THE CHAPBOOK (A Monthly Miscellany) was born in July, 1919. It is published on the first of each month. The following is a list of the numbers that have already appeared :

1919.

(1) JULY.—Twenty-three New Poems by Contemporary Poets.

(2) AUGUST.—*Decoration in the Theatre*. By Albert Rutherston. With four plates by the author.

(3) SEPTEMBER.—*Poems Newly Decorated*: An Anthology of miscellaneous poems of the past, with drawings by artists of the present.

(4) OCTOBER.—*Some French Poets of To-Day*. A commentary with specimens, by F. S. Flint.

(5) NOVEMBER.—*Rhymes for Children*, with 70 appropriate woodcuts.

(6) DECEMBER.—*Four Songs: Nod*. Words by Walter de la Mare, Music by C. Armstrong Gibbs. *At the Turn of the Burn*. Words by George Townsend Warner, Music by Malcolm Davidson. *Melmillo*. Words by Walter de la Mare, Music by Clive Carey. *Arabia*. Words by Walter de la Mare, Music by W. Denis Browne.

1920.

(7) JANUARY.—*A Collection of New Poems by Contemporary Poets*.

(8) FEBRUARY.—*Modern Prose Literature*: A Critical Survey. (Under the Editorship of Alec Waugh.)

(9) MARCH.—*Three Critical Essays on Modern English Poetry*. By T. S. Eliot, Aldous Huxley and F. S. Flint.

(10) APRIL.—*A Third Collection of New Poems by Contemporary Poets*.

(11) MAY.—*Some Contemporary American Poets*. By John Gould Fletcher.

(12) JUNE.—*A Bibliography of Modern Poetry, with Notes on some Contemporary Poets*. Compiled by Recorder.

(13) JULY.—*Thirteen New Poems by Contemporary Poets*. (Also Pins for Wings, by Emanuel Morgan.)

(14) AUGUST.—*Aria da Capo*: A Play in One Act by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

(15) SEPTEMBER.—*Old Broadside Ballads*. Collected and Edited, with Reproductions in facsimile, Cover Design, and Introduction by C. Lovat Fraser.

(16) OCTOBER.—*Sixteen New Poems by Contemporary Poets*.

(17) NOVEMBER.—*The Younger French Poets*. By F. S. Flint.

(18) DECEMBER.—*Three Songs: A Christmas Carol*. Words by John Masefield, Music by Malcolm Davidson. *Full Moon*. Words by Walter de la Mare, Music by Scott Goddard. *Desire in Spring*. Words by Francis Ledwidge, Music by Ivor Gurney.

THE BOOKSHOP

TO MEET THE WISHES of the readers of The Chapbook, who are constantly enquiring about new books, the following list of the publications of the Leading Publishers has been arranged. All the books mentioned can be obtained from good booksellers. Feeling sure that this feature will prove an added attraction to The Chapbook, it is hoped to make THE BOOKSHOP one of the best and most useful lists of books to be found in any magazine.

