CHAPTER II.
HARMONY IN A FLAT.
That evening, carrying with him a pair of wooden legs, as a pleasant surprise for the abbreviated parent, Paul called at the cosy Harlem apartment where dwelt the young girl who had so attracted his attention that morning.
As the young girl opened the door for him with a glad cry, Paul proffered the wooden legs. “These are for your father,” he said; “he has a heart of oak, I know, and now he will have legs to match.”
“Bless you, young sir,” cried the father of the girl. “This will place me on a better footing with the world! And should I die they will be a legacy for both of you. And now, thank gracious! I can play the pianola!”
So saying the grateful father adjusted the artificial limbs and was soon playing Handel with his feet, extracting from the music chords of wood, as it were, of a timbre most surprising.
* * * * *
This was not all. Paul secured the old man a political position as a stump speaker, at which he was doubly successful, and how he stood on public questions is well known; his physical disability, of course, stood in the way of his ever running for office.
As for the daughter, Paul married her. There is no need to tell you her name. She is Mrs. Postelwaite now and that is enough.
They are still a musical family, and the pride of their home is a Baby Grand.
A TOAST
_by John R. Gregg._
For Success—initiative, concentration and perseverance;
For Happiness—love, cheerfulness and a sense of humor;
For Good-fellowship—the Pleiades.
Lady Crinoline
_by John Campbell Delano._
_Illustration by Frank A. Nankivell._
Dainty Lady Crinoline, Frail as the frailest porcelain, Memory doth take me back O’er Life’s long-forgotten track Sweet as sweetest metheglin, Dainty Lady Crinoline.
Dark thine hair as deepest night, And thine eyes were stars alight, Roses blushed thy cheeks to see. Blessings on thee, Memory, For this maid in bombazine, Dainty Lady Crinoline.
Ankles slim as lily’s stem, Tiny feet from out the hem Of thy dress my heart entranced When the minuet we danced. Sweet, angelic cherubin, Dainty Lady Crinoline!
At the Pleiades
_by Maurice V. Samuels._
The music sounds, my pulse responds; My neighbor who is young and fair Holds me in conversation’s bonds— And yet my spirit is not there!
Around me merry friends I see, Gay laughter and saluting smile. Here in the Hall of Jollity Present, I still am in exile.
Bohemia’s spell is subtly wove; What she seems to display most clear Is not her real treasure-trove— She whispers to an inner ear.
She pictures what remains unseen, Sings songs too exquisite for tongue, Tempts one with hope for nobler gains And ever shows one higher rung!
Bohemia, ah! how base-maligned! Thy form mistaken oft for Thee! Thy body gazed upon, Thy Mind Regarded as an absentee!
Thou who dost hand the cup of wine To stir the heart till it let free The prisoned spirit—form divine— Art wronged by many a devotee!
The music sweet, and she whose face Is soft illumed, and echoed laugh, As gayety grows on apace, Fill not the goblet that I quaff.
Somewhere, away, by Thee led on, Aware, alive, responsive still, I feel the tremulous light shed on My spirit by that wanton will.
We all, earth-bound most time, behold Thy shrine and there libation pour; Mistake the alloy for pure gold And mere appearance, to adore.
For know, Bohemia, Goddess glad, We all in some way comprehend Thy worship must be gay, not sad, Or Thou refusest to befriend.
So here, with revelry and mirth, Gay song, quick toast and wassail mood, We greet Thee in Thy form of Earth And place before Thee wine and food!
The Land of Dreams
_by Willard D. Coxey._
_Illustration by Ryan Walker._
Oh, a curious place is the Land of Dreams, With its vapory castles of smoke— A shadowy land where the sun never beams, And Reality’s only a joke!
’Tis a place where fortunes are made in a night With nothing of cost or labor; And all that you do is to turn out the light— And dream that Wealth is your neighbor!
’Tis a land of bliss, where no one is missed— ’Tis a land that lovers adore, Where the prettiest girl who ever was kissed Is a dream on the edge of a snore!
So here’s to the shadowy Realm of Sleep! And here’s to the People of Seeming! The rest of the world may awake and weep, But me for the laugh and the dreaming.
The Wedding of the Vines
_by Aimee Greene-Abbott._
A curious vine leaned over the wall, Gay with pride, and straight and tall. It danced and swung in the playful wind, And peered about to see what it could find.
Its tendrils, light and airy and gay, Flaunted and fluttered, day after day, Till a larger vine on the side of a church, Swung out a branch, with decisive lurch.
He grasped the tendril with loving force, (She thought she couldn’t resist, of course.) They twined together, heart to heart, Now none who pass can tell them apart.
The Fable of the Over-Talented
_by Dorothy Dix._
_Illustration by Wm. J. Steinigans._
There was once a Sagacious Youth, with a High Brow, who Opined that the World owed him a Living.
“It is all very well,” he reflected, “for Ordinary Dubs who have not been blessed with a Superabundance of Gray Matter as I have, to Strain on the Collar in the Tread Mill of Business, but the very thought of Work makes me Tired, and I apprehend that there are Easier ways of getting the Pelf than by Earning it.
“It is, of course, a Good Thing that not every one is as Brilliant as I am, for if they were the world would blow up with Spontaneous Combustion. It really pains me to see others toiling along day after day for Measly Salaries, when they might have money coming to them on Wings if they only used their Wits instead of their Paws.”
With that the Sagacious Youth worked out a system that was a Sure Thing on paper for Divorcing the Public from its Long Green.
“I learned from the Census Report,” he said to himself, “that every Minute a Sucker is Born, and I apprehend that they are Providentially provided to furnish Automobiles and Wealth Water for Wise Guys like Me, and that all that I shall have to do is to take advantage of their Gullibility in order to Hook Them and have a Fish Chowder that will be a Perpetual Picnic.
“I have perceived that most of my Fellow Creatures are so Greedy that they will swallow any sort of Bait if it looks Fat, and that if you only Promise them enough, it Razzle-dazzles them so they do not investigate your means of Making Good.”
Thereupon the Youth began burning the midnight Carbon concocting a Prospectus of Speculation made Easy, by which Widows and Orphans and Clergymen could be separated from their Pile and enjoy all the Excitement and Losses of Wall Street at Home.
As an idea it was a Jim Dandy that commanded the respect of the Financial World, but before the Youth could realize it the Post-Office Department got Wise, and he felt it best to Travel in Europe for his Health.
“Alas!” cried the Youth, “I fear that the Confidence Game is getting Over-Crowded, and it is evidently up to me to either Marry and give some Female the Pleasure of Supporting me, or else go to Work.
“Personally, my tastes are not Domestic, and I prefer Single Blessedness to Double Wretchedness, but it is clear that it will be less Fatiguing to hold a Lady’s Hand than to call Stations in the Subway; it’s me for the Altar. Besides, as soon as I have annexed little Tootsey-Wootsey for my own, I will take possession of her Bank Account and then all will be well.”
So the Youth espoused an Elderly Widow whose No. 1 husband had left her a Large and Juicy slice of Insurance, but contrary to his expectations she was a Foxy Lady with a Time Lock on her Pocketbook, and he could not work the Combination that opened it.
At this the Youth shed bitter Tears, but when he began knocking Fate his Friend called him down.
“It may be True,” said the Friend, “that the World owes you a living, but there are many Small Debts that we have to Personally Collect.
“If you had displayed as much Imagination in writing Fiction as you have in Telling Lies that deceive no one, you would have received an Honorary Degree from Yale instead of the Double Cross from your Fellow Creatures, and if you had worked as hard at some Honest Calling as you have in trying to Rob Others you would be a Millionaire instead of a Tramp. It is my observation that the Beater always gets Beaten in the end. Farewell!”
* * * * *
Moral: This Fable teaches that Most of the Short Cuts to Success end on the Dump.
A Song
_by Philip Verrill Mighels._
_Illustration by F. Luis Mora._
_Somewhere I have heard that the “Pleiades all sang together,” and I therefore submit these all-star verses as a song._
In the Northern seas I loved a maid As cold as a polar bear, But of taking a cold I was not afraid— Sing too rel le roo And the wine is red— For a kiss is a kiss most anywhere, When a man’s heart goes to his head.
Ho! the heart of a man is an onion, boys, An onion, boys, with a shedding skin; And never it breaks, for you off with its hide When the old love’s gone—and it’s fresh within!
In the Southern seas I loved a lass As warm as a day in June, And oh, that a summer should ever pass— Sing too rel le roo And the wine is red— For my summer, my lads, was gone too soon, With a man’s heart gone to his head.
Ho! the heart of a man, etc.
In the Western seas I loved a miss As shy as the sharks that swim, And it’s duties we owe to the art of a kiss— Sing too rel le roo And the wine is red— If a maiden so shy should be took with a whim And a man’s heart gone to his head.
Ho! the heart of a man, etc.
P. S.—There are said to be seven seas. It ought to be seventy.
WHERE BOHEMIA IS
_by John William Sargent._
Bohemia’s not a corner hid in Paris or New York, Not a corner in a cellar where we eat and drink and talk, Nor a corner that is set aside to poverty and art: No, Bohemia’s just a corner in the right man’s heart!
Autumn
_by Arthur Stahlschmidt._
_Decoration by H. K. Cranmer._
The long sweep of the wind across the moor, The cry of plover bird on flapping wing, The faded grass and bracken near the shore Of the deserted pond where robins used to sing. No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound, Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the naked boughs And rustle of dead leaves along the barren ground.
At the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote
_by Helen Rowland._
_Illustration by E. M. Ashe._
Smoke, and spaghetti, and crimson wine, And the laughing notes of a violin! From the Seine, from the Loire, from the Thames, the Rhine, Hail the guests of the cheap table d’hote—Come in!
What if your hat be a battered one? What if your coat be a trifle thin? There’s a chant of cheer for Bohemia’s son At the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!
Feel not your pocket, for here’s a feast, And your fill of wine for a few mean pence— Fish and fowl and a loaf, at least— And all for a matter of fifty cents!
Oh, wonderful things you’ll discover there In the midst of the clatter and smoke and din, For Genius is child of the very air One breathes at the cheap table d’hote—Come in!
Out of the smoke there are statues carved, And daring dreamers their day-dreams spin; For never a poet’s soul has starved On the notes of a table d’hote violin.
At that table yonder, perchance, was born A sonnet that brought the singer fame— And there, in a jacket frayed and worn, Nightly, a world-known painter came.
Here, once reveled a popular wit, There, a composer, now rich and fat, Here, a diva—just think of that!— Flirted and laughed, ’neath a home-made hat!
Where are they now? Who knows? Alas! Dining, perhaps, in a dinner coat, Sipping champagne from a rich man’s glass— For Success sits not at the table d’hote.
But what does it matter to us, I say! This is “Going-to-be” and not “Has-been”— The Land of “To-morrow,” not “Yesterday,” Is the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!
“Hello!”
_by John Edward Hazzard._
“Hello, girl!” “Hello, boy!” Thus with hand-clasp was our greeting, Seems as though at our first meeting. “Hello, girl!” and oh, what gladness In her echo, “Hello, boy!”
“Hello, girl!” “Hello, boy!” This, and then a moment’s kissing, Gave us what in life was missing; “Hello, girl!” and oh, what madness In her echo, “Hello, boy!”
“Good-by, girl!” “Good-by, boy!” Thus we spoke it at our parting, Just a little tear was smarting; “Good-by, girl!” and oh, what sadness In her echo, “Good-by, boy!”
The Wild Rose
_by John Jerome Rooney._
_Illustration by Louis Rhead._
I saw a wild rose in the wilderness; It was so sweet, so sweet It seemed the one thing in the world That God had made complete.
It grew beside a mossy road In the deep northern woods, And oh, its simple beauty lit Those savage solitudes.
And, as I plucked it where it blew All trembling in the wind, It seemed a meet gift unto her— The flower of womankind!
The Old, Old Prayer
_by John W. Postgate._
Our Father, which art in Heaven, We glorify Thy name, And pray our sins be all forgiven, Our hearts all cleansed from shame; Our vain desires we beg Thee check, Our footsteps lead aright, And from our eyes remove each speck That blinds us to the light.
Hallowed be Thy name, O Lord; Let Thy sweet mercy reign; Within our hearts sink deep the Word That heals all grief and pain; Our wand’ring thoughts restrain and cheer, Our cares and doubts dispel; From timid hearts cast out each fear, And teach us, All is well!
Give us this day our daily bread; And fervent be our creed, To suffer none to go unfed While we may end his need; Let love and pity fill our hearts, And charity for all; Sustain the strength that hope imparts, To bless both great and small.
Thy Kingdom come, in Thy good time, Oh, comfort us till then! Thy will be done in ev’ry clime There toil the sons of men; And let Thy grace descend and glow Within each weary breast, So we may all Thy goodness know, Thy love and peace attest.
Our faults forgive, as we forgive The faults by others shown; Teach us the way to rightly live Our follies to atone; From evil aims our minds set free, And from temptation save; And let the Cross of Calvary Redeem us from the grave.
For Thine the Kingdom must prevail ’Gainst all the hosts of ill, Thy power and Thy glory quell The arts that sting and kill; And forever and forever Hosannas let us raise, That lures of earth may never Divert us from Thy ways.
The Bashful Girl
_by Fred S. Blossom._
_Illustration by E. Fuhr._
She threw around my soul a charm— I threw around her waist my arm. She was so bashful and seemed so shy— Just made to kiss—ah! I wished to try.
We strolled along in the cooling shade; I mustered courage and kissed the maid. Her look! Her eyes! I’ll never forget The touch of her lips! It lingers yet.
We kissed again! My heart stood still— A joy came o’er me, a quiet thrill; As the red blood pulsed, all seemed awhirl— Wondrous change in my bashful girl!
Did her brown eyes flash, or a cry of wrath Re-echo along that shady path? Nay! But clinging close, as ivies climb, She lifted her head to me each time.
Invitation
_by Walter Gregory Muirheid._
_Illustration by R. A. Lüders._
Pray, maiden of ye ancient time, Fair stranger of a foreign clime, Tell me, as gaze ye o’er the sea, What thoughts arise to comfort thee? Hast lover there in ship of state, Or waitest thou beside the gate To welcome him from war’s alarms To the fond shelter of thine arms?
Perchance that through the ages vast In prophecy thy gaze is cast And to Manhattan’s glad and gay Hotels, cafés and Great White Way Thy fancies take their wing, and show The Pleiades with lights aglow, Till in thy limpid, lucent eyes Bright visions of our feasts arise.
Canst bridge the span of ages vast, O maiden of a fabled past? Then come! We’ll do our best to please; We’ll make thee guest at Pleiades! And ne’er in palmy days of Rome Couldst thou, fair maiden, feel at home More than at Pleiads’ tables round Where fellowship and faith abound.
For ne’er in Rome were men like these Good fellows of the Pleiades, And ne’er were maidens half so fair As they who seek diversion there; Yet ne’er was time these fellows gay Would deem another in the way, And so make haste, fly o’er the sea, The Pleiades will welcome thee!
All You Need in New York
_by Lee Fairchild._
_Illustration by Wm. Van Benthuysen._
A shave and a dollar, A shine and a collar, Is all that you need in New York; That is, if you’re clever And never, oh, never Are seen at the thing we call work.
When seated at dinner Just for a beginner Change waiters—a move for a bluff; Talk “stocks” of the morrow And then you may borrow A crimpled crisp sign of real stuff.
Remember a story— Quite new or quite hoary— To quote to your host when you dine; Be never a piker But e’er a bold striker— Aim high or the venture decline.
Waiting!
_by Mabel Herbert Urner._
_Illustration by Luther S. White._
“You—you will come over Wednesday evening?” She asked it hesitatingly, timidly almost.
“I’m afraid I can’t Wednesday,” as he picked up his hat and cane.
“Then Thursday—have you an engagement for Thursday?”
“Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club.”
“Oh, yes; of course you must go to that.” There was a slight quiver in her voice now. “Could—could you come—Friday?”
“That’s so far ahead. I don’t like to make an engagement so far in advance. But I’ll phone you some time during the week.”
She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by he was gone. His step down the hall—the click of the elevator—then she ran to the window and followed him with strained eyes as he swung down the street.
If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as he used to—but he did not.
She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows—the ache in her heart keener than any physical pain. Was it hopeless—the fight she was making? Could she never win back the love she had lost?
And she had never known how she had lost it—unless it was because she had grown to care too much and to show it too plainly. Could it be that? Had he cared only for the uncertainty—the love of pursuit? And without that—being sure of his conquest—his interest had died?
Ah, no—no! passionately she denied that. The man she loved was bigger, finer than that! He could not have stooped to a merely cheap desire for conquest. If he had ceased to love her, it was some fault of hers, some failing, some lack within herself of which she was unconscious.
