The insurance business, however, never lets an argument go unanswered. A half cup of coffee equipped me afresh for battle.

"At least I proved my point," I said with spirit.

"That?" queried Lucinda.

"That opera is a test of imagination." And for the first time in a little over a month, Lucinda agreed with me.

OTHER WINNERS

TO A HIGHBOY-IN THE AMERICAN

WING

(Metropolitan Museum of Art)

With what quiescent dignity you stand, You courtly gesture in mahogany, Captured in carving by a master-hand, And cherished here for all the world. to see;

Beneath the smooth assurance of your art There lurks a wistful yearning, I surmise,

For family life in which you had a part, When you held treasures lovely ladies prize.

A wedding veil three generations wore; The faded pinkness of a baby's shoe; A fan some oriental princess bore

All these have left their memories with you,

And if my touch your privacy should stir, You would confess in musk and lavender.

SILHOUETTES

George Washington in silhouette-
And Martha too-I cherish.
They hang beside my hearth, and yet,
George Washington in silhouette
Looks like the kind of man who'd let
A person like me perish!
George Washington in silhouette,
And Martha too, I cherish.

Anne Lloyd.

ON BUYING SWANS

"For Christmas send me a swan." Thus

ran my brother's letter in reply to my

query, "What do you want for Christmas?"

I stuck the letter in my purse, and leaning across the aisle of the commuters' 8.35 for New York, whispered to Alice, "Where can I buy a swan?"

She looked at me dumbfounded for a moment, then laughed, "In the Five and Ten Cent Store."

"But this is for my brother, and he's forty-two years old."

Alice guffawed. "You mean an honestto-goodness live swan?"

I nodded.

"Pardon me, lady." The wall of newspaper in the seat beside me rustled, and a derby hat announced, "You can get swans at the Dog and Pet Shop, Sixth Avenue, New York." The hat disappeared behind the paper, and I never got a chance to express my gratitude for the information.

In the course of an hour we found ourselves in the Harrison Dog and Pet Shop, the centre of an inquisitive group of brown-eyed, wagging-tailed puppies, blinking rabbits, supercilious parrots, flirtatious owls and "What can I do for you, ladies?" a voice, which had been expatiating on the merits of a canary, boomed.

Eddie threw at us a look of scorn, put the canary in the cage, and slammed the door.

"We'll take a pair," I said sprightly.

"Sorry, we're all out of swans just now, but I'll put in an order." He reached for his order book, and took the pencil from behind his ear. "Name, please, and address."

He wrote in a flourishing hand. "Vermont? Sure! We send swans all over the country. In winter. Sure! Ain't none ever died on us yet."

"By the way how much do swans cost?"

"Seventy-five dollars a pair." He tore a page off the order book with a snap. "Seventy-five dollars!" I gasped and held on to Alice.

"Yes, ma'am," with an air of finality. "Can't get them no cheaper nowhere.' He stuck his pencil behind his ear, and glared at us witheringly.

We looked about furtively, wishing the floor would open and swallow us.

to have

taken

"So sorry- up your time. Had no idea." Thus we backed out of the store, apologizing to Eddie, who threw down his order book with a bang, and rudely turned from us to a parrot which was shrieking ironically, "Thank you. Call again."

Needless to say, we sent my brother a swan from the Five and Ten Cent Store. Edith Brander.

TRADER HORN

A Tabloid Review

Every community has at least one Trader Horn. Mrs. Lewis has had the discernment and discrimination necessary to accomplish the feat of getting a uniquely rich specimen adequately on paper.

porary, and the saltily humorous philosophy which grow out of such a lifethese with the evocative gift of sympathy and artistic restraint of editorial zeal in the collaborator - and you have a luscious literary dish. In this case you have an additional spice in the fact that the living in question has been mostly in the early drab days of the romantically remote and exotic continent of Africa. Lester Dix.

WANTED-ATTENTION-CALLERS There is a crying need in this country for more attention-callers. Thousands of business executives are unable to write letters to the newspapers, to address meetings, or even to converse brightly at parties because their attention has not been called to various subjects.

It would never do, you know, for a business executive to write or say "I saw" or "I read" or "I have noticed." His attention must be called. And because there is a great scarcity of attention-callers these men remain almost mute and completely unglorified. They are labelled "Babbitts," "bores" or "bromides" and in other ways held up to ridicule by writers in newspaper columns and in novels. This is an injustice. For these business executives are living sacrifices to their honesty. It would be perfectly easy for them to write or say, for instance, "My attention has been called to the graft in politics," or "My attention has been called to the waste in manufacturing gussets" or "My attention has been called to that deathless poem by Keats." But no business executive would do that. It would n't be honest to use the formula if he had merely seen or read instead of having had his attention. called.

There should be a law passed making it compulsory that a certain number of young men in each Congressional district be called to the colors to serve as attention-callers upon their twenty-first birthdays, and for a period of one year thereafter. This would gradually relieve the deplorable condition which causes so

An old man who has lived adventurously and zestfully, with an hospitable nature and a seeing eye. An indomitable youthfulness persisting into the contem

What liquor is it that the trees distil
Out of the insipid earth, where we divine
Only that thin, cold antonym for wine?
See how they never rest their lips, nor
spill

One drop of it, nor pause for breath, until Their garments rot, and they lie spread supine

In shameless nakedness, where cold winds whine

About their leathery limbs, against that hill.

Sodden they lie, until the gentle beat Of spring's approach awakes the god in them

They grow green, tender-textured garlands where

The silver locks of age have grayed the air;

And with soft, flexing gulps they draw it neat,

In its spring richness, up the thirsty stem. Roger Searle.

