Number 15 Cover


Number 15
        Frontiespiece

Number 15 Cover


Bruno Players' New Bill

The State Forbids

SADA COWAN'S "THE STATE FORBIDS," and August Strindberg's "THE STRONGER," will be presented on Wednesday. April 5th, by the Bruno Players, in Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre, at 10 Fifth Avenue, as their second play-bill of this season.

"The State Forbids" is not a problem play. Its two scenes are simple but cruelly true statements of facts. Millions of families in Europe were confronted during the last two years by these two supreme problems. They had to solve them in their hearts and no matter to what conclusion they had come, "The State Forbids," and "The State Commands" has been the merciless solution of their Gordian knot.

Sada Cowan does not attempt in her play to show what could be done or what should be done.

There is a mother who knows for ten long years that if she would ever give birth to a child it would be hereditarily burdened with an incurable disease. But —
the State forbids.

And so she resigns herself to her fate, and she is just a mother of that little creature that can never be anything but a "poor little one."

The scene is so real to life, so without false dramatic pathos! The mother's love which prefers death for her baby rather than life full of suffering! And there is the district nurse who knows; who witnessed such scenes in numberless other families, and there is the doctor who does not hesitate to state that a physician should be vested with the same powers of a judge. But
the State forbids.

And then the other scene ten years hereafter. The same flat; the same mother; her first-born child grown up to be a promising, healthy man and "the poor little one" an idiot, a constant charge of his parent! And the same doctor, now in these grave and troubled times of war, the recruiting surgeon of the vicinity. Conscription is ordered. The big boy, his mother's only comfort in this world, which means to her a constant chain of suffering, is conscripted. The State orders him to go out and to shoot and to kill other mother's sons.

The State forbids to take the life of that poor thing, that idiot in the corner over there ten years ago as it came, into the world, and the State forbids to save the life of that big grown up boy whom the doctor had to declare as fit to be a soldier for his country.

The mother is helpless, just as helpless as the mother cow in the stable, whom they force to bring calves into the world and who has to lose her calf if they choose to butcher it.

It is just a statement of plain facts presented in two scenes, the first and the last station on the passion-way of a mother in a modern state.

The Stronger

TWO women. Both actresses. One is married and a mother; the other unmarried living her own life. They meet the day before Christmas at a coffee house. The unmarried one is mute. She does not say a word. She listens to her friend whom she caused so many pains and sleepless nights; whom she suspects to be the woman with whom her husband was infatuated; whose taste, refinement and mode of living her husband had admired. Whom she had to imitate just to please h«r husband.

But she cannot hate her rival, who like the thief who awakens one night and finds the things he stole in the repossession of the one from whom he stole it, is just a poor example of womanhood; who celebrates her Christmas Eve all by herself in a public restaurant.

Strindberg shows in this little gem of a play as well as in every other one of his works that GOOD — and with "good" he means healthy, the thing that has a purpose and is fulfilling this purpose — is triumphant in the final end. Triumphant over sham and over everything not fit to live.

The House of Judgment

AND there was silence in the House of Judgment, and the Man came naked before God.

And God opened the Book of Life of the Man.

And God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil, and thou hast shown cruelty to those who were in need of succors, and to those who lacked help thou hast been bitter and hard of heart. The poor called to thee, and thou did'st not hearken, and thine ears were closed to the cry of the afflicted. The inheritance of the fatherless thou did'st take to thyself and thou did'st send the foxes into the vineyard of thy neighbor's field. Thou did'st take the bread of the children and give it to the dogs to eat, and the lepers who lived in the marshes, and were at peace, and praised Me, thou did'st drive forth on to the highways, and on Mine earth, out of which I made thee, did'st thou shed innocent blood."

"And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."

