity 
 Present, I still am in exile. 
 
 Bohemia's spell is subtly wove; 
 
 What she seems to display most clear 
 Is not her real treasure-trove — 
 
 She whispers to an inner ear. 
 
 She pictures what remains unseen. 
 Sings songs too exquisite for tongue. 
 
 Tempts one with hope for nobler gains 
 And ever shows one higher rung! 
 
 Bohemia, ah! how base-maligned! 
 
 Thy form mistaken oft for Thee! 
 Thy body gazed upon. Thy Mind 
 
 Regarded as an absentee!
 
 At the Pleiades 
 
 Thou who dost hand the cup of wine 
 
 To stir the heart till it let free 
 The prisoned spirit — form divine — 
 
 Art wronged by many a devotee! 
 
 The music sweet, and she whose face 
 Is soft illumed, and echoed laugh. 
 
 As gayety grows on apace. 
 
 Fill not the goblet that I quaff. 
 
 Somewhere, away, by Thee led on. 
 
 Aware, alive, responsive still, 
 I feel the tremulous light shed on 
 
 My spirit by that wanton will. 
 
 We all, earth-bound most time, behold 
 Thy shrine and there libation pour; 
 
 Mistake the alloy for pure gold 
 And mere appearance, to adore. 
 
 For know, Bohemia, Goddess glad. 
 We all in some way comprehend 
 
 Thy worship must be gay, not sad. 
 Or Thou refuses! to befriend. 
 
 So here, with revelry and mirth. 
 
 Gay song, quick toast and wassail mood, 
 We greet Thee in Thy form of Earth 
 
 And place before Thee wi 
 
 :^c^
 
 Tlie Land of Dreams 
 
 by Willard D. Coxey. 
 
 Illustration by Ryan Walker. 
 
 H, a curious place is the Land of Dreams. 
 With its vapory castles of smoke — 
 A shadowy land where the sun never beams. 
 And Reality's only a joke! 
 
 'Tis a place where fortunes are made in a night 
 
 With nothing of cost or labor; 
 And all that you do is to turn out the light — 
 
 And dream that Wealth is your neighbor! 
 
 'Tis a land of bliss, where no one is missed — 
 
 'Tis a land that lovers adore. 
 Where the prettiest girl who ever was kissed 
 
 Is a dream on the edge of a snore! 
 
 So here's to the shadowy Realm of Sleep! 
 
 And here's to the People of Seeming! 
 The rest of the world may awake and weep, 
 
 But me for the laugh and the dreaming.
 
 'Where the prettiest girl who ever was kissed 
 Is a dream on the edge of a snore."
 
 Tke Wedding of tke v mes 
 
 by Aimee Greene- Abbott. 
 
 CURIOUS vine leaned over the w^all, 
 Gay with pride, and straight and tall. 
 It danced and swung in the playful 
 wind, 
 And peered about to see what it could find. 
 
 Its tendrils, light and airy and gay. 
 Flaunted and fluttered, day after day, 
 Till a larger vine on the side of a church, 
 Swung out a branch, with decisive lurch. 
 
 He grasped the tendril with loving force, 
 (She thought she couldn't resist, of course.) 
 They twined together, heart to heart, 
 Now none who pass can tell them apart.
 
 
 Drawn by A. I. Keller.
 
 1 he Fable of tne Over-Talented 
 
 by Dorothy Dix. 
 
 Illustration by Wui. J. Stcinujans. 
 
 HERE was once a Sagacious Youth, with 
 a High Brow, who Opined that the 
 World owed him a Living, 
 
 "It is all very well," he reflected, "for 
 Ordinary Dubs who have not been blessed 
 with a Superabundance of Gray Matter as I have, to 
 Strain on the Collar in the Tread Mill of Business, but 
 the very thought of Work makes me Tired, and I appre- 
 hend that there are Easier ways of getting the Pelf than 
 by Earning it. 
 
 "It is, of course, a Good Thing that not every one is 
 as Brilliant as I am, for if they were the world would 
 blow up with Spontaneous Combustion. It really pains 
 me to see others toiling along day after day for Measly 
 Salaries, when they might have money coming to them 
 on Wings if they only used their Wits instead of their 
 Paws." 
 
 With that the Sagacious Youth worked out a system 
 that was a Sure Thing on paper for Divorcing the Public 
 from its Long Green. 
 
 "I learned from the Census Report," he said to him- 
 self, "that every Mmute a Sucker is Born, and I appre-
 
 "There zcas once a Sagacious Yotith with a High Broiv.'
 
 The Fable of the Over-Talented 
 
 hend that they are Providentially provided to furnish Au- 
 tomobiles and Wealth Water for Wise Guys like Me, 
 and that all that I shall have to do is to take advantage 
 of their Gullibility in order to Hook Them and have a 
 Fish Chowder that will be a Perpetual Picnic. 
 
 "I have perceived that most of my Fellow Creatures 
 are so Greedy that they will swallow any sort of Bait if 
 it looks Fat, and that if you only Promise them enough, 
 it Razzle-dazzles them so they do not investigate your 
 means of Making Good." 
 
 Thereupon the Youth began burning the midnight Car- 
 bon concocting a Prospectus of Speculation made Easy, 
 by which Widows and Orphans and Clergymen could be 
 separated from their Pile and enjoy all the Excitement and 
 Losses of Wall Street at Home. 
 
 As an idea it was a Jim Dandy that commanded the 
 respect of the Financial World, but before the Youth could 
 realize it the Post-Office Department got Wise, and he 
 felt it best to Travel in Europe for his Health. 
 
 "Alas!" cried the Youth, "I fear that the Confidence 
 Game is getting Over-Crowded, and it is evidently up to 
 me to either Marry and give some Female the Pleasure of 
 Supporting me, or else go to Work. 
 
 "Personally, my tastes are not Domestic, and I prefer 
 Single Blessedness to Double Wretchedness, but it is clear
 
 The Fable of the Over-Talented 
 
 that It will be less Fatiguing to hold a Lady's Hand than 
 to call Stations in the Subway; it's me for the Altar. 
 Besides, as soon as I have annexed little Tootsey-Wootsey 
 for my own, I will take possession of her Bank Account 
 and then all will be well." 
 
 So the Youth espoused an Elderly Widow whose No. 1 
 husband had left her a Large and Juicy slice of Insurance, 
 but contrary to his expectations she was a Foxy Lady with 
 a Time Lock on her Pocketbook, and he could not work 
 the Combination that opened it. 
 
 At this the Youth shed bitter Tears, but when he began 
 knocking Fate his Friend called him down. 
 
 "It may be True," said the Friend, "that the World 
 owes you a living, but there are many Small Debts that 
 we have to Personally Collect. 
 
 "If you had displayed as much Imagination in writing 
 Fiction as you have in Telling Lies that deceive no one, 
 you would have received an Honorary Degree from Yale 
 instead of the Double Cross from your Fellow Creatures, 
 and if you had worked as hard at some Honest Calling 
 as you have in trying to Rob Others you would be a 
 Millionaire instead of a Tramp. It is my observation that 
 the Beater always gets Beaten in the end. Farewell!" 
 
 Moral: This Fable teaches that Most of the Short Cuts 
 to Success end on the Dump.
 
