Number 3 Cover

Number 3

Empty Words

    "PEACE on earth, good will toward men" —
           Empty words, that were empty thenl

     Two thousand years have thundered by,
     And still men give their God the lie,
     And still men battle and men die;
     And still they flay with flail of lead,
     Till earth is red and sea is red
     And heaven is crimson overhead.

    "Peace on earth, good will toward men" —
     When? And the echoes answer: when?
                                        H. Thompson Rich

Greenwich Village in Historical Novels

I The Goede Vrouw of Mana-ha-ta
At Home and in Society, 1609-1760

By Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer

MRS. ALEXANDER had purchased a beautiful spot that commanded a view of the bay of New York, and she hoped to engross her husband's attention in superintending the building of the house and laying out the grounds, and in this way distract his mind from the troubles that had agitated him for so many years. Small-pox was raging in New York, and the assembly was holding its meetings in Greenwich, that salubrious hamlet on Mana-ha-ta, which lay at least three miles beyond the city limits, and which was always the haven of refuge when yellow fever, cholera, small-pox and other dreaded scourges visited New York, introduced there by sailors who carried these diseases from port to port. The center of Greenwich was about on the spot that the Indians called Sapo-Kanican, which was the site of one of their villages. Minitie-water (or little brook) joined Bestevaar's Killitje or Grandfather (Van Cortlandt's) Creek, and ran through the place and part of it had been the farm of Mme. Oloff Van Cortlandt, that she called "Bossen Bowerie," or Bush farm. The English name was given to the place out of compliment to the palace of Greenwich (which was the haven of sailors, after it was no longer used by the king), when Admiral Sir Peter Warren, who for many years stationed in these waters, brought the adjoining property.

In 1739, Mr. Alexander received the news of the death, at his family estates in England, of the great-grandson of the first Earl of Stirling, who was Henry, the fifth earl who had died without male issue, leaving as heirs to the untitled property the wives of William Philips Lee and Sir William Trumbill. According to the grant of the original title, it would now pass to the eldest male heir, through John of Gogar, the great-grandfather of James Alexander of New York.

New York, Charles Scribner's Sons. 1898

Copyright 1916 by Guido Bruno

Eternal Minutes

By Guido Bruno

IT was raining, raining and raining on a late Sunday afternoon once years ago in London. I have forgotten the name of the street. But it was a rather stately looking row of stone mansions, whose doors were shut and undoubtedly locked. The house on the corner of the narrow side street was gray, window boxes with withered plants distinguished it among all others. The shades of the window were yellow and drawn. The house seemed unoccupied, but, strangely, the very large doors were wide ajar. The doorway was a welcome refuge for me as I hurried without an umbrella to the nearest tube. Many men and women with rain wet overcoats stood in this doorway, which led to a courtyard deserted as well as the other part of the house. Some of the men were pacing up and down nervously. Some were near the door looking with resignation up to the clouded skies which poured continuously enormous buckets of water upon the for once white-washed sidewalk. Others exchanged commonplaces about their unfortunate experience: to have been caught in the rain, just this afternoon, while they had been in a hurry to get to some place or another where their presence was most necessary. Still others were on the outlook for a cab.

Against the grey wall leaned a girl in a green raincoat She had a red hat and a lot of obstinate blonde hair. She stood there lazily. She seemed to be real happy. She was watching the rain drops which splashed upon the stone of the sidewalk and looking up to the roof of the house across the street, from where little waterfalls poured . . . . she seemed to enjoy it. She seemed to enjoy the impatience, and the wrath and the anger of fellow refugees. And tor a long while she observed with happy contentedness the tree in the back yard of the house, with its naked branches and the stone bench beneath it

She had big blue eyes.

She smiled as our eyes met. I looked tor a long time into her eyes; her smile vanished slowly — scarcely noticeably, before she turned them to the dripping umbrella of a new arrival. Our eyes met again. Just for one moment. And then someone whom she knew came with an umbrella and she left.