And again God opened the Book of Life of the Man, and God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil and thou did'st seek for the seven sins. The walls of thy chamber were painted with images, and from the bed of thine abominations thou did'st rise up to the sound of flutes. Thou did'st build seven altars to the sins I have suffered, and did'st eat of the thing that may not be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was embroidered with the three signs of shame. Thine idols were neither of gold nor of silver, which endure, but of flesh that dieth. Thou did'st stain their hair with colors and set pomegranates in their hands. Thou did'st stain their feet with perfumes, and spread carpets before them. With antimony thou did'st stain their eyelids, and their bodies thou did'st smear with myrrh; Thou did'st bow thyself to the ground before them, and the thrones of the idols were set in the sun. Thou did'st show to the sun thy shame and to the moon thy madness."

And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."

And a third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man. And God said to the Man, "Evil hath been thy life, and with evil did'st thou requite good, and with wrongdoing kindness. The hands that fed thee thou did'st wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou did'st despise. He who came to thee with water went away thirsting, and the outlawed men who hid thee in their tents at night thou did'st betray before dawn. Thine enemy who spared thee thou did'st snare in an ambush, and the friend who walked with thee thou did'st sell for a price and to those who brought thee Love thou did'st ever give Lust in thy turn."

And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."

And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man, and said, "Surely I shall send thee to Hell. Even unto Hell shall I send thee."

And the Man cried out, "Thou canst not."

And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for what reason?"

And the Man made answer and said, "Because in Hell have I always lived."

And there was silence in the House of Judgment.

And after a space God spake, and said to the Man, "Seeing that I may not send thee to Hell, surely I shall send thee to Heaven. Even unto Heaven shall I send thee."
And the Man cried out "Thou canst not."

And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee to Heaven, and for what reason?"

'And the Man made answer, and said, ''Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine Heaven."

And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
                                        Oscar Wilde

Flasks and Flagons
by Francis S. Seltus

    Beer
        WHAT merry faith, oh cool, delicious beer,
        Gave thee the power through centuries to muntain,
        A charm that soothes dull care, and laughs at pain;
        A power sad hearts to vitalize and cheer?

        No blase palate of thy drops can fear;
        Once quaffed, lips eager, seek thy sweets again,
        Without thee students sing no loud refrain;
        Laughter and mirth depart, be thou not near.

        And when I drink thee to my soul's delight,
        A vision of King Gambrinus, fat and gay,
        Haunts me, and I behold bright tankards shine.
        And hear him laugh with many a thirsty wight,
        And merry maiden, drinking night and day,
        In quaint, old, gabled towns along the Rhine.

    Gin

        GRIM cicerone of the towns of sin,
        From thy rank drops, the germs of crime and lust,
        Nurtured by sloth and hatred of the just,
        In bestial minds to awful bloom begin.

        Dulling all confidence in God or kin,
        Thy woeful spectre on humanity thrust,
        Invokes sad pictures of supreme disgust,
        A yelling harlot, or a bagnio's din.

        I hear in St. Gilas' foulest slums, the dread
        And blasphemous cries of ruffians in mad strife,
        And, the shocked eye by odious magic led,
        Sees in some garret, panting still with life,
        A half-starved child clasping a woman, dead.
        While o'er them lears a gaunt brute with a knife!

London Letter
                                                                                London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY,
                                                                                18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington
                                                                                                    March 23d, 1916

Having a taste for gossip I cannot help telling you of an amusing literary scandal. It is only a trifle, but it is an amusing if rather malicious trifle and is to be read in the March number of "The English Review." There, under the title of "The Grayles," a well known London literary family is delicately ridiculed; its foibles exposed, its inner secrets made fun of by one who has evidently often enjoyed the hospitality of that house. Opinion will be doubtless divided as to the "taste" of the article, and no doubt many friends of the family which is satirized will be very indignant. As for the house in question itself, I think it will only laugh.