i

<table><tbody><tr><td rowspan="4">HARRAP</td><td>By Marion St. John Webb<br/>THE LITTLEST ONE<br/>Sales exceed 24,000 copies</td><td>2/6 net</td></tr><tr><td>THE LITTLEST ONE AGAIN<br/>Illustrated by Willy Pogany<br/>To be published in April</td><td>2/6 net</td></tr><tr><td>A TREASURY OF VERSE FOR LITTLE CHILDREN<br/>Over 15 poems by modern writers have been added</td><td>5/- net</td></tr><tr><td>POLLY, by John Gay. Following the original Text,<br/>with the old Airs in facsimile, with eight colour<br/>plates and black-and-white decorations by—and<br/>the production of the book supervised by—<br/>William Nicholson</td><td>15/- net</td></tr><tr><td rowspan="4">HEINEMANN</td><td>THE LETTERS OF PAUL GAUGUIN TO GEORGES<br/>DANIEL DE MONFRIED. Illustrated</td><td>8/6 net</td></tr><tr><td>SELECTED ESSAYS<br/>by John Masefield</td><td>6/- net</td></tr><tr><td>WHIPPERGINNY. The new book of Poems by Robert<br/>Graves. Cover design by William Nicholson</td><td>5/- net</td></tr><tr><td>BABEL: A Novel<br/>by John Cournos</td><td>7/6 net</td></tr><tr><td rowspan="5">HODDER &amp;<br/>STOUGHTON</td><td>AMERICAN POEMS AND OTHERS<br/>by J. C. Squire</td><td>6/- net</td></tr><tr><td>THIS MY DREAMING: Poems<br/>by Vera Wheatley</td><td>6/- net</td></tr><tr><td>SUBLUNARY. A Volume of Poems<br/>by Nancy Cunard</td><td>6/- net</td></tr><tr><td>MIHRIMA and Other Poems<br/>by Cole Young Rice</td><td>7/6 net</td></tr><tr><td>THE SONGS OF A BROKEN AIRMAN, by Jimmie<br/>Howcroft. With an Introduction by Wilfred<br/>Whitten ("John o' London")</td><td>5/- net</td></tr><tr><td rowspan="3">ELKIN<br/>MATHEWS</td><td>SCOTTISH EARTH: Poems<br/>by John S. Martin</td><td>5/- net</td></tr><tr><td>SAINTS IN SUSSEX (Limited Edition)<br/>by Sheila Kaye-Smith</td><td>21/- net</td></tr><tr><td>"WELL SHONE MOONE"<br/>by Alan Sims</td><td>4/- net</td></tr><tr><td></td><td>CARILLONS (Introduction by Edmund Gosse)<br/>by M. Bartleet</td><td>2/6 net</td></tr></tbody></table>

For continuation see end of "Chapbook."

# THE CHAPBOOK
(A MONTHLY MISCELLANY)

EDITED BY HAROLD MONRO

## CONTENTS OF NUMBER 36

PAGE

<table><tbody><tr><td>HOW IT HAPPENED</td><td>Alfred Kreymborg</td><td>2</td></tr><tr><td>STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING</td><td>Robert Frost</td><td>3</td></tr><tr><td>A NEW MEXICAN PORTRAIT OF MABEL STERNE</td><td>Witter Bynner</td><td>4</td></tr><tr><td>CORNUCOPIA</td><td>William Carlos Williams</td><td>5</td></tr><tr><td>OLD WOMEN</td><td>Babette Deutsch</td><td>6</td></tr><tr><td>TWO POEMS</td><td>E. E. Cummings</td><td>7</td></tr><tr><td>SOME DAY</td><td>John Gould Fletcher</td><td>10</td></tr><tr><td>AUTUMN GIFT</td><td>Jean Starr Untermeyer</td><td>11</td></tr><tr><td>CONCERT PITCH</td><td>Conrad Aiken</td><td>12</td></tr><tr><td>MANDOLIN AND LIQUEURS</td><td>Wallace Stevens</td><td>15</td></tr><tr><td>NEVER MAY THE FRUIT BE PLUCKED</td><td>Edna Millay</td><td>16</td></tr><tr><td>THE TROGLODYTE</td><td>Orrick Johns</td><td>17</td></tr><tr><td>COINS OF MIST</td><td>Alfred Kreymborg</td><td>18</td></tr><tr><td>NOVICES</td><td>Marianne Moore</td><td>19</td></tr><tr><td>FIVE TREES</td><td>Louis Untermeyer</td><td>21</td></tr><tr><td>GUM</td><td>Jean Toomer</td><td>22</td></tr><tr><td>MONDAY</td><td>Louis Grudin</td><td>23</td></tr><tr><td>THREE O'CLOCK (MORNING)</td><td>Ridgely Torrence</td><td>24</td></tr></tbody></table>

The Cover Designs are by E. McKnight Kauffer.
The Poems have been collected by Alfred Kreymborg.