I did not look into her eyes for longer than a small fraction of a minute. But it seemed to me like a long lifetime, with all its longing, its promises, its disappointments, its joy . . . . with its inevitable parting.

Years have passed. But often on a rainy afternoon or in the twilight of a quiet hour or in the radiant sunshine of a glorious summer day do I think of the big blue eyes beneath the blonde curls and the red hat.

Cats' Purrs

By D. Molby

WHAT a cat enjoys apparently the most is to lie down in a warm place and just breathe and think. He can breathe any way he wants to but knows it is better to breathe through his nose so he does. He lets the air come in and go out just as it will. And if he wants to feel real pleased, he sings to himself. How he does it is to raise his soft palate and keep it raised so that the air in passing by it will make it vibrate. When the palate vibrates it makes vibrations in the air all around the cat and anybody who is close enough can hear them.

The same air each time is used twice: it makes vibrations as it goes in and it makes more as it comes out. The sounds it makes are different; for as it is inhaled it takes most of the vibrations on into the cat.

When the cat sings, it is supposed to be a sign of appreciation or contentment. But the cat probably doesn't know what appreciation is, and if it did, the cat would have no reason for thinking that its singing would show it. And if it were already contented, the cat would lie still that way and not bother to sing. The truth is more likely this: the cat is comfortable and feeling well and something starts the animal thinking it is happy. This makes the cat want to be more happy, so it begins to sing. In this way it soon has itself persuaded into the belief that it really is happy and of course this makes it contented.

Whether or not the cat ever sings when it is off by itself, nobody knows. But the probability is that the cat does.

Dapple Grey

            Gone is the day of Dapple Grey,
                My true love has grown up;
            Now she sighs for ribbons blue.
                And wants a silver cup.

            Be it silver cup or gold one,
                That steals my love away —
            No Prize is worth the winning
                If she loses Dapple Grey.
                                        G. G.

A Woman's Revenge

By Guido Bruno

Her voice sounded deep and quiet. "You are dying. You know it and I know it. We have been married ten years. Nine years we have been living together as strangers. You have taken my youth and destroyed my faith in humanity. You have made me poorer and more pitiable than the beggar on the street, for he has perhaps somewhere a heart that beats with love for him. And now that you are going — going forever — I will tell you how I hate you."

"I despise you  . . . .I loathe you . . . . Don't speak! I know everything and I have known everything all along. I could name them to you, one by one; the women through whom you have shamelessly betrayed me. There was the wife of your friend, Hans. There was the circus rider who bore you a child, there was the young sales woman who because of you drowned herself, there was my chambermaid. I discharged her and you settled her in quarters of her own. Then came the teacher. She was the only one for whom I felt any sympathy. She loved you honestly, and when she found out that you had a wife at home she gave you up. And then others followed in motley, quick succession. You took whatever crossed your path: decent women that suffered for their sin all their lives and girls whose customer you were. You led astray the wives of your friends and dishonored the daughters of your acquaintances."

"And now Fate has overtaken you . . . . . how coarse and relentless! No beauty, and none of the romance that you always loved and for which you lived. Oh, yes! . . . I know that, too! The last one — the very last! The beautiful wife of a motor-man attracted you. You overlooked her labor hardened hands and you took her. And for that the motor-man burst open your head with his crank. Ha! Ha! Ha! I must laugh, must laugh at your prosaic finish."

Like the gloating of the Furies when they laugh over a misfortune that they have passed and done with, sounded the laugh of this woman who was taking revenge for nine heart-breaking years.

Imperturbable had become the face of the dying man. But the more excitably, the more harshly, the more maliciously the woman spoke the more tender and the more loving grew his look. He embraced her body with his eyes.

He saw the girdle between skirt and blouse, the watch chain with the gold locket hanging from it. He had given it to her during their honeymoon. His picture was in that locket and half of a four-leafed clover.

He looked in her eyes, in the wonderful, deep violet eyes that were true, so true.

