_Ezra Pound, London_: Thanks for the January-February issue. Your magazine seems to be looking up. A touch of light in Dawson and Seiffert—though THE LITTLE REVIEW seems to me rather scrappy and unselective. I thought you started out to prove Ficke’s belief that the sonnet is “Gawd’s own city.” However, he seems to have abandoned that church. I still don’t know whether you send me the magazine in order to encourage me in believing that my camp stool by Helicon is to be left free from tacks, or whether the paper is sent to convert me from error. I am glad to see in it some mention of Eliot, who is really of interest. _The Egoist_ is about to publish Joyce’s “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” in volume form (since no grab-the-cash firm will take it) and do Lewis’s “Tarr” as a serial. I think you will be interested in the two novels, and I hope you will draw attention to them, and to the sporting endeavor of _The Egoist_ to do in this dark isle what the _Mercure_ has so long done in France, i. e., publish books as well as a magazine. Incidentally, Chicago should not depend on New York for its books. _Anonymous_: Will you ask that Lollipop Vender man, in the March issue, what happened to his little dirigible? He was sailing along dropping bombs, hitting the mark every time, when something seemed to happen and he came limply wobbling down to—nothing. I hope the last half of that article was not meant to be satire or wit or anything like that. He speaks with too much authority to have much sense of humor, and—ye gods!—the situation is far too desperate for wit—of that kind. Now there’s Bartlett—read what he says of Bartlett! Haven’t we answered all attacks for years with “There’s Bartlett”? It was only intuition and self-preservation on our part at first, perhaps—but now hasn’t Bartlett proved that he is a “real artist”? He is off to New York to live. How he does wobble when he comes to his list of “able and honest”. Poor Parker! that he should have to go into the list of best men, too—that list! The man _can_ paint—technic seems to be only a superstition now but it once had a place in Art. Parker has that at least. Wendt, Buehr, Ravlin, and Davis should be rescued from the “able and honest” before your critic collapses completely in referring to Clarkson and Oliver Dennet Grover as some of “their best men.” Ask him anyway—what happened? _Alice Groff, Philadelphia_: Why did not Sherwood Anderson write up “Vibrant Life” clean and true? Why did he not have the courage to paint every one of those emotions in clear color—to outline every one of those actions in the beauty of naturalness? Why does he artificialize everything? Is he afraid of the crouching tigers of conventional morality?