Suppose, however, that a President should be elected on the issue of larger armament immediately after the European war. It is an insult to the intelligence to pursue the logic of events further. The “defensive” alliance against us, the “defensive” alliance for us—if, indeed we could induce anybody to enter one—the constantly-increasing tension, the _casus belli_, the repetition of history. But such a disastrous war would not be a tragedy if we had so deserved it. The tragedy would be that we should have no such intrinsic worth as has Germany to offer as a defence. The tragedy would be that we had been so concerned about the mote in our brother’s eye that we had failed to remove the beam in our own. I Am Woman MARGUERITE SWAWITE I am woman: Old as Lebanon cedars—and far older; Young as the freshest green shoot That peeps through the snow in the March time. My face is turned to the East Pink with the dawn of my promise; My hands are clutched from behind By the fettering fingers of her who was woman alone, Molded and spurred by desire, Knowing only the need Of a kiss for the cup of her throat, Of a child for the curve of her arm. To-day I am woman, Less—yet a little more; For I am learning to sing Not his, nor another’s, but mine own song, That has lain in my heart since the first day. A great golden song it shall be Though not always soft with sweet cadence, For I must travail to sing: I am learning To feed upon nothing, yet fill me; To warm my chill limbs without fire; To go on my way, without kiss, without child, Though my lip is red, my arm willing. Yet I know I shall never cease Till I have sung it all— All to the very last note. Still I shall be woman In all the long days to come That beckon to me in the pink dawn; My song shall grow sweetly familiar, And he who was frightened shall draw near Singing his separate song, Ever his own and yet blending Its virile strains with mine; So we shall raise a great harmony Enfolding the world in our music, Rejoicing again in our marriage. One day that shall be .... But to-day I am weary— The East is rosy with promise of dawn. (_The following is one of the poems in Edgar Lee Master’s “Spoon River Anthology” which has been running in Reedy’s St. Louis Mirror and attracting such wide-spread attention. In our opinion it is in the first ranks of fine poetry._) Caroline Branson