What he had not known for years he realized now: "Mia Mia! I have loved you always. You did not understand me. You did not try to understand me. I sought forgetfulness with the others. I drifted from one to the other. I was always searching for you and you were lost to me. Forgive me . . . Mia! . . . . Mia, I love you dear . . . I . . . always loved only you . . ."

"Harry, you lie! Tell me that you are lying! God in heaven! Don't go from me with a lie on your lips! That cannot be the truth!"

She sobbed. She wept. She fell on her knees beside the bed and threw her arms about the lifeless body.

A soft rain beat against the window panes. The silver scissors and knives that lay on the dressing table and waited in vain to care for the hands of the master glittered nobly. The blue and yellow vials on the medicine table sparkled like oddly cut semi-precious stones.

The quiet of an unchangeable misery lay over every object in the room.

Soundless tunes of an unplayed sonata of Beethoven diffused through the air.

A woman had taken revenge.

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

                                                                                                December 27th, 1915

THE death of Stephen Phillips takes from us another figure of the 'nineties and a man who by temperament at any rate was far more of a poet than many of his contemporaries upon whom fortune smiled more smugly. As Phillips said himself, he was not respectable enough for a Civil List pension or for one of those sinecure offices often given to men of letters. The man who had two or three poetic plays running in London at the same time and was the most successful literary dramatist since Wilde, came down to hawking his poems in person at newspaper offices. During the last year or so he had been editing the Poetry Review, a little literary journal subsidized by the Poetry Society.

It is to be supposed that Phillips died of alcoholism and regret —like most of the poets of his decade. One can see now the price those poets of the 'nineties had to pay for their few years of glory and the little ardor they brought back to our numbed and paralyzed literature. Dowson, Francis Thompson, Davidson, Lionel Johnson, Wilde — their lives are sad and bitter. They enriched the end of the century with a little fleeting beauty, but they gave it to us out of their hearts and hopes, or perhaps rather out their despair.

For the characteristic thing of the Renaissance of the 'nineties in England was its despair. It had something of the fever of music or revelry at a feast where time is short and the end is at hand. All their art suggests an intermezzo, beautiful but desperate.

All these poets and artists of the 'nineties seem on beholding the life of their time to have exclaimed in a kind of hopeless terror "Oh Lord!" and then to have alternatively sung or drunk, in unthinking despair.

They were artists, as good artists as their environment allowed them to be, but they were poor builders for any art of the future. That is, they had no conscious appreciation of their position in the society where they found themselves. They
knew it was disagreeable and antipathetic to their art, but that was the extent of their analysis. It led them for the most part to miserable ends.

Most of the books which are appearing at the moment are Christmas books, ornate and heavy tomes wherein indigestible thoughts lie like raisins in a plum pudding. Almost literarily they are sold by weight. They are very expensive and solid, and are bought by thousands. A notable book though shows its head here and there. Such an one is the translation of Romain Rolland's Au Dessus de la Melee, which is to be given the title of 'Above the Battle' and is published by Allen & Unwin. The book is also to be done in America, I hear. I have been acquainted with the French work for some time, having read the articles as they originally appeared in the Journal de Geneve, where Rolland is now living in exile. The publication in France of Au Dessus de la Melee was for some time forbidden by the French Government. It is not easy to see why, here in England, where we still enjoy a greater liberty of expression than they do in France. Any of these articles of Rolland's might have been published in any paper here at any time during the war, for the patriotism which inspires them is undoubted, and it is only a plea for reason and the intelligence which the author of Jean Christophe offers us in these beautiful pages. Here that spirit of reason, of humanity, which has found here and there in America some admirable expressions, crystallizes into a poignant form. I can only urge everyone to get this inspiring book where the intelligence of Europe that is gravely wounded and in agony finds an expression not unworthy of its glorious past. In the introduction we read, "A great nation assailed by war has not only its frontiers to defend. It has also its reason. To each man his task: to the armies the guarding of the soil of the fatherland. To the men of thought the preservation of thought."

