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Title: Pleiades Club Year Book 1910
Author: Club, The N.Y. Pleiades
Language: English
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  PLEIADES CLUB YEAR BOOK 1910, by THE PLEIADES CLUB, N.Y.;
  Book Designed by R. S. AMENT.



PROEM

 _Within the portals of this_
     _book abound,_
 _Woven with beaten gold, the_
     _thoughts profound,_
 _That stir the soul to ecstasy and_
     _bring_
 _The Poet’s flights of fancy on the_
     _wing_
 _To falter at thy feet. Here may_
     _they reach_
 _The silent chambers of thy heart,_
     _and teach_
 _That this, our only mission, is_
     _to send_
 _To thee a heart-throb, Comrade,_
     _Brother, Friend!_

                  _G. Warren Landon._

――――――――――

[Illustration: Pleiades Club Year Book]

―――――――――― ――――――――――

 THIS · EDITION · DE · LUXE · IS · LIMITED
 TO · SIX · HUNDRED · COPIES
 OF · WHICH · THIS · IS
 No. 38

――――――――――

 Published in the Year
 Sixteen of the
 Pleiades

[Illustration]

1910

 Copyright 1910 by the
 Pleiades Club,
 N. Y.

―――――――――― ――――――――――

[Illustration]

――――――――――

Contributors

 Aimee Greene-Abbott
 Robert S. Ament
 E. M. Ashe
 A. J. Bjornstad
 Fred S. Blossom
 Charles Roy Bowers
 Nell Brinkley
 O. Cesare
 Irvin S. Cobb
 Carter S. Cole
 George Elliott Cooley
 Willard D. Coxey
 H. K. Cranmer
 John Campbell Delano
 Dorothy Dix
 H. B. Eddy
 Harry C. Edwards
 Anthony H. Euwer
 Lee Fairchild
 Arthur Farwell
 Thomas Fogarty
 E. Fuhr
 Eugene Geary
 John R. Gregg
 William B. Green
 Jeffie Forbush-Hanaford
 John Harrison
 S. Frances Herschel
 Kingston Hengler
 Karl Hassmann
 John E. Hazzard
 Dixie Hines
 M. Torre Hood
 Harry Johnson
 A. I. Keller
 George Kerr
 Carrie Van Deusen King
 W. Krieghof
 W. J. Lampton
 Laura Fitzhugh Lance
 G. Warren Landon
 Annabelle Lee
 Richard LeGallienne
 R. A. Lüders
 Katherine Fitzhugh McAllister
 Roy L. McCardell
 Hector McPherson
 Adrien Machefert
 G. Michelson
 Phillip Verrill Mighels
 E. H. Miner
 F. Luis Mora
 E. V. Nadherny
 Frank A. Nankivell
 Howard S. Neiman
 Frank L. Norris
 O Hana San
 Alexander Popini
 J. W. Postgare
 Maud G. Pride
 Henry Raleigh
 Henry Reuterdahl
 Louis Rhead
 John Jerome Rooney
 Helen Rowland
 Maurice V. Samuels
 John W. Sargent
 Eleanor Schorer
 Charlotte B. Scott
 Charles L. Sicard
 Dan Smith
 Francesca di Maria Spaulding
 Arthur Stahlschmidt
 W. J. Steinigans
 Albert Sterner
 W. D. Stevens
 Henry Tyrrell
 Mabel Herbert Urner
 Wm. Van Benthuysen
 John P. Wade
 Ryan Walker
 H. S. Watson
 Paul West
 Luther S. White

―――――――――― ――――――――――



[Illustration]

What Is Art?

_by Henry Tyrrell._

_Illustration by Dan Smith._


“A criticism of life,” says Matthew Arnold.

“The rhythmic creation of beauty,” says Edgar Allan Poe—defining
the art of lyric poetry.

“The end of art,” says Victor Cousin (combining Plato and
Aristotle), “is the expression of moral beauty by the assistance of
physical beauty.”

But apply these and other bromidic definitions to the art and
literature of to-day—measure them up against the Sunday newspaper,
or “Peter Pan” at the theatre, or picture exhibitions of the
Independent Artists and the followers of Matisse—and assuredly
there is something wrong, either with the definitions or with the
art.

Then turn to Emile Zola, and take from him this following dictum,
which comes very close to being invulnerable:

“_A work of art is a bit of nature seen through a temperament._”

This takes in all the schools, as well as the fiery, untamed
spirits who would break away from schools altogether. Art is always
the same; temperaments differ and become warped. The academician’s
temperamental glass is ruled off into formal geometrical patterns,
and he sees nature as a kind of problem in perspective. The rabid
“impressionist” looks within himself, and away from nature, and
“sees things” which don’t exist for anyone else. The true artist
gazes straight out upon nature, and forgets himself, and art comes
to him “as easily as lying.”

                        “What the poet writes.
 He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits,
 And that’s success. If not, the poem’s passed
 From hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand.
 Until the unborn snatch it, crying out
 In pity on their fathers’ being so dull,—
 And that’s success, too.”



[Illustration]

Music

_by Arthur Farwell._

_Illustration by Dan Smith._


“Music is a woman,” said Richard Wagner. We may well go further
and say: Music is a mother. It is by no mere chance that the
Germans speak of _Frau_ Musica. The devotion of Music to humanity,
in its varying, growing and innumerable needs, is the eternal and
utter devotion of a mother to her child. Music is ever present,
ever watchful, ready to sing to man, whatsoever his need, whether
of consolation, of courage, or of love. Nor does she forsake him
in his evil hour, when none but darker passions can touch his
heart. She will go with her children to the deepest depths, and if
thus terrible has become their need, she will yield to them her
heartbroken sympathy even in their hate and their lust.

Music will make all sacrifice for men. At the cost of fearful
pains of growth, she will change her nature with their growing,
or even their perverse needs. Let her living sons but call upon
her to forsake her earlier nature to sympathize with the broader
and deeper consciousness which they have wrung from life in their
battle with circumstance, and unhesitatingly she responds. She will
indulge a prodigal Strauss or a Debussy, even to his own harm, and
she yields her best only to him whose sympathy has made him one
with the deep and simple heart of humanity.

In America’s present need of songs breathing the freedom and
courage of the New World, Music, the all-mother, is present and
watchful, and will stand by her latest son until he is full grown
and strong.



[Illustration]

Literature

_by Carter S. Cole._

_Illustration by Dan Smith._


If it were proposed to give, in a brief statement on this subject,
even a succinct account of the whole field, or the simplest sort
of scientific review, there would be little room for anything
else to appear in this volume. In fact, one deservedly famous
frankly avowed that he would not attempt to say anything on the
subject unless he had given the matter at least a month’s careful
consideration, and yet it is much more than likely that the
clientele for whom this particular book is especially designed
would not take the trouble to read an article that had been
prepared after such prolonged and ponderous thought.

The one thing that has characterized all literature, even
before the art of printing was known, no matter what may be the
definition of the word, is this: Whatever has pith, human interest,
originality and action, however slowly it may have worried its
way through the tired or befuddled brain of those persons whose
privilege it is to see the matter before publication, will be quick
to catch the eye of an ever alert public.

This is as true of science as of fiction: as universal in poetry
as in prose. A single illustration will suffice: Quite recently a
book, in many ways abstruse, appealing, apparently, to a limited
class of readers, had just that touch of tenderness, that trail of
truth, that caused a tremendous sale, and exhausted the edition in
a remarkably short time.

It was once asked what part of a newspaper was most interesting;
the answer from many readers and from many lands was practically
the same: it depends entirely upon who does the reading. This is
quite as true of literature in general as of one part. When we
reflect for an instant we must acknowledge that in every thinker’s
life there are periods that differ materially in the attitude
towards reading; that some special line is apt to predominate,
even in one who is known to be a general reader: it may vary with
time, place, conditions—in fact, under almost all conceivable
circumstances—but there is never a time when there are not more
readers in any line than there are books worth while to meet their
needs, or to satisfy their demands; in short, it is just as true
to-day as before or since the thought was expressed in words—Brains
are always at a premium.



[Illustration]

The Player

by Dixie Hines.

_Illustration by Dan Smith._


 “All the world’s a stage,
 And men and women merely
 players.”

The profession of the player is one of the oldest recognized and in
its growth and achievement stands foremost of all the arts.

In its crudest form little is known, but as a profession it may
properly date from the Chinese and Grecian periods, when players
were chosen from among the infant slaves and trained to the art by
masters, not unlike the painter and the bard.

To the immortal genius of Shakespeare does the world owe its
inexpressible appreciation of the artistic development, realizing
to the fullest degree the possibilities, and subsequently the
mastery, of the art, placing it at once on the highest pinnacle of
achievement and according to it the laurel of universal popularity.

To this genius is added that of others, each attaining a greater
degree of appreciation, until to-day the art of the player
encompasses the highest attributes of the allied arts.

The player is one who loves, and understands, nature. To do so
he must feel, in the highest sense, the emotions of the artist,
the poet and kindred spirits, because from each he must cull the
choicest petals—the inspiration of the poet, that he may portray
the character; the genius of the artist, that he may imbue it with
life, and the passion of the bard, and to this the sympathy of a
Madonna, the tenderness of an angel, the love of a mother and the
strength of a giant.

The development of the art of the player records the development of
civilization itself. The player and his art obtains wherever there
is civilization. In its highest form it is at once Literature, Art
and Music in harmonious arrangement. In its possibilities it is
Religion, teaching the whole world by its power:

 “I’ve heard that guilty creatures at a play,
 Have, by the very cunning of the scene,
 Been struck so to the soul, that presently
 They have proclaimed their malefactions.”

The player, supreme in his art, is master of every emotion.