LETTERS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY

Edited by Grace Guiney

The publication of the letters of Louise Imogen Guiney reveals a forgotten but extraordinary personality of the last generation. An underpaid New England postmistress, who lived like a recluse, Miss Guiney was yet considered an authoritative critic as well as a poet and essayist of no small ability.

Her letters, to such persons as William Carew Hazlitt, Edmund Gosse, and Lionel Johnson, are a pleasurable blend of erudition, humor and exquisite description.

The preface is by Agnes Repplier, who brings to her appreciation of Miss Guiney's delicate genius the charm of an intimate friendship.

Ruth Freeman.

TRIOLET

The triolet's a winsome chit:
I think it is the muse's pet.
Although there isn't much of it,
The triolet's a winsome chit,
And sometimes even exquisite.
As dainty as a violet,

The triolet's a winsome chit:
I think it is the muse's pet.
Alice Gould.

Anne Metcalf Thomas.

Rules

1. Each manuscript must be signed with a pen name and be accompanied by a sealed envelope containing the author's real name, address, and occupation, as, for instance: John Smith, Cambridge, Mass., Student.

2. There is no limit to the number of manuscripts which one person may submit. Send your manuscripts to Contest Editor, 311 College House, Harvard Square, Cambridge, Mass.

Intrepid. A weary, wornout word I met, alimping down the road; his face was wet with honest sweat; he lugged a heavy load. He'd groan and moan in basso tone, and then let out a yelp; "I cannot do it all alone. I've got to have some help."

"Come down off the verse," said I. "Who the qualified dictionary are you?"

"I'm aviation's artful aid," said he. "Aha," said I. "I know you. You're either blimp, aileron, fuselage, or dirigible."

"You wrong me," said he. "Those are the real children of aviation. I was really brought up in the circus, and worked for years for the poster designers and program men. I'm only an adopted child of aviation; and let me tell you, the family is poverty-stricken.

"I'm only a little adjective, but I hope to grow up some day. At present I can hardly find time to work on my reporterand-editor kit, for which a patent has been applied for. I have to be on hand in every news agency, every newspaper office, every night, and in time for the early afternoon editions. I work for twenty-four hours a day, for I have to keep abreast of the dead-line as it flies west across the continents. Often I have to make a hitch back, for the editorial writers call on me almost daily.

"There's just one thing I have to be thankful for. As you see, I'm an awkward, angular sort of fellow, and I don't rhyme with much of anything.

That

marks off most of the poets, though I do a good many odd jobs at free verse. You notice how I'm limping, don't you? Well, that is a sprain I got the other day when a broadcaster tried to give me a quantity all his own."

"Yes, yes; I'm sorry," said I. "But what's your name?" "Intrepid," said he. "Intrepid?" "Yes."

"That's so. I was sure I'd seen you somewhere."

"In every aviation story of the last month. Usually twice; if there is a pilot, an owner, and a passenger, three times."

"What's this reporter's kit you were speaking of?"

"A list of substitutes that some of these fellows might use, and give me a day off. Here it is, hot out of the

thesaurus:

"Courageous, brave, valiant, valorous, gallant, spirited, high-spirited, highmettled, mettlesome, plucky, manly, manful, resolute, stout, stout-hearted, iron-hearted, lion-hearted, Penthesilean, bold, daring, audacious, fearless, dauntless, Dreadless, awe-less, undaunted, unappalled, undismayed, unafraid, unawed, unapprehensive, confident, self-reliant, fierce, savage, pugnacious, strong

minded, hardy, doughty, firm, determined, dogged and indomitable." Frank P. Sibley, in Boston Globe.

"D%

O you remember when you first appeared in print?" I asked Mr. Hapgood, when he had welcomed me in his living-room on Madison avenue, in New York City.

"I think I do remember," said Mr. Hapgood with a smile. "When I was fifteen years old, I wrote the Alton Telegraph (in my home town of Alton, Illinois) this question: 'Why does a seashell held to the ear seem to roar?' And I received the answer: 'Your question is correctly propounded. It only seems to roar.'

Perhaps my question was suggested by Mr. Hapgood's young son, who was seated on the floor near by, busily putting a picture-puzzle together. Was it his presence, or the attractive rows of books lining the shelves, or Mr. Hapgood's cordial manner or all three put together which had made me feel at home the moment I entered the room? From time to time the lad would run to his Dad to beg him to come and help with the puzzle.

"I'm afraid I'd rather play with my kiddies than work," Mr. Hapgood confessed as he looked down at his son. "I guess I'm lazy."

NORMAN HAPGOOD.

E. Smith. During a varied and active career, including the editorship of Collier's Weekly, Harper's Weekly, and Hearst's International Magazine, Mr. Hapgood has also written the following books: "Literary Statesmen," "Daniel Webster," "Abraham Lincoln," "George Washington," "Industry and Progress," and "The Advancing Hour."

As the New Year was just being ushered in, I asked Mr. Hapgood what he intended to write during 1928.

"My program for 1928 is to write two books and several magazine articles," he said. "The first book will be called, "The Sacco-Morelli Mystery' and the other one will be entitled, 'Why Janet Should Read Shakspere." "

"My love for Shakspere," Mr. Hapgood went on to explain, "was inherited from my mother, who had great literary interests. A large part of my training consisted of reading Shakspere and Jane Austen's works. These two writers particularly influenced me. My father was an agnostic but a great believer in liberal education. He stimulated me to go to Sunday School 'to get the Bible into my system' and gave me five dollars to read the King James version of the Bible. I am glad he did, for I think a knowledge of the Bible, Shakspere, and Palgrave's 'Golden Treasury' has helped me in my work considerably."

That he is anything but lazy, however, is proved by such books as "Up from the City Streets," the new and popular lifestory of New York's much-discussed presidential possibility, Governor Alfred