 A 
 
 Son 
 
 by Philip Verrill Mighels. 
 
 Itlusiration by I'. Luis Mora. 
 
 g 
 
 Somewhere I have heard that the ''Plei- 
 ades all sang together,'' and I therefore 
 submit these all-star verses as a song. 
 
   I ^ 
 
 N the Northern seas I loved a maid 
 As cold as a polar bear. 
 But of taking a cold I was not afraid- 
 Sing too rel le roo 
 And the wine is red — 
 For a kiss is a kiss most anywhere. 
 When a man's heart goes to his head. 
 
 Ho! the heart of a man is an onion, boys. 
 
 An onion, boys, with a shedding skin; 
 And never it breaks, for you off with its hide 
 
 When the old love's gone — and it's fresh within! 
 
 In the Southern seas I loved a lass 
 
 As warm as a day in June, 
 And oh, that a summer should ever pass — 
 Sing too rel le roo 
 And the wine is red — 
 For my summer, my lads, was gone too soon. 
 With a man's heart gone to his head. 
 
 Ho! the heart of a man, etc.
 
 "In the Southern seas I loved a lass 
 As warm as a day in June."
 
 A Song 
 
 In the Western seas I loved a miss 
 As shy as the sharks that swim. 
 And it's duties we owe to the art of a kiss — 
 Sing too rel le roo 
 And the wine is red — 
 If a maiden so shy should be took with a whim 
 And a man's heart gone to his head. 
 
 Ho! the heart of a man, etc. 
 
 P. S. — There are said to be seven seas. It ought to be seventy. 
 
 WHERE BOHEMIA IS 
 
 by John William Sargent. 
 
 Bohemias not a corner hid in Paris or New York, 
 Not a corner in a cellar -where ■we eat and drink and talk. 
 Nor a corner that is set aside to poverty and art : 
 No, Bohemias ]ust a corner in the right man s heart !
 
 A 
 
 u t u m 
 
 by Arthur Stahlschmidt. 
 
 Decoration hi/ II. K. Crunincr. 
 
 n 
 
 HE long sweep of the wind across the 
 moor, 
 The cry of plover bird on flapping 
 wing, 
 
 The faded grass and bracken near the shore 
 Of the deserted pond where robins used to sing. 
 
 No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound, 
 Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the 
 naked boughs 
 And rustle of dead leaves along the barren 
 ground.
 
 At tke Sign 
 Cneap laDle 
 
 of tke 
 d ' Ho t e 
 
 by Helen Rowland. 
 
 Illustration by E. M. Ashe. 
 
 MOKE, and spaghetti, and crimson wine. 
 And the laughing notes of a viohn ! 
 From the Seine, from the Loire, from the 
 Thames, the Rhine, 
 
 Hail the guests of the cheap table 
 d'hote — Come in! 
 
 What if your hat be a battered one? 
 
 What if your coat be a trifle thin? 
 There's a chant of cheer for Bohemia's son 
 
 At the Sign of the Cheap Table d'Hote — Come in! 
 
 Feel not your pocket, for here's a feast. 
 
 And your fill of wine for a few mean pence — - 
 
 Fish and fowl and a loaf, at least — 
 And all for a matter of fifty cents! 
 
 Oh, wonderful things you'll discover there 
 
 In the midst of the clatter and smoke and din. 
 
 For Genius is child of the very air 
 
 One breathes at the cheap table d'hote — Come in!
 
 "Oh, wonderful things you'll discover there 
 In the midst of the clatter and smoke and 
 
 din."
 
 At the Sign of the Cheap Table d'Hote 
 
 Out of the smoke there are statues carved. 
 And daring dreamers their day-dreams spin; 
 
 For never a poet's soul has starved 
 On the notes of a table d'hote violin. 
 
 At that table yonder, perchance, was born 
 A sonnet that brought the singer fame — 
 
 And there, in a jacket frayed and worn. 
 Nightly, a world-known pamter came. 
 
 Here, once reveled a popular wit. 
 
 There, a composer, now rich and fat. 
 Here, a diva — just think of that! — 
 
 Flirted and laughed, 'neath a home-made hat! 
 
 Where are they now? Who knows? Alas! 
 
 Dining, perhaps, in a dinner coat. 
 Sipping champagne from a rich man's glass — 
 
 For Success sits not at the table d'hote. 
 
 But what does it matter to us, I say! 
 
 This is "Going-to-be" and not "Has-been" — 
 The Land of "To-morrow," not "Yesterday," 
 
 Is the Sign of the Cheap Table d'Hote — Come in!
 
 "Hello 
 
 by John Edward Hazzard. 
 
 
 ELLO, girl!" 
 
 "Hello, boyf 
 Thus with hand-clasp was our greet- 
 ing, 
 
 Seems as though at our first meeting. 
 "Hello, girl!" and oh, what gladness 
 In her echo, "Hello, boy!" 
 
 "Hello, girl!" 
 "Hello, boy!" 
 This, and then a moment's kissing. 
 Gave us what in life was missing ; 
 " Hello, girl !" and oh, what madness 
 In her echo, "Hello, boy!" 
 
 "Good-by, girl!" 
 "Good-by, boy!" 
 Thus we spoke it at our parting, 
 Just a little tear was smarting ; 
 
 "Good-by, gid!" and oh, what sadness 
 In her echo, " Good-by, boy !"
 
 T K e Wild R o 
 
 by John Jerome Rooney. 
 
 Jllusli ulion by Louis Klicud. 
 
 s e 
 
 SAW a wild rose in the wilderness ; 
 It was so sweet, so sweet 
 It seemed the one thing in the world 
 
 That God had made complete. 
 
 It grew beside a mossy road 
 In the deep northern woods, 
 
 And oh, its simple beauty lit 
 Those savage solitudes. 
 
 And, as I plucked it where it blew 
 All tremblmg in the wind. 
 
 It seemed a meet gift unto her — 
 The flower of womankind!
 
 "The flozver of zijo mankind!"
 
 Tke Old, Old Prayer 
 
 by John W. Postgate. 
 
 w 
 
 ^UR Father, which art in Heaven, 
 We glorify Thy name. 
 And pray our sins be all forgiven. 
 
 Our hearts all cleansed from shame; 
 Our vain desires we beg Thee check, 
 Our footsteps lead aright, 
 And from our eyes remove each speck 
 That blinds us to the light. 
 
 Hallowed be Thy name, O Lord; 
 
 Let Thy sweet mercy reign; 
 Within our hearts sink deep the Word 
 
 That heals all grief and pain; 
 Our wand'ring thoughts restrain and cheer, 
 
 Our cares and doubts dispel; 
 From timid hearts cast out each fear, 
 
 And teach us, All is well! 
 
 Give us this day our daily bread; 
 
 And fervent be our creed. 
 To suffer none to go unfed 
 
 While we may end his need; 
 Let love and pity fill our hearts. 
 
 And charity for all; 
 Sustain the strength that hope imparts. 
 
 To bless both great and small.
 
 The Old, Old Prater 
 
 Thy Kingdom come, in Thy good time. 
 
 Oh, comfort us till then! 
 Tiiy will be done in ev'ry clime 
 
 Where toil the sons of men; 
 And let Thy grace descend and glow 
 
 Within each weary breast. 
 So we may all Thy goodness know. 
 
