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and love of wisdom, which he ever calls "virtue," stands out as one of the most admirable of the idealists of the past.

Dr. Greene tells us in his preface that his father, Prof. Herbert E. Greene of Johns Hopkins, "has not only helped me with the proofs. . . . but . . . . twenty years ago gave me my first lesson in Greck." He has himself studied at Harvard and at Oxford, and has taught the classics at Radcliffe and Harvard.

*

The second book we have been reading is upon the same general subject and comes from the Clarendon Press, Oxford University. Its title is "The Pageant of Greece." It is one of several volumes, all edited by that well-known classical scholar, Dr. R. W. Livingstone. One of them is "A Defense of Classical Education." In the volume before us, with many portraits, illustrations and translations, we are given a rapid review of the achievements of Heroditus, Aristotle, Xenophon, Plutarch, Menander, Euripides, and that satirist, Theocritus, Alexandria, who created that Gargantuan character, "Gorgo." He was famous for his epigrams, but it was Simonides who wrote, centuries earlier, those lines (on the Spartans who fell at Plataea in 479 B. C.):

"Into the dark death-cloud they passed,

to set

Fame on their own dear land, for fadeless wreath,

And dying, died not. Valour lifts them yet

day who must have heard many such strange tales as these seven in Miss Glasgow's "The Shadowy Third" from nurses and ancient white-haired relations. We are too young as yet, out here in California, and too much in the

Into the splendour from the night be- whirlpool of eddying modern life, to hear

neath."

It was Demodocus who wrote these lines on a surgeon of his day: "The patient surely had been lame for life,

So Scalpel, pitying, killed him with his knife." Charles H. Shinn

"THE SHADOWY THIRD" TISS ELLEN ANDERSON

GHOLSON GLASGOW, of Richmond, Virginia, known to the reading public as plain Ellen Glasgow, comes from old colonial stock, and in her life, as in her writings, maintains the best American ideals. Her first novel, "The Descendants," appeared in 1897. Thirteen others and one volume of poems have been published since then, all worth close reading and a permanent place in the library. Her latest book,

which came last autumn from Doubleday, Page & Co., marks a new departure in important respects, and still, one thinks, very much belongs to the traditions and the old family stories of Virginia's dignified Colonial Dames of to

much of homesteads where the sins and shames of other generations still dwell, and where terrors walk by night. Nevertheless, we do sometimes receive just such impressions as these weird glimpses of another world closely linked with this one hold for thoughtful readers.

If one chooses, he can first read Bulwer's thrilling tale of The Haunted House dominated so long by one powerful human will. Or he can think of three or four of the best of Edgar Allen Poe's stories. Then he will be in the mood to enter the imaginative atmosphere of "The Shadowy Third," which none the less belongs to a reasonable and comprehensible spiritual order of things.

By far the most impressive of these seven old family traditions is the one which gives the book its name. It is a wonderful account of a nurse's experiences with the great surgeon, Roland Maradick-great, fascinating, but unutterably vile, who has murdered his only chi'd and is killing his wife by inches. To them comes back the child, (Continued on Page 43)

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I

Vose & Sons Piano Company

189 Boylston Street, Boston, Mass.

Yes, certainly I get down to facts. As say, I have a room at Ambetti's. I get a job in a cafe up town. I learn to speak the English. Then she come

They plan to stay at Ambetti's until they get a letter and money from an uncle in San Francisco, then they go live with him.

"But the weeks pass and no letter come, and what little money they have soon go. Papa he too old to work, and Rosa she don't make much from the flowers that she sell. Finally Ambetti he get mad. Every day I hear him go to the rooms next to mine, where they live, and he shout: 'No letter yet? Well, I tell you what, you got to pay somehow or I throw you out!' But he don't do it, and pretty soon I guess why. It was little Rosa." He paused again, and lifting his violin drew the bow across the strings.

"She was like that," he said. "Just as clear and sweet, and I guess even Ambetti think he like her pretty well. Anyway long time go by and no letter come. Then one day I hear Ambetti shouting in Rosa's room: 'What! no money yet?' he say. 'Well, I tell you one thing, if you're going to stay here any longer, you're going to marry me and stay as my wife.

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AT TONTINO'S
(Continued from Page 25)

"That make me crazy, and I run out of my room and go to her door and throw it open. 'Don't you marry him, Rosa,' I cry. 'He no good man. I'll lend your papa money to pay the rent, I get better job soon. I'll earn enough for all.'

"Marry him!' she say. 'Marry him?' And with that she pulled the cloth off the table and laid it on the floor. And she run here and there gathering up her things to throw into it.

