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The Last of the War Correspondents

WITH a Russian bullet in his heart, Baron von Kriegelstein lies somewhere in the melting snows of East Prussia.

And there are no more war correspondents!

The restless driving soul of him is stilled forever; the dash for telegraph lines, the cat-yowling of a hundred kinds of shrapnel; the tense dawns before thousands died in China, Manchuria, South Africa, Cuba, Venezuela, Bulgaria, Tripoli, Mexico; the — very thing that made von Kriegelstein the true war correspondent — is over.

But he must not pass out without one bugle call that will reach over to him, wherever he is in spirit, to let him know that our heads are more erect for him, our hearts' pulse better and our eyes shine moist as we stiffen in salute to the last of his tribe.

Baron, with your rolling voice, your grim mouth, your boyish eyes — for the Hell they have seen on earth — and your heart as democratic as only the true aristocrat can be, this is the bugle shrill that is trying to reach out to your ears, cold in the Russian snows, to tell you we have not forgotten!

If you are dead — even authentic press reports sometimes speak wrongly — it is fitting you should have died as you did, with your face to the Slav you have hated, amid the wildest passions of men and just when the glory of your race of correspondents was fading. For it would have been beyond endurance that you should sit miles behind a firing line acting as messenger boy for the information some commander wanted to have you print to mislead somebody.

On the eve of the greatest war, when the true military observer, with accumulated knowledge of twenty-six campaigns is counted dangerous even as a friend, there is nothing else for Baron von Kriegelstein to do but to die. The last of his kind, he went out properly, as his father before him and his brother at Mukden. True correspondents to the last.

At forty-one years, he is dead. You shall judge if any man lived more in that span. Over the world he went for twenty-one years, watching how men fought. Not one instant of those years passed when he was not either at war, or hurrying to get to another. "So peaceful is the world."

It was on Governor's Island last June that General Evans introduced me to him. I got to know him better as we waited for death together in Mexico. In fact, I know I should have flunked in the few hours before our escape if it had not been for his courage. Suppose I sketch some of the high lights.

Governor's Island, one summer afternoon. A booming laugh in headquarters followed by a rataplan as the others joined in. I am introduced to a thick-chested man with wiry-reddish hair, narrow red-brown eyes and a very foreign moustache, which nowadays denotes militarism. A baron, remarks General Evans. Ho, ho! I think. This is good. But I am an American newspaperman. I will tolerate him, being a Democrat. Maybe there is a story in the fortune hunter. Perhaps a funny story, whereby we can display true equality by mocking him well within the libel law of course. Maybe half a column in him.

Officers entered and are introduced. One stares at him, a captain he is, and remarks: "Didn't I see you in Venezuela?"

"Perhaps," the Baron replies offhand.

"You were commander of artillery for Martos in the revolution against Castro!" the officer blurts out as sudden recollection sweeps over him.

They speak swiftly of governments made and destroyed, and General Evans cuts in:

"Baron, do you remember in China, the day before Pekin? Your Germans were a little lively."

"Pardon, General," von Kriegelstein answers, "I am an Austrian."

It is evident there is a difference in his mind between them. The Baron continues lightly: "For the French we have sympathy, for the Prussians we have pity. It must be terrible to be a Prussian and take life so serenely." He is smiling as he says it, but the smile flickers out, for they do not understand.

He has spoken the soul of Vienna, with its light operas and fluff of evenings that top off through business day, the day that is through because it is German and ended with laughter because it is Austrian.

I learn he has just left Albania in revolt and is hurrying to Mexico. All his life it had been like this. The way the officers consult with him on things technical of war, brings a doubt. Shall my half column be funny after all? This Baron of Austria is evidently a great correspondent or else the officers would not consult him. I shall accompany him back from the fort and get a story on conditions between the United States and Mexico.

And so it starts. Several stories of him are written, for the New York "Tribune." Every day I meet him and listen to his fascinating tales of adventure, told in the offhand way that brings conviction.

One day he is missing. A week passes and Richard Harding Davis having contrived again to be arrested in Mexico, I am to get my first taste of war corresponding.

A week later it is Monterrey, the first day there and a bad one. Carranza has made an anti-American speech in the Plaza Zaragosa the evening previous. I am with Francisco Urquidi, now Mexican Consul General to New York. Urquidi is suspected, of being Villista, for already the break between Villa and Carranza is at hand. Gringos are unpopular. General Gonzales, the saturnine one, who masks his eyes with dark spectacles, is unfriendly.