 Thy love and peace attest. 
 
 Our faults forgive, as we forgive 
 
 The faults by others shown; 
 Teach us the way to righdy live 
 
 Our follies to atone; 
 From evil aims our minds set free. 
 
 And from temptation save; 
 And let the Cross of Calvary 
 
 Redeem us from the grave. 
 
 For Thine the Kingdom must prevail 
 
 'Gainst all the hosts of ill. 
 Thy power and Thy glory quell 
 
 The arts that sting and kill; 
 And forever and forever 
 
 Hosannas let us raise, 
 That lures of earth may never 
 
 Divert us from Thy ways.
 
 Ihe j3ashful Cjirl 
 
 by Fred S. Blossom. 
 
 Jlluxtrutiun by E. Fiilir. 
 
 HE threw around my soul a charm — 
 I threw around her waist my arm. 
 She was so bashful and seemed so shy — 
 Just made to kiss — ah! I wished to try. 
 
 We strolled along in the cooling shade; 
 I mustered courage and kissed the maid. 
 Her look! Her eyes! I'll never forget 
 The touch of her lips! It lingers yet. 
 
 We kissed again! My heart stood still — 
 A joy came o'er me, a quiet thrill; 
 As the red blood pulsed, all seemed awhirl- 
 Wondrous change in my bashful girl! 
 
 Did her brown eyes flash, or a cry of wrath 
 Re-echo along that shady path? 
 Nay! But clinging close, as ivies climb. 
 She lifted her head to me each time.
 
 "But clinging close, as ivies climb. 
 She lifted her head to me each time.'
 
 I nvitation 
 
 by Walter Gregory Muirheid. 
 
 JlUistiution hy It. A. Ijiidcrs. 
 
 RAY, maiden of ye ancient time. 
 Fair stranger of a foreign clime. 
 Tell me, as gaze ye o'er the sea. 
 What thoughts arise to comfort thee? 
 
 Hast lover there in ship of state. 
 
 Or waitest thou beside the gate 
 
 To welcome him from war's alarms 
 
 To the fond shelter of thine arms? 
 
 Perchance that through the ages vast 
 In prophecy thy gaze is cast 
 And to Manhattan's glad and gay 
 Hotels, cafes and Great White Way 
 Thy fancies take their wing, and show 
 The Pleiades with lights aglow, 
 Till in thy limpid, lucent eyes 
 Bright visions of our feasts arise.
 
 "Fair stranger of a foreign clime:
 
 Invilalion 
 
 Canst bridge the span of ages vast, 
 O maiden of a fabled past? 
 Then come! We'll do our best to please; 
 We'll make thee guest at Pleiades! 
 And ne'er in palmy days of Rome 
 Couldst thou, fair maiden, feel at home 
 More than at Pleiads' tables round 
 Where fellowship and faith abound. 
 
 For ne'er in Rome were men like these 
 Good fellows of the Pleiades, 
 And ne'er were maidens half so fair 
 As they who seek diversion there; 
 Yet ne'er was time these fellows gay 
 Would deem another in the way. 
 And so make haste, fly o'er the sea. 
 The Pleiades will welcome thee!
 
 Drawn by 
 Wm. J. Steinigans. 
 
 See the lady ? Does tlie lady want tKe soap ? TKe lady cer- 
 tainly does. Will the pup bring the soap to the lady? It will 
 not — the pup is a gentleman pup and the lady is a suffragette. 
 The pup wants her to get it herself.
 
 All You ^^eed in ^^ew York 
 
 by Lee Fairchild. 
 
 JIhixtrdiirin III Will. ]'(iit Henthuysen. 
 
 SHAVE and a dollar, 
 A shine and a collar, 
 Is all that you need in New York; 
 That is, if you're clever 
 And never, oh, never 
 Are seen at the thing we call work. 
 
 When seated at dinner 
 
 Just for a beginner 
 Change waiters — a move for a bluff; 
 
 Talk "stocks" of the morrow 
 
 And then you may borrow 
 A crimpled crisp sign of real stuff. 
 
 Remember a story — 
 
 Quite new or quite hoary — 
 To quote to your host when you dine; 
 
 Be never a piker 
 
 But e'er a bold striker — 
 Aim high or the venture decline.
 
 ..irt T)fAT«^vfVe> • 
 
 'Talk 'stocks' of the morroiu.
 
 Vsl 
 
 1 t 1 n 
 
 by Mabel Herbert Urner. 
 
 JUustration by Liillur .V. ir/((7f. 
 
 g 
 
 OU — you will come over Wednesday eve- 
 ning?" She asked it hesitatingly, timidly 
 almost. 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't Wednesday," as 
 he picked up his hat and cane. 
 "Then Thursday — have you an engagement for Thurs- 
 day?" 
 
 "Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club." 
 "Oh, yes; of course you must go to that." There 
 was a slight quiver in her voice now. "Could — could you 
 come — Friday?" 
 
 "That's so far ahead. I don't like to make an engage- 
 ment so far in advance. But I'll phone you some time 
 during the week. 
 
 She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by 
 he was gone. His step down the hall — the click of the 
 elevator — then she ran to the window and followed him 
 with strained eyes as he swung down the street. 
 
 If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as 
 he used to — but he did not. 
 
 She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows 
 — the ache in her heart keener than any physical pain.
 
 Waiting! 
 
 Was it hopeless — the fight she was making? Could she 
 never win back the love she had lost? 
 
 And she had never known how she had lost it — unless 
 it was because she had grown to care too much and to 
 show it too plainly. Could it be that? Had he cared 
 
 "There she sat, zvith her head bending lozv, thinking, 
 thinking, thinking."
 
 IV ailing. f 
 
 only for the uncertainty — the love of pursuit?   And with- 
 out that — being sure of his conquest — his interest had died? 
 
 Ah, no — no! passionately she denied that. The man 
 she loved was bigger, finer than that! He could not have 
 stooped to a merely cheap desire for conquest. If he had 
 ceased to love her, it was some fault of hers, some failing, 
 some lack within herself of which she was unconscious. 
 
 She had spent long hours of torturing self-analysis try- 
 ing to find where she had failed — what it was that in the 
 beginning he might have thought she possessed — and then 
 found she did not. So great was her love for him that 
 she felt she could almost make of herself what he wanted 
 — just by the sheer strength of Tvilling it! 
 
 If only she could be with him enough! If she could 
 but have the chance to make him care for her again ! He 
 used to come almost every day — and now — now, sometimes 
 many days would pass. 
 
 She knew it was a mistake to ask him when he was 
 coming — to try to name any particular time. He seemed 
 to resent that now. If only she could let him go without 
 a word! But the thought of the long, silent absence that 
 might follow always terrified her. Once, for two weeks, 
 she had not heard from him ; and the memory of those two 
 weeks' suffering always weakened her to the point of trying
 
 Waiting! 
 
 to make some definite engagement to escape the sickening 
 uncertainty of the days to come. 
 
 Oh, she was so helpless — so pitiably helpless! "Wholly 
 dependent on him for her happiness, yet powerless to break 
 down this wall he was placing between them! 
 
