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From the Collection of Patrick F. Madigan
This poem of G. K. Chesterton appeared never before in print

The Bruno Players

THE BRUNO PLAYERS will open their season on February 28th, in Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre, No. 10 Fifth Avenue, with August Strindberg's naturalistic drama, "Miss Julia." They are a small group of actors and actresses that wish to interpret Strindberg, Tchekoff, Wedekind, Artzibasheff and Gogol's works in the simple and sincere way in which these playwrights created their characters. Under the management of Guido Bruno, who is assisted in the direction by Langdon Gillet, they will play on three nights of the week, every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and on one afternoon, on Saturday, in the Thimble Theatre, and later, the last three days of the week in an uptown show house.

The performances of the Bruno Players will not interfere and have no connection whatever with Mr. Charles Edison's work in the Thimble Theatre, benefiting American musicians and composers, which will be continued, and the free musicales will take place on the evenings of Thursday, Friday and Saturday of each week.

The Bruno Players do not intend to do anything startling, unusual or sensational. Everything worth while in life is simple and made of very humble substance. To view life as it is, to see what is actually happening, one needs just a pair of good eyes, and in order to understand what others say, the things that they really mean to say, one needs knowledge of the language and a pair of good ears. Therefore, there will be nothing startling and unusual used in the theater of the Bruno Players. No luxurious equipment for the audience. No new color schemes, no unexpected effects or revolutionizing stage features, no architecture, producing optical illusions on the stage. It will be a show house in the realest sense of the word. A house where something is shown.

The things which are put on show being the only reason for the existence of the house, and its main and sole feature.

Only with physical comfort is the human mind susceptible to new impressions, ready to listen, to like or dislike, to approve of or to reject. An unprejudiced mind must be housed in a comfortable-feeling, self-unconscious body. Therefore, comfortable armchairs are provided with plenty of room to the right and to the left, to enable one to change one's position easily, and plenty of space between rows, so that the legs do not feel step-motherly treated.

The stage is simple. Just an elevation, with no other purpose than to expose the performers conspicuously to everybody present. ACTING IS GOOD AS THE RESULT OF BEING ITSELF. Therefore, stage settings of more or less conspicuous designs, decorations of all kinds, the appliance of the science of stage lighting are only irritating and distractive to the attention.

Miss Julia by August Strindberg

MISS JULIA is the strongest of the naturalistic dramas Strindberg wrote in the best years of his life. He considered it himself the best work that he had ever done. The Swedish censors prohibited its production in Sweden, and it was acted in New York but once — at a private performance, some years ago, before an invited audience in the Forty-Eighth Street Theatre.

Strindberg is no playwright, from the standpoint of the modern theatrical producer. He does not care for construction. He does not build up situations carefully. There is no painstaking architecture of actions. We do not admire the objective correctness, or consequence of the characters he paints; all we see is the gripping life and the brutal truth of detail. Strindberg is not satisfied that we see the things he chooses to show us, but we have to feel them on our skin. We have to bump against them if we find ourselves unexpectedly confronted with them. He is not a planner who builds up his work before our eyes. He is not a painter of decorations who provides for us illusions and perspective pleasures of the eye; he is the magician who spills everything right under our noses — too often, not over pleasantly, because he does not always charm forth peaches and canaries.

"Miss Julia" is a consciously naturalistic tragedy, very unreal in its construction. Strindberg has an uncanny power to paint the wild and hunted life of the minute, and the explosion of actions, the hissing vapors of wrath. He knows better than anyone else how to show us everything animal and primitive in the life of the soul, the hatred and anger, the combat between hostile wills, but also resignation, weariness, and dejection. But the naturalist with the clear and sharp eyes, is also a mystic, following Swedenborg into his translunaric world, one who knows how to charm before our eyes, the dark plays of dreams and the abysses of the soul.

Strindberg might fail very often, as his adversaries claim justly, to give us a deep psychological evolution of his characters, but he never fails to show us through his elementary dramatic actions, through his dialogues, to which one has to listen and through his effects, which cannot be ignored as less than explosions — real life.

