Now we shall have Art in this magazine or we shall stop publishing it. I don’t care where it comes from—America or the South Sea Islands. I don’t care whether it is brought by youth or age. I only want the miracle! Where are the artists? Where is some new Pater, and how will his “She is older than the rocks among which she sits” sound to us? Where is some new Arthur Symons with his version of “Peter Weyland”? Where is a Henry James and a Hardy and a Bjornson and an Andreyev for us? Where is a Jean-Christophe who will let us publish his songs? Helen Hoyt, you have a poem in this issue called _The Tree_. It is not Art; it is merely a rather good poem. You could have made it Art. Do it every time, for the love of the gods! “Sue Golden” has one about Jim and Arabella. It has an interesting idea that many people need to understand. Why not make Art of it? I know one of hers which begins “My body is too frail for these great moods”—and the miracle is in it. I loathe compromise, and yet I have been compromising in every issue by putting in things that were “almost good” or “interesting enough” or “important.” There will be no more of it. If there is only one really beautiful thing for the September number it shall go in and the other pages will be left blank. Come on, all of you! Wakefulness AMY LOWELL Jolt of market-carts; Steady drip of horses’ hoofs on hard pavement; A black sky lacquered over with blueness, And the lights of Battersea Bridge Pricking pale in the dawn. The beautiful hours are passing And still you sleep! Tired heart of my joy, Incurved upon your dreams, Will the day come before you have opened to me? Plymouth Rocks R. G. Some new Agitation is always fretting the souls of those who feel that it is their task to save the world from itself. Of late it has been Birth Control. They have been going to prison for merely mentioning the words Birth Control in the presence of an ingenue government. And all the time the government has the most perfect system of Birth Control for genius and art—the National Board of Censorship—so perfect as to produce sterility. A simple mind would wonder why these agitators don’t first fight the censorship, and perhaps all these things would be added unto them! Last winter a rumor did come out of New York that a few of these and a few artists were trying to form a plan of unorganized but concerted action, each profession or art or group protesting to the state on its own behalf. It turned out to be another of those Spoon River things: when the test came a few stood by the idea, but the others were either too lily-livered to have their names appear or the inevitable Puritan ancestor arose to remind them that after all they were Plymouth Rocks. And all the while the tale grows finer yet: