lag

who has the real spirit of the Village, nevertheless each of them assuredly shows

f value, or material objects that offer utility and delight. He sings hi

d and he countered by quoting Dickens

feathers now and then, and clip his wings, but he sings,

tlessly: "'Skimpole' would h

Not that prose has power to conquer poetry, but that the languages are so ho

the average metropolitan consciousness and perception as though they were aboriginal representatives of inter

ts,-great painters or sculptors, great illustrators, and wizards in pencil and pen and charcoal effects,-must be both born and made; and there are, the gods know, few enough of them, all told! Until comparatively recent times, everyone

furniture and Morris designs behind. They are making their own models, and making them well. They are turning their restless, beauty-loving energies into sound, constructive channels. The girl who otherwise might have painted atrocious pictures is, in the Village, decorating delightful-looking boxes and jars, o

his new urge toward good craftsmanship, elementary poetic design,-the fundament

mmunity. Just at the present writing, it is at Sheridan Square that you will find it most colou

theless. It is a broad, clean, brazen sort of sunshine-a sunshine that should say, "See me work! See me shine! See me

it is the general address of enough tea shops and studios and Village haunts to stock an entire neighbourhood. The buildings are

then forgotten. Pausing on the rickety stairway and looking out beyond the crazy little court and over the drowsy Square, you will have a great deal of difficulty in believing that you left your cable car about a minute and a half before. Pass on up the stairs.

little "lost courts" given over to

een anything quite

s stacked on shelves; on the other finished sample toys not ready to be boxed. Shallow d

this part. Mr. Dickerman, the artist, makes the pictures or designs, then we have them turned out by the mill. Se

flower holders; here are delightful watering-pots, exquisitely painted; wonderful cake covers, powder-boxes, blotters, brackets;-every single thing a little gem of clever design and individual workmanship. It is more fascinating than Toyland or Santa Claus' shop. These "rocking toys" are particularly fascinating: the dreadnought that careens at perilous angles, and the kicking mule which knocks its driver over as often as you like to make it. Sh

over, but has a curiously unfinished aspect nevertheless. She fills a tiny brush with glittering, black enamel and begins to apply it in dots and lines.

as though by magic. He grins at us, very martial and smart

fully done and is constantly given a little individual, quaint twist which stamps the toys as personal works of art. And the whole picture,-I wish I could paint it! The low-ceilinged room, set high up above the little court; the sunshine and the golden square outside; the girl in the black smock and the h

wed on a door. If you know the "Rose and the Ring" by heart, as you should, it will give you quite a shock. It i

agine the pirates and the kicking mules and the cubist burglars all running wild together! And there is somethi

proclaims that: "Pirates are his specialty, and that he will gladly furnish estimates

cious stones for the most part-come from all over the world. In her cool, airy workroom with the green trees of the big Square outside, this little woman heats and bends and bores her metals and shines her stones in their quaint settings, with a rapt absorption that is balanced by her steady skill. It is no light or easy work, this making of hand-mad

ly from its burnished-copper setting. What a terrible, yet beautiful ornament! One would be, I imagine, under a sort of fierce and splendid spell while wearing it. Here, cool and pale and pure as a moonbeam, is a little water opal,-set in silver of course. Here is an "abalone blister," iridescent like mother-of-pearl, carrying

who make exquisite lace, who make furniture of quaint and original design. There are the designers and decorators, whose brains are full of graceful images and whose fingers are quick and facile to carry the

wonderful things from cubic forms of wood, from boxes and sticks and laths and blocks. They can make anything from a desk to a tall candlestick, and, softly coloured, the square, wooden objects make

nd executes pictures, mood-expressions, character settings. She dreams herself into the personalities of her clients, also the

k at all like a shop but like the corner of a country garden. The Village loves flowers and understands them. Every Villager who ca

urous idealists who live, breathe and create beauty; whose happy, hard-working lives are filled with the exhilarating wine of art and artistic expression; who, when night comes, never turn the keys of their workshop

