I took out my pick one night and started the mental manual-labor. At the end I had extracted six of the most startling, clutching, beautiful lines of verse ever written in English. Perhaps the twisted dreariness of their surroundings made them stand out more vividly, gave them a false value to me. I shall let the reader judge. And life was just an orchid that was dead. Her hidden smile was full of little breasts. Gnawed by the mirage of an opening night. And a fawn-colored laugh sucks in the night. And like peach-blossoms blown across the wind, Her white words made the hour seem cool and kind. Six lines almost lost in the mirage the poet speaks off, but well worth finding. M. B. Patriotism is a superstition artificially created and maintained through a net-work of lies and falsehoods; a superstition that robs man of his self-respect and dignity, and increases his arrogance and self-conceit.--_Emma Goldman._ The Reader Critic _Emma Goldman, Los Angeles_: _Readers have a legitimate interest in the truth of critical articles. We therefore believe they will welcome these comments by Miss Goldman on the article about herself. If Miss Goldman had been displeased, we should have printed her letter with equal frankness._ A Chicago friend sent me THE LITTLE REVIEW for May, which contains your very excellent article on _The Challenge of Emma Goldman_. I cannot begin to tell you how much I appreciate what you have to say about my work and myself, not because of your sympathetic interpretation but because of your deep grasp of the purpose which is urging my work and permeating my life. I hope you will not mistake it as conceit on my part when I tell you that more has been written about me than perhaps about any other woman in this country, but that most of it has been trash. The only person who came near the fundamental urge in my personality was William Marion Reedy of _The St. Louis Mirror_, who wrote _The Daughter of the Dream_. I do not know whether you have ever seen it, but even his splendid write-up does not compare with yours, because it contains much more flattery than understanding. You can, therefore, imagine my joy in finding that it was a woman who demonstrated so much depth and appreciation of the cardinal principles in my work. _S. H. G., New York_: It's getting banal for me to praise the magazine--I'm sorry, but I can't help it. The thing has assumed the nervous importance to me of an emotional experience foreseen and inevitable. And now that I've finished reading the June issue I can truthfully say there isn't a line in it I wouldn't have been poorer without. That couldn't be said of any other magazine ever published.