The war and the increased cost of paper press heavily upon literary enterprise. As it is now, the conditions tend more and more to the disfavour of artistic or speculative works, while only those books which will command a ready and vulgar sale are sure of being produced. If conditions do not improve, the outlook for books of literary merit will be very bad indeed. All the same a new art and literary review is announced for publication. Its name is "Form," which name is also intended to indicate its aesthetic. It is to be a quarterly, something in the style of the Yellow Book. Looking at the list of contributors one cannot avoid the criticism too eclectic. Without a new hope, a new point of view, a minor philosophy of some sort, a new review cannot live. Even with this advantage such a review can as a rule only count on a spiritual existence after a brief and troubled material one. But that surely is the better fate. The fault with so many young reviews and young movements is that they are afraid to die. They will not go forth and perish if perish they must, secure in the knowledge that what is immortal in them will survive the trifling defeat of bankruptcy.

Rupert Brooke's "Letters from America" appears today prefaced by a note from Henry James. As the work is probably appearing simultaneously with you I will say nothing about it.

I will mention a few of the titles of the plays now running at the theatres so that you can guess the kind of fare we are enjoying: There are "A Little Bit of Fluff,'' "Jerry," a farce; "Peg O' My Heart," "L' Enfant Prodigue," "The Love Thief," "The Basker," a comedy, and "The Merchant of Venice," among others.

An interesting revival of the old fashioned puppet show has been held at the Aeolian Hall. The piece given was ''Maria Marten, or the Murder in the Red Barn,'' a famous old puppet melodrama. Some idea of the captivating quality of the dialogue may be perceived from this extract:

Maria: I have kept my promise to meet you at the Red Barn.

William: I have brought you here to murder you.

Maria: Oh, William!

William: You are in a different social scale. I cannot marry you. But none else shall possess you. Therefore you die — Aha!
                                        Edward Storer

Clara Tice as I See Her

CLARA TICE is a little girl.

Clara Tice is an artist. Her drawings are the expression of a little girl's conception of line and color, of a little girl who is an artist.

It is the refreshing naivety in her naughty pictures that pleases the eye. Did I say "that pleases the eye"? If they please my eye they had a right to hang there on the walls of my garret.

It is up to you to think the same or to discard them.

Have you ever listened to the chatter of a child after it returns home from an exciting expedition to the shopping district or from a show? It is a pity that we have no more chances to listen to children, and that those who have them are usually too tired or too bored to lend an attentive ear to those wonderful revelations of a child's untrained, unsophisticated and pure mind.

Clara Tice has a wonderful gift of seeing, of being impressed and of immediately recording. The movement expressing a whole long story is more important to her than the anatomy of the organ expressing it. The joyfullest height of merriment may be expressed in one kick of her leg. For the fraction of one second the skirts are fluttering in the air; the leg is exposed — perhaps high up to the hips, the body sways back, the eyes are radiant, the shoulders drawn according to the rhythm of the music — this all happens in a movement as quick as a flash. Clara Tice registers just this as the one of the most importance. She doesn't think of the exposed, disarranged dress, she doesn't see the disarranged hair, but only a beautiful line as the expression of a beautiful emotion. Her splash of color gives radiance to the life of her emotions.

While most of her drawings are draped with nothing more substantial than a very fine gauze, they do not impress us as nudes. They are clad with the purity of beauty. They can be used as well for extra illustrating the Arabian Nights or the works of Boccaccio as well as very appropriate decoration for a nursery or a girl's living room.

Miss Tice is an artist. And even if she does not seem to be interested in the small details like hands or feet or faces, her pictures contain the rhythm of life. They bring to us visions from the fields of the innocent, of the eternally happy. They please our eyes.

What higher mission can a drawing have than to please the eye?

Dim Reflections

        The face is the mirror
        Of the soul, so they say,
        Then why paint the mirror
            To hide the soul away?

        Those twinkling eyes
            As they spark with glee,
        And the sweet kind expression
            While they talk to me.