## How it Happened

WHILE I was in London last autumn, Mr. Harold Monro genially and innocently proposed that I book passage on the first steamer back to New York and gather together and ship to him, F.O.B. Theobalds Road, a limited group of unpublished poems by Americans of the present generation. Having experienced the monotonous tribulations of that confirmed *bête noire*, the anthologist, I laid myself on the s.s. "Adriatic" in a dubious frame. In America, anthologists are more numerous than bandits, and more unpopular. Instead of the rejection slip of the whilom past, each day's mail brings to each poet a courteous note from still another anthologist humbly asking his august permission for the privilege of reprinting such and such a poem, previously reprinted by three score and ten anthologists. Mr. Monro had given me a novel lariat indeed: the poems were to be new, to be paid for, and to appear on the other side of the Atlantic. Nevertheless, I employed all the additional strings at my command in luring or waylaying or cajoling or imploring two dozen poets, out of the hordes of my countrymen who have taken to writing, to fall for this scheme-of which the present number is the issue. While one regrets the absence of several poets whose names are now by-laws (and who assured me, faithfully yours, that they'd be glad to belong had they anything to send), one is consoled by the opportunity the absentees afford to a few lesser-knowns or unknowns who, it seems, are helping the pioneers keep the grass green. A distinctive feature of the now ten-year-old American renascence is the persistent appearance of new names. When I landed on Manhattan, I was even more eager about these than about those who have already done more than their bit towards shaping an artistic rather than a politico-geographico E Pluribus Unum. Although this limited collection is by no means inclusive of the full trend towards achievement on the part of a polyglot, polyform and at last self-conscious nation, it may encourage certain readers, who are not confirmed islanders, to carry the inquiry farther.

ALFRED KREYMBORG.

2

(Robert Frost)

## Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

WHOSE woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though ;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

The little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

3

(Witter
Bynner)

A New Mexican Portrait of
Mabel Sterne

ITALIAN turnings, at the head and foot
Of a delicately fretted pallid lounge,
Still framing firmly in a slender frame
More colour than a little frame should bear;

Pillows of purple and of faded wine,
Still holding roundly at the head and foot
The loom of other places, other days,
Against a waterfall from Mexico:

A waterfall of rainbows joining earth
In two serapes—one above of rain,
And one below a blanket animate
With all the little arrow-shoots of earth,
Red earth and black and yellow earth and red
Pricked at the roots with undershoots again;

And then a shawl of more than Lupin blue,
With violating flowers that leap in loops,
Over a faint sobriety of gown
Edged with the arms and hands of Mabel Sterne:

True to themselves, in spite of silver bands
Which had been drummed from earth by Navahos;
Simple and calm, in spite of turquoise rings
And turquoise bracelets like a rich tattoo;

And then, above it all, that head of hers,
Those eagle eyebrows under peaceful sky:
That contemplative look, proportioning
Italian lounges to the universe....

4

(William Carlos
Williams)

Cornucopia

THE Easter stars are shining
above lights that are flashing—
coronal of the black—

Nobody
to say it—
Nobody to say: pinholes

Thither I would carry her

among the lights—

Burst it asunder
break through to the fifty words
necessary—

a crown for her head with
castles upon it, skyscrapers
filled with nut-chocolates

dovetame winds—
stars of tinsel

from the great end of a cornucopia
of glass.

5

(Babette Deutsch)

Old Women

OLD women sit, stiffly, mosaics of pain,
Framed in drab doorways looking on the dark.
Rarely they rouse to gossip or complain
As dozing bitches break their dream to bark.
And then once more they fold their creaking bones
In silence, pulled about them like a shawl.
Their memories: a heap of tumbling stones,
Once builded stronger than a city wall.
Sometimes they mend the gaps with twitching hand,—
Because they see a woman big with child,
Because a wet wind smells of grave-pocked land,
Because a train wailed, because troops defiled.
Sometimes old women limp through altered streets
Whose hostile houses beat them down to earth,
Now in their beds they fumble at the sheets
That once were spread for bridal, once for birth,
And now are laid for women who are cold
With difficult plodding and with sitting still.
Old women, pitying all that age can kill,
Lie quiet, wondering that they are old.