From a drug store opposite the Hotel Iturbide I hear a rolling guttural voice. Instantly I know there is only one such voice in the world, and I rush out to the street. There ahead of me is the baron, in a resplendent white uniform, with his eternal camera and binoculars. We greet hurriedly and noisily. About us cluster the street people. Then for the first time I am surprised at the baron's manner. Von Kriegelstein roars at those nearest and strikes one over the head with his heavy cane. They fall back and we go to the hotel.
(To be continued)
                                        C. A. Logue

Pax Vobiscum

IT seemed so impossible that human beings unquestionably intelligent, strong and weak as you and I, should go out and fight, strike blows, kill strangers, burn down property that is not their own in the name of patriotism or love of the emperor or for the sake of some other "ideals" that are mere superstitions, that are not more real than a butler is a part of a happy home. And while our newspapers feast on war news, on editorials that comment on the war, on attacks against those that are supposed to have incited the war, while preachers are praying for peace and condemning in their pulpits those that caused this wholesale butchery, while the cleverest writers of both hemispheres are making money hand over fist supplying publishers wholesale with their ready-made-to-order views on the war situation, while the fashions are influenced by militarism, while society folks tango and drink tea for the benefit of wounded soldiers, I am living quietly in dear old Greenwich Village. Who bothers here about the rights and wrongs of European nations? Two things only interest us of this quiet vicinity; that there is started a war that converts into a devil's kitchen Europe, the mother of our civilization and the final end. Who caused this mix-up, the why and the when, the contents of the white and gray and orange papers of the nations setting forth their own views on the situation, don't mean anything to us.

Mostly emphasized is the fact that thousands are being killed daily and millions endangering their lives. Aren't we all under indictment of death every day, every minute of the day? The soldier who meets his death on the battlefield might have died just as well on the same day, and the same hour of the day, by accident, he might have been run over by an automobile, or hit by a brick falling from the housetop. Maybe you are not a fatalist and I grant you the right to believe anything you might choose, but you cannot deny that death is hovering above your head as long as you live. But did you ever consider that the same patriotism to which you ascribe the bravery and self-sacrifice of your European warriors, makes murderers out of men who never would have thought to commit murder as long as patriotism was not forced upon them? Just think of your own father or your brother, or think of yourself driven by patriotism to enlist. A gun is thrust into your hand, and you, who always have abstained from doing things you could not discuss with your friends during dinner, you go out, knock down a man, shoot down a man whom you have never met before, who never did anything to offend you.

This war makes murderers, blood-thirsty beasts out of men who are patriots from sheer force of circumstances.

And while the Circus Maximus with an arena that has for its boundaries the seas of the world is in progress, we, the innocent bystanders, are invited to act as noble Romans, sitting in our comfortable chairs looking down at a conquest of wild animals.

Did you see them there in the purple-covered box, the gentlemen with crowns on their heads? Immaculate in the attire of their self-imposed offices directing the actions and at the same time winking at us?

Pattern et Circences! The American nation at large grasps the situation and hastens to do more than the imperators of Europe ever hope to achieve.

Bread and amusement is Europe's offering.

The financiers take the bread; planning to capture the commerce and industries of Europe supplying the non-producing nations of the old world with all they need to continue the war, lending them money by the millions. And the American people at large get the amusement, in newspapers, in magazines, on the stage, in moving picture theatres. There are even such among us, and in great multitudes, that are trying to dissolve the American unit formed by the conglomeration of all nations, taking sides with their own or their parent's native country. Poor devils! They left their country that meant nothing to them, that in most of the cases could not supply their daily needs, that would gag them, label them, and make use of them in any way it sees fit whenever they would choose to return to their "dear motherland," a motherland that makes murderers out of her subjects.
                                        Guido Bruno

Summer and Geese

        Her eyes lighted like a child's,
        A look of loving all outdoors was in them.
        "Oh, I was out in snow!" she cried.
        "Getting eggs from the woman under the hill.
        And there were a dozen geese in her yard
        Flapping and teetering happily on their crooked legs
        As the snow flakes showered down upon them."
        She waved her arms with the free movement of wings;
        A gorgeous white bird herself, frolicking with snow flakes.
        The light of loving was in her eyes.
        She gave me the picture
        And I have put it with my treasures
        In a handy place where I shall find it
        In the summer
        When the geese are gobbling June bugs on the lawn
        And smacking their smooth yellow beaks over it,
        I shall find it then and wish for winter
        And wonder wistfully if she and I will be sharing pictures
        When again the geese are reveling in the snow.
                                        Robert Carlton Brown

Oscar Wilde
By Guido Bruno

THE greatness and beauty of the ancient Greeks and Romans, the colors and opulence of the far Orient, intoxication, over-indulgence, leading to the oblivion of the time of Nero: asceticism, incense, the gloom and inspiration of candles flickering in cathedrals and temples; clean men with boyish faces in white, gold and purple garb, and the sacred music of the Catholic rite.

