Why should not vibrant life assert itself after its kind, even in the presence of death? What desecration was there in this man and woman coming together in such presence, drawn by the invincible magnetism of sex? What of falsity to life was there in the lawyer’s giving and answering the call of life as to this woman, even though he had a wife whom he loved? Why conjure up an atmosphere of guilt that neither man nor woman felt? Why suggest such hair-bristling horror as to the accidental overturning of a dead man’s body, any more than over the accidental upsetting of a vase, or a statue, in the course of a dance? Why such strained effort to make that specialized expression of vibrant life which is the very pivotal centre of all life appear as the degradation of degradation, degrading everything else, even death? Will you answer that there is an eternal and universal sense of the fitness of things with which every soul may be lightened that cometh into the world? Shall I not reply to you that this is a lie against life—that life is sacrificed every day to this lie? Shall I not say to you that vibrant life must not allow itself to be sacrificed to such lies—that vibrant life must create anew continually a sense of the fitness of things for itself and for its every new expression—that it must do this with authority, shaking itself bravely free from the clutch of the dead hand, whether as to traditions, standards, customs, morals, ideals or love even? Shall I not say to you that Life must assert its right to Live? Shall we not organize life on such basis? REVIEWING “THE LITTLE REVIEW” _Virginia York in “The Richmond Evening Journal”_: As we said a couple of months ago, THE LITTLE REVIEW, published in windy Chicago, is claimed by its editors and readers to be the very, very last word in prose and poetry. Also, it is the organ, the mouth organ, perhaps, of that unsustained tune known as “vers libre.” In a criticism of some of the Review’s lurid, foolish contents we poked a good deal of fun at the publication in general and one piece of loose, or free, verse in particular. This gem, entitled, “Cafe Sketches,” by Arthur Davison Ficke, said, in part: Presently persons will come out And shake legs. I do not want legs shaken. I want immortal souls shaken unreasonably. I want to see dawn spilled across the blackness Like a scrambled egg on a skillet; I want miracles, wonders. Tidings out of deeps I do not know, ... But I have a horrible suspicion That neither you Nor your esteemed consort Nor I myself Can ever provide these simple things For which I am so patiently waiting Base people. How I dislike you!