Charles Ashleigh, who makes his appearance in this issue, was born in London twenty-five years ago. He was educated in England, Switzerland, and Germany, and speaks French, German, and Spanish, "as well as two or three varieties of English and American slang." He has wandered in Europe, South America and this country, traveling on foot through Argentine, Chile, and Peru, and in the States as a hobo. He has been sailor, newspaper man, tramp, actor, farm hand, railroad clerk, interpreter, and a few other things. He has written verse, short stories, social studies, literary criticism, and lectured on his travels as well as on sociological, literary, and dramatic subjects. Quite unlike those poets who insist that they have no opinions on any subject--that they simply photograph life--Mr. Ashleigh states his creed in this way: "I am interested in Labor, literature, and many other aspects and angles of Life. Men and deeds are to me of primary importance and books secondary." We look for big things from this young man. Two Important Books Mary Austin has written a study of marriage which she calls _Love and the Soul Maker_. It appears to be about as big a thing on the subject as any American woman has done. Will Lexington Comfort has written an autobiographical novel which he calls _Midstream_. It tells the truth about a man's life, and is also a big thing. Both will be reviewed in the August issue. The Congo Nicholas Vachel Lindsay's new poem, _The Congo_, is to appear in _The Metropolitan_ for August. Mr. Lindsay's opinion is that the best effect will be got by reading it aloud. The Basis for a New Painting Truly these Imagists are enchanting! The following examples are selected from the anthology published by _The Glebe_: Fan-Piece for Her Imperial Lord O fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade, You also are laid aside. Ezra Pound. In A Garden Gushing from the mouths of stone men To spread at ease under the sky In granite-lipped basins, Where iris dabble their feet And rustle to a passing wind, The water fills the garden with its rushing, In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, Where trickle and splash the fountains, Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. Splashing down moss-tarnished steps It falls, the water; And the air is throbbing with it; With its gurgling and running; With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur.