There is no door to the soul so good as poetry. This approach may be used by the reformer if he will write poetry because he loves and needs it, and not because his leisure hours are hard to fill. His sentences must not merely roll along, but must hit some object or arouse some deep emotion. The end must dominate the form. It is with these feelings that I have been looking through the smoke, hoping that some one would come in view to express what I feel. I think of myself as a wordless poet—one who sees as a poet should, but whose linguistic power is too limited to express what I feel. I have said to myself many times, “The coming generation will do naturally, and do well, what we do with bungling hands.” There are signs that this prayer will be realized, and that the young are taking their places on the firing-line with quickening zeal and definite goals. Out of the rising generation must come not only workers, but also singers; for who can really work if he does not sing? This thought is the basis of the hope that the verses of this volume will help us feel, as well as help us work. The smoke has its charm, as well as the clear sky, and if its song is less articulate, it is more real. The first poem of Mrs. Miller that I saw made me feel that we had much in common. The present volume more than convinces me that she has opened up a new path for our emotions, through which will come new life for all. May she not only find readers, but may she be the forerunner of poets who see through the smoke into the future where all our treasures lie. SIMON N. PATTEN. University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, March, 1914. [Illustration: THE READING BLACKSMITH FROM THE STATUE BY DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH, NORTH SIDE, PITTSBURGH] PART I SONGS FOR THE BROTHERS WHO TOIL A PITTSBURGH RIVER Oily and black is my face, I know, Fire-bleared and sullen am I; Blood-streaks of ore-dust scar me and show Where a long barge has gone by. Yet I reflect many houses of toil Where the world's work is forged through; Where flames and muscle bring metal to boil While Trade is waiting the brew. No sunset sends its long shadows of gold Over my dingy old face; Only a smoke-streaked glow makes bold, Lighting the driftwood space. White-coated craft keep aloof from my rush, Pleasure craft, modish and trim As dainty women who shrink when they brush Workmen's coats, rusty and dim. Yes, I am homely, oily am I, Hideous, sullen, and bleared, Yet I have answered my laborer's cry— Not yet is _my_ conscience seared. WAYSIDE AND HIGHWAY IN AUTUMN There they stand, the flowering rods, Rods of sunshine that are God's, Captive sunshine held at bay While the autumn wears away, Promise of a coming day When new flowers shall blow that way.