To do on the stage what Strindberg did on paper is the intention of the Bruno Players.

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

                                                                                February 10th, 1916

THIS week I think I will begin with a little chat on some of London's literary bookshops — I mean the intimate interesting places where an atmosphere of humanity and the humanities lingers. We have our share of the other kind too — glittering parlors where the new books are stacked in lifeless slabs, places full of chaos and quantity. But there are perhaps as many as a dozen or so little places which make for the pleasure and worthiness of book buying in London. I scarcely know where to begin or with whom. There is The Poetry Bookshop, and Dan Rider's, well known to American literary men and artists, and the Bomb Shop in Charing Cross Road, with its Socialist and Anarchist literature, and Beaumont's, opposite, with the delightful drawings by continental artists, and Reeves, by Waterloo Bridge, who buys the reviewers' review copies, and Mr. Shore's Book Parlor, off Holborn. There are the barrows in the roadway in the Farringdon Road, where you may get a beautiful text of Aeskhylos or Terence for a penny, or unearth a neglected Aldine from a mass of rubbish, if you are lucky.

Harold Monro's Poetry Bookshop, in Devonshire street, has been the subject of many articles, I fancy, some of which have appeared in American journals. Yet, possibly the real reason for the existence of such a shop has never been explained. In planning his venture, Mr. Monro perceived what all modern poets have had to face at one time or another of their careers that the ordinary channels of approach between author and public are closed for them. To the average bookseller all new poetry is dead. To him its birth certificate is also its death certificate. Under pressure he will order you a copy of a book of contemporary verse, but he would rather not. It employs the energies of his staff in an unprofitable adventure. As a result, the author of a book of new poetry has to find an opening for it himself. He must, when he has written it, become commercial traveler for it and actual, if not nominal, publisher as well. Mr. Monro saw this, as we have all seen it, and the obvious deduction from it was that in order that contemporary poetry may have a chance to exist, the public for whom it is intended must be brought together. First, this public, which, after the dissipation of the Yellow Book movement and the art-culture of the nineties, was scattered and lost, must be rediscovered. Monro set himself the task of appealing directly to this lost public, this audience of awakened and awakening souls. I am sure it was no easy task, but in a measure it has been successfully accomplished. The proprietor of The Poetry Bookshop was the man to carry the scheme through. He had a genuine love of poetry for its own sake, and in a sense he was incorruptible — that is, he would not come down to publishing rubbishy verse because the author of it was a wealthy person who could afford to offer a nice bonus over the printing cost. Monro had a quarterly review, Poetry and Drama, which he allowed to perish soon after the war began — too timidly, I think. The Poetry Bookshop is now — even in war time — a successful venture. Its danger, of course, is that it will be too successful and prefer a good balance sheet to the austere service of the Muses.

Everybody knows "Dan's," or Dan Rider's bookshop. Dan is "the laughing bookseller," the friend of the impoverished artist, the proprietor of the smallest and jolliest Bohemian club in London, the first man American writers visit when they come to London. In the little square room at the back of the shop many projects have been hatched. There, at his table, covered with books and papers, sits "Dan," dispensing advice or his cheerful cynicism to whomsoever may look in. The place is an institution often described in articles and novels, and I cannot do justice to it.

At the Bomb Shop you buy Socialist and Anarchist literature, Fabian wares, I.L.P. pamphlets, and suffrage literature. For first editions, especially of modern poets, and perhaps particularly of Francis Thompson, one would go to The Serendipity Shop, so named after the word coined by Horace Walpole. Everard Meynell, son of Alice Meynell, keeps this charming little book snuggery. But, perhaps that is enough of book-shops for today.
                                        Edward Storer

After the German of Stanislav Przybyszewsky, Author of "Homo Sapiens.''

By Guido Bruno

IN the beginning there was sex. . . .