Self-sacrifice, gentle love of parents and children: martyrdom; the Japanese effect of black trees on the yellow skies of the dying sun; perfumes which take possession of the nerves; the sweetly sung lullaby that rocks the infant to happy dreams and shrieks of drunken women in far East London's brothels; the red blood of murder just committed; the charming juggling of words in the boudoir of a society woman; orchids, Turkish cigarettes, oriental rugs, gems.

Afternoons spent in admiration of a long forgotten and newly discovered Madonna of an old Italian Master, an evening on the everyday stage of social life, and a night in an opium den; appreciation of everything done by men in the past and in the present and an unmerciful condemnation for imitators, imposters and hypocritical moralists.

Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre

The Bruno Players

"Miss Julia" will continue on the program during the coming week. The performances take place Monday, Tuesday Wednesday and Thursday at 8:4S p.m., and the Saturday matinee at 3 p. m. The curtain rises respectively at eight forty-five and three sharp, and the doors are closed during the performance. Late-comers are not being admitted. The next program will present a comedy of Strindberg which will prove that the Great Swede has the same sense of the comedy in life that he has manifested so often for the inevitable tragedy. Also a war play by an American author, which unrolls before our eyes a vivid picture of things that are or could be, will be on the bill of which the first performance is scheduled for Monday, March 27.
 
Musicales

On Friday and Saturday evenings Miss Donna Faunce; a soprano, will sing a selection of songs; among which will be "The Birth of Morn" by Leoni, "My Laddie" by Thayer, and "The Cuckoo" by Liza Lehmann.

William Stanley, the boy soprano, will sing Gounod's "Ave Maria," followed by "Somewhere a Voice is Calling" and "Bring Back Those Summer Days."

Mr. Morton Smith, who appears for the first time before the public in New York and who aspires to the concert field, will render C. B. Hawley's "Dreams of the Summer Night." His program also includes "Invictus," by Bruno Huhn, and "Absent," by John W. Metcalf.

At a Railway Bookstall

HAVE you ever thought how easily you can get away from the bitterness and tribulation of business life at a railway bookstall? Many have been the times when things have gone wrong, when men possessing authority without the common sense to its proper use have made a pathway hard and filled the heart with a stern indignation have I found that solace to the spirit; yea, and felt my life shake off its petty fetters in the silent suggestion of what is true and noble in the mind of man in the title of a book.

Blessings on these oasis in the desert of the world, we hardly realize what we owe to them.
                                        Frank Browne

Hors d' Oeuvre

        I rarely care to eat my shoes
        Or mix corn starch or pickles with my booze
        Nor yet to munch a salad dressed with rope
        But I confess — I do like soap.
                                        Tom Sleeper

Egotism

THE World about me is a Desolate Waste, and the People, weeping, hold out their Hands for Pity as they pass my Door.

Yet in my Garden are two Angels walking. The soft radiance of Stars is above it and it is filled with the Perfume of Flowers.

Am I wicked that I cannot weep with the People, when Angels are walking in my Garden and my Heart is filled with the Song of the Stars?


The World about me is like a Garden, ablaze with Color. And the People, singing, pause not at my Door as they go about their Tasks. * * * But the Angels walk no longer in my Garden — the Flowers are dead, and there are no Stars.

Is it wicked that I cannot rejoice with the People when the Angels have gone out of my Garden and the dead Flowers have left my heart full of Tears?
                                        Ann Eliot

A Fable

THERE was once a man who devoted himself to his fellow creatures. Such of them that is, as were in need. A lame dog or a deformed child caused him to shed tears, and a tramp was as the apple of his eye. He never forgot to put ashes on the sidewalk in winter, or to carry flowers to the hospitals in summer. He gave his employees good wages, good advice and many holidays. He paid his taxes honestly and his dues promptly. He subscribed to all charities and visited slums on Saturday nights. And everywhere he spent freely of his money, his time and his kind words.

