Have vision: hold the great ideal in view.

God gives man power to conquer hate and wrong. Christ's message lives for Gentile and for Jew.

Each one of us receives at last his due:

The blind man sight, the luckless poet song. Go forward, then; your waning strength renew; Be strong!

a

LINCOLN

Surely upon his shoulders, gaunt and worn,
The seamless garment touched, invisibly!
Surely he came upon Gethsemane!

And was there not one single, piercing thorn
From that dark wreath of anguish, for his brow?
Within that grail of bitterness, we know

Was held one drop that he alone must drain-
While, from the crowd, the stinging jibe again
With lurking thrust that sped him to his fate;
Friend of the friendless-meek-compassionate-
Ours be the tragic loss-the aching thought:
"He dwelt amongst us, and we knew him not!"

From Life.

LAURA SIMMONS.

THE TRIMMED LAMP

Oh Heart, keep faith with Him! tho scant and poor
Thy cupboard's meagre spread; lavish the more
Thy love; thy steadfast faith; thy shining cheer-
Tenfold they shall return, more rare, more dear;
Of such as these the multitudes are fed-
The two small fishes, and the barley bread!

LAURA SIMMONS.

BLACK FROST

Go! What does it matter? Go!

What do I care?

Next year when the tulips blow,

She'll not be there.

Let the dahlias freeze and rot

Tuberoses, too.

Should my grief appear forgot,

They'd wake it new.

Don't say garden to me again!

Let it run to weeds.

First my hurt must heal-till then

I'll plant no seeds.

MAY FOLWELL HOISINGTON.

From Interludes, Baltimore.

CARCASSONNE

They brought us yesterday to Carcassonne,
That we might see the ancient citadel,
Made out of somber granite, lying there
And looking over towards the Pyrenees,
Like some old peasant by the chimney-place,
Garbed in his frock and seeking from his pipe
A solace for the times that are no more-
A monument to age-old memories.

The great stone steps that mark the passageways
From tower to tower without a balustrade,
Relate a gruesome story. They were built

For savage men, whose hearts, so like these stones,
Were steeped in warfare and the sole desire
To kill and to possess. Each turret speaks
Not of the cheerful firesides, but of wars-
Hard, cruel wars that blast a nation's soul.

But ah, to-day the scenes around are changed!
Far down within the quaint and narrow streets,
Like cheery fireflies lighting up the night,
Are happy children of the villagers.

They skip and laugh and play about the towers,
And have no fears of enemies without-

Sly little rogues who beg us for our sous.

And is not Carcassonne more lovely now?

MARGARET TALBOTT STEVENS.

From Interludes, Baltimore.

GOD'S RIDING

By night with flogging whip He rides the breeze,
And dreadful hoofs make thunder in the hills.

The servile grasses and the tortured trees

Bow down and tremble where His trumpet shrills.

Again He rides; and when his banners

Gay flowers quicken in the trampled sod,

Earth leaps to beauty 'neath the goading sun

The pricking rowel on the heel of God.

VINCENT STARRETT.

As the centuries swiftly have sped,
The envious lads that he passed in the game
Have turned up their noses and said:
"It is hard to believe that he ever got by;
We have known the poor dumbbell for years;
A stranger could see with the half of one eye,
That there's nothing abaft of his ears.

And yet he is there with the crowd like a duck;

It beats all how some folks do have all the luck."

If you took it from Cassius you'd make up your mind
That Cæsar was simply a sap,

And that hundreds of thousands of birds of his kind

Were scattered all over the map.

And when he at last had attained high renown,

And was given great power and place,

And even was offered the emperor's crown,

Poor Cassius despaired for the race.

"We simply must slaughter him, Brutus, old kid,"
Said Cassius, and this they accordingly did.

When William the Conqueror sailed o'er the sea,
And captured the tight little isle,

"This William, pray who in the devil is he?"
The Normans observed with a smile;
"A brawler in taprooms, a laggard in fights,
A bear in a stable-yard row,

Where none of his vassals dare stand for the rights;
And look, he's the Conqueror, now!

Respected, and honored, revered and renowned;
I'll bet that guy carries ten horseshoes around!"

And even to-day when the popular cheers
Unite in a general cry,

As a sudden celebrity bravely appears

Athwart the political sky,

There always are some in the crowd who remain

Sardonic and sneering and grim,

And who say with an air of excessive disdain:

"We cannot see nothing in him!"

And who add with a jeer in their voices, "Good night!"

And perhaps they are wrong; and perhaps they are right!

Copyright, 1924, by The Bell Syndicate. Inc.

JAMES J. MONTAGUE.

а

THE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK Down in front of Casey's old brown wooden stoop On a Summer's. evening we formed a merry group; Boys and girls together, we would sing and waltz While the "Ginnie" played the organ

On the sidewalks of New York.

That's where Johnny Casey and little Jimmie Crowe,

With Jakey Krause, the baker, who always had the dough;
Pretty Nellie Shannon, with a dude as light as cork,

First picked up the waltz-step

On the sidewalks of New York.

Things have changed since those times,

Some are up in “G”

Others they are wand'rers, but they all feel just like me.

They'd part with all they've got could they but once more walk
With their best girl and have a twirl

On the sidewalks of New York.

East side, west side, all around the town

The tots sang "ring-a-rosie," "London Bridge is falling down";
Boys and girls together, me and Mamie Rorke

Tripped the light fantastic

On the sidewalks of New York.

CHARLES B. LAWLOR AND JAMES W. BLAKE.

From Literary Digest, July 19, 1924. Copyrighted by Pioneer Publishing Co., New York. Sung in honor of New York's favorite son, Gov. Alfred E. Smith, at the Democratic Convention in Madison Square Garden, 1924.

Toil

TOIL AWAY

away and set the stone

That shall stand when you are gone.

Ask not that another see

The meaning of your masonry.

Grind the gem and dig the well,
For what? for whom?—I can not tell.
The stone may mark a boundary line,
The well may flow, the gem may shine.

Be it wage enough for you

To shape them well and set them true.
Of the future who can tell?

Work, my friend, and so farewell.

From The Atlantic Monthly.

JOHN JAY CHAPMAN.