The third name I may be allowed to mention, without impertinent intrusion into orchestral harmonies, is the name of Miss Vera White. I am not now referring to Miss White’s untiring constructive labor upon what one might call “the architectural scaffolding” of The Little Theatre’s productions. I am referring to her personal genius as an actress. Nothing more natural, nothing more _inevitable_, nothing more winning and seductive, than this gentle actress’s rendering of the wronged mother in Mrs. Ellis’s Cornish Play could be possibly imagined. And the same enchanting qualities of direct self-effacing emotion will no doubt be even more irresistible when, in a classic role, she comes to play the Nurse in Medea. Of Ellen Van Volkenburg’s own acting in this classic Renaissance which she is helping her husband to summon from “the vasty deep,” I cannot speak; for I have only seen her in those charming “genre” plays where she loves, mischievously enough, to transform herself, like a witch-fairy, into every mortal kind of dream-person! But I know enough of her to know at least one aspect of her October-shadowy moods, which will make us tremble before her Medea! Well! The Euphorion—the child of this encounter of Past and Present has yet to grow his full wings. He is still a “Ge-Uranic,” a Child-Angel. But those who have had the fortune of being present at the scene of his high engendering will never forget their privilege. “It is a long way” to the shores of Troas from the shores of our Chicago Lake; but for one wanderer at least the great goddess of the Gallery of the Louvre has not worked her spells in vain. Still, with the Elizabethan, we can cry aloud to her through the mists of many journeyings: “Her lips suck forth my soul. See where it flies.” Winter’s Pride GEORGE SOULE Intolerant wind, cold, swift over the sand, An icy-silver sun upon the sea, Back-spraying plumes of molten white Wind-lifted from the curling breakers’ tips That proudly charge the shore with steady roll And crisping plunge, The soft advance of foam— Its million breaking bubbles, Its elfin rush and tingle; A thousand gulls awing, Startled to dipping flight and curving glide, Their flashing arabesques against the sun Twisting a thousand beauties never still Until they rest, fearless, lifted and falling Upon the surging surf; And you and I Striding the flat, resilient sand, Seeking the distance tirelessly, Our faces burning, Our speech of silence made, In equal freedom joined perfectly, And our uplifted spirits Plumed like the waves, exulting with the gulls; These things are potent To cleanse us through the years And to redeem All dull and sluggard hours; These things are proof Of all bright beauty, all swift ecstacy. Two Points of View Mrs. Ellis’s Gift to Chicago