 [Illustration:

 “_Little Betty’s._”

 _Drawn by Nell Brinkley._]



Venetian Twilight

_by Carter S. Cole._

_Illustration by Thomas Fogarty._


 My gondolier lazily makes his way,
     Threading along, humming a song,
 While glorious tints of a dying day
     Fill me with rapture; and earth, sky, and sea,
     In their aureole robes, are a mystery
     Hidden from none, priceless, but free!

 The swish of the oar in the dark, quiet stream,
     Rhythmical, clear, soothing to hear,
 Scatters the mist as a little moonbeam
     Kisses the lips that are mine by right,
     And caresses the form with its mellow light
     For which I am yearning to-night.

 This world is a place full of trouble and pain,
     None of us know, why this is so;
 In fancy, at least, when you suffer again,
     Ride in my gondola, dismiss all care,
     Hear the soft music that floats through the air,
     At twilight, in Venice, so fair.

 [Illustration:

 “_My gondolier lazily makes his way,_

 _Threading along, humming a song._”]



Best Bets of a Bachelor

_by Dixie Hines_.

_Illustrations by Charles Roy Bowers and A. J. Bjornstad._


Beauty is only paint-deep at times.

Only the brave can handle the fair.

A pretty girl envies but one girl—a prettier one.

Many a poor husband is created from a rich man.

While there is an engagement there’s hope—of liberty.

Men can persuade a woman to do anything she wants to.

Men can be classified; women cannot even be pacified.

A woman’s idea of happiness is to be ideally miserable.

A woman will break a heart as readily as she will crack a smile.

No married man ever was a fool without being told of the fact.

The grass widow is not alone in making hay while the sun shines.

A bachelor is a man who has given serious thought to matrimony.

Bachelors form their opinion of marriage by experience—of others.

There is nothing new under the sun except hat styles for women.

[Illustration: “_A woman imagines she can cover up her
imperfections by pointing out those of other women._”]

Every girl would love to be a thing of beauty and a boy forever.

When a woman proves equal to all a man expects she is a sur-prize.

It isn’t nearly so hard to be a fool over a widow as not to be one.

Every woman secretly admires the wisdom of the man who flatters her.

A woman may conceal her faults, but a decollete gown is less
deceptive.

The blush of a bashful girl is a flush that takes any hand—and
heart.

“The cup of happiness” with men of experience has a siphon on the
side.

Every woman has a horror of old age, but not so much as of young
death.

Women are never satisfied. First they want a voter and then they
want a vote.

Some men are born to trouble, while others merely achieve it by
marriage.

There is but one kind of love, yet every woman has a different idea
about it.

Men, manners and morals change, but woman, never—from the
changeable.

[Illustration: _A man may be “out front” at the opera and yet be
able only to “see back”—if he is with her._]

Every woman expects a man to think for her, and then she reverses
his opinion.

When it comes to singing the praises of another, most women have a
sore throat.

Man’s principal safeguard against matrimony is that widows are
made, not born.

Many a promising housekeeping career has been ruined in an
unpromising stage career.

Men have found many antidotes for a woman, but the surest of all is
another woman.

A woman spends one-half of her time telling lies for men and the
other half to them.

Women often know a man is in love with them when the man never
discovers the fact.

Men often find it necessary to choose between the inconstant and
the unattractive woman.

A woman keeps a man running all the time—first it is after her and
then it is from her.

If women did not know that men could overcome their resistance they
would seldom resist.

There are two ways in which a woman may win a man: Her own
brilliancy and his inanity.

When a man is at the feet of woman it is pretty sure that another
woman threw him there.

Every woman wants a man to be real devilish before marriage and
real angelic afterwards.

Anyhow, there was one woman who was never jealous. Adam didn’t have
troubles about that.

A woman imagines she can cover up her imperfections by pointing out
those of other women.

Some men are born wise, some achieve wisdom by experience, and some
just don’t marry.

Two kinds of women make trouble in the world—those that are married
and those that are not.

There is but one class of women who are not interested in the
fashions and they are the dead ones.

The philosopher said a woman could not argue—he was too wise to say
that she could not talk.

The reason so many men find marriage unattractive is because life
was so attractive before marriage.

It isn’t a hard matter for a woman to make a man love her. The
difficulty is in making him keep it up.

A woman can make up two things at the same time—her face and her
mind; but her face lasts longer.

The world has no sympathy to waste on those reckless enough to wed
when both have been married before.

If a man does not tell a woman he loves her she thinks him
impossible; if he does, he knows himself foolish.

When a woman says that all she wants is what she deserves she
really means she deserves all she wants.

When a girl reaches that uncertain age and is yet unmarried, she is
often worse than she paints herself.

Sometimes there is more truth than sentiment when a man tells a
woman a thing is as plain as the nose on her face.

No one has ever yet discovered why a woman is afraid of a mouse and
tackles a six-foot man with confidence.

A woman will start a flirtation in fun and then wonder why a man
won’t follow her when she gets serious.

If a man wants to make a fool of himself he can find many
opportunities, but the surest way is over a woman.

Men and women both agree that it is inadvisable to live without
each other and impossible to live with each other.

Whether a married man pities or envies his bachelor friends depends
entirely upon how long he has been married.

If a man really wants to start something with himself, let him try
to love a woman just as a woman wants to be loved.

The best way to find out what a girl who is in love with a man
thinks of woman suffrage is to find out what he thinks.

A man may escape the measles, or automobiles, or even being
indicted, but no man has ever been known to escape a widow.

No woman ever told a man she hated him without meaning it; some
women have told men they loved them and meant it.

Rather than a man should be right and belong to another woman, a
woman would have him wrong and belong to her.

The reason widows are so attractive to men is because they will
allow themselves to be taught things they already know too well.

A girl will gaze for three hours and a half at the moon and then
wonder why she hasn’t time to sew a button on her brother’s vest.

The happiest man is he who will take a woman’s protestations like
he does a dose of medicine—with celestial faith in the giver.

When a woman fails to see an opportunity to be generous to another
woman it is not necessarily a sign of defective eye-sight.

Don’t misunderstand a man when he tells a woman she is sweet enough
to eat—maybe he is thinking of the forthcoming restaurant-check.

Between the ages of sixteen and thirty a woman is a general
practitioner in the field of love; after that she is satisfied to
become a specialist.

A man is willing to worship at the shrine of a woman with whom
he is in love until he meets another woman—then he changes his
religion.

The question will never be settled between women as to which will
win a man quicker, a pair of silk stockings or an ability to bake a
good cake.

If ever the fact that there are no marriages in Heaven is generally
believed by women, half of the preachers will be obliged to seek
other employment.

If a woman were obliged to express a preference, she would choose
the man who pleases but does not love, to the man who loves but
does not please, her.

Women are said to be more “clean-minded” than men. Men might meet
feminine competition if they resorted to the stratagem of changing
their minds as often.

The greatest disappointment after marriage comes to a man when he
realizes that his wife does not look like the models in the shop
windows during a white-goods sale.

A man can protect himself from the things said about him by the
women who don’t love him. It’s the things said about him by the
woman who does love him that keep him worried.

Women, says a sage, are like books: No man can judge the inside by
what is displayed on the outside. It is a poor rule that won’t work
both ways. Women are unlike books: When one has finished with a
book it can be closed up.

[Illustration: _Drawn by E. M. Ashe._]



The Missing Rhyme

_by Henry Tyrrell._

_Illustration by E. V. Nadherny._


 The trouble was, no word would rhyme with _month_.
   And that was why my lovely birthday sonnet,
   Meeting this obstacle, was wrecked upon it.
 “Oh, fairest day of springtime’s fairest month”—
 Thus I began, and there I stuck at “month.”

   Her birthday is the first of May.
                            “Dog-gone it!”
   I cried, “I can’t go on, now I’ve begun it—
 Unless, perchance, I write of May the _one_-th.”

 Then went I to my lady love, with all
   The story of my tenderness and trouble—
   Explained how words in Poetry must double,
 And how my sonnet’s sweetness turned to gall
 Because I couldn’t find a rhyme for “month.”

 She laughed, and lithped the answer—“You’re a dunth!”

[Illustration: “_She laughed and lithped the answer—‘You’re a
dunth!’_”]



To His Heart

_by Richard Le Gallienne._


 So many times the heart can break,
         So many ways—
 Yet beat along and beat along,
         So many days.

 A fluttering thing we never see,
         And only hear
 When some stern doctor to our side
         Presses his ear.

 Strange hidden thing that beats and beats,
         We know not why,
 And makes us live, though we, indeed,
         Would rather die.

 Mysterious, fighting, loving thing—
         So sad, so true!
 I would my laughing eyes some day
         Might look on you.



A Killing

_by Wm. B. Green._

_Illustration by Harry C. Edwards._


[Illustration]

 A shot rings out in the for-
       est’s side;
  Its signal of death strikes
      the Moose King’s heart,
  And the Indian hunter views
      with pride
    How his skill as a hunts-
        man has won its part.
    But the Shadow that falls
          on the ground below
           Foretells the time
                when he, too,
                    shall go.



Naming the Baby

_by John Harrison._

_Illustration by Kingston Hengler._


 My hair is gray, but not with years,
   Nor grew it white in a single night,
 As men’s have grown, from sudden fears—
   But gray all the same,
   Just over a name—
     A name for the baby;
 Which I wish to remark,
   And my language is plain—
     Or may be
   Ornate—if I try to explain
 The trouble, anxiety,
 Crass contrariety,
 Strain on one’s piety—
 He wouldn’t be quiet—he
 Cooed to satiety—
   (Cute little one)—
 Yes—it was pitiful,
 In a whole city-full
   Name he had none.