        But over the mirror,
            Is a mask, to betray
        A soul obscured,
            By a dim faddists ray.
                                    Meg Kerner

Bruno's Garret — Catalogue Illustre

        Cat And Girl by Clara Tice Cat and Girl by Clara Tice

               
                                                   
                       
Tub, Soap and Girl

Tub, Soap and Girl by Clara Tice




by Clara
                  Tice

by Clara Tice




Clara
                  Tice and Her Dog
Clara Tice and Her Dog Verna, by Herself








by Clara
                  Tice

by Clara Tice


Verna
Verna, little Clara Tice's big dog


                CLARA TICE pictures through the colors
                and movements of her
                drawings the follies and foolery of all of us.
                One movement (quicker than a. flash)
                can portray the characteristics of an
                age.

                Delicate but rigorous. Graceful but
                strong. Lean and lazy but lots of
                latent power.

                Cats, women. lowers, jewels, delicate
                shades of colors, strong streams of
                light, black brutes, white giants, girls
                with red, and golden, and black hair,
                prayers, tears, laughter, dance.

                Harmony and peace hover over
                everything! Soundless tunes of an
                unplayed sonata of Mozart's diffused
                through the air.
                Our Lives!
                                        Guido Bruno

Fake News From Mexico

AMERICAN journalism signally discredits itself in its news treatment of the army expedition into Mexico to capture and punish Villa and his banditti. We know that there is absolutely no authentic news of the expeditionary corps, but every day we are treated to broad spreads with flaring headlines purporting to tell us where Villa is hiding, how he is being surrounded and how the march progresses. All this "news" is faked. So are the stories of defections of Carranzitas to the Villa forces, and the tales of concentrating German or even Japanese officers at various points to direct a general attack upon the American forces. Pure imagination is the only content of startling announcements of a general Mexican uprising in support of Villa. The whole Mexican incident is imagined and distorted into a danger which it cannot possibly be. There is no need to fear a slaughter of our forces. In all Mexico there is not enough ammunition for one fair-sized battle. The war supplies that were sent from this country are stopped. None can be procured from Europe or Japan. There is no authoritative information coming out of Mexico to justify the scare the newspapers are trying to create. President Wilson wisely warns us that much of this scare stuff had its origin among persons who have an interest in making the pursuit of Villa develop into a general intervention and occupation of Mexico. The chase after Villa may be long and difficult, but it need not become a war of invasion. Discount heavily the sensational newspaper dispatches supposed to come from Mexico. They are probably concocted in order to work up sentiment for another such outrage as the war against old Santa Anna.
                                        William Marion Reedy in his St. Louis Mirror

Chinese Letters

By Allan W. S. Lee (Wuhu, China)

TODAY we had one of those delightful and spectacular little storms which come up all of a sudden, with a shriek and howl of a great wind that whines and moans around the house, and then tears along bending the trees that frantically beat the air. The willows lash the quiet ponds with their long, green wisps of hair; the flowers and shrubs crouch low against the house or garden wall.

Then comes a great hissing sound over the hill, and a slanting wall of rain, rushes down on the garden, beating and stamping it in fury. The sky is full of galloping forms tearing, huge and majestic across the sky — great war horses of the Mahruts that rear and plunge, while above the roar and crash of Mighty Indra makes the frightened earth tremble and shiver with dread.

Now they are over Purple Mountain, a couple of miles away, and through a rift in the silver gray clouds the sun shines down on the hill of graves which glows like burnished gold, and all is quiet again — the storm has passed.

All around this compound are rice fields, and in the early mornings one hears the strange, little songs, plaintive, elusive and beautiful, of the women working in the fields. The life of the country people is certainly to be found in their songs, and there is a great opportunity for some musician to write a Chinese symphony. I think the fascinating little tunes could easily be interpreted to foreign ears.

Chicago Letter
                                                            Chicago Office of Bruno's Weekly
                                                                                3124 Michigan Avenue
                                                                                  April 1st, 1916

ALL is quiet along the Boul Mich save a noise from the Cliff Dwellers club — Hamlin Garland blowing his own horn.

