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THE MEMORY BOOK 
 
'-' i"?, 
 
 >)>,., 
 
 Nellie Kleen. 
 
 ,/ 
 

 Copyright, 1914 
 
 by the 
 
 Illinois Woman's Press Association 
 
 Chicago 
 
 NOV 27 1914 
 
 ©CI.A387703 
 
Foreword 
 
 CHE Memory Book is finished and what shall I say as a 
 foreword? 
 
 Suggestions come in battalions, and verily the mem- 
 ories of "ye olden times" should be most precious to all who 
 con its pages. 
 
 The marvel of memory ?nakes of life the real high and holy 
 thing it is — a bond between the past and present — the prelude 
 of the future. Memory is that function of the brain which is 
 most essential in the education and development of humanity. 
 Without memory reasoning would fail, since one must remem- 
 ber premises in order to discuss rationally any grave theme of 
 business, politics, home, literature. Aye! even happiness will 
 be nil if one remembers not love. 
 
 Maeterlinck denies the immortality of memory, depending, 
 as it does, for expression upon the brain function — the brain 
 necessarily dying with the rest of the body. Hence, ivhile grant- 
 ing the immortality of the soul, he denies that ice shall knoiv 
 each other ivhen spirit reveals itself to spirit. 
 
 Those of us ivith old-fashioned church training ask such 
 immortality as shall conduce to the growth of the individual 
 soul, which, we believe, will mean happiness. Verily such de- 
 velopment cannot continue without the consciousness of kin- 
 ship of soul and the reneical of the loves of this life. This, 
 memory alone can give. 
 
 Grave thoughts hark back to the storehouse of Illinois 
 Woman's Press Association memories, and over the bridge from 
 the then of eighteen eighty-six to the now of nineteen fourteen 
 come pleasant recollections of the long ago, and I am glad to 
 realize that the founders of the Illinois Woman's Press Associa- 
 tion, which nozv is a power in the state, were women of force — 
 of gracious bearing — of fine culture and refinement — of broad 
 outlook on human affairs. 
 
 Over the Bridge of Memories come trooping a host of 
 dear and fatniliar figures; Mrs. Conant, daring in enterprise 
 and earnest of purpose, though frail of physique, who led in 
 the establishment of our organization; Frances Willard and 
 Mary Allen West, devotees of a noble cause, who spent brain 
 and physical force for the promotion of temperance ; Dr. Steven- 
 son, loyal, scholarly, and clever with the pen; Eliza Bowman, 
 devoted altruist, who gave of her mother-love to the homeless 
 uaifs of the street; Rosa Miller Avery, earnest worker for the 
 ballot for ivomen before the idea had become quite the fashion; 
 Mrs. Robert C. Clowry. icho believed in woman's suffrage, and 
 
was, it is said, the first Afnerican wo /nan to ivrite and publish 
 an opera. 
 
 I will say no more, yet I trow all members of the Illinois 
 Woman's Press Association can recall a long list of earnest, 
 cultivated women who have made the Association what it is, 
 and have made the world better for their being in it. 
 
 There is a hidden chamber in each heart where memory 
 keeps its precious things, and sometimes in the quiet eventime, I 
 pray my readers steal away for a little ivhile and call up the 
 memories of Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 We women of the Press Association are friends with all 
 which that name i?nplies. We do not treat our friendship 
 "daintily," but with courage — we have truth to the other. We 
 even think aloud in our tneetings, ready to share the give and 
 take of disputation — seasoned as it always is with generous 
 appreciation — and truly out of these experiences of life do 
 grow the characters which are forceful factors in civic and 
 literary life! 
 
 From this atmosphere we are sending out our book. The 
 "leif motif" of the scheme is love. The variations are made 
 according to the trend of individual effort, this scheme being 
 an outgroivth of the spirit ivhich dominated the formation of 
 the organization. 
 
 Each for all and all for each is the thought of the mem- 
 bers, and our hope is that The Memory Book may reach the 
 inner chamber of many hearts. 
 
 An old Spanish proverb runs in this wise: "Let Providence 
 manage never so fairly, someone is displeased." Job in his pro- 
 test against the unwisdom of his sympathizing friends, ivho so 
 sorely tried his soul, exclaimed at the end of his patience, "Oh! 
 that mine adversary zvould write a book.'" Can one guess the 
 tone of his contemplated review? What a commentary upon 
 human nature! Even Providence does not go unchallenged! 
 
 What an outlook for the daring members of the Illinois 
 Woman's Press Association! 
 
 Julia Holmes Smith, M. D. 
 
nyM^M^^MgM^Mg^MgjM^Mfig g 
 
 9 PitM of ^onianliooii 
 
 By Belie Squire 
 
 )S Woman my dignity is supreme, for I 
 am sculptress of the race, the architect 
 of humanity. My body is the Temple, 
 the Holy of Holies, wherein are fash- 
 ioned into indelible shape, for weal or 
 woe, the children who are to come. 
 ' Therefore must 1 keep my temple pure 
 and clean, nor ever let it be defiled by thought or word 
 or deed, for within me lies, mayhap, the destiny of 
 millions yet unborn. 
 
 At its peril will the race defile me, stunt me, hinder me 
 in my high calling, for outraged Nature will herself 
 avenge my wrong, and demand in full the peneJty for 
 my hurt. I can not fall alone, the race will suffer with 
 me, for its destiny is bound up within mine own. 1 am 
 indeed supreme, for I am a Woman ! 
 My part is difficult, but I will not flinch. I must be 
 strong as the oak on the bleakest hill, and tender and 
 sweet and pure as the flower that blooms in the vjilley 
 below Sfe a 
 
 I cim the citadel that must never capitulate, nor must 1 
 be taken unawzu-es. Until Death o'ercomes me 1 must 
 be mistress of myself, for 1 am Woman and must be 
 free, or the race •will be carried into that captivity from 
 which there is no return. 
 
 Being Woman, a vital part of Humanity itself, 1 must 
 demand and use, if need be, every human right that 
 belongs to Humanity, be it civil, moral, industrial or 
 political, for I am hzJf the race. 1 am Woman. For Free- 
 dom's sake 1 must be free, for 1 am sculptress, [ 
 architect of Humanity, its citadel, its oak, its bios- •!> 
 som. I am Woman, Mother and Molder of the Race ! vS' 
 
 
 
 
 L 
 
 i| 
 
 I 
 
Noblesse Oblige 
 
 IF I am weak and you are strong 
 Why then, why then 
 To you the braver deeds belong. 
 And so again, 
 If you have gifts and I have none, 
 If I have shade and you have sun, 
 
 'Tis yours with freer hand to give, 
 'Tis yours with truer grace to live. 
 Than I who giftless, sunless, stand, 
 With barren life and hand. 
 
 We do not ask the little brook 
 
 To turn the wheel; 
 Unto the larger stream we look. 
 
 The strength of steel 
 We do not ask from silken band, 
 Nor heart of oak from willow wand ; 
 We do not ask the wren to go 
 Up to the heights the eagles know; 
 Nor yet expect the lark's clear note, 
 From out the dove's dumb throat. 
 
 'Tis wisdom's law, the perfect code. 
 
 By love inspired ; 
 Of him on whom much is bestowed. 
 
 Is much required; 
 The tuneful throat is bid to sing, 
 The oak must reign the forest's king, 
 
 The rushing stream the wheel must move, 
 The tempered steel its strength must prove, 
 'Tis given unto the eagle's eyes 
 To face the mid-day skies. 
 
 Carlotta Perrv 
 
It Will Be Better Tomorrow 
 
 IT IS not wise to make a magnet of one's thoughts to 
 attract trouble. Let us anticipate happiness. Let us 
 expect success. Let us believe that all the good things 
 which we hope for and pray for and work for have started 
 our way. They may be some time in coming, and perhaps 
 they will not come in exactly the manner that we had mapped 
 out, but if we keep our courage and do our duty our hopes 
 will be realized. 
 
 Thoughts are vital. We help or hinder our purposes by 
 the quality of the thought which we bring to our daily task. 
 We are what we think we are. We can accomplish just what 
 we think we can. If we honestly believe we cannot accomplish 
 a certain task we may as well give it up while that belief lasts. 
 
 The remedy is to get out of such a belief. Get out of the 
 atmosphere of doubt and distrust. Get into the current of 
 Faith. Adopt the creed of Courage and Good Cheer. 
 
 "It will be better tomorrow," was the motto of a brave 
 little woman who waited through many tomorrows for the 
 good fortune that finally came ; and it is a good motto for 
 all of us. 
 
 Optimism is a powerful lever for lifting a trouble. The 
 woman who can keep a hopeful view and a smiling face while 
 she copes with a difficulty has conquered it already. 
 
 The successful people are those who have learned the art 
 of transforming difficulties into working power. The happy 
 people are those who have learned that the joy of living comes 
 from trying to make others happy. Neither success nor happi- 
 ness ever comes from anticipating trouble. 
 
 Mate Palmer. 
 
Some Definitions 
 
 GOD— 
 
 God to each person is what he, in his inmost soul, 
 feels that he himself should be. To be "Godlike" is par- 
 tially to attain that ideal. 
 
 PRAYER— 
 
 Prayer is the ladder on which the human soul exalts 
 itself to view the Infinite. 
 
 LOVE— 
 
 "Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay 
 down his life for his friends." How many among us 
 would stand that test? 
 
 FRIENDS— 
 
 We know not who they are until their friendship is 
 tested. Though many are called few are chosen. 
 
 MEMORY— 
 
 A faculty that ofttimes brings more pain than pleas- 
 ure; yet who would be without it? 
 
 Caroline A. Huling. 
 
 a>e 
 
 After Glow 
 
 XNTO the maze and darkness of my life — you came! 
 Straightway the sun arose and glorified the way. 
 Now you are gone — I journey faltering as before, 
 But through the darkness shines the radiance of the vanished 
 
 day. 
 
 Page Waller Eaton. 
 
MY FAIRYLAND 
 
 CARO SENOUR 
 
 i'^J *'3yJ V3^ '^J^ ^J^ ''^ ^ 
 
 1$ y -9 y^ -^ 
 
 J I f' JU. i^'j. ^'^' ^Xl'^^l^l jj. s 
 
 1. Mv Fair - y-land, My Fair - y-land, 
 
 2 My Fair - y-land, My Fair - y-Und, 
 
 3! My Fair - y-land, My Fair - y-land, 
 
 4. My Fair - y-land. My Fair - y-land, 
 
 I lore the days of Fair 
 
 I lovethedaysof Fi-ir ^ , 
 
 llove the days of Fair - y-land. Where 
 
 I l<*vetheday8of Fair - y-land. The 
 
 y-land,Where 
 y-land, Where 
 
 wea -ry heads ne'er toss a-round.And tir - ed feet can al-waysbonndJMiere merry voices 
 fa ir-ies dance and sing for me, And can -dy grows on ev-ry treeiWherebirdsdreas in their 
 chil-dren romp and kit -tens play, And dog-giesdanceanddol-liesgay.Join wththe tair-ies 
 train leaves at the tin.e,y(m AnouvWhengownsandnightc^sare ^^gwJ'Wherf'choochco whistles 
 
 form a baud, In ray 
 col -ors grand, In my 
 hand in hand, .In my 
 blow,youlaud In my 
 
 sweet home, 
 sweet home, 
 sweet home, 
 sweet home. 
 
 my Fair 
 my Fair 
 my Fair 
 my Fair 
 
 y-land. 
 y-land. 
 y- land, 
 y-land. 
 
Mirandy on Fame 
 
 Sou ain't got 'bout a dollar an' a half layin' around 
 loose dat you could advance me on nex' week's washin' ?" 
 inquired Mirandy, with a shamed-faced air. 
 
 "I hates to horror, for hit sho'ly does make you tired to have 
 to work for money dat you done already spent, but whut wid 
 de Sons of Zion presentin' Ike wid a lovin' cup, and Thomas 
 Jefferson bein' 'lected de President of de Black and Tan Foot- 
 ball Club, an' Ma'y Jane bein' pinted de Queen of Sheba at de 
 Sunday School blowout de famb'ly puss look lak a elephant 
 done trod on hit. 
 
 "Yassum, we all is gittin' famous, an' fame suttinly do come 
 high. I done took notice befo' dis dat all dem folks whut is 
 got dey statues an' dey pictures up in de parks an' de public 
 places has got a mighty lean an' hungry 'pearance, an' I knows 
 de reason now dat dey is so peeked-lookin' — dey had to spend 
 so much money on dey halos dat dey didn't have no change 
 left to buy corn beef an' cabbage. 
 
 "Yassum, hit sho'ly am expensive to be distinctious, an' ef 
 dere hadn't been one po', humble, ordinary woman in our house 
 to keep de pot a bilin' I 'specks I could name de name of two 
 favorite sons an' a daughter dat was mighty puffed up wid 
 pride, but dat wouldn't a had nothin' else to stay deir stomachs 
 on but compliments. 
 
 "An' compliments is lak dried apples — dey is sweet, an' 
 tasty, an' dey swells you all up, but dey is all wind — all wind. 
 Dey don't stand by lak pork chops. 
 
 "Dey got to live up to deir reputation, an' hit costs mo' to 
 support a reputation dan hit does a pair of twins. 
 
 "Now dere's Ike. Ike is de most popularest man in de 
 church, an' de union, an' whenever anybody comes along an' 
 starts up a new 'sciety hits foreordained an' predestinated, as 
 Brer Jenkins would say, dat Ike is gwine to be 'lected wid a 
 risin' vote to be de president, or de secretary, or de cheerman 
 of de finance committee, or somethin' or nother dats got a 
 fourteen hour day wuk in hit an' no pay. 
 
 "Cose hit seems mighty grand to be dat prominent, an' ev'y 
 time dey saddles him wid a new honor, an' mo' wuk, Ike 
 comes home wid his chest stickin' out so far dat he busts his 
 shirt buttons off, an' I goes out de next mawnin' an' hunts up 
 another job of washin'. 
 
 "Yassum, dere used to be some interest in de days when Ike 
 was onknown, in lookin' farward to Saturday night when he 
 
got his pay envelope, but now by de time he gits through 
 headin' de contribution list becaze he is de treasurer, an' losin' 
 a day's wuk becaze, bein' de president of de organization, he 
 has to 'tend de funerals, an' ride wid de mourners when a 
 member dies, dere ain't enough left to make it wuth de trouble 
 to go through his pocket arfter he goes to sleep. 
 
 "You see hit was lak dis — de odder night Ike come home 
 a-grinnin' from year to year, an' wid a mighty uplifted look 
 on his face, an' he says to me as I was a gittin' supper: 
 
 " 'Mirandy, dis am a proud day for you, an' you ought to 
 be a thankful woman dat you married lak you did.' 
 
 " 'Ef I is ever out-married myself, I ain't never found hit 
 out,' 'sponds I, for it don't do to let on to your husband dat 
 you think too well of him. Nawn, hit makes him too uppity. 
 'But whuts de matter now?' I axes. 
 
 " 'De Sons of Zion,' says Ike, a-puffin' hisself up, 'is gwinc 
 to present me wid a lovin' cup as a slight testimonial of deir 
 esteem, an' of de noble an' conscientious way in which I is 
 done my duty.' 
 
 " 'Humph,' says I ; 'dey gives you de mug, but I lay we'se 
 got to fill hit.' 
 
 " 'Of course,' 'spons Ike in a high an' mighty tone, 'we can 
 do no less to show our appreciation of de honor dat is been 
 done me.' 
 
 "Well, dat night a committee of de brethren come 'round 
 to present de lovin' cup. 
 
 "Yassum, an' befo' dat night was over dat chany mug dat 
 you could a bought in de store for thirty-five cents, done cost 
 us three dollars an' fifty cents in beer, let lone de war an' 
 tar on de furniture dat come arfter de lovin' cup is been around 
 'bout six times, an' two of de brethren got mixed up in a 
 little argyment 'bout whether Ike was a greater man dan 
 Napoleon. 
 
 "Yassum, glory suttinly does come high. Fame is somethin' 
 dat you spend your life wurkin' for — an' den hit lands you in 
 de po' house." 
 
 Dorothv Dix. 
 
A Memory Page 
 
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Rosemary for Remembrance 
 
 ^y^HO does not know the power of fragrance to bring back 
 vj ^y or awaken memories of the past? 
 