"Then Ambetti he get very angry, and he go catch her, and he grab her two wrists in one of his big hands, and he twist her around so she face him and he say: 'None of that! You going to stay here. You're going to marry me, girl. I'll teach you to do what I say.' and he raised his arm to strike her.

"Papa Pasquale was over at the little table by the stove. He must have been cutting bread when the trouble started, with a big knife in his hand. But when for when I came in he was standing there running jump to get between them and Ambetti go to hit Rosa, he make a funny

the blow fall on him.

"Rosa she jerk herself free and run into the next room and slam the door behind her. Ambetti he so mad now his face is purple, and he hit Papa again and

send him down on his knees. But the old man gets to his feet, quick like a cat; then Ambetti reaches for his throat and I am not sure how it happen, but next thing I know I had grabbed the knife out of Pasquale's hand and-Ambetti was dead."

The listener's eyes narrowed: "Umph!" he murmered. "And then?"

"Papa Pasquale called, 'Rosa, Rosa!' And she come back into the room. Just then there was a knock on the door. I looked at Rosa. She had backed to the window and was standing there white as a little ghost. 'Who did it?' she whispered. 'I killed Ambetti,' I answered.

"There was a second knock. Something had to be done, so I crossed to the door and opened it just a little. It was only the postman, and he handed me a letter for Rosa."

"From her uncle, I suppose," surmised Brooks.

"Yes," nodded Camarillo. "There was a check in it for five hundred dollars. He say for her and Papa to get some fine clothes and come to live with him in San Francisco; he have a nice restaurant and make much money. He had not written sooner because Rosa she get a mistake in the address when she write to tell him they had arrived in (Continued on Page 47)

JOAQUIN MURIETA

(Continued from Page 23) myself in a long low room, extending the entire length of the house, with windows on each side and a sharp pointed roof. Benches were placed along the wall, and at one end was a raised platform. It had no doubt, once been used as a dance hall. Turning to leave I noticed a small room, to the right of the stairs. I pushed open the door which yielded readily enough, and looked in. It was empty save for a heap of faded discolored curtains which lay in a heap. on the dusty floor.

"I returned to the lower part of the house, and again the deadly chill of the place struck me. I poked the fire viciously and vainly endeavored to warm my chilled hands. Every once in awhile my eyes were drawn as by a magnet, toward the foot of the stairs. That part of the room was in shadow; but I could hear a soft rustling as of women's garments; and once I thought I heard a low sigh. Suddenly the vague doubts and fears I had experienced since entering the house crystalized themselves into concrete form. Some unseen presence in the house was watching me, spying upon my every movement with furtive, malicious eyes.

"I tried to shake off this feeling but it persisted. With an impatient exclamation I picked up the candle and went over to examine that part of the room more closely. I let the candle play over and around the spot, subjecting both floor and ceiling to the closest scrutiny, but all I saw was the accumulated dust of years which lay thick over everything, save those tell tale stains.

"I returned to the fire and sat down. I knew now that there was a malignant spirit in the house, watching, waiting. All about me the shadows deepened. Strange, ghostly shapes, born of the night, and the fog without, hovered around me.

"I felt myself growing drowsy, which no doubt made me fanciful. I arose and made preparations for bed. I placed the stool close at hand, and on it put the two candles, a box of matches and my revolver; then crept shiveringly between the blankets.

"I was tired out after my three days ride, but for a long time I could not sleep, and lay with wide open eyes, staring into the room, now filled with a pallid light. I lay and listened to the uncanny noises; the unhallowed whisperings and mutterings of the old crime stained house, which now that darkness had fallen, could relieve itself of its guilty burden. At last, utterly worn out, I fell asleep.

I was awakened by a light touch on

my arm, and sat up, wide awake in an instant. A young man, dressed in black velvet, with a scarlet silk sash knotted around his slender waist, stood beside my bed. I stared at him speechlessly for

a

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WEBSTER'S NEW

moment then demanded as I stepped INTERNATIONAL DICTIONARY

hastily to the floor:

"Who are you? How did you get here? What do you want?"

"Who I am, Senor," the young man answered, "matters but little; how I got here still less, but what I want-ah, Senor, that is something entirely different," and he looked at me with a flashing smile which showed all of his white, even teeth. To my surprise I found myself waiting for his request, whatever it might be, quite ready to grant it, if humanly possible.

He approached me with my violin, which I had left on the table when I unpacked my blankets, in his hand.

"My friends and I," he began in that soft voice of his, which spoke English with just the faintest trace of an accent, "are giving a little dance tonight in the upper room of this house. Unfortunately we are short one musician, a violinist, as it happens, and knowing of your presence I wondered if you would be so good as to play for us?"

I bowed my head in token of assent, sensing that back of the courteously worded request was a command not lightly to be ignored.

"Anything to oblige, Senor," I assured him, "when do I begin?"

"At once," he answered, "be so good as to follow me."

Grasping my violin I followed my strange guide up the stairs to the upper room where an astonishing sight met my eyes. The bare walls were covered with the native colors of Mexico; while hundreds of candles cast a soft mellow glow over the room. The floor had been sanded for dancing, and on the benches were seated gay Senoritas and gallant caballeros.

My guide led me straight to the raised platform where I found an aged man tuning his guitar. He looked up at my approach, nodded gravely, then at a gesture from my companion, commenced to play. Graceful figures bent and swayed and dipped to the seductive music of sunny Spain, while dominating over all was the man responsible for my presence among them. At his side, sharing with him in the honors was one more beautiful than the rest, whom they called Rosita. I shall not attempt to describe her save to say that she was petite and slender with a girlish youthfulness and charm in which one sensed that for her time stood still, that even in her old age she would still retain her vivacity and winsomeness.

(Continued on Page 40)

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JOAQUIN MURIETA (Continued from Page 39) During an interval in the dance I tried to learn from my companion the identity of the young man and his companions, but I found him singularly averse to talking, meeting all my questions with a shrug of the shoulders, or a shake of the head.

After the intermission the dance went on more fast and furious than before, while I played wildly, madly in an ef fort to keep up with my companion.

All at once the music stopped suddenly as a clock run down. A dance which was just beginning broke up and the dancers, singly and by twos and threes left the room. Of all that motley throng only the young man and I were left. He thanked me for the part I had taken in the night's entertainment, adding with another of his gleaming smiles, which by now I had come to look for:

"I have no desire, Senor, that you should go unrewarded for your efforts this night. Come." I followed him obediently and he led me straight to the small room at the head of the stairs; as he threw open the door I noticed a small iron chest, which stood in the center of the room, and which I was quite certain had not been there before. Throwing back the lid my eyes were dazzled by a splendid array of precious gems. I could only stare at them in speechless amazement.

"You like them, yes?" the young man's voice cut across the silence.

"Like is a feeb'e word," I answered. "I have never seen their equal," and kneeling before the chest I ran my fingers through their g'ittering loveliness. Many of them were mounted in heavy o'd fashioned settings, the gold alone worth a fortune. There were loose stones of all kinds, and diamonds worth a king's ransom. My companion watched me with keen interest.

"I see you love as well as appreciate the beautiful, he began, "as a mark of my gratitude you shall have your choice of them tomorrow."

I arose to my feet and looked at him. He must have read the disbelief in my eyes for he continued quickly:

you

"I mean it, Senor, you shall have your choice of these tomorrow. When come for them you will find the door closed. Open it and the jewels are yours.'

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I meant to ask why the jewels could not be mine tonight as well as tomorrow, but refrained.

"I guess I can open the door all right," I answered nonchalantly, "if it is not locked."

"The door will not be locked, Senor," he assured me. "I, Joaquin, give you my word."

"Joaquin," I gasped, "then you are," but I got no further.

"I have told you once before tonight that who I am does not matter," he said coldly, "I but seek to reward you for your services. I repeat, if you can open this door tomorrow, you are at liberty to take your choice of the jewels. It is all very simple. And, now, good night, Senor! you have had a hard day and a strenuous night; it is but right that you should sleep."

Before I could demur I found myself on the stairs. At the bottom my foot slipped in something wet and sticky. I fell headlong, striking my head on the sharp edge of the lowest step, in my ears rang a strange discordant laugh, vibrant with mockery, and I knew no

more.

When I opened my eyes I saw that it was morning. The sun was high in the heavens, but the room in which I lay sprawled in an unsightly heap on the floor was still shrouded in gloom.

I picked myself up, and found that save for a slight swelling on the side of my head, where it had come in sharp contact with the step, I was uninjured. I examined the boards that had been my bed, and found that the stains on them were dry, and had been dry for many years. On what then had I slipped and all but broken my neck? Even my shoes, which I examined critically, failed to give a clew to the mystery.

I ate a hasty breakfast, packed my belongings, and prepared the burros for instant departure. But I was determined before I left that ill omened house to have another look at Joaquin's treasure.

I was not surprised to find the door shut, and looked at it speculatively. There was much in that house of mystery I could not hope to understand. Was the young man, I wondered, whom I had seen and talked to, the dematerialized spirit, or ghost, as we more familiarly term it, of Joaquin Murieta, or was the experience I had had merely a vivid dream? I looked around the room; all was as I had seen it first. The dust and cobwebs of years lying thick over everything. No footsteps marked the grimy floor save my own. It must have been a dream, I told myself, and the jewels just a part of the dream itself. Then, as if in contradiction to this reasoning I felt gingerly the sore spot on my head. That, at any rate, was real enough.