Out of the voice box of the human being sex tore the first long-stretched sounds, it directed them to the tact of the pulsing heart, it formed them into rhythm and melody, it shaped them into the neighing, howling and growling of pain, into the snarling and grinning of hatred, into the murmuring and whispering of love, into the smuttered, heaven-high joyful shouts of gladness of the organism and of ecstasy:

Sex gave birth to the world:

And sex diffused itself with super-power into the muscles of the human body; it handed man the club as it came upon him to destroy his rival in the contest for his mate, it increased his powers unto the indefinite when he had to protect the life of his mate and of his brood. It helped him to clear forests, to tear apart the womb of the earth, to direct into new beds rivers and lakes, to subdue seas and to conquer mountains; sex awakened the brain from its slumber, forcing it into incomprehensible suffering and into the labors of never-heard-of work and into cunning and into the sly betraying with which he stole the fire from the gods and into audacious daring so that he mounted the Pelian upon the Ossa, and so that he broke open the doors of the kingdom of heaven.

Sex gave birth to the deed.

And sex forced its way into the heart of man. It filled it out completely. It awaked in man the desire to see everybody as happy as sex itself was in its sacred elevation of happiness. It incended in him the powerful wish to play music for the whole world to a joy-dance, so that everybody might become self-conscious in blissful play and might join in the great sacred hymn of life. To the tables of richest banquets did it invite all, and therefore sex created pity and consolidation, it created father and mother, brother and sister, it united the human sex through bonds of blood and of friendship. But at the same time it became the origin of revengefulness and of inordinate desire of murder and of crime; it separated and crushed to every wind the seed of the Abel, of the Seth and of the Cain.

And so created sex the family, the clan, the nation. And then it tore open widely its eyes and looked back with inexpressible longing and looked far, far back towards its divine origin.

Millions and millions of years had it been staring into the sacred fire whose luster meant life to all worlds and all animals on which it lived.

Sex craved for divinity!

And it expanded the chest of man with fervent longing, it saturated his heart with the sweet poison of weakness and of trust, it stole one beam after another from out of the aboriginal fire until it had incended in the soul of man a heart-flame through which it started to dissolve and to diffuse completely and forget its own self-subsisting ego.

In the love!

And there came to pass the miracle: Amorphos Hyle united with Logos!

The Holy Spirit descended upon sex and thus sex created — love.

And now the bars broken down and the doors of the human soul opened wide to the stars, to the heaven, to the sun; the beams of mercy and the most incomprehensible wonders sprouted suddenly from invisible origins; a thousand unknown feelings, comprehensions and perceptions expanded the human soul, expanded it to the bigness of the divine being; the arms were stretched out toward never-thought-of worlds; it bowed the knees before gruesome mysterious powers and man rooted up dust in terror, in trembling and in reverence; hidden forebodings became certainties and the certainty did hide in the deep, unlit darkness of the unknown — the unknown which was so indefinitely near. Mindful of its divine origin, sex nestled in the heart of man with the glad tidings:

Sex was the first one to talk to man of God! The super-power of sex grew with love and the consciousness of its divinity.

A hot stream poured out into the darkest hiding places and the most secret faults of the soul; it illuminated the darkest abysses with the sunny glow of light; it inflamed rocks so that they were glowing in blazing flames; it reorganized the worlds and created them into its shapes and in new forms. All instincts were directed into its broad bed; all forebodings, all lust and all pain, hatred and the blessed ascension of man to heaven, the whole life's struggle of a boundless and unrestrained soul, and it carried the foaming waves to the opposite shore and threw them down at the feet of God so that He might rejoice in his image.

And thus sex became the confidant of God and carried Him glad messages of how man had been drawn nearer to HIM through Art.

Sex gave birth to Art.

And so sex is the Androgyne, "father-mother" of all that is, that was, that will be: the powerful original fountain of might, of eternal strength, of enthusiasm and intoxication, of the most sacred attempt to storm the heavens and of the gravest, most detestable Pall of Man, of the highest virtue and of the most devilish crime. There is no power that can compare itself with sex, and as such it is the extreme beauty and the only link uniting us with the Absolute, because there it originated and to thence will it return.

