"Midway upon the journey of life he found himself within a forest dark, for the straight forward pathway had been lost. He wandered all night and in the morning found himself near the foot of a mountain. He began the ascent but was met by a panther, light and exceedingly swift. He was about to return, but the time was the beginning of morning. A lion with uplifted head, and a hungry she-wolf next he spied and rushed down toward the lowlands where he beheld Vergil, who has come to guide him to his beloved Beatrice." One should pause to view the "Master Smith." One here sees in very form the character Longfellow so clearly describes in his "Village Blacksmith." It is to the eye what the melody of the poem is to the ear, purest harmony that ever sings the dignity of labor. One should also pause to admire the "Sphinx" by Elihu Vedder, "The Misses Boit" by Sargent, Winslow Homer's "Fog Warning," John W. Alexander's "Isabella and the Pot of Basil." This last picture we love not only as a work of art but because it is the subject of one of Keat's poems, "Isabel." Isabella was a beautiful Florentine maiden who lived with her two brothers. "They planned to marry her to some high noble and his olive trees." A certain servant, Lorenzo, loved her, and they had him taken to a forest beyond the Arno and murdered. Isabella had a dream in which Lorenzo appeared to her and told of his murder and how to find his grave. In the morning she found the grave and took the skull and kissed it. "Then in a silken scarf she wrapped it up, and for its tomb did choose a garden-pot wherein she laid it by, and covered it with mold, and o'er set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept wet." Her brothers discovered why she sat so constant by her pot of Basil and fled from the city. Isabella pined and died with these pitiful words upon her lips: "O cruelty, to steal my Basil-pot away from me." Space forbids us to tell of the many beautiful works of art or the inspiration to be had by contemplating them, but a trip to Boston is not complete unless we take away lasting memories of the famous masterpieces to be seen here. While visiting the university buildings of Harvard we saw the photographs of men who had sacrificed their lives during the World War. Our thoughts wandered far away and we seemed to see a road that led through Verdun to the front. Its beginning was an avenue of stately buckeye trees in their autumn livery of faded green and gold. Back and forth along this road went Red Cross ambulances on their ceaseless journeys of mercy. The sky that should have been blue and fair was filled with gray smoke. The air that in times of peace throbbed with the notes of the lark now trembled with the report of heavy guns and crashing shells. Great sheets of camouflage stretched along the road to screen the view.