 How subtle the perfume of the lilac, the wild rose, 
 the primrose of the English hedgerow, and the honeysuckle 
 over the cottage door! 
 
 What memories cling and cluster around them when, after 
 a long interval of time, their delicate odor is wafted to us! 
 
 Rosemary for remembrance! Just a whiff is enough to 
 carry us back to scenes and times long since past. Do we 
 forget? Are our dear ones lost to us? No, we do not forget 
 and our friends are with us in memory. The noble, lovable 
 women we have known, during the lifetime of the I. W. P. A. 
 come out from the mists which have obscured them, and we, 
 for a moment, behold them more lovely and lovable than when 
 we beheld them in the flesh. 
 
 A Shakespeare garden is a real, tangible thing; in it are 
 still planted the various herbs mentioned in the dramas. In 
 memory's garden we find the sweet smelling carnation which 
 holds and occupies a sunny place, and its perfume brings to us 
 tender thoughts of days long since past, of noble deeds well 
 done. Let us be grateful for every sweet flower that blooms 
 and cultivate Rosemary for Remembrance. 
 
 Marv A. Ahrens. 
 
 ate 
 
 To My Mother 
 
 IF WE can bring to the lives of our friends 
 but a meagre portion of the joy and de- 
 votion showered upon us by our parents, 
 we shall not have lived in vain. 
 
 Rose D. Meyer. 
 
 i6 
 
Color 
 
 eOD'S truth may fall upon our souls, just as a shaft 
 of light, 
 Whose oft-seen dazzling radiance escapes our sight 
 Until a prism severs it and lo! a heavenly rainbow^ shade — 
 And through that melody of color there's a misty image 
 made. 
 
 Then one espies some red and cries: "I see the Light! 
 
 Red heralds courage, force, and physical delight! 
 Find fun in Now and fume not at Tomorrow's flight, 
 
 Just be a Hedonist and laugh at any plight!" 
 
 Another yellow sees; its beams bewitch his eye, 
 To him it means "There is but Soul and Soul is I. 
 
 There is no red, there is no blue, for Soul embraces all; 
 
 God's Truth in yellow gleams. Oh! heed the Spirit's call!" 
 
 A third from out the darkness calls: "I have found blue, 
 The color of the Intellect, of Science, of the True. 
 
 There is but Mind. The soul's a myth, for blue means Mind!" 
 Thus cults begin for those who think they know and are 
 so blind. 
 
 A fourth's enchanted by the rainbow's subtle call, 
 
 And gazes like a Hindoo at a crystal ball. 
 Until, forsooth, he purple finds, and is enwrapped in awe; 
 
 And he a mystic is, and cobwebs paths to God's Truth-law. 
 
 Yet that pure shaft of Light illumes the world and gives it life, 
 While our poor vision sees but green or gray and makes no 
 strife 
 
 For ultra-violet and infra-red beyond the spectrum's scope; 
 But live content to see one tint and leave the rest to Hope. 
 
 God grant our race may gain the virile force that is the red. 
 The blue-flamed torch of thought by which we may be led, 
 The inspiration of the Radiance so yellow bright, 
 
 And Love that blendeth all, and grows to know the Perfect 
 Light. 
 
 Myrtle Dean Clark. 
 
At Horace Greeley's Home 
 
 CHE Editor-farmer went to Chappaqua, his home, the 
 evening before, and his smiling face met the visitors who 
 came in the first morning train from New York City. 
 Guests were flocking in throughout the day. 
 
 The first act was a social stroll over the farm. The Blonde 
 Philosopher led the way, and pointed out where we could find 
 the rarest apples. The large old farmhouse proper was soon 
 in view — "The pleasantest spot on the place to live in, if Mrs. 
 Greeley would ever consent to have about an acre of trees cut 
 down ; but she cannot make up her mind to that." 
 
 After we had seen Mr. Greeley's special spring, one of 
 several which feed a creek that meanders around mossy rocks, 
 and we had followed the winding of a road under a variety of 
 shady trees, we came to his "model barn." There the next 
 President of the United States seated himself on a rock with 
 the ladies, and used this first opportunity to look into the daily 
 newspapers, while the men scattered on an independent stroll 
 and smoke. 
 
 In the house the daughter, Miss Ida, was the cordial hostess. 
 The younger sister. Miss Gabrielle, is a cherry-cheeked, rosy- 
 lipped, white-toothed maiden of "sweet sixteen's" artlessness. 
 After dinner, the ladies played croquet, and in her room lay 
 the invalid, Mrs. Greeley, wide-awaake and strong in mind. 
 Her frankly spoken, impressive thoughts, we shall always re- 
 member. 
 
 While Mr. Greeley dozed over the Tribune, the men dis- 
 cussed politics rapidly; until the Philosopher, startled from his 
 nap exclaimed: "Oh! Mr. S., you mustn't get out of temper!" 
 "But such lies!" — The Sage replied: "If you expect a pres- 
 idential election without lies, you may as well expect a Summer 
 without grasshoppers." 
 
 By the afternoon train we all returned, and to this day in 
 far-off Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen, I remember that I 
 was the privileged one to be seated by the great and genial 
 editor, until at New York City a friend and closed carriage 
 smuggled him away from curious eyes. 
 
 A few weeks later Horace Greeley and Mrs. Greeley were 
 breathing the ether of The Better Land. 
 
 (Condensed from Anna Ballard's report in the next day's 
 New York Sunday Mercury, September eighth, eighteen 
 seventy-two.) 
 
 Anna Ballard. 
 
n 
 
 The Dunes 
 
 ERE Nature sings her quaintest tunes. 
 And dons her dearest robes of fairy 
 Among the sandy, wind-swept dunes, 
 
 And to the listening reeds she croons 
 A cradle song elf-like and airy, — 
 Here Nature sings her quaintest tunes, 
 
 And if you walk 'neath Autumn moons 
 Of wraith-like forms you'd best be wary, 
 Among the sandy, wind-swept dunes; 
 
 For Hecote chants her mystic runes 
 To charm us into paths contrary, — 
 Here Nature sings her quaintest tunes, 
 
 And to the wearj' brings her boons 
 Of rest and pleasures salutary 
 Among the sandy, wind-swept dunes. 
 
 So here, on fading afternoons, 
 I wander, lost in sweet vagary ; 
 Here Nature sings her quaintest tunes, 
 Among the sandy, wind-swept dunes. 
 
 Florence Holbrook. 
 
 I Watched the Children 
 
 WATCHED the children playing in the sunlight. 
 The children with their wind-blown locks astray. 
 The children with their wind-kissed eager faces, 
 The merry, merry children at their play. 
 
 I 
 
 Ah, very young and careless are the children, 
 Ah, very old and tired my heart today. 
 
 So long ago it is, do I remember? — 
 
 I joined the merry children at their play. 
 
 Leonora Pease. 
 
A Memory Page 
 
A Prayer for Every Day 
 
 O Thou, Almighty Power! 
 Teach me to take from Thee my dole 
 Of good or ill, and murmur not. 
 O, make my finite mind to grasp 
 That, in Thy infinite plan, there is 
 No place for my weak cries against 
 The grief and sorrow of the common 
 
 lot. 
 Blot out the Ego that doth crush my 
 
 soul 
 Beneath its load of selfishness and 
 
 greed, 
 And let me know, what now I dimly 
 
 guess, 
 The fullness of Thy purposes, for my 
 
 desire 
 For which I vainly plead, when 
 
 placed beside 
 Humanity's great need, sinks into 
 
 nothingness. 
 Oh Thou, High Over All! 
 Suffer my mean, ungenerous prayer, 
 That Thou wouldst change Thy 
 
 changeless laws, 
 Which make strict justice, mercy 
 
 most divine, 
 To fall on unheeding ears. Bring me 
 To feel Thy love, which, all em- 
 bracing, wraps 
 Not only me about, but takes the 
 
 whole 
 Great universe within its sheltering 
 
 folds. 
 Thy way is right ; and though in fol- 
 lowing it 
 My path leads o'er the plowshare's 
 
 lurid red, 
 Still will I trust Thy guidance sure, 
 
 and say 
 While yet I lift my streaming eyes 
 
 to Thee, 
 Thy will be done. 
 
 Idah McGlone Gibson. 
 
The Legend of the Seven Corn Maidens 
 
 ^TT^E ARE a people who run after strange gods, and are 
 
 \l/ more familiar with the story of the Pleiades than with 
 
 the Indian legend of the seven lovely Corn Maidens. 
 
 This same legend is found among the Zunis of today and 
 among the old Peruvians of a thousand years ago. 
 
 The Corn, so the legends tell, was created in the night 
 and in the firelight. The seven Corn Maidens were seven 
 stars from Heaven and they wished to create something which 
 would be of benefit to the children of earth. So they formed 
 a circle and danced about a sprig of grass. 
 
 They were joined in the dance by the Spirit of the Waters, 
 who was a beautiful youth. They danced toward him, two 
 by two, the eldest first, whilst the great Mother stood near, 
 blessing. As their finger-tips touched his, fruit is given to the 
 grass plant, and corn is created! But the grass still keeps its 
 identity, as may be seen by the tassel at the top. 
 
 This was at night, and the ears of corn take their color 
 from the firelight in which they were born. 
 
 When the fire is first lighted it gives a strong yellow flame. 
 The first ear is yellow and signifies the North. 
 
 The red tip of the blaze gives the red ear, the South. 
 
 The intense blue flame gives the blue ear, the West; and 
 as the fire dies down to white ashes, the white ears, the East — 
 the Dawn! 
 
 When one blows upon the flames the sparks fly upward 
 and the speckled ear is formed, which typifies the Upper Region. 
 
 Now all dies out and is black; we have the black ear — the 
 Lower Regions. 
 
 Then, the sweet corn — the Virgin! 
 
 Great ceremonials are used in the winter when preparing 
 the corn for planting. In religious rites, a large basket tray 
 is used, around the outer edge of which is ranged the ears of 
 seven colors. Next these are cakes, each carefully prepared 
 from the separate colored ears, and in the center one of each 
 of these cakes is taken and crumbled to pieces, typifying the 
 final commingling of all into one great whole. 
 
 Legends of the Corn Maidens are endless. 
 
 This one was given by a priest of the Zuni. 
 
 Susan S. Frackleton. 
 
The Fruit Tree 
 
 ONE fruit-tree in my little garden lives — 
 White, white it stands! 
 Celestial promise of the time it gives 
 Its fruits to arid lands. 
 But oh ! my gratitude I may not write 
 
 Till calmer hours; 
 So wonderful the perfect, present sight, 
 God's gift of flowers! 
 
 Frances Squire Potter. 
 
 a>e 
 
 The Inner Silence 
 
 QOISES that strive to tear 
 Earth's mantle soft of air 
 
 And break upon the stillness where it dwells: 
 The noise of battle and the noise of prayer, 
 The cooing noise of love that softly tells 
 Joy's brevity, the brazen noise of laughter — 
 All these affront me not, nor echo after 
 
 Through the long memories. 
 They may not enter the deep chamber where 
 Forever silence is. 
 
 Silence more soft than spring hides in the ground 
 
 Beneath her budding flowers; 
 Silence more rich than ever was the sound 
 
 Of harps through long warm hours. 
 'Tis like a hidden vastness, even as though 
 Great suns might there beat out their measures slow 
 
 Nor break the hush mightier than they. 
 
 There do I dwell eternally. 
 
 There where no thought may follow me. 
 Nor stillest dreams whose pinions plume the way. 
 
 Harriet Monroe. 
 
 23 
 
COMPENSATION 
 
 MEDIUM 
 
 WordBly MH. 
 
 Allegretto 
 
 Music by 
 CARRIE JACOBS -BOND 
 
 Copyright MCMXIV by Carrie Jacobs. Bond & Son 
 
 International Copyrigfat Secored 
 
 24 
 
Aft - er the false.came the true. 
 
 Con • fi - deuce, aft - er my 
 
 11 a V- 
 
 m 
 
 f"LLjTrIi^frf 
 
 i'l jnM.'» i aifr' i^r iL.r <i f — J_jJ 
 
 Compensation (m)-2 
 
 25 
 
The Real Fountain of Youth 
 
 CHE Scotch soldier-preacher says: "We all get what we 
 gang in for." 
 
 Take this for the watchword in the battle we are 
 waging to keep young and vigorous so long as we all shall live. 
 
 Most of us have grown tired of the growing-old habit — 
 we are all girls and boys of varying ages, and each day are 
 more and more astonished to find how like ourselves everybody 
 else is — all thinking of the difficulties and perplexities of grow- 
 ing old, weary of the process and wondering if there be any 
 method for avoiding it. 
 
 In outward form people have stopped growing old, Men 
 no longer tolerate long beards, women have ceased to don 
 shoulder shawls and caps. The deaf no longer put hands 
 behind the ear to hear, or before them like the Dutchman, to 
 beg, "A little louder, please." Modern men and women fight 
 the tendency to stoop, to use a cane. They wear rimless 
 glasses, make regular visits to the dentist, breathe deeply, take 
 cold baths, and sleep with open windows. By exercise they 
 fight off double chins and too solid flesh. 
 
 I know a vigorous lady of eighty who talks of vaulting 
 lightly into bed — and does it; another who, when she hears a 
 hurdy-gurdy outside her window, cuts flying pigeon wings all 
 'round the room. 
 
 Conserving the activity of the brain cells, we give light to 
 the eye, suppleness to the body, and remove to a distance illness, 
 age — even death itself. 
 
 Why are actresses the youngest women in the land today ? 
 Because every faculty of body and mind is in constant use. 
 They must be pointed, animated, alert, to the very last. 
 
 The surest way to keep young is to mingle with young 
 people and persons of optimistic temperament. Cultivate their 
 point of view, read wholesome books, frown down lugubrious 
 recitals, refuse to brood over life's tragedies. Nothing mars 
 the human visage so swiftly as fretfulness and complaining. 
 
 Study the problems which bring all the intellectual energies 
 into use. Howells warns us of the danger, one day in middle 
 life, when we slump and let a feeble performance blight the 
 fame of strenuous endeavor. 
 
 Do not let go your hold on work. It is the only saving 
 grace. Only through the great and constant blessing of endless 
 endeavor will one find the spring for which Ponce de Leon 
 vainly sought. ^j^,^^ Reynolds Kellogg, M. D. 
 
When Daylight Fades 
 
 ©HEN daylight fades 
 A silence broodeth over all the land ; 
 The waves creep slowly up the glistening sand ; 
 The roistering wind grows strangely still : 
 More sweetly sounds the music of the rill 
 When daylight fades. 
 
 When daylight fades 
 Long shadows gather on the pine crowned hill ; 
 The mossy wheel turns slowly at the mill ; 
 The downy chickens seek their mother's wing; 
 The crickets in the long lush grasses sing 
 
 When daylight fades. 
 
 When daylight fades 
 The whip-poor-will pipes forth his lonely call ; 
 The dewdrops glisten on the old stone wall, 
 And sunset skies turn dim and faintly gray, 
 While fireflies flash their lamps across the way, 
 
 When daylight fades. 
 
 When daylight fades 
 The flowers drooping, nestle in their beds. 
 And babies, nodding curly, drowsy heads. 
 Are pillowed on their loving mothers' breast; 
 All living things are touched to tender rest. 
 
 When daylight fades. 
 
 When daylight fades 
 Into death's dreamless lethe-dipped starless night, 
 What fields elysian touched with unknown light; 
 What sun-kissed arching azure summer skies, 
 What flower-gemmed world will greet our waking eyes 
 
 When daylight fades? 
 
 Agnes Potter McGee. 
 
 27 
 
Our Intellectual Life 
 
 GOMPARAllVELV speaking, veiy few people in these 
 days lead, in even a small degree, what may be called 
 "the intellectual life." Men in business find, for the 
 most part, that business practically absorbs their entire mental 
 force; at the end of the day most men seek recreation in some 
 other form than that which calls for brain-activity. Here and 
 there are men who find rest in their libraries, reading "some- 
 thing good," or who are able to produce and enjoy music, but 
 such men are apt to be "solitary;" their reading and thought, 
 their recreation after toil, no matter upon what high plane it 
 may be, is apt to be purely academic; such men are more in 
 need of the stimulation of intellectual human companionship 
 than of hooks; and that is the very thing they find hardest to 
 get. Women, as a rule, find the cares of the household, or of 
 business, if such is their lot, enough to absorb their nervous 
 forces to such an extent that they are not equal to more in- 
 tellectual e.xertion than is required by the game of bridge, or 
 the mild demands of one of the late novels, or the current 
 magazines. And yet, just why these individual units of in- 
 tellectual activity should stagnate from the lack of stimulation 
 of mental contact is indeed a weighty problem to solve. 
 
