227

DIFFERENCES OF WORSHIP
---
How People Worship God in Various Lands—Havana and Philadelphia
---
The Cathedral of Christopher Columbus in Cuba and Its Strange Atmosphere.
---
A Quaker Meeting House in Philadelphia and Its Quaint Services—A Poet’s Idea of Worship.
---
There those who love all their lives to worship at one shrine, and who feel at home with their God, and at peace with conscience only when they kneel in some familiar pew and listen to a voice speaking words which awake an unquestioning acquiescence in their own hearts and minds. But there are others, more curious, eager to get at the reason why men worship at all, or worship at all, or worship in different ways, who have

HERMANN

met with revelations in many sacred edifices.

This is how one poet—a woman—worships out on the coast of the Pacific:

Forgive me that I hear thy creeds
Unawed and unafraid:
They are too small for one whose ears
Have heard God’s organ played;
Who in wide, noble solitudes,
In simple faith has prayed.

Forgive me that I cannot kneel
And worship in this pew,
For I have knelt in western dawns,
When the stars were large and few,
And the only fonts God gave me were
The deep leaves filled with dew.

And so it is I worship best
With only the soft air
About me, and the sun’s warm gold
Upon my brow and hair;
For then my very heart and soul
Mount upward in swift prayer.

My church has been a yellow space
Celled over with blue heaven,
My pew upon a noble hill
Where the fir trees were seven,
And the stars upon their slender tops
Were tapers lit at even.

My knees have known no cushions rich,
But the soft, emerald sad;
My aisles have been the forest paths
Lined with the crimson-rod:
My choir, the birds and winds and waves—
My only parlor, God.
---
MISS ANNA GOULD’S COUNT

The young Frenchman who has captured Miss Anna Gould, daughter of Jay Gould and heires to about $15,000,000 is Count Jean de Castellane. He belongs to one of the best families in France, is handsome, wealthy, exceedingly well dressed and 21 years of age. It is said his bride will settle $2,000,000 upon him.
---
My sleeple is the dome of snow
From the blue land that swells;
My rosary the acorns small
That drop from bronzed cells;
And the only bells that summoned me
Were the rhododendron bells,

At Easler, God’s own hand adorned
These dim, sweet, sacred bowers
With delicate honeysuckle vins
And all the west’s wild flowers;
And lest they droop in mellow nights,
He cooled them with light showers,

The crimson salmon-berry bells
And wild violets were here,
And these great dogwood stars that
shine
Thro’ tendor vistus clear?
And the dear lilies purely meet
For a young virgin’s bier.

Wild currant blossoms broke and bled,
Like Mary’s tortured heart;
The gold musk in the marshy spots
Curled tempting lips apart[?]
And I saw the shy, blue lupine, too
Up from the warm earth start.

The clover blossoms, pink and white,
Rimmed round the silver mere;
The thrifty dandelion lit:
Her dawn-lamps far and near;
There was one white bloom that thro’ the
Dusk
Shone liquid like a tear.

I watched the dawn come up the east,
Like angels, chaste and still;

Highest of all in Leavening Power.—Latest U.S. Gov’t Report

Royal Baking Powder

ABSOLUTELY PURE
---
I felt my heart beat wild and strong,
My veins with white fire thrill;
For it was Easter morn—and Christ
Was with me on the hill!

Oh, every little feathered throat
Swelled full with lyric song,
And the ocean played along the shore,
Full, passionate and strong—
An organ grand whose each wave-note
Was sounded, sweet and long.

And so it is I worship best
With only the soft air
About me, anti the sun’s warm gold
Upon my brow and hair;
For then my very heart and soul
Mount upward in swift prayer.

Forgive me that I hear thy creeds
Unawed and unafraid;
They are too small for one whose ears
Have heard God’s organ played;
Who in vast, noble solitudes,
In simple faith has prayed.

These are the stanzas of Ella Higginson of New Whatcom, Wash.

