No, Mr. James, Americans on the whole are well matched. Look beyond the few dainty women of fashion who have personally petted you--women accustomed to the homage of men of the world, and who have danced at the courts of kings. To these we are willing to add a handful of brilliant young students who obtain degrees from Vassar, Wellesley, Smith and Bryn Mawr, are an ornament to the Normal and Barnard College, and distance male competitors at Cornell University. May one of these be President some day! We quote the wish of a gallant member of the Cabinet. We hope that they have low voices, speak admirable English, and feel sure they never smoke cigarettes and never say “Damn!” The camp, however, is very wide. The tents are spread, innumerable, over the hills and valleys of our fair country. Lift their flapping curtains, Mr. James. Peep in and you will find content--enough. [Illustration] AFTERMATH If I should go to you in that old place. (God knows, dear heart, we trod it smooth and straight!) And lifting up to yours a tear-worn face, Should whisper, “Darling, it is not too late, For life and love can soon unbar the gate,” You would say “No,” e’en though your lips were dumb-- Fear not: I shall not come. If you should gather up the poor, pale shreds Of what is left and bring them here to me, Saying, “Fate tangled. Let us mend the threads And weave a web more beautiful to see,” All weeping, I would cry, “It may not be.” And I would cast it by with hands all numb-- Nay, Sweet; you will not come. We each have learned the lesson rapt apart, The better task Fate set us ere the noon. The storms of Life have beat across my heart And scourged its madden’d throbbing into tune. Who would have looked for moth and rust so soon? Nay, Patience, Sweet! God will bend down some day And lift your hand to wipe my tears away. MARGARET HOUSTON. THE GOLDEN APPLE BY AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE [Illustration] The orchard was on a hill, the farmhouse lay at the foot. There was a long field, in spring a palace of cowslips, between the orchard and the house. This September dawn Pomona came through it and left a dark track of green along the dew-bepearled grass. Little swaths of mist hung over the cowslip field, but up in the orchard the air was already clear. It was sweet with the scent of the ripe fruit, and the tart, clean autumn pungency left by the light frost. Pomona shifted the empty basket that she had borne on her head to the ground, and began to fill it with rosy-cheeked apples. Some she shook from the laden boughs, some she picked up from the sward where they had fallen from the tree; but she chose only the best and ripest.