 We are either intellectually tired, or intellectually lazy, 
 after business all day ; one needs more recreation than an even- 
 ing in his library; that form of intellectual exercise isn't vital 
 and invigorating — we need to come more in contact with other 
 minds than we can do by books. Academic reading is all 
 right — but it ought to lead to practical uses ; and it cannot and 
 does not — without the personal element of association directly 
 with other minds. It remains then to ask — can people, as a 
 whole, be co-ordinated? And how may it be done? 
 
 Clever people are often individualists who make demands 
 which other clever people fail to appreciate, and one hesitates 
 in preparing a thesis on an abstract point like — "Can a man 
 think in any century but his own?" The discussion is apt to 
 become personal, and acrimonious. In these modern times, in- 
 tellectual snobbishness always seems to underlie an intellectual 
 uplift movement. If a man does not care for reflections of 
 life interpreted through the medium of tone or color or poetic 
 line, let him enjoy life at first hand ; after all he may be saner 
 than we. 
 
 Sadie E. Carver. 
 
 28 
 
To the Men 
 
 ^' — tf'EST suppose you had to court by screechin' like a screech 
 \^^ owl, 
 
 Or else were forced to win j^our love by preenin' like a 
 peafowl ! 
 What if you had to slink an' dodge, like an old black vulture, 
 While you proved to your dear girl, your boundless love an' 
 
 culture! 
 How would you like to woo her, by a heron's dancin', 
 Or as a courtin' pheasant does, a drummin' an' a prancin'! 
 Perhaps you'd have to sing to her, like a night hawk screechin', 
 Or imitate a vireo, turnin' somersaults an' preachin' ! 
 Suppose to win a wife you must, like old red-head soundly lick 
 
 her, 
 Course I know you've ivanted to; but that only works with a 
 
 Miss Woodpicker 
 Can you imagine how you'd look, like a turkey gobbler struttin'. 
 To pay for pancakes, lovin' up, an' a neatly sewed on button? 
 Don't you think that you'd feel great, like an old drake quackin'. 
 Or like a guinea in the grass, a floppin' an' pot-rackin'? 
 When you watch these feathered males, an' their sufferin' mates 
 
 endurin' 
 Ain't you glad you got a way, more graceful an' allurin'? 
 
 'Gene Stratton Porter. 
 
 A Confession 
 
 I don't like radishes — one bit me once. 
 
 Mme. Qui Vive. 
 
 29 
 
A Memory Page 
 
 30 
 
Three Women in a Garden 
 
 UNLIGHT glints through wind blown leaves, 
 mignonette and Summer is in the air. 
 
 The scent of 
 
 Said she of the slate-gray eyes — eyes that darkened and 
 lightened, eyes that were sometimes dark as midnight 
 skies and sometimes steely as the sun at noonday — 
 "If he whom I love were false to me I could f ^| 
 not find it in my heart to forgive. I must 
 have all or nothing," and the eyes were 
 gray as storm clouds. 
 
 Said she of the dark brown 
 eyes — eyes that looked out on 
 life with a look of long-ago 
 pain not yet forgotten — eyes 
 that questioned life, unan- 
 swered — "Forgiveness is not 
 impossible, it is the forget- 
 ting that is hard. The 
 woman of a man's heart 
 may not always be the 
 woman of his arms — but 
 it is hard to forget — " 
 and the eyes glowed fiercely 
 for a moment at variance 
 with the placid brow. 
 
 Said she of the deep blue 
 eyes — eyes like faded violets — 
 eyes that had seen life and now 
 gave forth a benediction — "Women 
 must be the mothers of men's souls 
 Love is the act of taking in one's youth, of -^ 
 
 giving in one's middle age and of accepting as 
 the years go by. Forgiveness and forgetting slip 
 from the mind and heart — there is only room at the end 
 for faith — " and the sweetness of much loving, many for- 
 givings and all the forgettings glowed like a flaming candle still 
 burning in the heart. 
 
 There was no word spoken. The wind brought the scent of mignon- 
 ette. A bee buzzed dreamily. A bird murmured soft warnings to her mate. 
 
 Elizabeth Curtiss Nolan 
 
Woman 
 
 HMAN to whom I was talking, not long ago, said, 
 "Well, if women don't like the laws they have only 
 themselves to blame; they were napping, and men 
 made laws to suit themselves." 
 
 Woman "napping," indeed! 
 
 She was stunned. Man slugged her over the head and 
 dragged her off — that was the way he got her, originally, and 
 when she came to she was minding the baby with one hand and 
 skinning a deer with the other. A fine chance she had to make 
 laws, or even to think about them. 
 
 In the prehistoric days man's business in life was to keep 
 himself, his mate, and his offspring alive. As he was the 
 stronger, physically, the getting and keeping of whatever the 
 family had devolved upon him. Might made right. He 
 fought, killed, and stole, that they might exist. 
 
 But there was a gentler side to life, even in the old, old 
 days. 
 
 As time went on, if the family was to have anything but 
 raw material, the woman had to provide it. She dug up the 
 ground with a crooked stick, she sowed the seed, she reaped the 
 harvests, she ground the meal, she baked the bread to nourish 
 the sons that she bore. She raised the flax to make the fine 
 linen in which to clothe her household. She sheared the lambs, 
 and spun and dyed the wool from which she wove the scarlet 
 cloth in which her lord went forth to sit in the seats of the 
 mighty and to join in the councils of the wise and great. And 
 if, perchance, she were allowed to speak when her master re- 
 turned to the home which she had made, she gave him of the 
 thoughts that had crystallized in her mind in the long hours 
 of her lonely toil. She softly bade him to remember mercy, 
 to love peace — that righteousness is the mother of all good, of 
 all prosperity, of all happiness — and she pointed the way to- 
 ward God. 
 
 "She had done what she could." 
 
 Heloise Wynne. 
 
 32 
 
The Crumpled Rose Leaf 
 
 OlD you ever hear of that king of old 
 Whose chief delight was to fuss and scold, 
 And who swore that his bed was so full of humps 
 That he could not sleep because of the lumps? 
 Well, on looking to find what the cause might be. 
 What do you think the maids did see? 
 Not a piece of wood, nor a chunk of lead. 
 Nor a ball of yarn, nor a spool of thread. 
 But just a rose leaf, crumpled and sweet. 
 Which had clung to the hem of the 'broidered sheet 
 When drawn from the chest, where in soft repose 
 It had gathered the fragrance of many a rose. 
 Just a crumpled rose leaf — that was all! 
 Yet even this dainty thing, so small. 
 Could make his worries and frettings double 
 To this man who wanted to borrow trouble. 
 And all of us worry and lose our sleep 
 Over little things, that we hug and keep 
 Till they grow and grow, and seem to be 
 High as the hills, and deep as the sea. 
 Little troubles and little cares. 
 Wrinkle our faces and whiten our hairs; 
 Make us fretful and crabbed and old ; 
 Banish our friends, make love grow cold ; 
 And when real trouble at last walks in, 
 We've no strength left to fight him and win. 
 Don't waste your life in this foolish way, 
 Hunting up something by night and day. 
 That you imagine is going wrong 
 And you must right it. Just travel along 
 And try to gather the sweets of life. 
 Forgetting its sorrows and toil and strife. 
 Brace up! don't falter and stumble and fall. 
 It may be but a rose leaf, after all! 
 
 Sallie M. Moses. 
 
A Memory Page 
 
An Answer to Kipling's Poem 
 
 "The Female of the Species is More Deadly than the Male' 
 
 H 
 
 OR the female of the species is more deadly than the 
 male," 
 Is the battle cry of Kipling, in his egotistic tale, 
 Which decries, O ! shame to say it, the sex that gave him birth, 
 And likens all of womankind to reptiles of the earth; 
 Wondrous facts he has omitted in his poetic lore; 
 'Tis strange he has forgotten how heavy women score; 
 After eating fruit forbidden, Adam tried to lay the blame 
 On the woman God had given, and it's ever been the same. 
 Only God and all his angels know the cross the women bear 
 When they give up happy girlhood for matrimony's care, 
 Bravely fighting and defeating woes in life that make her quail, 
 "For the female of the species is more deadly than the male." 
 
 There's a woman's name that's sacred, praises sung in every 
 
 tongue, 
 For she gave mankind a Savior in her own beloved Son; 
 Inherent, noble Mary, she endowed her child with grace, 
 The perfect man and master, the Redeemer of his race. 
 'Twas a woman's instigation sent Columbus o'er the sea, 
 'Twas a woman's powerful book that helped the negro free; 
 In the mighty throes of battle, near the thickest of the fray! 
 'Twas a woman's hand that succored the wounded as they la> 
 Torn and bleeding, life fast ebbing, one last message home to 
 
 send, 
 It was given and transmitted by the dying soldier's friend. 
 No fear had she of shot or shell that showered her like hail, 
 'Tor the female of the species is more deadly than the male." 
 
 Thus down through all the ages women ever face the fight. 
 Strong in courage, faith and justice, with her face toward the 
 
 light; 
 Oft disheartened, often weary, plodding onward brave and 
 
 true, 
 Ever giving, ne'er receiving, shirking naught she has to do, 
 She it is who molds the Nation, gives the world her men of 
 
 fame ; 
 She is not a beast of burden — give her credit in her name 
 For her progress and her virtues — it has been a bitter fight, 
 For men all through the ages have denied the woman's right 
 To use the brains God gave her as well as bear men's sons ; 
 For the good of all humanity before life's race is run 
 She'll solve the many problems, you'll never see her fail, 
 'Tor the female of the species is more deadly than the male." 
 
 Estelle Rvan Snvd 
 
 yacr. 
 
 35 
 
Excerpt from "Teaching and Nursing" 
 
 nUMANITY always understands humanity. Races, ages, 
 individuals misunderstand and impede one another. 
 Indeed, so dulled do we become by tradition per- 
 petuated from accumulated interference with Nature, that we 
 come to accept involved and toggled-up human relations as in- 
 evitable, and it does not occur to us that we may rid ourselves 
 of this incubus by opening the springs of human nature and 
 permitting the free forces of Eternal Nature herself to pour 
 through us, into society, her remedial vitality. I say "it never 
 occurs to us," for it is rather a need of enlighteninent than a 
 need of faith which deters us from developing as the lilies of 
 the field do. 
 
 Faith every living organism possesses, but, as with all other 
 factors of human activity, it is, as yet, conscious in the few only. 
 Jesus was so conscious an exponent of faith, the simplicity 
 which He brought into all phases of life which He entered was 
 so healing, that His teaching and healing influence has carried 
 through the increasing complexities of two thousand years, and 
 clears the troubled hearts and minds of men today. 
 
 It is the "considering" that we need. 
 
 Nature's laws are always operating, and our Being has 
 faith in them whatever may be the befogged and entangled 
 condition of our minds, which have been led into strange 
 devices. Nature, in turn, has large faith in her novitiate child, 
 trusting to his unconscious Being to fulfill in time normality 
 for the race, while his conscious mind, during its period of 
 initiative, busily sets to work to bewilder human relations into 
 an artificial and crucifying interdependence, which it calls "civ- 
 ilization." 
 
 Civilization, as it has been understood, and as we now 
 
 understand it, is, we suppose, a part of Nature's patient plan. 
 
 But that it is not the adequate expression of that plan we are 
 
 inspired to believe every time we consider the lilies of the field. 
 
 Cornelia B. de Bev, M. D. 
 
When Carrie Jacobs Bond Sings 
 
 ^Tp^HEN Carrie Jacobs Bond sings 
 \ly What do we hear and see? 
 
 A sweet-brier hedge; waving wings- — 
 Bird, butterfly and bee; 
 A meadow-lark in daisied field ; 
 A robin at top of white birch tree, 
 A swinging and singing to you and me, 
 Of love and trust and joy, and peace, 
 Of duty and beauty and service and rest — 
 And the sky is aglow in the west; 
 A pond-lily pool, a violet bed, 
 A sorrowing mother with low-bow'd head ; 
 A winding river which sings and purls 
 As on it travels in eddies and swirls 
 To join the ceaseless ocean ; 
 The tiny tinkle a wind-harp sings ; 
 The human moaning of violin strings; 
 The hope and faith of each human heart ; 
 The pain and yearning when lovers part; 
 A wild-rose thicket where thrushes meet; 
 A new-made grave in God's acre sweet ; — 
 So many sweet, indescribable things 
 We see and hear when this woman sings. 
 
 Marv Badollet Pow( 
 
Feminine Philosophy 
 
 COMMON sense is a commendable quality. It keeps us 
 from doing many foolish acts and it is altogether reliable, 
 like a good kitchen range or a favorite cake recipe. But 
 the trouble with an excess of common sense is that it often 
 crowds out much that is delightfully absurd, beautifully sweet, 
 and tenderly delirious. Also, too much common sense makes 
 us too serious and to be too serious is not to be companionable 
 to those who love us. Beware, you wise ones, lest you grow too 
 wise. A little nonsense — vou know the rest. 
 
 ii/e 
 
 To allow oneself to be trampled upon is not meekness. It 
 is mere passivity and inertia. A meekness which endures in 
 order that it may shape things better is the real virtue. The 
 gentlest of mothers and wives is often the firmest and most in- 
 fluential. Meekness is not an end but a means to an end. The 
 power of a great anger may lie behind it, and actually enhance 
 its value. 
 
 It ought not be a weak attribute of goodness, but a token 
 of strength, self-controlled and dedicated to the service of 
 others. Militant meekness is one of the strongest forces in the 
 world — and no modern woman who expects to accomplish any- 
 thing should be without it. 
 
 Mary Eleanor O'DonnelL 
 
 38 
 
The Wind Some Day 
 
 J^^HE Wind some day— the ranting Wind and idle- 
 ^^ My servitor shall be 
 
 To waft from Fire's caress the dust that mantled 
 My earth necessity. 
 
 That no cold grave cell may, enclosing, stifle 
 My residue of clay, 
 
 Svv^ift to my need, in answer to the spirit. 
 From far— in haste— shall come, the Wind some day. 
 Some day the Wind — that bloweth where it listeth — 
 A tryst with me shall make. 
 One last embrace when, dust to dust returning, 
 Earth's temple I forsake. 
 
 Back to the void from which all law M^as fashioned 
 The Thinker to obey, 
 
 Unparticled, dissolved, from form to freedom, 
 My liberation waits the Wind some day. 
 
 Anstiss C. Gary. 
 
 a>e 
 
 Consecration 
 
 CATHEDRAL spire and lofty architrave, 
 Nor priestly rites and humble reverence, 
 Nor costly fires of myrrh and frankincense 
 May give the consecration that we crave; 
 Upon the shore where tides forever lave 
 With grateful coolness on the fevered sense; 
 Where passion grows to silence, rapt, intense, 
 There waits the chrismal fountain of the wave. 
 
 By rock-hewn altars where is said no word; 
 Save by the deep that calleth unto deep, 
 While organ tones of sea resound above; 
 The truth of truths our inmost souls have heard, 
 And in our hearts communion wine we keep, 
 For He, Himself hath said it — "God is Love." 
 
 Myrtle Reed. 
 
The Joys of (xardens 
 
 HS NATURE is the Vicar of God, the true Gardener is 
 of the Temple. Many kneel at the altars, their senses 
 enthralled by the incense, the music, the vision of the 
 enthroned cross and the mystical ceremonial, and go away ask- 
 ing, "What does it mean?" 
 
 But for the true Gardener every place is a temple, and the 
 arching heavens above the open fields is the greatest vaulted 
 roof of all. He may prostrate himself amid the smoke of 
 sacrifice in cathedral splendor, while his open soul knowing that 
 these are but symbols, takes flight into infinite spaces with 
 longing for a knowledge of the angelic choirs, and one glimpse 
 of Him the source of light and life. 
 
