indirect value of forcing the men to concentrate their attention better on those cards. All results, therefore, point in the same direction: it is really the argument which brings a coöperating group nearer to the truth, and not the seeing how the other men vote. Hence the psychologist has every reason to be satisfied with the jury system. [Illustration: Color-Tone, engraved for ~The Century~ by H. Davidson THE LAST FAUN “‘_Since I slept, the boughs have pressed so near The narrow path is lost. But I must run And chase my fellows out into the sun._’” DRAWN BY CHARLES A. WINTER] [Illustration] THE LAST FAUN BY HELEN MINTURN SEYMOUR WITH PICTURE BY CHARLES A. WINTER By mead and wood I called them all day through, All day I hunted them from dale to dale, From height to height, each rift we ever knew, At hide-and-seek, and still no answering hail. Ah, could they be so cruel in their play To make me lose the first delicious day Since spring came up the vale? I mind me how the northern whirlwind tore Our wood. I saw those agèd giants quake. Their wreckage lay about my cavern door. I shut it close and, deep in withered brake, I hugged my icy flanks all shivering, And closed mine eyes, and dreamed of spring--of spring Whose voice would bid me wake. And next I heard the inmost water run In the cliff’s heart, and wondered, half asleep, If all the snow were melted in the sun, And waited for a hamadryad to peep Through yonder cleft and mock me for my sloth. But, oh! the fern was soft, and I was loth From out my bed to creep. Slow, slow I drew the rotting bolt away. My hoofs sank deep among the drifted leaves. But, farther on, a lonely sunbeam lay On fading snowdrops, and my granite eaves Were overthatched with mosses green and fine; And every bud upon the dangling vine Showed how the warm sap heaves. I marvel how the streamer hangs so low About my door, that with the fading year Was out of reach--or did I dream it so? No. Since I slept, the boughs have pressed so near The narrow path is lost. But I must run And chase my fellows out into the sun. “O playmates, playmates, hear!” So went I calling, listening, singling out Each voice, each sound, each little stir that woke The drowsy shadows. Now it was the rout Of vagrant winds, and now a bird that broke The trance with song up-brimming through the birch, And now the boars disputing in their search For mast beneath the oak.