At silver of gray lines; at look of lace About a woman's throat; at little feet, Curled close in hand that clings; at stir of sweet Old gardens; at the flow and dip and grace Of sweeping fabric; at the phantom race of shadow ripples in the tides of wheat, Where great, still spirits murmur as they meet-- Souls see Their God as in a holy place. What of the wrinkled face, the poor, coarse hands, Dead leaves and ruined walls in fields that stand, Rattling sharp husks? Of little feet that stray From clinging hands, and never find the way? He knows no holy place for whom the clod Stands not an altar to the living God. FRIENDSHIP VILLAGE Published by Permission of The Macmillan Co., New York. We are one long street, rambling from sun to sun, inheriting traits of the parent country road which we unite. And we are cross streets, members of the same family, properly imitative, proving our ancestorship in a primeval genius for trees, or bursting out in inexplicable weaknesses of Court-House, Engine-House, Town Hall, and Telephone Office. Ultimately our stock dwindled out in a slaughter-house and a few detached houses of milk men. The cemetery is delicately put behind them, under a hill. There is nothing mediaeval in all this, one would say. But then see how we wear our rue: When one of us telephones, she will scrupulously ask for the number, for it says so at the top of every page. "Give me 1-1," she will put it, with an impersonality as fine as if she were calling for four figures. And central will answer: "Well, I just saw Mis' Holcomb go 'crost the street. I'll call you, if you want, when she comes back." Or, "I don't think you better ring the Helman's just now. They were awake 'most all night with one o' Mis' Helman's attacks." Or, "Doctor June's invited to Mis' Syke's for tea. Shall I give him to you there?" The telephone is modern enough. But in our use of it, is there not a flavor as of an Elder Time, to be caught by Them of Many Years from Now? And already we may catch this flavor, as our Britain great-great-lady grandmothers, and more, may have been conscious of the old fashion of sitting in bowers. If only they were conscious like that! To be sure of it would be to touch their hands in the margin of the ballad books.