Even Christianity, at its origin, in its young and heroic militancy, was not so amiable and harmless as we are wont to think. It, too, was born of the doubt of that whole old culture; of the most radical protest again _status quo_. It, too, leagued with all the revolutionary spirits of humanity. And it, too, revalued all the values of "faith" and "morals." What if this new Nietzschean spirit of life's universal reform, this creative, forward-striving genius of humanity, be once yet again embodiment and representative of life's essential element of rejuvenescence and growth? What if true prophets are always men of _Sturm und Drang_, men of divine discontent, fellow-conspirators with the Future? Anti-Christs? These are they who blaspheme the holy spirit of humanity. Immoralists? These are they who say that life is good as it is, and therefore should stay as it "is" forever. Faith? This is directed, not to the past, but to the future; not to the certain, but to the uncertain. Faith is the venturesomeness of moral knighthood. Nietzsche was a Knight of the Future. Why, then, should not a magazine of the Future interpret Nietzsche the prophet of a new culture? Man as the goal, beauty as the form, life as the law, eternity as the content of our new day--this is Nietzsche's message to the modern man. In such an interpretation, Man and Superman should be the subject of the next article. How a Little Girl Danced NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY _Being a Reminiscence of Certain Private Theatricals_ (Dedicated to Lucy Bates) Oh, cabaret dancer, _I_ know a dancer Whose eyes have not looked On the feasts that are vain. _I_ know a dancer, _I_ know a dancer, Whose soul has no bond With the beasts of the plain: Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, With foot like the snow And with step like the rain. Oh, thrice-painted dancer, Vaudeville dancer, Sad in your spangles, With soul all astrain: _I_ know a dancer, _I_ know a dancer, Whose laughter and weeping Are spiritual gain; A pure-hearted, high-hearted Maiden evangel With strength the dark cynical Earth to disdain. Flowers of bright Broadway! You of the chorus Who sing in the hope Of forgetting your pain: I turn to a sister Of sainted Cecelia, A white bird escaping The earth's tangled skein!-- The music of God In her innermost brooding! The whispering angels Her footsteps sustain! Oh, proud Russian dancer: Praise for your dancing! No clean human passion My rhyme would arraign. You dance for Apollo With noble devotion: A high-cleansing revel To make the heart sane. But Judith the dancer Prays to a spirit More white than Apollo And all of his train.