She had spent long hours of torturing self-analysis trying to find where she had failed—what it was that in the beginning he might have thought she possessed—and then found she did not. So great was her love for him that she felt she could almost make of herself what he wanted—just by the sheer strength of _willing_ it!
If only she could be with him enough! If she could but have the _chance_ to make him care for her again! He used to come almost every day—and now—now, sometimes many days would pass.
She knew it was a mistake to ask him when he was coming—to try to name any particular time. He seemed to resent that now. If only she could let him go without a word! But the thought of the long, silent absence that might follow always terrified her. Once, for two weeks, she had not heard from him; and the memory of those two weeks’ suffering always weakened her to the point of trying to make some definite engagement to escape the sickening uncertainty of the days to come.
Oh, she was so helpless—so pitiably helpless! Wholly dependent on him for her happiness, yet powerless to break down this wall he was placing between them!
She slowly arose and threw herself into a chair. There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.
* * * * *
Then gradually there stole over her a sense of quiet—almost of peace. It was partly the relaxation that comes after any emotional strain, and partly because of a faint hope, a belief that sometimes came to her and that comforted her above everything else—the thought that because she gave of her best—because the love she gave was a great and good love—some time he could come to know, to understand, and to love her again, if only for her unfaltering love of him!
If she could but wait long enough—patiently enough—in the end the love she so wanted might be hers!
The Blind Messenger
_by Annabel Lee._
_Illustration by Walter Meyner._
If I could feel the song of faith still singing In my heart, once filled with melody Of all you seemed when love was bringing Me to the shrine of your adolatry.
Ah! If the years and gods were but content To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand And give instead, the meed which heaven meant Should crown each woman’s life in every land.
If the dead past would but one hour deign A lonely pilgrim travelling byways rough, An hour when love and peace would ever reign— That hour indeed were happiness enough.
The Pleiades
_by Hector McPherson_.
All hail! my brothers of palette and pen; Of science and buskin, too; You daughters of beauty and tuneful mien— The joy-ship’s merriest crew.
Can this be Bohemia, realm of mirth, Where the grave and gay unite? Where genius now finds its nobler birth And shines with a lustre bright?
Men here tell stories, their pictures paint, As they burn life’s flick’ring lamp; They toil and they sweat, yea, mayhap they faint, Yet with care they refuse to camp.
When hand grips hand in friendly grasp, Just jot this down in your book: It is Nature’s heart that you fondly clasp, Not an empty, outward look.
The flower of friendship sweeter blooms Where all hearts are good and true, Each nobler art richer form assumes And shines with a fairer hue.
Ye Pleiades of the heavenly throng, Down here you do bravely shine. May your hearts be light and your way be long, Lit by genius most divine!
Then forward from conquering field to field, Nor heeding life’s battle-scars; Nor malice, nor envy’s tongue shall make yield, Who brothers are to the stars!
Table d’ Hote Bohemia
Here’s to “Table d’Hote Bohemia” Where all may dare, But only the brave Can stand the fare!
Lovers
_by Howard S. Neiman_.
In her leafy, shady bowers Grew a rose among the flowers; Queen was she among the bloom, Dainty with her sweet perfume. And the flowers did homage pay, Love by night and love by day, Daisies fair and tulips sweet, Bashful violets at her feet, Thistles strong and lilies white Told their love by day and night. But she spurned their love so true, She had lover no one knew. And each morn when faintest light Told the passing of the night, She would lift her blushing face For her lover’s fond embrace. And when other flowers did sleep, Softly to her he would creep. In the dawning thus alone He would call her all his own; On her lips a kiss would press, Leave them moist with happiness. Love so tender, Love so true, Fairest Rose and Morning Dew!
* * * * *
All my life-time would be sweet— All my happiness complete— If I were the Morning Dew, And the Rose, Sweetheart, were you.
Fame
_by Katherine Fitzhugh McAllister_.
_Decoration by D. S._
There have been men whose souls were filled With dew of knowledge thrice distilled, Who bored holes in Time’s masonry Thru which the stupid world could see; Yet Envy with the pen of rage, Wrote “Failure” on the title page! Fame stood aloof, with scornful head, And crowned them—after they were dead!
The Tale of the Store Girl
_by O Hana San_.
_Illustration by Adrian Machefert._
Yes, ma’am, to the right. No, ma’am, not this store.” “Say, Sade, ain’t those dames a terrible bore With their questions all day? Perhaps now I can say What I want to you, of me friend Johnny Ray. Was the party real swell? Well, I’m dying to tell You of the dandy fine floor, and just what I wore―― The price of that, ma’am? Well, ain’t she a ham To get off her ear just because it’s too dear? As I was just sayin’, there was dancin’ and playin’, And cute Johnny Ray, say! was with me all day―― Two yards of that lace? (My, Sade, what a face!) Sure, ma’am, I’ll attend; I don’t mean to offend Either you or any other old lady. Fresh? Can you beat that now, Sadie? She’s gone to complain to the floorwalker chap— It’s all up with me, maybe, but I don’t give a rap.
’Cos Johnny wants me for his own little pet, And maybe I ain’t lookin’ for marriage just yet! I can beat it—and quick—to a store on Broadway. Hear me hand that to him, With a merry ‘Good day?’”
* * * * *
And she did, and what happened is easy to write; She married young Ray; that’s her end, so good night.
* * * * *
MORAL.
And the moral is simple for girls high and low: You’ll never get left with two strings to your bow. A good business one to pull at your will, Or, a true lover’s knot may be better still In case you get “fired,” like the girl in the store, Who had two strings to her bow And who knows?—some more!
A TOAST
_Illustration by Krieghoff._
I drink to the Pipe, which, at eventide, Is dearer to me than a blushing bride. As its perfumed clouds float on the air, They curl into myriad visions rare: Pictures of comrades of long ago I see in the shadows that come and go; And the long-lost love of my boyhood seems To be kissed into life by my Pipe-o’-dreams.
