fOp.Tripht. 1913, International Newg S«rrlct)
The Death of the Panther
The Approach of Krazy Kat
' WHERE POET LOSES TIME
• How long does Fennison apend on
one of his poems?"
"He told mc he spent six weeks on
the last one he wrote."
"Yes; it took him 10 minutes to
\ . it, and the balance oi the time
tv was trying to persuade somebody
to buy it," .. j
The Dingbat Family
Polly and Her Pals
.fY ITAIPB, the poet, has fallen a
I victim to the moon!"
J*-* When the mandarin had
pronounced these strange words he
rested his chin in his hand.
A victim of the moon? In India,
I have heard, moonstrokes are con
sidered worse than sunstrokes and
that when you walk in the garden
in the evening you always carry a
moonshade. Was this what the man
darin meant? I was waiting to
Eftol my august friend, the manda
rin, began to sway back and forth
rhythmically while he sang these
"The moon ascends to the heart
of the nocturnal sky and rests there
filled with love.
Across the shining sea guides the
soft evening breeze and kisses the
"Oh, what beautiful harmonies
arise from the meeting of elements
created to unite!
"But the things created to unite so
very seldom do unite."
How? Has not the music of poetry
been forgotten in China? Has not
the lyre of the Chinese Orpheus been
broken? Alas! It is only too true.
Even in China nobody dreams any
more. The bacchantes of progress
rush by una disturb (he careless
THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1913.
dreamer who looks behind him in the
"There is a way of reaching even
the moon," he murmured.
"Who ever reached there?"
A wizard, or rather a saint, had
long been dwelling at court. One
beautiful summer night, when the
full moon was bathing the landscape
ln its silvery light, the emperor, who
was walking with the saintly man,
admired the bewitching light which
fell on the leaves flittering with the
diamonds of the dew and on the rush
ing river and the foaming cascades.
Then he looked up at the twinkling
stars and sighed because they were
so far away, so beautiful and still so
unattainable. His companion, who
gues&ed ills thoughts, said to him:
"Do you want to rise me to the
The emperor looked at him for a
moment in surprise and then said: "I
understand what you want to say.
Your intellect, which is superior to
my common mind, is able to fly ahead
of me on the paths of thought, but to
lengthen the fetters is not the same
as to set the prisoner free, and we
shall not get very far."
"Oh, Lord, you do not understand
me at all!" the wizard exclaimed; "I
mean tha* we are to fly up to the
Beflatartd United State* Patent Offlca
moon fully conscious - of everything
that we meet and see."
' I will not permit even a saint to
mock me." said the Son of Heaven.
But the saint slowly opened his fan.
threw it up into the air and said:
"Look that way."
The fan remained suspended in the
air and the creases of the paper
formed a stairway which reached all
the way up to the moon. The em
peror threw up his hands in amaze
"Have you the courage to accom
pany me now? A ruler must be de
void of fear, and, besides, the stairs
are broad and comfortable.
The saint had already climbed over
the railings of the pavilion; he held
out his hand to the Son of Heaven,
who followed him. without
any effort they began to ascend. Soon
they had passed the palace walis, the
three glittering streams, the eight
branches of the river which sur
rounded the walls of the city. Shortly
afterward the city disappeared in the
distance. More and more indistinct
mountains, plains and cities passed by
the wanderers, who kept on ascending
bathed in light.
"What part of the country is under
neath ua now 7" asked the emperor.
No Pardon Came Too Late
CopjTlffcr, 1013, International Newa Swrric*.
Quite a Nice Little Surprise
Copyright, 1913, International News Service.
A Shadow Falls on Shrimp Flynn
Today's Complete Story
looking down. ' We are passing the
frontier of Tientschl." said the saint,
"the mountains of the west are dis
appearing, and now we are above
"I know very well that I am
dreaming," said the emperor, "and
still it seems to me that I am awake.
What I see is only a dream picture,
but tomorrow you will try to per
suade me it was real and that I did
not dream at all. But how will you
prove it to me?"
"Have you anything with you, oh,
Lord, the like of which nobody else
"In my belt I have two gold coins;
they were coined at the mint this
morning, and there are no others
like them in the world."
"Now I know exactly above which
part of your empire we are. We will
throw the two gold coins down the
stairs' and we will surely find them
The next morning when the em
peror awoke in his palace
"What! Does the story end thus?
What about his arrival in the moon
and the wonderful things he saw?"
"Alas. I did not accompany them
on the voyage," said the mandarin.
"All I can tell Is that the gold coins
were found more than 100 Chinese
miles from the city, but I am told
that ln the moon all the dreams of
the poets have been realized and that
their beauty surpasses' all ■under
"But can not you tell at least how
Litaipe was destroyed by the moon?"
"Oh, everybody knows that. One
evening the poet ate his evening
meal on the river. The air was un
usually clear and the water so trans
parent that you could not see it at
all. Far down in jts depths the
moon was glistening just above the
sky and ih'ere were as many stars
below as above. Litaipe leaned over
the edge of the boat and stared long
ingly down into the depth. 'In the
unkonwn,' he said, 'there is neither
height nor depth. The moon is call
ing me and tells me that when I
reach it, it does not matter whether
I go up or down." At this moment
a wonderful harmony filled the air, a
breeze floated across the river and
two young gods carrying silken ban
ners stood before the poet. They had
been sent from the ruler of the
Heaven to conduct him to his place
ln the heavenly region. A dolphin
came swimming up to the boat and
Litaipe mounted its back and, pre
ceded by the diving youths, he slowly
vanished in the deep."
"Perhaps your great poet was sim
ply intoxicated and fell into the
The august mandarin shook his
bead as if he did not hear, and a
WILLIAM F. KIRK
IT is not the patient labor of the man that tills the soil,
Though his muscles slowly stiffen after years of steady toil.
. He must creep away to slumber ere darkness shrouds the earth;
He must start anew his plodding when the birds first trill their mirth;
But no blight is cast upon him at the moment of his birth.
It is not the rough endeavor of the men that sail the seas,
Though great Neptune's home is latticed with the bones of such as these.
God can blow them with his bellows from a long expected coast
Out to meet the Flying Dutchman, captained by a gibbering ghost.
But they are not doomed to failure, even they who suffer most.
No. The grind is in the city, where too many beings strive.
Where the weak, all unconsidered, drop like dead bees from a hive.
There the grind is grim and ghastly; there the herd must squirm and
Trampling on the weaker mortals God intended they should love.
Yet the strongest swimmers linger, glad to keep their heads above.
furrow of sorrow came upon his fore
head. The airy foam of the cham
pagne had vanished, and with it the
Images of a beautiful past.
A cloud passed across the moon.
Will it open? Will the fan of the
wizard once more form a broad stair
way to the luminous disc? The moon
which science now brings within a
few meters distance ig no longer the
moon of the poets* the dreams ol
imagination fly before the dissecting
knife of the scientist. And with Li
taipe we must in the depths of the
river look for all the beautiful image*
which found their tomb there witb
the youth of the world.
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