6

(E. E. Cummings)

I

but observe; although
once is never the beginning of
enough, is it (i do not pretend
to know the reason any more than.) But look : up—

raising, hoisting, a little
perhaps that and this, deftly
propping on smallest hands
the slim hinging you
—because

it's five o'clock

and these (i notice) trees winterbrief surly old
gurgle a nonsense of sparrows, the cathedral
shudders blackening ;
the sky is washed with tone

now for a moon
to squat in first darkness
—a little moon thinner than

memory

faint
-er
than all the whys
which lurk
between your naked shoulderblades.—Here

comes a stout fellow in a blouse
just outside this window, touching the glass

7

(John Gould
Fletcher)

Some Day

SOME day at evening I shall go out all alone,
When the twilight settles closely to the bowed and solemn
trees,

I shall go out hating all things, but most of all hating myself;

I shall take away with me a tragic burden of memory,

Like a bird crying late in the greening and sorrowful branches

That bend down over the earth where are buried my hopes;

Long branches dank, pressed down by the weight of a sky

That never knows rest, that never lets sunlight escape.

When that evening brings me its summons I shall not think of
sorrow or joy,

For sorrow and joy will be one to me then, nought but two ways of
despair

Stretching out from that summit where 'mid the grey rocks the huge
pines

Battle with the winds that assail them, hailing the death of the year.

Down through the valley and on to the plain where in snow

Achievements are wrested forever from death that would take them,
my spirit shall pass,

Whether happy or bitter, no matter, my spirit shall go :—

Some day at evening I shall go out all alone.

Now that evening beckons me closely; done is the task of my song:

Rain on the morrow or sun on the morrow, no matter, for either is
pain;

No rising up afresh from the graves where I laid them for ghosts of
old hope,

No summoning forth from the past of a weary memory;

Nothing but trouble and tears, defeat and regret to the last,

Stretching their black wings over the earth and summoning back
life to their breast,

Shut me in utterly, darkness, ashes of burnt-out desire!

10

(Jean Starr
Untermeyer)

Autumn Gift

NOW the beautiful business of summer is over—
Earth wraps herself in a bright, leaf-patterned shawl.

The hives cement the prodigal juice of the clover
And spendthrift gold is hoarded in bin and stall.

Beyond the wind-crisped hedge, the corn-stalks hover;

The pumpkin lies by the wall.

October's the heir of the year, and you, my lover,

October's darling—first to come at her call—

May claim and hold what your wandering eyes discover

On jewelled hills that tempt a reluctant fall.

Blest by the fired earth, while skies above her

Spill golden peace over all.

11

(Conrad Aiken)

Concert Pitch

TAKE then the music, plunge in the thickest of it,
Thickest, darkest, richest: call it a forest,
A million boles of trees, with leaves, leaves,
Golden and green, flashing like scales in the sun,
Tossed and torn in the tempest, whirling and streaming,
With the terrible sound, beneath, of boughs that crack. . . .
Again, a hush comes; and the wind's a whisper.
One leaf goes pirouetting. You stand in the dusk,
In the misty shaft of light the sun flings faintly
Through planes of green; and suddenly, out of the darkest
And deepest and farthest of the forest, wavers
That golden horn, *cor anglais*, husky-timbred,
Sending through all that gloom of trees and silence
Its faint half-mute nostaglia. . . . How the soul
Flies from the dungeon of you to the very portals
To meet that sound! There, there is the secret,
Singing out of the darkness,—shining, too,
For all we know, if we could only see!
But if we steal by footpaths, warily,—
Snap not a twig, nor crush a single leaf;
Or if, in a kind of panic, like wild beasts,
We rend our headlong way through vines and briars—
Crash through a coppice, tear our flesh, come bleeding
To a still pool, encircled, brooded over
By ancient trees—all's one! We reach but silence,
We find no horn, no hornsman. . . . There the beeches
Out of the lower dark of ferns and mosses
Lift, far above, their tremulous tops to the light.
Only an echo have we of that horn,
*Cor anglais*, golden, husky-timbred, crying
Half-mute nostalgia from the dusk of things. . . .
Then, as we stand bewildered in that wood,