 For the Gardener is ever in the company of the invisible 
 Deity. Going hand in hand with Nature, witnessing the hourly 
 miracles of creation, his faith is perennial, his hope renewed, 
 and his conviction firm that there is no death, but that man like 
 the flower transmits life from season to season, plays his part 
 in the immeasurable plan and may rejoice in immortality in the 
 infinite years, which no human mind has yet been able to under- 
 stand. 
 
 Then blest is he who loves and tends a single plant. He 
 is a partner in the mystery, he too may feel the heart of Nature 
 throbbing in the earth. No common joys are his. His 
 thoughts range in the azure skies by day and night, he delights 
 in sunshine and is patient in rain, he never ceases to wonder 
 at the marvel of the lily or the rose, or the commonwealth of 
 grasses in the fields. His companions are the bees, the butter- 
 flies and singing birds, and the earth is illumined with celestial 
 light. 
 
 Ever with Nature the Vicar of God, the Gardener is never 
 alone. He is conscious of the supreme benediction that falls 
 on those who would make the earth more beautiful by their 
 labors, and so take part in the scheme of the Creator of it all. 
 Forgetful of selfish ends, not seeking ephemeral wealth nor 
 knowledge, the humble Gardener is yet the citizen of the world. 
 His chosen friends of field and garden meet him in mountains, 
 plains or city yards, and so divinely blest he asks no more, but 
 that he maj' walk with angels in his garden. 
 
 Lena N. McCauley. 
 
 40 " . . 
 
The Prince 0' The Green World 
 
 CHE Prince of the Rainbow slid down to earth on a sun 
 thread. The green world, if you must know, O, Alice 
 and Carolyn and Bob so mischief-wise, is a place where 
 something is always fighting to be on top. Sometimes it is 
 Mist o' Rain, and it depends upon the kind of eyes people have 
 as to how they feel on the days she is in power. Sometimes it 
 is Burning Shine, and again it depends on whether people's eyes 
 are strong as to how they feel on his days. 
 
 When the little fellow alighted on the grass where the 
 violet's breath made the earth sweet, he found himself at the 
 foot of a tall, slender tree, that wept softly. 
 
 "Why do you weep so?" asked the fairy prince. 
 
 "On account of the day," sobbed the tree. "Who could 
 be glad in a green world ruled by Mist o' Rain? You have 
 been away a long time," he continued. 
 
 "I came to conquer the green world again," answered the 
 Prince of the Rainbow. "I was afraid I should be forgotten 
 and to be forgotten is to cease to live, and I will not die. I 
 must not, for my only existence is in the hearts of the people 
 of the green world, and all hearts would wither without me." 
 
 "Oh, I do not know about that," said the sad tree. "There 
 are those who think that nothing is but what one thinks, and 
 there are others who believe that nothing is but what it is 
 possible to touch, and in the green world there are more of 
 the latter. They won't believe in you, so you will cease to 
 exist in a short time in the green world. 
 
 "And what do you believe?" asked the Prince of the Sad 
 Tree. 
 
 "I?" said the tree. "Well, I do not believe in you at all. 
 What's the use of believing in anything when the green world 
 is in the power of Mist o' Rain? And anyway, I have to 
 hunt so hard and look so far to see you that my neck actually 
 grows painful from the twisting. I don't believe there is any 
 joy, therefore there can be no joy. O, you will soon cease to 
 be in the green world. I advise you to go back to the thought- 
 land on your sun thread and stay there." 
 
 The poor Prince of the Rainbow was very much fright- 
 ened. "I shall die," he thought, "and then the hearts of all 
 living things in the green world will become withered and old 
 and useless, and only powers like Mist o' Rain will visit the 
 
 42 
 
green world ! O, surely, every one does not believe as you 
 do, great tree!" he cried. 
 
 "Every one but the children," replied the sad tree; "and 
 they may soon. One never knows." 
 
 "I must find the children quickly!" he cried. He smiled 
 such a gay smile at the thought that a sun thread darted in 
 among the grasses. The prince caught it and on it dipped and 
 soared to all the little children of the green world. "Lend me 
 your smiles!" he called to them, and they all gave them gladly, 
 without question, because the prince was in their hearts. 
 
 Then the Prince of the Rainbow took the smiles of the 
 little children and blew them gently through the tear drops 
 of Mist o' Rain and there was reflected such joy of all living 
 things in the green world that a rainbow visited the sky again 
 as a herald, then faded into the glory of the sun. 
 
 The Prince of the Rainbow was sure of his life again! 
 
 Ruth Kerfoot. 
 
 a>e 
 
 Self Reliance 
 
 nITTLE yaller blossom, 
 Peekin' fru de grass, 
 Waitin' mity patient 
 Foh de storms tu pass. 
 Goes a-head er smilin'. 
 Brighter ebbery day, 
 Jess keeps on er growin' 
 
 'Neath skies cold en gray. 
 Little yaller blossom. 
 
 If de truf wuz known, 
 You're jess er makin' 
 Sunshine of your own. 
 
 Ophelia Lawrence Blair. 
 
 43 
 
\ Hallowe'en Fancy 
 
 ^T^HERE are the fairies of yesteryear? 
 v I y Where are the tender, unseen presences that whole 
 
 nations once loved ? 
 
 Hallowe'en is here again. 
 
 It's cold without you. 
 
 Where is merry Robin Goodfellow, and where is Puck? 
 The pixies, elves and kelpies, where are they? Where is Ariel 
 flown, and where are "the little people"? 
 
 "Wee folk, good folk, 
 Trooping all together 
 Green jacket, red cap, 
 
 And white owl's feather?" 
 
 Where are the little mountain men Rip Van Winkle met in 
 our own Catskills, and where the gnomes of Germany's jeweled 
 
 nsr 
 
 mines and mountai 
 
 Where the woodsprites and dryads, the fauns and satyrs 
 of a younger Europe? Where is Daphne? Where is Undine? 
 
 Where are tlie trees that talked, the stones and semblances 
 that were transmuted into beings in a twinkling before believ- 
 ing eyes? 
 
 Where are the sprites that put dewdrops in the flowers 
 o' early morn and the sandman that sowed the seeds of sleep? 
 
 Gentle dreamful deities of an older world, where have 
 you fled ? 
 
 Come back! It's Hallowe'en and the world wants you! 
 It wants you more than ever it wanted anything else in all its 
 heavy round, wants the mystery, the tender fear and fearful 
 faith that went away when you went — wants its fairy god- 
 mother back ; wants its Lorelei, wants its dryads and its Ceres, 
 wants its faith in all beautiful, mystical things. 
 
 We thought to stand alone, conquerors of earth ! 
 
 We prided ourselves on freedom ! 
 
 You were superstitions and nothing more, we said. You 
 never peopled woods and fields, we mocked. No gods come 
 down froin starry skies to brother with mankind. 
 
 This was sea and this was land ; this a tree and that a 
 rock. There were no Poseidons, no earth-shaking Atlases, no 
 fairy folk, no gods, no goblins! 
 
 What have we got in exchange for faith that saw God 
 in every form of nature, Christ in the beggar fed at eve at the 
 woodman's table, the traveler ferried on Christopher's hack 
 across the stream? 
 
 Night has come upon us, O little people! 
 
 A sky without a star is over us. 
 
 We are afraid. 
 
 O invisible presence of Earth's \outh, of reverence and 
 belief and prayer, return, we pray! 
 
 The world is cold without you. 
 
 It's Hallowe'en ! 
 
 Mary O'Connor Newell. 
 
 44 
 
Allegro 
 
 Great Day of God. 
 
 Words & Music by L, R. WAITE. 
 
 Great Day of the unveiling 
 Of Truths Deep mysteries, 
 When every hidden secret 
 Of earth and sky and seas, 
 In all their wondrous beaut)', 
 To man shall be revealed; 
 Nor can an act or motive 
 By man now be concealed. 
 
 Great Day of God,All glorious; 
 
 Great Day of Peace, so blest; 
 
 The thought of Thee brings gladness, 
 
 And dilates every breast. 
 
 Great Day of one religion, 
 
 When all are understood; 
 
 One faith in Life Eternal, 
 
 One God, one Brotherhood. 
 
The Aristocracy of Brains 
 
 ^^^ELL me who that shabby-looking little woman is over 
 V /^ there in that group of stunningly gowned women by 
 the fireplace? How pathetic her poor little hat and 
 gloves are, and doesn't her dress remind you of a rag-bag? 
 She must have sublime courage to come here in that costume, 
 and yet I remember now that I have seen her at all the most 
 elegant functions this winter, and she seems popular, too. How 
 do you suppose she manages it?" 
 
 The other woman smiled patiently as she answered : "Why, 
 with her brains, of course. She hasn't any money, so she can't 
 win attention with her clothes or entertaining, and as her 
 people all died before she came here, a stranger, to live, she 
 has not had any family to back her. What little beauty she 
 ever had faded long ago, but she has made herself a personality 
 by using her brains and will power. She has been clever 
 enough to surround herself with brainy people, to be on the 
 intellectual, progressive and uplifting side of every important 
 movement. She is president of our best Woman's Club, and 
 is virtually the head of another prominent organization. She 
 has great executive ability, is clear sighted enough to see the 
 result of anything before it is started, has the wisdom to let 
 go as well as to take hold of the handles of Life's wheelbarrow. 
 She does not use her brains in a cold, calculating, selfish way, 
 but for the attainment of rare culture, love of humanity and 
 fidelity to ideals." 
 
 Three friends were motoring home from a reception and 
 the conversation, becoming intimate, turned toward their 
 hostess. 
 
 "She doesn't look a day over thirt>'-five," began one of 
 the women, "and I know she is twenty years older than that. 
 Really, I never have seen her when she looked her age by a 
 dozen years. Of course, she has some gray hairs and one 
 or two characteristic lines, but she always expresses eternal 
 youth to me. What can be her secret?" 
 
 "Oh, that is easy," answered another woman; "she hasn't 
 any worries, wnth a comfortable income, an adoring, congenial 
 husband, no children; what cares or responsibilities has she 
 to age her?" 
 
 46 
 
"Well," said the first speaker, "things, after all, are pretty 
 evenly divided in this world, and you can't tell me that a 
 woman can reach fifty years without sorrows and disappoint- 
 ments." 
 
 "You are right," interrupted the third woman, who loved 
 the one they were discussing; "she has had them, too; known 
 w-hat it was to lie awake long, anxious hours in the night, 
 learned to laugh and talk while a grim spectre mocked close 
 behind her; her heart has paid grief and sorrow their usual 
 toll. She had kept young through it all by a life of intense 
 mental activity. 
 
 "Her intellectual pleasures and mental activity have helped 
 her forget the cares that could have pressed heavily — the grief 
 that might have corroded — and have left her spirit young, her 
 eyes bright, her entire being responsive, alive, sympathetic and 
 interesting." 
 
 Florence Adams Gebhardt. 
 
 J3^ 
 
 The Alchemist 
 
 aNDER the argentine glow of the Easter-time 
 We loosen our hold on all sordid conventions 
 And fling our souls out in the freedom of gladness! 
 The in-rushing thoughts come sanctioned by joy — 
 That luring protagonist we eagerly follow. 
 In the thrill of new life all fear is cast out; 
 Our listening minds hear the low call of beauty; 
 The ambient air with the odor of springtime 
 Is sensuous — the throbbing pulse of Ceres we feel ; 
 The old "immortal indolence" bathes us once more, 
 And we know we are one with the great Primal Cause. 
 It is Love has relumed our stifled convictions. 
 And Love that is rolling the stone away 
 To give us this opulent Life today. 
 
 Pauline Leavens. 
 
 47 
 
A Woman's Thoughts 
 
 nOVE is that W'hich makes the State of Matrimony hard 
 to live in unless it is the Capital. 
 
 Some women pray for things they'd never dream 
 of working for — husbands included. 
 
 The first family separation on record — Adam and his 
 spare rib. 
 
 Some girls' complexions are so clear they can be seen 
 through at one glance. 
 
 Some members of the oldest families look every day of it. 
 
 "When Dreams Come True" — When a spinster takes an 
 upper berth and finds a man under her bed. 
 
 Precautionary measures are just as necessary to keeping 
 freckles off your reputation as off your face. 
 
 If there's one thing makes a woman madder than to be 
 "ogled" it is not to be noticed at all. 
 
 Doris Blake. 
 
 sue 
 
 Excerpt 
 
 gND the White Lady heard a voice within 
 which said: "And he just can't help being 
 'black' either. Have you ever stopped to 
 think how lucky you are that the Accident of Birth 
 allowed you to be born 'white,' in the big house on 
 your mother's plantation, instead of putting your 
 soul into one of the 'black' skins in a cabin?" 
 
 Bettv Barlow. 
 
 48 
 
A Dream of Long Ago 
 
 CHE skies are blue as the skies of June 
 Have ever a right to be, 
 And my heart is singing an old love tune, 
 Pitched to a minor key. 
 I'm dreaming a dream of olden days 
 
 When life was bright and fair. 
 Only a dream of a dreamer, dear, 
 But I wonder if vou would care. 
 
 We walk again in the flowery lane. 
 
 Hand in hand as in days of yore. 
 On the old church tower, on the leafy bower 
 
 The moonlight falls once more. 
 I listen again to your words of love. 
 
 With rapture beyond compare. 
 Only the dream of a dreamer, dear, 
 
 But I wonder if you would care. 
 
 The wild rose blooming by the hedge, 
 
 Grows pale 'neath the glittering stars. 
 Heaven whispers low to the waiting earth, 
 
 As we stand at the meadow bars. 
 I look once more in your love-lit eyes, 
 
 The old fond smile jou wear. 
 Only the dream of a dreamer, dear, 
 
 But I w^onder if you would care. 
 
 The sound of your voice comes back to me. 
 
 Across the bridge of the years. 
 My heart is an island standing alone 
 
 In the midst of a sea of tears. 
 I cover with kisses a faded rose, 
 
 The one you asked me to wear. 
 Only the dream of a dreamer, dear, 
 
 But I wonder if you would care. 
 
 Does the blue of the sky, the breath of a rose, 
 
 A song heard half asleep. 
 Bring back the past in a sudden rush 
 
 Of feeling strong and deep? 
 'Twere sweet to think that you and I 
 
 The thoughts of the past still share. 
 Only the dream of a dreamer, dear, 
 
 But I wonder if you would care. 
 
 Grace Scofield Holi 
 
A Japanese Mother 
 
 eRAY Choturo heard the tramp 
 Of the feet that marched to battle, 
 Heard the horses neigh and stamp, 
 Creak of belt and side-arms rattle. 
 Heard the sudden rapt'rous cry: 
 "Dai Nippon! Banzai! Banzai!" 
 
 Near her pillow stayed her son, 
 And she pressed his shoulder, harking, 
 When a gun told to a gun 
 That the soldiers were embarking; 
 And she heard his heart beat fast 
 While the countless columns passed. 
 
 Proudly looked she in his face — 
 
 None who marched without had bolder — 
 
 And she drew aside apace, 
 
 Leaned more lightly on his shoulder. 
 
 Gleam of musket, clink of spur, 
 
 Clang of sword, came in to her. 
 
 Then she questioned, eye to eye: 
 "Why art thou not with the others 
 Where the red-orbed banners fly? 
 Must I be the scorn of mothers? 
 Shall I send no son to war 
 For his gods and Emperor?" 
 
 But he smiled: "With thee I stay. 
 August mother, moon-white lady ; 
 Scorching is the sun of day, 
 And thy shoji cool and shady." 
 But she shook her aged head : 
 "Empty are thy words," she said. 
 
 Then he cried: "I stay with thee! 
 None remain thy life to cherish. 
 When the war-drums call to me 
 Can I leave thee here to perish? 
 By the gods! while thou dost live 
 All my days to thee I'll give!" 
 
 50 
 
In Choturo's fervent gaze 
 Land and mother-love were blended! 
 Then he sav^^ her hand upraise 
 With a dagger that descended! 
 And he caught her thrilling sigh: 
 "Dai Nippon/ Banzai! Banzai!" 
 
 To his open arms she swayed, 
 
 Her kimono crimson turning; 
 
 But she laughed and drew the blade 
 
 From the breast that ceased its burning; 
 
 Gave it to his hand, and so. 
 
