"It is my work--I am strong, me! You little man, wear four eyes." His gaze swept in contempt over the visitor. "Dis tree, she's be my brudder; she's be tall, strong like me. 'Bon!' she's say. 'You good lumberjack, you Joe!'" And his axe bit a deep chord of assent from the heart of the pine. The Great Author perceived that here was a philosopher, who drew from the woods his one rule: "Work! You are here; so it is evident that you were to be a lumberjack--but be careful to be a _good_ lumberjack!" The halfbreed was a poet, for he could read the secret heart of the woods and make response from his own. He was a painter, whose brush was the axe; with that brush he limned great canvases, whose truth all woodsmen loved instantly. The Philosopher groped after his soul, the Painter strove to express his soul, and the Poet tried to clothe his soul in words. The half-breed, caring nothing about soul, struck fire from the spirit of the Great Author, who knew what a plain thing the soul really is; this, in fact, was why he was a Great Author. And so, when he had returned again to his own country, the Great Author neglected to write about the famous Artists. Instead, he penned a wonderful tale about a halfbreed Indian, and the world cried out in rapture. But the three Artists bitterly termed him an ignorant fakir. From the "Sonnet" of Felix Arvers Within my soul there lies a secret, thieved Eternally from Love, that knows no sleep. All innocent it she whose name lies deep Enshrined upon my heart, nor has she grieved With love's kind sorrow; naught have I achieved Though alway at her side. Thus shall I keep My secret, while I live. How might I reap Rewards unsought, when none can be received? For she, to whom God gave a soul so tender, Goes calmly on her way, and will not hear The murmured homage Love would gladly render; So pure is she, so quiet and austere! Scanning my lines, "Who can this angel be?" She smiling asks--and fails herself to see. THE CLEAR WORD There has been a good deal of mysticism in the public prints lately--emanations from Point Loma, perhaps; subtle propaganda. They are interesting, these men with the wide eyes. They write about a multitude of things; they are masters of glowing phrases, golden wordings, witchery of thought. Eternally invincible are they, being very nebulous and vague. So lofty are their ideals and visions that never by any chance can they be brought down to concrete wordings. Fixed in the abstract, they leave to their readers the interpretation of these sacred thought-gems.