This much is certain: no administration could take away every ancient prerogative of art students; lead them gently into organization; impose discipline upon them; and appoint God a chaperone over their play—in fact make a crêche of the school—if there were any of the stuff in them of which artists are made. There always has been a fight on the part of the school to get what it wanted from the directors; but things can be done. Read the list of “illustrious names” of visiting instructors, years ago, and then compare the student roll of the same time. Once the Art Institute was an art school with art students, who were artists, who in spite of everything led the life of artists, knew the analogy between painting and the other Arts, swarmed to concerts and the theatres, and created their own atmosphere. That was the time when Bernhardt came to the school in her yellow-wheeled carriage and walked down a double line of quaking, adoring art students. And when Calvé came to sing.... How many students there now know these names, know anything beyond fashion drawing? They have indicted themselves. If there were artists the Art Institute could seek exhibitions. If there were art students we could have an art school, not a “factory.” And if the directors of the Art Institute and its patrons really wanted Art, and the directors would throw the Institute open to all kinds of exhibitions, we might even in time find Art. German Poetry WILLIAM SAPHIER Learned essays on this or that poetry make little red devils dance in my brain and my right hand reach for a Japanese sword. They are invariably inferior to the spirit, and occupy only a small section of the horizon of their subject. I have translated these three poems because I felt that they were as good or better than the best things published in this country, and because so little is known of this kind of German poetry here. The first is by Julius Berstl and the second two are by Fritz Schnack. I know of many more, but I am unable to get their work just now. As you perhaps know, they are engaged at present in a different direction. Highland (_From the German of Julius Berstl_) Early light reflexes climb with rose fingers up the cliffs. The chilly valley slumbers and cowers in its white fog bed, But nude and cool, unearthly fine and clear, Glitter the glacier chains. The morning wind faint-heartedly plays a lyre, No bird strikes screaming through the distance; It is as if the sound of a timid harp Spreads with bird-like wings Along the stone cliffs and over the valley. And now, as if breathed by the fragrance and dew, Out of fog blossoms a wreath of meadows; Behind them blooms a crystal glacier blue, And a dream-laden delicate purple grey Plays all around the giant mountains. Young Days