That they will awaken a response in many hearts one cannot doubt. But there are those who must have their roofed sanctuary and their formulated roofed sanctuary and their formulated belief, and yet others who, though they need no written creed, worship best among other worshipers.

A few services among the thousands one has attended are liable to stand out clear and distinct—just as a few days out of the millions lived, someway, imprint themselves upon the brain, and reoccur to the mind in moments of reflection.

Two services which I recollect—two of the several which reoccur to me with photographic distinctness—are at the very antipodes of each other as to method, and result and impression.

One was at Havana in the old cathedral of Christopher, Columbus. Dirty, narrow and ill smelling was the street without. The sun beat on the quaint old walls of the stuccoed buildings, and they reflected again the palpitating heat. But within the great edifice the air was cool almost to chillness, and the perfume of the incense displaced all other odors. There were no ‘worshipers’ excepting the fifty priests with shaven crowns, who sat facing each other, int[e?]ning from great books which lay before them on lecterns—or small desks, shaped like lecterns. The cathedral contained no seats save the two rows occupied by the priests at the center of the nave.

The service was one, I believe, for the success of the many services being held at the other churches of the city at that hour. These priests were of the type that has become familiar by the paintings of the German painters. They were fat—every one of them—drowsy, dull, mechanical in their interminable intoning. They looked out of the corners of their eyes at the people who silently moved about from station to station, or knelt before the altars. Sometimes a smile spread among them. They seemed to be vry jocular, in a gross way, and to hav undiscovered means for conveying a joke. There was no atmosphere of devotion. Nothing could have been more mechanical than that service. No priests could have been in greater contrast than these were with the Catholic priests of the United States. The cathedral was impressive as to architecture, and there was even a sort of simplicity about it not to be expected in Cuba. But the altars were lawdry. Something insidious, unspiritual, deadly and tyrannical seemed to pervade the spot.

And yet—amid the tiresome intoning, the slow swinging of the little censers, the dull mechanic worship, a young woman crept in. She shrank from the vulgarly curious glances of the priests, She crept on up to the altar of the Virgin. Those sidelong glances followed her. He face was dusky—she had, perhaps, negro as well as Spanish blood. She was beautiful and young, and dressed in drifting garments of white, save for the mantilla on her delicate head. She sank there before that altar, and murmured heaven knows what bitter prayer of repentance. But the tears dropped down her face. The intoning rose and fell monotonously. Out in the court an old monkpaced to and fro, reading, and sucking a sapodillas The bees buzzed outside. A palmetto swung its great leaves quite in the door. Cool and quiet, in the great church—for that low murmuring of voices was but the accompaniment of the silence. But in the heart of the worshiper was—but it is profane to try to guess. When she walked out her face was lifted and still
---
MISS ANNA GOULD’S COUNT

The young Frenchman who has captured Miss Anna Gould, daughter of Jay Gould and heires to about $15,000,000 is Count Jean de Castellane. He belongs to one of the best families in France, is handsome, wealthy, exceedingly well dressed and 21 years of age. It is said his bride will settle $2,000,000 upon him.
---
wet with tearsm but here was a peace there—a peace snatched from some despair. And suddenly the place grew holy, Suddenly it was the house of God
. . . . . . . . .

A Quaker meeting house in Philadelphia, with a straight, narrow gallery, stiff, seats, plain walls, a great thing shaped like the quarter of a convex circle back of the elder’s seats, and quiet like that of solitude. Outside, passing and passing, beyond the high fence, the respectable and pleasant Americans—how different from that mad Sunday crowd that riots all day long in the streets of Havanna! Go one side of the church sat the men. On the other side the women. Some of them wore their hats. Others were in fashionable garb, and sat with uncovered heads. Some of the women were elegantly but plainly dressed. Others wore the Quaker drab, and the quaint bonnets. There was a fascinating variety in these bonnets, for all of their sameness, and a women could not help the reflection that they must cost a good deal—almost as much as some of the Paris creations, that tempt the more frivolous.

