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taneity in its rich quality of line. There is a sensitive and intelligent balance between the areas of pure color and the textures and shadows rendered in line. The dominant glowing sail against the warm misty overtones of the yellow sky, with its repetition in the vibrating blues and greens of the water is like the lazy drifting of a dream.

"Santa Maria della Salute," a Venetian subject, is expressed in a melody of color like the warm glowing tones of old beaten copper;-the copper and coral of the sails, the hyacinth and ivory of the distant buildings, chrysolite of the water and the amber of the shadows are all aetherialized in the transcendant haze of a sunset glory, and fine star-dust of

antiquity. There is poetry and romance here, an exquisite and poignant wistful

ness.

"The Southwest Museum" is a dramatic study in color soft-ground in which the foreground is in deep shadow, and the dark tree trunks panel the fine aspiring lines of the building, its austere grace mellowed in an evening glow.

One who would know success in art, the success that lies in a growing realization of his aspirations, and in the transmutation of its message into sympathetic appreciation of men, must indeed dream dreams and see visions, and above all work tenaciously. But how much finer and more spiritual the vision, how much more unsparing the work when it is al

truistic, when it becomes an integral part of the community's cultural development, and its civic consciousness. So it has been with Benjamin Brown. He organized the Printmakers' Society of California, and became its first and only president. It is undoubtedly the foremost graphic arts organization of the world today. Its annual exhibition in March represents the work of the most distinguished print makers of Europe, Canada and America. Traveling Exhibits from the society are constantly being sent throughout the United States to communities eager for art and yet far removed from contact with art schools or galleries. All this means a tremendous amount of the most arduous work,

of correspondence, of arrangement, days spent in selection and in hanging. Without recompense, with a sacrifice of their own interests and time, Benjamin Brown and his brother Howell Brown, who is the self-effacing secretary of the society, have personally directed all this endeavor, and to a great extent actually done it themselves. It is this prophet of art with the broad vision and fine altruism, who has done more than any one other person to make it possible for Los Angeles to be an art center, through his generous encouragement of young artists, his education of the laity, and his ef

forts in securing exhibitions.

The significant characteristics of Mr. Brown as an artist are the thoroughness of his work, and the steady, maturing growth and development of his expression and technique. Work and growth are the basic principles of his philosophy of life, and of art as the fine fruition and expression of that philosophy. Added to his passionate love of the graphic arts and his great natural aptitude for self expression in them, in his infinite capacity for taking pains, his conscientiousness, his sincerity, his moral earnestHe never becomes stale in his

ness.

work. Enthusiasm is as the eternal fount of youth with him. The difference between his work of today and ten years ago is extraordinary, in the mastery of color harmony, the feeling for rhythm of line, and in sureness of handling. There is nothing platitudinous in his theme, no easy falling into stereotyped compositions. The results of his keen observation, his scientific accuracy of forms and details and appearances are transformed, through the alchemy of his poetic imagination, into idealized interpretations of the essential beauty or spirit of each theme, synthesized harmonies of colorful pattern.

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With slow approach of evening and the time
When solitude may claim him for her own!
What philtre magical for gnawing pain,
What solace for a wound unspeakable,
To be alone a space and doff the smile
That served as masking for the countenance,
To sigh at will, to let the tear-drops fall
And plunge, unheard, in depths of misery!
The lights put out, the trappings of the day
Laid off, like outworn chrysalids,

The spirit casts itself, with struggle spent,
Into the waters of the midnight deep,
Content to sink, to drown, to be engulfed,
So that it sinks alone, uncompanied.
No juice of poppy, mandragore, or hemp,
Yielding the body's hurt a brief oblivion,
Can rival, potent howsoe'er they be,
The balm to spirit-woe of solitude.

-Nora Archibald Smith.

THE BEGGAR

RUSHING along the sleek pavement

The crowd goes on,

A turbid stream,

A dark current,
Tumultuous
Headlong.

Erect and firm, a tall figure
Stands like a rock by the sidewalk,
An old beggar, with serene face
His eyes lifted above the crowd.

The crowd,

Tides of passion,
Surgings of want,
Whirlpools of lust,
Currents of hate,

Turgid desires lashed against life,
The crowd goes on, wave upon wave.
And every day from dawn to dark,
Always standing, the tall beggar,
Watches the sky.

The crowd goes on.

His eyes are clear.

They look afar, above the multitude,
Afar, above the sordid walls,
Above the churches' spires
Toward the blue,

Toward the light.

And at his feet, the crowd goes on Sullen and dull, with downcast eyes. The crowd,

With its bustle,

Surges and swells,

And ebbs and flows,

But the beggar does not heed nor hear Laughter or sob,

Curses or prayer.

The crowd goes on.

Besides him lies a battered hat, And now and then a passer-by Whom his presence importunates Throws in a coin and rushes past.

