Amidst these pregnant preludes burst out the war bomb. For the tottering absolutism it came most timely as the saving trump. Whether we believe the press informations about the mad wave of patriotism overflowing Russia or not, there can be no doubt that in view of the threatening national catastrophy internal differences will lose their keenness and will give way to easily drummed-up imperial solidarity, as far as the average citizens are concerned. The uncompromising revolutionists will hardly have a considerable following, especially when we consider the fact that the Czar has been showing surprising tact and foresight of late by granting concessions to his subjects and lavishly extending tempting promises to the oppressed nationalities. The constantly humiliated and insulted citizen; the empoverished overtaxed moujik; the flogged workingman; the bleeding, robbed, deprived-of-rights Pole, Finn, Armenian, Caucasian, Jew, Lithuanian, Little-Russian,--all these elements that make up the abstraction "Russia" would have to possess a great deal of optimism in order to take seriously the spasmodic ejaculations of the drowning "Little Father" who has beaten the world's record as a perjurer. Yet one need not be a specialist in mass psychology to predict the success of Nicholas's bait. We may further prophesy that, whatever the outcome of the war, Russia will emerge purged and electrified, stirred and volcanized. Surely, "such life," pre-war life, will be "impossible." The Silver Ship SKIPWITH CANNÉLL A silver ship with silken sail Fled ghost-like over a silver sea, Swift to an island leper pale Where dead hands furled the silken sail. Then to the island bore they me, And left me, stricken, there to see My silver ship with silken sail Fade out across a silent sea. The Butterfly SKIPWITH CANNÉLL One day in the lean youth of Summer, a butterfly was born upon the earth. To a brief day of beauty she was born, and to a long night. Timidly her purple wings unfolded in the kind warmth of the sun. When they had grown strong, she began to flutter hither and thither, from flower to flower, a wingéd dream flitting as perfumes called her, from dream to dream. At last, when the dark fingers of the night were clutching at the fields, from the brief stillness of twilight arose a brief summer storm. Only a few puffs of wind ruffled the grass, only a few growls of thunder silenced the birds, only a few warm drops of rain pattered among the trees. Then the storm passed and the sun shone over the wet earth as a sweetheart shines through her tears with promise of pardon.