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288 THE CRISES Yet did we build of iron, bricks and blood; We built a day, a year, a thousand years. Blood was the mortar, blood and tears And, ah, the Thing, the Thing of wings, The wingèd folding wing of Things, Did furnish much mad mortar For that tower Slow and ever slower rose the towering task And with it rose the sun Until at last on one wild day, Wind-whirled, cloud-swept and terrible, I stood beneath the burning shadow Of the peak. Beneath the whirring of almighty wings While downward from my feet Streamed the long line of dusky faces And the wail of little children sobbing under Earth. "Freedom!" I cried. "Freedom!" cried Heaven, Earth and Stars, And a Voice near-far Amid the folding and unfolding of Almighty wings Answered "I am Freedom- Who sees my face is free- He and his." I dared not look; Downward I glanced on deep bowed heads and closèd eyes, Outward I gazed on flecked and flaming blue- But ever onward, upward flew The sobbing of small voices; Down, down, far down into the night. Slowly I lifted livid limbs aloft; Upward I strove: The Face, the Face; Onward I reeled: The Face, the Face! To Beauty wonderful as sudden death Or horror horrible as endless life– Up! Up! the blood-build way (Shadow grow vaster! Terror come faster!) Up! Up to the blazing blackness Of one veiléd face And endless folding and unfolding Rolling and unrolling of Almighty wings: The last step stood! The last dim cry of pain Fluttered across the stars– And then– Wings, wings, triumphant wings, Lifting and lowering, waxing and waning, Swinging and swaying, twirling and whirling Whispering and screaming, streaming, streaming and gleaming Spreading and sweeping and shading and flaming– Wings, wings, eternal wings 'Til the hot red blood Flood fleeing flood Thundered thro' Heaven and mine ears While all across a purple sky The last vast pinion Trembled to unfold I rose upon the Mountain of the Moon; I felt the blazing glory of the Sun. I heard the Song of Children crying "Free!" I saw the Face of Freedom– And I died. EDITORIAL EASTER LIFT up your hands, O ye gates and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is the King of glory? The Friend strong and faithful; the Friend faithful in little. The Friend that seeks neither place nor pay; the Friend that does not boast nor blame; but sits beside us patiently; the Friend who in our weakness knows, and in our travail understands; the Friend to whom we need not say our suffering, for he has suffered even as we and with his stripes we are healed. The Friend who looks into our tired eyes and laughs cheeringly; who grasps our hand warmly and is silent; who says: "Well done, old man," and "Good work, little sister!" The Friend who is no impossible god or simpering angel, but human like us, hungry as we are and disappointed; who smokes and drinks with us and walks beneath the stars. The Friend that hath clean hands and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity nor sworn deceitfully. Yes, and the Friend who, looking back through jeweled tears, has gone down the Way of Shadows to the place that is silent and dark. Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is the King of glory? The Faithful Friend-he is the King of glory. Selah! HAIL COLUMBIA! HAIL Columbia, H A P P Y Land! Again the glorious traditions of A n g l o S a x o n manhood have been upheld! Again the chivalry of American white men has been magnificently vindicated. Down on your knees, black men, and hear the tale with awestruck faces. Learn from the Superior Race. We do not trust our own faltering pen and purblind sight to describe the reception of the suffragists at the capital of the land. We quote from the Southern reporters of the Northern press: "Five thousand women, marching in the woman-suffrage pageant yesterday, practically fought their way foot by foot up Pennsylvania Avenue, through a surging mass of humanity that completely defied the Washington police, swamped the marchers, and broke their procession into little companies. The women, trudging stoutly along under great difficulties, were able to complete their march only when troops of cavalry from Fort Myer were rushed into Washington to take charge of Pennsylvania Avenue. No inauguration has ever produced such scenes, which in many instances amounted to little less than riots." "More than 100 persons, young and old, of both sexes, were crushed and trampled in the uncontrollable crowd in Pennsylvania Avenue yesterday, while two ambulances of the Emergency Hospital came and went constantly for six hours, always impeded and at times
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