And in all this there was no thing he neglected except one — his wife.

After a few years she began to notice this, and she said: "My husband is what is called a humanitarian, and is concerned only with the sick or the sorry. I must endeavor to become either the one or the other."

And so, finding herself in invincible health, she eloped with another man.
                                        Dorothea Loomis

Seventeen

VERY ominous is the number 17 for Germany, according to an interesting calculation in a recent issue of "Figaro."

Germany became a world power in 1871 (1 plus 8 plus 7 plus 1 equals 17).

The numbers affixed to the names of the Prussian kings in the order in which they ascended the thrones of their ancestors: Frederick I, Frederick William I, Frederick II, Frederick William II, Frederick William III, Frederick William IV, William I, and Frederick III — summed up are again 17.

Add together the number of belligerent rulers: George IV, Nicholas II, Albert I, Victor Emanuel III, Peter I, Nicholas I, William II, Francis Joseph I and Ferdinand I, and again the total amounts to 17. And finally there is the year 1916 itself (1 plus 9 plus 1 plus 6 equals 17).

While the editor of the "Figaro" denies superstitious inclinations, he thinks it worthwhile to muse upon this mysterious incident of the number seventeen.

Henry James

Henry James died the other day, as he had lived, an Anglicized American. The man had a mind. He had the root of literary artistry in him. His was a genius for subtleties and nuances. Even he loved the human beings he wrote about, but with a sort of Sadistic joy in their psychological vivisection. But he was a victim of style qualificative to the last limit of tenuousness, so insanely set to catch the elusive as to miss the tangible. His writing was more difficult than Meredith's. No writer can live by style alone, and the substance concealed in James' style was mostly negligible when it could be trailed to its hiding place in his verbal entanglements.
                                        W. M. Reedy, in his Mirror

In Our Village
Bruno's Garret and its Story

AGAIN I am sitting here, in these old time-worn rooms, whose floors seem even more rickety, whose ceilings appear even lower than before the fire, that mercifully wanted to assist Father Time, but did not succeed, in destroying prematurely this oldest of all the houses in Greenwich Village.

And now the landlord has put a roof over my head, made minor repairs here and there, and if the winds do not blow too wildly and the snow does not fall too heavily, I will be safe until the mild spring winds usher in friend summer.

It is a real garret and be it not the quaintest in New York, surely it is down here in Greenwich Village.

The little shack which at present shelters Bruno's Weekly, Bruno Chap Books and myself, is nearly one hundred years old. It was the tool-house of a city undertaker, the residence of Governor Lucius Robinson and a stage house where the stage coaches stopped and waited until the mail was delivered and new mail taken on, it was a road house where people used to come to spend their Sunday afternoons, and then in quick succession, is was a saloon and an inn.

In the same rooms where a city undertaker prepared the bodies of the city's poor for their last resting place on Washington Square, then Potter's Field, where a Governor lived and held splendid receptions, where weary travelers found a night's lodging before they continued their journey towards Albany, I am sitting and writing these lines by the light of an old kerosene oil lamp. It is Sunday. The lawns on the Square are covered with mud, mud that had intended to be snow, will soon be soft green and the trees budding with new life. The population of little Italy, back on Third Street, is taking its weekly airing at the feet of their beloved Garibaldi on the Square, the buses bring joy riders from the far north points of the city; and I think — how wonderful is life.

From 1789 to 1823 Washington Square was a potter's field — where the fountains, Washington's Memorial Arch, asphalted walks and the homes of many aristocrats stand, the poorest of the poor of our city were once buried in nameless graves by the thousands.

Number 58 Washington Square, the corner of West Third Street, formerly Amity Street, an old time fashionable thoroughfare, is the most forlorn looking two-story frame building that can be found in Greater New York. It saw its best days when the horse-drawn street cars were in vogue.

Historians of Manhattan Island have known that Washington Square in its early years, was the burial field of the poorest of the city. But no chronicler has ever told the name of the grave-digger. Hidden away in the records of the Title Guarantee & Trust Company is his name, Daniel Megie. And more than the name is the interesting fact that in 1819 he purchased from John Ireland, one of the big merchants, the corner plot, now 58 Washington Square South, 21 x 80 feet, the same dimensions today. For this little plot $500 was paid, and there very likely, Mr. Megie built a wooden shack, where he could keep his wooden tools and sleep.

