And find the hopes that they hoped of old are a hundred-fold increased.

For here in the East we dream our dreams of the

things we hope to do,

And here in the West, the crimson West, the dreams of the East come true!

Reprinted by permission of the author.

Out Where the West Begins

Arthur Chapman

Arthur Chapman is a newspaper man residing in New York City. He was born in Rockford, Illinois, in 1873. He has published several volumes of verse, becoming famous through the poem "Out Where the West Begins," originally published in a Denver newspaper.

This praise of the West of course seems extravagant to those not living in the West. To read it with the true spirit of the Westerner, however, it should be given the buoyant fervor of sincerity.

OUT where the handclasp's a little stronger,
Out where the smile dwells a little longer,
That's where the West begins;

Out where the sun is a little brighter,

Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,
Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,
That's where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,
Out where friendship's a little truer,
That's where the West begins;
Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,

Where there's laughter in every streamlet flowing,

Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, That's where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making,
Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,

That's where the West begins;

Where there's more of singing and less of sighing, Where there's more of giving and less of buying, And a man makes friends without half tryingThat's where the West begins.

Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin and Company, from A Little Book of Western Verse. Copyrighted by Houghton Mifflin Company.

The Vale of Shadows

Clinton Scollard

Clinton Scollard, author, and professor of English literature in Hamilton College, was born in Clinton, New York, in 1860. He has been a prolific writer of poetry since 1884, having published upward of thirty volumes. In 1915 he published "The Vale of Shadows and Other Poems."

Music in a minor key is found in the following selection. Make much of the rhythm, and tinge the tone with sadness, resignation, and yet with a certain confidence that the evil War Lords must atone for their, misdeeds. The pictures can be well developed, but they are always seen through the mist of sadness.

THERE is a vale in the Flemish land,

A vale once fair to see,

Where under the sweep of the sky's wide arch, Though winter freeze or summer parch,

The stately poplars march and march,

Remembering Lombardy.

Here are men of the Saxon eyes,

Men of the Saxon heart,

Men of the fens and men of the Peak,
Men of the Kentish meadows sleek,
Men of the Cornwall cove and creek,
Men of the Dove and Dart.

Here are men of the kilted clans

From the heathery slopes that lie

Where the mists hang gray and the mists hang white,
And the deep lochs brood 'neath the craggy height,
And the curlews scream in the moonless night
Over the hills of the Skye.

Here are men of the Celtic breed,

Lads of the smile and tear,

From where the loops of the Shannon flow,

And the crosses gleam in the even-glow,
And the halls of Tara now are low,
And Donegal cliffs are sheer.

And never a word does one man speak,
Each in his narrow bed,

For this is the Vale of Long Release,

This is the Vale of the Lasting Peace,

Where wars, and the rumors of wars, shall cease, The valley of the dead.

No more are they than the scattered scud,

No more than broken reeds,

No more than shards or shattered glass,

Than dust blown down the winds that pass,
Than trampled wafts of pampas-grass
When the wild herd stampedes.

In the dusk of death they laid them down
With naught of murmuring,

And laughter rings through the House of Mirth
To hear the vaunt of the high of birth,
For what are all the kings of earth
Before the one great King!

And what shall these proud war-lords say
At foot of His mighty throne?
For there shall dawn a reckoning day,
Or soon or late, come as it may,
When those who gave the sign to slay
Shall meet His face alone.

What, think ye, will their penance be

Who have wrought this monstrous crime? What shall whiten their blood-red hands Of the stains of riven and ravished lands? How shall they answer God's stern commands At the last assize of Time?

For though we worship no vengeance-god
Of madness and of ire,

No Presence grim, with a heart of stone,
Shall they not somehow yet atone?

Shall they not reap as they have sown

Of fury and of fire?

There is a vale in the Flemish land

Where the lengthening shadows spread
When day, with crimson sandals shod,
Goes home athwart the mounds of sod
That cry in silence up to God

From the valley of the dead!

Reprinted by permission of the author.

He Went for a Soldier

Ruth Comfort Mitchell Young

Ruth Comfort Mitchell Young was born in San Francisco, and now lives in Los Gatos, California. She has written numerous poems for the better magazines. Her volume, "The Night Court," is published by The Century Company.

Seldom has the tragedy of youth and war been painted so effectively as in this poem. Notice the transition from the gay to the horrible, and then to the last silence of death. Be sure to make the thought of the last stanza clear-the voice should be strong, but should have a good deal of the explanatory inflection.

He marched away with a blithe young score of him With the first volunteers.

Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him, Blushing under the cheers.

They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there, Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there,

Pelting him with pinks and with roses

Billy, the Soldier Boy!

Not very clear in the kind young heart of him

What the fuss was about,

But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him—