12

With leaves above us in sibilant confusion,
And the ancient ghosts of leaves about our feet—
Listen!—the horn once more, but farther now,
Sings in the evening for a wing-beat space;
Makes the leaves murmur, as it makes the blood
Burn in the heart and all its radiant veins;
And we turn inward, to seek it once again.

Or, it's a morning in the blue portal of summer.
White shoals of little clouds, like heavenly fish,
Swim softly off the sun, who rains his light
On the vast hurrying earth. The giant poplar
Sings in the light with a thousand sensitive leaves,
Root-tip to leaf-tip, he is all delight:
And, as the golden core of all that joy,
One sinister grackle, with a thievish eye,
Scrapes a harsh cynic comment. How he laughs,
Flaunting amid that green his coffin-colour!
We, in the garden, a million miles below him,
At paltry tasks of pruning, spading, watching
Black-striped bees crawl into foxglove bells
Half-filled with dew—look! We are lightly startled
By sense or sound: are moved: lose touch with earth:
And, in the twinkling of the grackle's eye,
Swing in the infinite on a spider's cable.

What is our world? It is a poplar tree
Immense and solitary, with leaves a thousand
Or million, countless, flashing in a light
For them alone intended. He is great,
His trunk is solid, and his roots deceive us.
We shade our eyes with hands, and upward look
To see if all those leaves indeed be leaves,
So rich they are in a choiring down of joy,

13

(Alfred Kreymborg)

## Coins of Mist

WHO'S the little old man selling matches ?
And the sounds on the boxes—who scratches ?

And the peering pale woman—her flowers ?—
Does she tint them and scent them for lovers ?

Do the scarecrows go lighting the lamps to
Cause shadows to shudder as tramps do ?

That slow girl—her dress like a posie ?—
If there's any to pick it now—who's he ?

Those coins made of bubbles of mist—oh,
Whose were they, and the troubles that kissed so ?

Where's London Bridge falling again to ?—
Have the tears of the Thames dug a lane ?—Who

Belongs to the throat of the tune there ?
And the only face visible's blown—where ?

Where's the little old man selling matches ?
Where's the light in the sky—and who watches ?

18

(Marianne Moore)

## Novices

A natomise their work, like Will Wimble who was jilted by a duchess,
the little assumptions of the scared ego confusing the issue
so that they " do not know whether it is the buyer or the seller who
gives the money "—

an abstruse idea plain to none but the artist,
the only seller who both buys, and holds on to the money.

Because one expresses one's self and entitles it wisdom, one is not
a fool. What an idea!

Dracontine cockatrices, " perfect and poisonous from the beginning,"

they present themselves as a contrast to seaserpented regions " unlit
by the half-lights of more conscious art."

Acquiring at thirty what at sixty they will be trying to forget,
blind to the right word, deaf to satire

which like " the smell of the cypress strengthens the nerves of the
brain,"

averse to the antique

with " that tinge of sadness about it which a reflective mind always
feels,

it is so little and so much,"

they write the sort of thing that would in their judgment interest
a lady—

curious to know if we do not adore each letter of the alphabet that
goes to make a word of it—

according to the Act of Congress, the sworn statement of the treasurer and all the rest of it—

the counterpart to what we are :

stupid man ; men are strong and no one pays any attention :

stupid woman ; women have charm and how annoying they can be.

Yes, " the authors are wonderful people, particularly those that
write the most,"

the masters of all languages, the supertadpoles of expression.

