But 'twas Hermione that Got the Hand! Ah, yes, she talked! Of Purpose, and of Soul, And how Life's parts are equal to its Whole. And Thought -- and do the Masses Understand? She lightly touched on Life and Love and Death, And Cosmic Consciousness, and on Unrest, Substance and Shadow, Solid Things and Breath, The New Art movements her sweet voice caressed, Philanthropy, Genetics, Social Duty, The Mother-Teacher claimed a passing smile, And she made clear we all must worship Beauty And Concentrate on Things that are Worth While. "Each night," she said, "each night ere I retire Into the Depths I peer, and I inquire, "Have I today some Worth-while Summit scaled? Or have I failed to climb? Oh, have I failed? These little talks between the Self and Soul -- Oh, don't you think? -- still help us toward the Goal; They help us shape the Universal Laws In sweet accordance with our glorious Cause!" "Hermione," said I, "they do! They do!" "Thank you," said she, "I KNEW you'd understand!" I said to her, the while I pressed her hand, "All, all, my interest I owe to you!" And then I left, and following my feet Soon found that they had led me to the street. V And there I found a burly Garbage Man Who through bleak winter nights from can to can Goes on his ashy way, sans rest or pause, Goes on his way, still faithful to his Cause. "Tell me," said I, "if now across the verge Of night should come the kindly Cosmic Urge, Strong-armed and virile, full of vim and help, And offer you with thee here cans to help, Would you accept the Cosmic Urge's aid, Or would you rise up free and unafraid And say, 'My restless Personality Bids me return a negative to thee!'" "Old scout," says he, "I've never really brought My intellects to bear on that there though! I gets no help, I asks no help from none -- But I have noticed, bo, that one by one, And soon or late, and gradual, day by day, Most things in life eventual comes my way! Into the Ashes Can the whole world goes, Old hats, old papers, toys and styles and clo'es, Eventual they dump "em down the bay!" VI Symbolic Garbage Man! Sans rest or pause, In steadfast faith work for thy Sacred Cause! Some time, perhaps, all piles of twisted bunk, All half-baked faddists, heaps of mental junk, Unto the waiting Scow we'll cart away Eventual to dump 'em down the bay! THE PERFUME CONCERT THE Loveliest man gave us a talk the other evening -- our Little Group of Serious Thinkers, you know -- on the Art of the Future. And what do you think it is to be? You'd never guess! Never! The entertainment of the future will be a Perfume concert! Every scent, if you get what I mean, corresponds to some color, and ever color corresponds to some sound, and every sound corresponds to some emotion. And the truly esthetic person -- the one who is Sensitized, if you get what I mean -- will hear a tone on the violin, and see a color, and think passionately of the One he Loves, all at the same time, just through smelling a Rose.