John T. McCutcheon is back from Saloniki — his stay there it is said was cut short by representations made by the French Counsel in Chicago as to Hoosier John's pro-German cartoons and letter-press in the World's Best Newspaper, the Chicago "Tribune."

Nevertheless John need never fear about his declining years — he can always live in the castle on the Rhine presented to him and James O'Donnel Bennett when Armageddon was young.

The annual exhibition of American artists at the Art Institute is over. The exhibition received scant critical attention, for the reason that Chicago has but three art-critics, namely, Miss Harriett Monro, who can write but who knows nothing about art (?), Miss Lena McCauley, who knows something about art, but who cannot write, and a Dr. Monagelas, who knows nothing about art and who cannot write.

Yet Chicago's art criticism is less at its reader than is its dramatic criticism. Blanche Ring's new medium "Jane O'Day From Broadway" by Willard Mack, has just fizzled out, after the critics had fallen over each other in landing it. The Chicago public you see has heard ''Wolf, Wolf!" shouted so often without any "wolf" showing up that they take all critical verdicts in a Pickwickian sense. Nearly all the Chicago dramatic critics graduated from night-police, they should return whence they came. The Hearst paper critic, Ashton Stevens, is a cheap and nasty imitation of the nasty and cheap Alan Dale; Percy Hammond repeats what was never worth writing; Amy Leslie has a flow of words, sans ideas; Richard Henry Little, who when Glaucen was Consul was known as length without breadth, "does" the drama for the "Herald" and does it so amateurishly that one wonders if proprietor "Jim" Keeley ever reads his own paper; old man Hall on the "Journal" seems in his fourth childhood, while Cheeky Charley Collins, on the not dead but sleeping "Evening Post" writes sloshmushgush on chorus-girls (a selected few) but knows not that Salvini is dead, or confuses that tragedian with Sapolio.

Howard Vincent O'Brien, whose dad runs a picture-store in the McCormick Building, has entered his maiden offence "New Men for Old" in the "Great American Novel" Stakes. Unless all the other competitors break their legs, Mr. O'Brien's entry will be a distant trailer. As a literary exercise, young Mr. O'Brien should study Opie Read's "The New Mr. Howerson," a new work by an old master the product of a mind matured in philosophy, and mellowed in kindness and patience for all mankind, and mankind's foibles, a mind to which nothing human is alien, and from which no secrets are hid. For Opie Read has done admirably what now young O'Brien has egregiously botched. Their theme, the struggle between Capital and labor is cognate, and each writer gives short shift to the cuckoos that lay their eggs in labor's nest; as it were, and whose greedy fledglings crowd the legitimate owner out, but their respective treatments of their not strikingly original theme differ as authentic bourbon from Canadian whiskey.

Hall Caine's latest, unfortunately not "last" novel is inscribed "To My Mother." So is the latest atrocity from a soi-disant Chicagoan, from that machine for blackening inoffensive white paper, George Barr McCutcheon. Authors nowadays have mighty little respect for their mother.

Emerson Hough, one of the fine flowers of Cook County's concatenated literati has sold "Munsey's" a serial. Was "Bob" Davis asleep at the switch?

Hobart Chatfield-Taylor, whose books have killed many, himself is in the pink of health. He is at Palm Beach with his valet Wallace Trite. He had just pompously registered as "Hobart Chatfield-Taylor, Chicago."

When waggish Jack London went him one better by registering: "Jack London and Valise."

When the time comes for this amiable dilettante to join his betters, I would suggest the following epitaph for his tombstone: "Epitaph for Chatfield-Taylor."

        "Chat" loved to loll on the Parnassian mount,
        His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count.

        What poetry he'd written but for lack
        Of skill, when he had counted, to count back.

        Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep
        To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep.

