The strike of the Chicago car men is pregnant with potentialities. It is a symptom of a refreshing storm. Those who produce everything and possess nothing have slept long in ignorance of their power. But they are slowly awakening. And when they become aware of the magic wand in their hand, whose passive motion can stop the wheels of the universe.... Take heed, O merrymakers at Belshazzar’s feast. Behold the MENE, TEKEL, PERES on the wall. K. “_The Country Walk_” A young Englishman by the name of Edward Storer—I am assuming that he is young and that he is English—has protested effectively against the condition which decrees that a piece of writing, a painting, a sculpture has to be judged as a commodity _before_ it can be judged as a work of art by issuing little four-page leaflets containing portions of his work denied publication by the commercialism of the times. The first, which is called _The Country Walk_, has some quite uninspired though rather charming prose poems in it. _The Lark_, for instance: Out of the young grass and silence you arise, frail bird, spinning upwards to the sky. Faster beat the wings, and shriller is the voice, and soon you are lost in the high blue, so that scarcely can I hear your voice or see the maddened flutterings of your wings. Then suddenly all is silent, and softly you drop to earth again to rest your aching body against the good brown earth. _The June-July Issue_ On account of being so late with our May number we have decided to combine the June and July and thus come out promptly again on the first of the month. Subscriptions will be extended accordingly. _Edgar Lee Masters_ In the August issue there will be a new poem by Edgar Lee Masters, author of _The Spoon River Anthology_, and also a photogravure portrait of the poet which has just been taken by Eugene Hutchinson. The Submarine (_Translated from the Italian of Luciano Folgore by Anne Simon_) It sinks. In the twilight of the water the conquered submarine falls straight to the bottom and seems like a black corpse thrown to the coral below, thrown to the tomb that devours with liquid joy the refuse and remains of the old world. The propellers, devourers of motion, buzz no more, the rudder has ceased turning, the prow no longer points its sharp beak, but the submarine extends itself on the viscid bed, and a multitude of unknown fish, coral and sea-nettles try to enter the closed apertures.