colas Kostyleff after a
tentative study of the mechanism of poetic inspiration: "An important
part in poetic creation, he maintains, is an automatic verbal discharge,
along chains of association, set in motion by a chance occurrence."

* * *

POETRY.

(_Lord Dunsany._)

What is it to hate poetry? It is to have no little dreams and fancies,
no holy memories of golden days, to be unmoved by serene midsummer
evenings or dawn over wild lands, singing or sunshine, little tales told
by the fire a long while since, glow-worms and briar rose; for of all
these things and more is poetry made. It is to be cut off forever from
the fellowship of great men that are gone; to see men and women without
their halos and the world without its glory; to miss the meaning lurking
behind the common things, like elves hiding in flowers; it is to beat
one's hands all day against the gates of Fairyland and to find that they
are shut and the country empty and its kings gone hence.

* * *

Why is it that in nearly all decisions of the Supreme court the most
interesting opinions are delivered by the dissenting justices?

* * *

"New Jack-a-Bean dining room furniture, used two months; will sell
cheap."--El Paso Herald.

That is the kind that Louis Canns has his apartment furnished with.

* * *

A CHANGE FROM LATIN ROOTS.

[From the Reedsburg, Wis., Free Press.]

Miss Edna White resumed her school duties after a week's vacation for
potato digging.

* * *

OUR FAVORITE AUTUMN POEM.

(_By a New Jersey poetess._)

Autumn is more beautiful, I think,
Than Spring or Winter are.
For then trees change at the river's brink--
How beautiful they are.

I love to see the different colors so bright--
That grow around brooks & grottoes.
Leaves that are pressed are a pleasant sight
To make photograph frames & mottoes.

* * *

Dr. Johnson or somebody said that a surgical operation was necessary to
get a joke into a Scotchman's head; but the Glasgow Herald, reporting
the existence of a London detective named Leonard Jolly Death,
conjectures that it was probably an ancestor of his who was drowned in
the butt of Malmsey wine.

* * *

One is usually mistaken in such matters, but we visualize Mr. Imer Pett,
general manager of the Bingham Mines, in Salt Lake City, as quite
otherwise.