 Smiling, dying, whispered: "Go!" 
 
 Then he laid her gently down. 
 
 Smoothed her robe, and left her straightway: 
 
 Staggered, stumbled, through the town; 
 
 Joined the troops that passed the gateway, 
 
 Crying, the red blade on high : 
 
 "Dai Nippon! Banzai! Banzai!" 
 
 Grace Duffie Boylan. 
 
 To Music 
 
 IMMORTAL music! 
 Heav'n's own gift that doth the 
 souls of men uplift, 
 Interpreter of all our moods. 
 Oh, vibrant voice from solitudes, 
 And cadence tender and sublime. 
 Oh, linger with us for all time, 
 In melody, in melody. 
 
 Whene'er our souls droop and repine, 
 Let Music charm with power divine. 
 If e'er our hearts faint from defeat. 
 Let Music cheer with rhythmic beat, 
 Let Music charm with power divine! 
 
 Grace T. Hadley. 
 
A Sketch 
 
 ^TTi^HY does the mind retain vividly certain memories when 
 \\y others that v^^ould seem to have a vital relation to one's 
 life are recalled only by an effort of the will? 
 These three pictures recur insistently : 
 
 A long stretch of road in late September ; a hint of storm ; 
 a camp fire and figures in silhouette; suddenly, gypsies at our 
 horses' heads; a hag's face thrust in ours and my opulent com- 
 panion's hand seized; she snatches it away and says furiously, 
 "My life is behind me — there is nothing you can tell me." 
 
 A white moon in the Blue Ridge country ; dusky figures 
 grouped under magnolia trees and negro voices singing — "Mah 
 Madeline"— 
 
 A river bank; a row boat in tow; still figures under a 
 blanket, their boyish outlines revealed ; two pairs of shoes tied 
 together by the strings; a brown paper parcel of lunch. A 
 wisp of towsled hair sticking from beneath the blanket ; a 
 woman sobbing wildly as the boat is slowly drawn upon the 
 shore. 
 
 Florence Seyler Thompson. 
 
 s^ 
 
 The Shining Mark 
 
 ^^5^HE little red devil unfolded his morning paper and held 
 V^ J it in one hand while he toasted his bread on the end of 
 a long fork over the fire. All of a sudden, he dropped 
 the fork, accidentally upsetting his breakfast cup of brimstone, 
 and doubled up with laughter, rolling over and over on the 
 floor in fiendish glee. Then he sprang up and ran to the 'phone. 
 "Hello Central, give me Death — yes Death. You know 
 the number, I've called it often enough. Hello — this you. 
 Old-timer? Congratulations, old boy. Now don't play in- 
 nocent; cut the funeral tone. Leave that for the mourners, 
 they may be sincere, you old hypocrite. Your sob stuff doesn't 
 go with me, you old wolf in sheep's clothing. Everybody 
 knows me for what I am. They smell the sulphur, but look 
 what you get away with, mystery, solemnity. Providential 
 dealings, these are the thoughts the poor humans associate with 
 
your awesome presence. They think of me as a very malicious 
 creature, but I only go after the bad ones while you, you 
 voracious old bag of bones, you have no mercy. Innocent child- 
 hood, youth, early manhood, the great author, the man of 
 affairs, the mother of a family — it's all the same to you. A 
 shining mark — you sure got one this time, didn't you? Stow 
 the voice, mate, it does'nt go with me. Why you can't even 
 cover up your grinning old teeth, so don't get maudlin. A 
 multi-millionaire — some shining mark believe me. And he 
 can't take an ounce of all that metal with him, except the 
 metallic casket. How he worked and slaved for the money — 
 how he worked everybody else for it! Can't you see him 
 climbing up and up that towering pinnacle of gold, on and on 
 over the bodies and souls of men and women and children, 
 wiping out fortunes that his own pile might grow into a 
 glittering mass for fools to gape at, a mountain whose peaks 
 are unattainable to the common herd? And what a write-up 
 they gave him! A philanthropist — one who endowed schools 
 and charitable institutions — a public-spirited gentleman, if you 
 please! I've laughed my sides sore with the farce of it. Oh 
 this isn't all your funeral, old top. I'll have a share in this, 
 I'm thinking. What? You'll concede me the brigand with 
 the black mask and revolver? Thanks. I can see you vir- 
 tuously drawing that ragged old robe of yours around your 
 unsightly frame. It don't go; I'm wise to you, pard. That 
 hold-up man is a saint from heaven compared with your, I 
 mean our, ex-philanthropist. Blood money — the hoary-headed 
 old pirate — why blood drips from every ounce of his gold ! 
 You haven't put anything over me this time, friend, dear 
 friend. Still have the grieved tone? Well, that's part of your 
 stock in trade. I'm going to ring off now. By-by. Just 
 remember I'm wise. Ta ta." 
 
 The little red devil put up the receiver, dancing up and 
 down in his glee and laughing, "Ho! Ho! Ha! Ha!" after 
 the manner of little red devils, which was most sacrilegious, 
 infernal and brimstonic, but then that's all one could expect 
 of a demon of any color, and at least he wasn't a hypocrite, 
 which is saying something. 
 
 Mary Moncure Parker. 
 
A Memory Page 
 
 54 
 
Blight and Bloom 
 
 HIFE hath its barren years, 
 Where fair blooms fall untimely down ; 
 When ripened fruitage fails to crown 
 The summer toil ; when nature's frown 
 Looks only on our tears. 
 
 Life hath its faithless days — 
 The golden promise of the morn, 
 That seemed for light and gladness born, 
 Meant only noontide wreck and scorn, 
 
 Hushed harp instead of praise. 
 
 Life hath its valleys too. 
 Where we must walk in vain regret. 
 With mourning clothed, with wild rain wet — 
 Toward sunlit hopes that soon must set. 
 
 All quenched in pitying dew. 
 
 Life hath its harvest moons. 
 Its tasselled corn and purple-weighted vine ; 
 Its gathered sheaves of grain, and blessed sign 
 Of plenteous ripening bread, and pure, rich wine. 
 
 Full hearts for harvest tunes. 
 
 Life hath its hopes fulfilled ; 
 Its glad fruitions, its bless't answered prater, 
 Sweeter for waiting long, whose holy air, 
 Indrawn to silent souls, breathes forth in rare, 
 
 Grand speech by joy distilled. 
 
 Life hath its Tabor heights; 
 Its lofty mounts of heavenly recognition, 
 Whose unveiled glories flash to earth, munition 
 Of love and truth illumining intuition. 
 
 Hail! moimt of all delight. 
 
 Isadore Gilbert Jeffery. 
 
 55 
 
To the New Woman 
 
 nET us drink, then, to the woman of today, and 
 pledge her our good will and support; otherwise 
 she may achieve, unaided and alone, a success 
 whose far-reaching effect can only be conjectured. I refer 
 to the crusade that has for its ultimate goal universal 
 peace and love. With telescopic vision woman has dis- 
 cerned these two stars struggling on the edge of the 
 horizon and she has determined that they shall rise 
 higher and higher in the firmament until they shine 
 resplendent at the zenith. Already her hand is on the 
 charter of human liberties, and she is writing a new 
 gospel of comradeship — a gospel of that better civiliza- 
 tion, where husband and wife, brother and sister, work 
 together for the common good of all. 
 
 Anna D. Fishback. 
 
 i*?? 
 
 Out of the Spice Box 
 
 ONE doesn't mind the climbers so much — it's the pushers 
 that set one's teeth on edge. 
 
 Poor relatives will vanish when women get all the 
 political jobs — even Uncle John's sister's cousin will get a 
 place then. 
 
 Paint is a lot better preservative for old lumber than for 
 girls' faces. 
 
 The bachelor girl next door says she is more a believer 
 in double than single tax. 
 
 Love is free, but it takes a little money to go to house- 
 keeping. 
 
 Uon't rely too much on a pair of honest eyes. Some people 
 can teach tricks even to their eyes. 
 
 It takes one's home folks to find out and fully appreciate 
 one's faults and mistakes. 
 
 There ought to be a special punishment devised for the 
 leeches on your time and wits. 
 
 Addie Farrar. 
 
The Mystery Seed 
 
 I FOUND a Mystery-Seed. And a Voice said "Place 
 the Mystery-Seed in the hollow of thy left hand; cover 
 it with thy right hand, thereby making a well of warmth 
 and darkness wherein thy seed may have a home. It will germi- 
 nate and become transformed into a priceless jewel. Cherish 
 it." I heeded the Voice. I placed the Mystery-Seed within the 
 hollow of my left hand, covered it with my right hand and 
 waited. Again the Voice said: "Open now thy hand, obedient 
 one, and find thy treasure." I raised my right hand, and lo! 
 in the hollow of my left hand I beheld a blazing jewel. Its 
 flashing colors blinded my gaze, and I covered mine eyes from 
 the glory which pierced me from its centre. And I felt it 
 shine through my closed eyes e'en while my hand held down 
 the lids, its light was so brilliant and overpowering. And I 
 trembled with a great joy which sank into my soul. And I 
 was still. Again the Voice spake, strong, sweet, tender and 
 soft: "Child of earth, fear not. Uncover thou thine eyes. 
 The shine of the jewel shall help thee to see." I obeyed 
 the Voice. I was not afraid, but opened mine eyes, and looked 
 once more within the opening Mystery-Seed. Its light was 
 now of opalescent hue, wherein a tiny golden thread or chain 
 led straight to the distant centre, and which the Voice guided 
 me to follow. And mine eyes were not blinded by this light ; 
 but there came with it a peace that strengthened my gaze and 
 kept it fixed upon the centre which I was to gain. At times 
 it was lost in translucent glory, yet I knew it was there. So 
 when the golden chain became dim, I waited ; and while I 
 waited the Voice whispered: "Be calm. It will shine again 
 for thee, this golden thread, and thou shalt follow. The 
 centre thou shalt fully see with thine open eyes, and shalt not 
 be blinded. Look again, O faithful one." I looked as com- 
 manded, and the glories of the centre were before me — glories 
 that no words of earth can limn. And mine eyes were strong 
 and could see. And as I looked the Voice again spake, thrilling 
 my inmost being. It came nearer and clearer, seeming to pro- 
 ceed from the centre, and it said unto me: "Once more I 
 speak, O child of earth! Thou hast heard, thou hast felt, 
 thou hast seen, thus art thrice blessed; this jewel is thine to 
 wear within thy heart, but thou must wear it that all may 
 see its shine ; if thou dost not it will fade back into the original 
 Mystery-Seed which thou didst find buried within the sands 
 of time. Wear it, O brave of heart, wear it that its light may 
 shine for all earth's beings. 
 
 Charlotte Cecilia Robertson. 
 
Reminiscent 
 
 IN our Capitol City there dwelt a maiden with the soul 
 and aspirations of an artist — but struggle and toil as she 
 would, she ne\'er could make an original dra\\'ing or 
 sketch. At the great Art School the instructor's criticism was 
 ever the same: 
 
 '"Turn your canvas over, Aliss Claraday, and try again." 
 
 In a moment of despair she realized that she lacked the lofty 
 inspiration and originalit\ of the true artist — that hers was 
 the talent and patience of the painter who copies the work of 
 others more gifted. She could make her little squares and 
 measurements and produce a marvelous imitation of any picture. 
 
 Her inconsiderate fellow-students wounded her gentle heart 
 with their sneering remarks about "a mere copyist." One 
 among them who sympathized and recognized her ability ad- 
 vised her to devote her time and talent to the copying of cele- 
 brated pictures. 
 
 Through much crucified ambition and soul travail she took 
 Mrs. Kinelsey's advice, and one blessed day when Miss Clara- 
 day was at work at her easel a woman, noted for her love of 
 art, her great riches and her many beautiful charities, passed 
 through the Art Gallery. Her attention was arrested by the 
 faithful reproduction of the famous original which hung on 
 the wall near the finished copy. 
 
 Mrs,. Landen was charmed and asked if it were for sale. 
 Miss Claraday gladly answered "Yes," and Mrs. Landen pur- 
 chased it. 
 
 Years after, three women — an artist, a business woman, and 
 a writer — were in Paris. They had wondered at many old 
 and young students trying to copy the masterpieces of the world. 
 Not one seemed able to catch the color and spirit of the original. 
 
 Many times this trio went to the Louvre to look at the per- 
 fect Venus and to commune with that wonderful woman whose 
 glance has fascinated the world for so many centuries — the in- 
 comparable Mona Lisa. One morning, as they approached 
 the shrine, they saw a woman copying that baffling countenance. 
 
 "That is the cleverest copy of a picture I have seen in 
 Europe — it is perfect," said the artist. 
 
 The painter turned, and her glad voice rang out: 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Kinelsey, when did you come? Oh, it is 
 good to see a dear friend once more!" 
 
 The speaker was Miss Claraday, looking happy and pros- 
 perous. She had achieved success in her chosen field of art and 
 had reached the goal that so many of her fellow-students w^ere 
 still striving to attain — recognition and a studio in Paris. 
 
 Busy and content with her work, we left her, after having 
 tea in her wonderful studio. 
 
 Ella R. Thomas Havnie. 
 
'Way Upstairs 
 
 ^Y EYES is almost shuttin' an' I can't hold up my head, 
 An' I'm so awful lonesome 'at I wish 'at I was dead — 
 'Cause it's night — an' ever'body's havin' fun — down- 
 stairs — but me 
 An' 'ere's company at our house "at's as dressed up as can be. 
 
 My Mama's playin' bridge I guess, wif Dad an' all the rest, 
 She must forget she said she loved her little boy the best. 
 
 I can hear her talkin' too, — an' laughin' 'way up here! 
 
 Where there's nobody to talk to but my horse an' Teddv 
 Bear,— 
 
 An' there's great big shadows — movin' sometimes, — on the 
 wall! 
 An' there might be somethin' conrHfr*^thro' the window — 
 or the hall. 
 It's my Mama! — Yes, she's comin'— Just a flyin' tool 
 
 An' she's sayin' when she sees me, "Boy I'd rather be with 
 vou." 
 
 'En she holds my hand an' 'en I say what always makes her 
 glad — 
 'At I thinks she's just the dearest Mama anybody's had. 
 'En she tucks me up in bed an' helps me say my prayers, 
 
 An' now she don't care nothin' 'bout the company down 
 stairs." 
 
 Genevieve Cooney-Porter. 
 
\ Memory Pag( 
 
 60 
 
Gorinne Brown — A Tribute 
 
 ©LESSING and blessed is the one who can, like Corinne 
 Brown, living, lead the way, and, passing on, still point 
 the way. Keenly analytic and full of initiative, masterful 
 and fearless, hers was the power to attract thinkers and enthuse 
 them with those great truths which were life to her. Not 
 with the force of a gentle spring shower, but rather with the 
 force of the penetrating storm. Moth-eaten opinions were dis- 
 lodged, blown about, and cast aside. New, forcible and power- 
 ful principles, the foundation, of a broader social and industrial 
 life, principles that promised a new conception of the brother- 
 hood of man, were the articles of faith to this woman of true 
 social service. 
 
 She loved justice — that sublime attribute. She was far- 
 seeing — that great psychic quality. She was democratic and 
 in touch with all that concerns human joy and sorrow. 
 
 When the full measure of criticism was falling upon the 
 polygamy of the Mormon, unerringly she found the weak spot 
 of his accuser. The viciousness of his own Gentile social 
 system was shown and judgment rendered. In substance she 
 said, "The polygamous Mormon gives to each wife a name, 
 and to each of his children support, and thus fulfills his moral 
 obligations. The Gentile repudiates all save his legal obligation. 
 He is no more self-poised than his Mormon brother, but dis- 
 claiming the responsibility of action, spreads commercialized vice 
 and founds children's institutions." So did she find good in a 
 despised civilization and pointed out a great defect in our own 
 social system — a defect that must be met and remedied. The 
 ability to separate truth from falsehood, facts from sophistry; 
 the fearlessness to face results, no matter what ; the splendid 
 courage to earnestly work out problems thus presented — all 
 these unite in making the Corinne Brown whom today wc 
 especially remember — friend, teacher, sister, comrade. 
 
 Amelia M. Prcndergast. 
 