working artists. It suggests other lands too-the East where you will hardly ever see an ugly object, and where everything from a pitcher to a rug is a thing of loveliness; the South where true grace of line and colour is the rule rather than the exception in the homeliest household utensils. Primitive peoples have always stayed close to beauty; it is odd that it h

e souls with all their child-like peculiarities; there is, in their acceptance of ridicule, a shrewd undercurrent suggestive of the "Virginian's" now classic warning: "When you call me that, smile!" Hence a novel written not long ago and purporting to be a mirror of the Village-Village life and Village ideals, or lack of them-had a peculiar result on the real Village. They knew it to be untrue-those few who

artist of growing and striking reputation, dark-eyed and rather

you a copy of

surprised friend. "Why

cry;-at another and still another. One friend frankly confessed he had never heard of the book, another expressed indignation that he should be

his grasp, he heaved a sigh of so

pay for this thi

t. I bor

. Can't you sa

you want it as m

n and began seriously to

ke!" cried the friend. "D

creature, a girl from uptown came into the 'Pirate's Den' yesterday where I was sitting, and,

a Truffler?' I couldn't

torn pages flutte

ake their ideals as hard as mumps or measles. Because the Vil

s an insult to the noble idealism of The People to try to educate them; they were, so to speak, born with an education, ready-made, automatic, in sound working order from the beginning. Now, anyone almost may have theories, but if they are wise souls they won't try to apply them. If they have never been practic

c impulse toward poetry; or perhaps she picked that particular "pub" at random. At all events she w

ARE SOUTH. The

he'd try anything once. She invited him to go to see "Hamlet" with her, and he said he was game. Lest his sensitive feelings be hurt b

when he saw her. Doubtless he would have asked her to dine at Rector's first if she had been properly dressed. They both recovered sufficiently to go to "Hamlet," and she trembled lest he wo

musical comedy show hollow! It's the

r theories out in a cold world, but kept t

the real thinking people. Such inconsistencies and discrepancies are bound to occur in any such mental crucible as Greenwich. And, moreover, if the true and the false get a bit mixed once in a way, the wise traveller who goes to learn and not to sit in judgment will not look upon it to the disadvantage or the disparagement of the Village. Young, fervent and courageous souls may make a vast quantity of mistakes ere they be pr

post-impressionist poseur who more than half believes in his own pose. Poss

knew nothing about painting, being a writer by trade, but he had the run of several studios and could collect paint as he willed. After fortifying himself with a sufficiency of Dutch courage, he set up a canvas and painted a picture. It had no subject, no lines, no scheme, no integral idea. It was just a squareful of paint-and it held every shade and variety of paint that he could lay his hands on. He says that he took a wicked satisfaction in smearing the colours upon that desecrated canvas. His disgust with the futurist artists who had submitted their w

ure," a "study in soul-tones" and a lot more like that. They even asked the guilty man what he thought of it. When he coldly

him): "I had signed it in a post-impressionist s

th the new craze. He studied the thing on the wall, and after a whil

on to investigate. They studied that signature upside down and under a microscope. After a

e, jabbing gaily at the canvas as though trying to make difficult screwed shots, caroms and so on. Having done his worst in this

t even in far deeper and greater affairs of life, "A hair perhaps divides the

much a line. Having sold a poem of eighteen lines for $9.00 she almost wept because, as

r own composition; that is a bit trying, I grant you. And the male Vill

the ghosts had departed, the spirituali

nraptured, "everyone thought it w

the Village, he is playing his game with his whole heart and soul, with all that is in him. I am afraid that it would be hard to say as much for a certain class of outsi

eat demand. Some of them are alienists, healers of sick brains; some of them are just-fakers. They charge immense prices, and just for the moment the bles

y Freud-alienist to efficiently psychoanalyse the Village! By the time he were half don

has its root and spring in the signs and wonders of another, an older and a more intimately wise land than ours. But when I read of those pure, half-pagan immortals in the dance of the Sluaige Shee (the Fairy

or Stevens says they do, and I for one believe he knows all th

awkward ones! How bewildered and be-devilled ye go!... In what prisons are ye flung? To what lowliness are ye bowed? How are