Save your coins, keep your pennies,
They'll buy jewels for your mistress,
They'll make your name hallowed by the
church,

You may want them for a rainy day,
Keep your pennies,

He needs them much less than you.

The old beggar with lifted eyes
Asks nothing of the hurried crowd,
He wants only to be still
And watch

A bit of sky, A wing,

A star.

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HILLS OF SUTTER "These peaks, like other mountains, have a soul"

THOU Spirit rich, like to an April queen

Who leads her oreads in a glowing dance

With all the gleam of flowery circumstance, Laughing like nymphs within a rainbow sheen,

Tell me what all these radiances mean! And why, O Spirit, in the mild September, Does thy way run like to a burnt-out ember? What pain has autumn brought thee? What mischance?

Ah, many a happy day I ran with thee Unfettered, like thy trees and flowers free; And then the filaree lay withering: Deadened, the rose was with the poppy lying:

And in the wind the leafless branch was sighing

But, oh the joy! when it again was spring! -Henry Meade Bland.

LA

MIST MAGIC

AST night the mist wreaths drifted up
the sky,

And girdled all familiar things with gloom;
Embraced the lonely island in the bay
And changed its contour to the hill of Jove.
No more, the eucalypts upon its crest
Waved slender, beckoning arms-but frown-
ing pine

And hemlock shook their tresses long and black.

Beneath the swirl of haze, the city rose
A place of mystery, of softened light,
Of palaces and tombs. On every side
A watchful silence, heavy-lidded, grim,
Stood sentinel above the hidden bay.
-Louise A. Doran.

NOSTALGIA

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One's Own Vernacular

HILE Tourguenieff was in London, though he spoke and wrote English as well as French admirably, when Mr. Crossthen a young man-asked him if he had ever written in foreign languages, Torguenieff answered: "You have never written a book or you would not have asked me that question: a man can only write his best in his own language. When I write in Russian I am free, I run without encumbrance.

When

I write in French I am restrained, as if in tight boots, and advance more slowly; but when I write in English I am crippled, and move like the Chinese women of past centuries."

I about the same? Recently I told

S not singing in foreign languages

a singer that there must be a mistake in her French song, as the past participle should be used. She looked at me in blank astonishment and answered: "You don't suppose I know anything about verbs!" How could the interpretation be perfect, if the artist knows nothing of the construction of the language which he or she is singing? From the standpoint of the artist as well as the audience, the language of a country must be used, if that country is to develop art in the theater or opera house.

And to create an interest in or love for American drama and opera, we must hear the foreign repertory in English. I learn that Hadley has written a new opera to the Italian classic of Goldoni "La Locandiera" or "The Innkeeper." It was one of the plays so superbly acted by Duse, as well as Novaro, and should adapt itself to music-drama as well as Moliere. It goes without saying, that Hadley uses a translation. Let us ask for a hearing of Leonard Liebling's "Barber of Seville" among other operas now translated for our edification and entertainment.

The propaganda carried on for years. for opera in English, and American opera, is often misunderstood. It is the intention to exclude nothing good in art, but to include this country. Art is the expression of the life and thoughts of a people. To develop our Art, we must

By ELEANOR EVEREST FREER, M. M. give expression to our thoughts, and no matter how interesting and admirable the folk-music and legends of another race may be, they are not ours, hence can never develop our Art. We do not recommend the over-use of folk-music or legends but the general education of the talented young artists in this country, if our efforts are to be truly creative rather than imitative. Each teacher who bears this in mind and instructs along these lines, is sure to develop the artist along the best lines, and to the credit of our national force in music and the fine arts.

The Charles Henry Meltzer translations being made for the musical library of our great art and music-patron, Mrs. Rockefeller McCormick, which we hope,

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soon, to learn are to be given for public use, include, already, the following list: Parsifal

Gotterdammerung

Tristan
Tannhauser
Lohengrin
Carmen
Pagliacci
Louise

Andre Chenier
Meistersinger
Siegfried

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And we learn that other translations of Meltzer are available if the desire to have them is awakened: Rheingold, Walkure Koenigskinder, together with Smetana's The Battered Bride, Goldmark's Cricket on the Hearth and others. And, referring to our language in song, we hope to revive a demand for the

wonderful phonographic records of the late and great American (and international) baritone, David Bispham. To those of us who cherish his memory in Art, it is like listening to his splendid voice again; and to the students it always will remain the best lesson in diction he can obtain. In this connection we read "A Quaker Singer's Recollection."

This in turn brings to mind the DAVID BISPHAM MEMORIAL MEDAL, being awarded for American Opera. The Medal is such a speaking likeness that it should be reproduced wherever this great singer's memory is to be preserved in a fitting memorial. It could be enlarged as a relief-piece, in bronze or stone. The country has certainly not forgotten him in three short years. As a lifelong friend of his recently said to me: "What an artist, what a friend, what a man! May his memory live." And to this, we add "Amen."

And lastly: Each new company, society, or club which forms with the aims or for the purpose of the aforementioned propaganda, without other ulterior motivecan only help The United States of America, the greatest of which we must have at heart, if we are Americans in our souls as well as in name.

ELIZABETH SPENCER

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MO

'QUIN, poet and writer, comes to Overland from the old Green Mountain state. She is a bit of a philosopher, as both her prose and verse will prove.

66

Long Distance Interviews-"Et Al"

By TORRY CONNOR

The Passionate Interviewer; broadcasting for the

"W

Overland Monthly:

ILL the Eastern editors kindly come out of their plate-glass-and-mahogany caves and state-for the benefit of writers here in the Tall Grasstheir attitude toward Western Stuff, the short-short story, and the average of demand and supply?"

Collier's, Century, The American Magazine, Red Book, Street and Smith Publications, The American Boy, Doubleday, Page Publications and "Bob" Davis: "The demand for good stories-Western or otherwise-under three thousand words always exceeds the supply. We cannot get one-half the short stories that we should like to publish. The public wants bright, short fiction-stories convincingly told, in which the characters live. But the writers of today seem not to be able to present a plot-as did De Maupassant, for instance-in tabloid form. Or is it that, in spinning out their yarns, the storytellers are keeping a thrifty eye on movie possibilities?"

The P. I., back-tracking to the Tall Grass; to Frank H. Spearman, author of sturdy Western Fiction, long and short: "You have read the (composite) Editorial Opinion, Mr. Spearman. What, should you say, makes a story "convincing?"

Mr. Spearman; interviewing the Interviewer: "You mean stories of the strictly Western type, I suppose? Should not such a story depend for its authenticity on that almost indefinable quality and flippantly-used term, 'atmosphere?' And how does one acquire atmosphere?" (Mr. Spearman saves the situation by answering his own questions.) "By being born in it, usually. Our Western life has been, and is today, largely a sealed book to our countrymen living east of the Alleghanies. The spirit that animates Western men and women goes with the sunshine, the sweeping winds and the vistas of the Rockies It is there that such characters as 'Nan of Music Mountain' and 'Whispering Smith' have their being. Drawn from life, they are convincing; they live." (Mr. Spearman does not commit himself on the subject of the short-short story.)

The P. I.; to Eugene Manlove Rhodes, prime writer of Western fiction in lengths to suit: "Mr. Rhodes, how, having conceived a story outside the three thousand word limit, could the tale be shortened?"

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Eugene Manlove Rhodes; in a place called Apalachin: "By cussing it, tearing it up and rewriting it. By the way: Do you spell 'b-r-o-n-c-o' with an 'h'? I have no personal feeling in the matter; I merely mention it. But why do writers gaily put an 'h' in bronco? Why?"

The P. I., unable to answer this burning question, turns to Charles Caldwell Dobie, Western writer. Mr. Dobie is acclaimed one of four of America's FIRST short story writers. "It has been said of your work: 'From the idiosyncrasies of the characters his stories grow.' Is it because your characters are unusual, Mr. Dobie, that?"

66

Mr. Dobie; anticipating the question, asks one:

S there anything more stimulating, more refreshing, more spirit-reviving than to come face to face with a new personality? It remains for those who jump full-grown into our consciousness or our affections to thrill us out of torpid content. It is like opening the windows, and letting a windy coolness search out the four corners of the room. Curtains may flutter, papers may be swept to the floor; withered blooms scattered from vase to table top. But the disturbance of the moment is only a step to a refreshed and visualized story atmosphere." (Mr. Dobie opines that there ain't no such phenomenon as a short-short story.)

The P. I., after expending some effort in running to earth Gerald Beaumont, a recently Very Much Arrived writer of short stories, finds him rather more interested in the problem: "When is a Scenario?" To which the answer-from the angle of Dollars and Sense, is: "When it is first a story."

The P. I., meeting up with Peter B. Kyne, authored (originally). by "Cappy Ricks": "Mr. Kyne, Overland's public will be interested—”

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THE WINDS OF THE SIERRAS
Midnight winds, winds of the mountain gorges,
Have done with your crying!

I would have none of your tumultuous orgies,

None of your mad defying

Flung at the stars, mouthed at the peaks above you;

What! be enamored of you,

And give attentive heeding

To your importunate pleading?

Nay, nay, O midnight winds, I can not love you!

Give me the winds of the dawn, the glad, the golden,
Pealing their paeans;-

Sounding their innumerable bugles olden,

As aged as the aeons!

Be theirs my music bidding me rise and after;

Shaking the sky's blue rafter,

Rousing my spirit,

When I shall wake and hear it,

To look in the eyes of Life with a courageous laughter!

-Clinton Scollard.

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