An evening dress in a window ... Sheer, Crimson; An ostrich fan beside it ... Soft Willowy. Outside the hard cold glass, A woman. Pale cheeked, Red nosed, Clutches a furless muff And pulls her frayed coat collar About her scrawny neck. Gentleman in a high hat, Tan gloves, Yellow cane, Fur coat. Buys spring flowers From a dirty-faced Greek. Confetti in long yellow streamers, Lying on the grey curbstone. Shivering children Rolling it up. SILENCE You think the house is silent when you’re out? The ticking clock Obtrudes its measured beat, Slower than before. The windows knock. ’Way down the hall I hear a creaking door. A tenseness in the air ... Someone behind me. Frantically I try to think ... Of other things ... Of anything ... “This is mere nonsense ... Nonsense, Nonsense ... The room =is= empty!” Hush ... What was that noise out in the hall? That brushing sound...? That creaking...? Oh, how can you think The house is silent when I’m here alone? BLUFFING So that was Russian Art--A blotch of red And yellow flames, and towers childishly Drawn in thick lines, and curved as though the walls Were falling in. Scores and scores of these Were crowded in a narrow frame, thick piled That left us stunned, amazed--we could not guess From the queer Russian signs and mumbled words What we were meant to think the show was for. But going out, we coughed importantly And then we said “Here’s a new tone in Art.” While inwardly we wondered what =that= meant. THE DELICATESSEN SHOP You must have noticed, on a Sunday night, The line of husbands, forming on the right, ... A bent old fogey, and a spatted fop Are rubbing shoulders in the crowded shop Where lurid signs proclaim a pale green tea Or shriek in praise of chicken fricassee. Furtively they take their places in line And meditate the where-withall to dine ... Then whisper it quite deprecatingly, And steal away as humble as can be! LISTENING IN. (Recess in a College Corridor) Footsteps paced down the hall--slow, meditative footsteps, with long intervals between them. Then there was a swish of skirts, and little pattering taps on the hard marble. Then both footsteps stopped, and I heard a high treble tittering, and a deep long-drawn out, but kindly roar. There was a clatter as though books had fallen on the floor--another titter, and rather a bored basso sigh. A bell rang. The pattering and swishing recommenced and faded out of earshot. The steady, determined strides drew nearer and nearer--and by that time the second bell had rung--and the door was slowly opened. MT. RIGA ROAD