I recall a few lines from a clumsy poem written by an American woman after the trial of Breshkovskaya. Upton Sinclair considered it one of the twenty-five greatest! In all the world this day there is no soul Freer than you, Breshkovskaya.... For you are free of self and free of fear.... ... You are too great for pity. After you We send not sobs but songs; and all our days We shall walk bravelier knowing where you are. Obituary of a Poet FLOYD DELL Adonais is dead--dead in the flush of youth, with all of life before him. Yes, but perhaps that is not such a bad thing. "He had so much of promise!" That's the trouble. When the promise petered out--as it usually does--what then? As it is, he will never have to see his great hopes dwindle. He will never have to bolster himself against disillusion. Adonais has known the sweet of life--he has known the glory of youth, and the gay companionship of men, and the taste of good liquor in the mouth. He has known the joy of hard work, and the joy of roaming the streets, idle and curious, feeling the beauty of the world; he has known the joy of love. Fortunate Adonais! He did not know that it was possible for the love of women to become to him a cheap article, to be appraised with practiced eye and perhaps tossed carelessly aside; he was a lover-- And now he will never be cruel or careless about love, an exploiter and parasite of women. He will never have to emerge, with false hope and courage, from the humiliation of the Keeley cure. He will never parade the streets with a dyed moustache--a broken-down boulevardier. He will never read with secret malignant envy the enthusiastic words of reviewers about the writings of younger men. He will never foregather with other has-beens in the charitable precincts of a club, to exchange compliments and listen hungrily to the accents of praise. He will never be a perambulating tombstone to a forgotten poet. He is dead in the flush of youth-- Lucky Adonais! Humbugging the Public HENRY BLACKMAN SELL In the palmy days of the sideshow P. T. Barnum let fall a pat little phrase which might be called the Great American Excuse: "the public likes to be humbugged." The showman referred directly to the amusement-seeking public, and applied his half truth to that rural pageant, the circus; but it was an easy phrase, it suited the purpose of men who were anxious to deceive and to mountebank, and it was snapped up. Today, when a man is caught with a shameful misrepresentation he laughs sheepishly and repeats that the public likes to be humbugged. But does it? We are The Public, you are The Public, and none of us likes to be humbugged! Then how is it that this proverbialism has gained such credence in this country?