ON THE BEACH

Fast flew the sand, high grew the fort,

And shovels small went deep,

Little hands piled stones about,

And sticks were brought with laugh and shout, To make it strong where the waves would leap, For the tide was coming in.

Tanned faces glowed, and pride ran high;

Bright shells the children sought

And placed them on the bulwarks there,

In rows, in steps, in figures rare;

They saved their walls, but hard they fought, For the tide was coming in.

Then when the tide was full, and white
Around them curled the foam,

Secure they'd stay when the wave was near,
But out they'd rush without a fear

To bring some ship-wrecked sailors home,
When the wave was rolling back.

Thus lives were saved and brave deeds done
When swimming sticks were men,

But, with the sailors safe ashore,
They'd often toss them out once more,
That they might all be saved again

When the wave was rolling back!

Once, down the beach they chanced to look,
And laughed aloud with glee

To see a white boat darting out,

And in it men with oars so stout

That plowed their way to the rolling sea,
Though the waves were dashing high.

Then quite forgotten was the fort

As they watched the rowers' might;
And, now and again, on the water gleamed
Burnt red or burnished gold, it seemed,
As of hair in the bright sunlight-
Out where the waves dashed high.

A wave broke through the children's work
And laid it low with the sand;

They screamed with delight at their haven's fall,
And planned to build a higher wall

That through the tide and waves would stand, Though the sea should e'er come in.

Their mother came to the beach and called;
Her cheeks were wet with tears,

Her face was white, as each she pressed
Closer to her heaving breast;

But they wondered at her fears,

As they danced along in the sun.

They saw the boat come to the sand
And watched its men so bold-

A woman out to the water ran,

Held out her arms to the strongest man,
Whose burden was crowned red gold,
That shone in the bright sunlight.

LUCILE PARKER.

The False Note

The brown tower of the little Methodist church loomed up in the glare of the arc-lamp. The street-cars clanged busily by below. The Jew cobbler in the shop beside the church put down the shoe he was mending to light the gas. Over the saloon across the street a fat old woman reached out of the window to shut the blind. 'Gets dark before five now," she called down to a neighbor on the sidewalk. A stoop-shouldered old man with white hair curling under a soft black hat sauntered around the corner. Beside him strode a small boy of about eight, talking fast and asking questions which his grandfather answered slowly and absent-mindedly. The two went up the stone steps to the side door of the church. There the old man stopped and fumbled in all his pockets, muttering, "Where could I have put that key ?"

"The key is in your left-hand coat pocket," piped up the child. "I saw you put it there."

"That's so. So I did, Paul, so I did."

He opened the door and they stepped into a room seen even in the dusk to be filled with chairs. "That's where my Sunday School class sits," shouted Paul, running over to one corner of the room.

"Yes, but you want to hear me play the organ now," replied the old man, as he opened another door. Paul ran after him into the church, very big and dark save for the light from the stained-glass windows. Paul took hold of his grandfather's hand. His grandfather went over to the organ, lighted the gas, opened it and arranged some music.

"Hurry up and play," whispered Paul, speaking for the first time since they had entered the church.

"Pretty soon," soothed the old man. He went through a door by the organ into a little room. Paul stayed by him and watched him go to a cupboard by the window and feel around for the lever. Then suddenly Paul said, "It's breathing!" and in a slit in a big box by the wall a handle jerked back and forth. "What's that for, Grandpa ?" Paul asked.

"That's what a man used to push up and down to make it breathe. Now electricity makes it go. We don't need the handle any more, but it's never been taken off. Don't touch! If you put your hand in that hole you couldn't stop the handle from coming down and pinching it. You'd better come with

me now."

So they went back and the old man began to play. Paul got down on his knees and watched him play with his feet. Then he stood up and watched his fingers pull out the stops and press down the keys. Then he asked his grandfather why he pulled out those knobs. But grandfather was lost in a splendid march and didn't even know that the boy was speaking.

Then Paul thought that he would go and look at the handle again. He wouldn't touch it, but would go and watch it for a little while. The light from the little window just showed the box covering the mechanism, and the wooden arm swinging out of it. It went back and forth in perfect time as if some unseen force were inside the box. It was ghostly. It fascinated Paul so that he wanted to touch it. If he just put his hand on top of the handle to see how it felt, it wouldn't do any harm. And it didn't do any harm. Then he wanted to shake hands with it. He waited till it got way down and was starting back before he tried, and then it carried his hand up with it to the top. Just when it started down he took his hand off. The next time he put his finger in one end of the slit, and just before the handle touched him he jerked it out again. He would put his finger in again and watch the handle creep steadily along the slit till it was just an inch away, and then pluck his hand away and watch the handle take its place.

Meanwhile the old man was playing a prelude by Chopin. The sound of the melody filled his whole mind. He was making the old organ swell into those grand chords when some note not written by Chopin grated upon his ear. He played on, but

again that false note, and as it continued he realized that it was a scream. And then he looked about. All at once it came over him that Paul had come with him. Where was he now ? He walked hastily, tremblingly, toward the source of the scream through the door beside the organ, and there, groping in the darkness, he stumbled upon a poor, sobbing little boy with a crushed finger.

will have to act as mother confessor,

To come to the point, I have been desperate about my English 13. All my beautifully worked-up stories, especially that triumph (as I thought) of Sir Reginald, etc., have come back with bad criticisms. For instance, "There is no life in this. Keep to things that interest you. Write something within your own experience."

Well, I have done it with a vengeance. I can see the startled look in your eyes and I won't keep you in suspense. Yes, I have written out my story for English 13. You think I had a poor excuse? Oh, but there was another reason. I was so wild with thinking that I couldn't stand it any longer, so I wrote out the tale thinking that might get it off my mind. It didn't, though.

Oh, of course I changed it a little. I made short, swarthy little me a slight, frail creature with light, fluffy hair, of the

usual halo type, and I made him-well, different. She was just starting out as an artist trying to support her mother and herself by painting waves and rocks. It was quite a romantic situation. Then there was her friend who had married a brute because it was the fad to get engaged and because she wanted some silver forks and cut-glass bowls, and because he had lots of money. That taught her a lesson. But the main facts were the same.

The hero was proud of his business success, thought it would be comfortable to have a home of his own, and so he picked out a young person who would have to go through the horrible ordeal (ahem!) of earning her own living, a little girl who, he made up his mind, was too dependent and weak to battle with the world. He didn't know, Honey, that she had grit enough to determine that she would make her way without any assistance from conceited men. There was a quarrel and he went away. Honey, there wasn't any end to that story. He went without knowing how much she wanted something that wasn't a home or a money-bag. Well, she didn't know it either then. So the story didn't have any end, Honey, any end at all.

Last night I passed it in and then I couldn't get it off my mind. I felt as if I had shouted my secret to the whole world. Oh! what an evening! Finally I rushed over to take it back, but too late! The building was closed. This morning I had so many interruptions that I couldn't get there until after chapel and it was gone.

Oh, Honey, write to me. Tell me that I am a nervous, excitable child, that no eyes but Miss Jordan's will see it, that it will come back with "Be careful of your paragraph structure. This is a mass of details without any construction," etc., etc., and that I can burn it in the flames, or, to be literal, throw it into the waste basket.

Do write to me.

Your foolish, loving

JANE.

St. Valentine's Evening.

Just a line, Honey, to thank you for your valentine. Oh, yes, you are guilty because you and only you know my pet combination-caramels and peppermints. Page & Shaw quite outdid themselves this time.