The Last of the
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
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
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
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)
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.
Summer and Geese
Her eyes lighted like a
A look of loving all
outdoors was in them.
"Oh, I was out in snow!"
"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
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.
By Guido Bruno
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
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.
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,
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
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
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.
Hors d' Oeuvre
I rarely care to eat my
Or mix corn starch or
pickles with my booze
Nor yet to munch a salad
dressed with rope
But I confess — I do
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
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?
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 —
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
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
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 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.
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
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.
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."
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
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
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
But no one can read better Kreymborg's poems than can
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.
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.
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 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,
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.
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.
Wall Street Reflections
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
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
Coppers are attractive and should furnish some dividend
The New Mexican crisis did not affect the stock market,
which is a bit of evidence of stability and hint of
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
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