A Song
_by Eugene Geary_.
_Illustration by G. Michelson._
Young Love forsook the highways, All decked in their robes of Spring, And, far into silent by-ways, He fluttered on golden wing. Blithe youths and maidens chased him, “He is only tired,” they said. To a streamlet’s brink they chased him, Then sighed that Love was dead.
On, on through the shining meadows, As the rays of the evening fell, He sped ’mid the length’ning shadows Till he came to a lonely dell. The flowers, with teardrops laden, Bent their heads as he flew along, To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden— His sigh was a poet’s song.
The Caverns of the Soul
_by Charles Louis Sicard_.
_Illustration by H. B. Eddy._
Within the mystic caverns of our souls There is a labyrinth unexplored; Where dim aisles, winding far beyond the poles, Have secrets of the ages stored.
Unheard far in the twilight mists of time, Are weirdly haunting strains that sleep, To be resounded through your soul or mine, For those we summon from the deep.
Oft times I wandered in those ancient caves, Seeking to pierce the crowded past; ’Midst endless hosts submerged ’neath lethal waves, The all in one, sans first, sans last.
For Truth alone thus strangely did I grope, Daring, despairing, yet in vain; Until one wondrous hour, while stirred with hope, My search revealed a slumb’ring strain.
One blast of barb’rous melody flung clear, Swept back the veil, removed the ban, And demon-ridden, and accursed with fear, I stalked, once more primeval man.
Ah me, this thing, cast from the pit of night, Knew naught but savagery and lust; I searched in vain for truth, for love, for light, Then bid him vanish back to dust.
Undaunted through my soul again I sped, A strain unheard, for cycles flown; Adown the shadowed deeps this message fled, Come ye, who first, love’s thrill hast known.
From distant ages dim, at last, I came, With shining eyes of glim’ring dawn, And throbbing heart aglow, destined to flame, In love, through those as yet unborn.
I saw this self ancestral slowly fade, To voiceless chambers of the gloom; Where rest those throngs, who have so fully paid, That Life’s dank weeds, might flowers bloom.
’Tis on the scroll, graved deep, that I now pay, And Life must quaff the poison’d wine; But Love and Hope, if star-strewn on the way, Can purify the living vine.
O Soul, the tallied years of men count not, For life eternal sweepeth back; As life unending is predestined lot, And I am I, from love, from rack!
This vibrant flame, entombed in human clay, Divine spark from the æons blown, Through loins of countless forbears to this day Shall ever reap as all have sown.
Love’s Flower
_by Frank L. Norris_.
_Illustration by M. Torre Hood._
Throughout this life a moral runs, And ye who read may learn That God has placed in every heart A sacred fire, to burn And flash so long as life may last— A priceless treasure trove, A garden fair, beyond compare, Where blooms the flower called love. A flower that’s warmed by passion’s flame, And fed by pleasure’s dew, Its curling petals reaching out Like beckoning hands to you. But pluck it! ere with perfume gone, It hangs its drooping head, Nor passion stay from day to day Until that flower is dead.
The Revolt of the Stars
_by Maud G. Pride_.
_Illustration by R. S. Ament._
A very long time ago, when the Heavens were quite new and the Earth was still in the Golden Age, a strange event occurred—quite unheard of even in those early times.
The Sun, vigorous and lusty, had rubbed his blinking eyes and hurried away to the west. The boy-child, Twilight, his chubby hands still clutching after the last red rays left behind by the Sun, winked his sleepy eyes, as, protestingly, he was pushed along in his crimson cart by Old Sandman. Close behind came his three sisters, the Evening Shadows, in their long, trailing, gray robes. A hush fell upon the Heavens. From far below came the hum of the Crickets and the low murmur of the Katydids, having their final good-night gossip, but in the Sky all was still until the Moonlady came softly creeping along, her silver mantle enfolding her slight form, her long silken hair caught by the Evening Breeze, who followed close in her wake. At her appearance there arose from the Earth songs of gladness and hymns of praise. Lovers looked up at her enraptured, poets sang of her, and even the brute creation sent Heavenward their low murmur of joy at her being. Silently she smiled down upon them all as she passed on her way.
Then a strange thing happened. Black clouds skurried here and there across the Heavens, and low mutterings were heard. The Stars had revolted!
Venus, her cold beauty marred by a frown of discontent, was the center of a murmuring group, to whom she spoke in words of passion:
“Let us take a firm stand. Why should we go on shining, shining through countless ages? We are not appreciated. We never receive any praise. There are so many of us and our light is so feeble, who cares whether we shine or not? The Moon comes along and takes away our glory; let her do all the work then. Why should we waste our light trying to outshine the Moon and the Sun? Unless we can be as brilliant as they and receive as much praise, let us not shine at all.”
Each Star blinked a sullen assent, and gradually each little light flickered and went out. The Dog Star barked and the Great Bears growled—the low mutterings became a loud rumble, and the Heavens for once were dark, save for a faint light that still gleamed away off in the north. Seeing the feeble light still shining, all the Stars rushed to it, surrounding the feeble Star that persisted in shining, and jeered at her folly.
“Put out your light, you foolish one. Do you hope to vie with the Sun or the Moon with that feeble flame of yours? What use can you be in this great space of darkness?”
