Since the old New Orleans lottery was declared unlawful the Atlantic City beauty contest and the book-a-month club are the only survivals of the institutions that reward the winner with really lavish bounty. In the lottery one might win a considerable second prize; in the two survivals there are no second prizes worthy of the name. Miss Kankakee hushes up her shame at being, so to speak, nosed out by Miss Tulsa; similarly the self-respecting author will never vaunt the fact that he has received honorable mention for November. Both are freeze-out games in the fullest sense. Many come and but one is chosen.

The selection of the "Tristram" of Edwin Arlington Robinson to make him the "one" of the Literary Guild has had a curious effect. From being a poet more dabbled in at the poetry shelf of the library than read, he has suddenly seen America make a beaten path to his door, with the Literary Guild as forest guide. He can never hope to equal the Poet of the People, but "Isolt of the white hands" fifty thousand times iterated is a respectable showing. The pleasantest part of it is that he has lost no part of his poetic dignity; he can still turn to Judge Public and say: "Nobody asked you, sir."