Rolland protests against the brutal orgy of lies, of defamation and of panic hatred which a war produces among the baser intelligences of a people, and he asks the elite of the warring nations if they cannot still be good patriots without ceasing to be traitors to that European conception of humanity, which, up to the fatal moment of August 1914, had been their ideal.

Nor does he despair that for a legacy all that the war will leave will be ruin and chaos.

"They are mistaken who think that the ideas of free human brotherhood are suffocated now! . . . I have no doubt of the future unity of European society. It will be realized. This war is but its baptism of blood."

In the Role of the Elite, The Idols, and Inter Arma Caritas, Monsieur Rolland says some brave and uplifting words.
                                        Edward Storer

Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre

ISS VOLNOVA, who appears this Thursday for the first time before a New York audience, a young Russian girl who came recently to America, has the aim to interpret with her dancing what the great masters expressed on canvas or in marble and to give to our eyes what the music of her accompaniment gives to our ears. She will present a dance of the Orient, "A Vision of Salome," by G. B. Lampe. "War Tragedy" is the dramatic interpretation of the horrors of war. It is a
recent composition by E. R. Steiner. All that entrancing rhythm of Mendelsohn's "Spring Song" she sketches for the eye with her graceful, lithesome body.

Miss Volnova is an idealist who believes that dancing is an art which should be presented to the masses of the population, in its highest and most refined development. The goal of her ambition is to dance before "all and everybody" and to bring joy of life and sense of rhythm to those who need it most.

Mr. Alfred E. Henderson, who will introduce Miss Volnova in the coming season to art loving New York, will appear on the same program in his Henderson Trio with Agde Granberg and Miss Roelker. Miss Granberg will interpret by pantomime Oscar Wilde's "Happy Prince," which Mr. Henderson will read, accompanied by Miss Roelker on the piano.

What Is the Matter?

One can hardly believe that with so many real good, far above the average singers, piano players and instrumental artists extant and looking for engagement the offerings in our music halls and concert rooms of smaller caliber maintain a standard so far below the average. Real tragic are very often the tales of artists who apply for an appearance on the stage of Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre of their sad wanderings from managers to impresarios, from impresarios to press agents and all efforts to gain a public appearance strand upon those two requirements which to achieve they don't get a chance, money or reputation.

         Culture is all that that is left after we have forgotten what we learned.

        A real woman respects, above all, strength in a man.
                                        Guido Bruno

In Our Village

IF you are really one of those easily impressed and you have the energy to follow your first impulse after reading a newspaper article and to investigate for yourself, come down to Greenwich Village in the evening. Then it is that village of which you read, the background to so many big things, the essential in so many big lives, — the one part of the city where you can forget city and six million co-inhabitants of yours: there is the Arch with its simple architecture, the monumental gateway to the Square, between the naked branches of trees and bushes, houses big and small, with large windows and just stingy openings to let in the light. Lights here and there. High upon the tower of a hotel, an electric lighted cross and still higher above, a few stars, and if you are lucky and the night is clear, the moon. And then you cross over to the other side of the Square and there are the small narrow streets. The Square is deserted and only a few passengers waiting for the next bus make up the small group beneath the arc light. But the streets are peopled with men and women who stand around the Italian grocery shops and pastry bakeries; they worked all day and kept silent and now they live their real own life. There are cafes as you can see them on the rivas in small Italian coast cities where you really eat pastry and drink coffee and play dominoes. And then turn in one of those streets and unexpectedly, like the background of a miniature play-house, a little chapel looms up before you. The doors are open, candle before the altars are testimony that the saints are not forgotten. Women are sitting on the stairs selling rosaries, little statuettes and paper flowers; and men and women and children are passing in and passing out. They then follow the thundering elevated and turn again to the Square. As many windows as you see lighted in these mansions of yore are now used as rooming and lodging houses — as many homes do they contain.