The potter's field had formerly been on Union Square. A little before 1819 the latter was fitted up more appropriately as a park, and the potter's burying ground moved westward to Washington Square, then an out-of-the-way part of the city. For three years Daniel Megie held the official position of keeper of the potter's field, and as such his name appears in the directories of 1819, 1820 and 1821. Then the square was abandoned as a burial place and the potter's field moved northward again to Bryant Park. Mr. Megie by this change evidently lost his job, for in 1821 he sold his Washington Square corner to Joseph Dean, and two years later the latter sold it for $850. It was about ten years later before prices showed any great advance. Then fashion captured the park, and, despite the enormous growth northward, the aroma of fashion still permeates the square, and the fine old fashioned houses on the north side continue to be occupied by some of the first families of the city.

It is a singular fact and one that the old real estate records do not explain, that this our corner was never fully improved. It is still covered for its depth of eighty feet with two-story wooden buildings, the corner being an ice cream store, and they present a decidedly incongruous appearance by the side of the fine old houses adjoining.

Tradition in the neighborhood states that these wooden buildings were once a tavern and one of the stage headquarters in the days of the early stage lines. In 1825, Alfred. S. Pell, of the well known family, bought the plot for $1,000. In 1850 his heirs sold it to Frederick E. Richards and he transferred it to Peter Gilsey in 1897 for $9,100. In 1867 John de Ruyter bought it for $14,650, and then Samuel McCreery acquired it in 1882 for $13,500 — showing a lower valuation.

Early in the past century, John Ireland, who sold the corner to the grave digger, owned the entire plot of about 100 feet front on the square, extending through to Third Street, then known as Amity Street The fifty foot plot adjoining the comer is now occupied by two fine old houses, similar in architecture to those on the north side of the square. Each cover a twenty-five foot lot, being 59 and 60 Washington Square, respectively. The latter is known as the Angelsea and has for years been a home for artists. The plot at 59 was also sold in 1819 by John Ireland for $500 to James Sedgeberg, a drayman, and it included the use of the 19 foot alley-way on Thompson Street, now covered by a three story brick house. James N. Cobb, a commission merchant, got the property with the house in 1842, and kept it until 1881, when his executors sold it to Samuel McCreery.

Steinlen Exhibition

Cartoons of Steinlein chronologically arranged as they appeared in "Gil Bias," sixty-eight of the best he ever did, will be exhibited until the tenth of April in Bruno's Garret Saturday afternoon and Monday evenings are reserved, as before the fire, for the purpose of keeping "open house."

There are a number of letters and postal cards in the Greenwich Village Post Office (Alice Palmer's Village Store) which remain uncalled for. They will be held for thirty days, and after this period sent back to the sender or sold at public auction, at the pleasure of Mrs. Palmer.

The Washington Square Bookshop is now under the management of its new owner, Mr. Shay, an old book-man and admirer of Walt Whitman. One of his first publications to come forth in the near future will be a complete bibliography of Walt Whitman.

Mrs. Russell, from Boston, staff member of "The House Beautiful" invaded the Village last week on her hunt for the unique and unusual. Small shops and curio cabinets are her specialty. She gathered enough material during her short sojourn among us to keep good old New England panting for quite a while.

H. Thompson Rich, who wrote "The Red Shame" and "The Lumps of Clay," will settle down in the Village in the near future and write the long-waited-for American novel. (Rich says so.)

A new edition of Kreymborg's "Mushrooms" will be off the press on April 1st It will contain all those poems by Alfred Kreymborg which appeared in Bruno Chap Books and subsequently in "Greenwich Village."


Kipling
              Drawing

Original Drawing by Rudyard Kipling from the Collection of P. F. Madigan


Floyd N. Ackley, worker in crafts jewelry, and Edith, his wife and co-worker, have recently come to Greenwich Village. In a blue and orange studio, at 139 MacDougal Street, just off the square, the Ackleys are interpreting personalities through the medium of hand-wrought designs in gold, silver, copper, platinum, precious and semi-precious stones.