 She slowly arose and threw herself into a chair. There 
 she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, think- 
 ing. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Then gradually there stole over her a sense of quiet — 
 almost of peace. It was partly the relaxation that comes 
 after any emotional strain, and partly because of a faint 
 hope, a belief that sometimes came to her and that com- 
 forted her above everything else — the thought that because 
 she gave of her best — because the love she gave was a great 
 and good love — some time he could come to know, to 
 understand, and to love her again, if only for her unfal- 
 tering love of him! 
 
 If she could but wait long enough — patiently enough — 
 in the end the love she so wanted might be hers!
 
 The Blind Messenger 
 
 by Annabel Lee. 
 
 Illustration hij Walter Mcyncr. 
 
 F I could feel the song of faith still 
 singing 
 In my heart, once filled with melody 
 Of all you seemed when love was 
 brmgmg 
 Me to the shrine of your adolatry. 
 
 Ah ! If the years and gods were but content 
 To hold fame's trophy from my reaching hand 
 
 And give instead, the meed which heaven meant 
 Should crown each woman's life in every land. 
 
 If the dead past would but one hour deign 
 A lonely pilgrim travelling byways rough, 
 
 An hour when love and peace would ever reign- 
 That hour indeed were happiness enough.
 
 
 
 
 ■'"^ 
 
 /•, 
 
 # 
 
 V*'^ 
 
 MA 
 
 V^^Sm''S^''Wi^'mi^a^''m^^??K'' l°llg|Rr-if^rY-'Tff?!:t^>»WF»ai^ffiy'?yf -t'- '- • - ■-'^■■^ 
 
 • * 
 
 To hold fame's trophy from my reaching hand.
 
 The Pleiades 
 
 by Hector McPherson. 
 
 LL hail! my brothers of palette and pen; 
 Of science and buskin, too; 
 You daughters of beauty and tuneful 
 mien — 
 The joy-ship's merriest crew. 
 
 Can this be Bohemia, realm of mirth. 
 
 Where the grave and gay unite? 
 Where genius now finds its nobler birth 
 
 And shines with a lustre bright? 
 
 Men here tell stories, their pictures paint. 
 
 As they burn life's flick'ring lamp; 
 They toil and they sweat, yea, mayhap they faint. 
 
 Yet with care they refuse to camp. 
 
 When hand grips hand in friendly grasp. 
 Just jot this down in your book: 
 
 It is Nature's heart that you fondly clasp. 
 Not an empty, outward look.
 
 The Pleiades 
 
 The flower of friendship sweeter blooms 
 Where all hearts are good and true. 
 
 Each nobler art richer form assumes 
 And shines with a fairer hue. 
 
 Ye Pleiades of the heavenly throng, 
 
 Down here you do bravely shine. 
 May your hearts be light and your way be long. 
 
 Lit by genius most divine! 
 
 Then forward from conquering field to field, 
 
 Nor heeding life's battle-scars; 
 Nor malice, nor envy's tongue shall make yield 
 
 Who brothers are to the stars! 
 
 Table d' Hote Bohemia 
 
 Here's to "Table d'Hote BoKemia"' 
 
 Where all may dare. 
 But only the brave 
 
 Can stand the fare !
 
 over 
 
 by Howard S. Neiman. 
 
 \ 
 
 M 
 
 1 
 
 N her leafy, shady bowers 
 
 Grew a rose among the flowers; 
 Queen was she among the bloom, 
 Dainty with her sweet perfume. 
 And the flowers did homage pay, 
 Love by night and love by day. 
 Daisies fair and tulips sweet. 
 
 Bashful violets at her feet, 
 
 Thistles strong and lilies white 
 
 Told their love by day and night. 
 
 But she spurned their love so true. 
 
 She had lover no one knew. 
 
 And each morn when faintest light 
 
 Told the passing of the night, 
 
 She would lift her blushing face 
 
 For her lover's fond embrace. 
 
 And when other flowers did sleep. 
 
 Softly to her he would creep. 
 
 In the dawning thus alone 
 
 He would call her all his own; 
 
 On her lips a kiss would press. 
 
 Leave them moist with happiness. 
 
 Love so tender. Love so true. 
 
 Fairest Rose and Morning Dew! 
 
 All my life-time would be sweet — 
 All my happiness complete — 
 If I were the Morning Dew, 
 And the Rose, Sweetheart, were you.
 
 a m e 
 
 by Katherine Fitzhugh McAllister. 
 
 Decoration hy D. 8. 
 
 HERE have been men whose souls 
 were filled 
 With dew of knowledge thrice dis- 
 tilled, 
 Who bored holes in Time's masonry 
 Thru which the stupid world could see ; 
 Yet Envy with the pen of rage, 
 Wrote " Failure " on the title page ! 
 Fame stood aloof, with scornful head. 
 And crowned them — after they were dead !
 
 Xke Tale of the Store Girl 
 
 by O Hana San. 
 
 Illustration hu Adrian Machcfert. 
 
 ES. ma'am, to the right. No, ma'am, not 
 this store." 
 "Say, Sade, ain't those dames a terrible 
 
 bore 
 
 With their questions all day? 
 Perhaps now I can say 
 
 What I want to you, of me friend Johnny Ray. 
 Was the party real swell? Well, 
 I'm dying to tell 
 
 You of the dandy fine floor, and just what I wore 
 
 The price of that, ma'am? Well, ain't she a ham 
 To get off her ear just because it's too dear? 
 As I was just sayin', there was dancin' and playin', 
 And cute Johnny Ray, say! was with me all day 
 
 Two yards of that lace? (My, Sade, what a face!) 
 
 Sure, ma'am, I'll attend; 
 
 I don't mean to offend 
 
 Either you or any other old lady. 
 
 Fresh? Can you beat that now, Sadie? 
 
 She's gone to complain to the floorwalker chap — 
 
 It's all up with me, maybe, but I don't give a rap.
 
 V ?* 
 
 "As I was just sayin'."
 
 The Tale of the Store Girl 
 
 'Cos Johnny wants me for his own little pet, 
 And maybe I ain't lookin' for marriage just yet! 
 I can beat it — and quick — to a store on Broadway. 
 Hear me hand that to him. 
 With a merry 'Good day?' " 
 
 And she did, and what happened is easy to write; 
 She married young Ray; that's her end, so good night. 
 
 V V ••• *r 
 
 Moral. 
 And the moral is simple for girls high and low: 
 You'll never get left with two strings to your bow. 
 A good business one to pull at your will. 
 Or, a true lover's knot may be better still 
 In case you get "fired," like the girl in the store. 
 Who had two strings to her bow 
 And who knows? — some more!
 
 A TOAST 
 
 Illustration hy Kricyhnff. 
 
 I drink to tte Pipe, •whicli, at eventide. 
 Is dearer to tne than a blushing bride. 
 As its perfumed clouds float on the air, 
 Tbey curl into myriad visions rare: 
 Pictures of comrades of long ago 
 I see in the shadows that come and go ; 
 And the long-lost love of my boyhood seems 
 To be kissed into life by my Pipe-o"-dreams.
 
 A 
 
 D o 
 
 by Eugene Geary. 
 
 1 llitNtni lion III/ a. M hhclsun. 
 
 n 
 
 g 
 
 OUNG Love forsook the highways. 
 