 [Illustration:

 “_Now let there be a merry time throughout all Christendom,_

 _For the mother set her foot down—and the boy’s named ‘TOM!’_”]

 Cousins to right of us,
 Uncles to left of us,
 Gran’ma in front of us,
   Mentioned a hundred;
 Neighbors, and friends as well,
 Aided the din to swell,
   Talked, until out of breath,
 And, when the dinner-bell
   Rang, they all wondered.

           A simple child,
   That cries and holds its breath,
 And kicks with either nether limb—
   What shall we call him? S’ death!
 Wait till he’s seven.

 Now glory to that wife of mine, from whom all glories are:
 Add “Hallelujahs” freely, for I’m not particular;
 Now let there be a merry time throughout all Christendom,
 For the mother set her foot down—and the boy’s named
                         “TOM.”

[Illustration: _Drawn by R. F. Zogbaum._]



The Rackelty-Snackelty-Gagelty-Guz

_by Anthony H. Euwer._

_Illustration by the Author._


 The awfullest thing that ever yet wuz
 Is the Rackelty-snackelty-gagelty-guz,
 That don’t eat nothin’ but little boys—
 A crunchin’ their bones with the terriblest noise.
 If ever I see him floppin’ around
 I’ll dig a big hole down into the ground
 And crawl away in till he loses the scent,
 Not even breathin’ until he has went.
 I guess that’ll fool Mr. Guz all right—
 But I hope he don’t come when it’s late at night!

 [Illustration:

 “_The awfullest thing that ever yet wuz_

 _Is the Rackelty-snackelty-gagelty-guz_.”]



Paul, the Piano-Mover;

OR,

GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT!

A Tale of an Artistic Temperament

_by Roy L. McCardell._

_Illustrations by H. Methfessel._


CHAPTER I.

MUSIC AND MYSTERY.

“Papa can stand no more! How, then, can I break this to him?” The
speaker, a radiantly beautiful young girl, stood sobbing in the
great musical emporium of Harry M. Daly & Co.

“Consider me a policeman and not a piano-mover.” As he said these
words, Paul Postelwaite came forward with his hat in his hand. For
all he knew the damsel in distress might be a carriage customer,
and, besides, he was afraid if he left his hat in the shipping
department a member of the firm might steal it.

“Oh, sir,” replied the beautiful young girl, “I saw a pianola
advertisement some time ago which said: ‘_With this instrument
anyone can play the piano._’ And I, taking all my little savings,
bought one for papa!”

“Yes?”

“It arrived to-day. Too late, I perceive that a pianola is an
instrument from which music can only be extorted by the feet, and
poor papa was run over by an electric car and lost both legs.

[Illustration: “_As he said these words, Paul Postelwaite came
forward._”]

“It was all my little savings, as I have said. The firm will not
take the pianola back, and my poor papa has no visible means of
support.”

“But you can sue the street railway company for damages,” said
Paul, soothingly.

“We threatened to do that, but the railroad company only said papa
should consider he was sufficiently damaged and they did not see
why he should sue for any more. However, they said we might bring
the matter into court and they would see what they could do to his
character.”

“Go home, little one,” said Paul Postelwaite, kindly, “and I will
come around this evening and play the pianola for your papa myself.”

The foregoing will show that although Paul moved in musical circles
he was neither a sharp nor a flat. His worst predilection was that
he continually talked shop, for his last words to his distressed
young confidant were, “Compose yourself!”

Paul Postelwaite had long resolved upon a musical career. He knew
the pitfalls of the profession. On every side of him he saw and
heard the unfortunates who played the piano to excess. A hater of
discord, he resolved to save the victims of piano-playing from
themselves. To this end he studied piano-moving.

Most pianos are bought on the instalment plan. Most payers for
pianos bought on this plan fall behind in their instalments. It was
Paul’s duty to call and take away the pianos of those who had been
remiss.

He bore abuse and vituperation, not with stolid indifference but
with the conscientious feeling that he was a public benefactor.

He had the reward of public appreciation. People afflicted by
proximity to those who played the piano to excess no longer
complained to the Board of Health. They ascertained if any payments
were overdue on the instrument of torture, and then they sent for
Paul.

Paul’s father had been a piano-maker. But he had been overtaken by
misfortune. He made pianos for the big department stores.

But while he only made one grade of piano, he was compelled by the
exigencies of his trade to stencil them with so many different
names that he forgot his own. And one day, while suffering
from loss of memory in this regard, he signed a name not his
own to a check and was compelled to retire from business to
Ossining-on-Hudson.

His father’s parting advice had been, “Never forget who you are, my
boy!”


CHAPTER II.

HARMONY IN A FLAT.

That evening, carrying with him a pair of wooden legs, as a
pleasant surprise for the abbreviated parent, Paul called at
the cosy Harlem apartment where dwelt the young girl who had so
attracted his attention that morning.

As the young girl opened the door for him with a glad cry, Paul
proffered the wooden legs. “These are for your father,” he said;
“he has a heart of oak, I know, and now he will have legs to match.”

“Bless you, young sir,” cried the father of the girl. “This will
place me on a better footing with the world! And should I die they
will be a legacy for both of you. And now, thank gracious! I can
play the pianola!”

[Illustration: “_The grateful father adjusted the artificial limbs
and was soon playing Handel with his feet._”]

So saying the grateful father adjusted the artificial limbs and was
soon playing Handel with his feet, extracting from the music chords
of wood, as it were, of a timbre most surprising.

       *       *       *       *       *

This was not all. Paul secured the old man a political position
as a stump speaker, at which he was doubly successful, and how he
stood on public questions is well known; his physical disability,
of course, stood in the way of his ever running for office.

As for the daughter, Paul married her. There is no need to tell you
her name. She is Mrs. Postelwaite now and that is enough.

They are still a musical family, and the pride of their home is a
Baby Grand.



A TOAST

_by John R. Gregg._


For Success—initiative, concentration and perseverance;

For Happiness—love, cheerfulness and a sense of humor;

For Good-fellowship—the Pleiades.



Lady Crinoline

_by John Campbell Delano._

_Illustration by Frank A. Nankivell._


 Dainty Lady Crinoline,
 Frail as the frailest porcelain,
 Memory doth take me back
 O’er Life’s long-forgotten track
 Sweet as sweetest metheglin,
 Dainty Lady Crinoline.

 Dark thine hair as deepest night,
 And thine eyes were stars alight,
 Roses blushed thy cheeks to see.
 Blessings on thee, Memory,
 For this maid in bombazine,
 Dainty Lady Crinoline.

 Ankles slim as lily’s stem,
 Tiny feet from out the hem
 Of thy dress my heart entranced
 When the minuet we danced.
 Sweet, angelic cherubin,
 Dainty Lady Crinoline!

 [Illustration:

 “_Dainty Lady Crinoline,_

 _Frail as frailest porcelain; . . . _

 _Ankles slim as lily’s stem._”]



At the Pleiades

_by Maurice V. Samuels._


 The music sounds, my pulse responds;
   My neighbor who is young and fair
 Holds me in conversation’s bonds—
   And yet my spirit is not there!

 Around me merry friends I see,
   Gay laughter and saluting smile.
 Here in the Hall of Jollity
   Present, I still am in exile.

 Bohemia’s spell is subtly wove;
   What she seems to display most clear
 Is not her real treasure-trove—
   She whispers to an inner ear.

 She pictures what remains unseen,
   Sings songs too exquisite for tongue,
 Tempts one with hope for nobler gains
   And ever shows one higher rung!

 Bohemia, ah! how base-maligned!
   Thy form mistaken oft for Thee!
 Thy body gazed upon, Thy Mind
   Regarded as an absentee!

 Thou who dost hand the cup of wine
   To stir the heart till it let free
 The prisoned spirit—form divine—
   Art wronged by many a devotee!

 The music sweet, and she whose face
   Is soft illumed, and echoed laugh,
 As gayety grows on apace,
   Fill not the goblet that I quaff.

 Somewhere, away, by Thee led on,
   Aware, alive, responsive still,
 I feel the tremulous light shed on
   My spirit by that wanton will.

 We all, earth-bound most time, behold
   Thy shrine and there libation pour;
 Mistake the alloy for pure gold
   And mere appearance, to adore.

 For know, Bohemia, Goddess glad,
   We all in some way comprehend
 Thy worship must be gay, not sad,
   Or Thou refusest to befriend.

 So here, with revelry and mirth,
   Gay song, quick toast and wassail mood,
 We greet Thee in Thy form of Earth
   And place before Thee wine and food!

[Illustration]



The Land of Dreams

_by Willard D. Coxey._

_Illustration by Ryan Walker._


 Oh, a curious place is the Land of Dreams,
   With its vapory castles of smoke—
 A shadowy land where the sun never beams,
   And Reality’s only a joke!

 ’Tis a place where fortunes are made in a night
   With nothing of cost or labor;
 And all that you do is to turn out the light—
   And dream that Wealth is your neighbor!

 ’Tis a land of bliss, where no one is missed—
   ’Tis a land that lovers adore,
 Where the prettiest girl who ever was kissed
   Is a dream on the edge of a snore!

 So here’s to the shadowy Realm of Sleep!
   And here’s to the People of Seeming!
 The rest of the world may awake and weep,
   But me for the laugh and the dreaming.

 [Illustration:

 “_Where the prettiest girl who ever was kissed_

 _Is a dream on the edge of a snore._”]



The Wedding of the Vines

_by Aimee Greene-Abbott._


 A curious vine leaned over the wall,
 Gay with pride, and straight and tall.
 It danced and swung in the playful wind,
 And peered about to see what it could find.

 Its tendrils, light and airy and gay,
 Flaunted and fluttered, day after day,
 Till a larger vine on the side of a church,
 Swung out a branch, with decisive lurch.

