or machinery; but skillfully applied, it is harmonious designthe conductor of the poet's orchestration. The dernier cri in this open forum of free verse is a small circle calling themselves imagists. Miss Lowell, in her "Tendencies in Modern American Verse," explains their platform as plainly as it is possible for her and words to do. Their task is the same that poets have struggled with since the birth of poetry. Words are stately perverse things. They may be used as bricks or stone, but they refuse to be compressed or to expand. As they run, English words insist upon a major or a minor accent upon each alternate syllable. They cannot be made to jump "salt, vinegar, mustard, pepper," like a child; nor be counted thirty-second or sixty-fourth notes, as Sidney Lanier attempted to do. Mood cadence must regard long and short vowel sounds and the accented syllable as faithfully as metre does. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for both, words were made before art, and tongues before words. One that has too much to say, or is too fastidious in his manner of expression, is doomed-as one that has nothing to say-to silence, or its equivalent, an incomprehensible form of speech. Says Professor Gummere of free verse, "It is curious that for the most part, one has to get the individual poet's point of view about the unfettered verse, and take his word that it is most carefully and artfully made, and then find it utterly unreadable." This is especially true of imagist poetry. One's ear finds it impossible to catch the rhythm of the poet's unknown and varying cadences, and one's mind finds it difficult to adopt the poet's mood without the aid of metrical music. A poem has a twofold nature. It may be a perfect work of art in structure, but if it lacks the human appeal it is as lifeless as a paper flower. Extremists keep the world from dozing and growing old with self-satisfaction. Their points of view, assimilated by the mass, form the real forward step in every movement. Freedom is only a change of masters. The wildest "libertine" has still himself for critic, and his audience to charm. No one is so bound as the free man conscious of his responsibility. Poets are born. Yes, all normal children are born poets, but only the few who are exceptionally strong-willed or encouraged in their poetic outlook retain their birthright after they reach the school age. False standards deprive them of the choicest blessing of life. Ideals and imagination have no grading mark in the schoolroom. How many children are taught to love our English language, to respect its purity, to delight in its beauty and its music of words? How many are painstaking in writing or in conversation to use the "right word" for the "near-right"? Clear thinking, and united and harmonious expression? There is no better way to teach good English than through the discipline of metrical poetry. Every rule is doubly forceful in its construction. Past-masters of the art may make the initial stroke the final one, but to the novice the writing of poetry is an excellent drill. Freedom before discipline creates what Miss Lowell terms "gadflies." Our poets of the future are in the hands of their teachers, and with these poets the spiritual vision and happiness of tomorrow. We know God through and in His works, but one that is insensible to the beauty and the wonder of His ways, lacks the joy of the overflow of the heart that is felt and expressed by the tiniest bird that greets the dawn with song, or the tiniest flower that blooms its silent praise and thanksgiving through beauty and perfume. Never more than now do we need minds that look beyond greed and materialism. "Lord, for a fuller vision More, not less! More faith, not less; More love, not less; More light, more might, not less!" Welcome to the new poetry. It reaches down as well as up, and out as well as in. Nothing is too humble nor too small to receive a hearing. Welcome to the new poets. They are no idle, selfish dreamers, as these last sad years have shown us. Can we argue over rhythm, and cadence, and faulty hokku, when so recently our poets "rendezvoued with death," that the liberty of which they sang might be shared by others, and passed on with added glory? Their love of freedom broke the bonds of the czar and kaiser. It has liberated millions of minds. New life means new vision, but vision should be tempered with wisdom. Poets are born poets; they are made classicists. It is the duty of the school to guide the poetic flame, that it may preserve "the harmony of the helpfulness of life" instead of becoming a conflagration. "I hear America singing." "Give me to speak beautiful words!" "I will not make a poem, nor the least part of a poem, but has reference to the Soul." S The School at Feathertown WALTER BARNES, HEAD OF ENGLISH DEPARTMENT, SCHOOL had been going on for two months in Farmer worth seeing. "Yes, I'm going," said Mr. T. Gobbler; "my boy, Billy, is a pupil. Not that I expect to see much From what I can get out of Billy, the whole business is absurd. I'm not opposed to schools, understand; chickens and turkeys and geese have a lot to learn, and no doubt we old folks are too busy and too old-fashioned to teach them. But the trouble is, the youngsters are not learning what they need to know, and are learning a lot they don't need to know." "Well, all I can say," said Mrs. Dominecker, "is that my Biddy already knows a great deal that I never knew or even heard of. She was telling me yesterday something she had learned in the Ancient History class-how, a long, long time ago, when soldiers were trying to break into a city in Greece at night, some geese cackled and woke up the people inside, and thus saved the city. I've always said geese aren't as foolish as some folks think; and this proves it. Biddy is learning a lot of things like that in school. She's to speak a piece this afternoon." "So is my Speck," said Aunt Leghorn. "He speaks pieces real well. I hoped Prof. Prance would give him some lessons in language, for Speck makes a great many mistakes and can't talk very plain anyhow. But he says anybody can just talk, and that it's better to spend the time in school learning to do things that only a few people can do. Besides, he says if Speck learns good literature. he'll learn language that way." 1 "Perhaps, perhaps," croaked Mr. Gobbler; "but I've always thought the straightest road to the barnyard the best road. Now, if what Speck needs is to speak plain and to use good language, I'd think the way to teach him would be just to—just to start him talking and then show him the right way to talk. But I'm not going to criticize till I've been to the school." Almost every mother and father in Feathertown accepted Prof. Prance's invitation. Just after an early lunch you could have seen them all strolling toward the Poultry House. Everyone had on his Sunday best-though, of course, no one spoke of it as "Sunday best"-no one liked to speak of Sunday-too many trage dies happen on that day in Feathertown. Prof. Prance met them all at the door and conducted them to the visitors' roost just back of his desk. Prof. Prance looked very stern his eyes were fierce and red and his comb straight and starched; and, as Aunt Leghorn said, "the poor man looks too thin and pale, like he had indigestion." But, as Mrs. Dominecker reminded her, nearly all school teachers look that way. At any rate, he was very courteous and condescending to all the visitors. There had been some discussion about having the school out in the barnyard. Mr. Gobbler had thought this would be the best place because then the children would be out where they could see and hear and deal with real things. But Prof. Prance soon pointed out the error of this. "The children could not (Prof. Prance was always careful to say "could not" and "did not" instead of "couldn't" and "didn't") the children could not concentrate their attention on the Nature study lessons if school were held out of doors; their minds would be distracted all the time by bugs and grasshoppers and worms." And when Mr. Gobbler said that, since the fowls spend most of their time outdoors, the school ought to be outdoors, so the children could learn how to do the things they had to do, Prof. Prance had soon exploded this fallacy. "Why," said he, "the very fact that fowls do spend most of their time out of doors shows that they do not need training in out-of-door life. They will learn these things anyway. In |