 All decked in their robes of Spring, 
 And, far into silent by-ways. 
 He fluttered on golden wing. 
 Blithe youths and maidens chased him, 
 
 "He is only tired," they said. 
 To a streamlet's brink they chased him. 
 Then sighed that Love was dead. 
 
 On, on through the shining meadows. 
 
 As the rays of the evening fell. 
 He sped 'mid the length'ning shadows 
 
 Till he came to a lonely dell. 
 The flowers, with teardrops laden, 
 
 Bent their heads as he flew along. 
 To sigh o'er the grave of a maiden — 
 
 His sigh was a poet's song.
 
 "Then sighed that Love ivas dead."
 
 The Caverns ox the Soul 
 
 by Charles Louis Sicard. 
 
 Illustration hy H. B. Eddy. 
 
 ITHIN the mystic caverns of our souls 
 There is a labyrinth unexplored; 
 Where dim aisles, winding far beyond the 
 poles. 
 Have secrets of the ages stored. 
 
 Unheard far in the twilight mists of time, 
 
 Are weirdly haunting strains that sleep. 
 To be resounded through your soul or mine. 
 
 For those we summon from the deep. 
 
 Oft times I wandered in those ancient caves. 
 
 Seeking to pierce the crowded past; 
 Midst endless hosts submerged 'neath lethal waves, 
 The all in one, sans first, sans last. 
 
 For Truth alone thus strangely did I grope. 
 
 Daring, despairing, yet in vain ; 
 Until one wondrous hour, while stirred with hope. 
 
 My search revealed a slumb'ring strain. 
 
 One blast of barb'rous melody flung clear. 
 
 Swept back the veil, removed the ban. 
 And demon-ridden, and accursed with fear, 
 
 I stalked, once more primeval man. 
 
 Ah me, this thing, cast from the pit of night. 
 
 Knew naught but savagery and lust; 
 I searched in vain for truth, for love, for light. 
 
 Then bid him vanish back to dust.
 
 "Within the mystic caverns of our souls."
 
 The Caverns of the Soul 
 
 Undaunted through my soul again I sped, 
 A strain unheard, for cycles flown ; 
 
 Adown the shadowed deeps this message fled. 
 Come ye, who first, love's thrill hast known. 
 
 From distant ages dim, at last, I came. 
 With shining eyes of glim'ring dawn. 
 
 And throbbing heart aglow, destined to flame. 
 In love, through those as yet unborn. 
 
 I saw this self ancestral slowly fade. 
 
 To voiceless chambers of the gloom; 
 Where rest those throngs, who have so fully paid. 
 
 That Life's dank weeds, might flowers bloom. 
 
 'Tis on the scroll, graved deep, that I now pay. 
 And Life must quaff the poison'd wine; 
 
 But Love and Hope, if star-strewn on the way. 
 Can purify the living vine. 
 
 O Soul, the tallied years of men count not. 
 
 For life eternal sweepeth back; 
 As life unending is predestined lot. 
 
 And I am I, from love, from rack! 
 
 This vibrant flame, entombed in human clay. 
 Divine spark from the aeons blown. 
 
 Through loins of countless forbears to this day 
 Shall ever reap as all have sown.
 
 
 Drawn by Albert Sterner.
 
 Love s Flo\ve 
 
 r 
 
 by Frank L. N orris. 
 
 IlliistruUuii by M. Torre lluod. 
 
 HROUGHOUT this life a moral runs, 
 And ye who read may learn 
 
 That God has placed in every heart 
 A sacred fire, to burn 
 And flash so long as life may last — 
 
 A priceless treasure trove, 
 A garden fair, beyond compare, 
 
 Where blooms the flov^er called love. 
 A flower that's warmed by passion's flame. 
 
 And fed by pleasure's dew, 
 Its curling petals reaching out 
 
 Like beckoning hands to you. 
 But pluck it! ere with perfume gone. 
 
 It hangs its drooping head. 
 Nor passion stay from day to day 
 
 Until that flower is dead.
 
 "But pluck if! ere zi'ith perfume gone, 
 It hangs its drooping head."
 
 i he Revolt of tne tars 
 
 by Maud G. Pride. 
 
 Illii.sliKtinn hji It. .S. AiiKiit. 
 
 VERY long time ago, when the Heavens 
 were quite new and the Earth was still in 
 the Golden Age, a strange event occurred 
 — quite unheard of even in those early 
 times. 
 
 The Sun, vigorous and lusty, had rubbed his blinking 
 eyes and hurried away to the west. The boy-child, Twi- 
 light, his chubby hands still clutching after the last red 
 rays left behind by the Sun, winked his sleepy eyes, as, 
 protestingly, he was pushed along in his crimson cart by 
 Old Sandman. Close behind came his three sisters, the 
 Evenmg Shadows, in their long, trailing, gray robes. A 
 hush fell upon the Heavens. From far below came the 
 hum of the Crickets and the low murmur of the Katydids, 
 having their final good-night gossip, but in the Sky all was 
 still until the Moonlady came softly creeping along, her 
 silver mantle enfolding her slight form, her long silken hair 
 caught by the Evening Breeze, who followed close in her 
 wake. At her appearance there arose from the Earth 
 songs of gladness and hymns of praise. Lovers looked up 
 at her enraptured, poets sang of her, and even the brute 
 creation sent Heavenward their low murmur of joy at her
 
 'The Moonlady stole softly across the sky."
 
 The Revoll of the Stars 
 
 being. Silently she smiled down upon them all as she 
 passed on her way. 
 
 Then a strange thing happened. Black clouds skurried 
 here and there across the Heavens, and low mutterings 
 were heard. The Stars had revolted! 
 
 Venus, her cold beauty marred by a frown of discon- 
 tent, was the center of a murmuring group, to whom she 
 spoke in words of passion : 
 
 "Let us take a firm stand. Why should we go on shin- 
 ing, shining through countless ages? We are not appre- 
 ciated. We never receive any praise. There are so many 
 of us and our light is so feeble, who cares whether we 
 shine or not? The Moon comes along and takes away 
 our glory; let her do all the work then. Why should 
 we waste our light trying to outshine the Moon and the 
 Sun? Unless we can be as brilliant as they and receive 
 as much praise, let us not shine at all." 
 
 Each Star blinked a sullen assent, and gradually each 
 little light flickered and went out. The Dog Star barked 
 and the Great Bears growled — the low mutterings became 
 a loud rumble, and the Heavens for once were dark, save 
 for a faint light that still gleamed away off in the north. 
 Seeing the feeble light still shining, all the Stars rushed to 
 it, surrounding the feeble Star that persisted in shining, and 
 jeered at her folly.
 
 The Revolt of the Stars 
 
 "Put out your light, you foolish one. Do you hope to 
 vie with the Sun or the Moon with that feeble flame of 
 yours? What use can you be in this great space of dark- 
 ness ? 
 