“I do not know,” replied the Star, faintly, “but I can go on shining and do my best, though my light is small and goes but a little way. I do not envy the Moonlady her glory. Is it not a great thing that she can shine so radiantly upon the Earth and make so many happy? And if there were no Sun, what would the poor little Flowers do, and the Birds and the Beasts? My little light cannot do much good, but I can do my best to keep it bright, and if it reaches to Earth but faintly I shall be grateful. I had rather light one soul onward and upward than to have a choir of Angels sing my praises; I had rather one person should be glad he had seen my rays, than to be crowned with a crown of brilliant jewels and never have made anyone glad; I had rather one tearful soul should look to me and find comfort in my steady light than to have a million people bow down to me in worship of my beauty; I had rather one soul should be truly sorry when my light goes out than that a thousand should praise me for my brilliancy and not know when I ceased to shine; I had rather a baby’s face looked up at me and smiled and called my name than to be praised in a poet’s song and know he was paid so much a line for it; I had rather send one faint ray of hope into some troubled heart than to light the World’s Great White Way; I had rather shine on for ages unnoticed than to shine with borrowed light and be afraid of being blown out; I had rather――” But the little Star found herself all alone, and as she looked about her she saw that each Star was in its accustomed place, and that each light was more brilliant than it had ever been before. Even the dark clouds had vanished, and a little child looked up at the Sky from her bedroom window and said, “O, mother dear, see how beautiful are the stars to-night! They are God’s jewels, set in His Crown of Glory, aren’t they? If we are very good shall we be beautiful stars some day and shine for Him?”
And the Stars looked down and smiled Good-night. And the brightest of all the Stars were the Pleiades.
The Joy of Living
_by Carrie Van Deusen King_.
_Illustration by Eleanor Schorer._
“_This precious stone set in a silver sea, This blessed plot, this realm, this earth._” —SHAKESPEARE.
Would heaven be sweet, if you and I were there, And would the angels bear us globes of wine, Grown rich with many a hundred golden years? I fear me not, for one might deem you fair And take away what I had known as mine, To make my paradise a vale of tears.
Give me, then, earth with its humanity, Born like a zephyr, soft, among the trees, While sunlight dries the dewdrops from the rose. Give me the earth, I crave not what may be Beyond the height of skies or depth of seas; I only ask the love that mortal knows.
If heaven be heaven to steal away the soul Of all my rapturous hours, then give me life— Its fog and dew, its sunlight and its shade, Its day and night—but ever let me fold Thee to my heart, to keep from thee all strife, Whatever woe, whatever ill betide.
The Called Hand
_by Laura Fitzhugh Lance_.
_Illustration by George Kerr._
No matter what the game you play, Play it well; No matter what the price you pay, Never tell. This life is but a game, of cards Of mostly losses, few rewards, The signs of Destiny’s regards, Or Friendship fell.
The Ace of Spades, King Edward’s card, Or William’s crest, Each representing different games, Each played with zest; One stands for mystic power unknown; Two play an act upon a throne, Both wanting this fair earth to own And all the rest!
What counts the cards when all is done If king, or clown— If Cæsar, Hohenzollern’s Written down! What—in those palaces on high, In astral cities in the sky Where we shall all meet by and by— If hod, or crown?
For when we reach Infinity The dwellers there Won’t know the vassals from the kings, Nor will they care; King, crown and sceptered royalty, The Here, the There—I, You and Me Out there, out there!
Passing Through
_by John P. Wade_.
Hello, Central! give me Heaven! (This club of ours, I trow, Is near enough to ‘Heaven’ for a mortal here below.) Just tell me, is the President all ready for his cue To start the talent flowing—while I am passing through?
“I just reached town this morning and now I’m outward bound; I’m waiting at the grating like a ‘purp’ that’s in the pound. Yes, I’m waiting with a heart-ache—I don’t mind telling you— Sick with longing to be with you—instead of passing through.
“I know just what they’re doing. I can hear the old gong ring. The toastmaster is asking now some angel fair to sing. I wonder who the Guests of Honor are, and what they’ll do While gathered ’round the festive board—as I am passing through?
“Hello! are these the Pleiads? Well, before I take my leave, I wish to say I envy you this pleasant Sunday eve! Here’s hoping that I’ll see you all before you say adieu To the season on the circle. So long! I’m passing through.”
Springtime Again!
_by S. Frances Herschel_.
_Illustration by W. D. Stevens._
Up from the Southland the sweet Spring is stealing; Up by the brooksides and over the fields! Valiant old Winter goes scuttling before her; Force which has ruled us reluctantly yields.
Where is Spring’s pathway? ’Tis everywhere round us! Over the hillsides and over the plains. Kist is the broad old Earth back unto Life, until Never a vestige of Winter remains.
Isn’t there ever a corner forgotten, Far to the eastward or far to the west? Some lonely hillside or coarse little meadow, Some quiet woodland away from the rest?
Never a hillside or valley forgotten; No little corner unkist by the Spring; Each little bush has been touched and awakened, Each little robin is trying to sing.
In through the depths of the woodland she’s stealing, Seeking and finding each little live thing, Waiting so surely the thrill of her coming— Joy universal—the Coming of Spring!
From the Fulness of the Heart
_by William J. Lampton_.
Good God, What is our living? What is our thought and deed? Have we, professed believers, No substance for our creed? Belief is ours, and mighty, They tell us, faith is, yet The things we seem to live for Have made us all forget. And love of wealth and station Shines bright above the goal That we have set for gaining At sacrifice of soul.
Oh, God, How vast the distance Between the earth and sky, Between man and his Maker Is measured by that cry! The hollow vault of silence Rounds o’er us and we stare Up through the depths and wonder If echo answers prayer. So far as Strength from Weakness, So far is Day from Night; Faith stumbles in its groping Through Darkness toward the Light.
By God We shall do better; Be better, we must rise Above the low horizon Of selfish enterprise; Be men and women, truly, As we were made to be, With souls for high ideals And hearts of bravery To lead us to the summits Above the sordid strife That make mankind forgetful Of what is best in life: To lead us to the summits Of spirit and of mind, Where man, close to his Maker, Comes closer to his kind.
