tions. Those who stop at the Willey House over night must either camp out on the public camping grounds, for which there is no charge, or pay a nominal price for the use of one of the cabins where they may have cot beds, but no luxuries.

The recreational use of forests has developed to a marked degree during the past few years. While our mountain roads and trails have long been used by trampers, the auto camping party has come into his own quite recently. It ap.pears that camping by the roadside has been longer in vogue in the western states and has come to us from that direction. The possibility for recreation through

out our mountain region is very great. The National Government is bending its efforts to establish public camping places, and private parties are beginning to take advantage of the opportunity to accomodate the public in this way. It is believed that the Willey House site is proper and suitable for development in this direction, always remembering that the public must be served freely with all that Nature has provided and that the traveler may pay for food supplies and comforts at reasonable prices. Already it is no uncommon thing to have forty automobile parties pass the night on the Willey House grounds.

WHEN THE SUMMER DAYS HAVE
FLED

By Alice Sargent Krikorian

All the sweet summer we have felt the charm
Of her own witchery; by the changing sea
We have found a peaceful, happy calm
While we tried to learn its mystery;

Shall we remember what the waves have said
When the summer days have fled?

Or perchance, our roving feet have led
Where the cowbell tinkles faint and low,
Where the leafy boughs close overhead
And the mountain shadows come and go;
There again, in fancy, shall we tread
When the summer days have fled?

In gardens old, beside the gray stone wall,
We found the roses growing white and fair,
The pure, calm lily, and the poppy tall
Flaunting her brilliant petals in the air;
Shall we picture yet her beauty red
When the summer days have fled?

Now flaming woods reflect the sunsets gold,
And fluttering earthward falls the crimson leaf;
The flocks are coming homeward to the fold,
The farmer binds again the golden sheaf.
And yet, with matchless beauty we are fed
E'en tho' the summer days have fled.

SOUTH OF MOGADOR

By Erwin Ferdinand Keene.

Roaring up the mango-bordered beach,

White-fingered waves lift high their greedy hands
To the green-veined, throbbing jungle, out of reach-
Then whisper down the seaweed-tasseled sands.
Tall palms, like troubadours, lean each to each
And murmur minstrelsy from many lands,
Or sing of voyages along thy strands

When men had much to learn, and more to teach.

From gold-prowed triremes to our steel-ribbed ships, For thrice a thousand years, with hope unfurled, No dauntless keel e'er kissed thy tide-wet lips. But claimed thy seizin for some new-found world. Land of romance! of ivory, gold, and slaves: Thy fevered breast is bosomed high with graves!

A DEGENERATE OF THE PINK FAMILY

By Mary E. Hough.

I remember that you grew

In the sunlight and the dew,

Where stood an old gray farm-house in clustering woodbine

set

Then you strayed down to the road-side;

Yes, I think I see you yet.

All your kin wore fresh, pink dresses,
Crumpled yours, unkempt your tresses-
Too much flouncing, but I liked you,
Bouncing Bet.

Now you've crept into my garden
Without saying, "By your pardon!"

I shall root you up without the least regret,
Lest you harm my other flowers.

Do you blazonly forget

That you've chummed with weed and sorrel,

That you really aren't quite moral?

O. I heartily dislike you,

Bouncing Bet.

But one morning I was speeding

In my auto-no one heeding

I saw a stretch of roadside all pink and dewy wet.
You stretched miles and miles from home,

But I knew where we had met.

You were fluttering and graceful,
And I picked a pretty vase ful
Of your bloom, for I loved you,
Bouncing Bet.

I thought you would be cheery

For my city-flat was dreary

And I owed to you besides a much belated debt,
Or the duty to reform you-

You became my wild-flower pet.

*

*

*

But your pale pink has grown blowsy
And your locks are strangely frowzy-
O, I love you and I loathe you,
Bouncing Bet.

A BIT OF COLOR

By Laura Garland Carr.

There is mist on the mountain,
There is dew on the vines;
The humming birds flit

Down the scarlet-bean lines;
The bees in the blossoms
With nectar are muddled-
And still the pink moth

In the primrose is cuddled.

The webs of the spiders-
With jewels bedight-
Say all will be lovely

From morning till night.
Don't, don't with the primrose
Forever abide-

Be astir-little moth-

In this glory outside.

Adown leafy branches

The sunbeams are sifting;

Across grassy reaches

Are shadow clouds drifting;
The insect brigade is abroad
In good numbers.

Be a wise little moth

And awake from your slumbers.

Did the primrose beguile

By its hypnotic motion

Till now you are lost

In oblivion's ocean?

And your dreams-are they fair

Like the picture you make?

Then sleep in your primrose

And never awake.

There's a realm of delight.

In the ether-somewhere

We've sensed it and glimpsed it

And know it is there.

Is the little pink moth—

This primrose marauder

A waif and a stray

From over its border?