Oh, where are the bounds of this divine conception? Where ends this dream of God? And is there no life or intelligence in all this throng of spheres? Are there no sails on those far-away summer seas, no wings to cleave that crystal air, no forms divine to walk those radiant fields? Are there no eyes to see those floods of light, no hearts to share with ours that love which holds all these mighty orbs in place? It cannot be! It cannot be! There is a God! “The heavens declare His glory and the firmament showeth His handiwork.” [Illustration] [Illustration: With Trotwood] WHEN I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING When I wake up in the mornin’, in the laughin’, smilin’ mornin’, With my soul keyed like a fiddle an’ my heart keyed like a lute, An’ memory-maids come trippin’, an’ a-slidin’ an’ a-slippin’, An’ floodin’ all my heart house with the faint notes of their flute— Then my lips jus’ longs to utter little songs that kind o’ flutter ’Round the earthly cage that coops them, an’ would fly up in the light, An’ to my soul a-yearnin’, little firefly thoughts come burnin’ An’ bringin’ spirit-lanterns that would lead it out of night— When I wake up in the mornin’. When I wake up in the mornin’, in that solemn, silent mornin’, After long, long years of slumber, an’ long, long years of sleep, When my spirit’s bird has rested in the heavenly air it breasted An’ its golden pinions tested for their flight across the Deep— Lord, I know my soul will flutter up to heaven, an’ will utter In a clearer note the songs it only tried to sing below; An’ these fitful, fiery flashes from the pale hope of my ashes Will be altars of star incense in the glory of Thy glow— When I wake up in the mornin’. _John Trotwood Moore._ TWO NOVELS OF THE YEAR I read two novels by two women not long ago. I believe I should say what my critical deductions were: Too many novels are a dangerous thing and two a year are pabulum enough for a man. For men must fight the life around them. Women may dream, thank God, and right beautifully do they dream. These novels were “The Awakening of Helena Richie,” by our country-woman, Mrs. Margaret Deland, and “Fenwick’s Career,” by Mrs. Humphry Ward, an Englishwoman. There are two kinds of writers: one is retrospective and gets his food from without—absorbs from what is seen, heard, copied; what others say and do; creates, but the creation is imitative; there is lacking the great, broad highway of initiatory genius. It may be clever but it is never genius—versatile, but never great.