Books and Magazines of the Week

ALFRED KREYMBORG ushered into the world last Tuesday afternoon, in the comfortable rooms of the Washington Square Bookshop, his "Anthology of the New Verse," selected from the first volume of his magazine, "Others.'' Often in these pages have I dwelt upon Kreymborg's magazine, and repeatedly did I point out that "Others" should have contained solely Kreymborg's own poems, his short stories, or his essays; and perhaps once in a while a one-act play, as he has developed recently into a playwright. The man who has difficulty in obtaining a publisher and who thinks his message important enough to impart it to the world at any cost, has a right or better, the duty, to publish a magazine of his own. But also it is his duty to stop publishing his magazine instantly if his song is sung, if his stories are told and his message sent into the world.

It was shortly after my arrival in Greenwich Village that I met Kreymborg, that I read those poems of his which no one wanted to recognize as such. I published his little volume of "Mushrooms" as one of the early issues of Bruno Chap Books. I sent it out into the world as a challenge to our household poets and to our manufacturers of jingles. "Mushrooms" was discussed all over the country. Paragraphers found in its pages a welcome repast which they served hashed and toasted to their readers, over and over again.

Kreymborg has been a philosopher for years. He has the gift to see the detail in life. He found his own solution of the most mysterious riddles of the universe. He found it in the everyday life of man. He is an artist. Words are his material; he expresses philosophy, evolution, temperament, moods through the rhythm of his words. The words are his statements. The rhythm is his color, his composition — shortly life.

But he ventured out of his world. He left the quiet seclusion and went out into the community of men. They were waiting for him. They, too. had words and rhythm. But nothing else. They were enthusiasts or faddists — they knew not life.

Kreymborg took them under his wings. He neglected his own art and was the champion of other people's fanciful machinations. He established a friendly exchange with those poets across the water who are doing things in their own way — but nobody else could do it in their own way but they themselves. Kreymborg founded a magazine. And further and further did he drift away from his own self.

Yes, there are good things to be found on the pages of "Others." But what has Kreymborg to do with all that? The Kreymborg who wrote "Mushrooms" and "Erna Vietck"?

Last Tuesday he gave a reading in the Washington Square Bookshop. He did not read his own poems, he interpreted the words of others, of those others whose godfather he had been during the past year.

A poetry reading in a large city is like a cool, white fountain in the hot dry desert.

The doors wide open, a few chairs and everybody welcome. And the man on the platform or in the midst of the listeners reading his own poems. Reading his own works, going back to those times without print shops and without books, where the singer was the poet, and the narrator of the story was himself the book.

Kreymborg is no reader. Reading is an art in itself. It is a lost art with us which I doubt very much will ever be revived again.

But no one can read better Kreymborg's poems than can Kreymborg himself.

But he read poems by poetesses who are striving for the unique and by poets who want to sing of something they do not know. And the real Kreymborg was muffled and silent; Kreymborg the publisher was the champion of his authors.

But I see the time in the near future that Kreymborg the publisher will have been thrown out of house and home by Kreymborg the poet; and then the year 1914-15 will have been put on the high shelf of experience and of memories.

And we will listen again to Kreymborg the poet

The Little Review

Margaret C. Anderson's Chicago monthly, whose January-February number has arrived at our desk, contains a variety of American and English contemporary poetry. But I think Miss Anderson herself should write a little more for her own paper. Her criticism is sound and she knows how to write.

Art Notes

That Benjamin West was a very prolific painter is evidenced in an article in this little magazine published monthly "In the Interests of American Art and the Macbeth Gallery." In a catalogue issued in 1829 containing a list of paintings found in his studio after his death, no less than one hundred and eighty pictures were listed. They brought the handsome sum of $125,000.

The Branch Library News

About the great American novel, that imaginary book which people fancy will be written some day and which will be typical of this country and its people, speaks the editor in the current issue of this helpful publication published by the New York Public Library. It announces a memorial exhibition of Alexander Wilson Drake's wood engravings by the art and prints division of the library.

Contemporary Verse

The bad poet, whose interviews and effusions are spooking in contemporary trade papers wrongly called literary or book reviews, found in this new Washington, D. C. venture, a nice nest to hatch admirers, by expressing his own admiration for their unspeakable word machinations which they choose to call poetry. In a recent issue of a "leading" literary weekly, he says: "Its poetry is admirably selected; it would be difficult to find any other American magazine verse more notable for originality and imagination than that which fills the February number of 'Contemporary Verse.' "

Who is next in the self-admiration society?

Book Plate Notes

To answer a great many inquiries of the past weeks: Clara Tice ventured into the field of book-plate designing. A few of her plates can be found in the catalogue of the exhibition of book plates held in Bruno's Garret last year. Her book plate designs are most appropriate for children's books and for books on costumes and fashions.