At first there was only a sense of strangeness, as if one were in a foreign country. But by and by a peculiar psychological fact made itself delicately

Highest of all in Leavening Power.—Latest U.S. Gov’t Report

Royal Baking Powder

ABSOLUTELY PURE
---
apparent. It was the gentle and gracious diffusion of a marvelous quietude of spirit—the insistent spirit of peace, reaching from those cultivated souls to one’s own wayward and impatient one. I remember I looked deep into the heart of the red rose I held in my hand. No rose had ever seemed so beautiful before. It had a ruddy and perfumed message from the Most High. I sucked a spiritual sweet from it, lovelier than any of that rose’s sweet sisterhood. But an elder with a long, long face looked at me sharply, as if he thought I was irreverent, and I dropped the rose, and stared fixenly at the row of men and women in the Elders’ seats. It was very curious, but they all looked alike, and as if they had been cut our of hazel nuts—you have seen odd little faces out from hazel nuts, haven’t you?’

Yet for all this odd quaintness of feature, the expression had something refined and lofty. In spit of the formalism there was tenderness. In spite of the gravity there was sweetness. And indeed, on the brows of some of the women there seemed to brood so chaste and glad a spirit, that one felt sanctified as one looked.

It was one of the women who broke the silence. Slowly her thin hands reached to her bonnet strings, and untied them. She laid the bonnet on the seat before her, waited a moment, while the audience fixe a sort of hypnotized gaze on her, and then she knelt. We all rose. The prayer was burdened and hampered with biblical phraseology. The sweet old voice gave expression to no direct thanksgiving or supplication. She spoke only in similes, using bible words. It was involved and subtle to a degree. One seemed enmeshed in a foreign tongue, or in some ancient formula. Yet it was sweet because she was sweet and because the sky was so blue without, and the tender air rested so softly on one’s cheeks—and above all, because that peaceful hypnotism rested on the spirit like a benediction. When she had arisen, one of the elders spoke. His phraseology was not only involved and biblical, but laden with constant reiterations. One could imagine he had said the same thing in substance year in and year out. He could look within and search his own spirit, but no imagination illumed him, and his search was made by the light of one little candle, well tended and gratefully preserved.

That was the end. One of the elders rose presently and shook hands with the men sitting next to him. The people arose, too, and went out decently, not using the house of God as they would a street corner, for idle gossip. And peace was with us.

ELIA W. PEATTIE.
---
AUSTRIA’S EMPRESS TALKS.
---
Moritz Jokat, the Hungarian Author, Describes Her Majesty.

At the court reception held in Ofen castle, Hungary, a few days ago, Moritz Jokal, the famous Hungarian novelist, poet and editor, met Empress Elizabeth of Austria for the first time since the death of Crown Prince Rudolph. The dead help of the Hapsburgs was a particular friend and favorite of the Hungarian writer, who gave invaluable aid to the prince in his “Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in Word and Picture.” The empress treasures every association of her son and loves to befriend those of whom he was fond.

As soon as she could do so without attracting too much attention, her majesty asked Jokai and one or two other friends to a neighboring room for a friendly talk.
“Since the death of the crown prince.” Wrote Jokai in reporting the interview later, “I had, not been brought face to face with her majesty. Hardly an ornament on her black dress! About her neck were a Mary Stuart ruff and a row of black pearls as a necklace. Her head is covered with that magnificent hair from which hung a black veil. On her dress in the region of her heart was a small diamond butterfly, the symbol of immortality in ancient Egypt. Even today she still has the kind girl-face, more beautiful because of her sorrows. As in other days she still whispers when conversing, but every word can be understood.”

The conversation between the two gradually turned to literature, the empress asking Jokai about his coming work. He told her it was to be called “Magneta.”

“Where can I get it?” asked the empress.

“It is to appear first in a newspaper,” replied Jokai, “but afterward I intend to publish it in book form, and if your majesty will permit me, I shall take the liberty of sending you a dedicated copy.”

“I shall be glad to accept it,” answered the empress. “I always try to shorten my long journeys by reading pleasing books.”

