The crowd kept yellin’ but he didn’t hear, Just kept on dancin’ and twirlin’ that cane And yellin’ out loud every once in a while. I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo. But say, I was where I could see his face, And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle, A real honest-to-cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t have on them Trick clothes--those yaller shoes and yaller gloves And swallow-tail coat. He wouldn’t have on nothing. And he wouldn’t be carrying no cane. He’d be carrying a spear with a sharp fine point Like the bayonets we had “over there.” And the end of it would be dipped in some kind of Hoo-doo poison. And he’d be dancin’ black and naked and gleaming. And he’d have rings in his ears and on his nose And bracelets and necklaces of elephants’ teeth. Gee, I bet he’d be beautiful then all right. No one would laugh at him then, I bet. Say! That man that took that sand from the Sahara desert And put it in a little bottle on a shelf in the library, That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him. Trick shoes, trick coat, trick cane, trick everything--all glass-- But inside-- Gee, that poor shine! MAGALU Summer comes. The ziczac hovers ’Round the greedy-mouthed crocodile. A vulture bears away a foolish jackal. The flamingo is a dash of pink Against dark green mangroves, Her slender legs rivalling her slim neck. The laughing lake gurgles delicious music in its throat And lulls to sleep the lazy lizard, A nebulous being on a sun-scorched rock. In such a place, In this pulsing, riotous gasp of color, I met Magalu, dark as a tree at night, Eager-lipped, listening to a man with a white collar And a small black book with a cross on it. Oh Magalu, come! Take my hand and I will read you poetry, Chromatic words, Seraphic symphonies, Fill up your throat with laughter and your heart with song. Do not let him lure you from your laughing waters, Lulling lakes, lissome winds. Would you sell the colors of your sunset and the fragrance Of your flowers, and the passionate wonder of your forest For a creed that will not let you dance? WESLEY CURTWRIGHT Wesley Curtwright was born in Brunswick, Georgia, on November 30, 1910, but he knows as little about Georgia, perhaps, as about any state in the South. Immediately after his father’s death in 1913, he began a disjointed tour of the land. He has “broken out in spots” of a dozen states both South and North, attending at intervals various schools. He lives in New York at present and has lived there three years. He is attending Harlem Academy, a small private school. He has contributed to _Opportunity_ and _The Messenger_. THE CLOSE OF DAY “To meet and then to part,” and that is all, To slowly turn an album’s crusty leaves, To see the faces and the scenes recall, Are things that in a lifetime one achieves. To wander down a broad-arch gallery, Viewing the scenes from life on either side, Pressed forward with the force of years to see But part of every picture when espied.