 "I do not know," replied the Star, faintly, "but I can 
 go on shining and do my best, though my light is small 
 and goes but a little way. I do not envy the Moonlady 
 her glory. Is it not a great thing that she can shine so 
 radiantly upon the Earth and make so many happy? And 
 if there were no Sun, what would the poor little Flowers 
 do, and the Birds and the Beasts? My little light cannot 
 do much good, but I can do my best to keep it bright, and 
 if it reaches to Earth but faintly I shall be grateful. I 
 had rather light one soul onward and upward than to have 
 a choir of Angels sing my praises; I had rather one 
 person should be glad he had seen my rays, than to be 
 crowned with a crown of brilliant jewels and never have 
 made anyone glad; I had rather one tearful soul should 
 look to me and find comfort in my steady light than to 
 have a million people bow down to me in worship of my 
 beauty; I had rather one soul should be truly sorry when 
 my light goes out than that a thousand should praise me for 
 my brilliancy and not know when I ceased to shine; I 
 had rather a baby's face looked up at me and smiled and 
 called my name than to be praised in a pwset's song and
 
 The Revolt of the Stars 
 
 know he was paid so much a hne for it; I had rather 
 send one faint ray of hope into some troubled heart than 
 to hght the World's Great White Way; I had rather 
 shine on for ages unnoticed than to shine with borrowed 
 
 light and be afraid of being blown out; I had rather " 
 
 But the little Star found herself all alone, and as she looked 
 about her she saw that each Star was in its accustomed 
 place, and that each light was more brilliant than it had 
 ever been before. Even the dark clouds had vanished, and 
 a little child looked up at the Sky from her bedroom win- 
 dow and said, "O, mother dear, see how beautiful are the 
 stars to-night! They are God's jewels, set in His Crown 
 of Glory, aren't they? If we are very good shall we be 
 beautiful stars some day and shine for Him?" 
 
 And the Stars looked down and smiled Good-night. 
 And the brightest of all the Stars were the Pleiades.
 
 Drawn by Hy. S. ll'atson. 
 Eavesdropping.
 
 T K 
 
 o y 
 
 of Living 
 
 by Carrie Van Deusen King. 
 
 Ittustrudon by Eleanor Hchoicr. 
 
 'This precious stone set in a silver sea. 
 This blessed plot, this realm, ihis earth." 
 
 — Shakespeare. 
 
 OULD heaven be sweet. If you and I were 
 there, 
 And would the angels bear us globes 
 of wine. 
 Grown rich with many a hundred 
 golden years? 
 I fear me not, for one might deem you fair 
 And take away what I had known as mine. 
 To make my paradise a vale of tears. 
 
 Give me, then, earth with its humanity. 
 
 Born like a zephyr, soft, among the trees. 
 
 While sunlight dries the dewdrops from the rose. 
 Give me the earth, I crave not what may be 
 Beyond the height of skies or depth of seas; 
 I only ask the love that mortal knows. 
 
 If heaven be heaven to steal away the soul 
 
 Of all my rapturous hours, then give me life — 
 Its fog and dew, its sunlight and its shade. 
 Its day and night — but ever let me fold 
 
 Thee to my heart, to keep from thee all strife. 
 Whatever woe, whatever ill betide.
 
 . . . For one might deem you fair 
 And take away zvJiat I had known as mine, 
 Til make my paradise a vale of tears."
 
 Tlie Called Hand 
 
 by Laura Fitzhugh Lance. 
 
 I IIiinIiiiUdii till ilcDnjf Kerr. 
 
 
 
 
 m 
 
 O matter what the game you play. 
 Play it well; 
 No matter what the price you pay. 
 Never tell. 
 This life is but a game of cards 
 Of mostly losses, few rewards. 
 The signs of Destiny's regards. 
 Or Friendship fell. 
 
 The Ace of Spades, King Edward's card. 
 
 Or William's crest. 
 Each representing different games. 
 
 Each played with zest; 
 One stands for mystic power unknown; 
 Two play an act upon a throne. 
 Both wanting this fair earth to own 
 
 And all the rest!
 
 Eacli representing different games.'
 
 7 lie Lulled Hand 
 
 What counts the cards when all is done 
 
 If king, or clown — 
 If Caesar, Hohen^ollern's 
 
 Written down! 
 What — in those palaces on high. 
 In astral cities in the sky 
 Where we shall all meet by and by — 
 
 If hod, or crown? 
 
 For when we reach Infinity 
 
 The dwellers there 
 Won't know the vassals from the kings. 
 
 Nor will they care; 
 King, crown and sceptered royalty. 
 The Here, the There — I, You and Me 
 
 Out there, out there!
 
 Passing Througk 
 
 by John P. Wade. 
 
 
 ELLO, Central! give me Heaven! (This 
 club of ours, I trow. 
 Is near enough to 'Heaven' for a mortal 
 
 here below.) 
 Just tell me, is the President all ready for 
 
 his cue 
 To start the talent flowing — while I am 
 passing through? 
 
 "I just reached town this morning and now I'm outward 
 
 bound ; 
 I'm waiting at the grating like a 'puxp that's in the pound. 
 Yes, I'm waiting with a heart-ache — I don't mind telling 
 
 you — 
 Sick with longing to be with you — instead of passing 
 
 through. 
 
 "I know just what they're doing. I can hear the old 
 gong ring. 
 
 The toastmaster is asking now some angel fair to sing. 
 
 I wonder who the Guests of Honor are, and what 
 they'll do 
 
 While gathered 'round the festive board — as I am pass- 
 ing through? 
 
 "Hello! are these the Pleiads? Well, before I take 
 
 my leave, 
 I wish to say I envy you this pleasant Sunday eve! 
 Here's hoping that I'll see you all before you say adieu 
 To the season on the circle. So long! I'm passing 
 
 through."
 
 springtime Again! 
 
 by S. Frances Herschel. 
 
 Illustration by W . I). HtvLvnu. 
 
 P from the Southland the sweet Spring is 
 steahng; 
 Up by the brooksides and over the 
 fields! 
 Valiant old Winter goes scuttling before 
 her; 
 Force which has ruled us reluctantly yields. 
 
 Where is Spring's pathway? 'Tis everywhere round us! 
 
 Over the hillsides and over the plains. 
 Kist is the broad old Earth back unto Life, until 
 
 Never a vestige of Winter remains. 
 
 Isn't there ever a corner forgotten. 
 
 Far to the eastward or far to the west? 
 Some lonely hillside or coarse little meadow. 
 
 Some quiet woodland away from the rest? 
 
 Never a hillside or valley forgotten ; 
 
 No little corner unkist by the Spring; 
 Each little bush has been touched and awakened. 
 
 Each little robin is trying to sing. 
 
 In through the depths of the woodland she's stealing. 
 Seeking and findmg each little live thing. 
 
 Waiting so surely the thrill of her coming — 
 Joy universal — the Coming of Spring!
 
 'Springtime Again!'
 
 From tke Fulness of the Heart 
 
 by William J. Lampton. 
 
 OOD God, 
 
 What is our living? 
 
 What is our thought and deed? 
 Have we, professed behevers, 
 No substance for our creed? 
 Behef is ours, and mighty. 
 
 They tell us, faith is, yet 
 The things we seem to live for 
 
 Have made us all forget. 
 And love of wealth and station 
 
 Shines bright above the goal 
 That we have set for gaining 
 At sacrifice of soul. 
 