In reply to Jokai’s assertion that he spent as much time as possible in the open air, her majesty said that she, too, devoted her life to nature. “From year to year,” she went on, “I grow to ove this power-giving nature more and more. Nature alone keeps me alive.”

“What do you think of Carmen Sylvia?” she asked suddelnyl, turning to the poet.

“I have a high opinion of her poetry, and ‘I’ admire her, especially because she loves her nation so deeply.”

“And with all.” continued the empress, “she is so friendly and good. She also has suffered much, and has been able to overcome it.”

“God protects the princesses for whom the people pray,” ejaculated Jokai, who has always been a courtier, and the interview ended.
---
PART AND COUNTERPART.

The infant soul made up of images
Is like a lake, itself almost unseen,
But holding pictured in its “pure serene”
The sky above and the surrounding trees;
Till o’er the surface creeps a rising
Breeze,
And slowly ruffles into silver sheen
Those depths of azure fringed with branching green,
A flame that follows on a form that fless,
As intermingled with the flow of being
It loses sight in gaining sympathy,
So action quenches all our primal seeing;
We cannot be both part and counterpart
Of outward things, and that passivity
A poet praised is half the poet’s art.
—ALFRED W. BENN, in The Academy.
---
WITH SPOON AND CUP.

Two cupfuls equal one pint.
Four cupfuls equal one quart.
One teaspoonful salt to one, quart soup.
One teaspoonful soda to one pint sour milk.
One teaspoonful salt to two quarts flour.
Two cupfuls solid butter equal one pound.
Two cupfuls granulated sugar equal one pound.
One teaspoonful soda to one cupful molasses.
Sixteen tablespoonfuls liquid equal one cupful.
One pint milk or water equals one pound.
Four cupfuls flour equal one quart or one pound.
One teaspoonful extract to one loaf plain cake.
Three teaspoonfuls baking powder to one quart flour.
One dozen eggs should weigh one and one-half pounds.
Twelve tablespoonfuls dry material equal one cupful.

DIFFERENCES OF WORSHIP
---
How People Worship God in Various Lands—Havana and Philadelphia
---
The Cathedral of Christopher Columbus in Cuba and Its Strange Atmosphere.
---
A Quaker Meeting House in Philadelphia and Its Quaint Services—A Poet’s Idea of Worship.
---
There those who love all their lives to worship at one shrine, and who feel at home with their God, and at peace with conscience only when they kneel in some familiar pew and listen to a voice speaking words which awake an unquestioning acquiescence in their own hearts and minds. But there are others, more curious, eager to get at the reason why men worship at all, or worship at all, or worship in different ways, who have

HERMANN

met with revelations in many sacred edifices.

This is how one poet—a woman—worships out on the coast of the Pacific:

Forgive me that I hear thy creeds
Unawed and unafraid:
They are too small for one whose ears
Have heard God’s organ played;
Who in wide, noble solitudes,
In simple faith has prayed.

Forgive me that I cannot kneel
And worship in this pew,
For I have knelt in western dawns,
When the stars were large and few,
And the only fonts God gave me were
The deep leaves filled with dew.

And so it is I worship best
With only the soft air
About me, and the sun’s warm gold
Upon my brow and hair;
For then my very heart and soul
Mount upward in swift prayer.

My church has been a yellow space
Celled over with blue heaven,
My pew upon a noble hill
Where the fir trees were seven,
And the stars upon their slender tops
Were tapers lit at even.

