My sister is the most wonderful artist in the world, but when she is with me I do not remember that. When she has talked of her adventures, up from the chair I spring and go ranting about the room. I am half blind with anger, thinking perhaps that strange, furtive looking youth, with whom I saw her walking yesterday in the streets, has had her in his arms. The flesh of my sister is sacred to me. If anything were to happen to her body I think I should kill myself in sheer madness. In the evening after my sister is gone I do not try to work any more. I pull my couch to the opening by the window and lie down. It is then a little that I begin to understand my sister. She is the artist right to adventure in the world, to be destroyed in the adventure, if that be necessary, and I, on my couch, am the worker in the world, blinking up at the stars that can be seen from my window when my couch is properly arranged. Toward Revolution MARGARET C. ANDERSON On Thanksgiving Day some five thousand men and women marched in Joe Hillstrom’s funeral. Why didn’t they march for Joe Hillstrom before he was shot, everybody is asking. Yes, naturally. Why not? Incidentally, why didn’t some one shoot the governor of Utah before he could shoot Joe Hill? It might have awakened Capital—_and Labor_. Or why didn’t five hundred of the five thousand get Joe Hill out of jail? It could have been done. Or why didn’t fifty of the five thousand make a protest that would set the nation gasping? There are Schmidt and Caplan. Why doesn’t some one see to it that they are released? Labor _could_ do it. And there are the Chicago garment strikers. Why doesn’t some one arrange for the beating-up of the police squad? That would make a good beginning. Or set fire to some of the factories, or start a convincing sabotage in the shops? Why aren’t these things done? For the same reason that men continue to support institutions they no longer believe in; that women continue to live with men they no longer love; that youth continues to submit to age it no longer respects; for the same reason that you are a slave when you want to be free, or a nonentity when you would like to have a personality. It is a matter of Spirit. Spirit can do anything. It is the only thing in the world that can. * * * * * For God’s sake, why doesn’t some one start the Revolution? Images of Life and Death MAXWELL BODENHEIM Life I. The sky is the thin, strong expanse of a God, And the trees are lines of black Hindus Praying in black shrivelled attitudes. II.