$5 Now Saves $2.50 Later W HEN we first announced that the price of McClure's would be advanced from $1.00 to $1.50, but that we would accept subscriptions for two years at $2.00 or five years at $5.00, among the first replies were three from three eager subscribers who sent us ten dollars for ten years. We took them, and if any one else insists we will give him ten years for ten dollars. A GREAT MANY READERS OF MCCLURE'S who would rather pay $1.50 a year than do without McClure's, have nevertheless taken advantage of our offer to get the magazine at the old rate for a little longer. IF YOU ARE ONE OF THOSE who read and like McClure's, and have not yet sent in your subscription, do so now for at least one year. This offer holds good only a short time longer. $5.00 sent today will buy in subscriptions to McClure's Magazine what will cost $7.50 a little later. The subscribers who sent ten dollars are saving five dollars and insuring a monthly visit from the best and most generous all-around magazine published. WE HAVE ALWAYS GIVEN SOMETHING more than a dollar magazine when McClure's was a dollar. We will give something more than a dollar-and-a-half magazine now that McClure's is $1.50. The point is, send the money-$2.00 to $5.00 today. McClure's 57 East 23d St., New York THE TECHNICAL WORLD MAGAZINE Volume VIII JANUARY, 1908 No. 5 A LITTLE brook-child of the old age of a vast and venerable glacier -rippling prettily above the pebbles and round the boulders of its nursery moraine; dammed for a moment behind a fallen redwood, so that it spreads a silver mirror to catch the painted image of every passing bird and butterfly; leaping now over the steep lip of a tiny gorge, to dash into spray on the granite shelf, a hand's breadth below; its cradle the high shoulder of a remote mountain, fifty miles from men; a pretty, sparkling, feeble thing; two small children in pinafores would laugh to drain its channel dry with their tin sandpails. Comes a Poet! He leads the mountain brook into strange new paths; now between sweet-smelling red-wood walls, it ripples halfway down the mountain side and rests there for a time in a small valley; when it grows strong and restless again the Poet gives it a steel channel, which leaps across wide canyons, runs straight through the ribs of great mountains, slips like an endless serpent across dry, gray deserts to the edge of a tall cliff. Over that cliff plunges the feeble mountain torrent and the magic of the Poet has given it the strength of 40,000 horses; at the bottom of the cliff its impact shakes the earth, thunderous, aweinspiring; so for one instant; the next, wearing the Poet's thousand-league boots, its vast power is a hundred miles away, silent, invisible-running the street cars of a great city, turning a million spindles, putting a strong shoulder to a thousand heavy tasks, flying, light and airy as a sprite, on the world's quick errands. Yet there are weaklings and white. fingered bookmen who sit whining that the age of poetry is past! Copyright, 1907, by Technical World Company. (441) |