 He grasped the tendril with loving force,
 (She thought she couldn’t resist, of course.)
 They twined together, heart to heart,
 Now none who pass can tell them apart.

[Illustration: _Drawn by A. I. Keller._]



The Fable of the Over-Talented

_by Dorothy Dix._

_Illustration by Wm. J. Steinigans._


There was once a Sagacious Youth, with a High Brow, who Opined that
the World owed him a Living.

“It is all very well,” he reflected, “for Ordinary Dubs who have
not been blessed with a Superabundance of Gray Matter as I have, to
Strain on the Collar in the Tread Mill of Business, but the very
thought of Work makes me Tired, and I apprehend that there are
Easier ways of getting the Pelf than by Earning it.

“It is, of course, a Good Thing that not every one is as Brilliant
as I am, for if they were the world would blow up with Spontaneous
Combustion. It really pains me to see others toiling along day
after day for Measly Salaries, when they might have money coming to
them on Wings if they only used their Wits instead of their Paws.”

With that the Sagacious Youth worked out a system that was a Sure
Thing on paper for Divorcing the Public from its Long Green.

[Illustration: “_There was once a Sagacious Youth with a High
Brow._”]

“I learned from the Census Report,” he said to himself, “that
every Minute a Sucker is Born, and I apprehend that they are
Providentially provided to furnish Automobiles and Wealth Water for
Wise Guys like Me, and that all that I shall have to do is to take
advantage of their Gullibility in order to Hook Them and have a
Fish Chowder that will be a Perpetual Picnic.

“I have perceived that most of my Fellow Creatures are so Greedy
that they will swallow any sort of Bait if it looks Fat, and that
if you only Promise them enough, it Razzle-dazzles them so they do
not investigate your means of Making Good.”

Thereupon the Youth began burning the midnight Carbon concocting a
Prospectus of Speculation made Easy, by which Widows and Orphans
and Clergymen could be separated from their Pile and enjoy all the
Excitement and Losses of Wall Street at Home.

As an idea it was a Jim Dandy that commanded the respect of
the Financial World, but before the Youth could realize it the
Post-Office Department got Wise, and he felt it best to Travel in
Europe for his Health.

“Alas!” cried the Youth, “I fear that the Confidence Game is
getting Over-Crowded, and it is evidently up to me to either Marry
and give some Female the Pleasure of Supporting me, or else go to
Work.

“Personally, my tastes are not Domestic, and I prefer Single
Blessedness to Double Wretchedness, but it is clear that it will be
less Fatiguing to hold a Lady’s Hand than to call Stations in the
Subway; it’s me for the Altar. Besides, as soon as I have annexed
little Tootsey-Wootsey for my own, I will take possession of her
Bank Account and then all will be well.”

So the Youth espoused an Elderly Widow whose No. 1 husband had
left her a Large and Juicy slice of Insurance, but contrary to
his expectations she was a Foxy Lady with a Time Lock on her
Pocketbook, and he could not work the Combination that opened it.

At this the Youth shed bitter Tears, but when he began knocking
Fate his Friend called him down.

“It may be True,” said the Friend, “that the World owes you a
living, but there are many Small Debts that we have to Personally
Collect.

“If you had displayed as much Imagination in writing Fiction as
you have in Telling Lies that deceive no one, you would have
received an Honorary Degree from Yale instead of the Double Cross
from your Fellow Creatures, and if you had worked as hard at some
Honest Calling as you have in trying to Rob Others you would be
a Millionaire instead of a Tramp. It is my observation that the
Beater always gets Beaten in the end. Farewell!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Moral: This Fable teaches that Most of the Short Cuts to Success
end on the Dump.



A Song

_by Philip Verrill Mighels._

_Illustration by F. Luis Mora._


_Somewhere I have heard that the “Pleiades all sang together,” and
I therefore submit these all-star verses as a song._

 In the Northern seas I loved a maid
   As cold as a polar bear,
 But of taking a cold I was not afraid—
       Sing too rel le roo
       And the wine is red—
   For a kiss is a kiss most anywhere,
 When a man’s heart goes to his head.

 Ho! the heart of a man is an onion, boys,
   An onion, boys, with a shedding skin;
 And never it breaks, for you off with its hide
   When the old love’s gone—and it’s fresh within!

 In the Southern seas I loved a lass
   As warm as a day in June,
 And oh, that a summer should ever pass—
       Sing too rel le roo
       And the wine is red—
   For my summer, my lads, was gone too soon,
 With a man’s heart gone to his head.

 Ho! the heart of a man, etc.

 [Illustration:

 “_In the Southern seas I loved a lass_

 _As warm as a day in June._”]

 In the Western seas I loved a miss
   As shy as the sharks that swim,
 And it’s duties we owe to the art of a kiss—
       Sing too rel le roo
       And the wine is red—
   If a maiden so shy should be took with a whim
 And a man’s heart gone to his head.

 Ho! the heart of a man, etc.

P. S.—There are said to be seven seas. It ought to be seventy.



WHERE BOHEMIA IS

_by John William Sargent._


 Bohemia’s not a corner hid in Paris or New York,
 Not a corner in a cellar where we eat and drink and talk,
 Nor a corner that is set aside to poverty and art:
 No, Bohemia’s just a corner in the right man’s heart!



Autumn

_by Arthur Stahlschmidt._

_Decoration by H. K. Cranmer._


   The long sweep of the wind across the moor,
 The cry of plover bird on flapping wing,
   The faded grass and bracken near the shore
 Of the deserted pond where robins used to sing.
   No cricket voice; no cheery summer sound,
 Naught save the sweeping of the wind among the naked boughs
   And rustle of dead leaves along the barren ground.

[Illustration]



At the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote

_by Helen Rowland._

_Illustration by E. M. Ashe._


 Smoke, and spaghetti, and crimson wine,
   And the laughing notes of a violin!
 From the Seine, from the Loire, from the Thames, the Rhine,
   Hail the guests of the cheap table d’hote—Come in!

 What if your hat be a battered one?
   What if your coat be a trifle thin?
 There’s a chant of cheer for Bohemia’s son
   At the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!

 Feel not your pocket, for here’s a feast,
   And your fill of wine for a few mean pence—
 Fish and fowl and a loaf, at least—
   And all for a matter of fifty cents!

 Oh, wonderful things you’ll discover there
   In the midst of the clatter and smoke and din,
 For Genius is child of the very air
   One breathes at the cheap table d’hote—Come in!

 [Illustration:

 “_Oh, wonderful things you’ll discover there

 In the midst of the clatter and smoke and din._”]

 Out of the smoke there are statues carved,
   And daring dreamers their day-dreams spin;
 For never a poet’s soul has starved
   On the notes of a table d’hote violin.

 At that table yonder, perchance, was born
   A sonnet that brought the singer fame—
 And there, in a jacket frayed and worn,
   Nightly, a world-known painter came.

 Here, once reveled a popular wit,
   There, a composer, now rich and fat,
 Here, a diva—just think of that!—
   Flirted and laughed, ’neath a home-made hat!

 Where are they now? Who knows? Alas!
   Dining, perhaps, in a dinner coat,
 Sipping champagne from a rich man’s glass—
   For Success sits not at the table d’hote.

 But what does it matter to us, I say!
   This is “Going-to-be” and not “Has-been”—
 The Land of “To-morrow,” not “Yesterday,”
   Is the Sign of the Cheap Table d’Hote—Come in!



“Hello!”

_by John Edward Hazzard._


       “Hello, girl!”
       “Hello, boy!”
 Thus with hand-clasp was our greeting,
 Seems as though at our first meeting.
   “Hello, girl!” and oh, what gladness
       In her echo, “Hello, boy!”

       “Hello, girl!”
       “Hello, boy!”
 This, and then a moment’s kissing,
 Gave us what in life was missing;
   “Hello, girl!” and oh, what madness
       In her echo, “Hello, boy!”

       “Good-by, girl!”
       “Good-by, boy!”
 Thus we spoke it at our parting,
 Just a little tear was smarting;
   “Good-by, girl!” and oh, what sadness
       In her echo, “Good-by, boy!”



The Wild Rose

_by John Jerome Rooney._

_Illustration by Louis Rhead._


 I saw a wild rose in the wilderness;
   It was so sweet, so sweet
 It seemed the one thing in the world
   That God had made complete.

 It grew beside a mossy road
   In the deep northern woods,
 And oh, its simple beauty lit
   Those savage solitudes.

 And, as I plucked it where it blew
   All trembling in the wind,
 It seemed a meet gift unto her—
   The flower of womankind!

[Illustration: “_The flower of womankind!_”]



The Old, Old Prayer

_by John W. Postgate._


 Our Father, which art in Heaven,
   We glorify Thy name,
 And pray our sins be all forgiven,
   Our hearts all cleansed from shame;
 Our vain desires we beg Thee check,
   Our footsteps lead aright,
 And from our eyes remove each speck
   That blinds us to the light.

 Hallowed be Thy name, O Lord;
   Let Thy sweet mercy reign;
 Within our hearts sink deep the Word
   That heals all grief and pain;
 Our wand’ring thoughts restrain and cheer,
   Our cares and doubts dispel;
 From timid hearts cast out each fear,
   And teach us, All is well!

 Give us this day our daily bread;
   And fervent be our creed,
 To suffer none to go unfed
   While we may end his need;
 Let love and pity fill our hearts,
   And charity for all;
 Sustain the strength that hope imparts,
   To bless both great and small.

 Thy Kingdom come, in Thy good time,
   Oh, comfort us till then!
 Thy will be done in ev’ry clime
   There toil the sons of men;
 And let Thy grace descend and glow
   Within each weary breast,
 So we may all Thy goodness know,
   Thy love and peace attest.