 Oh. God, 
 
 How vast the distance 
 
 Between the earth and sky. 
 Between man and his Maker 
 
 Is measured by that cry! 
 The hollow vault of silence 
 
 Rounds o'er us and we stare
 
 From the Fulness of the Heart 
 
 Up through the depths and wonder 
 
 If echo answers prayer. 
 So far as Strength from Weakness, 
 
 So far is Day from Night; 
 Faith stumbles in its groping 
 
 Through Darkness toward the Light. 
 
 By God 
 
 We shall do better; 
 
 Be better, we must rise 
 Above the low horizon 
 
 Of selfish enterprise; 
 Be men and women, truly. 
 
 As we were made to be. 
 With souls for high ideals 
 
 And hearts of bravery 
 To lead us to the summits 
 
 Above the sordid strife 
 That make mankind forgetful 
 
 Of what is best in life: 
 To lead us to the summits 
 
 Of spirit and of mind. 
 Where man, close to his Maker, 
 
 Comes closer to his kind.
 
 T K 
 
 \V 
 
 n 
 
 by Francesca di Maria Spaulding. 
 
 Illustration by JIciuij llahujh. 
 
 E comes from a country where setting sun 
 Proclaims that the day and its work are 
 
 done; 
 Where moon and stars shed the only light 
 On trails that are hushed and dim by night. 
 
 He wanders alone in the crowded town 
 
 Where skies are forgotten when night comes down, 
 
 Where torches alight in traffic's name 
 
 May broider the streets with threads of flame. 
 
 May blazon the walls in strange designs. 
 
 May rive the darkness with flashing signs. 
 
 But quench the beam from each torch in the sky 
 
 As well as the soul of each passer-by. 
 
 Aweary at heart of the careless throng 
 
 He drifted and reveled with all too long; 
 
 He yearns for the stillness of field and hill. 
 
 For the melodic sound of a wild bird's trill. 
 
 For the infinite heights of starry skies. 
 
 When the moon makes the world seem paradise. 
 
 But he ne'er returns, and up and down 
 He wanders — alone — in the crowded town. 
 
 C
 
 "He yearns for the stillness of Held and hill, 
 For the melodic sound of a wild bird's trill.'
 
 Xne Ans^vered Call 
 
 by George Elliott Cooley. 
 
 TAR-DUST awhirl in a vortex, 
 
 The infinite moving through all ; 
 Called to the soul of the atoms; 
 And the Pleiades answered the call ! 
 
 Thus on the earth when our souls thrill, 
 We gather in groups at the call; 
 
 It's yearning for love that impels us. 
 It's the Infinite moving through all. 
 
 TRUE TRANSMUTATION 
 
 In this world tKere are people scrambling for coin ; 
 
 There are others, we know^, who are seeking for fame. 
 All will-o"-the-wispers seem eager to join 
 
 In this harassing, ha^ro^ving. hectoring game. 
 But missing Dame Fortune, they sit down and moan. 
 
 And oft grumble because through their fingers she flits : 
 They should dig for the tramps philosophers stone : 
 
 " I cant git what I -wants, so I take -what I gits."
 
 ^^ t^^''^ 
 
 Drawn by Charles W. Kahlcs. 
 The Annual Dinner.
 
 H a 1 1 r o u m a n 1 a , or 
 B oaraerla 
 
 by Irvin S. Cobb. 
 
 The 
 
 d 
 
 n 
 
 llluHtruliuH by O. Cimire. 
 
 ' ^ 
 
 HE Boarderland Is a drear domain bounded 
 on the north by top-floor bedrooms, lying 
 above the frost-Hne, because the steam reg- 
 ister always gets discouraged and quits one 
 story below. It is bounded on the south 
 by basement dining-rooms, where it is night 
 six months a year and just before daylight the rest of the 
 time ; on the east by an entrance hall agreeably perfumed 
 with the combined aroma of kerosene, mother-of-onion, 
 veteran linoleum and the stuffing in the red-plush sofa, and 
 on the west by a parlor nine feet wide and thirty-two feet 
 long, with one window in it and a doctor's sign in the win- 
 dow. The doctor's private office lies just back of the parlor, 
 so the parlor smells mildewed when the connecting door is 
 closed and iodoformed when it's open. 
 
 Boarders, as the natives of this land are commonly called, 
 are never allowed in the parlor except once, that occasion 
 being when they first apply for board. Thereafter they 
 entertain their company on the front stoop in the summer and 
 on the telephone in the winter. Winter company is the 
 more expensive.
 
 'N^, 
 
 ii^< 
 
 
 
 .:,;-tf^J^^ 
 
 
 / . . 
 
 "Thereafter they enievtain their company on the front stoop."
 
 Hallroumania, or The Boarderland. 
 
 The ruling classes of Hallroumania are known as Land- 
 ladies and may be classed generally into the following sub- 
 divisions: Landladies who belong to Old Southern Families 
 and formerly rode in Their Own Carriages, but suffered 
 Heavy Financial Reverses through the Cruel War brought 
 on By Your Mister Lincoln ; Landladies who never married 
 and don't regret it; Landladies who did marry and frequently 
 regret it; Landladies who have no use for husbands, and 
 Landladies who have husbands and use them to take the dog 
 out. 
 
 The inhabitants are indeed a weird race, including unrec- 
 ognized geniuses, earnest hopers, chronic grouches, back files 
 and innocent bystanders; also single gentlemen who are be- 
 lieved to have had what is known as A PAST, and who are 
 suspected of leading the dissipated life because they come in 
 of an evening with the odor of rum and Business Men's 
 Lunch on their breath; also young women of undoubted 
 dramatic pjower, who won the first prize for elocution at the 
 Rome Centre School of Expression and came on two winters 
 ago to put Julia Marlowe out of the business, but are being 
 kept back temporarily owing to a jealous compact on the 
 part of the theatrical syndicate; also other young women 
 who think they are entitled to bird-like notes because they 
 had the thrush once, and were sent here at heavy expense by 
 fond parents who imagine New York as a place full of tal-
 
 Hallroumama, or The Boarderland. 
 
 ented voice-plumbers who know how to weld Nellie Melba 
 pipes on a Ruth Ann larynx; also single ladies who spend 
 part of the time drying handkerchiefs on the window-panes 
 and doing light laundry work in a toothbrush-mug, and the 
 rest of the time making life brighter and sweeter for a pug 
 dog with the asthma. 
 
 Also dashing gents connected with leading brokerage 
 offices downtown, who wear priceless marquise rings on the 
 little finger of the right hand, and go secretly away at night 
 owing for two weeks; also persons of both sexes who have 
 been misunderstood by the world and crave A Little Sym- 
 pathy- — that is all; also ladies who are constantly on the 
 verge of moving to a perfectly delightful place up in Ninety- 
 third Street because a fur-bearing foreigner has opened a 
 Pants-Pressery next door and the neighborhood is rapidly 
 losing its tone; also, just plain boarders. 
 
 A boarder is often likened to a worm. And this is a 
 proper comparison if it is a tapeworm that is meant, because 
 a tapeworm always knows in advance what it is going to 
 have for dinner, and so does a boarder. For instance, he 
 knows that on Monday night he will have a New England 
 boiled dinner that tastes like the family wash on Friday 
 night, one gill and part of the dorsal fin of a boiled fish, and 
 on Sunday evening that nourishing repast known as cold 
 Sunday-night tea.
 
