I was born in Washington, D. C., on the second of July, 1906, and have never ceased to marvel at the fact. After attending public school with very good marks (I was thrashed if I did not lead my class), I attended Dunbar High School of the same city. When I was thirteen my father died, my greatest impression being the crowded church and the vault. Mother left Washington for New York where my brother and I joined her in a few months. New York was an adventure and still is. A glorious something torn from a novel. Even the first hard winter with mother ill and my feet on the ground was just a part of it. My gathering bits of fur to paste on newspaper to cut out for inner soles for my shoes, the walking to work to save carfare, and getting lunch as best I could, all seemed romantic and highly colored. Weren’t there theatres and lights, Broadway, Fifth Avenue ... and lights? Noise and bustle and high silk hats and flowers in pots in the Bowery. Hobble cars creeping like caterpillars up Broadway. Taxis and people and forty-second street. Traffic towers and tall buildings. Wasn’t this New York? A year later I discovered Harlem. I was at that time an art apprentice at seven fifty a week. But that was too little money. So I became in turn errand boy for ten dollars, bell hop in an all-women’s hotel for eleven fifty-five, eighteen with tips, secretary and confidence man for a modiste for twenty-five, ornamental iron-worker and designer for twenty-eight, and elevator operator for thirty. Then I had the mumps and despite the glamor of New York, I wanted to go, just go somewhere. So I went to Panama working my way. Then New York again and a costume design class. A visit home to D. C. where I met Langston Hughes. _Opportunity_ accepted my first poem. Washington for eleven months then New York again. I arrived penniless and have remained so. Dilatory jobs, trips to New England, Florida, California and Canada, but always New York again. The few drawings and sketches made on these trips were either destroyed, lost, or given away en route. I began to write seriously and to paint just as seriously; I entered contests but never won. I am still penniless and happy and planning to go to Paris and Vienna by hook or crook. SHADOW Silhouette On the face of the moon Am I. A dark shadow in the light. A silhouette am I On the face of the moon Lacking color Or vivid brightness But defined all the clearer Because I am dark, Black on the face of the moon. A shadow am I Growing in the light, Not understood as is the day, But more easily seen Because I am a shadow in the light. CAVALIER Slay fowl and beast; pluck clean the vine, Prepare the feast and pearl the wine. Bring on the best! Bring on the bard, Bring on the rest. Let nought retard Nor yet distress with putrid breath, My new mistress, My Lady Death. WARING CUNEY