 Our faults forgive, as we forgive
   The faults by others shown;
 Teach us the way to rightly live
   Our follies to atone;
 From evil aims our minds set free,
   And from temptation save;
 And let the Cross of Calvary
   Redeem us from the grave.

 For Thine the Kingdom must prevail
   ’Gainst all the hosts of ill,
 Thy power and Thy glory quell
   The arts that sting and kill;
 And forever and forever
   Hosannas let us raise,
 That lures of earth may never
   Divert us from Thy ways.



The Bashful Girl

_by Fred S. Blossom._

_Illustration by E. Fuhr._


 She threw around my soul a charm—
 I threw around her waist my arm.
 She was so bashful and seemed so shy—
 Just made to kiss—ah! I wished to try.

 We strolled along in the cooling shade;
 I mustered courage and kissed the maid.
 Her look! Her eyes! I’ll never forget
 The touch of her lips! It lingers yet.

 We kissed again! My heart stood still—
 A joy came o’er me, a quiet thrill;
 As the red blood pulsed, all seemed awhirl—
 Wondrous change in my bashful girl!

 Did her brown eyes flash, or a cry of wrath
 Re-echo along that shady path?
 Nay! But clinging close, as ivies climb,
 She lifted her head to me each time.


 [Illustration:

 “_But clinging close, as ivies climb,

 She lifted her head to me each time._”]



Invitation

_by Walter Gregory Muirheid._

_Illustration by R. A. Lüders._


 Pray, maiden of ye ancient time,
 Fair stranger of a foreign clime,
 Tell me, as gaze ye o’er the sea,
 What thoughts arise to comfort thee?
 Hast lover there in ship of state,
 Or waitest thou beside the gate
 To welcome him from war’s alarms
 To the fond shelter of thine arms?

 Perchance that through the ages vast
 In prophecy thy gaze is cast
 And to Manhattan’s glad and gay
 Hotels, cafés and Great White Way
 Thy fancies take their wing, and show
 The Pleiades with lights aglow,
 Till in thy limpid, lucent eyes
 Bright visions of our feasts arise.

[Illustration: “_Fair stranger of a foreign clime._”]

 Canst bridge the span of ages vast,
 O maiden of a fabled past?
 Then come! We’ll do our best to please;
 We’ll make thee guest at Pleiades!
 And ne’er in palmy days of Rome
 Couldst thou, fair maiden, feel at home
 More than at Pleiads’ tables round
 Where fellowship and faith abound.

 For ne’er in Rome were men like these
 Good fellows of the Pleiades,
 And ne’er were maidens half so fair
 As they who seek diversion there;
 Yet ne’er was time these fellows gay
 Would deem another in the way,
 And so make haste, fly o’er the sea,
 The Pleiades will welcome thee!

[Illustration: _Drawn by Wm. J. Steinigans._

See the lady? Does the lady want the soap? The lady certainly does.
Will the pup bring the soap to the lady? It will not—the pup is a
gentleman pup and the lady is a suffragette. The pup wants her to
get it herself.]



All You Need in New York

_by Lee Fairchild._

_Illustration by Wm. Van Benthuysen._


   A shave and a dollar,
   A shine and a collar,
 Is all that you need in New York;
   That is, if you’re clever
   And never, oh, never
 Are seen at the thing we call work.

   When seated at dinner
   Just for a beginner
 Change waiters—a move for a bluff;
   Talk “stocks” of the morrow
   And then you may borrow
 A crimpled crisp sign of real stuff.

   Remember a story—
   Quite new or quite hoary—
 To quote to your host when you dine;
   Be never a piker
   But e’er a bold striker—
 Aim high or the venture decline.

[Illustration: “_Talk ‘stocks’ of the morrow._”]



Waiting!

_by Mabel Herbert Urner._

_Illustration by Luther S. White._


“You—you will come over Wednesday evening?” She asked it
hesitatingly, timidly almost.

“I’m afraid I can’t Wednesday,” as he picked up his hat and cane.

“Then Thursday—have you an engagement for Thursday?”

“Thursday is the dinner of the Civic Club.”

“Oh, yes; of course you must go to that.” There was a slight quiver
in her voice now. “Could—could you come—Friday?”

“That’s so far ahead. I don’t like to make an engagement so far in
advance. But I’ll phone you some time during the week.”

She smiled a wan little assent. With a brief good-by he was gone.
His step down the hall—the click of the elevator—then she ran to
the window and followed him with strained eyes as he swung down the
street.

If only he would look up and wave her a good-by as he used to—but
he did not.

She threw herself on the couch, her face in the pillows—the ache in
her heart keener than any physical pain. Was it hopeless—the fight
she was making? Could she never win back the love she had lost?

[Illustration: “_There she sat, with her head bending low,
thinking, thinking, thinking._”]

And she had never known how she had lost it—unless it was because
she had grown to care too much and to show it too plainly. Could
it be that? Had he cared only for the uncertainty—the love of
pursuit? And without that—being sure of his conquest—his interest
had died?

Ah, no—no! passionately she denied that. The man she loved was
bigger, finer than that! He could not have stooped to a merely
cheap desire for conquest. If he had ceased to love her, it was
some fault of hers, some failing, some lack within herself of which
she was unconscious.

She had spent long hours of torturing self-analysis trying to find
where she had failed—what it was that in the beginning he might
have thought she possessed—and then found she did not. So great was
her love for him that she felt she could almost make of herself
what he wanted—just by the sheer strength of _willing_ it!

If only she could be with him enough! If she could but have the
_chance_ to make him care for her again! He used to come almost
every day—and now—now, sometimes many days would pass.

She knew it was a mistake to ask him when he was coming—to try to
name any particular time. He seemed to resent that now. If only
she could let him go without a word! But the thought of the long,
silent absence that might follow always terrified her. Once, for
two weeks, she had not heard from him; and the memory of those two
weeks’ suffering always weakened her to the point of trying to
make some definite engagement to escape the sickening uncertainty
of the days to come.

Oh, she was so helpless—so pitiably helpless! Wholly dependent on
him for her happiness, yet powerless to break down this wall he was
placing between them!

She slowly arose and threw herself into a chair. There she sat,
with her head bending low, thinking, thinking, thinking.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then gradually there stole over her a sense of quiet—almost of
peace. It was partly the relaxation that comes after any emotional
strain, and partly because of a faint hope, a belief that sometimes
came to her and that comforted her above everything else—the
thought that because she gave of her best—because the love she
gave was a great and good love—some time he could come to know, to
understand, and to love her again, if only for her unfaltering love
of him!

If she could but wait long enough—patiently enough—in the end the
love she so wanted might be hers!



The Blind Messenger

_by Annabel Lee._

_Illustration by Walter Meyner._


 If I could feel the song of faith still singing
   In my heart, once filled with melody
 Of all you seemed when love was bringing
   Me to the shrine of your adolatry.

 Ah! If the years and gods were but content
   To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand
 And give instead, the meed which heaven meant
   Should crown each woman’s life in every land.

 If the dead past would but one hour deign
   A lonely pilgrim travelling byways rough,
 An hour when love and peace would ever reign—
   That hour indeed were happiness enough.

 [Illustration:

 “.    .    .    .    .    .    .

 _To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand._”]



The Pleiades

_by Hector McPherson_.


 All hail! my brothers of palette and pen;
   Of science and buskin, too;
 You daughters of beauty and tuneful mien—
   The joy-ship’s merriest crew.

 Can this be Bohemia, realm of mirth,
   Where the grave and gay unite?
 Where genius now finds its nobler birth
   And shines with a lustre bright?

 Men here tell stories, their pictures paint,
   As they burn life’s flick’ring lamp;
 They toil and they sweat, yea, mayhap they faint,
   Yet with care they refuse to camp.

 When hand grips hand in friendly grasp,
   Just jot this down in your book:
 It is Nature’s heart that you fondly clasp,
   Not an empty, outward look.

 The flower of friendship sweeter blooms
   Where all hearts are good and true,
 Each nobler art richer form assumes
   And shines with a fairer hue.

 Ye Pleiades of the heavenly throng,
   Down here you do bravely shine.
 May your hearts be light and your way be long,
   Lit by genius most divine!

 Then forward from conquering field to field,
   Nor heeding life’s battle-scars;
 Nor malice, nor envy’s tongue shall make yield,
   Who brothers are to the stars!


Table d’ Hote Bohemia

 Here’s to “Table d’Hote Bohemia”
       Where all may dare,
 But only the brave
       Can stand the fare!



Lovers

_by Howard S. Neiman_.


 In her leafy, shady bowers
 Grew a rose among the flowers;
 Queen was she among the bloom,
 Dainty with her sweet perfume.
 And the flowers did homage pay,
 Love by night and love by day,
 Daisies fair and tulips sweet,
 Bashful violets at her feet,
 Thistles strong and lilies white
 Told their love by day and night.
 But she spurned their love so true,
 She had lover no one knew.
 And each morn when faintest light
 Told the passing of the night,
 She would lift her blushing face
 For her lover’s fond embrace.
 And when other flowers did sleep,
 Softly to her he would creep.
 In the dawning thus alone
 He would call her all his own;
 On her lips a kiss would press,
 Leave them moist with happiness.
 Love so tender, Love so true,
 Fairest Rose and Morning Dew!

        *       *       *       *       *

 All my life-time would be sweet—
 All my happiness complete—
 If I were the Morning Dew,
 And the Rose, Sweetheart, were you.



Fame

_by Katherine Fitzhugh McAllister_.

_Decoration by D. S._


 There have been men whose souls were filled
 With dew of knowledge thrice distilled,
 Who bored holes in Time’s masonry
 Thru which the stupid world could see;
 Yet Envy with the pen of rage,
 Wrote “Failure” on the title page!
 Fame stood aloof, with scornful head,
 And crowned them—after they were dead!