Book Plate 

Book plate by Clara Tice

'"The Miscellany," the official organ of the American Book Plate Society which has been edited since its existence by H. A. Fowler, in Kansas City, will appear henceforth quarterly under the editorship of Mrs. Elizabeth C. T. Miller, 1010 Euclid Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio.

We find in a current issue of "The Miscellany"' that Mr. Daniel B. Fearing, of Newport, R. I., is making a check list of angling book plates and would like to hear from any collectors owning such, as he wishes to make the list as complete as possible.

Under the auspices of the Palette and Chisel Club of Chicago, Winnifred and Leroy Truman Goble exhibited recently their large collection of book plates. Mr. Goble is a collector from the standpoint of an art connoisseur. He is mostly interested in modern artists, American as well as European. Especially his collection of plates by Franz von Bayros is an almost complete representation of everything done by this Viennese artist. The exhibit was considered important enough to be made accessible to the lovers of drawings and etchings at large, and was placed in the Fine Arts Museum in Chicago.

Sonnet
                        The Louvre May, 1848
Venus of Milo                                         Heine the Poet

    H.     Dear lady mine of Milo, I am here;
    V.     To worship at my long neglected shrine?
    H.     To drink perchance a cup of deadly wine;
    V.     With me to guide; what need is there of fear?
    H.     Life is become a leaf of yesteryear.
    V.     My poor pale poet — yet not wholly mine —
    H.     Alas I the bitter Rood is for a sign.
    V.     Woe's me! the Christ steals my last worshipper!
    H.     'Twixt Heaven and Hell His torn hands beckon me.
    V.     O for some isle Aegean, far away!
    H.     Crawling from out my mattress-grave I came —
    V.     Not one is left to call on Beauty's name.
    H.     To bid my own heart's Queen farewell for aye.
    V.     Ah Heaven! that I had arms to succour thee.
                                        A. R. Bayley

Wall Street Reflections

VARIETY may be the spice of life, but Wall Street doesn't like too much of this kind of spice served up in the market.

How much of the movement for the last fortnight was short covering and how much actual buying is not agreed upon. However, both factions help the upward movement. The market has responded excellently to favorable news but there is a great deal of criticism for failure to ''follow through" with the push necessary to put prices. When earnings and dividends entitle them to be, a standard form of report to stock-holders (preferably quarterly if not monthly) should be made mandatory by law of this country for companies, so that stockholders will know the true condition of business.

Some years ago when the Interstate Commerce Commission introduced a standard form for railroad reports, there was a storm of protest, but no National regulation act ever did more for the good name of our country's railroad investments. The time is ripe now for the stockholders to rise up and demand what is what.

A very good case in point was the action of California Petroleum last week; the annual report could not be understood — and why not have the cards all face up.

The best evidence of "prosperity of industries" is the U. S. Steel Corporation report of unfilled orders booked.

More orders are refused than are entered. Prices from $5 to $15 per ton above current prices are offered for guarantee of delivery.

New contracts for war goods amounting to probably 50 millions were placed in the last few days. This estimate is given upon known advance payments of about 10 millions.

The way seems cleared for a good many stocks to respond to current earnings on war business of from 20 to 60 per cent per annum.

Those investing permanently, or who desire to handle their funds conservatively, should not be lured by the attractive appearing war industrials; for the quick trader, yes — the stocks have their advantage.

For the first time in history the industries of the United States are in the unique position of having "too much business." Wall Street has yet to show acute symptoms of recognizing the fact that this is a Presidential year.

U. S. Steel & Midvale stocks are among the cheapest in the market — for the business is not of a transitory nature.

Coppers are attractive and should furnish some dividend surprises.

The New Mexican crisis did not affect the stock market, which is a bit of evidence of stability and hint of underlying tendencies.

The American Telephone & Telegraph Co. report issued Monday showed earnings equal to 9.09 per cent, on capital stock. Number of stockholders 97,512, of which 32,000 are employees, — the majority of stockholders are women.

Less than 3 per cent of Company's stock is held abroad, a reduction of virtually 1 per cent from year 1914. This shows this stock is practically immune from danger of heavy unloading by foreign holders affected by war rumors.

Only an enlarged supply of new equipment will relieve the congestion of freight from which the railroads are suffering.
                                        "Junius"


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