My knees have known no cushions rich,
But the soft, emerald sad;
My aisles have been the forest paths
Lined with the crimson-rod:
My choir, the birds and winds and waves—
My only parlor, God.
---
MISS ANNA GOULD’S COUNT

The young Frenchman who has captured Miss Anna Gould, daughter of Jay Gould and heires to about $15,000,000 is Count Jean de Castellane. He belongs to one of the best families in France, is handsome, wealthy, exceedingly well dressed and 21 years of age. It is said his bride will settle $2,000,000 upon him.
---
My sleeple is the dome of snow
From the blue land that swells;
My rosary the acorns small
That drop from bronzed cells;
And the only bells that summoned me
Were the rhododendron bells,

At Easler, God’s own hand adorned
These dim, sweet, sacred bowers
With delicate honeysuckle vins
And all the west’s wild flowers;
And lest they droop in mellow nights,
He cooled them with light showers,

The crimson salmon-berry bells
And wild violets were here,
And these great dogwood stars that
shine
Thro’ tendor vistus clear?
And the dear lilies purely meet
For a young virgin’s bier.

Wild currant blossoms broke and bled,
Like Mary’s tortured heart;
The gold musk in the marshy spots
Curled tempting lips apart[?]
And I saw the shy, blue lupine, too
Up from the warm earth start.

The clover blossoms, pink and white,
Rimmed round the silver mere;
The thrifty dandelion lit:
Her dawn-lamps far and near;
There was one white bloom that thro’ the
Dusk
Shone liquid like a tear.

I watched the dawn come up the east,
Like angels, chaste and still;

Highest of all in Leavening Power.—Latest U.S. Gov’t Report

Royal Baking Powder

ABSOLUTELY PURE
---
I felt my heart beat wild and strong,
My veins with white fire thrill;
For it was Easter morn—and Christ
Was with me on the hill!

Oh, every little feathered throat
Swelled full with lyric song,
And the ocean played along the shore,
Full, passionate and strong—
An organ grand whose each wave-note
Was sounded, sweet and long.

And so it is I worship best
With only the soft air
About me, anti the sun’s warm gold
Upon my brow and hair;
For then my very heart and soul
Mount upward in swift prayer.

Forgive me that I hear thy creeds
Unawed and unafraid;
They are too small for one whose ears
Have heard God’s organ played;
Who in vast, noble solitudes,
In simple faith has prayed.

These are the stanzas of Ella Higginson of New Whatcom, Wash.

That they will awaken a response in many hearts one cannot doubt. But there are those who must have their roofed sanctuary and their formulated roofed sanctuary and their formulated belief, and yet others who, though they need no written creed, worship best among other worshipers.

A few services among the thousands one has attended are liable to stand out clear and distinct—just as a few days out of the millions lived, someway, imprint themselves upon the brain, and reoccur to the mind in moments of reflection.

Two services which I recollect—two of the several which reoccur to me with photographic distinctness—are at the very antipodes of each other as to method, and result and impression.

One was at Havana in the old cathedral of Christopher, Columbus. Dirty, narrow and ill smelling was the street without. The sun beat on the quaint old walls of the stuccoed buildings, and they reflected again the palpitating heat. But within the great edifice the air was cool almost to chillness, and the perfume of the incense displaced all other odors. There were no ‘worshipers’ excepting the fifty priests with shaven crowns, who sat facing each other, int[e?]ning from great books which lay before them on lecterns—or small desks, shaped like lecterns. The cathedral contained no seats save the two rows occupied by the priests at the center of the nave.

The service was one, I believe, for the success of the many services being held at the other churches of the city at that hour. These priests were of the type that has become familiar by the paintings of the German painters. They were fat—every one of them—drowsy, dull, mechanical in their interminable intoning. They looked out of the corners of their eyes at the people who silently moved about from station to station, or knelt before the altars. Sometimes a smile spread among them. They seemed to be vry jocular, in a gross way, and to hav undiscovered means for conveying a joke. There was no atmosphere of devotion. Nothing could have been more mechanical than that service. No priests could have been in greater contrast than these were with the Catholic priests of the United States. The cathedral was impressive as to architecture, and there was even a sort of simplicity about it not to be expected in Cuba. But the altars were lawdry. Something insidious, unspiritual, deadly and tyrannical seemed to pervade the spot.