It is the hot gulf which melts the ice and which fructifies the earth, creating an Eden or a hell for the generation of men.

It is that ocean which encircles the whole universe, embracing it with loving arms. It is the one pledge and the one certainty of the divine in man.
                                        Cat's Paw

The Betrothed

By Aleksei Remizov
    Translated from the Russian by John Cournos.

THREE years a lad played with a lass, three autumns. Countless were the words spoken in whispers. That was how Maria loved Ivan!

Who, among us, nowadays, loves like that?

The time came to put blossoms in the hair. And Maria was given to another, she was not given to Ivan!

Quickly the parents made the match between them. A nice, well-to-do son-in-law was found; the old folk were pleased with themselves.

And there was no more honey in life for her; dark grew the face of Maria, even darker than an autumnal night. Only her eyes flickered, flickered like two candles.

Her soul was weary, a frosty cold congealed her heart. Desolate, she sang in the evening her dolorous songs. Death itself would have been welcomed. Yet bravely she resigned herself, and bravely endured.

Three years Maria lived with the ungracious one, three autumns. And one day she fell ill. She did not pine a long time, but died during the feast of Kuzma and Demian.

And then they buried Maria.

O ho! the winter had come, with its frosts; white snow covered the grave! And Maria lay under the white snow; no longer flickered those eyes, the eyelids were sealed over them.

One night Maria rose from her grave; she went to her husband.

A sign of the cross made he, Feodor her husband, the ungracious one.

"What does she want, the accursed one?" and he would not let his wife in.

Maria then went to her father, to her mother she went.

"At whom are you gaping?" said her father.

"Where, witch, are you going?" said her mother.

The father was frightened, the mother was frightened, they would not let their daughter into the house.

Maria went to her godmother.

"Get you away, soul of a sinner, where you will, there is no room for you here," and away sent the godmother her godchild.

And Maria was now left alone, a stranger in this wide world; no other roof had she than the sky.

"I will go to him, to my first one, my earlier one," thought Maria suddenly, "he will take me in!"

And she appeared before Ivan's window.

Near the window she could see Ivan sitting; he was painting a picture of the Virgin Mary.

She knocked on the window.

Then Ivan wakened his servant. It was night, and together they went out with hatchets.

The servant, when he saw Maria, was frightened. Without looking round once he ran away.

She looked at Ivan.

"Take me in, I will not harm you."

Ivan was overjoyed; he approached her, and he embraced her.

"Stop!" she cried, "don't press me so tightly, my bones have lain for some time."

And she herself kept looking at him, she could not tear her eyes away; she caressed him, and could not caress him enough. That was how Maria loved Ivan!

Who, among us nowadays, loves like that?

Ivan took Maria into his house, he did not show her to anyone; he gave her dresses, also food and drink. And thus they lived until Christmas together.

On Christmas Day they went to church. In the church all began to look at Maria — her father and her mother, her husband Feodor and her godmother.

When the service ended Maria went over to her mother.

"Yes, I am your own," said Maria. "You will remember that one night I came to you, and none of you would let me in, and so I went to my first one, my earlier one, and he took me in."

And they all acknowledged Maria, and they gave judgment: they gave her not to her old husband Feodor, but they gave her to Ivan.

O ho! the spring had come, the snow had thawed away, the green grass sprang up, and upon the little red hill were wedded Ivan and Maria.

Here is an end to my tale, an end to my novel.
From the Egoist, London

A Fable

SEVERAL nights after the beginning, the moon came up through the dark appearing unusually sleepy.

When the stars who were envious of the moon's superior light, saw her worn-out condition they thought this an excellent opportunity for the wind to extinguish her as he had promised to do, and, calling to a comet who was visiting his friends in the heavens, ordered him to tell the wind that he now has a chance to fulfill his contract with them.

