Evening star., 1917-10-14

complete poems. No other place would
have been right for Jim Bludso" and
Little Breeches." Beside this initial
group that which gives this edition its
particular interest is the hitherto un-
collected poems that it contains-thirty
or more in number. One of these, writ
ten in 1890, is too beautiful to resist.
Not only is this exquisite poetry, but
it serves also to emphasize that which
"Castilian Days" The Ietters" and
even The Life of Lincoln" show-that
John Hay possessed in an eminent de-
gree the quality of himself. This poem
is Loves Dawn:
In wandering through waste places of the world,
l met my love and knew not she mine
But soon light more tender. more divine,
Filled earth and heaven; richer cloud-curtains
The west at eve softer flush impearled
The gates of dawn; note more pure and fine
Vanished the leaves by Mays sweet sun IN
Gurled.
Trehbled to shocks of far-oh melodies.
As. all the summers rustling thrills the trees
When spring suns strike their bough asleep and
bare.
And then. one blessed day, saw arise
Loves morning, glorious. in her tranquil eyes.
A GREEN TENT IN FLANDERS. By
Maud Mortimer. Illustrations by
the author. New York: Doubleday,
Page & Co.
The green tent is a field hospital
of the western battle front. This little
book is a sheaf of sketches gathered
up by an American woman out of many
a poignant hour of service in one of
the first of the rescue stations to the
rear of the fighting line. Intimate per-
sonal sketches. these: sketches of
shrapnel-torn poilus-Etienne, Louis.
Eugene Sureau-and many another.
over whose heroic endurance and
gentle courtesy and gallant heart
breaking gayety one weepS openly in a
tribute of pride over such human stuff
and pity for it's monstrous degradation.
A heart-searching little book that stirs
one with its infinite sadness. Eugene
Sureau, 18th Territorials" That is ALL
A card over your bed and indelibly
written also in my memory. Why do
so remember you, Eugene Sureau?
You came in the night when 1 was not
even on duty I did not see your
decent horror photographs itself on the
mind. Now we have wrapped you in
your shroud and fastened the corner
with its purple SATIN cross over your
head. And what are you to me, Eugene
Sureau, but a name, fine line, a thrill
at one more turn of the screw among
so many others heroically borne? And
yet you live for me. On some sunny
countryside in France are your mother,
your wife, your 'gosses'-playing at
Homecoming. All unconscious are they
that you lie here, shrapnel-torn in this
darkened sleeping ward. still warm but
dead. while I. STOPPING down, give you
in their place the kiss of peace which
in the east the living give the dead.
Why does your name SO echo in my
memory? What were you, Eugene
Sureau?" So. stopping now and then
in the urgent round of work. and more
work, the writer enlfsts the heart of
one, as few in their stories of war serv-
ice have had the power and the gift to
do.
MARCHING MEN. BY Sherwood Ander-
son, author of Windy McPherson's
Son." etc. New York: John Lane
Company.
Such admirable writing! One picks
up "Marching Men with a hand of ac-
customed Indifference He has picked
up so many futile books. Pretty soon.
and only half-consciously. he begins to
take notice that he is in good company.
Little packed words step. businesslike,
into short crisp sentences-that one a
picture this one an event, that one
over there a personality. And just at
the right moment he comes upon Nc
Gregor-the boy of unrest, the youth of
vision, the man of action. 1t Is by way
of McGregor that one falls in step with
the marching men, with all the work
ing men of the world. swinging off into
one triumphal procession toward bet
ter partaking Of the worlds happiness.
as they have already partaken SO fully
of the worlds work. 1t is the story of
a vision, of a acknowledgements dream
of world made over The story ends
in the storm of a Chicago labor upris-
ing-and the dreamhas not come true.
McGregor is a triumph for any man
to have achieved-an idealist, a reform
er, a brawny unlettered man of action.
whose failure does not lie SO much in
any flaw in his own vision as in the
fact that the marching men themselves