Accustomed to the recurring phosphorence of antiquity,

19

the "much noble vagueness and indefinite jargon" of Plato,
the lucid movements of the royal yacht upon the learned scenery
of Egypt—

king, steward and harper seated amidships while the jade and the
rock crystal course about in solution,

their suavity surmounts the surf—

the willowy wit, the transparent equation of Isaiah, Jeremiah,
Ezekiel, Daniel.

Bored by "the detailless perspective of the sea," reiterative and
naive,

and its chaos of rocks—the stuffy remarks of the Hebrews—

the good and alive young men demonstrate the assertion

that it is not necessary to be associated with that which has bored
one;

they have never made a statement which they found so easy to
prove—

"split like a glass against a wall"

in this "precipitate of dazzling impressions,

the spontaneous unforced passion of the Hebrew language—

an abyss of verbs full of reverberation and tempestuous energy,"

in which action perpetuates action and angle is at variance with
angle

till submerged by the general action;

obscured by fathomless suggestions of colour,

by incessantly panting lines of green, white with concussion,

in this drama of water against rocks—this "ocean of hurrying con-
sonants"

with its "great livid stains like long slabs of green marble,"

its "flashing lances of perpendicular lightning" and "molten fires
swallowed up,"

"with foam on its barriers,"

"crashing itself out in one long hiss of spray."

20

*(Louis Untermeyer)*

Five Trees

FIVE pine trees held up on the nape of a broken hill
Huddle and dream in a pattern of disarray.

The first is twisted with thought; it is gnarled and still;

It has nothing to throw to the winds that tore its branches away.

The second is restless with youth. It answers the wind

With laughter of leaves; it claps its green hands

At every air stirring, no matter how fetid or thinned;

It sings, with impatient abandon, of all that it scarce understands.

The third is expansive, a generous mother of trees.

All day it keeps crooning an old wives' patter of charms.

And the cold moon is held, for a spell, on compassionate knees,

And the wind is a child that it hushes to sleep in its arms.

The fourth has a taunt for each breeze; it dares to be taken,

Sure of its roots in the solid, respectable earth.

The fifth is a dying trunk, too old to be shaken

By winds that are less to it now than half-hearted whispers of
birth.

Five pine trees held up on the nape of a broken hill

Huddle and dream in a pattern of disarray . . .

And you pass among them. They touch you. You alter. Stand still!

Which are you to-day?

21

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viii

1921.

(19) JANUARY.—Eleven New Poems by Contemporary Poets, together with Certain Prose Epigrams, and a Note by Robert Bridges.

(20) FEBRUARY.—Puppets and Poets. By E. Gordon Craig, with several Decorations and five full-page designs.

(21) MARCH.—A House (Modern Morality Play). By Ford Madox Hueffer. With several Decorations.

(22) APRIL.—Prose in Poetry (Three Essays). By T. S. Eliot, Frederic Manning and Richard Aldington.

(23) MAY.—Nineteen Poems by Contemporary Poets, also Pathology des Dommagistes.

(24) JUNE.—A List of 101 Commendable Plays, ancient and modern, with notes, for the use of Dramatic Societies, etc.

1922.

(25) FEBRUARY.—Twelve New Poems by Contemporary Poets.

(26) MAY.—Seventeen New Poems by Contemporary Poets.

(27) JULY.—Three Questions and Twenty-Seven Answers regarding the Necessity, the Function, and the Form of Poetry.

(28) AUGUST.—New Poems by Contemporary Poets.

(29) SEPTEMBER.—An Essay by Richard Aldington and a Satire by Osbert Sitwell.

(30) OCTOBER.—Twenty New Poems by Contemporary Poets.

(31) NOVEMBER.—Prose and Verse Miscellany.

(32) DECEMBER.—One Day Awake (A Morality). By Harold Monro.

1923.

(33) JANUARY.—Poems, and a Survey of Literature in 1922.

(34) FEBRUARY.—Ham and Eggs, by Laselles Abercrombie, and two other items.

(35) MARCH.—Poems & Woodcuts.

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