[Illustration]



The Tale of the Store Girl

_by O Hana San_.

_Illustration by Adrian Machefert._


 Yes, ma’am, to the right. No, ma’am, not this store.”
 “Say, Sade, ain’t those dames a terrible bore
 With their questions all day?
 Perhaps now I can say
 What I want to you, of me friend Johnny Ray.
 Was the party real swell? Well,
 I’m dying to tell
 You of the dandy fine floor, and just what I wore――
 The price of that, ma’am? Well, ain’t she a ham
 To get off her ear just because it’s too dear?
 As I was just sayin’, there was dancin’ and playin’,
 And cute Johnny Ray, say! was with me all day――
 Two yards of that lace? (My, Sade, what a face!)
 Sure, ma’am, I’ll attend;
 I don’t mean to offend
 Either you or any other old lady.
 Fresh? Can you beat that now, Sadie?
 She’s gone to complain to the floorwalker chap—
 It’s all up with me, maybe, but I don’t give a rap.

[Illustration: “_As I was just sayin’._”]

 ’Cos Johnny wants me for his own little pet,
 And maybe I ain’t lookin’ for marriage just yet!
 I can beat it—and quick—to a store on Broadway.
 Hear me hand that to him,
 With a merry ‘Good day?’”

        *       *       *       *       *

 And she did, and what happened is easy to write;
 She married young Ray; that’s her end, so good night.

       *       *       *       *       *

MORAL.

 And the moral is simple for girls high and low:
 You’ll never get left with two strings to your bow.
 A good business one to pull at your will,
 Or, a true lover’s knot may be better still
 In case you get “fired,” like the girl in the store,
 Who had two strings to her bow
 And who knows?—some more!



[Illustration]

A TOAST

_Illustration by Krieghoff._


 I drink to the Pipe, which, at eventide,
 Is dearer to me than a blushing bride.
 As its perfumed clouds float on the air,
 They curl into myriad visions rare:
 Pictures of comrades of long ago
 I see in the shadows that come and go;
 And the long-lost love of my boyhood seems
 To be kissed into life by my Pipe-o’-dreams.



A Song

_by Eugene Geary_.

_Illustration by G. Michelson._


 Young Love forsook the highways,
   All decked in their robes of Spring,
 And, far into silent by-ways,
   He fluttered on golden wing.
 Blithe youths and maidens chased him,
   “He is only tired,” they said.
 To a streamlet’s brink they chased him,
   Then sighed that Love was dead.

 On, on through the shining meadows,
   As the rays of the evening fell,
 He sped ’mid the length’ning shadows
   Till he came to a lonely dell.
 The flowers, with teardrops laden,
   Bent their heads as he flew along,
 To sigh o’er the grave of a maiden—
   His sigh was a poet’s song.

[Illustration: “_Then sighed that Love was dead._”]



The Caverns of the Soul

_by Charles Louis Sicard_.

_Illustration by H. B. Eddy._


 Within the mystic caverns of our souls
   There is a labyrinth unexplored;
 Where dim aisles, winding far beyond the poles,
   Have secrets of the ages stored.

 Unheard far in the twilight mists of time,
   Are weirdly haunting strains that sleep,
 To be resounded through your soul or mine,
   For those we summon from the deep.

 Oft times I wandered in those ancient caves,
   Seeking to pierce the crowded past;
 ’Midst endless hosts submerged ’neath lethal waves,
   The all in one, sans first, sans last.

 For Truth alone thus strangely did I grope,
   Daring, despairing, yet in vain;
 Until one wondrous hour, while stirred with hope,
   My search revealed a slumb’ring strain.

 One blast of barb’rous melody flung clear,
   Swept back the veil, removed the ban,
 And demon-ridden, and accursed with fear,
   I stalked, once more primeval man.

 Ah me, this thing, cast from the pit of night,
   Knew naught but savagery and lust;
 I searched in vain for truth, for love, for light,
   Then bid him vanish back to dust.

[Illustration: “_Within the mystic caverns of our souls._”]

 Undaunted through my soul again I sped,
   A strain unheard, for cycles flown;
 Adown the shadowed deeps this message fled,
   Come ye, who first, love’s thrill hast known.

 From distant ages dim, at last, I came,
   With shining eyes of glim’ring dawn,
 And throbbing heart aglow, destined to flame,
   In love, through those as yet unborn.

 I saw this self ancestral slowly fade,
   To voiceless chambers of the gloom;
 Where rest those throngs, who have so fully paid,
   That Life’s dank weeds, might flowers bloom.

 ’Tis on the scroll, graved deep, that I now pay,
   And Life must quaff the poison’d wine;
 But Love and Hope, if star-strewn on the way,
   Can purify the living vine.

 O Soul, the tallied years of men count not,
   For life eternal sweepeth back;
 As life unending is predestined lot,
   And I am I, from love, from rack!

 This vibrant flame, entombed in human clay,
   Divine spark from the æons blown,
 Through loins of countless forbears to this day
   Shall ever reap as all have sown.

[Illustration: _Drawn by Albert Sterner._]



Love’s Flower

_by Frank L. Norris_.

_Illustration by M. Torre Hood._


 Throughout this life a moral runs,
   And ye who read may learn
 That God has placed in every heart
   A sacred fire, to burn
 And flash so long as life may last—
   A priceless treasure trove,
 A garden fair, beyond compare,
   Where blooms the flower called love.
 A flower that’s warmed by passion’s flame,
   And fed by pleasure’s dew,
 Its curling petals reaching out
   Like beckoning hands to you.
 But pluck it! ere with perfume gone,
   It hangs its drooping head,
 Nor passion stay from day to day
   Until that flower is dead.

 [Illustration:

 “_But pluck it! ere with perfume gone,

 It hangs its drooping head._”]



The Revolt of the Stars

_by Maud G. Pride_.

_Illustration by R. S. Ament._


A very long time ago, when the Heavens were quite new and the Earth
was still in the Golden Age, a strange event occurred—quite unheard
of even in those early times.

The Sun, vigorous and lusty, had rubbed his blinking eyes and
hurried away to the west. The boy-child, Twilight, his chubby
hands still clutching after the last red rays left behind by the
Sun, winked his sleepy eyes, as, protestingly, he was pushed along
in his crimson cart by Old Sandman. Close behind came his three
sisters, the Evening Shadows, in their long, trailing, gray robes.
A hush fell upon the Heavens. From far below came the hum of the
Crickets and the low murmur of the Katydids, having their final
good-night gossip, but in the Sky all was still until the Moonlady
came softly creeping along, her silver mantle enfolding her slight
form, her long silken hair caught by the Evening Breeze, who
followed close in her wake. At her appearance there arose from the
Earth songs of gladness and hymns of praise. Lovers looked up at
her enraptured, poets sang of her, and even the brute creation sent
Heavenward their low murmur of joy at her being. Silently she
smiled down upon them all as she passed on her way.

[Illustration: “_The Moonlady stole softly across the sky._”]

Then a strange thing happened. Black clouds skurried here and there
across the Heavens, and low mutterings were heard. The Stars had
revolted!

Venus, her cold beauty marred by a frown of discontent, was the
center of a murmuring group, to whom she spoke in words of passion:

“Let us take a firm stand. Why should we go on shining, shining
through countless ages? We are not appreciated. We never receive
any praise. There are so many of us and our light is so feeble, who
cares whether we shine or not? The Moon comes along and takes away
our glory; let her do all the work then. Why should we waste our
light trying to outshine the Moon and the Sun? Unless we can be as
brilliant as they and receive as much praise, let us not shine at
all.”

Each Star blinked a sullen assent, and gradually each little light
flickered and went out. The Dog Star barked and the Great Bears
growled—the low mutterings became a loud rumble, and the Heavens
for once were dark, save for a faint light that still gleamed away
off in the north. Seeing the feeble light still shining, all the
Stars rushed to it, surrounding the feeble Star that persisted in
shining, and jeered at her folly.

“Put out your light, you foolish one. Do you hope to vie with the
Sun or the Moon with that feeble flame of yours? What use can you
be in this great space of darkness?”

“I do not know,” replied the Star, faintly, “but I can go on
shining and do my best, though my light is small and goes but a
little way. I do not envy the Moonlady her glory. Is it not a great
thing that she can shine so radiantly upon the Earth and make so
many happy? And if there were no Sun, what would the poor little
Flowers do, and the Birds and the Beasts? My little light cannot
do much good, but I can do my best to keep it bright, and if it
reaches to Earth but faintly I shall be grateful. I had rather
light one soul onward and upward than to have a choir of Angels
sing my praises; I had rather one person should be glad he had
seen my rays, than to be crowned with a crown of brilliant jewels
and never have made anyone glad; I had rather one tearful soul
should look to me and find comfort in my steady light than to have
a million people bow down to me in worship of my beauty; I had
rather one soul should be truly sorry when my light goes out than
that a thousand should praise me for my brilliancy and not know
when I ceased to shine; I had rather a baby’s face looked up at me
and smiled and called my name than to be praised in a poet’s song
and know he was paid so much a line for it; I had rather send
one faint ray of hope into some troubled heart than to light the
World’s Great White Way; I had rather shine on for ages unnoticed
than to shine with borrowed light and be afraid of being blown out;
I had rather――” But the little Star found herself all alone, and as
she looked about her she saw that each Star was in its accustomed
place, and that each light was more brilliant than it had ever
been before. Even the dark clouds had vanished, and a little child
looked up at the Sky from her bedroom window and said, “O, mother
dear, see how beautiful are the stars to-night! They are God’s
jewels, set in His Crown of Glory, aren’t they? If we are very good
shall we be beautiful stars some day and shine for Him?”

