If I could clap this in a cage and let that out we’d see colored wings then to blind the sun but—the good ships are anchored up-stream and the gorged seagulls flap heavily. At sea! At sea! That’s where the waves beat kindliest. But no, singers are beggars or worse cannot man a ship songs are their trade. Ku-whee! Ku-whee! It’s a wind in the lookout’s nest talking of Columbus, whom no sea daunted, Columbus, chained below decks, bound homeward. * * * * * _They built a replica of Columbus’ flagship the Santa Maria and took it from harbor to harbor along the North Atlantic seaboard. The insignificance of that shell could hardly be exaggerated when comparison was made with even the very least of our present day sea-going vessels. Thus was the magnificence of enterprise and the hardihood of one Christopher Columbus celebrated at this late date._ 2 You would learn—if you knew even one city—where people are a little gathered together and where one sees—it’s our frontier you know—the common changes of the human spirit: our husbands tire of us and we—let us not say we go hungry for their caresses but for caresses—of a kind. Oh I am no prophet. I have no theory to advance, except that it’s well nigh impossible to know the wish till after. Cross the room to him if the whim leads that way. Here’s drink of an eye that calls you. No need to take the thing too seriously. It’s something of a will-o-the-whisp I acknowledge. All in the pressure of an arm—through a fur coat often. Something of a dancing light with the rain beating on a cab window. Here’s nothing to lead you astray. What? Why you’re young still. Your children? Yes, there they are. Desire skates like a Hollander as well as runs pickaninny fashion. Really, there’s little more to say than: flowers in a glass basket under the electric glare; the carpet is red, mostly, a hodge-podge of zig-zags that pass for Persian fancies. Risk a _double entendre_. But of a sudden the room’s not the same! It’s a strange blood sings under some skin. Who will have the sense for it? The men sniff suspiciously; you at least my dear had your head about you. It was a tender nibble but it really did you credit. But think of what might be! It’s all in the imagination. I give you no more credit than you deserve, you will never rise to it, never be more than a rose dropped in the river—but acknowledge that there is, ah there is a— You are such a clever knitter. Your hands please. Ah, if I had your hands. * * * * * _A woman of marked discernment finding herself among strange companions wishes for the hands of one of them and inasmuch as she feels herself refreshed by the sight of these perfections she offers in return those perfections of her own which appear to her to be most appropriate to the occasion._ 3