Give Me the Heart that is Loving and True 
 
 elVE me the heart that is loving and true 
 No matter how plain be the face ; 
 'Tis softened, blessed by an inward grace 
 Like the rose that is jeweled with dew. 
 
 Oh, not to know love, is not to live; 
 Dear heart, it is strength, life, and hope; 
 No one can measure its breadth or scope. 
 The most precious gift God has to give! 
 
 Laura Jean Libbey, 
 
 £i>e 
 
 The Jew to Jesus 
 
 OMAN of my own people, I alone 
 Among these alien ones can know Thy face, 
 I who have felt the kinship of our race 
 Burn in me as I sit where they intone 
 Thy praises — those, who, striving to make known 
 A god for sacrifice, have missed the grace 
 Of Thy sweet human meaning in its place, 
 Thou who are of our blood-bond and our own. 
 
 Are we not sharers of Thy Passion? Yea, 
 
 In spirit-anguish closely by thy side 
 
 We have drained the bitter cup, and, tortured, felt 
 
 With Thee the bruising of each heavy welt. 
 
 In every land is our Gethsemane, 
 
 A thousand times have we been crucified. 
 
 Florence Kiper, 
 
Sunshine and Shadow 
 
 ^^^HERE'S a bit of sunshine gleaming 
 ^^^ Over there, 
 
 While I stand in shadow seeming 
 
 Full of care; 
 But each flicker of the leaves 
 And the glow of golden sheaves 
 
 Helps me bear. 
 
 Though the darkness seems to thicken 
 
 O'er the land, 
 There is radiance just beyond me 
 
 At my hand. 
 When alas! I would come near, 
 Something ever seems to sear 
 
 Where I stand. 
 
 But, thank God, my eyes can see it 
 
 Over there. 
 And its joyous flush of glory 
 
 Seems a prayer. 
 That it may my shadow kiss 
 Change its sadness into bliss, 
 
 Everywhere. 
 
 Caroline Coe. 
 
Synthesis, V\ here Haltest Thou? 
 
 'HE, Synthesis Johnson, married a Canuck, hastily, incon- 
 trovertibly. His name was Cyril Whizzer. He was of 
 English persuasion, she was of Swedish Massachusetts 
 ancestry. 
 
 Thankful w as Synthy that "Cyril" was not "Ev'lyn Marie" 
 ;ind Cyril was equally rejoiced that Synthy's cognomen wasn't 
 "Rosemary Violet." "Any other bloomin' name would smell 
 just as sweet," sez 'e. 
 
 With the coyness of extreme youth, she often dubbed Cyl 
 in the eye with a chunk of mud — spit balls not being always 
 available. That same maidenly bashfulness attended her to 
 the altar; Cylly never had the shadow of a choice, for Syn 
 always "intentioned" to marry the helpless creature anyhow. 
 
 Now, from a geometrical, ethical and mathematical view- 
 point, was not this twain, made one, eminently qualified to 
 become the eugenic parents of a Whizzer family? 
 
 Everybody expected Syn and Cyl's marriage to be a failure ; 
 the general public was not disappointed. Being natural born 
 enemies, the course of their true love was an eternal howling 
 skid way. Syn wickedly managed to see Cyl's wheels go 'round, 
 and he, having a duck of a temper, wasn't afraid to show it, 
 either. 
 
 Soaring into that spiritual effluvia — that divine afflatus, of 
 both hot and cold air suppurating the atmosphere of Massa- 
 chusetts exclusively, Synthesis remarked: (she had a scheme 
 of which Cyril had a hunch) "Cyril, my angel-face," said 
 Original Syn to Aboriginal Snarl, "you will not force me to 
 become a weeping widow to get the vote, will you, Cylly? 
 Surely you'll heed my prayer; surely you'll take out your final 
 papers and become a citizen of this great, free country, this 
 country where Patrick Henry said to the English : 'Gimme 
 Liberty or gimme death !' Do you not love me enough to do 
 this simple act of justice for a beseeching woman?" 
 
 "Na\A', I don't. Missus. Yer getting all the rights now 
 tliat arc good for yer constitution, so quit howlin' fer more. 
 That bally 'votes for women' would make you worse to live 
 with than you are now ; you'd be head-o'-the-house with me if 
 I forsook bully hold Hingland fer a wooden nutmeg Yankee, 
 ^'ou ain't a voter, nor you ever will be." Thus orating Cyril 
 departed with many strides. 
 
 The weeping woman threw herself on her stomach and said 
 
 64- 
 
something not fit for publication in Swede, but taking en- 
 couragement from the thought of how many votes would be 
 cast out because the women who cast them didn't make their 
 given ages and the year of their births jibe, she arose from 
 the depths and began figuring on an old envelope. 
 
 After Cyril's premature taking-off, there only remained the 
 awful alternative of marrying an American to gain her citi- 
 zenship — and what might she not butt into ? 
 
 Hark ! Cylly's step ! He approaches, hands her some papers, 
 says: 
 
 "I saw biscuits in your eye, old gal, and I do this to save 
 my life." 
 
 Julia Katherine Barnes. 
 
 A Message 
 
 g NEW-FOUND truth has been given to the world as 
 the result of an "inspiration" to venture upon the hith- 
 erto unexplored and almost sacred grounds of the subject 
 of "voice talent." The fallacy or truth of the universally 
 accepted belief that a beautiful singing voice is God-given and 
 a "talent" and hence an attribute of the mind or soul or emotion, 
 we must ascertain; or whether the voice is an attribute of the 
 physical nature and an instrument lying latent within this body 
 of ours, hidden from human sight, gradually becoming diseased 
 and wasting away following the natural course of things in 
 nature to atrophy if not put to natural uses. 
 
 The first real discovery made over twenty years ago vir- 
 tually rang the death knell of the old belief that a beautiful 
 singing voice is "God-given." The hope is extended to all 
 that a beautiful singing voice is the birthright of not a few, 
 but all, of God's children. 
 
 Each and all who wish to expend the time and labor to 
 the perfecting of their instrument can sing themselves to per- 
 fect health and happiness, and to all those with the inborn 
 talent of the artistic mind, soul and temperament, into perfect 
 health, wealth and fame. 
 
 Anna Groff-Brvant. 
 
 65 
 
\ Memory Page 
 
 66 
 
A Paradox 
 
 ^y^E READ, "Cast all thy care 
 
 \^y Upon the Lord, and He will thee sustain," 
 
 We lay our burdens there 
 At His dear feet, then take them up again. 
 
 We pray "Thy will be done," 
 With white lips "bless His holy name." We sleep 
 
 With tear-wet cheeks, and moan 
 In troubled dreams; then wake again to weep. 
 
 We read, "Judge not lest ye 
 Be judged." We calumny repeat, and smile 
 
 In quiet mockery, 
 Upon the woe that we have wrought, erstwhile. 
 
 On bended knees we pray, 
 "Good Lord deliver us, our sins forgive." 
 
 We rise and go our way, 
 The selfsame wayward life again to live. 
 
 Down through the ages' mist, 
 From Calvary's lone heights, we hear anew 
 
 These low sad words of Christ: 
 "Forgive them for they know not what they do." 
 
 Ada B. Read. 
 
 My Baby 
 
 SES, you are mine, you little thing of mystery, 
 So eerie like you drifted in, with no line of wri 
 history ; 
 'Twould seem you might be strange to me, 
 So lately from the Infinite eye; 
 But yet you know the mother touch 
 With none to tell you why. 
 The mother love had yearned for you, 
 Baby, oh, my baby! 
 
 The mother heart had throbbed for you. 
 Baby, oh, my baby! 
 We know each other, dear ; 
 The deep, unfathomable look. 
 That binds my baby's love to me, 
 Was never writ in book. 
 
 Helena Bingham. 
 
 67 
 
Easter 
 
 ©I R D S twittered, snuggling 
 close. Squirrels scampered 
 madl3s scattering with their 
 bushy tails particles of fine, dry snow. 
 
 The sun rose from a mist of fleecy 
 clouds, coaxing into beauty dainty 
 snow-drops, their petals glistening 
 like diamonds. 
 
 Tiny pieces of the sky had been 
 used to make the cilia so blue ! Trees 
 and shrubs hung heavy with tiny, 
 bursting buds. The grass was broken 
 in a thousand places by saucy cro- 
 cuses that opened wide to greet the 
 new-born day. 
 
 Over on the south terrace the air 
 was sweet with the fragrance of vio- 
 lets that called to mind other days of 
 joy and sorrow. Stately hyacinths 
 and dignified narcissi added their 
 wealth of perfume to the air. 
 
 In a corner, but where all the world 
 could see, the jonquils and daffodils 
 flung their heads toward the sun and 
 dared the snowflakes to spoil their 
 yellow frocks. A pansy, its purple 
 cloak folded close, shivered in the 
 crisp breeze. 
 
 A noisy blue-jay in the oak broke 
 the stillness of the morning and over 
 in the big maple Robin-Redbreast, 
 wooing his mate with a tender love- 
 carol, sung of the beauties of the 
 garden, reminding the world that it 
 was Spring and Resurrection Day. 
 
 Jean C. Mowat. 
 
To Sam and Other Boys 
 
 eENERAL KNOWLEDGE came riding to town 
 Astride an arithmetic; 
 He wore a high hat and a flowing gown, 
 And carried a great, big stick; 
 "What, ho!" he shouted, "what, ho, I say. 
 Where are the girls and the boj^s? 
 I'm off for a jaunt and along the way 
 Are ever so many joys. 
 
 The road is all paved with good books for blocks. 
 The trees hang full of my fruit; 
 I've keys that fit into all of the locks 
 Of the houses — built to suit." 
 But would you believe that the girls and boys 
 Just turned and all ran away, 
 
 And answered: "We don't v,ant to leave our toys; 
 We'll join you some other day." 
 Old General Knowledge just shook his head, 
 "'Tis ever the same," said he; 
 "But when that day comes I know, instead, 
 They'll be running after me." 
 So General Knowledge went on his way. 
 And I hope if he calls you. 
 You'll go right along the very same day; 
 You've found a friend if you do. 
 
 Edith Brown Kirkwood. 
 
 69 
 
A Memory Page 
 
Madonna Mary 
 
 OlDST look upon thy child as he lay sleeping, 
 And sigh, "Too fair art thou for this world's keeping 
 Too pure to be by sin beguiled ;" 
 Not knowing of the wondrous life before him, 
 
 Spotless, holy, undefiled? 
 Or, did there leap into thy heart this one feeling, 
 
 The rarest joy, while thou wert kneeling, 
 Because a child was born to thee? 
 
 Ah! surely thou did feel what all we mothers feel, — 
 When the firstborn child is placed within our arms, — 
 
 Ecstatic, rapturous bliss. 
 And thou didst press the soft, sweet face against thine own, 
 And didst print upon the velvet, dewy lips. 
 
 Love's holiest, sweetest kiss. 
 Ah! then did thine eyes grow dim with falling tears. 
 Ah! then did thy heart beat fast with portent fears. 
 Then did the hush of silence make dumb thy lips, 
 And in thine inmost soul thou cried, 
 "O God, Most High! Of Father of Us All! 
 Make me fit guardian for Thy sacred trust." 
 
 Josephine Turck Baker. 
 
 The Rain 
 
 IT IS raining here in Kansas, 
 Crystal drops of hope new-born ; 
 Arid fields, release your incense. 
 It's in time to save the corn ! 
 
 There's a growing-song of promise. 
 Rising from the thirsty grain ; 
 Reaching to the mighty markets, 
 Governed by this tardy rain. 
 
 Prayer is answered in abundance. 
 Sing Te Deums to the morn ; 
 It is raining here in Kansas, 
 Just in time to save the corn ! 
 
 Euretta D. Metcalf. 
 
Mammy 
 
 ^^;^HE color line has ne\'er been considered where 
 %^V "mammy" is concerned, for her position in life is clearly 
 defined, and her social position is undeniable. On terms 
 of real intimacy with the best families in the town, because 
 of her faithful service in "givin' rubs," she is sure of a warm 
 greeting, a good meal and liberal compensation wherever she 
 goes. 
 
 Then, too, her keen sense of humor makes her a source of 
 enjo3'ment to the "shut-ins" who look eagerly to her coming 
 and listen with pleasure to her ideas on various topics of the 
 day. 
 
 "Her babies," as she always refers to her patrons, range in 
 years from twenty to eighty, and she mothers them all with a 
 real affection, entering into their joys or sorrows with an 
 interest that is genuine. 
 
 It is not at all uncommon to see "Mammy" standing com- 
 placently on the corner, talking confidentially to one of the 
 most prominent women of the city, waving her hand at another, 
 or riding comfortably in a limousine to the home of one of 
 her patrons. 
 
 The community had become accustomed to "Mammy" as a 
 widow, living happily with her family of children, so when 
 she 5'ielded to the ardent wooing of Mr. Johnson — a more 
 than middle-dyed "culled gentleman" — and became Mrs. John- 
 son, everyone was delighted to think Mammy had found a 
 home and a help-mate. 
 
 Alas for her expectations, her hopes were rudely shattered 
 within the first week! "Mistah" Johnson not only proved to 
 be penniless but had a strong disinclination, amounting to pos- 
 itive hatred, for anything that even resembled work. "Misery" 
 in his back served as an excuse for a time, then as the trouble 
 became known and people tried, to help Mammy by getting 
 Mr. Johnson some work, he flatly refused to do anything more 
 strenuous than appear at meals. 
 
 " 'Help-eat' — that's what I calls him," sighed Mammy as 
 she bought an extra cut of beef, and more groceries. Mistah 
 Johnson grew fatter, and hungrier, and Mammy worked harder 
 than ever, until finally she rebelled and locked him out. He 
 calmly waited till morning on the door-step and appeared with 
 a good appetite for breakfast. She tried again and didn't open 
 
 72 
 
the door next time till breakfast was over. Mistah Johnson 
 looked sad, but crept in and waited for dinner. 
 
 Finally Manini} grew desperate and made it clear to Mistah 
 Johnson that he must leave permanently. Then she consulted 
 the "Jedge" and in time secured a divorce. 
 
 Shortly after this as she was w^alking up the street with her 
 pail of salt and bottle of oil, Mrs. Jones, one of her "babies," 
 met her and called out: "Well, Mammy! where are you going 
 today?" 
 
 "Fse goin' to rub out a di-voce," answered Mammy, her 
 face wreathed in smiles. 
 
 "Rub out a divorce!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones. "How on 
 earth can you do that?" 
 
 "Easy," chuckled Mammy. "You see, I didn't have no 
 money to get my di-voce from that low-down Johnson, so 
 Jedge Brown he jest got it fob me, and I'se payin' fob it by 
 rubbin' his wife." 
 
 Emily Lloyd. 
 
 j^e* 
 
 An Ode to Louisiana 
 
 H, my heart's in Louisiana, 
 
 Where the sweet magnolias bloom, 
 In the balmy air's Nirvana, 
 And the sunshine chases gloom. 
 
 O 
 
 Where the mocking birds sing sweetly. 
 In the moss-draped oak tree grove ; 
 
 Melting lovers' hearts completely, 
 As beneath they fondly rove. 
 
 Here the heart is filled with gladness. 
 
 The pulse beats high with joy, 
 Content am I, for me no sadness 
 
 Can Southland's charm destroy. 
 
 Mary Heh 
 
\ Desirable Location 
 
 CH¥A were two Johns who Hved in the countrj. They 
 were grizzled and wrinkled but happy withal, and in- 
 terested in each other and in things generally. 
 
 John No. I was driv- 
 ing by on his way to 
 town. John No. 2 stop- 
 ped him. 
 
 "Hey, hitch yer horse 
 and come along; I've got 
 something to show you." 
 John No. I replied, 
 "Be jinks, I'd better be 
 goin' on to get back be- 
 fore dinner." 
 
 "Come on, John ; come 
 on. I'll hitch fer ye. Stand still, Topsy. Come on, John; 
 'twon't take but a minute." 
 
 John No. I straightened out his stiff knee carefully and 
 lumbered down to the ground. 
 
 "Hurry up, then, John. Which way?" 
 "Right through the woods here." 
 
 John No. 2 ducked his head and started through the woods, 
 John No. I following at his heels. 
 "Where is it, John?" 
 
