All this will come under the classification of those things which are so worth knowing that they can never be taught. It will belong to that individual who can say the new word—his own word. It will make the piano something we have scarcely dreamed of. It will make up an art that has nothing to do with the four walls of a room. It could not be set to “Questions and Answers” in _The Ladies’ Home Journal_. It will have little to do with accomplishment, but everything to do with that which is of all things the highest manifestation of life. Blue-Prints HARRIET DEAN Debutante You are a faded shawl about the shoulders of your mother. A puff of wind catches at your fluttering edge to jerk you away. But she draws you close, growing cold in the warm young breeze. She holds you with her shiny round pin, as all young ones are clasped to old by round things grown shiny with age. In your wistful tired eyes I see the trembling of her shawl as she breathes. The Pillar When your house grows too close for you, When the ceilings lower themselves, crushing you, There on the porch I shall wait, Outside your house. You shall lean against my straightness, And let night surge over you. The Pathos of Proximity[1] ALEXANDER S. KAUN [1] _The Works of Oscar Wilde in 13 volumes. Ravenna edition. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons._ Pull down the shades. Turn out the lights. So. We do not want loud electricity. We shall have a jewelled light. For I am rich to-night. Come, let us recline on Bagdad cushions and Teheran rugs (“Only savages sit”, Mme. Zinovyeva, the Russian Lesbian, told us), and I shall scatter over the fantastic patterns jewels and stones. How softly they illumine the thick dark—these varicolored glowflies, these streams of wine, emerald wine, and amethyst wine, and wine of topazes “yellow as the eyes of tigers, and topazes pink as the eyes of a wood pigeon, and green topazes that are as the eyes of cats”, and wine of opals “that burn always with an icelike flame”, and wine of onyxes that are like “the eyeballs of a dead woman”, and wine streams of sapphires and chrysolites and rubies and turquoises and ambers and pearls.... I am rich to-night, and we shall bathe our eyes in quivering rainbows, and our fingers shall wander lightly through dimly-jewelled ripples, stirring up old visions, exotic unhuman faces, enchanting monsters, dancing rhythmic words, fantastic moonlit thoughts. What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept through the curtains of the night? “In exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world are passing in dumb show before us. Things that we have dimly dreamed of are suddenly made real. Things of which we have never dreamed are gradually revealed.”