Suddenly I remembered Joaquin's words: "If you can open the door the jewels are yours." I resolved to put them to test. It would surely be easy enough to open the door, even force it, if necessary. I pushed against it some(Continued on Page 42)

POETS AND THINGS Impertinent Comment on Contemporary Verse by the Poetry Editor

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NE of the Poetry Editor's friends, himself a poet, adheres strictly in his reading as in his writing to the older forms of verse. None of the modern freedom for him. What was good enough for Longfellow and Shelley and Keats and Miltonthe Poetry Editor takes these names at random from his friend's list of authorities-is all sufficient for him. Free verse is as the proverbial red rag to the traditional bull. And so he labors earnestly and consistently with the Poetry Editor to the end that not only may vers libre be omitted from Overland columns but also all mention of it.

Another poetic friend leans strongly toward the modern verse. It is more than a leaning, it is a decided twist. And yet it must be confessed that his attitude is far more broad-minded than that of the other poet, for he does concede to the older forms of verse whatever of value and beauty the ages have given them. His objection to them is, thatin the hands of contemporary writers— the long accepted forms have degenerated into mere formality; it is form without substance. And so he too labors with the Poetry Editor-by suggestion rather than argument or pleading-that Overland may be "modernized."

It is a difficult situation for the Poetry Editor. He respects the sincerity of both, even if he cannot accept the dictum of either. He cannot please the one without offending the other. But, after all, why should it be a difficult situation? Poetry-both in its production and its acceptance-is a purely individual matter. If to the one "a-a-b-b" is the only poetry there is, then to that one any group of words which has no matter what its substance of beauty neither rhyme nor meter, is nothing more than prose. And if the other finds poetic beauty in matter which to the majority contains merely pessimistic gloom, that still is for him pure poetry.

And so they must both concede to the Poetry Editor his individual right to find beauty where for him it lives-vers libre as in the older forms. It is in both. Sometimes not infrequently-it is a stronger beauty because it is freed from the shackles which rhyme and meter would place upon it. But beauty is after all the essential thing. Rhyme or the absence of it is merely an incident, to be determined according as the beauty of the thought may best be expressed in one form or the other. Not an unimportant incident, for many details make for perfection, but to the Poetry Editorverse cannot attain to the dignity of poetry unless it expresses beauty.

Now one of the strongest arguments

in favor of vers libre which has recently come to the Poetry Editor is that little volume by Nancy Barr Mavity, "A Dinner of Herbs." Written of and for wee daughter Nancy, the brief pages are full of an exquisite lyric beauty which sings of sunshine and shadow. Poignant experiences of motherhood are spoken with that charm and dignity, that simplicity of love, which places these poems among the finest expressions of any age. But it is perhaps in the poems which deal directly with the wee sprite herself that readers will find the greatest charm. Just one brief quotation: "Little daughter of my heart,

In the tired years when the winds of the world have drooped,

Will you hold ever secure
For the secret brightness of your spirit,
The blue and the yellow and rose of a
sunny garden?

And always, always,

A little floating, wandering breeze of laughter?"

("A Dinner of Herbs" by Nancy Barr

Mavity. Thos. Seltzer, Inc.)

And if one desires arguments both in favor of and against free verse—and the older forms as well!-the Poetry Editor takes pleasure in referring him to the newly published "Second Anthology" of the Verse Writers' Club of Southern California, from the Harr Wagner press. Here are 150 pages of verse, representing that which has been pronounced by various judges the best work of the club members. Being represented therein, the Poetry Editor feels free to suggest that possibly a censorship of critics as well as of verse might very well be instituted. Certainly poems have been given place by some of these critics which display glaringly obvious faults in technique-and there is no doubt they were passed in spite of their weaknesses because of the personal appeal of the poem to the critic. But it is a volume of which all California may be proud, notwithstanding, and gives perhaps a fairer index to the poetic production of the Los Angeles region than could be obtained through any other method.

Also from Harr Wagner's press, and also by a poet of the south, is a thin volume by Lenore C. Schutze. It is, very frankly, a miscellany of personal expression, and for this reason it contains some verse which might better have been omitted. There are, nevertheless, no few poems of beauty. "My Son" will have its appeal to every mother.

The San Francisco bay region has had its poets. Joaquin Miller, Edwin Markham, Ina Coolbrith, E. R. Sill, the list might be almost indefinitely extendedlived and wrote here. Some gained fame and left. Others are still with us, and among the "older guard" is Henry (Continued on Page 42)

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