om Russia with the news that
Sovietude leaves everything to be desired, that "things are worse than
in the Czarist days." Naturally. The trouble is, the ideal is more
easily achieved than retained. The ideal existed for a few weeks in
Russia. It was at the time of the canning of Kerensky. Everybody had
authority and nobody had it. Lincoln Steffens, beating his luminous
wings in the void, beamed with joy. The ideal had been achieved; all
government had disappeared. But this happy state could not last. The
people who think such a happy state can last are the most interesting
minds outside of the high brick wall which surrounds the institution.

* * *

When one consults what he is pleased to call his mind, this planet seems
the saddest and maddest of possible worlds. And when one walks homeward
under a waning moon, through Suburbia's deserted lanes, between hedges
that exhale the breath of lilac and honeysuckle, the world seems a very
satisfactory half-way house on the road to the Unknown. Shall we trust
our intelligence or our senses? If we follow the latter it is because we
wish to, not because they are a more trustworthy guide.

* * *

One must agree with Mr. Yeats, that the poetic drama is for a very small
audience, but we should not like to see it so restricted. For a good
share of the amusement which we get out of life comes from watching the
attempts to feed caviar to the general.

* * *

THE POPOCATEPETL OF APPRECIATION.

[From the Paris, Ill., News.]

For the past seven days I have been in inmate at the county jail, and
through the columns of the Daily News I wish to express my thanks and
appreciation to Sheriff and Mrs. McCallister and Mr. McDaniel for the
kindness shown to me. I have been in jail before, here and at other
places, and never found a like institution kept in such a sanitary
condition. The food prepared by Mrs. McCallister was excellent. In my
opinion Mr. McCallister is entitled to any office.

May Claybaugh.

* * *

A copy of the second edition of The Ozark Harpist is received. The
Harpist is Alys Hale, who sings on the flyleaf:

"Sing on, my harp,
Sing on some more and ever,
For sweet souls are breaking,
And fond hearts are aching,
Sing on some more and ever!"

* * *

We quite agree with Mr. Masefield that great literary work requires
leisur