The bigger boys, gathered round the gates in the dusk, Watch her walk away with their teacher. They stop shouting, somewhat astonished That she should wait for him in the cold. They do not see very much in him themselves And stare, commiserating the stupidity of woman. Widow Monica may well modulate her voice And pose as a charming and sympathetic person. Everyone knows she has had two husbands And driven both to a lasting great distance. At the Ministry _September 1916_ Having received the last volume of a certain poet I look out of the office window— Coloured shirts: green, blue, red, grey: Men in coloured shirts moving heavy things with deliberation Out there in the sun. The junior typist cries ecstatically On seeing the costly photogravure of the author, Clasping her hands and flushing. But I sit and look out at the irregular wandering shirts, At the men unloading projectiles And storing them in the dark sheds. The Black Fowl Black fowl, perching, I have seen nothing more beautiful than your plumes. It should be pleasant to nestle luxuriously in that rich black. But there is no joy in the winking eye that watches me As you stand there perching. At the Hotel While at table Or chatting conventionally in the drawing-room She eyes him. They are seen together everywhere Husband and wife. Nothing but her vigilance binds them. Her smoothness sickens him: She is not even successful. She may keep his body to her bed— It is easier than a scene and remonstrances. Towards dawn he turns, smiling, Dreaming of a girl on the hotel-staff. (Already he has trifled with her in his heart). Towards the End Others might find inspiration and wide content In this mellow kitchen, the beams and washed walls, Flagged floor lit by the log-glow: But the beetles and mice appreciate it more than I. And my Mother is bored to death, (She keeps putting records on the gramophone) Even grandfather eating his supper by the jumping light from the hearth Hardly seems to enjoy his food. Very patriarchal-benign he looks. Somehow his shadow on the wall awes me in its grandeur As though he might not be here long, And the beetles and mice come into their own very shortly. What the Public Doesn’t Want Margaret Anderson America is a confounding place. About four years ago I wanted to start a magazine. Two things in life interest me more than other things: Art and good talk about Art. _The Little Review_ was launched as an organ of those two interests.