                                        John Stapleton Cowley-Brown

In Our Village
(Reprinted by request)

My garret has six windows. Through every one the sun is shining, bathing the table with the typewriter in a shower of pure golden rays. The laundry that hangs along wash lines between the houses of little Italy near by seems real white, swinging joyfully to the rhythm of a teasing wind. A few of my neighbors seem to love vivid, glaring colors. There is one red nightshirt, on which I feast my eyes every other week. Its owner must be a giant with long arms. I fancy he brought it from Naples or Sicily. The shirt will fade and will go the way of all shirts and he'll buy nice flannel pajamas — all Italians wear pajamas. There are dozens of them on the lines in front of my window; and he will forget his sunny Italy and lose his sun-browned cheeks, and how long will it be and he will be one of the thousands of pale, uniformly clad New Yorkers?

Doing the same work, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of others makes people uniform. Some elevate themselves up to the standard of the average, some come down to the standard of the average. But after a while they will all be equal, they all will wear the same clothes, they will walk in the same manner, they will eat the same kind of food, make the same gestures, use the same language: and all for one purpose; to make their daily bread.

Over there across the back yard in front of my garret a woman leans over the washtub. She never looks up to the forget-me-not blue sky; she doesn't see the sparrows fighting for crumbs of bread on the fence. Her husband leans somewhere in a shop over his work and is angry because tiny little rays of the kind sun peep through the blinded window, fascinated by the needle in his hand and dance in jolly little circles over his work. Not to become paupers is the tragedy that kills happiness, transforms proud and free humans into bent and worn slaves; that creates human automatons.

It is the lack of time that makes millions wretched. They cannot look up to the skies and see the passing clouds — awakening of spring, the growth of youth in nature — they have no time. They do not admire the beauty and the colors of the flowers — they don't smell their fragrance — they have no time. They don't hear the birds singing; they don't hear the cooing of babies and the heart gladdening chattering of children — they have no time.

Time, time — just a little time to live is the real plea of the poor man.

And how beautiful is life — how wonderful is just real life, even without the comforts and blessings of civilization. Life is love, but we need time — just time to do nothing but to live and to love.

Book Plate Notes

SHAKESPEARE will be honored this year, throughout the United States. Schools, universities, and organizations of various kinds are planning fitting forms of observing the Shakespeare Tercentenary. With the purpose of further stimulating interest in the works of the great poet, the American Institute of Graphic Arts, in conjunction with the Shakespeare Birthday Committee of the City of New York will conduct a BOOK PLATE CONTEST. The prizes to be awarded should be an incentive, but the pleasure of designing a book plate in the spirit of Shakespeare should be the chief stimulus.

The contest is open to all persons who desire to compete. Drawings to be awarded exclusively to a Shakespearean motif. More than one drawing may be submitted by one individual. Drawings to be sent prepaid addressed as follows: The American Institute of Graphic Arts, 344 West 38th Street, New York. Prizes to be as follows: First Prize, $100.00; Second Prize, $60.00; Third Prize, $40.00.

The contest closes May 15, 1916.

The Regular May Meeting of the American Bookplate Society will be held at the Avery Library, Columbia University, Saturday afternoon, May 6th, at 2:30 p.m.

G. H. Sears of Leighton, Essex, England, announces the sale of a very interesting collection of old English and American ex libris, including some modern examples by C W. Sherborn. There are also Beardsley plates, original designs on vellum for G. H. Ashworth.

Richmond, Indiana has an exhibition of Book Plates as we learn from Miss White's "Little Paper." Original drawings and plates by the late Raymond Perry White, by Miss Florence Fox, whose group of book plates formed about half the exhibit and some of Carl Bernhardt's etchings were of importance. The new plates of the Morrison-Reeves library are the composite work of two men and one woman.

Books and Magazines of the Week

"The Passing of the Editor" is one of the many fine contributions to the March "Phoenix," Michael Monahan's monthly magazine of Individuality. Richard le Gallienne says in this article a few things which are true, even be they not pleasing to the ears of many an editor and publisher in this country.