And the Stars looked down and smiled Good-night. And the brightest
of all the Stars were the Pleiades.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: _Drawn by Hy. S. Watson._

_Eavesdropping._]



The Joy of Living

_by Carrie Van Deusen King_.

_Illustration by Eleanor Schorer._


 “_This precious stone set in a silver sea,
 This blessed plot, this realm, this earth._”
                                      —SHAKESPEARE.

 Would heaven be sweet, if you and I were there,
   And would the angels bear us globes of wine,
     Grown rich with many a hundred golden years?
 I fear me not, for one might deem you fair
   And take away what I had known as mine,
     To make my paradise a vale of tears.

 Give me, then, earth with its humanity,
   Born like a zephyr, soft, among the trees,
     While sunlight dries the dewdrops from the rose.
 Give me the earth, I crave not what may be
   Beyond the height of skies or depth of seas;
     I only ask the love that mortal knows.

 If heaven be heaven to steal away the soul
   Of all my rapturous hours, then give me life—
     Its fog and dew, its sunlight and its shade,
 Its day and night—but ever let me fold
   Thee to my heart, to keep from thee all strife,
     Whatever woe, whatever ill betide.

 [Illustration:

 “.  .  .  .  _For one might deem you fair_

 _And take away what I had known as mine,_

 _To make my paradise a vale of tears._”]



The Called Hand

_by Laura Fitzhugh Lance_.

_Illustration by George Kerr._


 No matter what the game you play,
       Play it well;
 No matter what the price you pay,
       Never tell.
 This life is but a game, of cards
 Of mostly losses, few rewards,
 The signs of Destiny’s regards,
       Or Friendship fell.

 The Ace of Spades, King Edward’s card,
       Or William’s crest,
 Each representing different games,
       Each played with zest;
 One stands for mystic power unknown;
 Two play an act upon a throne,
 Both wanting this fair earth to own
       And all the rest!

 [Illustration:

 “.  .  .  .  .

 _Each representing different games._”]

 What counts the cards when all is done
       If king, or clown—
 If Cæsar, Hohenzollern’s
       Written down!
 What—in those palaces on high,
 In astral cities in the sky
 Where we shall all meet by and by—
       If hod, or crown?

 For when we reach Infinity
       The dwellers there
 Won’t know the vassals from the kings,
       Nor will they care;
 King, crown and sceptered royalty,
 The Here, the There—I, You and Me
       Out there, out there!



Passing Through

_by John P. Wade_.


 Hello, Central! give me Heaven! (This club of ours, I trow,
 Is near enough to ‘Heaven’ for a mortal here below.)
 Just tell me, is the President all ready for his cue
 To start the talent flowing—while I am passing through?

 “I just reached town this morning and now I’m outward bound;
 I’m waiting at the grating like a ‘purp’ that’s in the pound.
 Yes, I’m waiting with a heart-ache—I don’t mind telling you—
 Sick with longing to be with you—instead of passing through.

 “I know just what they’re doing. I can hear the old gong ring.
 The toastmaster is asking now some angel fair to sing.
 I wonder who the Guests of Honor are, and what they’ll do
 While gathered ’round the festive board—as I am passing through?

 “Hello! are these the Pleiads? Well, before I take my leave,
 I wish to say I envy you this pleasant Sunday eve!
 Here’s hoping that I’ll see you all before you say adieu
 To the season on the circle. So long! I’m passing through.”



Springtime Again!

_by S. Frances Herschel_.

_Illustration by W. D. Stevens._


 Up from the Southland the sweet Spring is stealing;
   Up by the brooksides and over the fields!
 Valiant old Winter goes scuttling before her;
   Force which has ruled us reluctantly yields.

 Where is Spring’s pathway? ’Tis everywhere round us!
   Over the hillsides and over the plains.
 Kist is the broad old Earth back unto Life, until
   Never a vestige of Winter remains.

 Isn’t there ever a corner forgotten,
   Far to the eastward or far to the west?
 Some lonely hillside or coarse little meadow,
   Some quiet woodland away from the rest?

 Never a hillside or valley forgotten;
   No little corner unkist by the Spring;
 Each little bush has been touched and awakened,
   Each little robin is trying to sing.

 In through the depths of the woodland she’s stealing,
   Seeking and finding each little live thing,
 Waiting so surely the thrill of her coming—
   Joy universal—the Coming of Spring!

[Illustration: “_Springtime Again!_”]



From the Fulness of the Heart

_by William J. Lampton_.


 Good God,
 What is our living?
   What is our thought and deed?
 Have we, professed believers,
   No substance for our creed?
 Belief is ours, and mighty,
   They tell us, faith is, yet
 The things we seem to live for
   Have made us all forget.
 And love of wealth and station
   Shines bright above the goal
 That we have set for gaining
   At sacrifice of soul.

 Oh, God,
 How vast the distance
   Between the earth and sky,
 Between man and his Maker
   Is measured by that cry!
 The hollow vault of silence
   Rounds o’er us and we stare
 Up through the depths and wonder
   If echo answers prayer.
 So far as Strength from Weakness,
   So far is Day from Night;
 Faith stumbles in its groping
   Through Darkness toward the Light.

 By God
 We shall do better;
   Be better, we must rise
 Above the low horizon
   Of selfish enterprise;
 Be men and women, truly,
   As we were made to be,
 With souls for high ideals
   And hearts of bravery
 To lead us to the summits
   Above the sordid strife
 That make mankind forgetful
   Of what is best in life:
 To lead us to the summits
   Of spirit and of mind,
 Where man, close to his Maker,
   Comes closer to his kind.



The Wanderer

_by Francesca di Maria Spaulding_.

_Illustration by Henry Raleigh._


 He comes from a country where setting sun
 Proclaims that the day and its work are done;
 Where moon and stars shed the only light
 On trails that are hushed and dim by night.

 He wanders alone in the crowded town
 Where skies are forgotten when night comes down,
 Where torches alight in traffic’s name
 May broider the streets with threads of flame,
 May blazon the walls in strange designs,
 May rive the darkness with flashing signs,
 But quench the beam from each torch in the sky
 As well as the soul of each passer-by.

 Aweary at heart of the careless throng
 He drifted and reveled with all too long;
 He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,
 For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill,
 For the infinite heights of starry skies,
 When the moon makes the world seem paradise.

 But he ne’er returns, and up and down
 He wanders—alone—in the crowded town.

 [Illustration:

 “_He yearns for the stillness of field and hill,

 For the melodic sound of a wild bird’s trill._”]



The Answered Call

_by George Elliott Cooley_.


 Star-dust awhirl in a vortex,
   The infinite moving through all;
 Called to the soul of the atoms;
   And the Pleiades answered the call!

 Thus on the earth when our souls thrill,
   We gather in groups at the call;
 It’s yearning for love that impels us,
   It’s the Infinite moving through all.

       *       *       *       *       *


TRUE TRANSMUTATION

 In this world there are people scrambling for coin;
   There are others, we know, who are seeking for fame.
 All will-o’-the-wispers seem eager to join
   In this harassing, harrowing, hectoring game.
 But missing Dame Fortune, they sit down and moan,
   And oft grumble because through their fingers she flits:
 They should dig for the tramp’s philosopher’s stone:
   “I can’t git what I wants, so I take what I gits.”

[Illustration: _Drawn by Charles W. Kahles._

_The Annual Dinner._]



Hallroumania, or The Boarderland

_by Irvin S. Cobb_.

_Illustration by O. Cesare._


The Boarderland is a drear domain bounded on the north by top-floor
bedrooms, lying above the frost-line, because the steam register
always gets discouraged and quits one story below. It is bounded on
the south by basement dining-rooms, where it is night six months
a year and just before daylight the rest of the time; on the east
by an entrance hall agreeably perfumed with the combined aroma of
kerosene, mother-of-onion, veteran linoleum and the stuffing in
the red-plush sofa, and on the west by a parlor nine feet wide and
thirty-two feet long, with one window in it and a doctor’s sign
in the window. The doctor’s private office lies just back of the
parlor, so the parlor smells mildewed when the connecting door is
closed and iodoformed when it’s open.

Boarders, as the natives of this land are commonly called, are
never allowed in the parlor except once, that occasion being when
they first apply for board. Thereafter they entertain their company
on the front stoop in the summer and on the telephone in the
winter. Winter company is the more expensive.

[Illustration: “_Thereafter they entertain their company on the
front stoop._”]

The ruling classes of Hallroumania are known as Landladies and may
be classed generally into the following subdivisions: Landladies
who belong to Old Southern Families and formerly rode in Their Own
Carriages, but suffered Heavy Financial Reverses through the Cruel
War brought on By Your Mister Lincoln; Landladies who never married
and don’t regret it; Landladies who did marry and frequently regret
it; Landladies who have no use for husbands, and Landladies who
have husbands and use them to take the dog out.

The inhabitants are indeed a weird race, including unrecognized
geniuses, earnest hopers, chronic grouches, back files and innocent
bystanders; also single gentlemen who are believed to have had
what is known as A PAST, and who are suspected of leading the
dissipated life because they come in of an evening with the odor
of rum and Business Men’s Lunch on their breath; also young women
of undoubted dramatic power, who won the first prize for elocution
at the Rome Centre School of Expression and came on two winters
ago to put Julia Marlowe out of the business, but are being kept
back temporarily owing to a jealous compact on the part of the
theatrical syndicate; also other young women who think they are
entitled to bird-like notes because they had the thrush once, and
were sent here at heavy expense by fond parents who imagine New
York as a place full of talented voice-plumbers who know how to
weld Nellie Melba pipes on a Ruth Ann larynx; also single ladies
who spend part of the time drying handkerchiefs on the window-panes
and doing light laundry work in a toothbrush-mug, and the rest of
the time making life brighter and sweeter for a pug dog with the
asthma.