The comet fell through space till he came to the region of gales and told the wind what was wanted of him.

"All right" said the wind, and, whispering to the stars to steady themselves, filled his gigantic cheeks and blew a tremendous breath in the direction of the moon, expecting to see her totter and fall, black and lifeless, in the gloom.

Now the moon was utterly unconscious of the fact that an attempt to annihilate her had been made, and, slowly turning to the stars, who were shrieking and gripping at the sky in abject terror, said very blandly and without malice: "Say, little freckles of the night, what's all this fuss about?"
                                        Ralph Johnson

Ad Tabitham

        Twelve years old and old at that,
        Shall I sing of thee today.

        Tenant of my lonely mat.
        If I did, what should I say,

        As a subject thou art flat;
        Go away and — play; nay —pray

Replated Platitudes

ATHLETICS is simply physical exertions divorced from a utilitarian purpose; for if any utility inhere to the exertions, it at once becomes just vulgar labor, and no gentleman will have anything to do with it. Thus: playing golf is athletic exercise: but hoeing potatoes is vulgar labor: ergo gentlemen don't hoe potatoes.

Where a will won't make a wag, a wag-ward will sometimes will.

Hind-sight is to find out what was the matter with foresight.
                                        Julius Doerner


        SONG! and a beam:
            Life! and a flower:
            Death! and a dream:
            Scorn! and the hour.
                                        Joseph L. French

As I Walk Out on the Street

A LONG chain of carriages, delivery wagons and automobiles blocked Fifth Avenue on one of the sunny and mild afternoons we had last week, and among other pedestrians that wished to cross over to Thirty-Fourth street, I waited patiently until the green sign, "Go," should be substituted by the policeman for the peremptory red, "Stop." The policeman stood amidst all this moving and waiting mass of humanity of harnessed animals and of rattling automobile engines like a rock of safety or like a potentate among his subjects.

It took a long time. A very long time.

The imperative ringing of a bell, as is used on ambulances and the fire chiefs' automobiles, made me look into the direction whence these sharp sounds interrupted the monotony of my waiting and of my obeying. Human misery has something majestic, something that seems to give it a right to disobey laws. It was not an ambulance, and I also, could not espy the flaming red-painted touring car in which the commander of his fire squads hurries to their temporary places of action.

It was a big, green, what seemed to be, a delivery wagon, driven by a policeman, and a few policemen were at the other end of the wagon. It was a patrol wagon. On benches alongside its walls behind bars, which admitted light and air into it, flanked by two policemen, sat a girl.

The patrol wagon, too, had to obey the orders of the traffic policeman. It stopped.

It stopped right next to a snow white limousine, with purple curtains, and with 9 footman next to the chauffeur's seat.

Both automobiles were side by side. I am tall. I could easily look into the vehicle:

A girl between two policemen. The charge against her was written upon her face.

The girl in the limousine, between two gentlemen. But a charge was also written upon this woman's face.

"In uniforms, they guide the one to her earthly fate," I thought.

"Plain clothes men look after the other."

A VERY large American flag was exhibited on Washington's Birthday, in a tremendous show window on Fifth Avenue. The Stars and Stripes were draped around a life-sized painting of Washington and around painted signs, which told in big, black letters what "Washington had said about Preparedness," and what "President Wilson had said about Preparedness," and there was all over the window, in big black letters, the question directed to you or to me: "What will YOU do to defend your flag?"

A half an hour later, I was sitting in a spaghetti house on Sixth Avenue, where one can get an eight course dinner for fifty cents, and a breath of "Bohemian atmosphere." Washington's Birthday was celebrated there by an addition of a biscuit tortoni to the regular dinner. It was served in flaming red paper, together with the black coffee. A little American flag was stuck upon it!

How was I to defend this much abused flag?