Can you help thinking it: if I were a poet or an artist, would I surely live here and nowhere else?

But, dear reader, because you are living here you aren't necessarily a poet or an artist.

John Masefield returned to New York for a short stay and I hope he won't forget to visit the village where he spent so many years of his life, long before the day of his fame and recognition. He will speak on Sunday, the 16th, before the MacDowell Club. An extended lecture tour through the United States is before him.

Captain Hall's exhibit of marine scenes, forest scenes and especially his portraits of Lincoln and Nancy Hanks along with Lincoln's mother, are proving of great interest especially to those connoisseurs of art who are quite at a loss if confronted by something sincerely original but rather strange to the focal capacity of their eyes. The exhibition will continue on the walls of Bruno's Garret until the last week of January.

Sadakichi Hartmann will read in Bruno's Garret on Tuesday night, January 18th, his dramatic masterpiece, "Christ," and on Wednesday night "Buddha." The readings will start at 8:15 sharp. Admission is by ticket only. Because the seating capacity is limited it is necessary to close the garret if this limit is reached.

Mrs. E. C. Moloney, of "M. Y. Q." fame, recovered from a serious case of blood poisoning. She is contemplating a very busy social season during the coming month of balls and merriment.

Rossi Bros.' tea room right under Bruno's Garret is busy as ever selling stamps to those who do not wish to walk to the nearest post office station, which is very far off. There is a sub-station somewhere on Bleecker street, but outside of the sign indicating that there should be a post office, one cannot detect anything of its existence. Greenwich Village should have a post office of its own known as the "Greenwich Village Station," and no better place could there be for its establishment than in Rossi's, where everybody does his letter stamping anyhow.

Charles Keeler is at work on a new book of poems — "The Mirror of Manhattan." They are realistic glimpses of scenes and people in the city, written in free verse, with reflections from many angles of life, high and low. Many compressed stories are suggested in the familiar settings of New York, and there are hints scattered through the work to make one think of the meaning of it all.

In a recital at Bruno's Garret on the evening of Monday, January 24th, Mr. Keeler will read a selection from this new work. He will give a program, with one or two exceptions, of numbers that have not hitherto been heard. Among them are his Knight Songs for children, and a group from "The Victory," including picturesque and musical numbers in marked contrast to the realistic note in his poems of New York life.


        My soul was fashioned quick as fire
        From struggle, love, and pain.
        You took it in its glow and strength
        Beside your own to reign.
        Your own was dull and clogged and dim,
        And made for sordid day
        One night my young soul flared too far;
        Quivered, and fled away.
                                        KATHARINE S. OLIVER

Regarding Clara Tice

            I would not be unkind as G. G. was to Clara Tice,
            He said her drawings were not nice —
            I couldn't be so rude,
            But still I hope some day she'll draw a nude with pulchritude.
            And more abundant curves
            Those skinny nymphs of hers get on my nerves.
                                        F. R. A.

Christmas Toys
By Charles Keeler

A LITTLE child, with nose flattened against the big plate glass,
With eager eyes is peering in from the street,
Devouring the fairy toyland there displayed,
For it is holiday time and Christmas will soon be here!
There are dolls and blocks and elephants,
And barking dogs and jumping frogs
And books and games and Santa Claus.

Through the cold and the slush of the streets,
The passing crowd sweeps by,
But the little face is pressed against the pane,
Spelled by the wonder and joy of the scene.
So, I fancy, God peers in at the show window of the world.
Fascinated by His toys — His clowns and jumping jacks,
And dreams wondrous dreams about them.

''I Don't Want a Kitchenette. I Want a New Saddle for My Horse" said Alice

IN the evening you can see them, leaving stealthily their elevator apartments or their hotel suites, mounting a bus, with upturned collars and the hat deep into the face to protect them against the sharp wind, pilgrimaging down to the dear old haunts in the village. Years ago they used to live here in some obscure rooming house or in a "studio," right under the roof of a dilapidated mansion. Gonfarone's used to be their Delmonico, in their times of ebb. But their tea pot on the window sits and the grocer around the corner on Sixth Avenue could tell you of a good many breakfasts, lunches and dinners "at home."

