They framed it up in the regular police fashion. A clever young Italian detective named Pulignano, it appears from the evidence, was promised a raise of salary and a medal if he would engineer a bomb-plot. Pulignano got hold of two Italian boys—not anarchists or socialists, but religious fanatics—and urged them on to blow up St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He planned the deed, bought the materials of destruction for them, and shamed them when they wanted to pull out of the plot the night before. The next morning, at great risk to an innocent public, the bomb was carried into the cathedral, _lighted_, and then the dozens of policemen and detectives, disguised as scrubwomen, etc., rushed in to save civilization. And Woods fell for it. He swallowed the whole sensational business. They have got him. He is their dupe, and henceforth their faithful tool. Reaction is in the saddle. “All radicals to be expelled from the city,” says a headline. A card catalogue of I. W. W. sympathizers. Socialism under the official ban. Free speech doomed. So they hope. At the least it means that the fight has for the lovers of liberty begun again. But one wonders a little about Arthur Woods. He is on their side now—the apologist of as infamous and criminal an _agent provocateur_ as ever sent a foolish boy to the gallows. But will Woods fail to see how he has been used by the police in this latest attempt to crush freedom in the interest of a privileged group? Is he as much a fool as they think? Giovannitti’s Italian magazine, _Il Fuoco_, states that the bomb was made of caps and gravel—the kind of thing children use on the fourth of July. I know that _Mother Earth_ has started a fund to prevent the two boys from being railroaded. Will there never be an end of these ghastly things?... As too much light may blind the vision, so too much intellect may hinder the understanding. —_Romain Rolland._ Wild Songs (_From “Monoliths”_) SKIPWITH CANNELL IN THE FOREST I am not alone, for there are eyes Stealthy and curious, And they turn to me. I will shout loudly to the forest, I will shout and with a sob Griping my throat I will cower Quickly Beneath my cloak. For the old gods stand silently Behind the silent trees, And when I shout they step forth And I dare not Look upon their faces. THE FLOOD TIDE The red in me Lives too near my throat. My heart is choked with blood, And a rage drives it upward As the moon drags the flood tide Raging Across the marshes. I will dance Somberly, In a ritual Terrible and soothing; I will dance that I may not Tear out his throat In murder.