 "Straight on," said John No. 2, grown taciturn with his 
 approaching triumph. 
 
 John No. I manfully kept up the pace. 
 "Are we nearly there?" 
 "Pert' near." 
 
 "How much farther is it, John?" 
 
 Suddenly John No. 2 stopped before a low-hanging bush 
 and fell on his knees, pointing and parting its branches. 
 "There it is." 
 
 "What is it?" asked John No. i, peering. 
 "Turkey's nest," said John No. 2. 
 John No. I looked closer. 
 "I don't see any turkey's nest," he said. 
 "Nice place fer one," said John No. 2. 
 
 Edna Herron. 
 
Suffrage Song 
 
 GOME, let us stand this hour, 
 Women with woman's power, 
 O'er all this land. 
 And let the heavens ring, 
 While we our freedom sing — 
 Let us our best gifts bring 
 To bless our land. 
 
 Our leaders bravel}' fought; 
 We love the truths they taught 
 
 In Freedom's name. 
 Shall we less nobly stand, 
 Daughters of this fair land? 
 Come, join us hand in hand, 
 
 In Freedom's name. 
 
 Oh! hear our children's call. 
 Wake! hearken! lest they fall 
 
 In Evil's way. 
 We stand, alone for Right. 
 Then let us show our might. 
 Come, help us win the fight, 
 
 This glorious day. 
 
 While God we give all praise, 
 The Stars and Stripes we raise — 
 
 Our country's flag. 
 Long may it wave above, 
 Emblem of Truth and Love, 
 No eagle, but a dove — 
 
 Our blessed flag. 
 
 Hattie Sinnard Pashley. 
 
Labor That Endures 
 
 aMONG the world of work and workers wc so often 
 hear the expression, "When I get rich I won't have to 
 do this work," but never has such sentiment been re- 
 corded as coming from the h'ps of a writer. To the adherent 
 of Thought and Imagination, wealth would not present the 
 means of an escape from labor, but shed the glow of better 
 opportunity for advantages to continue and enhance it. Writing, 
 to the writer, is a life work; it infuses her veins, becomes 
 embedded in her soul, and literary ambition remains the same 
 whether pursuing it handicapped by the demands of necessity, 
 or utilizing wealth to gather gems with which to glorify it. 
 It is this characteristic love of the pen which spurs its follow- 
 ing on to the Heights of Fame, and those who reach it con- 
 tinue as earnestly, as diligently, as when on the winding way 
 to the goal, for the writer's effort is esto perpetua. 
 
 Maybelle Strawbridge. 
 
 ja>e 
 
 Maxims of the Business Woman 
 
 ffiIGHT is not right, but right is mighty. 
 It is not necessary to say all we believe, but it is 
 necessary to believe all we say. 
 
 Luck is good, but pluck is better and more to be relied upon. 
 
 Sentiment is no substitute for common sense. 
 
 To remain unspoiled in prosperity is the test of true char- 
 acter. 
 
 To belittle oneself does not raise one in the estimation of 
 others. 
 
 We should know not only what we believe, but why. 
 
 What you mean to do does not count. It is what you do 
 that makes your record. 
 
 It takes courage to wear old clothes and look out of date 
 in order to keep out of debt. 
 
 To speak well is good; to think well is better; to do well 
 
 is best. 
 
 Hattie Summerfield. 
 
 76 
 
To A Sleeping Babe 
 
 nlLY petals and angel wings, 
 And all of the delicate, dainty things 
 That are sweet, illusive and full of grace 
 Are found in a sleeping babj^'s face. 
 
 Eleanor L. Drew 
 
 JW? 
 
 Patience 
 
 "For ye have need of patience, tfiat, after ye have done the 
 will of God, ye might receive the promise." (Heb. x:36.) 
 
 ^TT^E HAVE great need, O wearj' hand, 
 \ly When sunset's gold shall flood the land 
 
 And find your daily task undone, 
 While evening shadows slowly come; 
 But rest is here, and rest is thine, 
 It shall be light at evening time. 
 
 Ye have great need, O weary feet, 
 Whose restless fevered pulses beat 
 O'er thorny path and rocky height, 
 In noontide's heat, or starless night; 
 But on the crystal river's shore 
 Is peace and rest forever more. 
 
 "Rest in the Lord and wait for Him." 
 Though days be dark and hope be dim. 
 Through martyr fires with naked feet, 
 Be loyal still while heart shall beat; 
 For hope and promise both are thine: 
 It shall be light at evening time. 
 
 Elizabeth A. Reed. 
 
 77 
 
A Memory Page 
 
 78 
 
God's Gall to Rest 
 
 Underneath are The Everlasting Arms. — Deuterotiomy 
 xxxiii, 27. 
 
 J^s^HE Sunset's banners fade far down the West. 
 %^ J Twilight and darkness and the evening star! 
 O, soul of mine, heed thou God's call to rest 
 Sent to thee from the star-strewn heavens afar. 
 
 From weary heart and brain loose thou the bands 
 That bind thee to thy toil while it is day; 
 
 Thy heaven-appointed task leave in His hands 
 Who holds the planets on their circling way. 
 
 While on thine eyelids dewy pinioned night 
 
 Soft wings shall press, the stars their paths will keep ; 
 
 The Universe swing softly in the light 
 
 Of Him whose eye doth slumber not nor sleep. 
 
 Rest, sleep; entrusting to His Heart of Love 
 All cares, all fears, the garish day's alarms; 
 
 The dome of heaven thy canopy above, 
 And underneath The Everlasting Arms. 
 
 Helen Ekin Starrett. 
 
 79 
 
To My Littla Folks . 
 
 Sarf-Man From San'- Lan'! 
 
 Words & Music 
 By CAROL KELLEY BROOKE 
 
 Lightly. 
 
 i^ 
 
 Confidingly. 
 
 Way up yon'ah^fa. a 
 
 San' - man knows et little 
 
 w [U\yu I li li ii 
 
 ^^ 
 
 k'^ J ^ J ^ l ^^rt 
 
 bove de skies 
 girls en' boys 
 
 Up so fah yo'can see wid yo' eyes^- 
 
 Nev - ah laks to put a - way dere toys^ 
 
 (But ah wants yo' all to jes' scr - mine Et eb - ry thin'' Ah says to 
 
 San' - inanknowset lit-tle folks need res'^ . Knows et Mamy'sg-lad w'en 
 
 yo is so.) Dere libs 
 
 deys un - dres> San' 
 
 3 
 
 a fun-ny man all by his - self, 
 man tip-toes up to cab - in doahs. 
 
 Ain' no big--gah en a dwahf or elf; Nights wen lit-tle ohilluns 
 
 Sees how man-ys lay-in' on de floahs, Shakes a lit - tie San' fom 
 
 Copyright, MOM XI, by F. E. Hathaway. Music Publisher Chicago.Ill 
 
all in bed He comesdown ere wid de soft - es' tread; Fom 
 
 out his sacli- Ties it 8het. en den he hus - ties back To 
 
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 LL J 
 
 0\ 
 
 
 
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 it P j -1 
 
 San' - 
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 tl.',U- 
 
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Random Thoughts 
 
 IN THE forgetfulness of self one may accomplish much 
 by lending the helping hand, giving a kindly word or 
 by the S3'mpathetic touch. Thus is the individual like 
 fleecy clouds, ever drifting far apart, yet reaching many. 
 
 Have you ever watched a falling star and almost with 
 compassion exclaimed, "Poor little star, you've taken a tumble 
 from your lofty sphere down into an untried world, and you 
 will never shine again! Had you but been content, your bright- 
 ness and usefulness would have long continued!" 
 
 If nature has bestowed upon you a sunny disposition, a true 
 loving heart, then endeavor to gain the daily stimulus of pro- 
 moting happiness in the lives of others, thereby brightening and 
 strengthening yourself. 
 
 "Help one another," a grain of sand said to another grain 
 just at hand. "The wind may carry you over the sea, and 
 then Oh, what will become of me?" "Ah, come my sister, give 
 me 5'our hand ; we'U build a mountain and there we'll stand." 
 
 Ella L. Plane. 
 
 The Book and the Home 
 
 QOTHING is so homeless as a bookless house, unless it 
 be a house whose books betray a vulgar and narrow 
 conception of life. A man's books form an average 
 portrait of himself. Without books the merchant's palace 
 becomes but a prison, "the trail of the upholsterer over it all," 
 while a small library, well selected, may, like Aladdin's lamp, 
 turn the abode of poverty into a princely home. 
 
 It is a sweet remembrance, that of a quiet old farm-house, 
 where a tired mother after a hard day's work gathered her 
 seven children about her, her knitting-needles keeping time to 
 the measures of the verses read by one of the group from a 
 great poet. The poetry which she knit into the lives of her 
 boys has outlasted all the stockings, and crowned her memory 
 with a halo of poetic recollections. 
 
 The boy whose mother "would not go to bed until she 
 had finished reading Pepacton" with him is more to be envied 
 with his poor jacket than the elegant lad whose mother, with 
 
 82 
 
no time to read, makes time to consult the latest fashion plates 
 that he may be handsomely attired. 
 
 An uneducated working-man, deploring his lack of early 
 advantages, was in the habit of taking his little son on his lap 
 at night to hear his lessons. He followed the boy through all 
 of his high school work, and is today an educated man through 
 giving the child continued sympathy in his studies. 
 
 Mary E. Burt. 
 
 a>e 
 
 The Tryst 
 
 nOVE, my Love, the sunset splendor 
 Left the world an hour ago; 
 The maiden moon, all shy and slender, 
 Swooning in the fervid glow. 
 'Neath curtains drawn, the earth is listing 
 
 The wooing sibilants of the sea ; 
 O'er land and wave, to keep our trysting, 
 Your constant spirit speeds to me. 
 
 Love, my Love ! weird fancies thronging. 
 
 As the south winds crisp the sea; 
 Joy, misgiving, hope and longing. 
 
 Have their minor tone for me. 
 Yours may be God's calm forever, 
 
 Safe from touch or jar of Fate, 
 Far as star-sown depths can sever 
 
 From me, who expect and wait. 
 
 Love, my Love! in purple drifting, 
 
 Summer dusk and valley fills; 
 To the bending skies uplifting 
 
 Reverent brows, rise altared hills. 
 By the meaning hush of even. 
 
 By the mirrored deep in deep, 
 By your bourn in earth or heaven, 
 
 I know our holy tryst you keep! 
 
 Marion Harland. 
 
& 
 
 Memory 
 
 XISTENCE has given us a few sublime fabricators like 
 Memory, Poetry and Dr. Cook. They are inaccurate 
 as art and aged pianolas. But we are slaves to their 
 untrustworthiness and find entertainment in their moonshine. 
 
 Age accumulates a peculiar fondness for the mental relics 
 that are classified by the psychologists under the name of Mem- 
 ory. Even before one is thirty, Memory becomes a sentimental 
 companion with some other function than those of spelling 
 correctly, hoarding telephone numbers and keeping statistics on 
 the birth rate in France. 
 
 It begins to give us those beatific revivals of the past such 
 as are embodied in "The Old Swimmin' Hole," "I Dreamt 
 I Dwelt in Marble Halls," and "The Old Oaken Bucket." It 
 systematically lies to us about our experiences. Its unwritten 
 fiction is as pious a fraud as Chambers' tales of reality. 
 
 Besides winning spelling bees and making inaccurate his- 
 tories. Memory has to its credit a few songs in minor keys, 
 innumerable painful-looking mausoleums and the correct ages 
 of a few of our women friends. 
 
 That the use of Memory means retrogression is proven by 
 graduation orations, the drama and political speeches. 
 
 Each time one uses his Memory he steps into the past. It 
 is a waste of time. To browse around in the mental debris 
 of a fellow traveler or to learn ancient history are, therefore, 
 putting blocks in the path of progress. 
 
 The Moral — Forget it! 
 
 Hetty F. Cattell. 
 
 A Few Thoughts 
 
 ©HERE is but little unselfish generosity in the world. 
 The saloonkeeper who gives pretzels with his beer, 
 knows the value of salt. 
 Woman's innocent determination to keep nothing from her 
 husband has resulted only in a reputation for talkativeness. 
 
 Some silent people are like country pumps, you can get 
 enough out of them if you keep them well primed. 
 
 A great writer has said : "Woman is the greatest work of 
 
 the Divine Author and every man should own one copy." But 
 
 this is no excuse for some men trying to own a whole library. 
 
 It is foolish to regret that a woman wastes affection on a 
 
 dog; it is probably no more than a fair valuation. 
 
 Mary E. Rae. 
 
The Mutability of Man 
 
 >y^HEN dainty Spring, with sandaled feet, 
 \|y Comes tripping forth with promise sweet 
 Of sunshine, flowers and garlands fair, 
 My heart's enmeshed in golden hair, 
 I sing of love to eyes of blue. 
 No other eyes seem half so true. 
 
 When Summer's scorching breath I feel 
 Before another shrine I kneel. 
 O, sensuous lips and nutbrown hair, 
 Can other loves with yours compare? 
 From thee and love I ne'er would stray, 
 O, soulful eyes of shadowy grey. 
 
 When Autumn, saucy, smiling flirt. 
 In russet gown o'er crimson skirt. 
 Holds high the brimming goblet filled 
 With dewy nectar, heaven distilled; 
 O, eyes of brown, I pledge to thee, 
 My heart from thine will ne'er be free. 
 
 When Winter, radiant, brilliant sprite. 
 Appears in jewelled robes of white. 
 My heart's entangled in the net 
 Of waving, curling locks of jet. 
 O, eyes of black, thou'rt all to me; 
 My heaven on earth is found in thee. 
 
 Virginia Peyton Campbell. 
 
 My Greed 
 
 I BELIEVE that all beauty is a gift from God, and that 
 it is given to all women. 
 I believe that every woman should be beautiful from 
 the cradle to the grave. 
 
 I believe that a beautiful physique must contain a broad 
 mind and a sweet spirit of charity. 
 
 I believe that beauty of form and feature can be cultivated 
 in every woman until she can be made to "blossom like the 
 rose." 
 
 I believe in the sane normal woman who realizes that to 
 live life at its fullest, she must be beautiful, physically, men- 
 tally and spiritually. 
 
 I believe that the earnest intelligent women of all ages will 
 subscribe to this creed, for as education and culture grow, into 
 the heart of every woman must come a greater desire for the 
 sood, the true, and the beautiful. 
 
 Lillian Russell. 
 
 8s 
 
Daybreak 
 
 OAY'S approaching from the east, 
 Heralded by bird and beast, 
 
 Seen in lighter, brighter sunbeams climbing up the 
 golden way. 
 Lingers in this crimson quiet. 
 Hint of night's great grief to die at 
 Just the hour when comes the riot 
 Of the breaking of the day. 
 
 Higher mounts the sun o'er earth, 
 
 Dew besprinkled clods give birth 
 
 To the breaking, waking seed pods, lifting up a tender blade, 
 
 Promise of the harvest coming; 
 
 Flow'ring stem with bees a-humming. 
 
 Morning's million fingers strumming 
 
 Music, while the shadows fade. 
 
 Cities wake at daybreak's call. 
 
 Slowly lifts the night mist's pall. 
 
 Eager workers, shirkers, failures, filling up the broad highway ; 
 
 Going at the call of duty 
 
 Over paths dull, hard and sooty, 
 
 With the God-created beauty 
 
 Of the breaking of the day. 
 
 Salena Sheets Martin. 
 
 86 
 
TT^a bs able In iont my ttf tgl|bor 
 w mh mint mtm^ ub m^Biit 
 
 — lr«tl|fnUg, uiljoUa aitb 
 
 mtaelg; 
 
 r?ro bf lieu? tl|f bf at attft forget 
 ^ tl|e tunrat: 
 
 /|T0 be lyntteat in my iealtttga 
 w mtietljer mttly rogue or miae 
 
 matt: 
 
 A 
 
 /TTo keep ioitl|m ttiy l|eart an 
 w tlifal ml|irl| I|nman nature 
 rannot aliatter; 
 
 t\h to be ra^table of lowing 
 to tlje enJi of tl?e rlyapter, 
 for lone ia life. 
 
 jFrancra Armetrong Waaba 
 
 87 
 
A Memory- Page 
 
The Master Painter 
 
 eOD loves the beauty he creates, there he 
 Foam lilled wastes of blue, that clasp the land, 
 Caress the rocks, or mingle with the sand, 
 Shot through with rainbow colors from the sky: 
 Rivers that flash reflected woodlands by. 
 Deep, silent pools, where sweet star angels stand. 
 Imaged through dewy nights, a shining band: 
 Pearl mountain crowns, that only meet His eye. 
 Forests of bloom, and shade, man never sees, 
 Valleys that lapse in sunlight, and in song. 
 Soft moonlit spaces, melting into air, 
 Gleaming of dawns and sunsets : all of these 
 He notes as suns and planets spin along. 
 And tints with love, His landscapes everywhere. 
 