The War

WE HAVE a new chambermaid in our hotel since the declaration of the war. She is a nice woman, slender, blonde, with a snub nose. She is not really a trained and experienced chambermaid, but for the last four years, the wife of one of our waiters, who was called to the colors. They took her in mostly out of charity, and she is helping out here and there. I gave her one krone, one day, which I had kept for years as a pocket-piece, and then, later on, I gave her several more krones, which I had not kept as pocket-pieces, and told her to buy some better food for herself. She was pale, and I thought that she needed better food than they served in the maids' dining-room.

One day I said: "Mathilda, you are not using my krones for better food and for little luxuries, but you are sending it to your husband in the trenches!"

She blushed, and answered: "Isn't that food and luxury for me?"

The next day after this little sketch had appeared in a local paper the young wife accosted me in the hallway where she had been busy on some errand or other, and said:

"I am so ashamed and so hurt because you brought me into the papers!"

"Ashamed? Hurt! It was an honor, Mathilda!"

"You poet, and you dreamer you! But I did not send the money at all to my husband. I ate it all myself! And not even that, I bought myself a new waist with it! How do I look now to you and to the world?"
After the German of Peter Ahenberg by Guido Bruno

A Poem by Richard Aldington

           CEASE grumbling brother!
                All men are wretched;
                Some too rich,
                Most too poor —
                Happiness eludes them.

                We have books and talk.
                Women (not many)
                And rich imaginings.
                Let us pardon the gods
                Who made us men
                For they have made us poets!
                                        From The Egoist, London

Books and Magazines of the Week

W. A. BRENNAN, of the Medical Science Department of the John Crerar Library, of Chicago, has done tobacco in general and the much abused cigarette, especially, a great service. His book, "Tobacco Leaves," just published by the Index Office, Inc., in Wenasha, Wisconsin, contains the history of tobacco, in all the forms it is being used, from the standpoint of a scientist, from the standpoint of a manufacturer, of a salesman and of a consumer. There are chapters devoted to the botanical evolution of the tobacco plant and to the cultivation of the tobacco plant. There are a lot of statistics which are really a little bit dry for the average tobacco lover and tobacco user. But there are such relieving chapters as "Cigarettes," "Snuff," "Psychological Effects of Smoking." And then there is a vast amount of quotations from medical journals, and from the pages of the best books of our best authors. Here is one, that should be read by those who always advocate the cigarette as one of the causes of a national decadence. It is from the New York Medical Journal of July 25, 1914, an editorial: "Particularly do the uninformed enjoy an attack on the cigarette; it is small, and its patrons, numerous as they are, yet form an insignificant minority in our immense population. Therefore, the cigarette and its users are fair game for cheap and silly sneers; sneers which are capable, however, of cowing an entire legislature, as in Georgia, at this moment. Yet, beyond cavil, it has been proved scientifically that of all methods of using tobacco, CIGARETTE SMOKING IS THE LEAST HARMFUL. Some months ago, the "Lancet" undertook a careful laboratory study of the various ways of consuming tobacco, with the result that it was found that cigarettes, Egyptian, Turkish and American, yielded the least amount of nicotine to the smoke formed; the cigar came next in point of harmfulness, while the pipe overshadowed the cigar to the extent that from 70 to 90 percent, of nicotine was said to exist in its smoke.

"As to the paper of cigarettes, the attacks are simply preposterous. Men are well within their rights in forbidding cigarette smoking and other pleasures and distractions to their employees; it is another matter when they seize an opportunity to compound with vices they have a mind to, by damning one they're not inclined to, especially when the latter affords solace and recreation to millions perfectly capable of judging what is and what is not good for them. In Europe, where a good deal of logical thinking still prevails, there is probably not one smoker of distinction in any walk of life who does not include the cigarette in his nicotine armamentarium."

Alfred Knopf and "Homo Sapiens"

I do not know whether it is true, but if the rumors that Mr. Knopf, who was arrested by Sumner, at present America's Anthony Comstock, for publishing Przbyszewski's "Homo Sapiens" has pleaded guilty, he did something which commands even more respect than to publish the book in question.

