Perchance that through the ages vast In prophecy thy gaze is cast And to Manhattan’s glad and gay Hotels, cafés and Great White Way Thy fancies take their wing, and show The Pleiades with lights aglow, Till in thy limpid, lucent eyes Bright visions of our feasts arise. [Illustration: “_Fair stranger of a foreign clime._”] Canst bridge the span of ages vast, O maiden of a fabled past? Then come! We’ll do our best to please; We’ll make thee guest at Pleiades! And ne’er in palmy days of Rome Couldst thou, fair maiden, feel at home More than at Pleiads’ tables round Where fellowship and faith abound. For ne’er in Rome were men like these Good fellows of the Pleiades, And ne’er were maidens half so fair As they who seek diversion there; Yet ne’er was time these fellows gay Would deem another in the way, And so make haste, fly o’er the sea, The Pleiades will welcome thee! [Illustration: _Drawn by Wm. J. Steinigans._ See the lady? Does the lady want the soap? The lady certainly does. Will the pup bring the soap to the lady? It will not—the pup is a gentleman pup and the lady is a suffragette. The pup wants her to get it herself.] All You Need in New York _by Lee Fairchild._ _Illustration by Wm. Van Benthuysen._ A shave and a dollar, A shine and a collar, Is all that you need in New York; That is, if you’re clever And never, oh, never Are seen at the thing we call work. When seated at dinner Just for a beginner Change waiters—a move for a bluff; Talk “stocks” of the morrow And then you may borrow A crimpled crisp sign of real stuff. Remember a story— Quite new or quite hoary— To quote to your host when you dine; Be never a piker But e’er a bold striker— Aim high or the venture decline. [Illustration: “_Talk ‘stocks’ of the morrow._”] Waiting! _by Mabel Herbert Urner._ _Illustration by Luther S. White._ “You—you will come over Wednesday evening?” She asked it hesitatingly, timidly almost. “I’m afraid I can’t Wednesday,” as he picked up his hat and cane. “Then Thursday—have you an engagement for Thursday?” “Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club.” “Oh, yes; of course you must go to that.” There was a slight quiver in her voice now. “Could—could you come—Friday?” “That’s so far ahead. I don’t like to make an engagement so far in advance. But I’ll phone you some time during the week.” She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by he was gone. His step down the hall—the click of the elevator—then she ran to the window and followed him with strained eyes as he swung down the street. If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as he used to—but he did not. She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows—the ache in her heart keener than any physical pain. Was it hopeless—the fight she was making? Could she never win back the love she had lost? [Illustration: “_There she sat, with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking._”]