And then came the times when tea pot and grocer were forgotten; and some good luck, and they moved up town.

But the longing for those good old days returns sporadically and overcomes them and they cannot resist the call of their hearts, and down they go to the places that the quite modern lust at large for "Bohemianism" made grow over night like mushrooms. They eat roast chicken and drink red wine somewhere at a small table in a dimly lighted, badly decorated spaghetti house with bad music. It isn't as it used to be; they miss something. And they speak about the good old times. But all is the same as it was, only they themselves have changed and they never can be the old ones again, because they have tasted their chicken in Delmonico's and know their imported wine lists by heart. And they remember their good old quarters with tea kettle and delicatessen. And for the atmosphere they did not bring with them to the spaghetti houses they are searching in apartments with kitchenettes.

A kitchenette! When two are just married and have no other object in life but to spend every minute possible together -— all apart from the world, and if they don't wish to have intruders (guests) or if they cannot afford to have an establishment of their own, how nice it is to have this kitchenette; in those days when eating is nothing but a necessity to furnish nourishment to the body, when to be alone means more than the culinary offerings of the finest chef. But later on in life, when many ideals are so near in reach that they are almost forgotten, when one has developed the ability to enjoy a meal as an art creation, the coziness of a kitchenette affair is something that really exists so long as you don't try it.

What these apartment dwellers are really searching for and cannot find is their old dear selves.

But why not be satisfied to place flowers upon the grave of a beloved one? Why try to dig out the coffin and look at the corpse?

That new self of theirs, which has so much sentiment and so many good thoughts for their own self of bygone days, is surely just as good — if not far better.

Spaghetti houses have usually soiled linen and not very clean silver. If there is a kitchenette, someone must peel the potatoes. And dinner tastes ever so much better after an hour's ride on horseback, and anyhow, holding onto the reins doesn't spoil one's hands. What a pity, if they are such nice hands!

Books and Magazines of the Week

ANTHOLOGIES seem to be in vogue. Especially the poets of the good old school of jingles and rhymes, who have to keep up with the procession and nod grudgingly acknowledgement to vers libre and imagists and all other individualistic expressions foreign to their anima laureata seem to be busy making compilations of other men's work and sitting as judges upon the poetry of last year.

Old man Braithwaite, the anthologist of the Boston Transcript, spoke the far reaching words of this year and the diamonds he selected from periodicals and magazines are sparkling in his anthology recently published by Lawrence J. Gomme. Others whose names are household words to the readers of monthly and weekly advertising mediums called popular magazines, had their selections published and now after the fields of current poetry are well-pastured, the short stories of 1915 are a welcome tooth-sharpener. The mere idea that a man would read two thousand two hundred some odd short stories in about five months in order to detect the best among them makes one shudder. But Edward J. O'Brien did it, and he had enough strength left after this rather herculean exercise to sit down and write an article about the American short story of 1915 and write a compilation of the best stories among them. The anthology was published in the Boston Transcript of January 8th and a selection of the stories, with stars, will appear in book form, similar to the anthology of Mr. Braithwaite. If there has to be a judge of the best performances of American writers in periodicals and newspapers, Mr. O'Brien, who is a young poet of no mean abilities himself, an idealist, surely must be welcomed. Just think what would have happened if Brander Matthews, the simplified speller, or William Dean Howells, the old stand-by, or some other dried-up representative fossil of American letters had been chosen in his stead!

But heartily do I agree with Mr. O'Brien that the worst story of the year was published in the Saturday Evening Post, and I would not hesitate to express my opinion in the plural and say that the worst stories not only in 1916, have come from that seat of culture in Philadelphia.