The Wanderer
_by Francesca di Maria Spaulding_.
_Illustration by Henry Raleigh._
He comes from a country where setting sun Proclaims that the day and its work are done; Where moon and stars shed the only light On trails that are hushed and dim by night.
He wanders alone in the crowded town Where skies are forgotten when night comes down, Where torches alight in traffic’s name May broider the streets with threads of flame, May blazon the walls in strange designs, May rive the darkness with flashing signs, But quench the beam from each torch in the sky As well as the soul of each passer-by.
Aweary at heart of the careless throng He drifted and reveled with all too long; He yearns for the stillness of field and hill, For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill, For the infinite heights of starry skies, When the moon makes the world seem paradise.
But he ne’er returns, and up and down He wanders—alone—in the crowded town.
The Answered Call
_by George Elliott Cooley_.
Star-dust awhirl in a vortex, The infinite moving through all; Called to the soul of the atoms; And the Pleiades answered the call!
Thus on the earth when our souls thrill, We gather in groups at the call; It’s yearning for love that impels us, It’s the Infinite moving through all.
* * * * *
TRUE TRANSMUTATION
In this world there are people scrambling for coin; There are others, we know, who are seeking for fame. All will-o’-the-wispers seem eager to join In this harassing, harrowing, hectoring game. But missing Dame Fortune, they sit down and moan, And oft grumble because through their fingers she flits: They should dig for the tramp’s philosopher’s stone: “I can’t git what I wants, so I take what I gits.”
Hallroumania, or The Boarderland
_by Irvin S. Cobb_.
_Illustration by O. Cesare._
The Boarderland is a drear domain bounded on the north by top-floor bedrooms, lying above the frost-line, because the steam register always gets discouraged and quits one story below. It is bounded on the south by basement dining-rooms, where it is night six months a year and just before daylight the rest of the time; on the east by an entrance hall agreeably perfumed with the combined aroma of kerosene, mother-of-onion, veteran linoleum and the stuffing in the red-plush sofa, and on the west by a parlor nine feet wide and thirty-two feet long, with one window in it and a doctor’s sign in the window. The doctor’s private office lies just back of the parlor, so the parlor smells mildewed when the connecting door is closed and iodoformed when it’s open.
Boarders, as the natives of this land are commonly called, are never allowed in the parlor except once, that occasion being when they first apply for board. Thereafter they entertain their company on the front stoop in the summer and on the telephone in the winter. Winter company is the more expensive.
The ruling classes of Hallroumania are known as Landladies and may be classed generally into the following subdivisions: Landladies who belong to Old Southern Families and formerly rode in Their Own Carriages, but suffered Heavy Financial Reverses through the Cruel War brought on By Your Mister Lincoln; Landladies who never married and don’t regret it; Landladies who did marry and frequently regret it; Landladies who have no use for husbands, and Landladies who have husbands and use them to take the dog out.
The inhabitants are indeed a weird race, including unrecognized geniuses, earnest hopers, chronic grouches, back files and innocent bystanders; also single gentlemen who are believed to have had what is known as A PAST, and who are suspected of leading the dissipated life because they come in of an evening with the odor of rum and Business Men’s Lunch on their breath; also young women of undoubted dramatic power, who won the first prize for elocution at the Rome Centre School of Expression and came on two winters ago to put Julia Marlowe out of the business, but are being kept back temporarily owing to a jealous compact on the part of the theatrical syndicate; also other young women who think they are entitled to bird-like notes because they had the thrush once, and were sent here at heavy expense by fond parents who imagine New York as a place full of talented voice-plumbers who know how to weld Nellie Melba pipes on a Ruth Ann larynx; also single ladies who spend part of the time drying handkerchiefs on the window-panes and doing light laundry work in a toothbrush-mug, and the rest of the time making life brighter and sweeter for a pug dog with the asthma.
Also dashing gents connected with leading brokerage offices downtown, who wear priceless marquise rings on the little finger of the right hand, and go secretly away at night owing for two weeks; also persons of both sexes who have been misunderstood by the world and crave A Little Sympathy—that is all; also ladies who are constantly on the verge of moving to a perfectly delightful place up in Ninety-third Street because a fur-bearing foreigner has opened a Pants-Pressery next door and the neighborhood is rapidly losing its tone; also, just plain boarders.
A boarder is often likened to a worm. And this is a proper comparison if it is a tapeworm that is meant, because a tapeworm always knows in advance what it is going to have for dinner, and so does a boarder. For instance, he knows that on Monday night he will have a New England boiled dinner that tastes like the family wash on Friday night, one gill and part of the dorsal fin of a boiled fish, and on Sunday evening that nourishing repast known as cold Sunday-night tea.
This cold tea is probably the most noted of the established institutions of Hallroumania, being constituted as follows: A dank cold platter, veneered at rare intervals with specimens of the Old Red Corned-Beef Period of Geology, cut to the generous thickness of gold leaf; a peculiar variety of potato-salad, in a free state of perspiration and garnished at intervals with slices of pickled beets, like a few red chips strewn on the kitty; four small squares of petrified pastry (not suitable for food, but could be given to hardy children to cut their teeth on); a prune-floater, bloated up and nine days drowned in its own juice; a cup of ostensible tea.
The common recreations of The Boarderland are rushing the washstand-duck in a dress-suit case; wondering how the other boarders can afford the clothes they wear; progressive knocking and raising scandals from the slip. The prevalent disease is Furnished Rheumatism, brought on by living in a single-breasted apartment, and is marked by a cramped, choking sensation, the symptoms being almost identical with those of Harlem Flatulency.
Les Yeux
_by Jeffie Forbush-Hanaford_.
