Page 2 Scribulus CONSECRATION Beyond the city's hub of commerce is a short and winding street. It is a dirty street, and in the winter the snow lies buried under grime, Till the spring carries the snow away. The grime lies on the street until another snow of another year. There are no trees to shelter the houses, because there is no room for trees; The houses are too close together, And the street, forgetting that there should be a sidewalk and maybe grass, Laps against the houses. People, hundreds of them, live along this street. Not native Americans, perhaps, But people. Dozens of them live in each of the houses, which are not large, though they are tall so that some of the people can see the sky, sometimes, When the wind drifts the city smoke away. Behind this street there is another almost the same And behind it another, And so for almost all the city. Not all, Because somewhere along the city's fringe there is the Boulevard where the bankers live and the merchants of the Avenue And where the sight-seeing bus takes the visitor to show him the wonders of the modern city. And outside of the city in the suburbs Live the rest of those who own the city And do not choose to live in it because it is "so ugly". For US, To bring into the world again Beauty . . . Twelve men sit round a table in a smoke-filled room. Through gritted teeth they talk, and as they talk their facial muscles twitch Spring Issue Page 3 Not one move, one gesture, wasted. "We will shut down every shop," they say, "before we take those terms." Their eyes shine hatred. Next day a hundred shops are closed, and the workers sit at home without wages, And grim men march past the shops with banners, And fight with "scabs" who try to break the strike. Across the town twelve other men are gathered at a table. They wear clean suits, and have a tablecloth, but their faces also are tense. "We'll stick to our terms," these men say. "They shall not dictate our business." Their eyes shine hatred, too. And in the next city And across the nation The men of the bare table and those of the tablecloth confront each other, and the glint from their eyes speaks hate. They work together, yes, Because they have to eat, And each extra spoonful that one man gets he takes from the plate of another, Though some plates are fuller than others, And some are nearly empty. For US, To bring into the world again Brotherhood. In a crowded office a young man is bowed over a ledger. But he does not see it. The figures are blurred in his eyes and meaningless. His thoughts are not on the ledger.