Kreymborg Anthology

Mr. Alfred A. Knopf announces for publication in March 1916, an anthology of the new verse from Others, edited by Alfred Kreymborg. Fifty men and women have contributed to Others during 1915 and the best of their work was chosen for this anthology. I hope Mr. Kreymborg will not forget himself. I still contend that a few pages on which he printed his own poems in his magazine are those most worth while reading.


The guarantors, the contributors and editors of POETRY will assemble on January the 23rd in the club rooms of "The Cliff-Dwellers" in Chicago and celebrate the recent beginning of the fourth year of this publication, which has been the standard bearer of poetry a la mode in America. "Poets of Illinois and other states will read new poems and guarantors will, it is hoped, express their feeling about the art and the magazine." Reservations are $2.50 a plate! Think of poets dining at $2.50 the plate! I'd like to see those guarantors express their feelings about the art and the magazine. Pass the plate, please!
The Minaret

The third number of this new periodical of Washington's schola poetarum contains the first installment of a series of "Silhouettes of the City," by Harold Hersey, which are exceptional pen sketches of everyday incidents, as we can see them "as we walk out on the street." I find among the editorials a very good suggestion for Vachel Lindsay to have a few of his rag-time jingles set to music.


This newcomer among the small magazines calls itself "a monthly magazine of truth" and is edited by Alfred E. Henderson, of the Society of Expressionists. A dramatic playlet by the editor "The Call of Love" contains a charming little poem, "The Face in the Fire."

Marinetti re-christened his painting

Marinetti re-christened his painting, "The Carnival of Paris" into "The Bombardment of the Cathedral of Rheims," by Blix, from "Simplicissimus."

Bulletin of the New York Public Library

The Bulletin for December, which just reached our desk contains a list of works in the New York Public Library pertaining to prints and their production, by Frank Weitenkampf, chief of the Art and Prints Division. "The object of the list, naturally and primarily, is to show what the library has of the literature of a subject the interest in which is steadily increasing."

Otto Lohr, the editor of this literary and historical weekly, is publishing very unique poetry in the pages of his magazine. A poem by Prince Karolath in the current issue shows the poet's creative genius.
Art Notes

The Macbeth Gallery publishes "in their own interest and the interest of American Art" a handsome little monthly magazine with good reproductions of paintings in their possession.

Zippa, the Mosquito
This is one of the short masterpieces by Paul Scherbaart the co-editor of "Der Sturm," the review of the small group of Futurists in Germany, who died recently. Translated by Guido Bruno.

OH, COME, come nearer to the lamp," gleefully exclaimed Zippa. Her wings fluttered and two hundred little mosquitoes followed the invitation of little Zippa, happy, joyful, without hesitation, without thinking.

Under the lamp, which was covered by a green silk screen, sat an old man eating his supper.

And there came Zippa with two hundred mosquitoes, and Zippa felt hilarious like never before.

"Dying! Dying surely is the sweetest thing in life! How we do wish to die! Just to die!" And all the mosquitoes repeated Zippa's exclamations.

With merry laughter they fluttered against the hot chimney, and soon they lay convulsed with pain next to the supper dishes of the old man. He wanted to kill quickly the dying mosquitoes so that they would not suffer a long death agony.

But Zippa cried while she shook her burnt wings. "Just leave us alone. We are happy to die — dying is so beautiful!" And again all the dying mosquitoes repeated what Zippa had said.

And everybody was laughing — and died.

The old man continued his supper.

He was hungry.

Maude: A Memory

By Guido Bruno
(Continued from last issue)

Maurice had entered the room noiselessly and approached Kenneth. He talked to him for a few seconds in a low voice.

"Courtland," said Kenneth, "Maurice informs me that one of your office nurses would like to talk with you on a very important matter. If you do not wish to communicate with her just now, let me tell her so."

"It will distract my mind," answered Courtland, "I would rather hear myself what she has to say." He went to a little table in a corner of the library. He took the receiver from the hook of the extension phone. He listened for several minutes. The peaceful quietness of the room was suddenly broken.

