The Forerunner Part 91

"Nursery-Mindedness"

There will be short stories and other entertaining matter in each issue.

The department of "Personal Problems" does not discuss etiquette, fashions or the removal of freckles. Foolish questions will not be answered, unless at peril of the asker.

AS TO VALUE:

If you take this magazine one year you will have:

One complete novel . . . By C. P. Gilman One new book . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve short stories . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve-and-more short articles . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve-and-more new poems . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve Short Sermons . . . By C. P. Gilman Besides "Comment and Review" . . . By C. P. Gilman "Personal Problems" . . . By C. P. Gilman And many other things . . . By C. P. Gilman

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THE FORERUNNER CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

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THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 9 JULY, 1910 Copyright for 1910 C. P. Gilman

Genus h.o.m.o is superior to all other animal species.

Granted. The superiority is due to some things--and in spite of others.

THE BAWLING WORLD

A SESTINA.

Be not impatient with the bawling world!-- The clatter of wild newsmongers, the cry Of those in pulpits, the incessant speech From many platforms, and the various prayers Of tale-tellers all striving for our ears, And poets that wait and gibber--they have cause.

For all this noise there is a natural cause, Most natural of all that move the world, The one that first a.s.sails a mother's ears When loud a l.u.s.ty infant learns to cry, An inarticulate insistent prayer But serving that first need as well as speech.

Reason and love combine to give us speech, But this loud outcry has a simpler cause, The same that prompts the roaming jackal's prayer And fills the forests of the untamed world With one long, jarring hungry piteous cry-- Such cry as still attacks our weary ears.

We long for human music in our ears, For the clear joy of well-considered speech, And the true poet's soul-uplifting cry To lead us forward, striving for the cause Of liberty and light for all the world-- And hear but this confused insensate prayer.

Vainly we seek to fly this ceaseless prayer-- To find some silent spot--to stop our ears:-- There is no place in all the groaning world Where we can live apart from human speech: and we, while speech is governed by this cause, Are infants "with no language but a cry."

It is for food that all live creatures cry, For food the sparrow's or the lion's prayer, And need of food is the continuing cause, Of all this deafening tumult in our ears.

Had we our food secure--! Then human speech Might make mild music, and a wiser world!

Poor hungry world! No wonder that you cry; Elaborate speech reduced to primal prayer: To save our ears let us remove the cause!

A COINCIDENCE

"O that! It was a fortunate coincidence, wasn't it? All things work together for good with those who love the Lord, you know, and Emma Ordway is the most outrageously Christian woman I ever knew. It did look that Autumn as if there was no way out of it, but things do happen, sometimes.

I dropped in rather late one afternoon to have a cup of tea with Emma, hoping against hope that Mirabella Vlack wouldn't be on hand; but she was, of course, and gobbling. There never was such a woman for candy and all manner of sweet stuff. I can remember her at school, with those large innocent eyes, and that wide mouth, eating Emma's nicest tidbits even then.

Emma loves sweets but she loves her friends better, and never gets anything for herself unless there is more than enough for everybody.

She is very fond of a particular kind of fudge I make, has been fond of it for thirty years, and I love to make it for her once in a while, but after Mirabella came--I might as well have made it for her to begin with.

I devised the idea of bringing it in separate boxes, one for each, but bless you! Mirabella kept hers in her room, and ate Emma's!

"O I've left mine up stairs!" she'd say; "Let me go up and get it;"--and of course Emma wouldn't hear of such a thing. Trust Emma!

I've loved that girl ever since she was a girl, in spite of her preternatural unselfishness. And I've always hated those Vlack girls, both of them, Mirabella the most. At least I think so when I'm with her. When I'm with Arabella I'm not so sure. She married a man named Sibthorpe, just rich.

They were both there that afternoon, the Vlack girls I mean, and disagreeing as usual. Arabella was lean and hard and rigorously well dressed, she meant to have her way in this world and generally got it.

Mirabella was thick and soft. Her face was draped puffily upon its unseen bones, and of an unwholesome color because of indigestion. She was the type that suggests cushioned upholstery, whereas Arabella's construction was evident.

"You don't look well, Mirabella," said she.

"I am well," replied her sister, "Quite well I a.s.sure you."

Mirabella was at that time some kind of a holy thoughtist. She had tried every variety of doctor, keeping them only as long as they did not charge too much, and let her eat what she pleased; which necessitated frequent change.

Mrs. Montrose smiled diplomatically, remarking "What a comfort these wonderful new faiths are!" She was one of Emma's old friends, and was urging her to go out to California with them and spend the winter. She dilated on the heavenly beauty and sweetness of the place till it almost made my mouth water, and Emma!--she loved travel better than anything, and California was one of the few places she had not seen.