I do not know who this Mr. Knopf is; letters I have written him have come back as undelivered; but if he really has the courage of conviction to sacrifice the publicity connected with such a process in court, and would rather suffer financial loss than to drag a work of art, which is unquestionably high above suspicion, through the sewers of our yellow journalism in order to sell a good many copies to seekers after the obscene, he must command the respect of everybody who knew Przbysewski. ''Homo Sapiens" was written in the Berlin days of the then exiled Pole. All of his works written in German in his best years, are more vigorous and more methodical and convincing than anything he did in later years in Polish.

Much Ado

Harry Turner, the editor of this fortnightly, which carries Shakespeare on its front cover and a champagne ad on its back cover, uses on the pages of his fortnightly mostly drawings, articles, poems and stories which he has lifted from exchange copies sent to him by Bruno's Weekly, Greenwich Village, and Bruno Chap Books. We find in the issue of February 17th, a drawing by Coulton Waugh, which was used several weeks ago as cover design for Bruno's Weekly. Harry Turner has used a lot of other drawings by the artists known to the readers of this journal. He not only abstains from giving credit to the publications, but does not even mention the name of either author or artist.

This is the most detestable and the cheapest way of editing a magazine. It is like selling stolen goods.

Der Sturm

Herwarth Walden, the editor of this only international review appearing at present in Germany, publishes as the leading editorial of the current issue what he calls "The Song of Songs of Prussianism," a fine satire upon the Prussianism as it was hated before the war in all intellectual Germany, upon that militarism which appeared in caricature and sarcastic criticism in the leading art papers of Germany.

Bulletin of the New York Public Library

The January issue, just off the press, contains a very interesting impression of the New York Public Library upon Roman Jaen, translated from the Spanish by George M. Russell, first lieutenant, cavalry, U. S. A. The same issue contains a list of works upon American Interoceanic canals, which can be found upon the shelves of the library. It is compiled by John C. Frank.

The Trail

The second number of this new literary venture, fostered in and sent to the world from Weyauwega, Wisconsin, offers special prices of $5 each for the best articles not to exceed five hundred words in length, answering that eternal question, "Why Suffrage Should be Equal!" It is very safe to offer even a large price for the correct answer to this question in five hundred words.

The Minaret

This new magazine from Washington, D. C, develops, under the joint editorship of Herbert Bruncken, of Shaemus O. Sheel, and of Harold Hersey, into a very interesting contemporaneous miscellany. The February issue contains "The Railroad Attorneys," another one of "Silhouettes of the City," by Harold Hersey."

In Our Village

I WAS down at Alice Palmer's "Village Store," right next to my Garret, where Aunt Clemmie used to have a dining-room last year and sell such excellent Southern food.

It was late in the afternoon, and the villagers were very busy sewing costumes for the Pagan Rout, the annual blow-out of the Liberal Club. The store was deserted. Alice Palmer, in a big chair, sat before the dying-out grate fire, busily knitting shoes that must have been intended for a costume too. It is a nice place to rest in this new venture in the small shop movement in Greenwich Village.

Alice Palmer is also a self-styled post-mistress. Anybody that resides in the village can have his letters addressed to the Village Store. The general delivery regulations are done away with here, and questions are not being asked. If there is a letter for you, you simply get it.

But I was a bit disappointed to find on the shelves and tables brass and pottery only, and on the walls only a picture here and there. Why not sell some foodstuffs? We haven't a decent grocery shop above Sixth Avenue, and there are always days when we wish to "dine in."

Arthur H. Moss also entered upon a business career in Greenwich Village. He will sell in his Modern Art Shop "distinctly other things than other shops sell. Artists' supplies and art stationery" will be his specialty, and the dyeing of silks by Violet Trafford a side line.

