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Page 10 THE MAROON TIGER £iterary SNotes FOR OUR BARDS In the not too remote past we of the poetry section have had to cast away, with bleeding hearts, so very, very many of your earnest contributions. This was a neces- sary but painful gesture; one which grieved us to no end. You have responded nobly to our call, but frankly, alas, a bit weakly. Now, we might correct a word or adjust a metre, but aside from these minor duties we can do little to make your creation more—let us say—readable. We do not select nor limit your themes. You may sing of Helen or Sadie, Greece or Boston, Apollo or Max Baer. This, we believe, is quite your own business. The theme isn’t nearly so important as the manner in which you present it. A word is beautiful only in its relationship to another word or group of words. To be clearer, the arrangement of words is one of your deeper concerns in writing. An English chap of the nineteenth century read a translation of Homer by Chapman (as so many others had done), a very unimportant affair apparently, but he recorded the incident so decently in a sonnet that friend and foe look on you in aghast if you can’t recite, at the merest prod, at least the first six lines of the thing. Please believe that we joy in printing your lines. This casting them away is an art that is being thrust upon us. Our paper can be one of highest literary merit. It only lacks—and I do not jest here—the literature. Look you to it. YOU MIGHT LIKE TO READ Centennary of TJegro Drama, an article written by Archibald Haddon for the London Era, published in the February issue of the Crisis. This article, in all its brev- ity, does more than touch on well known stage person' ages, Robeson, Jo Baker, Florence Mills, and the others; it reminds us that Ira Aldridge was our first important tragedian and that he had a very quiet and interesting daughter, Amanda, who lives in London today. Mr. Haddon brings us these two charming people is a very vivid way. If you’re interest in knowing what a distinct flavor Aldridge added to the European drama during the middle of the nineteenth century (or if you aren’t) dash into the periodical room and read the thing. The dash will do you good, anyway. Who’s Who In the Bible, by Frank S. Mead, in Feb' ruary’s Christian Herald. If you haven’t dabbled in the Bible very much, or if your memory of certain important biblical characters is a bit bleached by the winds of age, make a mild oath to peep at these modern sketches of ancient folk. They are brief; in fact, very brief. But they give you a key to the characters of the person Mr. Mead has in mind. I select these sketches not because they can be left hurriedly if the bell rings, but because every pagan and psalm-chanter should be acquainted with the men and women dealt with. After all, there’s no sane reason why you should become suddenly purple in certain regions of the face because an inquisitive minister (or layman) asks, “How many Johns were there?” Education of a Lady, a short story by D. K. Findlay, in the American for February. Have you ever ridden a big chestnut through the damp woods, the winds roaring in your ears, the earth a huge drum under the stallion’s hooves, trees racing by, the hunter taking high hurdles in long flying leaps? No? Neither have I. But Pamela does it in this story, and if you can conjure up the faint' est imagination, you will be astride Temeraire when he runs that magnificent race. I shouldn’t be alarmed if you were frightened away by the title of this tale. It does seem to suggest Little Annie’s Adventure in a Board ing School. But don’t shy away because I mentioned a horse; this story is one of a family that loved thorough' breds, a girl who learned to love them, and of two people who loved each other very much between blows. How ever, the love theme is so fragile that it doesn’t hamper the authentic and earthly charm of this account of horses and people. Warning: If you’re not a rider, read this in a soft chair. It has the feel of the saddle in it. (Am I sore?) I hope you like them. The Literary Editor. SEQUENCE There must have been some trouble in Paradise, For angels wept so long and earnestly; All heaven rumbled like a fevered sea; The wind screamed at the turmoil in the skies. We stood there in the doorway out of rain That beat the pavement with a hollow sound, Rain that was sucked by holes dug underground. That hour was sweet. It shall not come again. "Lady,” I said, “this thing will keep us here; And cabs are few when one would ride, I’m told. Let’s make a dash.” The storm had made me bold You flung a smile that said you didn’t care. Heads down we walked into the melting snow. The thunder warned. It was too soon to know. When we had dried before the leaping flame, (We who had been so gloriously wet). Hod done deep justice to a cigaret; Drunk steaming tea, each said aloud his name, And laughed and said: “Whatever did inspire Our loving parents to have named us so, Names one forgets? (It was too soon to know Then we grew silent, eyes deep in the fire. I rose (I think) and slid into the coat Which still was damp (I found it out next day) We left the room and hearth. You led the way, While in the dark a fang bit at my throat. “You’ll call tomorrow?” But I said no word. My eyes had said too much that you had heard. We lived, I tell you, aye, we truly lived, Drank deep of beauty and what beauty gave; Did double what our hearts cried out for save Give one whit of tomorrow. We believed Two people keyed in such close harmony Should throw all yesterdays unto the winds. “Tomorrow comes not. Joy ends and begins With our today!” But we were soon to see. We lay there sucking in the morning air— Remember?—scprawled upon our hill—our world; Looked on the town, saw lazy grey smoke curled Above the stacks. We were too happy there. Then overhead a flock of geese was flying; I turned and found you very softly crying.