And yet—amid the tiresome intoning, the slow swinging of the little censers, the dull mechanic worship, a young woman crept in. She shrank from the vulgarly curious glances of the priests, She crept on up to the altar of the Virgin. Those sidelong glances followed her. He face was dusky—she had, perhaps, negro as well as Spanish blood. She was beautiful and young, and dressed in drifting garments of white, save for the mantilla on her delicate head. She sank there before that altar, and murmured heaven knows what bitter prayer of repentance. But the tears dropped down her face. The intoning rose and fell monotonously. Out in the court an old monkpaced to and fro, reading, and sucking a sapodillas The bees buzzed outside. A palmetto swung its great leaves quite in the door. Cool and quiet, in the great church—for that low murmuring of voices was but the accompaniment of the silence. But in the heart of the worshiper was—but it is profane to try to guess. When she walked out her face was lifted and still
---
MISS ANNA GOULD’S COUNT

The young Frenchman who has captured Miss Anna Gould, daughter of Jay Gould and heires to about $15,000,000 is Count Jean de Castellane. He belongs to one of the best families in France, is handsome, wealthy, exceedingly well dressed and 21 years of age. It is said his bride will settle $2,000,000 upon him.
---
wet with tearsm but here was a peace there—a peace snatched from some despair. And suddenly the place grew holy, Suddenly it was the house of God
. . . . . . . . .

A Quaker meeting house in Philadelphia, with a straight, narrow gallery, stiff, seats, plain walls, a great thing shaped like the quarter of a convex circle back of the elder’s seats, and quiet like that of solitude. Outside, passing and passing, beyond the high fence, the respectable and pleasant Americans—how different from that mad Sunday crowd that riots all day long in the streets of Havanna! Go one side of the church sat the men. On the other side the women. Some of them wore their hats. Others were in fashionable garb, and sat with uncovered heads. Some of the women were elegantly but plainly dressed. Others wore the Quaker drab, and the quaint bonnets. There was a fascinating variety in these bonnets, for all of their sameness, and a women could not help the reflection that they must cost a good deal—almost as much as some of the Paris creations, that tempt the more frivolous.

At first there was only a sense of strangeness, as if one were in a foreign country. But by and by a peculiar psychological fact made itself delicately

Highest of all in Leavening Power.—Latest U.S. Gov’t Report

Royal Baking Powder

ABSOLUTELY PURE
---
apparent. It was the gentle and gracious diffusion of a marvelous quietude of spirit—the insistent spirit of peace, reaching from those cultivated souls to one’s own wayward and impatient one. I remember I looked deep into the heart of the red rose I held in my hand. No rose had ever seemed so beautiful before. It had a ruddy and perfumed message from the Most High. I sucked a spiritual sweet from it, lovelier than any of that rose’s sweet sisterhood. But an elder with a long, long face looked at me sharply, as if he thought I was irreverent, and I dropped the rose, and stared fixenly at the row of men and women in the Elders’ seats. It was very curious, but they all looked alike, and as if they had been cut our of hazel nuts—you have seen odd little faces out from hazel nuts, haven’t you?’

Yet for all this odd quaintness of feature, the expression had something refined and lofty. In spit of the formalism there was tenderness. In spite of the gravity there was sweetness. And indeed, on the brows of some of the women there seemed to brood so chaste and glad a spirit, that one felt sanctified as one looked.

It was one of the women who broke the silence. Slowly her thin hands reached to her bonnet strings, and untied them. She laid the bonnet on the seat before her, waited a moment, while the audience fixe a sort of hypnotized gaze on her, and then she knelt. We all rose. The prayer was burdened and hampered with biblical phraseology. The sweet old voice gave expression to no direct thanksgiving or supplication. She spoke only in similes, using bible words. It was involved and subtle to a degree. One seemed enmeshed in a foreign tongue, or in some ancient formula. Yet it was sweet because she was sweet and because the sky was so blue without, and the tender air rested so softly on one’s cheeks—and above all, because that peaceful hypnotism rested on the spirit like a benediction. When she had arisen, one of the elders spoke. His phraseology was not only involved and biblical, but laden with constant reiterations. One could imagine he had said the same thing in substance year in and year out. He could look within and search his own spirit, but no imagination illumed him, and his search was made by the light of one little candle, well tended and gratefully preserved.