Also dashing gents connected with leading brokerage offices
downtown, who wear priceless marquise rings on the little finger
of the right hand, and go secretly away at night owing for two
weeks; also persons of both sexes who have been misunderstood by
the world and crave A Little Sympathy—that is all; also ladies who
are constantly on the verge of moving to a perfectly delightful
place up in Ninety-third Street because a fur-bearing foreigner has
opened a Pants-Pressery next door and the neighborhood is rapidly
losing its tone; also, just plain boarders.

A boarder is often likened to a worm. And this is a proper
comparison if it is a tapeworm that is meant, because a tapeworm
always knows in advance what it is going to have for dinner, and so
does a boarder. For instance, he knows that on Monday night he will
have a New England boiled dinner that tastes like the family wash
on Friday night, one gill and part of the dorsal fin of a boiled
fish, and on Sunday evening that nourishing repast known as cold
Sunday-night tea.

This cold tea is probably the most noted of the established
institutions of Hallroumania, being constituted as follows: A dank
cold platter, veneered at rare intervals with specimens of the Old
Red Corned-Beef Period of Geology, cut to the generous thickness
of gold leaf; a peculiar variety of potato-salad, in a free state
of perspiration and garnished at intervals with slices of pickled
beets, like a few red chips strewn on the kitty; four small squares
of petrified pastry (not suitable for food, but could be given to
hardy children to cut their teeth on); a prune-floater, bloated up
and nine days drowned in its own juice; a cup of ostensible tea.

The common recreations of The Boarderland are rushing the
washstand-duck in a dress-suit case; wondering how the other
boarders can afford the clothes they wear; progressive knocking and
raising scandals from the slip. The prevalent disease is Furnished
Rheumatism, brought on by living in a single-breasted apartment,
and is marked by a cramped, choking sensation, the symptoms being
almost identical with those of Harlem Flatulency.

[Illustration: _Drawn by Henry Reuterdahl._

“THE FIGHT OF TO-MORROW”

From a painting on the wardroom bulkhead of the Battleship “New
Jersey.”]



Les Yeux

_by Jeffie Forbush-Hanaford_.

_Illustration by Thomas Fogarty._


 First I loved two eyes of black—
 Two fascinating eyes of black!
 They glanced at me and won my heart
 Till of my life they seemed a part,
 And I their willing captive;
 But black eyes can so treacherous be,
 That even while they smiled, you see
 They tried to break the heart of me.

 Then I loved two eyes of gray—
 Two limpid eyes of gray!
 “Love!”—cruel word—I smile in scorn;
 Soon I was left alone, forlorn,
 For when I told my love’s deep passion
 Gray eyes smiled in careless fashion—
 No love for me they ever knew,
 So I left them for two eyes of blue.

[Illustration: “_Gray eyes smiled in careless fashion._”]

 Two eyes of sunny, heavenly blue—
 Two beautiful eyes of blue!
 They gave me a tender glance so sweet,
 I felt my happiness was complete
 And their light was warm and true;
 But when at last my mistake I found,
 I fell in love with eyes of brown—
 Two glorious eyes of brown.

 Bright eyes! Brown eyes of beauty rare,
 No other eyes with you compare!
 Glancing from under lids drooped down,
 Sparkling eyes of dusky brown.
 Can I but win you, I’ll ask no more:
 All my life I’ll worship—adore;
 Live for you, work for you—always content—
 If only, dear brown eyes, you’ll consent!

[Illustration: _Drawn by Alexander Popini._

“_The Pleiades Girl._”]



Her and Me

_by Paul West_.


   Her locks were the glow
   Of a dollar or so,
 Her height it was few if not less;
   Her eyes were as gray
   As the end of the play,
 And she wore, so they told me, a dress.

   So I said, as I came,
   “If you’ll whisper your name
 I’ll reply, though I’m tempted to laugh.”
   But she said, “Let me see—
   More and F equals three,
 Which, when added, is him and a half.”

   “Are you certain?” I cried,
   As I breasted the tide.
 “If I do,” she insisted, “say no.”
   Whereupon with a frown
   I invited them down,
 For it never grows well in the snow.

   There were more, I’ve no doubt,
   But I never found out,
 For the cook sent the grocer away;
   But I cannot forget
   That she wrote, “Do not fret,”
 Though her uncle advised me to pay.

   So I sit all alone,
   Writing things on a stone
 With a pen dipped in beeswax and lard;
   Which I know I shall be
   When she comes back to me,
 Though at present it’s dreadfully hard.

[Illustration: _Drawn by F. B. Masters._]



The Verdict

_by Charlotte B. Scott_.

_Illustration by Karl Hassmann._


 What is most important? The rich man says, “Wealth!”
 The sick man cries feebly, “Ah, no! it is ‘Health!’”
 Inventor and poet contend it is “Fame”;
 The worldly want “Titles” prefixed to their name.
 The preacher chants solemnly, “It is the ‘Soul!’”
 Ambition says, “Power and Place” is man’s goal;
 “’Tis ‘Pleasure’ we seek!” laughs the crown-sceptre throng,
 “The world to amuse us—Wine, Woman and Song!”

 What is most important? “’Tis ‘Love!’” cries the lover;
 “No!” frowns the physician, “’Tis but to discover
 Some polysyllabical lotion for Pain—
 New ways to cheat Death and new Honors to gain!”
 “All false!” claims the scientist, “Pain may be drowned,
 Love, Pleasure, Fame, missed, but the ‘Truth’ must be found!”


L’ENVOI.

 Since no one can tell you What Is nor the Whys—
 Since even the scientists but theorize,
 Then, truly, the thing most important to do
 Is the thing most important and pleasing to you.

[Illustration: “_Ambition says, ‘Power and Place’ is man’s goal._”]



Affaire d’Amour

_by Harry Johnson_.

_Illustration by E. H. Miner._


 Three-pointed crescent—laughter-loving moon,
   Thou Regent of the Pleiadesian skies,
 I’ll mock thee if thy waning comes too soon,
   Yet toast thy beauty ere its glory dies.

 This Night bewitched me, and the friendly throng
   Was sharper, clearer, with its merry jest.
 Like one inspired, I rippled into song,
   Feeling love’s loveliness was love’s behest.

 All hearts responded;—still the echoes ring
   In jolly welcome to my joyous song;
 Oh, human harp! If love but touch the string,
   Adieu to discord, dissonance and wrong!

 Nay, one was mute—one only; but his eyes,
   Brimmed to the lashes with sweet, wistful tears—
 So, lovely crescent, as thy beauty dies,
   I quaff to thee, to him—the cup that cheers.

 [Illustration:

 “_Three-pointed crescent—laughter-loving moon,

 Thou Regent of the Pleiadesian skies,

 I’ll mock thee if thy waning comes too soon,

 Yet toast thy beauty ere its glory dies._”]



[Illustration: _From the Pleiades Club Autograph Album_]

  [Illustration:

  WALTER G MUIRHEID

  G. WARREN LANDON

  B. ELKAN HACKER

  STEPHEN YATES

  JAMES K ATKINSON

  DIXIE HINES

  CARTER S. COLE

  EDWARD F. FOLEY

  ROBT. S AMENT

  CHAS ROY BOWERS

  STEPHEN L SPENCER

  P. A. HATTING

  ED. A. COWLEY

  RALPH L. SCOTT

  PAUL DUFAULT

  _Pleiades Club Officers, 1909–1910._]

[Illustration: _From the Pleiades Club Autograph Album_

_Autographs_]

 [Illustration:

 Printed
 and Bound by
 The Reliance
 Printing Co.
 New York
 N. Y.

 Book Designed by
 R. S. Ament]



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE


Original spelling and grammar have been generally retained, with
some exceptions noted below. Original small caps are now uppercase.
Italics look _like this_. The transcriber produced the cover image
by slightly altering the original, and hereby assigns it to the
public domain. Illustrations, other than large initial drop-caps,
have been moved from within paragraphs of text to nearby locations
between paragraphs. Drop-caps are not marked in the simple text
edition, but are illustrated in the html/epub/mobi editions of this
transcription. For this purpose, I have treated stanzas of poetry
like paragraphs of text. Original page images are available from
archive.org—search for “pleiadesclubyear00plei”.

The List of Contributors mentions a _W. Krieghof_, but the poem _A
TOAST_ was said to be illustrated by _Krieghoff_, and that is also
the signature on the illustration. _The Tale of the Store Girl_ was
illustrated by “Adrian Machefert”, but the List of Contributors
mentions an “Adrien Machefert”. _A Song_ was written by “Philip
Verrill Mighels”, but the List of Contributors has it “Phillip
Verrill Mighels”. _The Old, Old Prayer_ was supposedly written by
“John W. Postgate”, but the List of Contributors mentions only “J.
W. Postgare”.

In the sixth paragraph of _Waiting!_, a new right double quotation
mark was inserted after ‘But I’ll phone you some time during the
week.’.

At the bottom of the poem _At the Pleiades_ by Maurice V. Samuels,
there was in our copy of the book what appears to be a hand-written
signature of Maurice Samuels. This is retained (as an image) in
this transcription, although we don’t know whether it was present
in only one, a few, or all printed copies of this book. Likewise
for what appears to be the signature of Francesca di Maria
Spaulding, following her poem, _The Wanderer_.

Near the end of the book there were five pages dedicated to
Autographs of club members, two of which were blank, followed by a
blank page, followed by a sort of collophon with an emblem and the
name of the publishing company, followed by more blank pages. The
autographs are retained, although we don’t know whether they were
present in one or all printed copies of the book. The blank pages
have been ignored in this transcription.





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