particularly in "Caliban," as performed at the Harvard Stadium.
Though he may himself only half realize it, Lindsay has set out for the goal of a new theatre, and I would wager with him that if ever, on his footpath way, he falls in step with the spirit of Bobby Jones, the village common where they arrive arm in arm will blossom suddenly with such native bloom of rhythmic sound and color as only the hearts of such lyric spirits of America can conceive.
Here, then, Mr. Editor, I submit to your courtesy these informal queries and forecastings. Perhaps they may serve to suggest that poets and dramatists (outside of the catalogues) are not really different species of Man; that their art has one deep source in common—the well springs of community life.
The Players, New York,
17 November, 1918.