That was the end. One of the elders rose presently and shook hands with the men sitting next to him. The people arose, too, and went out decently, not using the house of God as they would a street corner, for idle gossip. And peace was with us.

ELIA W. PEATTIE.
---
AUSTRIA’S EMPRESS TALKS.
---
Moritz Jokat, the Hungarian Author, Describes Her Majesty.

At the court reception held in Ofen castle, Hungary, a few days ago, Moritz Jokal, the famous Hungarian novelist, poet and editor, met Empress Elizabeth of Austria for the first time since the death of Crown Prince Rudolph. The dead help of the Hapsburgs was a particular friend and favorite of the Hungarian writer, who gave invaluable aid to the prince in his “Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in Word and Picture.” The empress treasures every association of her son and loves to befriend those of whom he was fond.

As soon as she could do so without attracting too much attention, her majesty asked Jokai and one or two other friends to a neighboring room for a friendly talk.
“Since the death of the crown prince.” Wrote Jokai in reporting the interview later, “I had, not been brought face to face with her majesty. Hardly an ornament on her black dress! About her neck were a Mary Stuart ruff and a row of black pearls as a necklace. Her head is covered with that magnificent hair from which hung a black veil. On her dress in the region of her heart was a small diamond butterfly, the symbol of immortality in ancient Egypt. Even today she still has the kind girl-face, more beautiful because of her sorrows. As in other days she still whispers when conversing, but every word can be understood.”

The conversation between the two gradually turned to literature, the empress asking Jokai about his coming work. He told her it was to be called “Magneta.”

“Where can I get it?” asked the empress.

“It is to appear first in a newspaper,” replied Jokai, “but afterward I intend to publish it in book form, and if your majesty will permit me, I shall take the liberty of sending you a dedicated copy.”

“I shall be glad to accept it,” answered the empress. “I always try to shorten my long journeys by reading pleasing books.”

In reply to Jokai’s assertion that he spent as much time as possible in the open air, her majesty said that she, too, devoted her life to nature. “From year to year,” she went on, “I grow to ove this power-giving nature more and more. Nature alone keeps me alive.”

“What do you think of Carmen Sylvia?” she asked suddelnyl, turning to the poet.

“I have a high opinion of her poetry, and ‘I’ admire her, especially because she loves her nation so deeply.”

“And with all.” continued the empress, “she is so friendly and good. She also has suffered much, and has been able to overcome it.”

“God protects the princesses for whom the people pray,” ejaculated Jokai, who has always been a courtier, and the interview ended.
---
PART AND COUNTERPART.

The infant soul made up of images
Is like a lake, itself almost unseen,
But holding pictured in its “pure serene”
The sky above and the surrounding trees;
Till o’er the surface creeps a rising
Breeze,
And slowly ruffles into silver sheen
Those depths of azure fringed with branching green,
A flame that follows on a form that fless,
As intermingled with the flow of being
It loses sight in gaining sympathy,
So action quenches all our primal seeing;
We cannot be both part and counterpart
Of outward things, and that passivity
A poet praised is half the poet’s art.
—ALFRED W. BENN, in The Academy.
---
WITH SPOON AND CUP.

Two cupfuls equal one pint.
Four cupfuls equal one quart.
One teaspoonful salt to one, quart soup.
One teaspoonful soda to one pint sour milk.
One teaspoonful salt to two quarts flour.
Two cupfuls solid butter equal one pound.
Two cupfuls granulated sugar equal one pound.
One teaspoonful soda to one cupful molasses.
Sixteen tablespoonfuls liquid equal one cupful.
One pint milk or water equals one pound.
Four cupfuls flour equal one quart or one pound.
One teaspoonful extract to one loaf plain cake.
Three teaspoonfuls baking powder to one quart flour.
One dozen eggs should weigh one and one-half pounds.
Twelve tablespoonfuls dry material equal one cupful.