Some said ’twas filled with roses, others wagered it was wine, One said it might be empty as a part of the design. Nearly all of the appraisers for the outside made their bid, But the one who bought the beauty dreamed of what was ’neath the lid. He set it on his cottage hearth, the vase beside the fire, And the cover rose in answer to a very old desire, And through the peach-bloom color and the rose-blend of the glaze, He saw love’s lost illusions safe within the potter’s vase. MY HUSBANDS I hear my husbands marching The æons all adown: The shepherd boys and princes-- From cavern unto crown. I hear in soft recession The praise they give to me; I hear them chant my titles From all antiquity. But never do I answer, I might be overheard; Lose Love’s revised illusions By one unhappy word. I sit, a silent siren, And count my cavaliers; The men I wed in wisdom, The boys who taught me tears. To some I gave devotion, To some I kinked the knee; But there was one old wizard Who laid his spells on me. He showed me like a master That one rose makes a gown; That looking up to Heaven Is merely looking down. He marked me for the circle, Made magic in my eyes; He won me by revealing The truth in all his lies. So, when I see that wizard Among the marchers dim, I make the full court curtsy In fealty to him. AFTERWORD In a maze of contributions such as the poetry editor of a large metropolitan newspaper printing daily two or three poems receives there came to me unheralded one morning in the mail a little poem which bore the name of an author of whom I had never heard--Nathalia Crane. It was a whimsical piece of verse such as an editor rarely receives, a rhythmical, lilting production that would gladden the heart of any one. It was called _The History of Honey_. Needless to say it was accepted for publication. Subsequently others submitted by Nathalia Crane also found a place in _The Sun_. Then followed some correspondence in regard to various other poems but a call at the office made by the author in answer to a letter about the poem _The Army Laundress_ disclosed to my amazement that the writer was none other than a little girl--a shy, unassuming youngster who was as embarrassed during the interview as I was myself. For I must admit I was embarrassed--or rather taken aback. My surprise is excusable. So many times I had received “poems” from youngsters who were careful to give their ages in addition to their names; so often I had received visits from doting parents or relatives requesting publication of verses by their children or sisters or cousins that I had never dreamed any child would ever submit any work from his or her pen without adding the words “Aged -- years.” But little Nathalia was the exception--and there was nothing in her poems that I received to indicate her age.