_Illustration by Thomas Fogarty._
First I loved two eyes of black— Two fascinating eyes of black! They glanced at me and won my heart Till of my life they seemed a part, And I their willing captive; But black eyes can so treacherous be, That even while they smiled, you see They tried to break the heart of me.
Then I loved two eyes of gray— Two limpid eyes of gray! “Love!”—cruel word—I smile in scorn; Soon I was left alone, forlorn, For when I told my love’s deep passion Gray eyes smiled in careless fashion— No love for me they ever knew, So I left them for two eyes of blue.
Two eyes of sunny, heavenly blue— Two beautiful eyes of blue! They gave me a tender glance so sweet, I felt my happiness was complete And their light was warm and true; But when at last my mistake I found, I fell in love with eyes of brown— Two glorious eyes of brown.
Bright eyes! Brown eyes of beauty rare, No other eyes with you compare! Glancing from under lids drooped down, Sparkling eyes of dusky brown. Can I but win you, I’ll ask no more: All my life I’ll worship—adore; Live for you, work for you—always content— If only, dear brown eyes, you’ll consent!
Her and Me
_by Paul West_.
Her locks were the glow Of a dollar or so, Her height it was few if not less; Her eyes were as gray As the end of the play, And she wore, so they told me, a dress.
So I said, as I came, “If you’ll whisper your name I’ll reply, though I’m tempted to laugh.” But she said, “Let me see— More and F equals three, Which, when added, is him and a half.”
“Are you certain?” I cried, As I breasted the tide. “If I do,” she insisted, “say no.” Whereupon with a frown I invited them down, For it never grows well in the snow.
There were more, I’ve no doubt, But I never found out, For the cook sent the grocer away; But I cannot forget That she wrote, “Do not fret,” Though her uncle advised me to pay.
So I sit all alone, Writing things on a stone With a pen dipped in beeswax and lard; Which I know I shall be When she comes back to me, Though at present it’s dreadfully hard.
The Verdict
_by Charlotte B. Scott_.
_Illustration by Karl Hassmann._
What is most important? The rich man says, “Wealth!” The sick man cries feebly, “Ah, no! it is ‘Health!’” Inventor and poet contend it is “Fame”; The worldly want “Titles” prefixed to their name. The preacher chants solemnly, “It is the ‘Soul!’” Ambition says, “Power and Place” is man’s goal; “’Tis ‘Pleasure’ we seek!” laughs the crown-sceptre throng, “The world to amuse us—Wine, Woman and Song!”
What is most important? “’Tis ‘Love!’” cries the lover; “No!” frowns the physician, “’Tis but to discover Some polysyllabical lotion for Pain— New ways to cheat Death and new Honors to gain!” “All false!” claims the scientist, “Pain may be drowned, Love, Pleasure, Fame, missed, but the ‘Truth’ must be found!”
L’ENVOI.
Since no one can tell you What Is nor the Whys— Since even the scientists but theorize, Then, truly, the thing most important to do Is the thing most important and pleasing to you.
Affaire d’Amour
_by Harry Johnson_.
_Illustration by E. H. Miner._
Three-pointed crescent—laughter-loving moon, Thou Regent of the Pleiadesian skies, I’ll mock thee if thy waning comes too soon, Yet toast thy beauty ere its glory dies.
This Night bewitched me, and the friendly throng Was sharper, clearer, with its merry jest. Like one inspired, I rippled into song, Feeling love’s loveliness was love’s behest.
All hearts responded;—still the echoes ring In jolly welcome to my joyous song; Oh, human harp! If love but touch the string, Adieu to discord, dissonance and wrong!
Nay, one was mute—one only; but his eyes, Brimmed to the lashes with sweet, wistful tears— So, lovely crescent, as thy beauty dies, I quaff to thee, to him—the cup that cheers.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Original spelling and grammar have been generally retained, with some exceptions noted below. Original small caps are now uppercase. Italics look _like this_. The transcriber produced the cover image by slightly altering the original, and hereby assigns it to the public domain. Illustrations, other than large initial drop-caps, have been moved from within paragraphs of text to nearby locations between paragraphs. Drop-caps are not marked in the simple text edition, but are illustrated in the html/epub/mobi editions of this transcription. For this purpose, I have treated stanzas of poetry like paragraphs of text. Original page images are available from archive.org—search for “pleiadesclubyear00plei”.
The List of Contributors mentions a _W. Krieghof_, but the poem _A TOAST_ was said to be illustrated by _Krieghoff_, and that is also the signature on the illustration. _The Tale of the Store Girl_ was illustrated by “Adrian Machefert”, but the List of Contributors mentions an “Adrien Machefert”. _A Song_ was written by “Philip Verrill Mighels”, but the List of Contributors has it “Phillip Verrill Mighels”. _The Old, Old Prayer_ was supposedly written by “John W. Postgate”, but the List of Contributors mentions only “J. W. Postgare”.
In the sixth paragraph of _Waiting!_, a new right double quotation mark was inserted after ‘But I’ll phone you some time during the week.’.
At the bottom of the poem _At the Pleiades_ by Maurice V. Samuels, there was in our copy of the book what appears to be a hand-written signature of Maurice Samuels. This is retained (as an image) in this transcription, although we don’t know whether it was present in only one, a few, or all printed copies of this book. Likewise for what appears to be the signature of Francesca di Maria Spaulding, following her poem, _The Wanderer_.
Near the end of the book there were five pages dedicated to Autographs of club members, two of which were blank, followed by a blank page, followed by a sort of collophon with an emblem and the name of the publishing company, followed by more blank pages. The autographs are retained, although we don’t know whether they were present in one or all printed copies of the book. The blank pages have been ignored in this transcription.