 Emma Playter Seabury, 
 
 Si>e 
 
 A Year 
 
 NE more thread in the woof of Time, 
 Is woven up and nether. 
 Into the nap to overlap 
 The warp years tie together. 
 
 O 
 
 Each day the tint of deeds and thoughts 
 
 Imprinted grave or gaily. 
 This spotless thread, while heart and head 
 
 Its pattern fashioned daily. 
 
 As the shuttle speeds its winding course 
 
 In between the warp of da5's, 
 Each tint or shade position made 
 
 To follow the pattern's ways. 
 
 Thus weaves and reels each full long year : 
 
 Thus builds of weal and of woe : 
 With throbbing heart that silent part 
 
 Which ennobles the warp below. 
 
 Florence King. 
 
 89 
 
The Children 
 
 J^i^HE great Plinj- once said: "Give me the first seven 
 ^^^ years of a child's h'fe and you may have the rest, for 
 he is safe." 
 
 This is my appeal: the first seven years; give them a chance 
 — train their muscles, train their sense of rhythm, train their 
 breathing. Give them a harmony, give them health — and 
 they will attain purity and happiness. 
 
 John, aged seven, lying on a couch, eyes crossed and legs 
 shriveled, laughs through his tears as Charles, aged seven, 
 stands on his head and turns cartwheels for John's amusement. 
 
 John has every care. Taught to think only of his chances 
 of being hurt or harmed, through fear cut off from living free. 
 
 Charles is alive, having been kept steadily at work fitting 
 himself to fight off the one great bugbear of life — Fear. 
 
 Fear rules the world — Fear and Love. 
 
 Therefore, I make this plea for the children — give them 
 a chance, until Fear takes to its heels and runs away! Better 
 a cartwheel turned than the cultivated culture pot for the 
 "White Plague." Better the desire to fight the fence-posts 
 with a \\ooden sword than cross eyes and bandy-legs! 
 
 Jean Van Vlissingen. 
 
 <s>e 
 
 On Roget's Thesaurus 
 
 ON MY desk a Thesaurus lies, old, worn and some- 
 what faded. My fondness for it only vies with 
 my respect for all its wise arrangement. The 
 words fanfaronnade and foe are only two of many. With- 
 out it I would scarcely know the synonym of apropos or 
 begum. Oh! Dr. Roget, you have saved me many times 
 from trouble. When words refused to come you gave 
 me respite and supplied the grave omission. To you my 
 tuneless voice I raise — 'tis pity 'twere no better — in willing 
 songs of heartfelt praise for each elusive word that stays 
 within it. 
 
 Lavon Cheney. 
 
Armenian Legends 
 
 HRMENIA is naturally rich in early legends, the most 
 conspicuous and interesting of which are the bird legends, 
 presumably because the birds of Armenia are countless 
 in number and variety, from the vulture to the wren. An old 
 belief still survives in Armenia that the souls of the blessed dead 
 fly down from heaven in the shape of beautiful birds, and 
 perching on the branches of trees look fondly upon their dear 
 ones as they pass beneath. When in the woods, if a peasant 
 sees birds fluttering about over his head, he will on no account 
 molest them, but will say to his child, "That is the spirit of 
 your dear mother," or "That is your dear little brother," as 
 the case may be. "Be a good child or it will fly away and 
 never again look at you with its sweet little eyes." 
 
 ONCE upon a time, when all geese were wild and free, 
 one goose said to another, on the eve of a journey : 
 "Mind you are ready, my friend, for — please God, 
 I set out tomorrow morning." 
 
 "And so will I, whether it pleases God or not," was the 
 irreverent reply. 
 
 The next morning both geese were up at daybreak. The 
 religious goose spread his wings and soared lightly toward the 
 distant land, but lo! when the impious goose tried to do like- 
 wise, he flapped and flapped but could not stir an inch from 
 the ground. A strolling countryman took possession of him 
 and thus it came about that this irreverent goose and his children 
 fell forever into slavery. 
 
 Katherine Wallace Davis 
 
Anecdotes 
 
 H WOMAN went to a department store to select a 
 present. 
 
 There were about ten people at the book counter, and 
 only one clerk. 
 
 Hastily running her hand over the neatly arranged books, 
 she asked, "Is Oliver Twist here?" 
 
 "What department does he work in?" was the rejoinder. 
 
 A country woman recently went into court for the first 
 time. She came home greatly excited. 
 
 "Do you know," she said, "the way people are fighting now- 
 adays is something terrible? Why, friend is fighting against 
 friend, and brother against brother. There was the case of 
 Adam against Adam, Brown against Brown, and Jones against 
 Jones. Isn't it awful? It's as bad as the Civil War." 
 
 Mary H. Henson. 
 
 After the Programme 
 
 The congratulation fiend opens the exhaust. 
 
 GAN you buy the Marian Bowlan Monologues at the 
 Methodist Book Store? 
 
 How^ old were you when you began to elocute? 
 Reel-y? 
 
 Has anybody else composed monologues besides j'ourself 
 and Browning? (Note the order.) 
 
 Are you going into vaudeville? You don't? 
 Do you look in a mirror when you rehearse those facial 
 expressions? 
 
 Don't you just die laughing while you're practising? 
 Why don't j^ou do something sad? You think you do? 
 Is "Minnie at the Movies" true? 
 
 Could one ever get another costume like your Popular 
 Music Counter Girl's? Not for money? 
 
 Don't you think you'll ever go in for tragic acting like 
 Marie Dressler's? 
 
 (Business of fainting on the witness stand.) 
 
 Marian Bowlan. 
 
 92 
 
A Sylvan Tragedy 
 
 CHAT fool doctor, he says, "Get away from the noise of 
 the city, Tim, or you'll be a dead man in a month. 
 Sleep in the woods," says he, "with the sky for a roof 
 and the ground for a bed and your sickness '11 fall off like the 
 leaves from a tree." 
 
 So I goes, and at dark I fixes my bed under the trees and 
 the sky and mosquito netting. I no sooner gets settled than 
 someone near yells, "Katie did, she did!" and another feller 
 throws back, "Katie didn't, she didn't!" 
 
 I didn't give a hang whether Katie did or didn't, but them 
 two keeps it up till a feller off a bit calls, "Who-oo, who-oo?" 
 and somebody answers, "Bob-White! Bob-White!" 
 
 Well, I goes to the woods for quiet and have to listen to 
 Katie and Bob White yelling their business out in the middle 
 of the night! 
 
 Pretty soon the beggars begins again, "Katie did, she did!" 
 and, "Katie didn't, she didn't!" and then a soft voice sings, 
 "Coo-oo, coo-oo!" making fun of them, and another one cries 
 sharp: "Whip poor Will, Whip poor Will!" What they wants 
 to whip poor Will for when Bob White is up to tricks is more 
 than I can see. 
 
 Then the tattle tale begins on Katie again, "Katie did, she 
 did!" and the other objecting, says, "Katie didn't, she didn't!" 
 and the feller that wants to know asks, "Who-oo, who-oo?" and 
 if you'll believe it, the answer this time comes, "Bob-o-Link, 
 Bob-o-Link!" Another feller entirely, by jiggers! 
 
 Then, of a sudden, a new voice says solemn like, "Kill- 
 deer, kill-deer," and I hears cry after cry like a hurt cat and 
 I'm certain Bob White or Bob O. Link killed "Dear" on ac- 
 count of Katie. 
 
 I starts running and never stops till I hears the purring of 
 the elevated. City noises ain't so bad ! 
 
 No, I didn't die like the doctor says. I goes fishing on the 
 
 pier every day for two weeks, and my sickness falls off like the 
 
 scales from a fish. 
 
 Maude Swalm Evans. 
 
The Homeless Scribbles 
 
 A SCENARIO 
 Synopsis: 
 
 The Scribbles were a family of two hundred girls. A sad 
 thing about this family was they had no home. To remain 
 united they met occasionally in a cold pillared hotel with a 
 hushed fountain and managed to remember each other's name 
 and age. They longed for a home of their own with an open 
 fireplace to dream beside in winter, and trees and mignonette 
 to waft sweet breezes and fragrance in summer, while true 
 sisterly ties waxed closer around the low tea tables on 
 the veranda. The desire for home consumed them and one 
 day they conceived a brilliant idea — they would write a 
 book, publish it, rake up the proceeds and buy a home. 
 Inspired, palpitating, they went to work. The book was 
 finished, the publisher's obsequies over, and the covers of 
 the Scribbles' struggles throbbed over its scintillating gems. 
 It was a success! The first edition melted away and the 
 sisters stayed up nights to count their money. Real estate 
 men with automobiles filled with radiant Scribbles scurried 
 through the suburbs, until at last the Spot Perfection was 
 found where dreams of the fireplace, mignonette and veranda 
 were to be realized. The Scribbles had a home at last — 
 and lived there happy ever after. 
 
 Scene i. 
 
 Fountain room of Hotel. The Scribble Sisters, homeless, 
 despondent. Brilliant Sister Ethel trying to cheer them. 
 
 Scene 2. 
 
 Cheerless room. Meeting of the Scribble Sisters. An idea 
 strikes them. They decide to write a book and use the 
 proceeds for a home. _A11 inspired, hopeful. 
 
 Scene j. 
 
 Same cheerless room. Scribble Sisters counting huge piles 
 of money. Copy of book, a brilliant success, on table. All 
 happy, excited. 
 
 Scene 4. 
 
 New Home of the Scribbles. Suburbs. Interior. Large 
 living rooms, open fire, small Scribble at piano, others dan- 
 cing, some sipping tea, some lounging in easy chairs, laugh- 
 ing, chatting. All deliriously happy. 
 
 The End. 
 
 Roselle Dean. 
 
 94 
 
Roster 
 
 Page 
 
 Ahrens, Mary A., contributor . . . . i6 
 
 Baker, Josephine Turck, author, editor . . .71 
 
 Ballard, Anna, reporter, lecturer .... 18 
 
 Barnes, Julia Katherine, contributor . . . .64 
 
 Bingham, Helena, poet, composer .... 67 
 
 Blair, Ophelia Lav.rence, editor, publisher, poet . . 43 
 
 Bo)'lan, Grace Duffie, author, contributor . . , 50 
 
 Bond, Carrie Jacobs, song writer, publisher . . 24 
 
 Bowlan, Marian, monologist, short story writer . . 92 
 
 Brooke, Carol Kelly, composer and song writer . . 80 
 
 Bryant, Anna Groff, author, contributor, lecturer . 65 
 
 Burt, Mary E., editor 82 
 
 Campbell, Virginia Peyton, poet, contributor . . 85 
 
 Carver, Sadie E., editor . . . . . .28 
 
 Cattell, Hetty F., reporter, special writer ... 84 
 
 Cheney, Lavon, author, contributor . . . .90 
 
 Clark, Myrtle Dean, short story writer, poet . . 17 
 
 Colson, Ethel JNI., editor, fiction and verse writer . .15 
 
 Davis, Katherine Wallace, contributor . . . 91 
 
 Dean, Roselle M., scenario writer, contributor . . 94 
 
 DeBey, Cornelia, M. D., contributor ... 36 
 
 Donnelly, Antoinette (Doris Blake), editor, contributor . 48 
 
 Drew% Eleanor L., editor, composer ... 77 
 
 Eaton, Page Waller, newspaper, magazine writer . 10 
 
 Evans, Maude Swalm, contributor • • • • 93 
 
 Fishback, Anna D., author and special writer . . 56 
 
 Frackleton, Susan S., author, artist .... 22 
 
 Frank, Florence Kiper, author, poet, playwright . . 62 
 
 Gary, Anstiss Curtis, poet, author .... 39 
 
 Gebhardt, Florence Adams, author, special writer . 46 
 
 Gibson, Idah McGlone, editor, fiction writer . . 21 
 
 Gilmer, Dorothy Dix, editor, author . . . .12 
 
 Hadley, Grace T., editor . . . . . 51 
 
 Haynie, Ella R. Thomas, special writer . -58 
 
 Helm, Mary, editor, special writer .... 73 
 
 Henson, Mary, author, contributor . . . -92 
 
 Herron, Edna, contributor, short story writer . . 74 
 
 Higgins, Violet Moore, artist, contributor, poet . . 41 
 
 Holbrook, Florence, poet, author . . . . .19 
 
 Holmer, Grace Scofield, poet, author . . . -49 
 
 Huling, Caroline A., editor, author, publisher . . 10 
 
 Hunter, Agnes Potter McGee, editor, contributor . 27 
 
 Inman, Addie Farrar, editor, author, reporter . . 56 
 Jameson, Helen FoUett (Mme. Qui Vive), special writer 29 
 
 Jeffery, Isadore Gilbert, poet . . .. 55 
 
 Kellogg, Helen Reynolds, M. D., editor, contributor . 26 
 
 Kerfoot, Ruth, reporter, contributor . -42 
 
 King, Florence, special writer .... 89 
 
 Kleen, Nellie, fashion artist 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 95 
 
Roster — Continued 
 
 Kirkwood, Edith Urovvne, editor, special writer 
 
 Koch, Caroline (Caroline Coe), contributor 
 
 Leavens, Pauline, contributor 
 
 Manson, Agnes Grant (Betty Barlow), contributor 
 
 Martin, Salena Sheets, poet, contributor 
 
 Maurer, Ruth J. (Emily Lloyd), contributor, autho 
 
 iMcCauley, Lena May, art and music editor . 
 
 Metcalf, Euretta D., contributor 
 
 Meyer, Rose D., editor, contributor 
 
 Monroe, Harriet, editor, poet . 
 
 Moore, Lillian Russell, contributor 
 
 Moses, Sallie M., editor .... 
 
 Mowat, Jean C, correspondent, contributor 
 
 Newell, Mary O'Connor, editor .... 
 
 Nolan, ElizaJjeth Curtiss, editor, contributor . 
 
 O'Donnell, Mary Eleanor, editor, author 
 
 Oliver, Maude L G., artist, art critic 
 
 Palmer, Mate, editor 
 
 Parker, Mary Moncure, writer of monoloj^nies, plays 
 
 Pashley, Hattie Sinnard, contributor 
 
 Pease, Leonora, author .... 
 
 Perry, Carlotta, poet, contributor . 
 
 Plane, Ella L., special v^riter 
 
 Porter, Gene Stratton, author 
 
 Potter, Frances Squire, author . 
 
 Porter, Genevieve Cooney, poet, author 
 
 Powell, Mary Badollet, editor, correspondent 
 
 Prendergast, Amelia M., textbook editor 
 
 Rae, Mary E., contributor, correspondent 
 
 Read, Ada B., contributor, poet 
 
 Reed, Elizabeth A., editor, special writer 
 
 Reed, Myrtle, author, poet 
 
 Robertson, Charlotte Cecilia, poet, contributor 
 
 Seabury, Emma Playter, poet, contributor 
 
 Senour, Caro, author, composer, playwright . 
 
 Smith, Julia Holmes, M. D., special writer, editor 
 
 Snyder, Estelle Ryan, author, publisher 
 
 Squire, Belle, contributor, author . 
 
 Starrett, Helen Ekin, author, essayist 
 
 Stilwell, Laura Jean Libbey, author, editor 
 
 Strawbridge, Maybelle, contributor 
 
 Summerfield, Hattie, contributor, correspondent 
 
 Terhune, Marion Harland, author, editor 
 
 Thompson, Florence Sevier, contributor 
 
 Van Vlissingen, Jean, editor, contributor 
 
 Waite, Louise R., author, composer 
 
 Woods, Frances Armstrong, editor, publisher, composer 
 
 Wynne, Heloise, contributor .... 
 
 Page 
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