PASTOR. Policeman, there he is, the adulterer, the murderer, the coveter of his neighbor's ass-- POLICEMAN. Excuse me, excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. We will bring him to his senses in short order and make him confess. HOTEL KEEPER. I can't make him fall if he doesn't want to. POLICEMAN. Hey, you, young man out there! Can you fall or can't you? Confess! UNKNOWN MAN (sullenly). I don't want to fall! VOICES. Aha, he has confessed. What a scoundrel! TALL TOURIST. Write down what I dictate, policeman-- "Desiring--for the sake of gain to exploit the sentiment of love of one's neighbor--the sacred feeling--a-a-a--" TOURIST. Listen children, they are drawing up an official report. What exquisite choice of language! TALL TOURIST. The sacred feeling which-- POLICEMAN (writing with painful effort, his tongue stuck out). Love of one's neighbor--the sacred feeling which-- MARY (wearily). Papa, children, look! An advertisement is coming. (Enter musicians with trumpets and drums, a man at their head carrying on a long pole a huge placard with the picture of an absolutely bald head, and printed underneath: "I was bald.") UNKNOWN MAN. Too late. They are drawing up a report here. You had better skidoo! THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE (stopping and speaking in a loud voice). I had been bald from the day of my birth and for a long time thereafter. That miserable growth, which in my tenth year covered my scalp was more like wool than real hair. When I was married my skull was as bare as a pillow and my young bride-- TOURIST. What a tragedy! Newly married and with such a head! Can you realize how dreadful that is, children? (All listen with interest, even the policeman stopping in his arduous task and inclining his ear with his pen in his hand.) THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE (solemnly). And the time came when my matrimonial happiness literally hung by a hair. All the medicines recommended by quacks to make my hair grow-- TOURIST. Your note-book, Jimmie. MILITARY WOMAN. But when is he going to fall? HOTEL KEEPER (amiably). The next time, lady, the next time. I won't tie him so hard--you understand? (Curtain.) POETRY A MAGAZINE OF VERSE Edited by Harriet Monroe, 543 Cass St., Chicago, Ill. POETRY, at the end of its first year, is no longer an experiment but an assured artistic success, a publication whose importance is authoritatively recognized, not only in this country, but in Great Britain and France as well. The field it has opened up is full of brilliant possibilities, encouraging the editors to hope for the enthusiastic support of a discriminating public. POETRY endeavors to present the best verse now being written in English, quality alone being the test of acceptance.