experiences which enables us to mount above them, and gives us the victory in every bitter battle of life. No, our life is not lived from the right point of view, until we can sing it out in the song whose name is--Recurrence! We do not know the worth of the honor until we can dedicate to it that song whose meaning is: "_In alle Ewigkeit!_" Ye say that a good cause will even sanctify war! I tell you, it is the good war that sanctifies every cause!--_Nietzsche._ The Restaurant Violin GEORGE SOULE (_Another picture of our violinist_) A brook Which murmured me to high afternoon fields, Where came a shower, And after that, the long, straight call of the low sun To the green-gold and winking purple of every leaf And the long shadows between the hills. And every leaf was glad And the earth was comforted, Breathing up freshly, And the hills were full of joy, And the clouds remained in the west In ecstasy of color because of the sun. Out of hidden trees A wood-thrush sang. And then I heard the restaurant-- Crashing of spoons on trays, The dip, dip, dip, of the big rotary fans, The chink of the cash-register, the clatter of money into the tray, And people talking loudly, with mirthless laughter, And munching, munching, munching. Over it mocked the violin-- The rain fell and the sun called, And there returned unto the violin, And entered with glory into the violin Final loneliness. Then the pianist selected something from a musical comedy. Editorials _Our Third New Poet_ Maxwell Bodenheim was born in Natchez, Mississippi, twenty-two years ago, was educated in the Memphis, Tennessee, schools, served three years in the U. S. regular army, and is at present studying law and art in Chicago. He has written poetry for six years without having had a single poem accepted--in fact, he has had exactly three hundred and seventeen rejection slips from the astute editors of American magazines. He addresses to them the following poem: _The Poet Speaks To Those Who Scorn Him_ I have taken tons of carbon in my hand, Shriveled them, with a thought, to a small diamond: And tried to sell it to men who call it glass. It was glass in a sense-- Glass which with terrible exactness, Showed them big, hideous souls Dwarfed by the splendor of its immense clarity, Like forests pressed to specks by the height of a mountain.