"What!" he shouted into the instrument and jumped from his seat holding the receiver tightly to his ear and talking intently info the mouthpiece. "Repeat that name! Tell Mrs. Regan that I will be at the office presently. It will not take longer than thirty minutes to get down there. Are there any newspapers in the office? Don't let her see them under any circumstances! Do you hear? Under any circumstances!" was the abrupt sounding order Courtland gave after the nurse had answered at the other end of the wire.

Kenneth was near his friend. He tried to look uninterested but every fiber of his face seemed to vibrate and the big question was written on his face. A few seconds passed in silence. Courtland turned to his friend. He appeared calm and quiet. His voice, tired and disinterested only a few minutes ago, had the old metallic ring of a man possessed of his ability to direct others.

"Will you please let me have your car, Kenneth? I am sorry for your chauffeur. I hate to discommode people when they think they are through with their day's work."

Kenneth rang the bell, gave Maurice the order to phone to the garage to have the car ready. After the butler had gone, Courtland approached Kenneth. He stepped near him. He looked into his eyes in an imperative way. "And now, Kenneth," he said, "I invite you — unless you prefer to stay at home and retire — to come with me and meet the woman you defended a few minutes ago. A woman who has the face of a true ideal companion for a man who has longed for her all his life, who has the soul of a liar and a deceiver! She wishes to speak to me — to me the physician. Maude Regan is waiting in my office."

The elevator man was asleep in a comfortable chair he had put in the car. The halls of the big building resounded with the footsteps of the two late visitors. Only a few electric lights shone mistily in the corridors. Mechanically the elevator door was shut by the sleeping guard and in no time they had arrived at the sixteenth floor. The doors of the anteroom were open. Courtland and Kenneth entered. They took off their coats and hats and threw them upon the canopy. One of the nurses came out. She whispered for a few minutes with the doctor. Courtland's face was rigid. A severe sternness had settled on his forehead. His eyes were hard as Kenneth had never seen them before. He passed the door of the reception room where she waited. He went into his own den.

Contrary to his custom he turned on the big candelabra in the middle of the ceiling. He turned on the lights on the walls and turned on the different lamps on the tables and on the mantel. "I want light, Kenneth," he said, "light and truth are friends. Dreams, darkness and twilight are always companions. Dreams and twilight disappear; submerging in darkness, leaving nothing behind but disappointment and despair."

He rang the bell, the nurse opened the door leading to the operating room. "Tell Mrs. Regan I am at her disposal."

The highest tension of a peculiar dramatic climax seemed to lie in the air of the daylight illuminated room. Comfort and peace seemed to be everywhere. Kenneth, his back turned to the door and to his friend, looked intently at the miniature painting of some strange looking woman in the attire of a court lady at the time of Louis IV. It struck him funny to look at the severe features of the young face and he admired the exquisite detail work of the artist who, perhaps, had spent months to bring out the real lace effect of the Stuart collar, draped graciously around the lady's neck. He did not understand the strange behavior of his friend and he wished for seconds that he might be at home in his library to finish the book he had started early in the afternoon.

But again he recalled the helplessness of Courtland down on Michigan Avenue in front of that jewelry store where he had first seen that picture of the woman on that dreadful pink page. Sympathy for the man standing there expecting to face the hardest situation a man is ever called upon to face, swept through his heart, and while still feeling like an intruder, he was glad he was in the room.

She wore a black tailor-made suit The white lace ruffle around her neck, the white lace cuffs over her black kid gloves, relieved the somewhat severe impression of her attire. She wore a black felt hat with a very small brim.

Courtland had forgotten to answer her greeting. He startled her like the creation of another world. She had started to explain her presence in his office at this late hour. She noticed the extraordinary actions of the doctor. She stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked helplessly back and forth from Kenneth to Courtland, and then into Kenneth's face whose big eyes were staring at her. Kenneth looked at his friend, torturing his brain for some remark, a word that would relieve the situation.

"You are Maude Regan?"
(To be continued)

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