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performances by unstarred actors during the past season.
    The present past season—that is to say, the past season which at present is the last season—has been peculiarly rich in hot efforts by all sorts of performers. My own choice would be: 1. Anna Wheaton, in Oh, Boy! 2. Marie Carroll, in the piece at the Princess Theatre. 3. Edna May Oliver, in Comstock and Elliott's new musical comedy. 4. Tom Powers, in the show on the south side of 39th Street. 5. Hal Forde, in the successor to Very Good, Eddie . 6. Stephen Maley, in Oh, Boy!
    You would hardly credit the agony it gives me to allude, even in passing, to the above musical mélange, but one must be honest to one's public. In case there may be any who dissent from my opinion, I append a supplementary list of those entitled to honorable mention: 1. The third sheep from the O. P. side in The Wanderer . 2. The trick lamp in Magic . 3. The pink pajamas in You're in Love . 4. The knife in The Thirteenth Chair . 5. The Confused Noise Without in The Great Divide . 6. Jack Merritt's hair in Oh, Boy!
    There were few discoveries among the dramatists. Of the older playwrights, Barrie produced a new one and an ancient one, but the Shakespeare boom, so strong last year, petered out. There seems no doubt that the man, in spite of a flashy start, had not the stuff. I understand that some of his things are doing fairly well on the road. Clare Kummer, whose "Dearie" I have so frequently sung in my bath, to the annoyance of all, suddenly turned right round, dropped song-writing, and ripped a couple of hot ones right over the plate. Mr. Somerset Maugham succeeded in shocking Broadway so that the sidewalks were filled with blushing ticket-speculators.
    Most of the critics have done good work during this season. As for myself, I have guided the public mind in this magazine soundly and with few errors. If it were not for the fact that nearly all the plays I praised died before my review appeared, while the ones I said would not run a week are still packing them in, I could look back to a flawless season.
    As you can see, I have had a very pleasant theatrical season. The weather was uniformly fine on the nights when I went to the theatre. I was particularly fortunate in having neighbors at most of the plays who were not afflicted with coughs or a desire to explain the plot to their wives. I have shaken hands with A. L. Erlanger and been nodded to on the street by Lee Shubert. I have broadened my mind by travel on the road with a theatrical company, with the result that, if you want to get me out of New York, you will have to use dynamite.
    Take it for all in all, a most satisfactory season, full of pregnant possibilities—and all that sort of thing.

POEMS
    DAMON AND PYTHIAS
A Romance
        Since Earth was first created,
      Since Time began to fly,
    No friends were e'er so mated,
      So firm as JONES and I.
    Since primal Man was fashioned
      To people ice and stones,
    No pair, I ween, had ever been
      Such chums as I and JONES.
        In fair and foulest weather,
      Beginning when but boys,
    We faced our woes together,
      We shared each other's joys.
    Together, sad or merry,
      We acted hand in glove,
    Until—'twas careless, very—
      I chanced to fall in love.
        The lady's points to touch on,
      Her name was JULIA WHITE,
    Her lineage high, her scutcheon
      Untarnished; manners, bright;
    Complexion, soft and creamy;
      Her hair, of golden hue;
    Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy,
      In colour, greyish blue.
        For her I sighed, I panted;
      I saw her in my dreams;
    I vowed, protested, ranted;
      I sent her chocolate creams.
    Until methought one morning
      I seemed to hear a voice,
    A still, small voice of warning.
      "Does JONES approve your