Traveling at dusk the noisy city street, I listened to the newsboys’ strident cries Of “Extra,” as with flying feet, They strove to gain this man or that-their prize. But one there was with neither shout nor stride, And, having bought from him, I stood nearby, Pondering the cruel crutches at his side, Blaming the crowd’s neglect, and wondering why— When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet The cripple with “On time to-night?” Then, as he handed out the sheet, The Youngster’s answer-“You’re all right. My other reg’lars are a little late. They’ll find I’m short one paper when they come; You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait, I tho’t ’twould cheer him up-he looked so glum!” So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way For I had found a city’s heart that day. RUTH LAMBERT JONES WAR PICTURES “German Retreat From Arras” “Official Films”-they came After “Corinne and Her Minstrels” Had ministered to fame. After “Corinne and Her Minstrels” Had pigeon-toed away, We saw where bits of churches And bits of horses lay. We saw bleak desolation; We saw no unscathed tree. We shivered in our comfort And murmured: “Can it be!” But later, walking homeward, Repeating: “Is it true?” We brushed a khaki shoulder And asked no more. We knew! RUTH LAMBERT JONES AN OLD SONG When I was but a young lad, And that is long ago, I thought that luck loved every man, And time his only foe, And love was like a hawthorn bush That blossomed every May, And had but to choose his flower, For that’s the young lad’s way. Oh, youth’s a thriftless squanderer, It’s easy come and spent, And heavy is the going now Where once the light foot went. The hawthorn bush puts on its white, The throstle whistles clear, But Spring comes once for every man Just once in all the year. ARTHUR KETCHUM ROADSIDE REST Such quiet sleep has come to them! The Springs and Autumns pass, Nor do they know if it be snow Or daisies in the grass. All day the birches bend to hear The river’s undertone; Across the hush a fluting thrush Sings even-song alone. But down their dream there drifts no sound, The winds may sob and stir: On the still breast of Peace they rest And they are glad of her. They ask not any gift—they mind Nor any foot that fares, Unheededly life passes by— Such quiet sleep is theirs. ARTHUR KETCHUM OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP Bed is the boon for me! It’s well to bake and sweep, But hear the word of old Lizette: It’s better than all to sleep. Summer and flowers are gay, And morning light and dew; But aged eyelids love the dark Where never a light peeps through. What!—open-eyed, my dears? Thinking your hearts will break. There’s nothing, nothing, nothing, I say, That’s worth the lying awake! I learned it in my youth— Love I was dreaming of! I learned it from the needle-work That took the place of love. I learned it from the years And what they brought about; From song, and from the hills of joy Where sorrow sought me out.