The word editor, as applied to the conductors of magazines and newspapers, is rapidly becoming a mere courtesy title; for the powers and functions formerly exercised by editors properly so called, are being more and more usurped by the capitalist proprietor. There are not a few magazines where the ''editor" has hardly more say in the acceptance of a manuscript than the contributor who sends it in. Few are the editors left who uphold the magisterial dignity and awe with which the name of editor was wont to be invested. These survive owning chiefly to the prestige of long service, and even they are not always free from the encroachments of the new method. The proprietor still feels the irksome necessity of treating their editorial policies with respect, though secretly chafing for the moment when they shall give place to more manageable modern tools. The "new" editor, in fact, is little more than a clerk doing the bidding of his proprietor, and the proprietor's idea o£ editing is slavishly to truckle to the public taste — or rather to his crude conception of the public taste. The only real editors of today are the capitalist and the public. The nominal editor is merely an office boy of larger growth, and slightly largely salary.

Innocent souls still, of course, imagine him clothed with divine powers, and letters of introduction to him are still sought after by the superstitious beginner. Alas! The chances are that the better he thinks of your MS. the less likely is it to be accepted by — the proprietor; for Mr Snooks, the proprietor, has decided tastes of his own, and a peculiar distaste for anything remotely savoring of the 'literary.'

The Poetry Review

William Stanley Braithwaite, the Dean of Poetry editors of America, the anthologist who preserves American magazine verse for future generations yearly in a nicely bound guilt-edged book, has founded a magazine of his own. With him are all those well known exponents of new verse as that amicable, soulful Amy Lowell and Sara Teasdale, Louis Untermeyer etc., etc.

Here is what the editor tells in his prospectus: "The spirit of the Poetry Review of America will be one of advancement and cooperation; the desire to serve the art of poetry and to consolidate public interest in its growth and popularity — to quicken and enlarge the poetic pulse of the country. In this spirit, we propose to our contemporaries in the field a union of effort and mutual encouragement; to the poets of America an open forum and a clearinghouse for ways and means to serve the art we all love; to the poetry-reading public of our country we pledge a never ceasing striving for the best in American poetry, and a constant effort to bring out the strength and joy to be derived therefrom."

Branch Library News

A very timely selection of titles of books on military education are printed on the pages of this month's Branch Library News, the monthly publication of the New York Public Library. They are compiled at the request of the Committee on Military Education of the American Defense Society. The books named are simple, non-technical works, nearly all of them intended for the reader without previous knowledge or experience of this subject.

Edison Diamond Points

Even if it is a trade paper and primarily of interest only to people engaged in the selling of Edison Diamond Discs it contains a lot of material of interest to almost everybody who wishes to know a little bit more about American artists and musicians, than the average newspaper or magazine article will contain. There is, for instance, a chat with Albert Spalding, the Violinist, "The Spell of Saplding's Bow." The department "With the Edison Artists" is a kaledeiscope of everyday life of men and women famous in both hemispheres.

Poetry

Harriet Monroe's magazine which just entered upon its fourth year of existence has a new cover design. This is a welcome change to the otherwise little variety this journal has to offer.

The Last of the War Correspondents
(Continued from last week)

You did not know he wrote books? Mostly on trains he finds time for that. But then a train going through Siberia in the Russian-Japanese war took over two months. He was on it. The party left the train forty days, because they were all imaginative and two of them were saying with the car trucks: "Click clickety-click," and had been at it ten hours to the exclusion of everything else. One of the two stopped the next day, but the other kept on jibbering and had to be left behind.

No, the time with von Kriegelstein was very dull. On the train was Uriquidi going to join Villa. Best Mexican I know. Educated in Paris. Big electrical engineer. Atheistic idealist is Uriquidi — if such is possible — and marvelous to tell, does not hate the Catholic Church. Small head has Urquidi, but a broad mind.  An atheist who does not— . Learning something every minute.

Von Kriegelstein talks of a single star for an hour. No repetition of adjectives. Perhaps because Mexican night is black like jeweler's velvet with a handful of diamonds, scattered over the soft deep black and a smudge where jeweler's powder has been wiped away.