 Hallroumania, or The Boarderland. 
 
 This cold tea is probably the most noted of the established 
 institutions of Hallroumania, being constituted as follows: 
 A dank cold platter, veneered at rare intervals with specimens 
 of the Old Red Corned-Beef Period of Geology, cut to the 
 generous thickness of gold leaf; a peculiar variety of potato- 
 salad, in a free state of perspiration and garnished at inter- 
 vals with slices of pickled beets, like a few red chips strewn 
 on the kitty; four small squares of petrified pastry (not suit- 
 able for food, but could be given to hardy children to cut 
 their teeth on) ; a prune-floater, bloated up and nine days 
 drowned in its own juice; a cup of ostensible tea. 
 
 The common recreations of The Boarderland are rushing 
 the washstand-duck in a dress-suit case; wondering how the 
 other boarders can afford the clothes they wear; progressive 
 knocking and raising scandals from the slip. The prevalent 
 disease is Furnished Rheumatism, brought on by living in 
 a single-breasted apartment, and is marked by a cramped, 
 choking sensation, the symptoms being almost identical with 
 those of Harlem Flatulency.
 
 Drawn by Henry Reutcrdahl. 
 
 "THE FIGHT OF TO-MORROW" 
 
 From a painting on the ^vardroom bulkhead of the 
 Battleship " New Jersey."
 
 Y 
 
 e s I e u 
 
 by Jeffie Forbush-Hanaford. 
 
 Illustration by Thomas Fogarty. 
 
 X 
 
 IRST I loved two eyes of black — 
 Two fascinating eyes of black! 
 They glanced at me and won my heart 
 fill of my life they seemed a part, 
 
 And I their willing captive; 
 But black eyes can so treacherous be, 
 That even while they smiled, you see 
 They tried to break the heart of me. 
 
 Then I loved two eyes of gray — 
 
 Two limpid eyes of gray! 
 
 "Love!" — cruel word — I smile in scorn; 
 
 Soon I was left alone, forlorn. 
 
 For when I told my love's deep passion 
 
 Gray eyes smiled in careless fashion — 
 
 No love for me they ever knew. 
 
 So I left them for two eyes of blue.
 
 "Gray eyes smiled in careless fashion.
 
 Les Yeux. 
 
 Two eyes of sunny, heavenly blue — 
 Two beautiful eyes of blue! 
 They gave me a tender glance so sweet, 
 I felt my happiness was complete 
 And their light was warm and true; 
 But when at last my mistake I found, 
 I fell in love with eyes of brown — 
 Two glorious eyes of brown. 
 
 Bright eyes! Brown eyes of beauty rare. 
 
 No other eyes with you compare! 
 
 Glancing from under lids drooped down. 
 
 Sparkling eyes of dusky brown. 
 
 Can I but win you, I'll ask no more: 
 
 All my life I'll worship — adore; 
 
 Live for you, work for you — always content- 
 
 If only, dear brown eyes, you'll consent!
 
 Draii'ii by Alexander Popini. 
 "The Pleiades Girl.''
 
 H 
 
 and 
 
 by Paul West. 
 
 M 
 
 > III^M? 
 
 ER locks were the glow 
 Of a dollar or so. 
 
 Her height it was few if not less; 
 Her eyes were as gray 
 As the end of the play. 
 
 And she wore, so they told me, a dress. 
 
 So I said, as I came, 
 
 "If you'll whisper your name 
 I'll reply, though I'm tempted to laugh. " 
 
 But she said, "Let me see — 
 
 More and F equals three. 
 Which, when added, is him and a half. " 
 
 "Are you certain? " I cried. 
 
 As I breasted the tide. 
 "If I do," she insisted, "say no." 
 
 Whereupon with a frown 
 
 I invited them down. 
 For it never grows well in the snow. 
 
 There were more, I've no doubt. 
 
 But I never found out. 
 For the cook sent the grocer away; 
 
 But I cannot forget 
 
 That she wrote, "Do not fret," 
 Though her uncle advised me to pay. 
 
 So I sit all alone, 
 
 Writing things on a stone 
 With a pen dipped in beeswax and lard ; 
 
 Which I know I shall be 
 
 When she comes back to me. 
 Though at present it's dreadfully hard.
 
 Draii'u by F. B. Masters.
 
 T k e V 
 
 by Charlotte B. Scott 
 
 Illustration by Kail Hassinann. 
 
 HAT is most important? The rich man 
 says, "Weahh!" 
 The sick man cries feebly, "Ah, no! it 
 
 is 'Heahh!'" 
 Inventor and poet contend it is "Fame"; 
 The worldly want "Titles" prefixed to 
 their name. 
 The preacher chants solemnly, "It is the 'Soul!' " 
 Ambition says, "Power and Place" is man's goal; 
 " 'Tis 'Pleasure' we seek!" laughs the crown-sceptre 
 
 throng, 
 "The world to amuse us — Wine, Woman and Song!" 
 
 What is most important? " 'Tis 'Love!' " cries the lover; 
 "No!" frowns the physician, " 'Tis but to discover 
 Some polysyllabical lotion for Pain — 
 New ways to cheat Death and new Honors to gain!" 
 "All false!" claims the scientist, "Pain may be drowned. 
 Love, Pleasure, Fame, missed, but the 'Truth' must be 
 found!" 
 
 L'Envoi. 
 
 Since no one can tell you What Is nor the Whys — 
 
 Since even the scientists but theorize, 
 
 Then, truly, the thing most important to do 
 
 Is the thing most important and pleasing to you.
 
 "Ambifioit says, 'Pozccr and Place' is man's goal."
 
 Affaire d'Amour 
 
 by Harry Johnson. 
 
 Illustration hi/ E. H. Miner. 
 
 HREE-POINTED crescent— laughter-lov- 
 ing moon. 
 Thou Regent of the Pleiadesian skies, 
 I'll mock thee if thy waning comes too 
 soon. 
 Yet toast thy beauty ere its glory dies. 
 
 This Night bewitched me, and the friendly throng 
 
 Was sharper, clearer, with its merry jest. 
 Like one inspired, I rippled into song. 
 
 Feeling love's loveliness was love's behest. 
 
 All hearts responded; — still the echoes ring 
 
 In jolly welcome to my joyous song; 
 Oh, human harp! If love but touch the string. 
 
 Adieu to discord, dissonance and wrong! 
 
 Nay, one was mute — one only; but his eyes. 
 
 Brimmed to the lashes with sweet, wistful tears- 
 
 So, lovely crescent, as thy beauty dies, 
 
 I quaff to thee, to him — the cup that cheers.
 
 "Thrcc-poiiitcd crescent — laughter-loving moon, 
 TJiou Regent of the Pleiadesiati skies, 
 I'll mock thee if thy tvaning comes too soon. 
 Yet toast thy beauty ere its glory dies."
 
 From the Pleiades Club Aulograph Album
 
 p. A . HATTINO 
 
 PAUL DUFAULT 
 
 Et>. ACO-CCLEY R.ALPH L.SCOTT 
 
 Pleiades Club Officers, 1909-1910.
 
 From the Pleiades Club Autograph Album 
 
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