Mark Dix and Alexander Saas feel spring even before the first swallow has arrived. "Window Boxes" is their slogan for the oncoming warm season. They have very handsome ones in front of their windows and cannot see how other people can exist without window boxes. They are contemplating to form a new society with the sole purpose of inducing everyone who has a window to hang a box with evergreen and geraniums and smilax in front of it

Ella Wheeler Wilcox was the last one to view Bruno's Garret before its partial destruction by fire. She and Mrs. Davis, the playwright, were the last visitors to write their names into the Guest Book. Here is her letter meditating upon the visit:

My dear Mr. Bruno:

I have always been considered a Mascotte and have been told I brought good luck to people. Therefore it was a great shock to my self-conceit to think you had a fire in your Garret so soon after my call.

Mrs. Davis, who is also a good-luck-talisman-sort of person, was struck amidship by the news of your misfortune.

We enjoyed our call so much. We hope you really do not see any relation between our call and the fire.

In those prehistoric days when I first published "Poems of Passion" (before you were born) the paragrapher would have found great food for jests on this incident, but I am sure it doesn't apply to my present self.
                                        Ella Wheeler Wilcox

An Evening With Bruno Players

MISS JULIA, the supremely tragic figure which we meet so often in daily life, the woman whose life is a constant struggle against powers she is trying to control, filled with longings no one appears able to satisfy; the valet, Jean, who is a bad servant, and therefore can never be a master; and Christine, to whom religion means self-confidence, a self-confidence which enables her to walk her own way, undisturbed by tragedies which mean destruction to others; these three, on midsummer eve, the mystical night of the Scandinavian countries — a few hours only.

Unspeakable pains are suffered, cruelties committed, sweet dreams dreamed — and then, in the morning, a new day has started and everything is just as it was before.

Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre

The last three nights of the week are devoted as hitherto to the furtherance of American musicians and singers. There will be no admission fee charged for the musicales on Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings, on which American musicians and composers will have a chance to appear before a public audience.

Miss Suzanne Michod, who aspires to become a concert singer, and who came recently to New York to complete her studies, will sing this week Ronold's "Down in the Forest" from "A Cycle of Life"; "Across the Hills" by Rummel, and "The Nightingale Has a Lyre of Gold" by Whepley.

Mrs. Frances E. Gilmore, contralto, well known as a church singer in Brooklyn and the Queens, will appear on the same evening, for the first time before a New York audience. Her program includes Kursteiner's "Invocation to
Eros," Brown's "The Gift," and Saint Saens's "My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice."

Wall Street Reflection

TRAVEL south of Fulton street, Manhattan, in the so-called financial district, and you will hear everyone asking "What is the matter with the Market?"

A spirit of apprehension — a fear of something direful that may happen seems to be in the minds of people. Has it a basis, or are we merely "seeing things" and giving ourselves the shivers needlessly?

America is making money faster than ever — every mill is at working capacity; railroads have more than they can handle, and January was a record-breaker for traffic. Labor is more generally employed — the idle are those who will not work. Money never was so cheap — largest bank deposits and greater facilities for meeting unusual demands; why this dancing a financial schottish?

What then is back of this one depression we know today; the depression of stocks? Nothing but our imagination. There is no profit in gloom — but there is profit in confidence. Rails are a good purchase. Steel and coppers most attractive. Wall Street presents a great opportunity for a bull leader, and when he appears the Market will boom.

A prominent stock exchange house has been flooding the country with advertisements and circulars about Argentine rails, a security so-called "wonderful opportunity." They have been on the London Exchange for years offered at 85, with practically no market.

Forewarned is forearmed; make a thorough investigation of these so-called wonderful opportunities, even if they are presented by the big ones.

If Wall Street has a deadline, financial fakirs have found a way to stumble over it without attracting attention.

Bruno's Garret

A group of young Russian painters are exhibiting a representative selection of their paintings in Bruno's Garret. The poetry readings and Monday evening lectures have to be interrupted on account of the fire until March the 5th. Upon this day, the necessary restoration work will have been finished and Bruno's Garret will welcome everybody that wishes to attend its house-warming.

Number 9 Advertisement

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, 1916. under the Act of March 3d, 1879.

Number 9

Number 9

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