There are adventures in Torreon, where we get the word of the highest authority that a Japanese army of twenty-five thousand with rifles can be called on Villa's colors in four days. No, they will not cross the ocean in that time. Francisco Madero could have had them before he finished the first revolution. They are in lower California now. Authority? Only Francisco Madero's brother, General Emilio Madero. Yes, the chief adviser to Villa. Certainly, all the Maderos are with Villa. Perhaps, but it will be the first time they have backed a loser.

We are in Chihuahua. It may be dangerous for the baron to see the great revolutionist. Villa is such a great democrat the baron had better discard his white suit and medals that infuriate people on the street. Once on a street a man hurries after him and seizes his coat and kisses it. He stands aside bowing humbly. The street is thronged and there is laughter.

"I must register my character here also," the baron says.

He does, but only with the cane.

"Never when you are with people like these who are half developed must you fail to register yourself at once. They are fond of someone to fear. Never you will tell me this revolution is to free the people. All leaders who want to free the people are discontented aristocrats. The other aristocrats will not let them have what they want, so they overturn the order and take it themselves."

"I am going to wear these clothes. I call them my offensive clothes. They register my personality and show that I do what I please. There is one way to stop me and that is to kill me. But I have been in many places. So we will go to this Villa just as I am."

Villa received him. A baron? Villa is delighted. Will all Europe know of his prowess? All Europe will and history forever will record it even better than John Reed did in the Metropolitan Magazine. Villa is puzzled which John Reed? But Secretary Luis Aguirre Benavides remembers. There was such a young American long ago, before Torreon for one or two days. No one with the forces now. Will the baron step into the reception room of Villa's house? There is a twenty-five thousand dollar (not Mexican) chandelier. Yes, Villa is very fond of the beautiful chandelier. He likes comfort, despite reports to the contrary. We have dinner with Villa and Mrs. Villa. The leader of the revolution uses a knife and fork better than the average American. You are fascinated by his eyes. Some fool said no leaders of men have brown eyes. I think it was in the New York Journal. It doesn't matter. Villa has big soft looking brown eyes and according to form can never rise above a clerkship. That is why he is absolute ruler of millions in Mexico and more really ruler than the Czar.

Von Kriegelstein jokes with Villa and they indulge in horse play. The officers are amazed. Never has he become familiar with anyone before. Surely von Krigelstein cannot be right when he says Villa is a true aristocrat and is delighted to have a baron treat him as a companion. Will Villa pose for some nice pictures? There is no need of him looking like a bandit for Europe. Will not General Villa go upstairs and put on some glad rags? See Metropolitan Magazine for proof, Villa is a plain citizen who hates show. Villa comes down wearing a new uniform with, by actual authenticated figures, fifteen pounds of gold braid that never saw a brass foundry.
(To be continued)

Wall Street Reflections

THE seismograph of the stock market has shown no indication of the disturbances either of land or sea, in other cation of the disturbances either on land or sea, in other words the Mexican outbreak or the new subamarine crisis; this strikes one as a very significant fact.

The natural seasonal tendency is always upwards This year is no exception to the rule.

The closing of the Southern vacation season brings back to the financial centers a large number of Capitalists who will no doubt take particular interest in the spring activity.

At the present time the question of railroads is one of the great problems before this country. The industries of a nation can be no bigger than its transportation accommodations.

Our expert trade continues to break all records and it is generally believed that the threatened great strikes will be averted.

Bankers admit that the investing public is more discriminating in their purchasers than at any time this year and that there is extension buying of good securities in connection with the reinvestment of April dividend money.
                                        "Junius"

Bruno's Weekly, published weekly by Charles Edison, and edited and written by Guido Bruno, both at 58 Washington Square, New York City. Subscription $2 a year.

Entered as second class matter at the Post Office of New York, N. Y., October 14th, 1915, under the Act of March 3d. 1879.

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