head-piece was Brissenden's
photograph, on the other side was the photograph of Sir John Value, the
British Ambassador. A preliminary editorial note quoted Sir John Value
as saying that there were no poets in America, and the publication of
"Ephemera" was The Parthenon's. "There, take that, Sir John Value!"
Cartwright Bruce was described as the greatest critic in America, and he
was quoted as saying that "Ephemera" was the greatest poem ever written
in America. And finally, the editor's foreword ended with: "We have not
yet made up our minds entirely as to the merits of "Ephemera"; perhaps we
shall never be able to do so. But we have read it often, wondering at
the words and their arrangement, wondering where Mr. Brissenden got them,
and how he could fasten them together." Then followed the poem.

"Pretty good thing you died, Briss, old man," Martin murmured, letting
the magazine slip between his knees to the floor.

The cheapness and vulgarity of it was nauseating, and Martin noted
apathetically that he was not nauseated very much. He wished he could
get angry, but did not have energy enough to try. He was too numb. His
blood was too congealed to accelerate to the swift tidal flow of
indignation. After all, what did it matter? It was on a par with all
the rest that Brissenden had condemned in bourgeois society.

"Poor Briss," Martin communed; "he would never have forgiven me."

Rousing himself with an effort, he possessed himself of a box which had
once contained type-writer paper. Going through its contents, he drew
forth eleven poems which his friend had written. These he tore
lengthwise and crosswise and dropped into the waste basket. He did it
languidly, and, when he had finished, sat on the edge of the bed staring
blankly before him.

How long he sat there he did not know, until, suddenly, across his
sightless vision he saw form a long horizontal line of white. It was
curious. But as he watched it grow in definiteness he saw that it was a
coral reef smoking in the white Pacific surges. Next, in the line of
breakers he made out a small canoe, an outrigger canoe. In the stern he
saw a young bronzed god in scarlet hip-cloth dipping a flashing paddle.
He recognized him. He was Moti, the youngest son of Tati, the chief, and
this was Tahiti, and beyond that smoking reef lay the sweet land of
Papara and the chief's grass house by the river's mouth. It was the end
of the day, and Moti was coming hom