The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1902-11-16

Three or four years ago a Boston publish
ing house brought out in one season a num-
Der of volumes of verse, among them one by
Miss Evaleen Stein, Of Indiana. Publish
ers are well aware that books of poetry
are likely to remain uncalled for on their
shelves, and that even their Tennysons
and Brownings will gather dust while the
public regales itself with an endless list
of most popular novels whose only claim
to be called literature is that they are
printed and placed between covers. There
fore these Boston gentlemen did not expect
a wide circulation for any OF their poetical
ventures, though several were by authors
very well and favorably known in the lit
erary world. Consequently they were much
surprised to find a demand for this tiny first
book Of the young Western writer beyond
that for any other in the series, and that a
second edition was necessary almost i'm
mediately. Something out of the common
in the poems in hat little volume-"One
Way to the Woods'-their intimate, vivid
pictures of nature, their musical quality. a
ers-and the book sold.
Readers of the Journal have long been
familiar with Miss STEMS work. many of
Az POCAhS III tHdl ATSI DOOk HdNliS AISl
appeared In these columns. Since it was
issued. however, she has published but lit
tie in newspapers or magazines, and not a
few inquiries have been made as to the
cause of her silence. The appearance of a
new volume proves that her pen has not
been idle. From the Bowen-Merrin press
comes a dainty book bearing a title that
gracefully supplements the frst-"Among
the Trees Again" A reading of these at
tractive pages shows, as an authors sue
cessive books should, that they mark prog
ress. There is the same intense love for
the out-of-door world, the same happy art
in the construction of her verse-a gift of
rhyme and rhythm so unusual that the ut
terances seem spontaneous, as all poetry
ought to do; the poems have al these ele-
newsstand more. They show a broadening
of vision, a growth. Always she was able
to paint word pictures so vivid and true
that II anything were lacking 1t was
scarcely missed. Now the picture as seen
by the artist eye OF the writer is not less
vivid, but the soul speaks through ii more
clearly than before. Her PREDATORY poem
tells the story better than another could
do and in a way of which she is quite un-
conscious:
I saw a meadow land one day;
The grass stood green and high,
But naught appealed in any way
To stay the passer-by.
Till suddenly the sunlight strayed
Those leafy tangles through,
And, touched to fire, OF every blade
A golden network grew!
A million airy cobwebs cleaned
So silken-soft and bright
That all the level lowland seemed
A tracery of light.
And as I watched the webs I thought
The field Of life along
As slight as these. so have I wrought
With slender threads OF song.
They bind the grass. and blossoms, too
The bee and butterfly,
And some go family wavering through
The tender azure sky.
Yet still I walt that golden glow
Whose fine transmitting art
Must smite my web of song, and so
Reveal 1t to the heart.
These fraiI threads 1 have spun.
With grace Of sympathy, for such
Might light them like the sun!
1t is not the sympathy Of the reader
that must illuminate her song; its illumi-
nation is given it by her own inspiration,
which reveals ii to the heart" she is
learning rapidly to
Dare
To touch some holder note, 80
Some chord whence deeper music flows.
There is the expression of an eager,